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.
