Shearwater And Other Birds

An old church is a pretty good place for a gig. Great acoustics, impressive decor, and a sense that something truly amazing might happen (with a helping hand from the Big Rock 'n' Roller In The Sky). So two consecutive nights in the same church (St Giles-In-The-Fields) for two top line-ups was like being in...well, er...heaven.

First up - Andrew Bird. The Brummie and Screwster very kindly bought me a ticket to this show as a birthday present (top gift - beats the shit out of talc or soap-on-a-rope). We met up in The Angel (fave pub - second home) for a pint beforehand. Good job too - no beer in the Lord's house! What? Everyone knows that Jesus And The Gang were quaffing red wine like there was no tomorrow back in the Bible Belt. Hypocrites. But as I can actually enjoy myself WITHOUT booze (oh yessir, I can), it matters not a jot. We got nearly the best seat in the house (best seat - naughty pew. Naughty pew is the back pew in the church, so priest/vicar can't see what you're up to, and you can sneak out easy), but we stood behind the naughty pew, so pretty perfect. Not technically a seat, but good nonetheless.

We'd missed the support, and Andrew Bird came on virtually straight away. And what a performance. That boy can sing, play guitar, play violin and whistle. He whistles like a total dream (well-known fact - I love whistling and my Dad was a great whistler). Loops all of this to make an orchestral sound, building up then paring it back down. Hugely talented. I'm not really too familiar with his work, but I had a great time, and his fans were definitely all out to see him. At one point, though, I was distracted by the homeless guy who'd come into the church, who sidled down the side aisle, then walked right in front of the altar (stage) and stuck two fingers up at Andrew Bird. I just pissed myself laughing.

When we left the church, we went back to The Angel for a nightcap and chat about the gig. As I started to say "well, he was just great and very polished and perfect but...", the Brummie piped up "I know what you're going to say" and weirdly enough, she really did. I was thinking about David Thomas Broughton (AKA Ginger Angel), who also loops his guitar, voice, whistle etc, in such a fascinating, shambolic but beautiful way - much more my cuppa. Less immaculate, more imaginative and exciting. Brummie agreed. And then we chatted about their forthcoming wedding, which gets me overexcited. Aaahhhh, romance...

Getting good value for money at a gig is a real priority in these cash-strapped times, so to see 4 acts in one night for £12 is SERIOUSLY cheap. I think you can safely say that any night put on by Howard & Lucy of The Local is always a bargain. Not just acts/£ ratio, but because they put on quality for your buck, and not just slot fillers. My second evening in St Giles' was spent with Bernie and Kieran, and we were joined at the last minute by Nadine (I'll be doing ATP Nightmare Before Christmas at Butlins Minehead with her in a few weeks - hi-de-hi!). Met up in The Angel (where else) for a quickie, then got into the church just in time to see Birdengine take the stage. And we got the naughty pew this time - result. 

I like Birdengine. Sadly, we missed a stellar lineup by The Local at Cafe OTO a few weeks ago (I was ill, it was a Monday) comprising Samamidon, Doveman and Birdengine. I can only imagine how bloody great that was. But finally I get to see him. And he's funny and odd. Anyone who has a song about spending his summer ripping heads off dogs then sewing the heads back on gets a big thumbs up from me. Greg Weekes of Espers comes on next. Good, but he just doesn't float my boat. So we pop back to The Angel for some whistle-whetting...

On our return, Absentee are taking the stage. I've wanted to see them since I read an article in The Guardian by Steven Adams (Broken Family Band) about them and their new album Victory Shorts. I liked the sound of them (thanks to a witty piece by Mr Adams too - looking forward to seeing him play again soon), so was quite excited. And they delivered. The singer, Dan, has a very deep voice (sigh) - the sort that can shift your last meal in your stomach at a hundred paces. From the stuff I've heard previously, I think they did a toned-down set befitting a church. Top stuff, though. Made me want to see them in a different setting soon.

And last but definitely not least - Shearwater. They have such a BIG sound. Haunting, beautiful stuff. And really very spiritual, which sent a shiver down my spine on more than one occasion during their set. This gig-in-a-church lark really does have a lot going for it. Well done to The Local folk.

By the time we left the church, last orders had been called at The Angel (good, old-fashioned pub sticking to 11pm closing), so I turned down a jaunt to the Crobar (not in the mood for Whitesnake after that folky loveliness) and got a lift back to Crouch End with B&K. Called me old mucker Hawkwind and we had a nice candlelit nightcap in the Queens...and then another in the Kings...well, after such a good night, it'd have been rude not to...

Blog Post For Doomed Youth

Once I'd bought my Sunday paper (Observer), I tried to find a quiet café so I could have decent coffee and a long read. No room at my usual inn, so I had to have a bit of a traipse around until I found one that wasn't full of prams and kids (miserable, barren old spinster that I am). Eventually, I got lucky.

Today wasn't just any Sunday - Remembrance Sunday is the closest Sunday to November 11th, a date when countries pay homage to the citizens they have lost in armed conflicts. The date was made official by King George V in 1919, to mark the end of World War I. Each week in the Observer Magazine, there is a one page Q&A called This Much I Know. The subject normally imparts a bit of the wisdom they've picked up along their life's path and a few observations on mankind are normally chucked in for good measure. Today's subject was Henry Allingham, a veteran of World War I, now aged 112. I read his thoughts, observations and memories and was so touched by his basic decency and humility that it made me get tearful in the bloody café (according to this whole blog, I blub at the drop of a hat, it would seem). 

Once I'd finished reading this article, I sighed a huge sigh and turned the page to the next article...about Russell Brand. I closed my mag. After Henry's piece, any glib bit of shite about what a nightmare Russell's life has become since Manuelgate and how he's had to run away to LA to escape the misery might have left me standing screaming and shredding my mag to pieces in front of Crouch End café society.

I watched a top documentary about Wilfred Owen, presented by Jeremy Paxman. It traced his entire history, and gave some insight into his friendship with Siegfried Sassoon, which began when they met at Craiglockhart Military Hospital in Edinburgh. Sassoon helped him with language and worked with him on his technique. As a result of this friendship, Owen's poetry took flight, becoming perhaps the most important from the First World War, if not the most important war poetry of all time. As a kid, I remember reading the following poem by Siegfried Sassoon, and although it's not the most well-known poem of that era, it must have affected me deeply at the time:

Does it matter?—losing your legs?...

For people will always be kind,

And you need not show that you mind

When the others come in after hunting

To gobble their muffins and eggs.

Does it matter ?—losing your sight?...

There's such splendid work for the blind;

And people will always be kind,

As you sit on the terrace remembering

And turning your face to the light.

Do they matter?—those dreams from the pit?...

You can drink and forget and be glad,

And people won't say that you're mad;

For they'll know you've fought for your country

And no one will worry a bit.

Birthday & Barack

When you get to a certain age (and one should never ask a lady her age), you simply stop making a song and dance about celebrating your advancing years. This year, I haven't felt particularly in celebratory mode - working on an unfeasibly stressful HBOS shoot (haven't they gone bust yet?), struggling with a nasty, achey-breaky cold, and no-one to warm my feet on in bed at night. Grumble, grumble...

But thank the Lord for lovely friends. When the Big Day arrived, I was inundated with texts from 8am onwards, cards in the post (including two drumming lessons!!! Look out, Cozy Powell...) and an endless round of cuppas around the eateries of Crouch End with various loved ones. Then a nice evening meet-up with Smiff, Gina, Barto and Marc in the French House, where we drank lots of French bière. Finishing off with JD in the Kings, JD in the Queens, and a Pot Noodle from Somerfield. Can life get any better, I ask you???

Postscript:  a momentous week in world politics. Barack Obama became the 44th president of the United States. Not normally the type to be taken over emotionally by political events (although I was made up when Labour toppled the Tories from power in 1997), I listened to Sam Cooke sing "A Change Is Gonna Come" this week and I actually filled up. Must be me age.

Postscript 2: How long before The Sun uses "Obama-lama-ding-dong" headline if Barack has to get heavy on some dictator's ass?

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...

God Bless Alan Bennett

My morning (when I'm between styling jobs) generally consists of: walk into Crouch End, buying The Guardian from nice, old newspaper seller in hut (we normally have some sort-of jokey exchange, he comments when I'm late and asks if I had a lie-in - top bloke), going to the Sable d'Or (we call it the Stable Door - not too confident on the French accent thing) to sit with a large coffee, chocolate croissant and to read my paper from cover-to-cover, then do the crossword (quick one only, my fastest time is 4 mins 43 secs, and yeah, I time myself sometimes cos I'm an oddbod).

Lately, the paper has been full of misery (government - hopeless; NHS - knackered; celebrities - idiots; general public - skint), ruining my daily treat (apart from anything written by Charlie Brooker, the wag, cos he's hilarious). Is good news not news? Is there a saying about this? Anyways, last week, I read that Alan Bennett (small, speccy Yorkshireman, author, playwright, oft-called "National Treasure) was donating his entire back catalogue to the Bodleian Library (based in Oxford University). 

Normally, authors sell their back catalogue to make even more money. Mr B is a socialist of the nicest kind. He wants the library and anyone who chooses to use it to benefit from his donation. He doesn't want to make money out of his incredibly valuable drafts, manuscripts, scribblings. He thinks he's made enough. He also stated that as he was fortunate to have enjoyed a completely state-funded education (no top-up fees and student loans in those days), that he should give something back. 

This cheered me up no end. I'm a big fan of the grand gesture (important in romance, but pretty cool in everyday life too), although I'm sure Mr Bennett would be mortified if anyone thought he was being grand. Apparently, two blokes from the Bodleian drove over to his house, had a nice cup of tea, he dug out a few cardboard boxes stuffed with papers, put them in the boot of their car, and said 'I'll be glad to see the back of it, to be honest". Total dude.

Free Bird

Sometimes, it's better not to know what's going on in the world. I try not to watch the news on the TV (or anything else on it, for that matter), mainly cos I don't think they report it in an unbiased manner. I remember watching the news on ITV one night when Lou was over from NY - we shrieked with laughter as the reporter as good as told us that Tony Blair was a bad man. It may be true, but that's for us to decide...

So, when I returned recently from my holiday in France (which was followed swiftly by a weekend at a festival in the countryside), I hadn't had my daily dose of the Guardian for 10 days, and I genuinely didn't have a clue what was going on in the world. I remember ringing one of my contacts that morning ( to touch base, maybe get a bit of work out of him) and him saying "well, what with everything that's going on in the world...), and me saying "eh? Have I missed something? What IS going on in the world?". It turns out that the biggest financial crash for years was going on. For the next two weeks, at least the first ten pages of the Guardian were full of impending dosh doom. Until Gordon saved the world, that is.

And so, I reckoned it was time to batten down the cash hatch and do some free stuff. Free is one of my favourite words - Blondie likes it too, and we often marvel at all the stuff you can do for absolutely nowt. The problem is that seeing lots of lovely live music often involves paying for a ticket. But not if you go to the Sheepwalk in Leytonstone on a Wednesday evening.

The Sheepwalk is a big, old boozer, very trad decor, large wooden bar. Upstairs, there is a function room, and this is where the free fun begins. Each Wednesday, a lovely Irish guy called Stephen runs a night called What's Cookin'?, which usually has a couple of acts/bands on...and it's free. Yes, that's right - entry costs NOTHING. And he gets some great acts. Last Wednesday, me, Blondie and Smiff drove up there in Betty Ford and watched Black Diamond Heavies:



(that organ player - sigh - brunette, voice like crushed glass mixed with a single malt). And we needn't have paid a penny. Stephen has a clever plan - he hands round this huge, oversized, decorative 1970's brandy glass and has a whipround for the band. I love this. This fits perfectly with the venue, which is just one room with a small bar in the corner, and is done out in a kitsch Hawaii-meets-working-mens-club style, of which I heartily approve. Very cool, with a whiff of the homemade about it all. And Stephen is a total sweetheart. I'd love to know if he makes any money at all out of this, but I suspect he does it for the love of it. Maybe some of those greedy City Boys could learn something from a chap like this.

Thursday brought another bargain - the lovely Mr C came up trumps with a guestlist treat for little ol' me to go and see Archie Bronson Outfit at The Roundhouse. I drove over and collected my ticket from the box office, who also gave me a wristband for the aftershow - this was a bit of a bummer, because this could have meant taking advantage of more free stuff (well, bottled water) but I didn't fancy standing around, single and sober, surrounded by a shitfaced Bobby Gillespie and Kate Moss. Gig was bloody good, though. ABO were top, although the audience clapped quite politely, as they were clearly all Spiritualized fans. This is funny, because I am no fan of Spiritualized at all and clapped and whistled loudly and enthusiastically for ABO. Man next to me looked at me in an odd way - "who does this small, noisy thing belong to???". Spiritualized were actually pretty impressive - I'm a sucker for a bit of rock with added gospel/religious overtones.

By Friday, the "free" thing went tits up. As it had been the Brummie's birthday, I'd bought two tickets for her and Screwster to The Local at The Kings Head to see Voice Of The Seven Woods. As I also wanted to go to the gig, I bought another ticket for me. If you can do the math, that's three tickets. As it turned out on the night, they thought that the two tickets were for me and the Brummie, so Screwster bought himself a ticket too. NO! NO! NO! That's four tickets for three people! TOO MANY TICKETS PAID FOR! This made me feel like I'd totally undone all my good "free" work from earlier in the week. So, as penance, I'll be living off Tesco Value beans all week and sitting in the dark.

All That Jazz

Marsden is famous for a few things - home to: League Of Gentleman 'local' shop, Simon Armitage the poet, Standedge Tunnel (longest canal tunnel in Britain), burial place of Enoch Taylor (built the first mechanical textile croppers way back in the early 1800s, an opportunity for  the Luddites to name a big fat hammer after him, which they used to smash his creation), last village before the Pennines head into Greater Manchester (Greater Manchester being "wrong side o' t'hills"), my Mum and an annual Jazz festival.

The Marden Jazz Festival runs for three days, normally held over the second weekend in October. For a small village nestling in the Colne Valley, the festival manages to attract some pretty big names in the jazz world. In the past, I've watched John Etheridge (who also gave a great talk about his times with Stephane Grappelli), Polar Bear (top stuff) and even a bit of Humphrey Lyttelton (RIP, you funny clever man). This year I was lucky enough to catch Empirical, a young quintet from London, who won Mojo's Jazz Album of the Year in 2007. As they started off, I thought that sleepy Marsden wouldn't be ready for such modern jazz. How very dare I... Marsden was clearly wearing its jazzhead and applauded each individual as they showed their prowess. Empirical were a cool, young bunch, dressed in a 20s-Cotton-Club-meets-Jazz-Café look. Loved them.

The rest of the weekend was spent with my family, as this weekend was also the first anniversary of my sister Liz passing away. We spent a lovely Saturday evening together, raising a toast (toasts, actually, and lots of 'em) and general fat-chewing...

Sunday was a beautiful day. Marsden really is spectacular in Autumn - the colours are so vibrant, and it'd have been sacrilege not to don the wellies (any excuse) and go for a bit of a wander:

I was joined by The Gay Fashion Designer and his spaniel Sid. We walked out towards Standedge, and then up the road to Hey Green, a country house hotel. The grounds were bathed in autumn sunshine, making the warmth of the colours seem even richer:

We saw this foxy lady lurking in a dry stone wall:

Walking along, you forget how friendly people are up North - virtually everyone we passed said hello. I might try it up Hampstead Heath ("Darling, did you hear that Northern type trying to strike up a conversation with us? How quaint they are"...). After a couple of hours, we walked back, and I returned to the most heavenly home-cooked Sunday lunch. Naturally, Yorkshire Pudding was a main feature...plain and simple, there's nowt jazzy about the brilliance of that.