Ooh, I love a quiz, me. This week, I had my thinking (flat)cap on when answering a potentially ticket-prize-winning question posed by the fiendishly smart quizmeisters at 5000 Presents:
Q: How many wheels does a standard wheelbarrow have?
I confess - I had to have a little think. They can be a bit tricksy, those 5000 chaps, and I thought it may be a cunning plan to confuse us simple folks. No need to have worried. I stuck with my gut instinct of:
A: One
Lo and behold, I was the lucky winner of two tickets to a show of my choosing (look, okay, so maybe I am friends with the quizmaster - but I maintain I won those tickets fair and square, with a correct answer, in the time-honoured fashion. I'm also reliably informed by an official adjudicator that answers of 'two', 'three' and 'four' were submitted - seriously). And my choice of prize? The rather excellent blues-meets-country sultry sounds of an Eilen Jewell show at Cecil Sharp House.
Taking along McG as my guest (his lady Bernie to join us later), we were treated to yet another excellent show here in this lovely venue. I seem to be spending an inordinate amount of time at CSH these days, but it's most definitely a good spot to hang out. Playing to a packed-out room, the atmosphere still feels cosy and intimate. Right from the off, the joint was jumpin', courtesy of sassy Ms Jewell and her excellent band (top drumming, thumping double bass and some fine electric guitar). People danced in the aisles - yup, they got out of their comfy seats and jigged about.
We were treated to new songs from her latest album "Queen Of The Minor Key", some old songs from "Sea Of Tears", a couple from her tribute album to Loretta Lynn (a cracking "Fist City"), all topped off with a much requested and shrieked-for title song from her first album "Boundary County". She can crank it right up when she wants your toes tapping, take it right back down when she wants your heart to ache. And she's a charmer - clever off-the-cuff wit between songs have a smitten audience curled up in the palm of her hand. Anyone not smart enough to know that a wheelbarrow only has one wheel was more than happy to part with their hard-earned for the privilege of being there.
Last time I tried this, I'm told by the parents of the little girl baby I had a hold of that she'd never cried quite as much before. Absolutely bawled her eyes out. Gained me the nickname Wicked Witch Of The North (could have been the pin I stuck in her from under my velvet cloak *laughs in manner of evil pantomime villain*).
When my dear pal Smiff told me she'd managed to get herself up the duff, I was utterly thrilled. My little mate had a wonderful man, a sweet little house, wanted for nothing. Except the patter of those tiny plates of meat. Then, along came Riley to make their life complete.
I warned my old pal well in advance. Honesty being far too important to me, I'd have a job on pretending if the cruel hand of Fate dealt her an ugly mite. What a bloody relief. He appeared and he wasn't a gargoyle in the slightest, but rather cute, right from the off, not remotely Winston Churchill at all. I didn't even have to lie.
Daft amount of cute in one human.
He's going to have a lovely life, wee Riley. The lucky little blighter, he's been born into a happy house, with two of the kindest, most warm-hearted people I know for parents. He'll be talked to properly, know his place, not get ideas above his station, and certainly not think the world revolves round him (ok, well maybe a bit). What's even better is, that although they're a right pair of softies, they won't put up with any nonsense and he'll have a strict upbringing (when discussing what Riley will be calling grandparents "nana", "granny" etc, Marc said he expected to be called "Sir" by his son - he was only half-joking).
"Don't bloody drop me, Sir."
And my life advice for the wee fella? I'd probably tell him "well, mate, some shit stuff will happen, but loads of good stuff too. Don't act like a knob, or you'll have me to answer to. Be nice to your Mum and Dad - you only get one actual set, and yours are a pair of gems", and many other excellent pearls of wisdom. But I might save my words for a few years yet. He's too busy thinking about breasts at the moment (one thing unlikely to change with the coming years).
Those lovely people at Pull Up The Roots teamed up with the equally smashing folks at 5000 Presents last night, treating those smart enough to have a ticket to a packed show at London Town's folk mecca, Cecil Sharp House.
Arriving a little early, and with it being a bit on the parky side, me and Nads headed straight downstairs for a steaming cup of tea and the most enormous bit of sponge cake from The Nice Green Café. There's been a definite improvement at the CSH café in the last few years - it used to look a bit on the glum side, but nothing a lick of paint and a bit of cheery bunting couldn't fix (and I should know - I am, after all, expert on triangular-shaped-stuff-on-a-string).
Mmmmm. And a nice bit of Anthony Burrill too.
Two acts on the bill - first onstage, Rachel Dadd. I've heard Rachel before, but I've not had the pleasure of seeing her live. She's an odd little creature and at first I couldn't quite work her accent out. It seems this may be because she spends much time living in Japan, so maybe she picked up an inflection. Bristolian mixed with Japanese - not a combo you hear every day. She has a sweet voice, clear and pure - I like it when she's accompanied by a clarinetist, it works well. I've quite a fondness for fairylike creatures sporting odd knitwear too, me.
Just before the main attraction, I catch Howard Local in the foyer. There is a slight altercation, when he threatens to twat me with his iPhone - but it's just high jinks and I live to tell the tale. The Local are Sam Amidon's booker for UK shows and I'm very glad they are. Thanks to them, I've seen Sam three times in the past six weeks. The first time I ever saw Sam play was at a sold-out Bush Hall a few years ago - a dream bill of Thomas Bartlett, David Thomas Broughton and Sam Amidon (and a spot of Nico Muhly). They were spectacular, particularly when they collaborated on one song, with DTB wandering round the audience to sing, creeping up behind me, making me jump by hitting a high note right in my ear. Top.
Fond memories.
Aside from EOTR this year, I also saw Sam perform at a special Sunday screening of Tim Plester's documentary 'The Way Of The Morris' at The Phoenix cinema in Finchley a couple of weeks ago. If you get chance, and are even remotely interested in the rich heritage of folk music in our country and the traditions surrounding it that deserve celebration and keeping alive, then watch this beautifully and lovingly crafted film. Tim Plester is a funny, smart cookie - he's created a lovely paean to the country tradition of Morris dancing, telling a poignant tale of his own family's Morris involvement in the Oxfordshire village of his birth. It's charming, funny, human and not remotely dry or dull. Had me welling up at one point (and I know I wasn't alone). Sam played a live set after the film - think a few of the old folkers in the audience didn't quite see the fun in Sam going a bit Les Dawson on his fiddle at one point, but it tickled me.
Sam's set last night at CSH was the best I've seen him play. He holds me spellbound from the second he takes to the stage. Not just because he's obscenely talented (he plays guitar, fiddle and banjo - all of them superlatively well), but because I know there's a fiercely super-bright mind in that head, and he has a verbal performance to match his musical virtuosity. He goes off on a lengthy monologue about being in the woods late at night, searching for inspiration for writing a book - this tale just builds and builds, and seems a little unhinged, but then he brings it back to earth, it's all so cleverly done and I can't take my eyes off him, compelled to watch, wondering what he'll do or say next.
**NEWSFLASH - WE INTERRUPT THIS BROADCAST WITH A 'WHAT THE FUCK?'**
I was just doing a bit of a nosy round for a nice pic of Sam, or bit of footage of him being brilliant on some instrument or another, when I saw a headline on The Quietus telling me the Jeff Mangum ATP in December has been moved to March next year. I'm most displeased, but will restrain my ire in case someone (Jeff or his family) is in the midst of some awful crisis. I sincerely hope that's not the case.
If, on the other hand, I find out it's cancelled because Mr Mangum has forgotten the chords to 'Two-Headed Boy' and is suffering a spot of stagefright, I'm posting him a mousetrap in a jiffy bag. Or much worse.
**NORMAL SERVICE WILL RESUME SHORTLY**
Sorry, where was I? Oh yes, a big wordwank about Sam Amidon.
His performance is aided by appearances from Chris Vatalaro on drums (very good, nice use of hands and brushes), then some dude who Sam reckons played the organ at Will & Kate's Big Fat Royal Wedding this year (not sure this was true - but the chap could certainly play his tiny keyboard beautifully), and then some bird who turned up at the hall at about 9pm pushing a baby in a pram. Turned out to be bloody voice-of-an-angel Beth Orton (confession time - I frowned severely at pram and child appearing in the hall, thinking "who brings a baby out at this time? Idiots."). I'm treated to two of my favourite songs, 'Wedding Dress' and 'Saro', and my evening is at a perfect end.
Just beautiful.
Leaving the venue, I bump into the very charming Will Pull Up The Roots. The last time I saw him was at Luminaire's funeral and I was much the worse for wear (and booze). This clearly hasn't ruined our friendship, as he gifts me a bit of forthcoming secret gig info which almost has me skipping all the way home. I'm a lucky girl and it was a very lovely evening.
(Postscript: whilst scoffing that cake and drinking the tea, I was pleased to see that Morris dancing classes were taking place in one of the small halls by the café. And as I peeked through the glass door, I see my dear pal Northern Tim with hankies in hand, strutting his Morris stuff. This only made my evening more complete. Having watched the 'Way Of The Morris' documentary so recently, then to see the tradition of Morris dancing being kept alive by a thoroughly good bloke (with the most excellent taste in original 70s denim and suede) made me really happy. Keep up the good Morris work, our Tim - I promise I won't pull your leg about it ever again...because it might have bells on.)
Mr Ian Kilmister has teamed up with his old mate Slim Jim Phantom of The Stray Cats, and Danny B. Harvey of The Rockats. This cocktail of bootlace ties, Levis and quiffs make up The Head Cat.
It's late on Sunday evening and I've just watched the best covers band I'll ever see. Eddie Cochran, Gene Vincent, Johhny Cash, Robert Johnson, Buddy Holly, Dale Hawkins, Carl Perkins - Lemmy and the lads played the lot. Even a sweet cover of my Little Walter fave, My Babe. At one point, Lemmy rasps "tonight, Slim Jim, for you - Opportunity Knocks!" and we get a corking Stray Cats 'Rock This Town'. There's a few bits of off-timing, but as the man from Motörhead so charmingly puts it "we haven't practiced this one too much, so if we fuck it up, sorry", and frankly, it's Lemmy, so no-one really gives a stuff whether they fuck it up or not.
If there is such a thing as a working men's club in the Hollywood Hills, then I think I've witnessed their house band. And Head Cat would be one turn definitely worth paying your subs for.
A very nice man I know (I admire him, and also his work) tells me he enjoys reading my blog. He likes how I write. I'm very flattered, because he's rather a clever chap and busy, busy, making it all the more rewarding that he finds the time to take a look. He did, however, mention the amount of swearing. Not in an admonishing way. No, he merely commented.
And so, I think I'm going to try to give up the swearing. I mean, it's not like I'm ever stuck for words, and I seem to manage without resorting to profanity when speaking to parents/policemen/the vicar. Seriously, I think I can do this thing. Provided I don't have to travel by tube, be near any screaming kids or babies, and hopefully none of you lot piss me off.
Oh, bollocks.
FUCK!
*sigh*
Seems it's not going to be so easy after all. Perhaps he'll have to admire me for my other written skills, such as spelling proficiency, excellent punctuation and correct use of the word myriad.
"She had myriad swearwords in her huge verbal arsenal, and used them all with verve and fucking panache."
(Postscript: Roger's Profanisaurus / Modern Toss - swearing and profanity taken to another level. Check them out and be prepared to laugh like a drain - unless you're not amused by puerile, childish potty humour. If that's the case, you're reading the wrong blog, love.)
A stormy Friday, mentally speaking. But, as ever with a storm, the calm followed, and I was lucky enough to find myself this evening, beer in hand, sighing sighs at one of the nicest gatherings I think The Local has put on for ages.
Arrived at King's Place - this bright, modern venue isn't to my usual dark and dingy taste, but tonight, I find the vast, cavernous, airy space instantly soothing. Going back to their early acoustic/folk roots, The Local has put on a trio of artists that had me overexcited and booking tickets weeks ago. Fortunately, the anticipation didn't kill me and it was well worth the wait.
Rob St John took the stage and picked his guitar beautifully. He has an unusual voice, maybe somewhere between the lovely Ginger Angel, David Thomas Broughton, with perhaps a slight hint of the Karen Daltons about him (if that doesn't seem too odd). He's joined on stage for a couple of songs by Mr Viking Moses himself on piano. Just lovely.
Plays guitar like a dream, likes cats. All good.
This was followed by the usual stunning performance by Birdengine. He has the most amazing range vocally, and a clarity and depth on high notes that I don't hear often enough. And the fella's witty. I mean really funny. The most dry, droll sense of humour. I'm not entirely sure some of the audience get him, but his oddball musings have me struggling to suppress the giggles between songs.
Am hoping the 'cutting heads off dogs' lyric isn't based on fact.
How to better that? Well, let's try a finale that I've been looking forward to for ages. Brendon Massei is Viking Moses, with melodies that tug right at your heart, a voice that melts it, and lyrics that break it. It took an emotional battering by Mr Moses, my poor, little, easy-to-bruise heart - but it was worth the bittersweet pain. Wonderful piano-playing, some charming stories and a winning smile made the most sublime end to the evening - and a truly special rendition of Dolly Parton's "I Will Always Love You" to finish, which brought a wee lump to my throat.
Sublime.
And the audience were utterly silent during each performance. Not a fucking peep. It was a joy. Perfect.
After the gig, there's a wander down the road towards King's Cross, chatting with Mr Moses on the way (he's a real sweetheart), discussing his previous trouble getting into the country to play (Customs wouldn't let him in - the idiots - and we were gutted, particularly McG, who couldn't come tonight either - he's double gutted, my poor pal), then into some pub on York Way for a quick nightcap. Saying goodbye, I realised that Rob St. John plays with Meursault! It's a tiny music biz world, it transpires. And then Mr Moses kissed my hand as farewell - creating the swoonlike effect I seem prone to - I'm such a massive sucker for that old-fashioned gentlemanly stuff. Lovely end to a very special evening.
(Postscript: that wasn't the actual end. Oh no, there was more - a bitter end, if you will. Receiving a text from Mr Local whilst on my bus back, I veered from my safe path home to a rendezvous in a Crouch End bar, where my evening nosedived in the most hilarious way. By now, it's about half past midnight. Perched on a couple of bar stools, chinwagging and having a nice quiet beer, we watched agog as some Craig David-ish chap appeared out of nowhere (bit like Mr Benn's shopkeeper) brandishing an acoustic guitar, and then proceeded to play / murder "Wonderwall" R 'n' B stylee. And the whole bar sang along. All, that is, apart from two stunned Northerners, who nearly fell off their bar perches in astonishment. From the truly sublime to the utterly ridiculous in under two hours. Must be some sort of record.)
They agree. It's going in The Guinness Book,
followed by a quick blast of Roy Castle on his trumpet.
I had to partake of the London transport system at rush hour this morning. To describe my feelings at approximately 09.15 would involve a level of swearing not even I can condone (abridged: "shit", "shite", "arseholes", "bastards" - it got worse after that). I am, however, from up North, and made of stern stuff. Can't be letting the Tube / general public get the better of me. All my pent-up grrrrr was swept away on arrival for a portfolio show at Mercury Music with their creative director, the very wonderful Tom Bird. I'm stating here that I've nicknamed Mr Bird the Grace Coddington of Mercury - charming and stylish, they're lucky to have someone like that at the helm. Lovely man. Nicest meeting I've had for ages.
(I mention Grace Coddington because Tom and I discussed the documentary about US Vogue editor Anna Wintour, 'The September Issue'. Grace is definitely the beauty behind Wintour's business-head beast. I own a book called 'Grace - 30 Years At Vogue'. It was an extravagant gift from a lovely man for my birthday years ago (he spazzed £75 on it). I was astonished to be informed a few weeks back, by a clever lady-in-the-know about fancy books / publishing, that this book is now selling for over £1000. Yes, you read that right. A THOUSAND BLOODY ENGLISH POUNDS. Almost passed out. Not for sale, mind - it's a beautiful and precious-to-my-heart tome.)
I could buy 100,000 Black Jack chews if I sold it.
Tempting.
Rush back to the office to arrange for my setbuilders to lay Olympic running track in a cavernous venue in glamorous Slough for a shoot on Friday. The subject will be Oscar Pistorius, the South African man who runs on carbon fibre blades, after a congenital disease he had as a kid made amputation of both legs necessary. I wish I could attend - I'd love to see the man nicknamed 'Blade Runner' and "The Fastest Man On No Legs' doing his stuff.
Blade Runner - bet he could thrash Rutger Hauer.
Evening falls - a special screening of Paddy Considine's Tyrannosaur at The Phoenix, with a director's Q&A treat. Arrived in plenty of time, wolfed down some chocolate, settled into my perfect centre back-row seat. Perfect, that is, until a giant, with a head the size of a frigging pumpkin, sat in the seat in front of me. Watch out come Hallowe'en, mate. Some kid might scoop your brain out and pop a candle inside. I have to get up and sit on the wooden bench right at the back. What an unexpected result. I can see everything and don't have to hear the popcorn eaters. There is a cinema god.
I'm not doing a spoiler. The film is on general release from Friday - go and see it. Perhaps you can hazard a guess - Paddy directed it and the main character is played by Peter Mullan. Correct - it's a musical comedy with dancing girls and bunny rabbits.
Bit like this, but with cheap vodka, council houses and a pitbull terrier.
The Q&A that followed was entertaining and exhilarating. If you've seen Paddy act in anything (most likely in one of his many collaborations with director and old college friend, Shane Meadows), you'll probably grasp that here is a man who feels passionate about anything he undertakes. Not one for half measures, never half-hearted, you truly get a sense of this when he talks about the process of making this film. What I like most about Paddy Considine is how uncompromising he is. You just know he has an honesty and integrity perhaps not always prevalent in the world of film-making. The word 'bullshit' pops up a lot. I don't think it's something he talks himself, and you can safely say he won't put up with it from anyone else.
He also has Olivia Colman and Eddie Marsan on stage with him (no Peter Mullan, which is a shame, because his performance is extraordinarily good). Olivia Colman plays the long-suffering Sophie in Peep Show, a fine comedy actress. She's a revelation in Tyrannosaur. Reckon it's pretty safe to say viewers of the film are in for a bit of a surprise as they watch her character unravel. You may know Eddie Marsan as Lestrade in the latest Sherlock Holmes, but perhaps it's better that I reference him as the nutter of a driving instructor from Mike Leigh's Happy-Go-Lucky with Sally Hawkins. Expect something along those lines in Tyrannosaur, but he's definitely upped the nasty ante this time...
When I leave the cinema, I plan to come straight home to write this blog, I'm so bowled over by the entire evening. I'd had a previous offer to go to see Meursault in Hoxton after the cinema, they're a band I've been trying to see for ages (and are good enough to have wangled their way onto McG's The Funeral Playlist™). But I thought "no, get yourself home for a bit of writing and a nice, early night". Then, I saw the text from my old friend K. He tells me Bert Jansch is dead. I find this news a shock to read and so sad-making. I saw Bert perform at The Spitz some years back with Beth Orton and it was sublime. So now, I'm thinking "fuck it - go to Hoxton", and I do.
And I'm so glad I do. I arrive breathless at 10pm (well done, Northern Line), with 10 mins to spare, meet up with some great people, finally get to see Meursault, who, as a finale, say "it might be a bit cheesy, but we'd like to dedicate this one to Bert Jansch", but it isn't cheesy and it makes me well up a bit (cos I'm daft like that). And they start with strains of 'Anji' which was a signature tune for Bert, then it segues into a quiet then thunderous crescendo of their own, which is superb.
Then, I really did come home to write this blog. And, writing it, I listened to a favourite album of many years, 'Bert and John' created in the year of my birth by two greats of the guitar. What a pairing, what an album.
So much happens in my day-to-day life that reminds me of my Dad. When he wasn't jetting off round the world building machines to create the finest Worsted suit cloth money could buy, Pater and I idled away countless hours watching telly together. The perfect 1970s Saturday - World Of Sport, Dickie Davis (perhaps wrestling from some Northern town hall - I may write more of my shady 70s wrestling past soon), Pink Panther cartoons straight after Final Score, then a big plate of beige food (rustled up by Mum, before she'd head off to work nights as a nurse at the local hospital), followed by whatever sitcom the BBC was showing, likely to be The Two Ronnies (my Dad idolised Ronnie Barker). Then, there'd be Parkinson, Match Of The Day, often with a late-night grand finale of a Hammer Horror double bill. I could stay up until whenever I liked (often going to bed completely shitting myself - I used to fling myself onto my mattress from the doorway light switch, so Dracula / Frankenstein / assorted other ghouls couldn't make a grab for my legs from underneath the bed).
And Sundays: Weekend World with Brian Walden (always awash with politics, our house), Ski Sunday, The Money Programme (from an early age, honestly, I did - he'd mutter gruffly "watch this, you might actually learn something" - I hated it). He enjoyed spy thrillers, read le Carré, Len Deighton, Jack Higgins, Alistair MacLean. I clearly remember watching 'Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy' on Sunday evenings with him. That Alec Guinness was cast as George Smiley was heaven. Dad loved Ealing Comedy too, and both Kind Hearts and Coronets and The Ladykillers remain dear to me, thanks to him.
By George, he had it.
So, when I heard they were making a film of Tinker, Tailor..., I was thrilled and worried in equal parts. I mean - who else could possibly play Smiley? John le Carré had made it clear he thought Alec Guinness personified Smiley, even writing with Guinness's performance in mind in his later novels.
Gary Oldman. GARY OLDMAN???
Nothing Smiley about that.
Don't get me wrong. Ever since I saw Gary Oldman as Bex in Alan Clarke's The Firm, I've harboured a great big fat schoolgirl crush. Finding him completely believable as the well-dressed football-firm head thug (let's cross-reference with any slop containing Danny Dyer here, and see who comes up trumps), and watching him channel such intensity in his performance stuck with me. I hoped to see much more of this actor. Turned out that he'd really excel at doing nutter, Mr Oldman. Masterful at unhinged. Sid & Nancy, Leon, True Romance, Dracula - no romantic leads here, ta. But Smiley? Cool, calm, dispassionate Smiley?
So, lets cut to it. I've just absorbed an early evening showing at the Phoenix cinema in Finchley, mesmerised by the most beautiful production of John le Carré's superb book. Everything about the film of Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy was a joy. Stunning direction and cinematography. Superb casting (hats off to Jina Jay). A perfect colour palette and set dressing par excellence. Congratulations must go to the art director and production designer, who have created a piece of film-making that perfectly evokes the era. Peeling wallpaper, grubby streets, rusting window frames - every scene has a subdued grimness that transports the viewer right back to an era of strikes, austerity and Cold War paranoia. And Gary Oldman? Excellent. Self-contained, brooding, and held slightly more sex appeal for me, because there's no way I ever fancied a crack at Sir Alec.
I spy with my little eye...something beginning with 'brilliant'.
(Postscript 1: in memory of dear Dad, I downloaded (yup, my Luddite days are over, folks - I've actually gone and downloaded something off that Internet thing) the Alec Guinness Tinker Tailor onto my iPad. On returning from the Phoenix last night, I'm happy to report that I watched two small-screen episodes (it's surprisingly good for this sort of thing, the iPad) and they were excellent, completely stood the test of time. The opening credits of those Russian dolls transported me back, remembering my 12 year-old self in Yorkshire, the fug of that smoke-filled living room...and a daft bit of me likes to think my Dad was there last night, watching Sir Alec with me.)
(Postscript 2: Came within a hair's breadth of meeting Gary Oldman recently. The very lovely Hamish Brown was asked to photograph him for an article in Radio Times. The shoot took place at the Soho Hotel, where I hear Mr Oldman was charming and easy- going, and happy to do whatever was asked of him (and believe me, the glitterati aren't always this way). Sadly, no chance of me being spared from a busy office, which probably saved me from making a right gushing tit of myself. Lucky me, our Hamish has done a very kind thing and has gifted me a beautiful black and white shot to hang on my wall. There'll be swooning in my hallway most mornings from this point onwards.)
