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