In Memoriam

Growing up, it fascinated me that my parents would always (every single day) read out loud the names of people who had died from the hatches, matches and dispatches column of the Huddersfield Daily Examiner (or, as we fondly named it, The Exaggerator - "Leaf On Line Brings Train To Standstill", and all-time favourite:

Martin Hoyle was arrested by police after a passing motorist found a Staffordshire bull terrier, called Badger, having sex with him at the side of a road in Huddersfield, West Yorkshire. Prosecutor Ben Crosland said the couple had stopped to help because they thought Hoyle was being attacked by the animal but when they got closer they saw that he had his trousers round his ankles, was down on all fours and the dog was straddling him from behind.

Another passing motorist contacted the police and Hoyle was arrested as he walked with the dog down the road. Hoyle, of Marsh, Huddersfield, told police, "I can't help it if the dog took a liking to me. He tried to rape me." He repeated the rape allegation at the police station and added, "The dog pulled my trousers down." Hoyle, who has a long-standing alcohol problem, was jailed for 12 months after he admitted committing an act which outraged public decency.

His barrister said Hoyle had no memory of the incident because of his drunken state, but was now very remorseful and incredibly embarrassed. Jailing him, Judge Alistair McCallum told Hoyle, "Never before in my time at the bar or on the bench have I ever had to deal with somebody who voluntarily allowed himself to be buggered by a dog on the public highway. Frankly it is beyond most of our comprehension. It is an absolutely disgusting thing for members of the public to have to witness."

But I digress...that my parents used to read out the names of the recently departed is not unusual. It turns out this happened in the households of all my friends too. How morbid, I used to think. In recent times, however, I've taken to reading the obituaries in The Guardian every day. And not just the great and the good. The Guardian encourages the general public to send in obituaries for their own dearly departed, regardless of whether they've ever graced the pages of Hello or Heat magazine, or been interviewed by Parky. I like this.

I've been moved to tears during my morning coffee in the café recently by a couple of obituaries. One was for Pat Kavanagh, the literary agent. I'd read her name many times in articles over the years, but knew very little about her. Clive James wrote a beautiful piece about a woman who was hugely admired and respected, but didn't suffer fools gladly:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2008/oct/21/publishing

The second is Oliver Postgate, creator of well-loved characters such as Bagpuss, The Clangers, Ivor The Engine, but also of a less well known favourite of mine, The Pogles of Pogles' Wood. Much has been written about Mr Postgate this week. Well-respected and liked, he was the kind of lovely man to create brilliantly simple cartoons and animation and imbue them with such warmth and humanity. You only have to hear that voice... Here are just some views on his work:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2008/dec/10/bagpuss-oliver-postgate

But one of the best was the piece written by top journalist, Charlie Brooker. Never afraid to rip the heart out of anything he thinks worthless, Mr Brooker brought a tear to my eye with his piece about King Clanger:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/culture/2008/dec/13/charlie-brooker-screen-burn-oliver-postgate

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!

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.