ATP I'll Be Your Mirror 2012: Orc 'n' Roll

The hottest day of 2012 so far brought an army of Orcs marching up the hill from the little rail station to its Mordor for the evening (Alexandra Palace - Day 1 of ATP's I'll Be Your Mirror). Oh, if only Mr Tolkien had thought of dressing Sauron's grotesque footsoldiers in Slayer t-shirts. It was a spectacular sight, and the two old blokes having a quiet game of pitch-and-putt obviously thought the same - they put their clubs down to watch the grim procession go by.

Napalm Death - on a bumbag. Honestly.

You can't really argue with Slayer. They do what they say on their thrash tin - loud, relentless, juggernaut metal. I've not seen hair windmilling at a gig for years. The last time was the Metalhammer Awards - we were invited guests on a pirate ship down the Thames (true), had to wear an eye patch to gain access to editor Alex Milas's private party (scary but true), where the lovely viking rockers Amon Amarth gave the best display of hair windmilling I've ever seen (completely true). I think this was the night that my pal Blondie patted Kerry King on his head. She patted King Slayer on his bald head. Blondie got balls.

King of The Orcs.

(I qualify windmilling as 'hair windmilling' because windmilling has many connotations, and only some of them relate to Mick Channon's famous football celebrations of the 1970s. Some of my other faves are right here: http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=windmilling)

The second day of ATP became hijacked by football, with Huddersfield Town's visit to Wembley for the League 1 play-off final. A valiant attempt to heighten our home town's footballing achievements, gaining us access to playing teams in the Championship (bring on Millwall). In true HTFC fashion, it went to extra time, penalties, sudden death, then their goalie missed, ours scored. Triumph. Apparently, New Wembley has no pies but you can get a pizza with rocket on it, which Washy suggested was all "a bit bent".

Leaving the footy euphoria behind, my Day Two highlight was seeing Aidan Moffat and Bill Wells. Aidan Moffat is a wordsmith. He has a truly excellent beard. And he introduced one of his songs thus: "This song's about children. Cunts that they are." Aidan - marry me. (I saw him in the crowd later on. I think I may have told him I loved him, but I'm not really sure. Perhaps I just said "you were really great earlier".)

Oh, Aidan. You shouldn't have.

Following a large dose of Mogwai's wall of sound antics, my aching feet and I were heading off for sleepytime when I bumped into lovely John Doran of Quietus. He tells me his children (who I'm sure Mr Moffatt doesn't include in his aforementioned description of small folks) listened to a lot of Mogwai whilst in the womb and he thinks that's why they're so calm. Nothing to do with having a big, gentle Treebeard for a Dad at all, I'm sure.

When Day Three dawns, the scorching weather is clearly here to stay, and none of us have the oomph to be inside when there's lazing around to be done. What started as a party of six has dwindled to two, and the two are struggling to do anything other than lie on the grass, and look up at a stunning blue sky and the majesty of Ally Pally.

We manage a spot of Tall Firs (good) and Sleepy Sun (also good). And then there was one.

Being the last (wo)man standing came as a surprise. But I rose to the challenge by taking in a bit of The Make-up - WTF?!? Quite honestly, I wasn't really aware of The Make-up in the 90s, so definitely wasn't prepared for the preacher-man-Billy-Graham-meets-James-Brown antics of Ian Svenonius. He's fascinating to watch - I half-expected a spot of speaking in tongues.

Quite some finale followed - red velvet drapes are hoisted, an enormous mirror ball is positioned centre-rig, and The Afghan Whigs take the stage in a blaze of soulful rock glory. Greg Dulli is a superb frontman - a louche man-in-black, and the fella has some belting pipes on him. It's a Greatest Hits set, and when they finish with a rendition of 'Faded' which segues into Prince's 'Purple Rain', I find myself singing along with a high-pitched 'whoo-hooo-hooo-hooo".

It's a superb ending, and I know I've witnessed something pretty special, and I'm pleased and proud to still have the prerequisite staying power at my ripe old age.

Then, I went home for my Ovaltine.

My Month In The C(o)untry

Yes, yes. Sorry. My month-long absence has been noted and I’m touched by your concern – but I’ve been busy, see? Thank you for caring. But worry not – I haven’t gone all Kenny Fucking Powers. I may have been Eastbound but I’m definitely not Down. It’s okay out East, it really is. In fact, it’s free entertainment – a big circus fashion freakshow for me to delight in. So, blogstuff is back and so am I. Right - wha'ppenin'? Well, let’s abridge this last month, you mofos, or we’ll be here all day.

The move East - if you have shit to move, use Butlers of Crouch End – the most efficient, wisecracking, music-loving removal men you could ever wish to meet.

Town Hall Hotel: a lovely Saturday meeting here with our dear snapper Colin Lane, over from NY to shoot Karima Francis for Mercury Records. It’s a beautiful old building, retaining so many gorgeous Art Deco features (you know what a sucker I am for that flapper era shit).

Deco lovely.

I have to say that, although the building is completely stunning, it’s frequented by a crowd too hip for my poor eyes, and the brunch (‘brunch’ – fuck off) we ate left me completely fucking starving. When we left Colin and the fashion brigade behind, The Boss, Nat, Dean and I went to a proper pub, drank ale, ate pie and mash, played Scrabble. Now, that’s what I call a Saturday afternoon.

He's better at pictures than words.

Chris Smither show at Cecil Sharp House: this took place in the same week that the Blues turned 100 – (un)Happy Birthday, Blues. Smart lyrics from Mr Smither and wry gravel-voiced wit between songs made this girl glad of a spur-of-the-moment decision to attend (courtesy of the generosity of those nice promoters at 5000 Presents).

Aubin cinema: I have a new place to worship film (actually, there’s another, but more of that later). Beneath a fashionable clothes shop in terribly fashionable Redchurch Street, there’s a little spot where you can stretch your legs out and view those celluloid dreams in comfort. It ain’t cheap, but boy, it’s worth it.

http://www.aubincinema.com/

Savages: I’ve turned into a girl-group groupie. I can’t get enough of these ladies. Hence my attendance at two shows this month (Queen of Hoxton and Hoxton Bar/Grill/Kitchen/Whatever). I happen to know they’re busy recording in sunny Brighton right now – get ready for good times this Summer, ears.

http://popnoire.com/

ATP – like a rock ‘n’ roll Saga holiday. You know you’ve hit a certain age when at least two of your party bring their slippers on the trip. Ate shit food all weekend - HP managed two foot long hotdogs in a day, prompting the comment that there was a very good chance she had a couple of 12" sausages inside her.

The highlights (not the grey hair count – off the Zimmer scale) came from Jon Spencer (Plastic pants? Really? Well, only because it’s you), who rocked us so hard at 2am, I left the vast ballroom having raised more than just a sweat; the appearance of a still very youthful David Yow and his Scratch Acid – watching a man of 52 have more energy than lead singers half his age, launch himself into the audience, not giving a shit if he gets caught by the loving arms of the moshpit, belting song after song out – a punk rock joy to behold; and the inevitable worship of the reclusive Mr Mangum, our host for the weekend – it turned into a huge Sing-A-Long-A-Mangum, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had all gone a bit Waco, I felt like I’d inadvertently stumbled into a cult gathering.

The only downside recently is that Little Mum took a tumble a couple of weeks ago, breaking her ribs and creating a major upset and panic within my head. I took to the booze that evening at a Savages gig – four whole bottles of Blue Moon beer – crazy – and mildly embarrassed myself by waffling on to nice Phil Stoolpigeon (I much admire your funny and well-written newspapaer, I honestly do - http://www.thestoolpigeon.co.uk/), who must think I’m a nutter, thus making The Scot laugh heartily at my verbal idiocy. It almost put me off boozing.

Almost.

But not quite. I’ve finally found a decent local boozer where I can do my teatime pint/crossword/crisps combo in peace. They play CSNY / The Beach Boys / Hendrix / other fine old tunes, sell decent beer, and if I can be out of there by 7.15pm, it’s quiet and not full of fuckwits in red jeans. Result.

http://lookatmyfuckingredtrousers.blogspot.co.uk/

In other news: I've been mad busy at work. Sorting a shoot in Bulgaria for Hamish Brown to photograph a well-known footy player-turned celluloid gangster turned into a logistical nightmare, but all good in the end. Busy I may be, but we're never too busy for art at Blunt - my latest creation utilising the canvas of the Boss's armpit (she hasn't shaved due to shoulder op - she isn't THAT sort of lesbian, thank you very much):

I was aiming for Fu Manchu or Jason King.

More news: I gave up cake for Lent. This has been a big mistake, coming at a time when eating cake for comfort would have been real handy. I've been getting round this by baking banana bread. It's bread, not cake, right? I didn't even get to taste one of these bad boys:

And then sometimes, I say it with flowers.

And I've been spending my downtime getting cosy with my new beau:

Sadly, not very good with his hands.

Right, that’s about the size of it. Poor memory could turn this into vague prevarication any word now, and besides, I have a precious day off ahead, taking in the delights of Old London Town. I’m off to wash my hair and I might even wear a dress. Perhaps this East lark has addled my brain after all.

Sam Amidon & Magic, Our Morris

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.

http://www.wayofthemorris.com/

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.

http://www.pulluptheroots.co.uk/

(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.)

http://www.efdss.org/

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

Rockin' Up That Hill

Sometimes, when things don't seem so great, and I'm having a bit of a "what am I living in London for?" moment, I have a little wander down the road, through the woods and up the hill to Alexandra Palace. I sit on a bench, usually the same one, and have a look at the spectacular vista, with all of London's landmarks in clear view, and have a bit of a think. It doesn't actually fix anything, but it just seems to work in clearing a messy head. That bench has been party to every important decision I've made whilst living here, even down to what cake I might have after my tea:

Hmmm...Victoria sponge or lemon drizzle?

Welcome distraction came from recent miserable events this weekend, Alexandra Palace having its customary hand in clearing my head. After a lovely brekkie in the Haberdashery, and a spare ticket found for Camille (hooray!), a saunter up the road from Crouch End brought me, Nads and Lady Doc to Ally Pally for the ATP / Portishead curated 'I'll Be Your Mirror'. Named after the B-side to Velvet Underground's 'All Tomorrow's Parties', I can't wait until the bods at ATP get a weekender going called Heroin. Daily Mail heaven.

It all started off a bit middle-aged. We spent the first 20 minutes trying to get to grips with the one-way system round the venue. We tried to watch DD/MM/YYYY. They were ok, but as Lady Doc said, the main singer had annoying hair. We spent about 15 minutes trying to find coke. The brown fizzy stuff that comes in a can. Sure sign of middle-age when the first thing you want at a festival is a nice drink of pop and a sit-down, not a nose full of class A. And then I had a worrying moment when I couldn't remember if I'd put any knickers on. Put us in a home quick, someone, please:

Northern Rock

But things got better. We watched Beak>. They were great. They were loud and droney. They woke us up. A text from Les French - Camille managed to wangle a wristband for Nico too - bravo! Saw some classic feel-good old-school reggae played by a stage filled with dreads. Black Roots hail from Bristol and I can imagine the young Portishead gang going along in the 80s to watch these fellas skank away in some Bristol dive. There was a young bloke in a green top, dancing just in front of us. I have absolutely no idea what he could hear, but it can't have been the same reggae we were hearing. The most off-kilter jigging I've seen for ages. He had no rhythm at all. None. But he looked happy. A true case of someone dancing to his own tune.

A text came in from The Ex. Amy Winehouse had been found dead. This was sad news but not really a shock. Recent reports of her having to cancel her entire tour made you wonder if she would ever really come back from her drink and drugs battle. I had a run-in with her once. I won't go into details, just that she was incredibly rude to me and my good friends for no good reason. I soon set her straight. Shame someone closer to her couldn't set her straight on a few other things, including a way off that path to self-destruction. What a sad waste of a young, talented life.

(MF) DOOM up next. Now, some of you will be astonished to read that I like to hear some decent rap. And this was some of that. There were people in the audience wearing a mask a bit like Mr Doom, whose stage mask is based on the one worn by Russell Crowe in Gladiator, if what I read is to be believed. Sometimes, it's thought that Mr Doom sends someone else up on stage wearing the mask and they pretend to be him. It would actually be funny if he sent Russell Crowe up. But that would involve blacking up and I believe that manner of thing is frowned upon nowadays. Unless you're Papa Lazarou:

Dat you, Russell Crowe?

There was a bit of aimless wandering. We bumped into Massimo Haberdashery and the lovely Lisa. The Ex and Mister Doc had appeared. This swiftly followed by the start of PJ Harvey. Now, I've seen her play recently, and it was really busy, and well, me and Nads just got hungry. So, chips overruled goth.

Last up on Day One - our guardians for the weekend, Portishead. And right from the off, it was superb. The sound was clear as a bell, Beth Gibbon's voice, haunting and pure, rising beautifully above synth, loops and guitar. And the visuals were stunning. Assorted camera angles gave us grainy black and white filmic close-ups of Beth's face, her sublimely furrowed brow displayed in detail on the huge screens as she poured her heart out of her mouth. At one point, there was a brilliant merging of two close-ups - Adrian Utley's foot on his guitar pedal, fused with his fingers playing a spine tingling solo on his guitar. Spellbinding stuff, I couldn't look away. Last time I saw visuals this good, I was watching The Orb play, circa Little Fluffy Clouds, and I think I may have been under an influence. Towards the end of the set, Beth even jumped off stage and ran the length of the audience to shake hands with everyone. Top.

Glorious stuff.

Slow start to Day Two. Lots of toast and juice, followed by strong coffee, only just got our arses into gear in time to head up the hill for a band I've never seen, Godspeed You! Black Emperor. Sitting waiting for the doors to open, we bumped into Les French. And they'd seen the bad dancer in the green top too! But much later in the day and by the sounds of it, a whole heap worse for wear...

Brilliantly sunny day, so what better way to spend it than in a darkened room watching footage of buildings burning whilst listening to deafening, droning, swirling, bowel-budging minor chords belting out? We managed about an hour and a half. Then Nads said she actually felt a bit depressed, so we went outside and let the sunshine work its magic. There was a bit of listening to shellac (no, not Steve Albini brilliance - some old fella in a bow tie playing 78s on a gramophone), followed by a wander by the boating lake. The boating lake has huge swan-shaped pedalos. If some clever snapper had persuaded Michael Gira to cram his band into one of those, it would have been a genius bit of thinking and a photographic coup for ATP. I'm praying it's out there:

"What do you mean "Michael Gira said no"? Chicken."

And so, back inside for more racket. I'd tried a bit of Beach House, but was disappointed. I saw them in New York a few years ago in a smaller venue and that's the size of place I'd prefer them. Caught a bit of Acoustic Ladyland - I love to see Seb Roachford drum, but I couldn't actually see a thing. And then - Swans were superb. Glad I remembered my real ear plugs today, not just some bits of bog roll shoved in my ears. They were loud and impressive. They had Thor on drums! Thor Harris - my favourite Viking drumming God! But after a day of drones and noises and top percussion, I was really in need of just good old-fashioned rock and roll. Preferably played by a band who know their stuff and strut it in a suited-and-booted sharp dressed men kinda way. Step up Messrs Cave, Ellis, Sclavunos and Casey aka Grinderman. I love these boys. I'd spotted Mr Sclavunos earlier in the day, wandering resplendent in a pink suit. The man oozes cool and he can drum. It's a bit of glamorous, lightshow filled, lyrically brilliant showbiz after so much glooooomy cool. Thank you, boys:

No Pussy Blues? This lot? Yeah, right.

And at this juncture, we did some serious flagging. Camille called me to say Nico had left already, both Doctors had gone home, so now the dilemma. To watch Portishead again, easily the performance of the weekend...or a lift home from Camille, followed by tea and toast? Now, you know me. Cut me open and you'd read 'ROCK 'N' ROLL' right through my middle, like some cavity-inducing candy bought on Blackpool seafront. But bollocks to all that. Enough's enough. So I got a nice lift to my front door from the sweetest chauffeuse in town, and curled up with a nice cuppa and some raspberry jam on toast. I'll be doing it all again in December anyway, and a girl of my advanced years has to conserve her energy. Note to self: remember to wear knickers in December. Minehead can be cold that time of year and no-one wants a glimpse of my old arse resplendent with goosebumps.

Seaside Rock

Never keen to miss out on hanging out with a bunch of good friends, I'd have been mad to say no to Kieran when he invited me to fill the spare berth at last weekend's ATP curated by The Breeders. Cash has been sparse this year, but as he even offered some sort-of Christmas Club payment scheme, then even someone as skint as this Cinderella gets to go to the ball.

Drove down with Nads. Great journey, good chat, top music (listened to Wardy's radio show, Broken Family Band, culminating in some very loud Back In Black on arrival). Hooked up with Kieran, Bernie, Martin, Sarah B, Sonia and settled in (chucked bag on bed, got beer in hand). 

I almost made the mistake of missing The Bronx as first band. They were a great start to the first night (singer has a Henry Rollins fixation, methinks). Other highlights include:

• booze
• Bon Iver (so good - blubbing with Nads...getting to be a habit...)
• Buffalo Killers - good 70s rock vibe, great vocals

I flaked out a bit around this point, so I went back to the apartment on my own, and joy of joys, Rebecca was on TV. I've seen that film at least 20 times, but never tire of it. Clever Hitch, evil Danvers...had Pot Noodle and curled up on the sofa...

Supper

Up early on Saturday - who could lie in on a bed that uncomfortable, with the rubber sheet crackling every time you turn over? Rubber sheets...middle-aged bed wetters must be all the rage at Butlins... We cooked a huge communal breakfast - I drank about a gallon of tea, trying to get over my hangover. Went for a wander, then out for the first band, Whispertown 2000. Ok, but a bit too cute for me. Blood Red Shoes next - good, lot of noise for two people. Bumped into Michael (Folk Idol fake beard wearer - see Viking Gods post) and his lady friend. Shared my Jaffa Cakes with them (nothing if not generous, me), then sneaked back to the flat for a little lie-down (point to note: this WAS NOT a nap, it was a lie-down...). Managed to rouse myself for Wire, who were great, and woke me up a bit. Next up, Mr Albini.

Shellac are unfeasibly tight, random and brilliant. From the moment Steve straps his guitar around his waist, Bob step up to the mic, and Todd holds those sticks high, I am pretty giddy. We (T & V, Nads, Tom, Ulanda) all go up front. I bump into John Doran (lovely big hairy journalist - Stool Pigeon, Metalhammer, Plan B, Drowned In Sound, Classic Rock...) and it's nice to catch up. Haven't seen him since the pirate ship and the Metalhammer Awards, which is a massive blur due to Jäger intake... Anyway, back to Mr Albini et al. They are so good. When they play "End Of Radio" and say "John Peel was a helluva guy", they get a huge cheer. They hold a hilarious Q&A with the audience while Steve retunes. "You with the beard" said Bob. "Oh...you all have beards" he noted. They completely lifted my spirits after my earlier lull, so I waded straight into the beers...

Popped over to watch a bit of the Breeders. Kim and Kelley Deal are twins, Kelley being minutes older than Kim. She often plays the age superiority card, and they have great banter. Kelley is into knitting (aren't all ex-heroin addicts???) and is running knit-a-thons throughout the weekend. Kim has one of my favourite voices in rock - I still listen to Pixies all the time, and at a weak moment, Gigantic can still make me get mushy. But here's the problem...they clash with Tricky, and after reading a recent review in The Observer of his recent performance, it seemed madness to miss him...

What a smart move. When I got back to Centre Stage, he was already on stage. The sound was incredible. And he is mesmerising. I honestly couldn't take my eyes off him. Not just because he's so well kept, naked and has great ink...I close my eyes and drift off a few times...mmmmm...

Need food, so fish and chips beckon. Go with Nads and Ulanda and the lovely chap who serves us asks if we're all sisters, which is very touching, as I'd be proud to be a third sister to that family. Once we've stuffed our faces, we go back for Zach Hill. Now, it's a well-known fact that I'm a big fan of all things drummer. But 45 minutes of just drumming of a mental odd style is too much even for me. It was a big self-indulgent drum-wank-fest. But the spotty youths at the front seemed to like it...

Last but not least, Mariachi El Bronx. Ok, so The Bronx play loud, fast melodic hardcore. And their alter-egos play mariachi. Yup, the same guys dress up in Mexican outfits and play mariachi. Freaky. But good! And Kelley deal appears on stage and duets with them:

Top fun. Holy Fuck are last, and despite them being pretty good, I have to pass and get back for some kip.

Sunday dawned. Pissing it down. Felt very ropey. Needed fresh sea air and a walk. Ended up in...McDonalds. Only about the third time in my life that I've ever been in one, but I needed to steal their internet connection for a Skype session, so needs must and all that...then on to Tesco for painkillers. Back just in time for HUGE breakfast cooked by the lovely Bernie. Caught a bit of Times New Viking (ok), but then remembered it was T's birthday. Bollocks. Went back to Tesco, bought him a cake and candles, and arranged a surprise sing-song in the pub. He looked genuinely touched, so well worth the effort made in my feeble state. Couldn't concentrate much...saw a bit of Melt Banana (melted my face, let alone banana). Time for hair of the dog. Sat with Hudds posse over beers, when during a discussion about music, Tom mentioned Lonnie Donegan. Ulanda said she knew I really liked him. Confusion reigned. Turns out she meant Mark Lanegan. Not the same. Very, very funny. Imagine Mark Lanegan in an arran jumper playing a washboard, I beg you...

Watched Shellac again. And it was just as good second time around. Then Supersuckers. Wow. I couldn't stop smiling. We all loved them. Showbiz. Any band that has a song called "She Used To Be Pretty, Now She's Pretty Fucked Up" has to be a winner. They told us "we have Supersuckers crap for sale in the tenty thing outside", so being a couple of supersuckers, me and Tom bought a CD and a tshirt. Merch stalls - endless hours of fun...

Final band of the weekend - X. Now this was an odd one...because it wouldn't have mattered whether they were good or not (incidentally, they were pretty good) because my entire group of friends were completely entranced by the guitarist, Billy Zoom. Imagine if you will...a guitarist, one part Rutger Hauer, one part Christopher Walken, James Dean outfit, with a thimble of Bing Crosby in the parup-a-pum-pum Bowie video and teeth like a Yorkshire Terrier (!?@*?!). While you're imagining, try and picture that Rock Frankenstein looking at every single girl in the audience and mouthing stuff like "you and me, let's get it on" and much worse. Hilarious. And I've just Wiki'd him - he's 61.

Billy Zoom Spreads 'Em For The Ladies

The finale of the evening and the weekend was a stint in the Crazy Horse Saloon (who thinks these names up?), where music lovers of all ages get shitfaced and dance their little tits off to anything that takes their fancy. Our fancy was taken by the Stooges, Only Ones, and a particularly energetic stint of pogoing to Joy Division. I blame the Jim Beam...

Had to be up at 9am. Oh dear. Not good. Bad head. Gut rot. Long drive ahead. Fond farewells accomplished, I noticed the sun was shining, and after such a great weekend, it would be rude to be too miserable...Ray Bans on, we waved bye-bye to Butlins...until next year.

Oh, I Do Like To Rock Beside The Seaside...

As a kid, most of my holidays were spent in little B&B's, presided over by bustling landladies in pinnys and slippers. I used to listen enviously as friends told of holidays at Butlins, with its knobbly knee competitions and Redcoats. How I dreamed wistfully of such glamour...

My chance to visit Butlins for the first time came when some friends had a spare berth in their chalet for an All Tomorrow's Parties weekend to be held in Minehead. The weekend was to be curated by Mike Patton (sigh) and the Melvins. At first, I resisited. When Soulsavers announced they were playing, with the wondeful Mr Lanegan in tow, I buckled and gave in.

We drove down on Friday - me, Tabby, Nads, Chris - taking about 4 hours from London. This included a Tesco stop, so we could stock up on Pot Noodle, Jaffa Cakes and booze (essential Rock fodder). Minehead is a pretty town, nestling in tree-covered cliffs. Butlins is right on the seafront. Our chalet was perfect - a Formica home-from-home. Tom and Ulanda arrived from Whitstable and our party was complete.

Bands seen over the weekend:

• Melvins 1983 - Good way to start. Buzz Osborne's hair is as big and bouncy as ever with tunes to match.
• Dirtbombs - good tunes, but sound was a bit disappointing on the vocals.
• Isis - great drone - superb
• The Locust - wild. Men in insect outfits playing what can only be described as post-punk-jazz-doom-John -Wyndham-core (creating new genres became a fave pastime of the weekend...)
• Meat Puppets - the Kirkwoods done good.
• Os Mutantes - ohmifuckinggod! How to describe - psych-meets-samba-meets-circus-freakery all done with a beaming smile. Brilliant but odd.
• Butthole Surfers - I have a crush (one of my many) on Gibby Haynes. Because he was, and is, at the forefront of making music that pushes people into places they wouldn't normally go. And he's hugely tall and does a brilliant wobbly leg move on stage. And you never know what he'll do next. Swoon.
• Mastodon - considering these guys were a guitarist down, they ROCKED that hall. Consummate metal showbiz. Superb.
• Fantomas - what to say? Mike Patton is a supremely talented individual with an amazing voice. He's joined by an equally amazing line-up - Buzz on guitar, Trevor Dunn on bass, and Dave "Slayer" Lombardo on drums. And they performed the Director's Cut, an album of film orchestration done in metal-thrash style, but often staying faithful in parts to the original. They were simply breathtaking.
• Martina Topley-Bird - lovely voice, lovely frock.  A real breath of sweet air amongst all the Heavy. Did a cover of one of my fave Kate Bush songs Army Dreamers. Didn't murder it either.
• Teenage Jesus & The Jerks - Lydia being Lydia. Jim Sclavunos - yes please. Immaculate drumming and not a man boob in sight under that shirt which got slowwwwly opened button by button. The tease.
• Soulsavers - oh, Mr Lanegan. If only you knew what your voice does to me. I waited up until 2am to see this and he was worth the wait. Nice use of gospel voices too. Lovely.
• James "Blood" Ulmer - saw this cool old blues dude a while back at the Barbican with Vernon Reid and the Punk Funk Allstars. Still got those blues...
• Joe Lally - please, if there is a God, let Fugazi reform. Joe has a sweet voice and plays that bass like an angel. Although all this solo stuff didn't quite hit it, some of the tunes were real growers.

Other highlights included:

• Me being chased by a huge, bearded man (who became known as Treebeard), who insisted that "I only want to touch her" to my doubled-up-with-laughter friends. I had to actually RUN away from him in the venue.
• When the car radio wouldn't work, I said it might if I blew on it, which caused much cynicism. So I blew on it...and it worked. Magic.
• Lovely walk on the seafront
• Seeing Mike Patton up close and realising that he really is still GORGEOUS.

And that's about it. We drove back on Sunday evening (work beckoning - I hate that work rubbish...gets in the way of a good time...). Back next May for the Breeders ATP. Hi-De-Hi!

Big Black Mummy

Halloween is big business nowadays. Back in the day (go on, girl - try sounding like your Granny, whydontcha?), it consisted of having a turnip (yes, as hilarious as that sounds, I don't think there were any pumpkins round my way when I was a kid - I am laughing as I type this, cos it sounds like a Monty Python Northerner sketch starring Terry Jones as some old woman) with its innards scooped out and made into a lantern. And a bit of apple-bobbing. Not much knocking on doors and expecting lavish sweet treats bestowed upon us by a cheery householder. It'd have been more "sod off, you little nuisances, I'm trying to watch Morecambe and Wise". 

So, on Friday, Blondie and I were lucky enough to be given a couple of passes by The Forum Big Fish to the All Tomorrow's Parties Halloween bash. It was aptly named Release The Bats (one of my favourite Birthday Party songs, dodgy ex-Goth that I am). ATP encouraged the gig-goers to dress in Halloween costume or to come as a character linked to any of the bands playing on the evening. My days of dressing like a ghoul ended in 1986...so Blondie and I agreed that if anyone asked what we'd come as, we'd reply that we'd wet our pants earlier and therefore we'd come as...Pissed Jeans! Genius.

It was a pretty good night - nice to catch up with Big Fish, and also see some bands I'd never seen before. Liked Wooden Shjips, realised I only need to listen to Om in a darkened room (not much happening visually), LOVED Les Savy Fav (plenty to look at there - as soon as I saw the length of his mic cable I knew he was going walkabout), but the highlight and total shock of the evening had to be ex-Big Black leader Steve Albini, now of Shellac. 

Before they came on, I'd run a sweepstake with Blondie, Tabby and Tom regarding Mr Albini's fancy dress outfit. Bets ranged from black t-shirt and jeans, black hooded top and jeans, black hooded top AND t-shirt AND jeans. Footwear - black Converse (why change the habits of 30 years?). Imagine our shock, horror and delight when he came on dressed as a mummy. As in, completely bandaged from head-to-toe, with just a couple of holes for eyes and small mouth hole. AND acted the part. Very, very funny and impressive. Yet again, wish I'd had my Canon with me (iPhone has even crapper camera than the Sony Ericsson) to record the event. Maybe if Fugazi do play next year (there are rumours...), Ian MacKaye will come as a pantomime dame...