Fence Records Chart Ruse #1: Good News Is All Around

It's not often I get in from a gig at the Witching hour and start tip-tapping about my evening. Taking into consideration that it's colder out than Cruella de Ville's heart, the January deadline taxman's taken all my dough (nod to Ray Davies) and I'll be imminently leaving my spiritual home, Disgracelands (sob) - yet despite all this misery-making stuff, I get home after an evening out East and I'm still beaming from ear to ear.

Let's hear it for the Fence Collective (woohoo). They've put on a superlatively good bill at The Shacklewell Arms tonight. The tickets were a homemade thing of beauty, and within the ridiculously cheap bargain price of ten quid a pop, you come away with a 7" single too. Eh? What? I mean - it's just absurd. I've paid twice as much, sat in some fancy venue, surrounded by chit-chatting idiots, yet come away with nothing more than a face like a smacked arse.

Shove it up your hole, TicketMaster.

Arrived at the venue to be greeted by a sober McG. This is, in itself, impressive. He's made a big effort, because he's a huge fan of Withered Hand, and after his poor pissed-up showing at David Thomas Broughton recently, he knows he has to rein it in if he expects to hear/see anything after 9pm. The rest of the clan arrive (Ber, Screw). Into the tiny hall (doorman: sweetface Johnny Pictish - Fence god), to the strains of the first act, Seamus Fogarty. I've never seen Seamus play before, but he's very good and an unexpected treat. One song near the end of his set "Little Mama" has Screw and I agreeing we'd like to see more of him. Lovely fingerpicking and a gentle voice. And joined on stage by the omnipresent and very brilliant Geese fiddlers, who seem to be at any gig by any Scottish act on any given evening (if I go see Rod Stewart or Wet Wet Wet any time soon and they're playing along on 'Maggie May' or...erm...*thinks hard* one of Wet Wet Wet's songs, I won't be remotely surprised).

Short interval, and I get to chat with proud Dad Andy, Mr Withered Hand Sr. We've met once before, when I ran the door at a The Local night in Crouch End, and I discussed spectacles with him and son Dan. He's a funny chap, and we have a laugh about how easy it'd be to stay in when it's as nippy as this out. But like Withered The Elder pointed out, "when you start staying in, you start getting old". I'm with you there, Andy.

A second unexpected treat up next - Darren Hayman does a short set. He's regularly an unexpected treat, Mr Hayman. Pops up unannounced all over the place. I saw him do an impromptu turn on the little secret living-room-in-the-woods at End Of The Road 6 years ago, and have liked him ever since. Very clever lyrics and no slouch with the wit between songs. Hats off to Mr Hayman, as he tells us, "I'm 41. And I can't help but think that if the 15 year-old Darren, walking up Kentish Town High Street to see The Damned, had happened upon the 41 year-old Darren playing his acoustic guitar with alternative tunings and a capo, he'd have said 'what a cunt'." This coming from a man who looks like he should be in an Enid Blyton book. And he wears excellent spectacles.

Last on the bill, the not remotely unexpected but looked-forward-to-for-weeks, Withered Hand. Dan Willson (that's two 'll's) was first discovered by Screw and The Brummie a few years ago, at a little gig at The Silver Bullet in Finsbury Park. After then seeing him at the infamous AAA Viking Moses no-show gig in December 2010 (damn you, HM Customs), there's been no holding back on our fandom for Dan WH. Tonight, he's introduced by much admired Kenny Creosote, who tells us that they are both suffering from kebab poisoning (Dan - lamb, Kenny - veggie option) and that WH isn't well. I've a sneaky feeling they both have the shits. This doesn't stop Withered Hand from putting in the most sterling performance (not wearing his spectacles).

He really is just brilliant. Passionate, heartfelt lyrics, which despite the often grubby and funny subject matter, have a sort-of skewiff spirituality about them. Starts out with 'Cornflake' and there's no letting up. There's 'Takeaway Food' (the cause of the gut rot, aptly enough), 'Providence', and the very beautiful "Love In The Time Of Ecstasy', all from the album 'Good News'. It's a joy. McG normally has to be restrained when WH plays, he's sings along rather... enthusiastically. Tonight, he has a partner in crime, in the form of a small blonde woman standing behind us, who, it turns out, knows all the words and has come from absolutely fucking miles away, the isle of Eigg. This is quite a journey, she was really pissed and sang like a good 'un. Superb. WH finishes with 'Hard-On' - and it's impressive, as it's the first 'Hard-On' I've ever seen move a crowd to applaud loudly, whistle, sing and hum along.

Leaving the room, and we get the added treat of swapping the sweetest homemade ticket for a shiny new bit of vinyl. This is a Fence release called Chart Ruse - read here:

http://www.fencerecords.com/news/f3nc3-r%E2%85%93cords%E2%80%99-chart-ruse/

If you weren't there tonight, buy one off their website. It's a cracking bit of design on the sleeve, but to discover the delights within those black grooves, I'll have to make like a teenager and head round a mate's house, as I have no means of playing it (the shame). To give you an idea of what might be instore, here's a spot of WH strumming his stuff on an Edinburgh rooftop:

http://witheredhand.com/

(Postscript: I had a spectacle incident yesterday. Still a four-eyed novice, I popped out for chocolate/crisp supplies, absent-mindedly leaving my reading bins on my face. On re-entering the building, my specs steamed up. This made me laugh no end. It's always tickled me when I've seen it happen to others , but my first ever misty experience was very pleasurable. Simple things, simple minds...)

Oh, and quick, before I forget: The Local and TLOBF are doing a Shhh event tomorrow/today, Feb 4th:

http://thelocal.tv/listings/eventdetails/4-feb-12-shhhh-the-gallery-cafe/

Come along. It'll be good. NB - I'll also be working at this event so remember: SHUT THE FUCK UP WHEN THE ACTS ARE ON. Asking you relatively nicely and thanking you kindly.

Not Just A Good Friday, A Great Friday

It's been a funny few weeks - bit full on, busy busy, lot on the mind - you know the Life score. Easter's here and now work's aside, I get to kick back in this baking sun. Or not, as bunting season is upon us, and I can't chuck that triangular shit out fast enough. So, although I should be sat in the park with my newspaper, I had to stay inside and sew. Sew a lot. I'm even getting grief from pals, suggesting I should stop "dicking about" and get on with the bunting. "Dicking about" is now the phrase du jour - a couple of us should know, we're masters of it.

I popped into POP to see Blondie today - it was lovely to see her, and we had a good old chinwag. Not seen much of my top woman recently, so we're bringing on the heavy with Sweden's finest this coming Wednesday, Graveyard are in town. Thank you, Lord in Heaven, for handsome heavy mercies (but please don't fuck my hearing up, boys).

Met up with a couple of The Ladies at The National Portrait Gallery this evening. Everyone knows this is my favourite gallery in London. My love of portraiture goes way back, but one of my perfect moments in this building has to be when my beloved boss and friend, James Day, won the final John Kobal prize. I was thrilled to hear that Lucy Local has moved on to curating the music for the Friday Late Shift evenings at NPG. She's a clever gal, Lucy, and fresh from her stint at the Barbican (and secondment to the Sydney Festival), she's now treating us to a host of superb musicians at the NPG, set amidst some great art.

I was a tiny bit late after my rendezvous with Blondie. A delicious glass of rosé awaited me in the lovely surroundings of the NPG Portrait Restaurant bar - what a view:

Sit with friends, drink booze, look at this. Yes, please.

Then, we popped downstairs to take in a bit of Olivia Chaney. She has a really beautiful voice and when she's joined by one of her gentlemen friends, I hear some truly stunning harmonising. A talented girl, Olivia - you can get the idea here:

http://www.themagpiesnest.co.uk/artists/olivia-chaney

As Olivia played her encore, we sneaked away, so we could enjoy a peaceful last hour or so taking in the Hoppé / Ida Kar exhibitions. This was a no brainer for me - portrait photography rules all, particularly when it captures the spirit of real people going about their everyday lives. My own entry into the professional photography world was in the realm of reportage, and like any first love, it stays dear to my heart.

Both exhibitions thrilled me - Hoppé, for his beautiful lighting, his choice of subject (not the celebrity portraiture - the real folks), and that he wrapped a Kodak Brownie in brown paper (you know I LOVE that) to keep his reportage low-key. Ida Kar for the simple portraits, framed in a timeless way, which really could have been taken merely weeks ago. I suddenly noticed how the bohemian art set of the 40's/50's wore fucking great spectacles. Man Ray, Bertrand Russell, Le Corbusier, Sartre - top frames, fellas.

I discussed this with the Ladies, as I've just taken receipt of my Tatum (Art - jazz dude, y'know) specs from Robert Roope. Robert is a lovely big old teddy of a man, he's an optician in St Albans - completely charming, I met him when, after research on getting specs, I discovered a man who loved jazz so much he'd designed a whole range based on the jazz greats of the 40's / 50's. He sells vintage too - lovely stuff:

http://www.roopevintage.com/

After discovering this, Specsavers just couldn't cut my mustard:

Not Eric Morecambe or Ronnie Corbett

Leaving the NPG, Vik went home to tend to Dr Green, so I introduced Nads to the only place we should head after a skinful of Soho 50's bohemian pics: The French House. I love this place (Dean St, if you're wondering) - the very first place ex-Boss Mr G brought me well over a decade ago, I fell in love with Soho right here (champagne may have had a hand/glass in it). Superb staff, and DO NOT use your mobile phone in here - you'll get chucked out (good rule, this). We had a few wee drinkies and some salty snacks - Leffe rules:

Le Subsist

Ended up on a continental roll on Hanway Street - Hola! On that very same day years ago when Mr G took me to The French House, he later introduced me to a bar with the finest vinyl jukebox, Bradley's Spanish Bar. Where else can you listen to 7" crackly vinyl of Eddie Cochran, Mamas and Papas, Howlin' Wolf, Joy Division and everything brilliant before/after? Whilst sitting on red dralon? With the smell of incense and ammonia from the men's bogs wafting up your nose? And some top ornaments?:

Spanish Cock Y Shire Horse

Heaven. Tonight, we were treated to some superb impromptu spanish guitar. All enhanced by a little San Miguel. We agreed - not just a Good Friday, but a Truly Great Friday.