End Of The Road 2011: All Growed Up #2

Should have known that fog would mean a grey start to Saturday. And it did. But you can't sit around with a face like a smacked arse when this is going on round the breakfast table:

Breakfast of King

The day may have made a damp start, but our spirits were soon lifted by a trip to the Garden Stage to see James Yorkston. Having watched a beautiful performance by James recently at St Giles' church (he read from his Domino Press book about touring "It's Lovely To Be Here - not had chance to read it yet. If you read this, A-D - lend?), I knew I was in for some very special soothing of my slightly furrowed brow. Tartan (how apt) blanket laid out and a nice lie-down as he played, accompanied by a lovely string section. Sigh.

Second must-see of the weekend - Canada's most-super Dan Mangan. I honestly can't get enough of this man, and lucky for Blighty, he comes over to see us on a regular basis. Despite breaking a B string, he played his heart out, not with his usual electric ensemble, but with a beautifully fitting string set-up. His double bass player is a hoot, makes a superb effort on the falsetto vocals on 'The Indie Queens Are Waiting' which raises a real giggle from the assembled fans. 'Nice, Nice, Very Nice' is a wonderful album - buy it, you won't regret it (anyone who references Mr Vonnegut also a winner in my book). And then, he brings the sun out (I'm putting it down to him - the God I don't believe in must love him too). There's an obvious finale, but one every assembled fanfreak is happy with - huge 'Robots' sing-a-long, and Dan chucks himself offstage for a walkabout to play among us, which goes down a storm. Big admiration.

Nicer than 'Nice' Mr Mangan

No need to go anywhere right now - next up, another EOTR stalwart fave, Mr Bob Log The Third (oh, how I'd love to have met First and Second). BLIII is unmissable. Last time I saw him, it was Christmas week, the final week of lovely Lumianire's existence, watched with dear friends from a top vantage point. He's a regular here at EOTR, but I have to say, this is BLIII's year. Something struck a chord, a very deep-down-and-dirty chord, with the audience and it was a riot. When he asked "hey crowd, are you wet yet?", there were whoops from every lady present. He suggested we had dirty minds - he'd only wondered if we were sweating. When he announces his 'secret' performance in the Tipi at half past midnight, you know mayhem is in store. At this point, I catch up with Lou W, who really is quite moist at the thought of Bob and is his newest, biggest fan. A plan is hatched to be up front for the Tipi bedlam, she wants to be bounced on Bob's knee, and perhaps give his Scotch a stir. Rather than show you some dull snap of BLIII, not remotely capturing the essence of this remarkable phenomenon, I'm attaching a little footage of the man in action - prepare to feel damp, people:

Generally, I make one cock-up each year at EOTR, usually involving missing an act. I've absolutely no idea what happened next, maybe I was sidetracked by fried food or fine hirsuteness, but I managed to not see Phosphorescent. WHAT??? WHY??? Apparently, he was amazing, a solo set. And he played "Wolves". Stupid, stupid, stupid me. (I'd like to mention that 'Wolves is likely to be played at Mr McG's funeral. I mention this not because there's anything up with our Irish friend, heralding an imminent demise, but because the playlist for his funeral currently stands at approximately 173 songs. This funeral, when it eventually comes to pass, is going to last about a fucking week. The lovely, long-suffering Bernie is surely hoping she goes first, just so she doesn't have to sit through it.)

After it dawns that I've cocked up, it all goes tits up. I've since looked at the line-up and can't remotely remember what I was up to for about the next 2 hours. I vaguely recall seeing a bit of Welsh wonder Gruff Rhys, but that's about it. Next thing I knew, I was swaying to the psych-swirly Black Angels (thrilled to hear that Nana had found something she really liked, buying 'Passover' from the dear folks in the Rough Trade tent, and it's a bloody good album), now way past 9pm. Think the Health & Safety Officer came out in Scooter Steve at this juncture, as he pointed out the mirrorball in The Big Top stage, which had some seriously worrying long spikes as part of the design. "That's just hanging by a thin wire and if it comes down, someone's going to get hurt". No shit, Grandad. But he did have a point, and from here on in, none of us wanted to stand under that bad boy:

Death Star

Black Angels gave way to Mogwai, who were just superb. Perfect, perfect sound. Then some Okkervill River, with a bespectacled Will Sheff treating us to a heartrending 'Stone' but more importantly, giving it his all on 'Black', to which I sang along, unashamedly. Then, Bernie appeared from a toilet break holding something in her hand. I wondered if she'd had an accident on the way, but no. On entering the lav, she'd seen this shadowy thing in the corner and realised it was a crutch. Who on earth comes to a festival with an injury so bad that it requires a crutch, only to leave it in the bog after some urinary (or secondary) relief? How could you forget the bad leg / broken foot? Booze must have played its devilish part for our mystery injured party, that's all I can surmise. Some legless (pun intended) pisshead staggering about thinking 'something's missing here'. She meant to hand it in. It didn't happen. It was used as a Dick Whittington-esque stick to hold the Cab Sav bladder aloft. It was used to poke people in the back. I think it may have ended up on stage with Bob Log III at midnight, but maybe he was just pleased to see us:

Bet she kicked Legless while he was down too.

OK, let's cut to the chase. BLIII is on stage at 12.30am. We get there about midnight and it's already starting to fill up. Undeterred, we head for the front and Lou swears she may rip the tits off anyone scuppering her chance to grace the big man's knee. You couldn't move as showtime came around. What really amused me is that all the young ladies around didn't even bat an eyelid at the nice, bespectacled 'roadie' who came on stage to test kit and mic. Probably old enough to be their Dad, and sporting big specs. Well, young ladies - there's the thing with wearing a bike helmet to play. No-one really knows...that actually, BLIII is a gentle, speccy Buddy Holly lookey-likey. Tickled me pink. But hell, get that man in a lurex jumpsuit and his shiny helmet, and it's tits in his whisky and hot-ass-on-knee aplenty. It wasn't easy to maintain a position right at the front of the stage with the youth desperate to be near our hero, but years of elbow experience paid off. I really don't mind letting anyone pass me at a gig, I have lovely manners. Unfortunately, them there youth of today do not. At one point, two brazen hussies make a loud and pushy move to pass Lou W. It was a thing of beauty. She subtly held them at bay for the rest of the set, using just her elbows in some mental skiing action (I'm laughing out loud at the memory of it now), which considering the persistence of these little nightmares, was quite a feat of endurance. No bingo wings on our Lou. Bob was great. Amazing. And us old birds did the graceful thing and let the youth in their hotpants grind their asses on Bob's leg. It would have been too unkind to them (and, in fact, him) if two middle-aged birds in army jackets and old Levis had thrown their shit on his leg. (Top songs, Bob - 'I Want Your Shit On My Leg', along with 'Boob Scotch', 'Clap Your Tits' and 'My Shit Is Perfect'. Nice.)

Fired up by Bob, I cracked open Father's flask of Fighting Cock (not sure how that reads for you, bit weird for me), and headed for good ol' bourbon oblivion. It was bloody brilliant:

Definitely to blame.

There are vague recollections of attempts to pole dance down part of the Tipi. There was definitely dancing to Aretha F in the fairy woods whilst singing loudly. There was a sing-a-long of the very brilliant Fleetwood Mac's 'Go Your Own Way' on the path near the tents, until one tent shouted "Shut Up And Fuck Off", because it was 4am and they were sick of hearing "If I could, baby, I'd give you my world" for the umpteenth time. No sense of humour, some of these modern nylon constructions.

Yule(b)Log #1

I’m back in Disgracelands. Moved back in last week, after a mental, topsy-turvy year. Thank god that’s all over. Sharing this time. You’d think it’d be weird after having been used to swanning round in my knickers and having the whole huge 2 bedroomed shebang to myself. But no, it’s quite nice and it’s like coming home. My spiritual home.

It’s been a right week since I moved back in. I’m bloody exhausted. It’s hard work, this enjoying-yourself-at-Xmas lark.

Weds: Bob Log III at The Luminaire. We love BLIII. He’s something else. And we were lucky enough to get a ringside seat thanks to the kindness of Andy Luminaire, who let us watch the spectacle from the DJ box. Bob managed to bounce ladies on each knee, but there was no stirring of the scotch. Well, not in the way he likes it stirred anyway (Google it if you’re not in the know – it’s very worth knowing…). Top stuff. (Postscript: The Luminaire finally closed this weekend. I've just heard from a friend that the last two shows had to be cancelled due to the snow. I'm very sad to hear this - that place should definitely have gone out with a big loud bang. Sincere thanks to Andy and all his great staff for the music and memories x)

Thurs: EOTR Xmas party at XOYO. Singing Adams were great as ever, despite Steven Adams being a sickly chap (it’s going round – Bernie felt quite rubbish, and my glands were up – bloody poorliness). Sadly, by the time the superb wizard-outfit-clad Archie Bronson Outfit took to the stage, we were all flagging a bit. So home we went. (I was later baited by Kieran texting me that he and Bernie were eating chips in bed. Bastards.)

Fri: The Local Xmas Bash. We were quite good at the Quiz (didn’t win, but I got an honourable mention for naming the hilarious team of lovely trade unionist types sitting next to us as The Men You’d Want To Hang – they were a bunch of wits). And The Travelling Band were harmony heaven as ever and very funny. I burnt my tongue on a mince pie – am sure some hoped it would shut me up. As if.

Sat: spectacular snowfall. Can’t let snow stop play, mind. It is, after all, just a bit of snow, which bizarrely seems to make London lose its mind. Not me - love it. Was invited into town for sandwich and conversation (sandwich ended up being pie, the mash was disappointing but the conversation wasn't). Felt a bit dreadful later on – got under my blanket and watched Scent Of A Woman (again). The lovely man in Blockbusters, who gives me good tips on film, asked me if I was having a quiet night when he saw my choice. As I turned away, he said “Hoo-Haa!” just like Al Pacino in the film. It made me really laugh, and I chuckled all the way home. Sometimes, people are just brilliant.

Sun: felt like shit. Chest hurt. Sinuses too. Day Nurse is good stuff, though. Head to Wood Green to deliver Mr Carluccio’s choccy panetone to my dear pals Bernie and Kieran (they cracked it straight open – delicious stuff – will make the best bread and butter pudding…hint, hint…). Then Kentish Town for Nad’s birthday lunch. I’ve eaten in The Oxford on Kentish Town Road many times. The food is great. But I’m telling you now – watch out for the ill-mannered, speccy too-cool-for-school prick who works behind the bar. Unfeasibly rude. Thing is, he just didn’t seem to get the concept of customer service – so he shouldn’t be doing that job, surely? And he needed to pull his bloody pants up too. Knob.

And then another gig (really, that’s enough for one week) – Orange Goblin at the O2 Islington. Bit of a gang there, great gig (Firebird were great, Mr Steer handsome as ever), saw the very dear Mr Alan French on the merch stall, sporting cool new spectacles (BTW, I need specs. I can’t read small print easily and am doing that holding-stuff-at-a-distance like the elderly do – bloody hell – but I have found some quite nice Anglo American and Sol Moscot specs that I like, so all is not lost).

Mon: snot central. Like a total knobhead, because my Northern work ethic kicked in, I offered to go in FOR FREE to work this morning. I just can’t help myself. I ought to start being a bit more businesslike about my time and stop doing everything for nothing (few weeks ago, I mucked in for Howard Local, running the door at a gig for the princely sum of a cheese sandwich because I felt sorry for the bands who weren’t making any money. Yup, I'm a saint. If I believed in God, I'd fully expect a trip to Heaven when I pop my clogs).

Day finished on a ridiculous high, as we had the Blunt works do, which consisted of late lunch at Elk In The Woods (lovely Scandinavian style restaurant on Camden Passage, Islington - staff charming, service excellent, food delicious), daft amount of booze (sambucca shots and champagne at 4pm, anyone?), followed by a two hour session at Lucky Voice (which turned into a 4 hour session – I kid you not). And to all those of you who said you’d never sing-a-longa – bollocks. We couldn’t get you off the mic! Any evening which culminates in a mass hug/hokey cokey to Hey Jude, followed by A Fairytale In New York has to be a winner. Performance of the evening – Satoshi Minakawa, Japanese photography genius par excellence, doing the most amazing and unlikely Satchmo (Louis Armstrong to you lot) and It’s A Wonderful World. I had no idea that would happen. Really. None.

Tuesday: built my new bed. Bed will be hilariously known as The Field Of Dreams, for reasons known only to a select few friends (and Kevin Costner buffs).

Wednesday: Drove to Yorkshire with Mr Heneghan in tow. (I asked him to bring a flask in case of weather emergencies. He did. An empty one. I suggested next time I give him a lift, he might want to bring his chocolate teapot - if Armageddon hits, we'll be fully prepared and soon have it licked - Armageddon, that is...not the chocolate teapot.) Have already overeaten rather badly and only been here 3 hours. A sea of beige grub stretches ahead as far as the eye can see (until next Tuesday, at least). Happy Holidays!

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...