The Local & TLOBF: Whole Lotta Shhhing Going On

Those lovely chaps at The Local teamed up with their equally lovely counterparts at The Line Of Best Fit to put on a simply superb Shhh event this weekend. If you've never attended a Shhh, it consists of a bunch of musicians, playing their (ordinarily) quiet and gentle tunes, whilst the general public look on appreciatively and keep their gobs shut.

Sweet little venue St. Margaret's House / The Gallery Café in Bethnal Green played host to this year's Shhh:

http://stmargaretshouse.org.uk/gallery-cafe/gallery-cafe

Gathering up a load of beer and Howard Local, arrival at the café brought a selection of the usual palaver (where's the lead for this? anyone got any gaffa tape?), but any teething problems were ironed out and the first acts were under way. I forget that offering to help out at things like this means you don't get to catch much of what's happening on the music front. Managed to watch a private recording of Tiny Ruins in a photography studio within the complex. She has such a gorgeous voice - you can have a listen on her site here:

http://www.tinyruins.com/

Running the door after 6pm was my other task of the day, and I was lucky enough to share my chore with dear Scanny, who was his usual sharp-witted self. He even let me off a little time for good behaviour (and for sharing my salt and vinegar Discos), so I could catch my must-see of the day, R M Hubbert. He's a bit of a wonder, RM. His style of fingerpicking lies somewhere between John Martyn/Davey Graham (on Folk, Blues and Beyond) and flamenco - you get the picture. His wry, self-deprecating humour between songs is heartwarming. The way he speaks so openly and simply about his long-term depression and how it has shaped his work is very affecting, in a way that makes you want to just grab the man and give him a big squeeze (running the risk of being told to piss off).

As RM tells one story, the chit-chat from the crowd at the back of the room has risen a bit, and, quite rightly, there's a bit of serious 'shhh'ing going on (and not just from me and Lucy Local). One loud 'shhh' nearer the front has RM saying "are you shushing me? You'd better not be, 'cause I'll fuckin' have ye!" in his finest Glaswegian, followed by everyone laughing and him swiftly adding, "I look much harder than I am, actually". One piece I particularly loved was "For Joe", a piece written and dedicated to his dead father-in-law, who he obviously loved dearly and misses sorely (had a lump-in-the-throat moment here). I bumped into RM shortly after his set - he's a real gentleman and you really ought to check him out - superb:

http://www.rmhubbert.com/

Before the fun and musical games were over, the snow started to fall. It was pretty magical stuff, until I realised how heavy it was becoming, and that I'd be driving Team Local back to Crouch End in a blizzard. All went surprisingly well, though, with just one minor bit of pushing up Crouch Hill by my bosses for the day - well done, Howard and Lucy (I'd have had it licked if it hadn't been for that bloody black cab, though - learn to drive in snow, Southerners). Ditched the motor outside the pub and whisky nightcaps followed, with the general consensus being that Shhh had been a quietly resounding success for yet another year.

**Shhh poster by talented artist Luke Drozd - more right here, folkers:

http://lukedrozd.blogspot.com/

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.

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

Calm After The Daily Storm: Viking Moses

A stormy Friday, mentally speaking. But, as ever with a storm, the calm followed, and I was lucky enough to find myself this evening, beer in hand, sighing sighs at one of the nicest gatherings I think The Local has put on for ages.

Arrived at King's Place - this bright, modern venue isn't to my usual dark and dingy taste, but tonight, I find the vast, cavernous, airy space instantly soothing. Going back to their early acoustic/folk roots, The Local has put on a trio of artists that had me overexcited and booking tickets weeks ago. Fortunately, the anticipation didn't kill me and it was well worth the wait.

Rob St John took the stage and picked his guitar beautifully. He has an unusual voice, maybe somewhere between the lovely Ginger Angel, David Thomas Broughton, with perhaps a slight hint of the Karen Daltons about him (if that doesn't seem too odd). He's joined on stage for a couple of songs by Mr Viking Moses himself on piano. Just lovely.

Plays guitar like a dream, likes cats. All good.

This was followed by the usual stunning performance by Birdengine. He has the most amazing range vocally, and a clarity and depth on high notes that I don't hear often enough. And the fella's witty. I mean really funny. The most dry, droll sense of humour. I'm not entirely sure some of the audience get him, but his oddball musings have me struggling to suppress the giggles between songs.

Am hoping the 'cutting heads off dogs' lyric isn't based on fact.

How to better that? Well, let's try a finale that I've been looking forward to for ages. Brendon Massei is Viking Moses, with melodies that tug right at your heart, a voice that melts it, and lyrics that break it. It took an emotional battering by Mr Moses, my poor, little, easy-to-bruise heart - but it was worth the bittersweet pain. Wonderful piano-playing, some charming stories and a winning smile made the most sublime end to the evening - and a truly special rendition of Dolly Parton's "I Will Always Love You" to finish, which brought a wee lump to my throat.

Sublime.

And the audience were utterly silent during each performance. Not a fucking peep. It was a joy. Perfect.

After the gig, there's a wander down the road towards King's Cross, chatting with Mr Moses on the way (he's a real sweetheart), discussing his previous trouble getting into the country to play (Customs wouldn't let him in - the idiots - and we were gutted, particularly McG, who couldn't come tonight either - he's double gutted, my poor pal), then into some pub on York Way for a quick nightcap. Saying goodbye, I realised that Rob St. John plays with Meursault! It's a tiny music biz world, it transpires. And then Mr Moses kissed my hand as farewell - creating the swoonlike effect I seem prone to - I'm such a massive sucker for that old-fashioned gentlemanly stuff. Lovely end to a very special evening.

(Postscript: that wasn't the actual end. Oh no, there was more - a bitter end, if you will. Receiving a text from Mr Local whilst on my bus back, I veered from my safe path home to a rendezvous in a Crouch End bar, where my evening nosedived in the most hilarious way. By now, it's about half past midnight. Perched on a couple of bar stools, chinwagging and having a nice quiet beer, we watched agog as some Craig David-ish chap appeared out of nowhere (bit like Mr Benn's shopkeeper) brandishing an acoustic guitar, and then proceeded to play / murder "Wonderwall" R 'n' B stylee. And the whole bar sang along. All, that is, apart from two stunned Northerners, who nearly fell off their bar perches in astonishment. From the truly sublime to the utterly ridiculous in under two hours. Must be some sort of record.)

They agree. It's going in The Guinness Book,

followed by a quick blast of Roy Castle on his trumpet.

End Of The Road 2011: All Growed Up #3

Opening my eyes, I was thrilled to discover I was still alive. And what's this? No enormous, temple-throbbing, skull-splitting, chunks-blowing bitch of a hangover? Okay, bit wobbly, bit weary, but nowhere near the pain I deserved. I jumped out of that zipped door, stretched my arms above my head and gratefully said "hello" to a lovely new day. It had completely pissed it down at about 6am, so loud, belting on the nylon, that it woke me early from my stupor. No sign of that now, apart from the dampness on the field (top tip: campers, don't take a sleeping bag when camping. Take a feather quilt, and get yourself a cashmere jumper and wool socks to sleep in. It may not fan the flames of passion, this outfit, but trust me, you'll feel toasty instead of freezing your balls, or similar, off).

Waiting in the queue for the loo, I overheard a Dad telling his son "...and that's where the word 'urine' comes from". That poor kid. I bet he was thinking "jesus, Dad - you boring freak. When are we getting sorted for E's and whizz?" .

Much sitting round the camp table and drinking of tea:

I take my tea from Barbara Windsor

The sort of chat and laughter ensued that can only come from a bunch of old friends and the slight hysteria a hangover brings. The Fleetwood Mac incident had been over heard by Sarah B, who had also overheard someone singing 'Jerusalem' loudly in the lav next to her. Toilet behaviour of majestic proportion. Miss B also told a story of her MD at work, who, when bumping into one of the agency's newest female clients in a fancy restaurant, went over to say hello, "how lovely to see you, and this must be your husband?", to which she replied, "no, it's my sister". I can't even type this properly now, because I have laughy hands. He sounds like a total loose cannon, this man. There were plenty more superb stories, but don't want this turning into "Well-loved faux pas made by top brass'. There was talk of what sound your breasts would make if they could (why?). Selections included:

• Nads: Parp, Parp.
• Lou: 70s trimphone ringtone.
• Sarah B: Quack, quack oops ( à la DLT/ Hairy Cornflake radio quiz Give Us A Break) - easily the best sound for knockers?
• Helen P: Countdown theme (Richard Whiteley would approve).
• Me: General Lee car horn from Dukes Of Hazard.
• Bernie: we didn't want to denigrate Bernie's lovely tits in this childish fashion.

Once dirty pillow chat was done, time for a bit of music. Sunday at EOTR generally consists of more lying down at the Garden Stage. Arrived to a bit of Lightning Dust. Side project of Amber and Joshua from Black Mountain (easily one of my favourite bands of the past 5 years), they were good, but not Black Mountain (stating the very obvious, a fine trait of mine). Next up, Megafaun. I lay back, thought of England and looked at the now very pretty sky:

Little Fluffy Clouds

They play real sunshine-folk, Megafaun. But lordy, if I have to hear the word 'awesome' one more time, I may shove something hard up the perp's arse. Once Megafaun's 'awesome' quota had got past 6, I was slightly annoyed. Expand your vocabulary, American bands. It's a great language, this English. Use it to the max, dudes. I have been pleased to note that truly brilliant Mr Lamacq echoes my long-felt sentiments in his excellent blog: Going Deaf For A Living. I want to meet Steve Lamacq. And become his wife / best friend / cleaner. Read here:

http://goingdeafforaliving.com/

Time to go before the 'awesome' turned me into a probe-wielding maniac - "Small Northerner In American Indie Band Dildo Murder Shocker". - front page heaven, almost makes you wish for the return of NOTW. No awesome from the gorgeous Willy Mason. He is, but I wouldnt put it like that. Just well-written, beautifully crafted songs sung by a voice that breaks my heart. With the sun now high and bright in the sky, there couldnt have been a nicer way to while away a Sunday afternoon. Bumped into the lovely Lucy Local, who very kindly offered to charge my phone, as it'd been dead for most of the weekend, making communication with the outside world difficult (actually pretty liberating). Moved on to the Tipi, sat in the sun, ate fish curry, a thirst-quenching pint of shandy and some people-watching:

Me mate's well fit, innit (more bunting...zzz...)

I've really noticed how much EOTR has changed this year. When I first came here, 5 years ago, it was a crowd of a certain age (25-45, I'd guess), all really here just for the music. This year, it's much more of a fashion show. Massive numbers of those who've bought magazines telling them how to dress for a festival, gone out and bought it wholesale, now spending a weekend looking slightly fish-out-of-water in bargain-bin Kate Moss-ish kit. My tip: be yourself, not someone you think other people you don't even know think you should be. If you get my drift. And watch the bands. Watch and listen. Don't look around the crowd constantly and talk loudly to your friends, telling them "oh god, this is just SO my favourite band EVER!" then proceed to chit-chat through their entire set. Please. Stop this. Grandma is asking you nicely.

Not sure what happened there. Got a bit ranty. Done now. As you were. Back to the main event.

Bumped into dear Massimo and his foxy Lisa having a potter. Good to see him away from The Haberdashery letting his hard-working hair down. The Haberdashery have been nominated for The London Lifestyle Awards 2011, up against such exalted company as Bar Italia, Konditor & Cook, Patisserie Valerie - well, bollocks to that lot. Vote for a fine little café, with efficient and cheery staff - let's hear it for Alberto! - and two of the nicest proprietors you could wish to meet:

http://londonlifestyleawards.com/vote.php

At this point. there was a venture back for essentials (couple of beers, packet of Jaffa Cakes, 2 Tunnock's Wafers), then into the Big Top for Kurt Vile. He was good, and I managed about 5 songs, but I really needed daylight at this point. I sat around outside, jotting notes in my pad (I love my fountain pen - words look so much better written in proper ink), eating Jaffa Cakes. The sun was going down and the temperature really dropped. Kurt finished his set, bringing the gang out, followed by dear Howard. He was sporting a very nice Rochdale FC scarf (I am pleased to report Rochdale have won today, although they are currently already languishing in relegation zone. Huddersfield Town are 5th, therefore proving their Yorkshire superiority. Take that, Lancashire.)

The Ladies headed back for London at this point, big hugs all round, the skies really darkening. As Josh T. Pearson began his set, the drizzle started. Not easily dampened, the dark-but-wonderful Josh T, as his wit inbetween songs proved - constantly reminding us how dry he was up on that stage. Little bit of festival politics here too, not like that knob Ben Elton, but Josh did ask the crowd if they liked the changes at EOTR, and there were a lot of boos. He's a regular here, and as he made clear, he's not too keen on being drowned out by sound from another stage whilst playing. He asked Simon and Sofia to take note, but not before charmingly adding that he'd like to come back again next year, pretty please. Point noted by the organisers, I'm hoping. That Woods stage has a massive sound system which floats up and totally takes over any quiteter acts on any other stage - whilst listening to Sam Amidon, I really noticed the cross-over and found it a real nuisance. JTP was superb, nonetheless. At one point, he asked for dirty jokes from the audience whilst he tuned his guitar. I left shortly after this, to take in another fave, Midlake. This meant I missed McG meeting JTP in the Rough Trade tent and proferring a dirty joke to him:

"My girlfriend just broke up with me for being too kinky. I almost choked on her shit as she was telling me".

This went down a storm with Mr Pearson. He chortled away, by all accounts, begging for a pen so he could jot it down. Look forward to hearing this filth repeated at his next gig, folks:

Meeting of great dirty minds

Midlake were the headline band the very first Friday I ever attended at EOTR 5 years ago. Van Occupanther hadn't been out so long, and they were a huge standout for me that weekend. Nads had never heard them before, so they were a welcome revelation for her. And yet again, they didn't disappoint. The weather, however, did. It became truly cold and started raining heavily. After much of the set, we just couldn't face standing and freezing our tits off any more, so we got some hot grub and headed for the sanctuary of The Tipi. Result. It was full of people huddling together, steamy body heat warming the air, and we soon found a spot with a hay bale vacant for a curl-up:

Tiny Haystacks

We had a real lull here and despite it only being about 9pm, we started to talk about an early night (I know, I know - ridiculous). Entertainment appeared in a bunch of blokes with a small model aeroplane, throwing it around, and encouraging others to throw it about too. It landed near me. It would have involved moving to pick it up. I honestly couldn't be arsed. But following much encouragement, I did. And threw it right back at 'em. Then, they threw it and it landed in some bloke's plate of chilli and he didn't look too pleased:

The offending article.

In dire need of oomph, we headed to see Brakes. Caught the last few songs. Perfect. They had more energy going on than most bands had managed to summon all weekend. But really, enough is enough. So, we had a quick cuppa, headed back, got curled up and listened to Kate Bush-lite wafting in from the Woods stage. No doubt Joanna Newsom is supremely talented, but as a lifelong Kate Bush fan, I have all I need in one package. Many young pretenders to our Kate's crown, but unless you can surpass her, I'll stick with the original and best, thank you. Lying there on my airbed cloud, cashmered up and cosy as hell, I honestly thought Miss Newsom had persuaded Miss Bush out of hiding to join her onstage at EOTR. I was wrong. It was just JN doing her best KB impersonation (and you can bog off too, Tori effing Amos).

I had the most heavenly night's kip. I awoke fresh and quite prepared for the drive back. First journey back to the car over, decent coffee in hand, and at this point, I received my first offer of marriage of the weekend.

I had to turn it down. My skills at putting down pop-up tents are exemplary. Mine was down in 2 minutes. Watched the handsome/hairy next door struggle for a good 10 minutes until he exclaimed "anyone got a match?". Can't have him setting fire to it, so I suggested he let me have a go. Down in 30 seconds. He opened his arms, hugged me and asked me to marry him. I said I didn't think we should base a lifelong commitment on my camping skills. He seemed disappointed. Another one bites the dust.

With the fishing trolley loaded, we made our last trip to the cars, and I saw one of my favourite sights of the whole weekend:

That's a big bra. FF, at the very least. The thought of a pair of knockers that big wandering round the campsite unencumbered, probably sweeping aside young children and tents in their wake, made me laugh like a drain. It'll stick with me always, the vision of that bra on the yellow car. A fine visual finale to another great EOTR.

(Postscript: or perhaps that should read post-mortem...it'd be churlish to point out too many faults at this year's EOTR. I've clearly had a great time. But it's obviously getting considerably bigger, no longer a small, intimate affair. They really will have to sort the sound clash problem out. Simon and Sofia always said they wanted EOTR to stay small (initially capped at 5000, now at about 8500), but it's their livelihood, and if more people want to attend, then why not? Just not sure that site can take much more without it spoiling the whole point of enjoying the environment at Larmer Tree. Fill it with more stalls, people, tents, and you may as well hold EOTR in any old large bit of open space. And 3500 is a big jump in capacity. Whilst discussing this with Howard Local just now, we both realised how little we bumped into old friends over the weekend. Case in point - whilst leaving the site on Monday morning, I saw Steven 'Singing' Adams. Big hugs, followed by joint amazement that we hadn't bumped into each other all weekend - we usually bump into each other all weekend.

Still, that's hardly something to get a face on about. EOTR have just announced a small baby-sister festival: No Direction Home. This will be held 8-10 June 2012, near Sherwood Forest, with camping beside a lake with views of Welbeck Abbey. Sounds lovely. If the line-up is good, it'll probably be a winner. Makes me wonder how big EOTR will end up, though. Any bigger will be too big for me, and I'll be truly sad to say I've attended my last EOTR. *breaks out tiny violin*)

End Of The Road 2011: All Growed Up #1

Army jacket - check. 70s tan knee boots - check. Pocketful of Fighting Cock (in Father's hipflask - it's a nice bourbon, folks) - check. Sorted. Get in the car, Nads - we're off to Dorset.

Having risen bright and early, knowing my nylon home for the weekend would already have been kindly chucked up by dear friends, a smooth drive through baking sunshine brought us to Larmer Tree for the 2011 edition of End Of The Road Festival. Having seen the line-up go from strength to strength over the previous months, we narrowly squeaked in for tickets just before 'Sold Out' was announced.

Arrival at the gates brought some changes. Having been coming here for the last 5 years, I've noticed a few over time, but this was a real biggy. They've altered the way in. Turning in at the entrance, we were met by Kieran McG with the carp trolley. I bought this thank-you gift for my good friends last year - well, thank the Lord for that because it's paid for itself and then some. The only way into the site is now a 200 yard struggle over some mental chain-gang-broken-rocky ground. Luckily, I arrived at EOTR in the most cheery of spirits, but a lesser being might have struggled with the Krypton-Factor-style rocky road hell to be endured. Without that trolley, it would have been interesting to say the least. But we had a man-folk in our midst in the shape of Mr McG and a 'let's off-road!' motherfucker of a fishing trolley, so all was just fine.

The gathering was almost complete. Scooter Steve and Bernie were already ensconced (I'd like to mention Scooter Steve's hair at this point. Something very odd has happened. It seems to have gone a bit...banana Nesquik:

Imagine, if you will, a cross between this...

...and this.

I challenged him. He utterly denies having done anything to it at all, but frankly, he's a bloody liar. No way that hair went that colour on its own, unaided, without the help of a carton of 80s George Michael/Wham favourite, Sun-In. He maintained his innocence until the end of the weekend. When we were back in London, he rang me from Muswell Hill to tell me that a small child had pointed at him and said "Mummy, look at the man with the yellow hair". See, Steve - even the kids know your game).

Once Nadine's 5-man tent was up (there's one of her, she's about 5 foot tall - it's excessive to say the least, but I'm all for excess), it seemed like time for a well-deserved treat:

Beverage, snack and that mofo of a trolley

And now, a wander on to the site. More stalls than ever and the addition of a behemoth of a new stage, to be known as The Woods. Blanket on the ground, and a lie-down in the outrageously-hot-for-September sun as Dry The River struck up their chords and sent their harmonies wafting over our heads. Lovely start. A wander over to catch a bit of Sarabeth Tucek was sidelined by bumping into Howard and Lucy Local, who were doing their usual excellent curation of a stage, this year at the Tipi marquee (hmmm... that may be the mixing of two tent genres, but you get the idea). At this point, I was accused of wearing a top with very small print across my chest, in order to trap gentlemen into staring fixedly at my front. Nothing could have been further from the truth, and I believe this says much more about the commenter than it does about me, but I won't hold it against him. My chest, I mean. I'll never hold it against him (again).

My partner-in-crime and I had a wander round the healing area. Following last year's off-piste move of having a massage (it turned into something akin to a bumming-with-jeans-still-on), I'd thought it might be an idea to have another go, but preferably done by a nice lady this year. I was embarrassed to see the administrator of last year's on-my-ass action plying his wares again, so I decided to sidle off unmassaged, partly blushing, mostly laughing.

Not expecting such wonderful weather, had to break out the sunblock. Considering what a crock the weather's been recently, we truly were on a winning streak. And once Skinny Lister piped up their party sea-shanty madness, there was definitely a sunny atmosphere going on at the Tipi. Skinny Lister are a riotous bunch - a captainless crew of ne'er-do-wells, pressganging the audience into imagining they're on a voyage of grog-filled folky fun. There actually was a stoneware flagon of grog being passed round the crowd (I did wonder why people were prepared to catch cold sores from complete strangers for the sake of a swig of warm cider, but good luck to 'em).

Next up, Found. Found are part of the Fence Records Collective from Anstruther (started by the wonderful Kenny 'King Creosote' Anderson - he managed to make me cry very recently by being brilliant at The Union Chapel. As I'm writing this, I'm disappointed to be texted by a pal that he hasn't won the Mercury Music Prize - not that he'd probably give a shit. Still, well done, PJ. It's a fine album). Found play off-kilter but enjoyable pop with a spot of added electronica, coupled with the odd freak-out. Bit early in the day for the folky crowd gathered, but I quite liked it.

Back to tent for booze gathering, only to discover The Ladies had arrived. Lou W, Sarah B and Nana sitting round, discussing the potential tears that a second run to the car via Rocky Road Hell might bring. I encouraged them to get a bit of a wriggle on, with enticements of hairy rock 'n' roll and booze. They are easily enticed, these women, and Rocky Road Hell became naught but a small inconvenience with such delights promised. Their first visit to EOTR, this, prompted by Sarah B's 40th birthday and a whipround that purchased one festival ticket and £100 in booze / fried food tokens for the weekend:

Presentation of rock 'n' roll lottery win by Saatchi's finest

First foray to the Garden Stage saw Joan As Policewoman hitting the boards. Time for adult beverage and I was rather proud to have made it to 6.30pm bevvyless (I have self-control - I is finally all growed up). Joan is very good if you like that lady-singer-songwriter thing. Which I do. Quite a bit, in fact. But, if I'm honest, although she's musically proficient and has a strong voice - there's just something missing for me. So, a quickish getaway heads us back to the Tipi for the astonishing talents of Mr Sam Amidon. Sam is a real fave of mine, great banter between songs, really engages with his crowd, picks his banjo like a motherfucker, all coupled with a gentleness of voice and spirit that sends shivers right through you when he takes it down a notch or two. His hair is also much more unruly since last time I saw him play, also a very good thing.

Time for a fried potato break.

With 5 minutes to spare, the whole gang converged on a packed Garden Stage for my must-see band of the weekend. The Walkmen are a band made up of men. They dress like proper men, normal jeans (Levis - no fancy pockets or detail), in shirts, sometimes jumpers, with suit jackets:

Proper men. Walkmen.

And they rock. I mean really rock. We ventured forward. I'd already told The Ladies to watch out for Hamilton Leithauser (what a name, what a guy). When he sings, he moves mountains. He has the biggest voice I've heard in a singer for years - the veins burst out in his neck, he spits the words (spits quite literally - I'd happily be sprayed) and he can hold a note - for ages. They completely make my day - 'In The New Year' rings out and I get a bit emotional (I'm not even drunk). Some prick keeps shouting for 'Lost In Boston', which is vexing. I've heard tell of their fans doing this before. He just keeps on shouting for it. I pray they don't play it, because on occasion, I can be mean like that. And then, Hamilton tells a story about last time they were in England, they filled their diesel van up with petrol by accident. Some fella called Murdo turned up at 5am, completely pissed, tried to help by draining the tank. Didn't fix it, but they loved him for it. So much so, that they dedicated the next song to him. And what a song - The Rat. I've a feeling we went a bit extra at this point and I ventured to dance / sing-a-long rather frantically. Me and thousands of others. Brilliant.

Last minute leg-it to the Tipi for She Keeps Bees. Entered the tent to Jess Larrabee saying something along the lines of "thanks, this is our last song". Oh, bollocks. But it wasn't - hooray! They played four more songs, accompanied by the very lovely Mr Oh Ruin. I'm not sure if Eoin is now a permanent fixture with SKB, but I've seen them play twice this year and he played with them both times. They really are superb. Jess has genuine shiny star specialness, and I particularly love her inbetween-song banter, which can verge on the bonkers at times. Followed this with a small bit of The Fall - even if you're not a Fall fan, even if you've never heard of Mark E. Smith, I recommend you read his book Renegade (and do me a favour - buy it from a proper bookshop, not Amazon). The man has always done his own thing, maverick in a way a miserable Northerner (my favourites) should be. Hilariously fucking funny. Almost as funny as Scooter Steve's impersonation of Mark E. Smith at any given point over the weekend. The most mundane of things said in Mark E. Smith's voice can reduce me to tears. Best word: 'daddy-long-legs', following one flying past my head at breakfast. Very, very funny indeed.

And so to White Denim in the Big Top. Now, I've wanted to see these boys for some time. And there's really no way to describe what they do other than - wig out. They absolutely wig out, in a jazz-psych-fusion-rock-prog-spazz-metal-jam way (through Orange amps, of course). Am I getting this across? And some of the most outrageous guitar-face pulling I've seen for aeons, surely learned from footage of festivals of the late 60s / early 70s? If that's what they look like when they play, heaven only knows what they look like when they come.

By this time, I was past the bands thing. Over it for one day. I had a bit of this to see me through:

Bakewell + cuppa = second wind

There was drunken chat, particularly from Mr McG, who'd made a severe dent in a bladder of wine (this is basically a box of wine with the box removed - a big, shiny, silver innerbag of Cab Sav with a handy tap for drinking from. The man's an animal). It transpires that in the line for the toilets, some chap had made for the disabled lav, turning round just before entering and telling the massive queue "don't look at me like that, I am technically disabled, I have a hair lip", which is really witty, if a little bit stolen from Curb/Larry David. Still, if un-PC humour is worth nicking from someone, Larry's your man.

I'm not sure what passes for being un-PC nowadays. Feel sure I have my own moments. So, as I've entered the Tipi stage (bearing in mind it's late and I've had a wee bit of booze) to catch up with my fellow inebriates, I hear the band on stage (who are The Growlers from California) saying that their name means 'big shit' in American slang. It also came as some surprise to them to know that their name is slang for 'vagina' in the UK. Honestly - this name stuff is the least of their worries. They were playing blacked up. What. The. Fuck. I thought I was seeing things. And is it bad to find this mildly amusing? They were rocking varying shades of black, ranging from milky chocolate to darkest Bourneville. Maybe that kinda thing is a-happenin' down Santa Monica nowadays, but I'm not so sure they'd get away with it in Hampstead:

Black (Yet Also Strangely White) Minstrel Show

The evening culminated in the very excellent Mr Richard Hawley having his way with me in the woods. I mean, he played music he likes, I danced. There were some cracking Northern Soul moves (bravo, Nana), some less brilliant Northern Soul moves (the rest of us) and a bit of rockabilly / garage shuffling. I love Richard Hawley. He turns up every year at End Of The Road, plays his record collection (sometimes accompanied by Jarvis C), camps out with his entire family, manages to make me weep like a wee child when he plays his love songs. He likes HP sauce. He's from Sheffield. He's a northern God. But however good and God-like he is, when a girl's gotta go, a girl's gotta go. My feathery bed called me and I answered her call with an aimless wander back through the fog (?!?) for a night of lovely, uninterrupted slumber.

Uninterrupted, that is, if you don't count the fuckwit who tripped over my guyropes at about 4am. But it sounded like he hurt himself, so all's well that end's well.

Dead Meadow: Going Like The Clappers

Having missed a Dead Meadow gig last month (sidetracked by The Scot/a public house/booze), this month's appearance by Washington D.C.'s finest was attended by me and the fragrant Lou W. Thanks go to Howard and Lucy Local for bringing the sexy/heavy back to Islington. Crammed into a heaving Buffalo bar, we were only mildly annoyed when an unfeasibly tall arsehole and his very loud and annoying American girlfriend shoved their way in front of Miss W and I, only to proceed to turn into a wall of snogging and sweet-nothing-whispers. Lou asked "are you planning to snog throughout the entire gig?" and I reacted like this:

Take that, sir

DM played a blinding set - closed my eyes and drifted off on a sea of heavy psych (was rather disappointed to see that Stephen McCarty is no longer on skins - a truly amazing drummer with the finest facial hair a man can sport got married and a little bird tells me he's been obliged to do some proper settling down...). At one point, I think I re-enacted how Steve on bass gets when he's pissed on stage (he wears specs and can't see very well without them) by jigging up and down to the amusement of Lou W. All very funny until I banged my shin on a bar stool creating a bruise and egg-shaped bump on my leg of mammoth proportion. That'll teach me to tit around. Ouch.

Bit of hanging about after brought some nice Irish Whisky (ta, Howard) and a chat with Steve-Bass, discussing spectacles (naturally) and The League Of Gentlemen, of which he's a huge fan. He even managed to get in the Crème Brûlée "it's a shit business" quote, which made me love him more than ever. Apparently, I told him it is confirmed that DM make the best make-out music on the planet, voted by parties on two hemispheres. At some point, I may have used the phrase "going like the clappers" but I'm not sure if this translates well across the Atlantic.

(Postscript: last Thursday was one of the freakiest gigs I've ever attended. The Lexington on Pentonville Road hosted the album launch of Koolaid Electric Company's first ever release. Bernie, Scooter Steve and I witnessed Circulus (70s medieval oddboddery - head honcho Michael Tyack is moving to Glastonbury to set up a mind-bending church - are you getting this? Scooter Steve said he expected to see an 18" tiny Stonehenge descend from the rafters at any minute) and We Are Animal (perfectly ordinary bunch of lads doing loud things with their instruments - the only sane part of the night). Next, completely unannounced, two youngsters, who looked like they should be hanging around outside newsagents persuading adults to buy them 10 Benson & Hedges, picked up the mics and started doing something which I believe to be MCing. Shit MCing. I thought it was a joke. I believe the mot du jour for this is 'random'. After a brief interlude of peace from that racket, KEC took the stage and played their blissed-out, shoegazey psych for a bit, which was all well and good. Bizarrely, they then invited the yoof back up on stage to do fast-rap-MC-shite over the top of their swirlings. Stunned silence followed and I'm not entirely sure how I got home. I think I got a piggy-back from a dwarf straddling a unicorn, because I felt like I must certainly be off my tits on acid and had a sneaky suspicion David Lynch was filming me from the shadows.)