Dead Meadow: Going Like The Clappers

Having missed a Dead Meadow gig last month (sidetracked by The Scot/a public house/booze), this month's appearance by Washington D.C.'s finest was attended by me and the fragrant Lou W. Thanks go to Howard and Lucy Local for bringing the sexy/heavy back to Islington. Crammed into a heaving Buffalo bar, we were only mildly annoyed when an unfeasibly tall arsehole and his very loud and annoying American girlfriend shoved their way in front of Miss W and I, only to proceed to turn into a wall of snogging and sweet-nothing-whispers. Lou asked "are you planning to snog throughout the entire gig?" and I reacted like this:

Take that, sir

DM played a blinding set - closed my eyes and drifted off on a sea of heavy psych (was rather disappointed to see that Stephen McCarty is no longer on skins - a truly amazing drummer with the finest facial hair a man can sport got married and a little bird tells me he's been obliged to do some proper settling down...). At one point, I think I re-enacted how Steve on bass gets when he's pissed on stage (he wears specs and can't see very well without them) by jigging up and down to the amusement of Lou W. All very funny until I banged my shin on a bar stool creating a bruise and egg-shaped bump on my leg of mammoth proportion. That'll teach me to tit around. Ouch.

Bit of hanging about after brought some nice Irish Whisky (ta, Howard) and a chat with Steve-Bass, discussing spectacles (naturally) and The League Of Gentlemen, of which he's a huge fan. He even managed to get in the Crème Brûlée "it's a shit business" quote, which made me love him more than ever. Apparently, I told him it is confirmed that DM make the best make-out music on the planet, voted by parties on two hemispheres. At some point, I may have used the phrase "going like the clappers" but I'm not sure if this translates well across the Atlantic.

(Postscript: last Thursday was one of the freakiest gigs I've ever attended. The Lexington on Pentonville Road hosted the album launch of Koolaid Electric Company's first ever release. Bernie, Scooter Steve and I witnessed Circulus (70s medieval oddboddery - head honcho Michael Tyack is moving to Glastonbury to set up a mind-bending church - are you getting this? Scooter Steve said he expected to see an 18" tiny Stonehenge descend from the rafters at any minute) and We Are Animal (perfectly ordinary bunch of lads doing loud things with their instruments - the only sane part of the night). Next, completely unannounced, two youngsters, who looked like they should be hanging around outside newsagents persuading adults to buy them 10 Benson & Hedges, picked up the mics and started doing something which I believe to be MCing. Shit MCing. I thought it was a joke. I believe the mot du jour for this is 'random'. After a brief interlude of peace from that racket, KEC took the stage and played their blissed-out, shoegazey psych for a bit, which was all well and good. Bizarrely, they then invited the yoof back up on stage to do fast-rap-MC-shite over the top of their swirlings. Stunned silence followed and I'm not entirely sure how I got home. I think I got a piggy-back from a dwarf straddling a unicorn, because I felt like I must certainly be off my tits on acid and had a sneaky suspicion David Lynch was filming me from the shadows.)

All About The Afters

Being a Valerie Singleton, I reckon I'm pitied by my coupley friends. They think I'm a lonely old spinster (hahaha), who doesn't eat properly (hahaha), that if I had a man I'd cook proper food (überhahaha). I often mention warming up a little tin of Heinz Tomato soup, or a nice Pot Noodle just to see their little faces look aghast...

Last night, my hard work paid off in spectacular fashion, and poor starving Spinsterella went to a great big fat foody ball chez The Marrieds.

Armed with a nice bottle of white and Gerry's finest Evangelista limoncello, I rocked up to witness a total mother of a pudding in the making (I'm not here to wax lyrical about the main course, tasty though it was - everyone knows pudding is the hero):

I bought them this heart-shaped Le Creuset as a wedding gift-

how sweet *barfs into bucket*

There'll be no over-egging this pudding

Not just bread and butter - organic lemon curd and pan d'oro, ta v much

Lady Married adding the finishing touches

I witnessed the obscene amount of cream, sugar and general oh-so-bad-but-goodness that went into it. Once we'd eaten a very healthy main course, pud appeared in all its glory, accompanied by my limoncello (snapped in Hipstamatic - there's something of the yesteryear about bread and butter pudding, and though this was a modern take on it, it made a pretty picture old-stylee):

Bravo, Lady Married - delicious

Limoncello: like an angel doing a citrus wee on your tongue

Lovely evening, lovely friends, lovely food. Lovely. Note to self: expand vocabulary, not just waistline.

(Postscript: during the course of the evening, chat moved - and I use this word advisedly - to bowel movements. It seems there's a thing called the Bristol Scale, which charts the type of stool one produces when doing one's toilet. Bit like a Richter scale for shit:

Fascinating. All agreed it was normal to have a look, and it seems we're all regularly knocking out 3 and 4 - like it states "sausage or snake, smooth and soft". Lord Married (this is a new identity for him - I have to protect these rock stars when talking about their toilet habits) says that in the past, and due to...ahem..."living it up", he has produced a 7 on several occasions. I can only surmise that when Elvis finally shitted off this mortal coil, he went up to 11. How more rock 'n' roll can you get?)

Our Survey Said..

Been busy, so no time for my usual lolling around in cafés reading the paper. I haven't even had time to read paper stuff at all, so Specs haven't had much of an outing. Time to remedy that. Specs and I went to The Haberdashery this morning, gathering today's Guardian on the way. Specs worked their wonders - I can read stuff, and not just at arm's length, folks. Amazing, this wearing glasses lark.

Now 11pm. Just got into bed. Quick look at Guardian online in case anything's been happening in the world whilst I've been curled up with McNulty and Stringer Bell (series 2 of The Wire going from strength to strength - aiii). Clicked on this article from G2 again:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/technology/2011/may/09/most-stupid-quiz-answer-ever

Read the comments. Go on - do it. I may be easily pleased, but I had to wipe the tears from my sleepy eyes.

Q: "Name something you hide in your socks when you go swimming."

A: "Your legs."

My Gentleman Caller

A strange thing has happened. Dapper elderly gentlemen seem to have a soft spot for me (no 'I know where they keep their soft spot' jokes, thank you). God knows why, because I'm a scruffy Northern herbert.

It all started a while back. I'd had a lovely day out with The Scot. Dusk had fallen and we'd wandered into a little drinkery just off Jermyn Street. Following a few tipples, we had a saunter back up Piccadilly. As we approached Waterstones, I noticed a rather smart gentleman coming out. The rather smart gentleman noticed me too and we held each other's gaze. Then he smiled and said "Hello". Naturally, I smiled and replied a "hello" because it was none other than Bill Fucking Nighy. I then had a bit of a swoon against The Scot, who I'm sure found all this very amusing.

I had a bit of a moment at the Leonard Street party with another remarkable old chap. We caught each other's eye and he smiled (it's getting to be a habit), so I smiled back. As he went past me, there was a wonderful smell, a faint whiff of patchouli. About 80, with the most startling blue eyes and a shock of thick, pure white hair.

Later that day, we bumped into each other and struck up a conversation. I told him that patchouli is my favourite fragrance in the world. It wasn't cheap hippy shite he was wearing, but perhaps something you'd get from Santa Maria Novella in Florence (Piccadilly Arcade in London). He was thrilled, and when we parted with a hug, he told me I had the most beautiful green eyes and that said he'd drop by sometime (the charming old bugger). Yeah, course you will, I thought. A fascinating character.

Imagine my astonishment when I arrived at the office this morning to an envelope on my desk from my old gentleman. Posted last Saturday, stamped and addressed, with 'PERSONAL' printed in the top corner. I love getting post, me. An easy way to make me happy - send me stuff through the post (no shit-in-a-jiffy-bag, you lot). It was a lovely postcard, with artistic handwriting, telling me he'd drop by soon. A calling card - I love this. Proper, old-fashioned stuff. Take note, you email/text boys - this is way more stylish (with potentially less instant gratification than Skype sex, though...).

He did drop by - today. Immaculate in a blue gingham shirt, chinos and dark red Converse (he's wearing Converse, for fuck's sake), we had a bit of a chinwag (he's very interesting - used to work as an art director at Dorlands back in the 60s - how very Mad Men) and he asked me if he could see me again...I think I'm being courted by an 80 year old chap.

Needless to say, when I told The Ladies, they didn't see the old-fashioned, innocent charm of it all the same way I did. No "how lovely" or "he sounds like a sweetie". No. I got the following:

"Are you going to nosh him off?" - The Boss

"I wonder how baggy his ball sac is - you could keep your lipstick and keys in there on a night out." - S

"Think of that scene in SATC when Samantha watches that droopy old arse going off to the bathroom" - K

And this from Lou W:

Bunch of filthy evil-minded witches (but funny nonetheless).

When grace is joined with wrinkles, it is adorable. There is an unspeakable dawn in happy old age -Victor Hugo

(Postscript: astonished by the feminine reaction to my new friendship (over dinner at the weekend, my older sister raised her eyebrows and thought I should 'be careful" - !!! Eh??? In what way? In case I catch geriatric clap off his postcard? Wink suggestively at my lovely old chap and give him a coronary?), I sought the view of a slightly younger gentleman friend. Scooter Steve suggests that if any other woman he knew had a friendship like this, he might think it a bit odd. But that where I'm concerned, it's not even worth batting an eyelid at. And quite charming. Thank you, Scooter Steve. I may even allow you to have a much butcher moniker on my blog now.)

Two Go Mildly Overexcited In North London: Camden Crawl 2011

L to R: possibly Person 2, Me

This weekend, I was mostly crawling round Camden with Person 2 (I'm protecting someone's anonymity here - all will be revealed). We imbibed a modicum of booze; ate a vast selection of (un)healthy snackage; absorbed a plethora of rock 'n' roll and did a motherload of walking. Honourable mentions go to:

• Turbowolf - first up and certainly a highlight. Loud, hairy, witty. Team Bristol - fuck yeah!

• Bears Den - you can get a lot of sound from an acoustic guitar, drums and a cello.

• John & Jehn - sharp, angular, Gallic, sickeningly attractive, superb.

• Phantom Band - stunning. I've waited long enough to see them and they didn't let me down. Can't beat a beardy redhead with a good voice (unless it's Mick Hucknall and then I could beat him - with one of my slingbacks)

• Civil Civic - hmmm...bit of bias here...they are 'encouraged' (his term for 'manager') by The Scot, and Ben Bassboy writes a devilishly funny blog, but you can't use that as a basis for deciding whether they're any good or not. So I watched. And they're really bloody good. Must tell the Scot - he needs to 'encourage' these boys a lot more.

• Dry The River - lovely half hour spent in the baking sun on the roof of The Roundhouse listening to some superb harmonies.

• Team Ghost - atmospheric, synthy, filmic (closed my eyes, managed not to swoon).

• Kong - mental. Imagine Johnny Vegas/Les Dawson head-dressed as a Japanese samurai, lead singing for a metal/hardcore band, with a bass player wearing a plastic mask and red nylon y-fronts, and a drummer thinking he's Leigh Bowery (make-up included) but much, much harder and Northern. Got that? Now, whatever you're thinking, add some then up that by the power of a squillion and you're not even close. Mad, but done with aplomb and some very funny between-song banter.

Other shouts go out to: Pret A Manger's yoghurt coated nuts (fuck yeah!), Abbey Tavern's thrice-cooked fat chips (triple fuck yeah!) and a 2am supper of edamame beans, rye toast, and ruler of all brown spreads in a jar, Marmite (simple creature, me).

Quote of the weekend overheard (Ladies toilets, Underworld): "I can't keep going to see shit bands just so I can be near him". I almost intervened, suggesting she find her own shit bands to watch, and if he was worth it, he'd be following her round. But no. I washed my hands (metaphorically of her situation, and physically, just in case of maverick urine splashage) and left, shaking my head.

Downsides: none, really. I suppose there was a lack of...ahem...how can I put this delicately? A lack of...movement in one of our party (you'll have noted that this party consisted of two, me and Person 2 and there was plenty of movement going on for me - draw your own conclusion, friends). As we left the Crawl for the last time, heading back to Chalk Farm and beddy-byes, Person 2 (not me, the other person - you know, the one with the...trouble) said she thought she could feel a little undercarriage action taking place. "Hooray! It's going to be the Great Kentish Town Shit Tsunami of 2011!" I suggested drunkenly, thrilled at her impending release. (NB: I'm very aware I shouldn't be joking about tsunamis at the moment, whether shit or otherwise, but well...I was drunk and I generally mean well - happy now?).

Thought of the Weekend: If I had a Euro for every pair of Ray-Ban Wayfarers I saw this weekend, I'd be retiring to me chateau in the south of France (wearing my Jean Vuarnet's, naturellement).

All in all, jolly good fun. Could I have wanted anything more?

Cowbell. Camden needs more cowbell.