Diaryer

The Black Heart, London, 12/11/11

This month’s club hosted by Josie Long was its usual mixed bag of fun, nonsense and stuff. Funny awards go to Ben Partridge (pictured) and his lauding of an online forum celebrating the long-defunct Windsor Safari Park and Nathaniel Metcalfe who used his slot to organise a ‘lads’ night in watching The Football Factory. Oi oi indeed. Elsewhere, there were drawing workshops, bad drawing nonetheless, political tales and dreams of a relationship with James Franco. Lost on me because I don’t know who he is.

Union Chapel, London, 05/09/11

One of those bands whose name I seem to have seen around for years without ever actually hearing a note of their music, Blonde Redhead were something of a mystery to me. Kindly given some free, unwanted tickets by a friend, this was a gig which surely couldn’t go wrong, bearing in mind its cost and the amazing venue. Well, it seems as if karma did its thing and contrived to have me spend the entire gig with trousers soaked in tea and something in my eye so painful I had to watch through just the one eye. The band were lovely though. Seemingly, their sense of dramatic melancholy has recently been plundered to greater acclaim by Beach House. With each song a new wave of downbeat, a Blonde Redhead set doesn’t have stand-out moments, more an ongoing feeling.

11/09/11

The story of Harvey Milk, the original gay rights campaigner assassinated by a fellow politician, was always likely to be an emotional one. The balance between personal and political here though was just right, the period communicated convincingly and Sean Penn’s performance as Milk excellent.

The Emirates, London, 09/10/11

On the back of a disastrous summer in which we lost our two best players, an 8-2 schooling at Old Trafford and without a win in the league so far this season, the most important thing here by far was the three points. And they came about in bizarre fashion as Swansea keeper, Vorm, rolled the ball out into the heels of his nearest defender who unwittingly deflected it into the path of Arshavin, who finished well into an empty net. Pure luck for us, but just what we needed. The rest of the performance though left a lot to be desired. Missed chances, possession with no cutting edge, clinging on mainly due to some poor Swansea finishing and, worst of all, having such a transparent lack of confidence that led to Swansea controlling the game for large periods. Of the new signings, Mertersacker looked solid (although I still have my doubts), Arteta started OK then faded and Benayoun’s 20 minutes provided energy, if little else. Worth noting were the performances of Walcott and Gibbs, who both looked way, way below standard.

I was more than sceptical when I saw that this film was to be made. It seemed like history too recently passed. However, the film got rave reviews and rightly so, in that it does what it needs to do and it does it well. If you want a history into the beginnings of Facebook and a story about computer geek rivalry, you got it.

The weather’s perked up and Scrabble Sunday’s on. Until the rain starts and it’s off. But then it stops and we’re on. But then it starts again and we’re off for good!

All packed up, we take in Os Mutantes who are at times extremely annoying prog, but occasionally really impressively psychedelic with hints of soft pop in there too. At the Sunrise, Oh Land does a short set of well crafted pop songs reminiscent of Lykke Li. She’s followed by The Bees who, basically are rubbish, Gomez-style rubbish. But they’re feelgood and get everyone bopping. 

The rain halts again, which allows us a look at Ghostpoet whose melodic, weird hip hop is a welcome antidote to The Bees good time tunes. Then, I’m off to the Film and Music tent to see The Hidden Cameras whose performance is a delight, but is horribly under-attended. They’re a band who I have occasional intense bouts of obsession over, one of which I happen to be in right now. Theatrical, strange and joyful, their set is exuberant, energy-giving. 

Over to the Main Stage, another band to tick off the list is Suede, a band I had some formative growing-up experiences with. When they play songs I know (from the first album, pretty much), it’s great. Otherwise, they’ve since been irrelevant to me so, despite a lively performance, I’m not fussed. James Blake on the Lake Stage is a real attraction, but it’s all a bit too downbeat at this stage in the proceedings. 

Naturally, we aim for the Literary Arena where Leo Benedictus attempts an interactive book reading which is, by turns engaging, funny and calamitous (a 17 year old girl and an extremely inebriated pixie-lady attempt to overtake the event). A welcome and amusing experiment. 

It’s hard not to obsess over the weather with British festivals. And, despite the forecasts, we arrived in Suffolk full of hope that the sun that graced us for the whole of Friday would stay with us throughout the weekend. We pitched our tent in an earwig-infested, woody part of the Performer’s campsite and made our way onto the site, excited.

The first band of the weekend is Braids, performing in the Sunrise Arena, possibly my all time favourite stage. The band live up to their billing of Animal Collective meets Cocteau Twins, but frankly, it’s a bit too early for music. So, off to the comedy tent we go to see Josh Widdecombe impress the crowds with his domestic observations and then Richard Herring look a bit out of place, before turning it round with some more heartwarming stuff about his family at the end. 

With the sun on full blast, we take in Wanda Jackson on the main stage. She’s still got a great voice, is brilliantly cheesy in a way only a woman of her age can be and tells some great little anecdotes. She’s followed by Isobel Campbell & Mark Lanegan, who always disappoint. I want them to be a modern-day Lee & Nancy, but they’re nothing of the sort, despite wonderfully contrasting voices. 

It’s a shame to leave the sun behind and head to the Word Arena, but the double bill of Deerhunter and Caribou is surely the highlight of the weekend. Deerhunter wig out in style and Caribou rave so hard that, upon leaving the tent, I feel completely disorientated, like stumbling out of a club to find the sun’s up. But it’s late afternoon. As the band get the party going, I realise their evermore ravey sound is attracting a younger and younger audience. I think to myself that I’m too old to rave. But then I realise that, actually, it’s the other way around; they are too young to remember it the first time. I win. And shuffle discreetly towards the middle-aged people at the back of the tent.

Over at the Sunrise, Cloud Control are whipping up an indie storm as the night draws in. Later, Cat’s Eyes, despite awful sound problems, deliver one of the sets of the weekend. Fusing 80s miserablism with echoes of Teardrop Explodes, Spector-ish ballads and occasional lengthy dirges, Cat’s Eyes are an intriguing mix. I’m not too taken with yer man’s voice, but when the lady sings, it’s pure magic.

On the way back to the main arena, we stop and sit by the lake for a spot of stargazing. Sadly, cloud covers the sky, but the talk on what’s out there in the known universe is awesome and humbling. We’re pretty insignificant huh! We finish the night in the Theatre tent with Kate Tempest’s Wasted. An urban tale of youth developing into adulthood, the storyline is a little cliched, but it’s well presented and the actors pull off their various roles well.

And then…the rain. Which means we head for cover straight away. Which turns out to be Adam Ant, whose performance seems plucked straight from his 80s heyday and is as fun as you’d imagine (lots, actually). Over in the Sunrise we’re bought slightly more up to date; this time to 1992 as Tripwires do their very best Ride impression in sound, and in look. They’re good though, but interest wains quiet quickly here. 

We arrive at the Cabaret tent to see Colin Hoult, but instead catch Late Night Gimp Fight, whose well performed but tedious combination of cock gags and bum gags, sadly, goes down uproariously well. Student comedy, nothing more. They’re taught a lesson in comedy over at the Poetry Arena by Tim Key, who can make doing up his tie hilariously funny. His ridiculous poems have the audience in the palm of his hands and his deadpan, silly manner makes you think that hanging out with him would be a lot of fun. 

Back in the Word Arena, Echo And The Bunnymen are on. Seeing them felt like ticking a classic band off a list of ‘must sees’. They are just Echo And The Bunnymen; no more, no less. Not the biggest fan of Steve Mason’s post-Beta Band work, I see him nonetheless for lack of much else. He’s a strange, engaging performer; baggy and slightly menacing. Later, Foals do their tricksy indie thing to much rapture and even I, not a fan in any way, am slightly taken with a barnstorming performance. 

Back over in the Sunrise, the East Park Reggae Collective are playing bad reggae and reminding us of their name over and over and informing us that they’re the last band on (they’re not). It’s good, bouncy fun though. We finish the evening in the Film and Music Arena with Barrence Whitfield who has an incredible voice, a tight band and some brilliant, dance-worthy soul songs.

Leicester Square Theatre, 13/07/11

This Edinburgh warm-up  continues where Hoult’s last show left off, straddling the line between character comedy and absurd, dark theatre. Loosely set in an asylum, Hoult plays the part of Thwor, the God of Thwunder (trapped in the body of a man from Garforth), an acid-jazz lover, an old, dotty lady and a dancing dog among others. There are plenty of laughs, mainly utterly silly ones, and there are moments of reflection. Let’s call it melanch-omedy, shall we?

10/07/11

I think I set my expectations too high for this one. An influential cult sci-fi classic it may be, but I have to say I found it laughable. From the jocks vs nerds in space opening to the ridiculous hippy-dippy flowery sequences with Joan Baez foghorning away in the background, this is a serious period-piece. At times it threatens to be better than it is and its impact on sci-fi, especially Moon, is evident, but I just couldn’t take it seriously.

I like songs. I like talking. I like songs with talking on them. So, I thought I’d make a playlist of songs that have talking on them. My only rule was ‘no singing’. Of course, the definition of ‘singing’ can be a little tricky. And maybe Jonathan Richman does sing-speak occasionally on I’m Straight, Jarvis, admittedly, does put a bit of melody into the odd ‘uh-oh-oh’ on Inside Susan and there’s definitely some all out actual proper singing at the end of The Flying Burrito Brothers’ Hippie Boy. Enjoy.

Talking Songs

Tracklisting:

1. Ten Commandments by Prince Buster: This song will no doubt be featuring on the future playlist ‘List Songs’, along with that one by Baz Luhrmann. These are rules for women who wish to step out with the Prince. It’s massively sexist, but let’s excuse that by saying it’s ‘of it’s time’. 

Choice Line - “I will not give thee anything but what you actually need for your purpose.”

2. Pigs… (In There) by Robert Wyatt: I could listen to Robert Wyatt describe paint drying and I’d be happy. Here, our man gets incredulous about the way pigs are kept. Yes, this is a song featuring a man talking about how surprised he is that pigs are kept in such awful conditions. And it’s brilliant.

Choice Line - “‘uddled up in there?”

3. Radiostory by Clinic: It sounds nothing like any other Clinic song yet it still carries the same air of mystery and creepiness that characterises all of their work.

Choice Line “Duck eggs and…a smile.”

4. I’m Your Boyfriend Now by Tall Pony: No less creepy than Clinic, I’m Your Boyfriend Now is virtually a modern day version of Prince Buster’s Ten Commandments. Let’s assume that this list of rules is ironic though. I hope so. 

Choice Line: “I WILL DRIVE THE CAR!”

5. Ode to Street Hassle by Spacemen 3: A charming tribute to possibly Lou Reed’s finest solo hour, Sonic Boom recounts the tale of having a bit of natter with old Jesus in typically stoned style. 

Choice Line - “His thoughts…his thoughts just came to me.”

6. The Gift by The Velvet Underground: With its deep Welsh Valleys tones, John Cale’s is another voice ripe for this kind of spoken word shenanigan. I can’t help but feel a bit sorry for old Waldo, left behind by his girlfriend here. He probably doesn’t deserve the end he gets…

Choice Line - “You caaaan’t gedda grip.”

7. I’m Straight by Jonathan Richman and the Modern Lovers: Nasal, desperate and a bit pathetic, this is Richman at his best. Hippy Johnny sounds pretty cool though, huh.

Choice Line: “I like Hippy Johnny.”

8. Inside Susan by Pulp: Jarvis has actually used his voice to read stories since this song was released. He’s pretty good at it too. 

Choice Line - “and……and….”

9. My Sister by Tindersticks: This is the song that inspired NME to create a list of the top 50 most miserable songs ever. And it is a depressing journey that Stuart Staples takes you on. I think it’s kinda meant a bit tongue in cheek though, right.

Choice Line - “The cat and our mum died in the flames.”

10. Trippy by Arab Strap: How drunk does Aidan Moffat sound here? This chirpy tale isn’t for the faint hearted. Probably just an average night out for the hardy Scots.

Choice Line - “She’s a fucking wee cow…”

11. Hippie Boy by The Flying Burrito Brothers: This song needs putting into context to be taken seriously. It’s quite ridiculous. But the late 60s were a different time, maaan. The central message seems to be - let’s just all get along, yeah? DEEP.

Choice Line - “Why don’t we put our differences aside and just talk to each other?”

The Black Heart, London, 05/07/11

Tonight, Josie Long’s comedy club should probably be renamed a variety club. Most of the acts aren’t funny in the traditional sense. We get a eulogy to a forgotten pop star, a story, a couple of songs and a re-enactment of the characters from the Sweet Valley High novels. It’s always entertaining but doesn’t reach the highs of previous months. Winners of the night were James Acaster who talks about his (frankly horrible-sounding) mate, a comedian whose name I didn’t catch who is brilliantly funny (although I can’t work out if it was intentional or not) as he explains why his dad is an unsung hero, which mainly involves detailing the things he can fix and David Trent’s simple but effective video-comedy.

The Drop, Stoke Newington, 30/06/11

Still Corners can be found at the point at which Beach House, Slowdive and, increasingly, Broadcast meet. The band breeze through dreamy pop numbers, noise pieces (one sadly curtailed as it was just the band mucking about while they changed a mic), occasional deviations into Kraut and apart from bad lighting (possibly intentional) and the irritating fan boys (middle aged men actually) constantly photographing singer, Tessa Murray, right in her face, this is Still Corners on top form.

The tale of a young boy, the son of a Nazi officer, who befriends another young boy in a nearby concentration camp, The Boy In The Striped Pyjamas seems not to work because of its improbability (and maybe because of my dislike for child actors). Allowing artistic licence, the film is diverting enough and the ending is as surprising as it is depressing.

Feis Festival, Finsbury Park, 18/06/11

It’s probably worth noting that I only went to this Irish music festival because a) I had free tickets and b) it was practically on my doorstep. But, the weather held out, the atmosphere was jovial (for that read: mostly pissed, often puking), I got to eat a pie and hang out in a field. I’d actually seen Dylan once before, at Phoenix Festival in 1995, but I didn’t care who he was then. Now, older and wiser, I had more of an interest, although my expectations were pretty low. And sadly, Dylan failed to exceed them. His voice! Wow, growling and off-key and whining and all over the place. I knew it was likely, but I didn’t imagine what ended up being actually funny. When he did play songs I recognised, I only did so because I’d catch a line or two that I’d heard before, not because the music I was hearing in any way resembled the original song. A terrible set, but a nice day (helped by the fact that it took me 10 minutes to walk home).

Royal Festival Hall, London, 12/06/11

As Yo La Tengo cranked out the noisy version of Big Day Coming, the first song I ever heard by the band, I reminisced to myself how I was now into my 18th year of fandom. That they continue, the same, but different, all these years later, never relying on nostalgia, always experimenting, continually gaining newer, younger fans, is nothing short of remarkable.

Tonight’s set is split in two. The first half is decided upon by a wheel spun by an audience member. The set can be one of a possible nine, which includes a performance of Yo La Tengo songs that begin with the letter ‘S’, a set of James’ side project, Dump, or the band re-enacting an episode of a well known sitcom. The wheel spun and landed on Condo Fucks, the band’s garage-rock covers alias. This, for me, was something of a disappointment. Whilst fun in small doses, I’ve always enjoyed this side of the band the least. After the break, the band play a more traditional set, with specially chosen, and often obscure, songs plucked from their 27 year back catalogue. The result is a mixed, occasionally forgettable bag. But when they hit the heights, Yo La Tengo do mesmerising, tricky, noisy and beautiful better than most bands around.  

Whittington Community Centre, London, 09/06/11

Increasingly looking like a tall Woody Allen, John Hegley is an immensely talented man. His funny little rhymes, silly songs and droll banter are effortlessly delivered; the audience, often invited to accompany him, held in his palm from the get-go. Backed by a friend with brilliant home-made percussion, Hegley mostly plays it for laughs but occasionally delivers a moving tribute (to his departed father, for example), silencing the crowd, before having us in stitches again with a rap about guillemots.