Yorkston Rocks God, Norway Rocks The Lexington, PJ Rocks The Troxy

Well, that was the week that was (not David Frost/Two Ronnies thing). Now that I'm snuggled under my cloud and having my first night in for 6 days (steady on, middle-aged woman, what are you thinking?), I can reflect on what was a daft-busy week.

Went to Paolo's book launch last Tuesday. Bizarrely, it was at Balls Brothers wine bar on Broadgate in the City - can you get any less Mod? Paolo Hewitt is a top music journalist and writer of books on all things Mod, footy, Weller, Small Faces (you get the picture). Excellent music at the launch - northern soul and Motown, the place was full of snappy dressers in immaculate threads. Love it.

Wednesday was fave gig-in-a-church lark. Accompanied by dear Howard Local, I went to the book launch of James Yorkston's It's Lovely To Be Here: Touring Diaries Of A Scottish Gent. St. Giles' church is a lovely place. We arrived in time for Phillip Selway (Radiohead drummer), but left for the pub after a couple of songs. Sorry, Phillip - I'm sure you're a super chap and not without talent, but it just wasn't happening.

But such a different story when Mr Yorkston hits the altar. He's a joy to listen to, and when he reads from his book, it's hilariously funny and dry. This book is the first publication from his record label Domino's newly founded Domino Press. The cover is a really sweet hand-sewn image of him and his guitar on their travels. I buy a book afterwards, but decide to have it dedicated to a friend (wonder if I can borrow it back soon...?):

Scottish Folk Fuzzy Felt

Thursday brought Ja Ja Ja, a night of Scandinavian mayhem, coordinated by the lovely Andy Inglis, and curated this month by John of Quietus and Phil of Stool Pigeon. I'd already heard tales of Deathcrush - two girls, one boy, much attitude - so when they hit the stage, I was thrilled to see they didn't disappoint. In fact, I can concur with a male friend - the young blonde guitarist would give anyone a hard-on...even me.

Årabrot up next - made me realise I've been watching too much bloody folk. I need an earful of heavy on a regular basis or I'll start thinking morris dancing is a good idea (sorry, Northern Tim - I know this is your latest pastime - you, velvet flares with bells on, pig's bladder on a stick - fuck me, Cecil Sharp House must be wondering what's hit it). If there's one thing Norwegians do well, it's heavy. That, burning churches, explorers and pickled fishy stuff. The sound picked up nicely here, and there were naked men on stage rocking their balls off. Super.

Last but not least, Kellermensch from Denmark - very good, like a metal Arcade Fire with plenty of personnel on stage. Good fiddle player. I'm afraid I got rather drunk, and then the evening took a turn for the interesting and didn't pan out in any way I expected. But all really very good indeed.

Friday was relatively gentle, and I was rather feeble, so hair of the dog with the Boss, followed by nice glass of Red with Mrs B was all I could muster...

Bounced back nicely on Saturday. A full day successfully sourcing props for a Fairy Liquid job was followed by an equally successful trip to Heavy Load. Heavy Load is a top 70's rock night, a haven from all things chart, in fact a haven from the modern world - full stop. The clientele are in stack heels and everyone thinks they're either Anita Pallenberg or Keith Richards circa Morocco '68. Not been for ages, and bizarrely, all the old faces have turned up. Even managed to strut about to The Doors and Small Faces. Great to see Northern Tim (even if he has taken up morris dancing) and Alf and Alex.

Had an invite from Howard Local to the Slaughtered Lamb for an afternoon gig to be filmed for Local TV. I think the premise of this is that The Local will arrange impromptu sets by a handful of artists in town, film them, interview them, then post this on their site/Youtube. Good idea. One of my favourite music things of recent years has to be The Black Cab Sessions. Sterling stuff - get artists currently in town into the back of a London cab, get the driver to introduce the artist, then drive round the streets whilst they are filmed playing a number. Genius thinking and great fun.

The Local had She Keeps Bees, Skinny Lister and Napoleon III on the bill, each to play 3 numbers. She Keeps Bees are amazing. Handsome couple, I've waxed most lyrical about them on this blog in the past. Jess Larrabee is completely gorgeous, with a sultry bluesy voice and wields her guitar in the coolest way. Her man and drummer Andy LaPlant is like her mainstay and watches her every move (and listens to every funny, mad thing she says between songs with a look of love...aaah, romance).

She Keeps Bees (and dogs, by the looks of it)

Skinny Lister are a riot. I first saw them at The End last year - vague memories of sea shanties, singalongs and a girl singer flashing her knickers came flooding back as they all took to the small stage. They're great fun to watch and harmonise well. But no knicker flashing from Lorna - she's wearing shorts. Disappointment all round.

I have to leg it at this point - top songstress and siren to the dark side, PJ Harvey awaits me at The Troxy. The Troxy is an old cinema/bingo hall near Limehouse, now reincarnated as a huge glam Art Deco gig venue. I get picked up by The Boss - this is her treat, and I'm a lucky girl. Once inside, we partake of a little Mr Daniels and coke, and promptly bump into top fella and Blunt photographer Jermaine Francis. Jerms is a right laugh, and introduces us to his friends Kat and Anthea. It turns out Kat is also a photographer, and has snapped PJ for this latest album cover. Anthea runs a record label called Thrill Jockey and we have a good chat about some of her artists (Arbouretum - top stuff - over here end of March - check them out). As I'm chatting to Anthea, I mention the Ja Ja Ja night, and she says it was curated by her best mate, John...and then John Doran turns up! And then, it gets weirder - The Boss realises that she was at infants' school with Anthea 30 years previously. And that Anthea's sister used to teach her synchronised swimming (?!?!?). You know - like you do. Too many coincidences, small world and all that...

Then the lights dim, and the diminutive tour de force that is Miss Polly Harvey takes to the stage. Resplendent in black, with fantastic feathery headdress, she looks tiny but her dinky presence fills that stage and the hall. And so does that voice. John wondered how hard it is to learn autoharp (like I'd know - I had all on mastering Mull Of Kintyre on my acoustic), but she plays it beautifully. It's the most gorgeous, haunting sound and suits this latest album so well. The songs are dark, war torn, ragged, so very English (that'll be why she called it Let England Shake, then - idiot), it had me on first listen. And don't go thinking I'm some überfan - I'm not. I do like her, but not like some of the folk present tonight. I witnessed one tiny brunette pixiette go bloody mental when she came on stage...plenty of old faves played too, she had the place begging for an encore at the climax:

Dark Angel & Her Harp

Blow Job For Mr Randall

It seems my lovely friend Hands Randall has finally seen sense and gotten the hell out of Dodge. Dodge, in this case, being his employ at Hackney Council. He's always been far too good for that bunch of idiots anyway.

His new job, albeit sporadic, will involve him tuning up for none other than top Monkey himself, Dr Robert. Yes, our bequiffed pal has got himself a gig with the Blow Monkeys as guitar tech. And so, he invited us along as his guests to see them play at 93 Feet East. Went with Nads and Das Blonde. All the hits came out (like toe-tapping ditty Digging Your Scene), accompanied by three curvy black backing singers, one of whom had breasts so big, I couldn't take my eyes off them (think I wasn't alone in my fascination). Each of those knockers was bigger than my head.

Imagine it. Blimey.

(Postscript: I'll be encouraging email baiting of Mr Randall as his employment at Hackney comes to an end. It is necessary we find innovative ways to beat the IT swear police at Hackney Council and mail him some choice stuff without getting bounceback. Get your thinking caps on, troops...)

Moddi: Out Of This World

When you're lazing in bed on a Sunday morning, with no real plans for your day, looking blankly out of the window at threatening February skies, it's always a treat to get a call inviting you along to see some music. After a quick jaunt to a vintage fair to see Smiff flogging her wares (she flogged me a very nice black gentleman's dress scarf), I drove through rain and hideously bad traffic to The Wilmington on Rosebery Ave.

Teatime shows on a Sunday are a great idea. No need to stay out late if you have to be down the mine at 5am on Monday, it's a nice, gentle way to spend a few hours without clock-watching and getting those Sunday Evening Blues (not that I suffer from that problem, being a right lazy bastard and complete part-timer). I was greeted by The Scot and lovely Joe Soundman from The Slaughtered Lamb (also erstwhile soundman for The Local and lift-taker back from EOTR with Bernie and Kieran). I didn't click at the time, but the chap actually sitting on the door was introduced as Jack, who turned out to be none other than Jack Cheshire, the headline act for the evening (love a bloke who can multitask, me).

After a quick chat with the chaps, I settled at the bar. First up, Deer Park. Actually, it seemed it was only a bit of the Park, just Mark Park in fact. Very good too, nice bit of harmonica, sweet voice. And anyone who chucks in a bit of Mr Gram Parsons (Burrito Brother of the highest order) at the end of his set will do me just fine.

Chit-chat followed. I was introduced to a very charming man called Ken, who is a music publicist and friend of The Scot and Howard Local. Amusingly, I think he thought I may be a musician - quickly disabused him of that notion. He'd come to see Moddi play, as he hadn't had chance before. And what a treat was in store.

Norwegian Pål Knutsen (Moddi) first came to my attention at EOTR last year. I was lucky enough to see him perform once on The Local stage, but not as lucky as Bernie and Kieran, who saw him do another fascinating set in the fairy woods (avoiding Norwegian Wood puns like the plague here). I think the woods at Larmer Tree are a magical enough place for someone so otherworldly to perform. His music is beautiful, weaving and twisting, quiet, then loud, haunting. It's very difficult to put into words how diverse it can be (not often stuck for words, so that says a lot). Just him and a cello player tonight, and the pair of them created such beautiful harmonies, not just with their instruments (he plays accordion, piano, guitar), but with their gorgeous voices too. I think I said "wow" out loud after one song. Dead eloquent, I am.

Last up, multitasking musician and part-time doorman Jack Cheshire. I'd never seen Jack perform before but he was superb. He has an interesting voice, with a very slight crack in it (always a fan of that). He strums his guitar like a demon at one point, and I remember thinking he must have a very strong right wrist (this can come in handy for the chaps...when carrying things, for example). And yet another cover, this time one of Liverpool's finest, the Bunnymen's Killing Moon. Rather well done, too.

And then it's over. There's a bit of hanging around, and then I get to eat dinner with The Scot and the Moddi duo. I'm very ashamed to say that I can't remember the name of the lovely cellist - hopeless memory strikes again - and I didn't like to ask a second time. Pål really is a fascinating character and I'm quite smitten with his oddness. Some decent Italian nosh later (melanzane parmigiana - hoo-haa!) and some interesting chat (Norwegians apparently don't have a word for please - EH???), and it's time to pay. I get out my lovely tan wallet. The Scot gets out his lovely vintage wallet. Pål gets out a luminous orange zipped felt purse with a face on it. I tried not to stare but it was hard - I may have gawped (powers of description are returning).

I'll be recommending to all I know that they see Moddi play at The Slaughtered Lamb in March (it's only a fiver, for fuck's sake): https://www.wegottickets.com/event/107997 . It has to be money well spent, and who knows, you might get to catch a glimpse of that mighty orange purse too.

Nice jumper, Pål

Swoonsome

I don't think I'm a particularly girly girl. In fact, I don't think you can use the term 'girl' to describe me at all any more (although, a few weeks ago, Miss P and I went to the cinema and the nice young man who collected the tickets said 'enjoy the film, girls'. He'd better not have been taking the piss, or he's dead). Being un-girly doesn't have to mean unfeminine, mind. All woman, me.

The particularly girly girl thing of fainting isn't something I've ever suffered from. Girls at school used to faint, and I can remember thinking 'what on earth's the matter with her, the idiot?'. This week, for the very first time in my life, I joined that merry band of idiots.

The lovely Dennis, who works at Universal, told me about an instore performance by James Blake at Rough Trade East. I often think I need to expand my musical taste, so I asked the Scot to join me and we went along. James Blake is the Next Big Thing. I know this because HMV have decreed it so and therefore it's true, surely? Place was packed, queue snaked right round the corner for the precious wristbands (very lucky that Dennis collected us - we'd never have got in). Introductions over, bit of chat and then the lights dim and James is on.

He was good. Beautiful voice, hits the high notes, clear as a bell, good sound, deeeep bass, and completely self-deprecating and charming between numbers. I closed my eyes a lot during his set, stood very still and let the music wash over me.

This may have been my mistake. Because as he played the last song, I almost fainted. A full-on Jane Austen-esque, corset-too-tight-can't-breathe swooning fit. Thank fuck Dennis and The Scot were right behind to catch me and take me to the safety of a seat nearby. Mortifying. And I was pouring with sweat - like a massive whitey but with added embarrassment. Minutes later, it was like it never happened. I felt fine. Very odd.

Met up with friends last night. Told The Ex about the incident. He said that standing still, coupled with heat, and perhaps being at the optimum point for sound/bass caused this. He knows this shit. He's clever and works on science programmes at The BBC. He also suggested I look up 'brown noise', which I just did. Luckily, James Blake didn't hit a brown note. If he had, I'd have been not only fainting, but also shitting myself in front of Dennis and The Scot, which isn't a good look on a girl/woman. Find out all about it here:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brown_note

Or watch this:

Nads also tells me she fainted at one of her first gigs. It was hot, packed and the bass was oh-so heavy. I asked her who these bass demons were. It was All About Eve. I laughed my tits off. Prime movers of heavyosity - All About Eve. I can't wait to see Tim Bricheno and tell him he made her faint. What's even better is, she thinks she was wearing an arran jumper at the time. Comedy gold:

Health warning: Can cause swooning or loose stools

(Postscript: the reason for meeting up with old friends at The Enterprise last night was for Tabby. Sorely missed. RIP, my dear old friend.)

Portrait Gallery & Library Fines

Trying to fill my time usefully whilst waiting for further instruction on my latest mission today (styling job for Baileys), I had a bit of a wander into one of my favourite places, The National Portrait Gallery. There's a small exhibition of photography by Jason Bell, "An Englishman In New York". Being a fan of the writings of Quentin Crisp, the title grabbed me, although I knew that there wouldn't be any snaps of that top old queen.

The concept was pretty self-explanatory - a series of portraits of English people now living in NYC. Some of the usual suspects featured (Zoe Heller, tosspot Sting), but my favourite was Hamish Bowles - European editor-at-large for Vogue, he's superbly dapper in dogtooth check and a silver-topped cane, a one-man-oasis of sartorial calm against a backdrop of Yellow Cabs. Couldn't normally give a toss about fashion folk, but I do think he's a bit of a dude (he'd probably wince at being thought of as a 'dude'):

Snappy

(If you're reading, LouLou - it made me want to head Stateside for a visit - got home and started looking for flights in the Spring...)

Whilst I'm doing my stint as patron of the Arts, I like to think I'm single-handedly saving Crouch End Library from closure. I took some CDs out a few weeks ago and, like the absent-minded type I'm wont to be, promptly forgot all about them. Unearthed them yesterday, from under a pile of books and crosswords. I can remember thinking "oh dear, I might have to pay a pound or two in fines".

Wrong. £15.60. Yes, that's FIFTEEN POUNDS AND SIXTY PENCE. I thought I'd gone deaf. "Pardon???", I said at least once. But the fault was mine, so I coughed up. Funny thing is, I know one of the CDs is part of a HMV Classical collection that are only £4.99 to buy. I paid £5.20 in fines on that alone. None of this is good for my wallet, but I'm hoping the library staff will get to keep their jobs in these times of local government cuts (and maybe end up getting a better class of biscuit with their cuppa this week).