Week 4

Week 4 - Thursday 27^th January – Clwb Ifor Bach, Cardiff – Walter Schreifels - £7.50

“Who’s the big man eh?! Who’s the big man?!!”

This was the big question asked of us as we walked along Castle Street in Cardiff city centre, approaching the chosen venue for the fourth week of Gigaweek. For once it was not Sandro who uttered these words, but a slightly drunk, five foot five inch Scotsman.

I know, I know, 'Is there any other kind?' you’re wondering racistly.

Our final gig of January (or the first of twelve triumphant finales, as I like to think of it) saw me and the indefatigable yet clearly fatigued Sandro, joined by our friends P.Mushy and P. Maddy at Clwb Ifor Bach (or Welsh Club as it's known to English people. And most Welsh people), where we witnessed the talents of none other than Walter Schreifels.

It turned out that the Scotsman was just trying to find out which of us was big enough to lend him a few pennies to buy some much needed alcohol. Despite the physically imposing Sandro’s late arrival prompting the Scotsman to answer his own question, P. Mushy was big enough, and he duly wrote a cheque for one hundred pence to the good man, who set off to live up to some undeserved, ridiculously inaccurate stereotype. That is, after head-butting P.Mushy, and flashing us from underneath his kilt of course.

I must confess that I was blissfully unaware of Walter’s musical talent and history until these tickets were bought, but the booking did prompt me to buy his debut solo album released last year, entitled An Open Letter to the Scene. I recommend it. Unless a recommendation from me puts you off.

It was a Thursday in January, so naturally Sandro and P.Mushy had been at the pub since 3:30, while I was not so silently suffering at the work place. P. Maddy had joined them a little later on, so once home I booked a taxi and arranged for it to collect all three of them en route to town. That was my first mistake.

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The driver of the six-seater taxi that picked me up looked a little surprised that I was alone, and even more surprised that I chose to sit alongside him in the passenger seat. That was my second mistake. I explained my cunning plan, and we headed for The North Star. It had been an especially cold day, which seemed the obvious topic to discuss to break the dreaded taxi silence. 

“Yes!” the bushy bearded driver agreed enthusiastically when I made this point. “Very bad for mechanics,” I nodded tentatively as he stared at me enthusiastically. “They need their fingers!” he qualified grinning madly. 

Ahh, cold fingers: the bane of a mechanics life. As we flew over the Gabalfa flyover, the driver’s phone rang. Before answering he looked over at me, “You’re not a cop are you?”

Do I look like a cop? I wondered, for some reason slightly pleased. I answered no, but when he put his phone to his ear and veered slightly toward the flyover barrier I wished I’d said, 'No, but I’d still rather not end the night as the human equivalent of mashed potato, in a burning wreck after plummeting 100ft. Even I probably won’t tip you if that happens pal.'

Once we’d picked Sandro and the two peas up, the driver asked if we would be drinking that evening.

“Yes. . .” I replied hesitantly.

“Will you be up late?” he asked suspiciously.

Oh dear, I’m going to be abducted, I thought.

“Maybe. . .” I said uneasily.

“You’re not Doctors are you?”

Phew, he was just concerned about the patients.

Now even more impressed by my own appearance, I glanced at my three scruffily dressed companions. Sandro was naked.


“No,” I confirmed. What did we look like? More importantly, what did I look like? Some kind of Super Cop Doctor, clearly. Dr Super Cop: perhaps that can be my new nickname. Once I’ve shaken off Gimp Boy, maybe I’ll suggest it to my friends. That was my third mistake. I won't say what they call me now.

-------

It was still early so after we’d brushed off the Scotsman we headed to the nearby Gatekeeper. Still smarting from recent negative drinking analysis, I was happy that our round consisted of double Morgan’s spiced rum and cokes, including compulsory straw assistance. With straw in hand I was unstoppable. It wasn’t a race, but I definitely won.

I know what you’re thinking and you’re right, Gigaweek is not just about taxi drivers and poor drinking practice (though they are both crucial aspects), there’s meant to be some live music too. After a couple of rounds at the Gatekeeper, we crossed the street to Clwb and were inside before 8 o’clock. It was almost deserted then, but filled up impressively later on, which was the complete reverse of the unfortunate scenes at the last gig I’d been to at Clwb, Tony Da Gattora vs Gruff Rhys.

What put people off that night’s gig is beyond me (apparently it was the music), especially seeing as though it included the ingenious lyrics: “In a room full of turtles you stood on a toad, You saw your reflection in the slime on its back, In a house with no mirrors, You never get old.” Best lyrics of 2010? I think so. P.Mushy thinks so. Sandro and P. Maddy didn’t seem to agree.

The live music did begin soon afterward. A gentleman by the name of Jon Greenwood (not Jonny) was the figurehead of the opening act. He was a local musician who P. Mushy identified as formerly being in now defunct local band The Slowdance. He took to the stage alone armed only with a mic and guitar, and belted out his first song, utilising a husky voice Sandro can only dream of (and frequently does). 

After a song or two Jon was joined by his friends, one-named artists in the vein of Prince and Madonna, called Dave and Leanne. Together they morphed in Power Rangers fashion to form The Doublecross, who have a new album out now, which is worth checking out, particularly for the song ‘The Small Escape.’ 

We then spent a brief interval in Clwb’s outdoor smoking area, and apparently missed the stylings of German musical maestro Felix Gebhard, which left only Walter Schreifels himself, ably assisted by a band comprised of fellow New Yorkers.

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Through the wisdom of Sandro and my unparalleled ability to google, I knew Walter Schreifels had been part of far too many bands to mention, in what Sandro probably didn’t describe as the New York Hardcore scene of the late 1980’s. As you’d expect I was confused and concerned. Weren’t You Me At Six earlier described as Post-Hardcore? Was I to expect similarities? Sandro flung names such as Gorilla Biscuits, Youth of Today and Rival Schools. 

These were names which flew into my ears and collided with the soft mush inside, but brought no recollections. “Gorillas don’t eat biscuits,” I drooled smartly.

Perhaps my lack of depth in musical knowledge was being shown up, but I didn’t associate the word Hardcore with the kind of melodic songs my tame ears usually enjoy, and therefore I hadn’t been terribly optimistic. Fortunately my lack of knowledge of the genre, or of the many bands of Walter Schreifels, didn’t affect my enjoyment of his performance, particularly in light of the fact that a fair chunk of the music played was taken from his own solo album.

These included very tuneful songs I’d heard on many occasions (okay, once) such as ‘Arthur Lee’s Lullaby,’ ‘She is To Me’ and ‘Save the Saveables.’ There were also memorable renditions of ‘Society Sucker’ and the downbeat title-track of the new album, that would encourage me to listen a great deal more to Walt subsequently.

He was an engaging and funny front man too which helped, at one point riffing with the audience by asking them to name one of the many bands he’d been part of. P. Mushy called out, “Walter Schreifels!” which was particularly well received by all except me, as I wished I'd said it. He joked with his band who seemed to also be enjoying themselves, and they engaged with the audience more, discussing the subject of the Welsh language and previous visits to Cardiff. 


He gave the impression of a steadily successful musician who’d been in the game for over a couple of decades but still enjoyed performing in smallish venues, and that enjoyment filtered through to the audience.

Afterward, as Walter and his band transferred their kit from the stage to their transport P. Mushy managed to catch up with him for a quick handshake, and he stopped for a brief chat. The look on his face told me he regretted it instantly when P. Mushy said sinisterly, “Are you still living in Berlin?” P. Mushy later explained to me that such knowledge was coincidental, but P. Maddy assured me otherwise.

Walt happily stayed for a couple of minutes to talk about the upcoming Rival Schools tour (surprisingly P. Mushy had a ticket for one of the gigs), and mentioned that it was a shame that Cardiff’s Barfly, where P. Mushy had previously seen him play, had closed down. 


“I’m not a stalker,” he would later promise me. “Just an obsessed fan, who doesn’t believe in the validity of restraining orders.” I’m sure Walter was much more impressed by my input, “Great show Walt,” I said cleverly, as we shook hands. He managed to escape soon after, so we headed for the pub.

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Having my drinking technique or speed scrutinised wasn’t originally intended to become a recurring theme of Gigaweek, but it’s one final pint at O’Neill’s saw further condemnation, with P. Mushy joining my ever increasing list of detractors.

“You didn’t say anything when I was whipping your asses with the straw earlier did you? Did you!? DID YOU!!??” I demanded hysterically. 


I lowered my voice fearing misinterpretation, and looked around. A former football team-mate of mine, the esteemed Mr Veale, was peering over from a nearby table with a mixture of amusement and alarm. 
“Aah, that’s why they call him Gimp Boy. . .” I heard him mutter. 

Fortunately, the words of Walter Schreifels meant my mental strength was undiminished. ‘You don’t gotta prove it to anyone. Fuck ‘em. They’re all wrong,’ he sang. ‘Yes, yes they are,’ I thought as I spilled half of my lager under our table, so that I could keep up with the others.

On leaving O’Neill’s Sandro and P.Mushy continued into the night, joining up with their new Scottish friend after borrowing back a pound coin, leaving me and P. Maddy to fend for ourselves. We ignored the evil clutches of Burger King, until we got to the door and embraced the evil clutches by greedily stuffing our faces, before disappearing rapidly into the night, like rum and coke from one of my glasses.

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January

 

1-7 - You Me At Six - ✓

8-14 –Fjords - ✓
15-21 - The Walkmen - ✓
22-28 - Walter Schreifels - ✓

Week 3

Week 3 - Friday 21^st January - The Trinity Centre, Bristol - The Walkmen (+ Mona) - £13.75

“Mos Eisley spaceport. You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. We must be cautious. . .”

There are various ways to describe the interesting clientele of the Burger King near Cardiff Central train station, but Sandro’s warning was most appropriate. Desperate for food, and unsatisfied by the gourmet grub available at the nearby Londis, cheeseburgers were my only option.

Quite why Sandro thought it was a spaceport is open to debate, but I should have heeded his warning. Behind me in the queue was one particularly handsome chap who appeared to have an extra pair of buttocks where his chin should have been.

I prayed he wouldn’t open his mouth.

“My friend doesn’t like you,” I heard a gruff voice say over my shoulder. “I don’t like you either. . .”

I turned. It was Sandro.

“That’s a bit harsh. You’re my brother,” I said.

“Doesn’t mean I have to like you,” he replied.

“Which friend doesn’t like me? You can’t be referring to bumface there surely,” I said nodding to the looker behind us. “No offence of course Sir.”

“None taken,” he smiled politely, “I get it all the time.”

I never did find out which friend Sandro was referring to. “All of them,” he had replied, but he was surely kidding.

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With burgers in hand and four cans of Carling courtesy of Londis (which you'll be pleased to know cost only £3.75), we headed to the station, purchased day return tickets for the princely sum of £10.70 each (not bad eh?) and boarded the 18:30 train to Bristol Temple Meads.

On tonight’s agenda were The Walkmen, a well regarded American band who’d released their latest (and to my ears best) album, Lisbon, last year. 


High praise you might think, but of the five albums they've released (plus an album of covers), I’ve only listened to two of them more than once (in other words, don’t take my word for it, I’m an imbecile and I rarely use cotton buds).

They were playing at Bristol Trinity Centre, a venue neither of us had been to before. It was the perfect time and place to satisfy Gigaweek’s spicy requirement to leave Cardiff at least once a month, for the first time this year. 


Also for the first time in Gigaweek's short history, I’d actually heard of the band we were going to see. An ominous sign.

The Trinity Centre was about a twenty minute walk from the station, and we were fortunate enough to experience the wonders of West Street along the way. West Street is an extraordinary place. A street that seems to have been imported from some exotic, hedonistic land and plonked in the middle of Bristol. A street that makes me finally understand why Skins is set in Bristol.

Every other building was a massage parlour or a sex shop, a strip club or a 'sauna'. Even the apparently reputable shops had names like Electric Ladyland and Bristol Genuine Seedbank (their pretence was that they were wholesalers of seeds). 


Suffice to say, we didn’t linger too long, two hours was more than enough thank you very much. Curiously, there was a Police station at end of street.

Opposite the Police station was the Trinity Centre, which truly is a sight to behold. Like old Cardiff venue The Point, it's a former church and a listed building, so it’s not your typical music venue, unless you happen to be a vicar. 


We’d arrived with so much time to spare, and we liked West Street so much that we decided to walk back up it to find somewhere for our obligatory pre-gig pint.

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Despite briefly being tempted by a pub that had all of its curtains closed and each of its windows adorned by the St George’s cross, fearing recruitment to The National Front we moved on. It may or may not have been called The Slaughtered Lamb.

We eventually made it back to a much more welcoming pub called the Stag and Hounds on the corner of Old Market Street. While sipping my cider I was grateful for Sandro’s analysis of my drinking technique.

“You don’t even put the glass in your mouth,” he began, clearly in awe.

I didn’t quite know how to respond to that, so I didn’t.

“I mean, you don’t so much sip it,” he continued, “as just suck the top of the glass.”

I always welcome criticism, especially the nasty, spiteful stuff my Mum comes out with, but this merely continued the theme of one of our discussions at the previous weekend. Whilst watching the prestigious covers band The Old Trafford Trio (featuring Fergie, Park Ji Sung & personal favourite, Mike Phelan) at The North Star back in Cardiff, Sandro and our cousin, Cousin Bish had declared me to be the slowest drinker of all time in front of our impressed friend, Ryan of Brum.

Incensed, I was primed with a scathing riposte when I finished sipping my cider, but by that time they’d all left.

“What do you mean, “I don’t even put the glass in my mouth?”” I eventually responded at the Stag and Hounds. “What do you want me to do: swallow the glass whole?”

“Preferably,” Sandro replied. “What I mean is that you barely even open your mouth. Gulp it boy, gulp it.”

I defended myself, explaining that I was protecting my sensitive teeth and gums from the chemical erosion of the alcohol. I’m not sure Sandro was completely convinced, although judging from his response I may well have swayed him.

“Utter bollocks,” he muttered.

Returning to the now open Trinity Centre, the girl on the door foolishly let us in. Disappointingly, she didn’t provide us with tickets. I’m not usually a ticket collector, and I’ve been to too many great events (three) and thrown away the ticket to start now, but one of the seventy-seven unwritten rules of Gigaweek was to keep a ticket from each gig.

Unfortunately, we weren’t given tickets by the Old Boy at the Fjords gig last week either, so make that seventy-six unwritten rules. The You Me At Six ticket I've got is still one of my prized possessions though.

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When we entered the support band Mona were playing. There was something vaguely familiar about them that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Fortunately, when we met up with our friend Dante Tyte and his friend James, Dante put his finger on it for me. Wait, that came out all wrong. What I meant was that Dante pointed out that Mona bore an uncanny resemblance to Kings of Leon. Not early hillbilly Kings of Leon, but more recent big-selling, almost shaven Kings of Leon. Surprisingly, they hailed from Nashville, Tennessee.

Presumably named after the vampire of the same name, Mona sucked. . . (Sorry.) 


In actual fact, Mona are hotly tipped (which I think means they have warm fingers) to be one of the ‘big new bands’ of 2011. Their singer has even said that he wants to be bigger than Bono, which would make him about 5 foot 5. He sounds like a lovely, affable sort of chap too. 


When speaking to the NME about their former guitarist’s departure he said, "I ended up getting in a fight with him and beating the shit out of his face. He just wasn’t right for the band." I think we’re all agreed that if you’re not right for any particular band, then at some point, you deserve to have the shit beaten out of your face.

In fairness, from what we saw they had ‘big’ tunes (I don’t know what that means either) and were probably a tad better than The Sky Designed. More importantly though, the Trinity Centre served Red Stripe on tap, which delighted Sandro. Naturally I stuck to bottles of Kopparberg and cans of Somerset’s finest cider, Thatchers. I apologise, I can't remember the exact costs of each.

By the time I'd stopped reading the labels of the various bottles and cans, Mona had left and The Walkmen had appeared on stage. Their singer Hamilton Leithauser wore a rather fetching blazer, and seemed about as emotionally involved as Val Kilmer in Top Gun. His bandmates echoed his demeanour, and we couldn’t help but wonder, are they too cool. It’s possible you know, just ask Sandro.

They opened with the brilliantly named title track from their first album, 'Everyone Who Pretended to Like Me is Gone' before recent humdinger 'Angela Surf City' so I was very much on-side from the outset. Maybe it was my lack of familiarity with some of their songs, but there seemed to be a slight lull as we approached the halfway mark in their set, when they brought the tempo down.


Maybe they were just consciously allowing for people to refill pint glasses and empty bladders.

“How much do you think they owe The O.C. for their career?” Sandro wondered aloud during one of these slower moments. I didn't have an answer but I did have enough knowledge to then discuss The O.C. at length. 


It was superb, what a shame it led to stuff like The Hills and God knows where that will lead. If I seem easily distracted by things such as beer labels and American TV shows then, ooh, look a beer label!

-------

Soon after this riveting discussion, a giant who sounded Scandinavian and was dancing with about as much grace as a Scandinavian giant, stood on my toe. Naturally, I apologised.

Thankfully, so did the giant.

“Have you seen the band before?” I thought he said, clearly feeling compelled to have a conversation to avoid any ill feelings regarding my throbbing toe.

“No, this is the first time I’ve seen them,” I said in reply, to which he wore a blank look. Should I have said yes, I thought to myself, he’s quite tall after all.

“Have you seen the band before?” he repeated menacingly. Was he giving me the chance to change my answer?

“No,” I said firmly, sticking to my principles (which in this case is: never lie to really tall people). “This is the first time,” I repeated, but he still looked unsatisfied. I envisaged my principles becoming more flexible if he asked again.

“No, no,” he said shaking his head, “did you see the band before?”


Aah, that made more sense, I’d misheard him. He wasn’t such a sinister Scandinavian giant after all.

“Yes,” I said.

“Weren’t they just like Kings of Leon?” he said to my amusement.

“That’s exactly what my friend said!” I told him, turning to bring Dante into the conversation.

Dante was standing, staring fiercely, like a coiled spring. Like me, he’d misinterpreted the situation and thought it was all kicking off. He had that look in his eye that said, “If he swings for you, I’m gonna bite his face off.”

Thankfully no faces were bitten off, as reality dawned on Dante, as it had for me, and they briefly discussed the Mona/Kings of Leon comparison, before the Scandinavian giant disappeared into the masses of the crowd (except his head and shoulders, which remained visible).

The Walkmen regained my attention after a while with trademark effortlessness, with another couple of beauties from Lisbon. First they blew me away with 'Blue as your Blood' and then brought the house down with the triumphant 'Victory'. (See what I did there?)

They left the stage after a fine rendition of 'Juveniles', another young song (it ends soon, I promise), before returning for a splendid encore.

The three song encore included the wild 'Little House of Savages' (I said soon), which they followed with their most famous and finest song, the show stopping, perfect finisher, 'The Rat'.

They decided it wouldn’t be the show stopping, perfect finisher after all, instead playing one extra song. A song that I can’t name because I’d never heard it before. I probably wouldn’t have recognized it if you’d played it to me again two minutes later. Not that it was a bad song, or I suppose it could have been, seeing as I can’t remember it, but because in the words of Russell Crowe, I’ve got dead ears mate.

Dante and James kindly offered to give us a lift back to Cardiff. We gratefully accepted, though Sandro was disappointed to miss the chance to walk down West Street once more, and I was disappointed not to have the opportunity to maximize the value of my return ticket. Who said I was tight?

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January

1-7 - You Me At Six - ✓

8-14 –Fjords - ✓
15-21 - The Walkmen - ✓
22-28 - Walter Schreifels

Week 2

Week 2 - Thursday 13^th January 2011 - The Globe, Cardiff – NO SWEAT present: Siencyn + Fjords + The Sky Designed - £4.50 (Including online transaction fee of 50p, lest we forget)

“This place is emptier than Tiger Woods’ ball bag. . .”

These were the immortal words uttered by Sandro as we entered The Globe before our 2nd gig of the year. I assumed he meant after Tiger had been to the driving range, but I may have missed something.

There were about 15 people inside the venue at the time. Considering that the lineup consisted of Fjords, a 7-piece, The Sky Designed, a quintet, and singer/songwriter Siencyn (who was at least one person), Sandro and I may have been the only real audience members. For a moment, I wasn’t sure whether this gig would meet the criteria for Gigaweek, so I checked the Gigaweek commandments. Thankfully there was nothing in the scriptures to say we couldn’t be the only people in the crowd. Or that Sandro couldn’t wear frilly knickers.

It was to be a night of four key elements: Expensive alcohol, interesting local music, and bad maths.

It must be said that the audience did grow throughout. There were 16 people by the end.

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The gig was part of The Globe’s Twenty4Eleven festival that I referred to last time, a mini-festival taking place over the course of 20 days throughout January. With tickets at four quid per night, it had the three most crucial ingredients for the Gigaweek challenge: It was cheap, it was local, and it was cheap (I know my priorities).

The night had begun excitingly as I joined my old man and amateur chauffer, Parge, to pick up Sandro from outside the Hilton hotel in the pouring rain. It was edge-of-the-seat stuff. Sandro had been to Birmingham for a work related meeting, so as you'd expect, he’d already helped himself to a few beers by the time I met him. By 8 o’clock we were in The Claude, one of many pubs in the vicinity of The Globe, enjoying a pre-gig pint.

Crucially, Sandro got the first round in, and being a man of taste and refinement he opted for two bottles of strawberry Brothers cider. “They’re £3.65 each mind you,” the barman warned him wild-eyed. Unlike many men deeper of pocket, Sandro was unfazed and he bravely nodded his approval. However, Sandro was fazed when the total cost was declared to be £7.50. 

“You said £3.65 each,” he replied to the barman gravely. The barman’s eyes rolled up to the calculator in his mind as he called on the memory of his 365 times table.


Sandro waved his right hand slowly from left to right,

“You don’t need the extra 20p,” he told him.


“I don’t need the extra 20p,” the barman replied entranced.


“We can go about our business,” Sandro continued.

“You can go about your business,” the barman agreed. 

“Move along,” Sandro finished.

“Move along,” the barman repeated.

“These aren’t the coins you’re looking for,” I chipped in, in my finest Alec Guinness voice.

“You what?” the barman said coming to his senses. Sandro hastily shepherded me away.

We left soon after and headed for the main event. I’d tried to down the last 100ml or so of my cider and succeeded only in spilling half of it down the side of my face, but that’s how I roll.

Surprisingly there was no queue outside The Globe (have people not heard of Fjords?).
On entering, even the old boy manning the till was surprised to see us. “Oh hello!” he welcomed, looking startled. Sandro gave him the reference number for our tickets and he looked even more perplexed.

“Oh! You bought online, did you? Really!?” he said taken aback, seemingly both at the fact that this was possible, and that we had done so.

This was becoming disconcerting. Did he greet all the customers this way? (“You’ve come here?? Really? Oh dear, you must be from out of town!”) But he continued earnestly. “Is it any band in particular you’re interested in seeing?” 

“Uh, yeah, Fjords,” Sandro replied hesitantly, but the old boy looked none the wiser. 

Whether he knew there was even a band called Fjords playing is open to debate, all I knew was that it was quiet, too quiet. Also, I wasn’t sure if I could smell burning incense, or if the old boy had been at the marijuana. The incense sticks dotted around the place were offering me no clues.

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There followed Sandro’s allusion to Tiger Woods as we entered the almost deserted main room. Like all right thinking individuals, we made a beeline for the bar. Suffice to say there wasn’t a queue, so I stepped up to the plate. A pint bottle of pear Gaymers for £3 and a £4, 660ml bottle of Peroni later and I knew I’d already forgotten my aforementioned priorities.

In terms of value for money, I was pleased that things had improved since last week. I’m still bitter about those £3.50, 330ml Bulmers bottles I willingly paid for. I must admit I was impressed by the 660ml bottle of Peroni in particular, although the barman seemed to be overawed completely by it, referring to it as a litre and a half bottle. Maybe he meant a pint and a half, but either way he clearly had the same maths teacher as the barman at The Claude.

Sandro and I struggled courageously through the crowd, fortunately managing to find a couple of spare seats and a table to park our massive bottles (that’s not a euphemism). It turned out that Fjords had moved to second on the bill. A major blow. The reasons we were later given by a shady character, was that there was an agreement with someone of influence that they shouldn't be listed as the ‘headline’ act.

I’ve found myself in such predicaments many times myself. “It’s not that we don’t want your name associated with the evening,” I’ve been told sympathetically, “It’s that we don’t know who you are or why you keep asking to perform, so piss off.” Who’d have thought people could be so protective of karaoke?

Whatever the actual reason, it meant The Sky Designed would be last on, with Siencyn set to open proceedings. Regardless, this was a momentous occasion indeed, one that may well be talked about for decades to come. Not only was it Fjords first ever gig under the name Fjords (having previously been known as Don’t Tread On Spiders), it was also The Sky Designed’s first ever gig under any name whatsoever. And judging by the way the crowd reacted, it was Siencyn’s last ever gig. Only kidding, he’s got at least one more in him.
  

The internet tells me that Siencyn is the alias for Adam Jenkins, who is also the singer and guitarist of a South Wales based progressive rock band named Opious. I couldn’t believe it either. He had a very thick valleys accent (as opposed to a thin valley), and a quiet unassuming stage presence. I quite enjoyed the six songs he performed in total, which included three of his own, plus covers of Bill Withers’ ‘Grandma’s Hands’ and Seasick Steve’s ‘Last Po’man’, and then due to popular demand, as a bonus we got a rendition of Radiohead’s ‘Karma Police’ to close. The less easily impressed Sandro, seemed entirely unmoved.

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Hot on his heels were Fjords! who sadly don’t really have an exclamation mark after their name, unlike Sandro! They had home made T-shirts to show off their new name. Well, two of them did. The lead singer and lead guitarist both wore white T-shirts on which they’d sprayed on black letters, presumably with the idea that if six of them wore them, they could spell Fjords (why one of them had the letter C on his is beyond me). 

But they're a 7-piece remember, so what would the 7^th member wear, you ask? Exactly. That’s where the exclamation mark comes in, my first act as new manager of the band.

They were notable for having dual vocalists, a trumpeter, a female drummer, and importantly, a short bassist, all unique selling points. The female vocalist had Florence red hair, and Sandro was sure that she used makeup/foundation to make her skin paler. 

“Nobody’s that white,” he said knowingly. “She’s a user, trust me.” She also played a violin rather well, although it may have been a viola and she could have been shit at it for all I know.


They opened with a proper stomper called 'Russian Doll' that rattled along and caught our attention. They continued apace following up with several more songs including one unforgettably called 'My Week in Shinjuko'. It kept Sandro and I entertained and interested, and the rest of the audience, which by now may have hit the 50 mark (!), seemed to feel similarly.

Sandro had seen enough to give them his seal of approval, though not without a few minor criticisms.


“If I was their manager,” (Shit, I’ve got competition, I thought.) “I’d start by making some slight alterations. Firstly, the short bassist is underused. He was great in the first few songs, they need to utilise him more and I’d make him wear platform shoes,” I made a mental note.  

“Secondly, the lad on the trumpet, with the big curly hair: he’s gone. Twiddling his thumbs too much, unless they make more use of his multi-instrumentalist skills.” (During one song he’d shown his flair with a glockenspiel.)

“The trumpet isn’t really worth the tour bus space. The girl too, Florence. She’s out. The other singer’s better when he’s on his own. Plus we don't want any users in the band. That guitarist too: he can go.”


“So these slight changes,” I surmised. “Basically involve decimating half the band. Do you think they’ll approve? I imagine they’re all friends.” 

Sandro nodded.

“Once they’ve seen my track-record, they’ll approve.”

He had a point. 47 seconds in the 400m hurdles for a man of Sandro’s size and shape is incredible.

-------

The Sky Designed finished off the gig. Another unsigned Cardiff band, they shared some musical similarities with Fjords. An alternative/indie band with a penchant for trumpets, plus male and female vocalists, though they couldn’t quite match Fjords’ tunes. Then again, who can? Their bassist had a great moustache though.

(I may not be able to remember their songs, or describe their music in any way, but by God I’ll get the details of their facial hair spot on.)

The male singer was curly haired and bearded, by the way. He also had a booming voice, and wasn’t afraid to use it. For a first gig they can be proud. If it wasn’t a first gig and I just misheard, they should be thouroughly ashamed.

Our night was topped off in the only way it should be, by some healthy kebab meat and chips from the Adonis on city road, followed by a taxi home. Sandro paid for the kebabs, not in an act of generosity, but in the understanding that I would therefore pay for the taxi, which I did. Sort of.

After the previous week’s gig (the YMAS extravaganza), we’d ended with a heated discussion regarding who’s supposed to pay for the taxi. On that occasion, I’d paid from the back seat and Sandro had added a £1 tip from his position in the passenger’s seat in front. I’d not seen this and tipped the driver a pound coin myself.

The driver had therefore received £8 for a £6 fare. He must have thought we were high rollers.

On realizing this drastic error, Sandro and I then discussed, in detail, the future protocol for tipping a taxi driver. I had explicitly requested, nay, stated, that whoever pays the fare should also pay the tip. Now I’d drunk a fair few £3.50, 330ml bottles of Bulmers, but I was convinced that this had been agreed by Sandro.

On this occasion, the fare was £6 once more. My wallet contained a fiver and a tenner. I dallied, in two minds. Sandro intuitively realised my predicament, and responded faster than I did. Showing remarkable dexterity for a big man, with one hand he reached for his own change, and with the other he took my fiver and paid the driver. Crisis averted. . .

But what of the tip?

-------

“I gave him a 40p tip,” Sandro said.

“40p!” I replied in shame. “You gave him £6.40?”

“No I gave him £6.20. The fare was £5.80,” Sandro responded.

“No it wasn’t, it was £6! So we tipped him 10p each! He’ll starve!” I said, feeling guilty.

“So what? Serves him right for being so boring,” Sandro said compassionately.

Our voices were raised now. It would’ve been a bizarre argument to overhear at midnight on a school night.

“Maybe he’s shy!” I said, defending the poor mute.


“He’s a taxi driver!” Sandro said unsympathetically.

“You can be a shy taxi driver,” I protested. “Look at Travis Bickle!”

Maybe not the best example I could have used, I thought.

“My tip to him is: be a little friendlier and entertaining if you want a tip. We paid him for his services. He should be satisfied with that. He’s got an extra 20p to go toward his next sex doll,” Sandro said scathingly.

“I wonder how many tips he’d have to take off us before he could afford one,” I wondered aloud.

“I’ve no idea,” Sandro lied.

“This is why we agreed what we agreed last week. To avoid this kind of travesty, it’s an inequality of tipping is what it is. One guy gets a 25% tip and the next gets a 3% tip,” (it was a night of bad maths).

“Well why didn’t you give him any tip then? Wasn’t that the agreement? Isn’t it therefore you, who has brought poverty on this innocent, shy driver?”


I ignored this logic, because I knew it was correct, and my sarcasm sensor was tingling,

“You’re like an itch on the elbow of a one armed man,” Sandro continued with disdain.

“Reassuring?” I suggested hopefully.

“No, a persistent irritation.”

“You’ve got a nerve,” I countered, “I smell a rat. . .” I then added, in what was nothing other than a not-so subtle allusion to next week’s gig, and probably didn’t really make sense in the context of our actual conversation. 


Expect alot of that.

-------

January

1-7 - You Me At Six - ✓

8-14 - Fjords - ✓
15-21 - The Walkmen
22-28 - Walter Schreifels

Week 1

Week 1 - Thursday 6th January - Cardiff Students' Union: The Great Hall, Cardiff - You Me At Six - £15

“When we began, we knew we would have to make sacrifices. . .”

Thus spoke the wise Sandro, on the eve of our first gig of 2011. I’d had my doubts. I’d wondered if it were possible. I’d wondered if it was worthwhile. I’d even wondered if I’d need to shave before my 25th birthday. But not for the first time, and surely not the last, I was oh so wrong on all three counts.

Before beginning the Gigaweek challenge, we had both known that the first week of January may well be the most awkward. For pubs, clubs and music venues it’s the hangover to the saturated holiday period, and it ain’t pretty, especially with me and Sandro sniffing around. Particularly Sandro. Have you seen his beard?

I’d scoured the listings (i.e. 2 websites) without success, and I’d rung around the houses (my cousin’s and my Grampy’s). They had nothing. 

Although I suspected my Grampy was withholding information. There was something about the way he said, “What the bloody hell are you talking about you daft bugger?” that I just didn’t buy.

Cardiff. Nothing. Bristol. Nothing. Swansea. Thankfully, nothing again. . .

The landscape was barren, and those were the only three places I could think of.

We needed inspiration. We needed heroes. We needed, You Me At Six.

Desperate times call for desperate bands, and You Me At Six were as desperate as Desperate Dan at a conference on desperation (but not as desperate as I was for a good simile).

-------

You Me At Six (who henceforth will be referred to as YMAS, purely because we saw them after XMAS (I'm dreading ZMAS )) were an unknown quantity to me. I’d not heard of them until a listing for their gig at Cardiff University popped up at the 11th hour. 10:59 to be precise.

(Having not heard of them is not a failing of theirs I’d like to point out, my hearing's always been poor.)

With The Globe’s Twenty4Eleven festival failing to produce a named artist for their 20 days of live music (and therefore not being eligible under the rules of Gigaweek), YMAS were our only option.

I had to find out more. So I called on my most trusted of friends. 

Google. 

You didn’t think I had real friends did you? I’m going to see YMAS after all (no offence intended to the other losers who went to see YMAS).

So I googled. When I read that You Me At Six were teaming up with Chiddy Bang for their new single, I could barely contain my excitement. Contain it I did though. So well in fact, that if you’d witnessed the blank expression on my face as I read the news, you’d have been forgiven for thinking that I was unmoved.

But how could one possibly be unmoved at such a revelation? You Me At Six and Chiddy Bang? On the same record? I’m no expert, and I’d not heard of either of them, but this had best single ever written all over it.

Not according to YMAS fans though, many of whom feel that this hip-hop collaboration means the band have ‘sold out’.

But what kind of music do they make when they aren't fraternising with rappers? The South Wales Echo suggested Pop-Punk. 

Ahh, Pop-Punk, of course.

Like all resourceful researchers, my next port of call was Wikipedia. Reading the following excerpt on the bands Wikipedia page filled me with trepidation: 

'In their early material they incorporated elements of screaming and faster riffs, as placed upon their emo/pop punk musical style as one can expect in the post-hardcore genre.' 

Oh dear. 

Oh dear, oh dear.

Obviously, I was sweating by now. Emo/pop punk musical style? Elements of screaming and faster riffs? The post-hardcore genre? Are these real things? Which element of screaming? Not the loud bit I hope.


I felt like I’d aged forty odd years in the space of fifteen seconds. I quickly checked a mirror in hope, but no, I hadn't suddenly managed to grow a moustache for the first time.

Emo-music eh? Is it really a valid genre of music? Or is it just a bunch of teens with dodgy, skewed hair cuts and pouting pierced faces? Were these just more preconceptions of mine? Do people enjoy the sound of screaming? Did the post-hardcore genre have anything to do with pornography? These were questions that could only be answered by a gig.

-------

On our journey there, Sandro admitted that he’d never felt more embarrassed going to a gig in his life, and he’s a veteran of at least a dozen years worth.

“You shouldn’t be so judgemental,” I said to him. “It could be good.” 

“You misunderstand me,” he replied. “I meant, because I’m going with you.”

“There’s fifty more where this came from,” I warned him ominously.

Our tickets read 'Strictly over 14 years old only', which was reassuring. On entering the venue, it was apparent that a healthy proportion of the attendees were barely over 14 years old. “Come along, Kiddie Winkies!” I heard someone say as we walked in. The writing was on the wall, and the wall read 'Oh dear lord, this is going to be horrendous'.

Considering he was twice the age of half of them, I thought Sandro blended in rather well. He shared his immediate impressions on entering The Great Hall. 

“I've never seen a bigger bunch of losers in all my life.”

I've found my crowd, I thought to myself.

We’d arrived too late for the first support act, who were apparently called Not Advised, but we did catch the entire set of the second support band. They were called Canterbury, although by the end of their performance, Sandro had given them a slightly ruder alias. It’s not too difficult to guess (think James Naughtie).

They were notable mainly for the fact that Rupert Grint appeared to be their drummer. Interestingly, Sandro discovered that they were Rock Sound’s band of the week on November 24th 2009. Fancy that. They’re only youngsters though, and they’re giving their album 'Thank You' away for free online, so how could I possibly slag them off? 

Their front-man did seem like a bit of a knob though.

-------

You Me At Six’s front-man went by the name of Josh Franceschi. An Ice Hockey player’s name if ever there was one. They began in barnstorming fashion, setting the air alight with a spine-tingling rendition of, err, their first song. They followed this with another song called, something, and guess what came next? No, I don’t know either. But whatever it was, the crowd loved it. 

Sadly, Chiddy Bang weren’t in town so ‘Rescue Me’ didn’t get an airing (Who am I kidding, I wouldn’t have known either way).

The vast crowd were already in thrall, when midway through their set, during an extended interlude, Franceschi attempted to whip them into further fervour. He did so effortlessly, using an unexpected trump card: Nando’s. 

In a moment that said more about this audience than I could possibly convey with a thousand words, the crowd went wild at the mere mention of the band’s daytime lunch trip to Nando's. That's right, the Portuguese Peri-Peri chicken chain. One carefully planned mention triggered whoops and cheers comparable to those you might expect if a member of One Direction emerged from a 14 year old girl’s birthday cake.

He went on to explain how they’d been served by a waitress called Grace who apparently had “big bazoombas”. I heaved a sigh of relief at these words. I’d feel infinitely less guilty about taking the piss out of them now. 

The crowd were also delighted as Franceschi later gave ‘shout-outs’ to such acclaimed contemporaries as Attack! Attack!, The Blackout and Kids in Glass Houses. If you were still wondering what kind of music YMAS make (and let’s be honest, we both know my descriptions wouldn’t have helped much), if you place them somewhere between those three bands, you’re on the right track. He also mentioned that they’d be supporting Blink 182 this summer, who they cite as one of their major influences. I was mildly impressed. Mildly.

YMAS rattled along with more crowd pleasing numbers. One of them was definitely called, ‘Save it For The Bedroom’ and another must’ve been called ‘Finders Keepers’. They all seemed to do a similar job of keeping the audience entertained. 

Their music wasn’t to our distinguished tastes, but both Sandro and I were in agreement that they deserved praise. They created a buzz and they connected with their fans, which is more than can be said about plenty of bands I like, but have found underwhelming live. YMAS definitely whelmed.


Nevertheless, I was pretty certain that after this gig I wouldn't ever intentionally listen to a YMAS record.

-------

My reputation as a cool dude (which exists in my own head only) took a further blow during the gig. Toward the end, a scrawny, desperate looking young buck approached me and Sandro, clutching a £20 note, as though it was his most prized possession. 

“Excuse me,” he began. “Would you please buy me just one bottle of Bulmers, please Sir?” he asked nervously, but politely. I was particularly impressed by his overuse of the word please.

“Ahh, wouldn't they serve you?” I patronised.

“Aren’t you 18 yet?” Sandro asked in mock surprise.

“I’m 17!” the boy said, with what seemed like fierce pride, though he was convincing no one. He was 8 at the most. 

I can honestly say that in the past whenever I’ve had similar requests from anyone underage, usually gobby 10 year olds outside a shop (“Oh, bruv! Get us some fags!” more a demand than a request I suppose), I’ve politely declined and walked on, bracing myself in anticipation of the impact of a well aimed choc ice to the back of my head (in truth, that’s only happened once).

On this occasion however, I took pity on the poor scamp, and agreed to buy his cider. Maybe it was just pity. If you’re on the receiving end of my pity, then truly you must be a pitiful case. I think the boy may have started to realise this, as he began to cry.  

Maybe it was because I recognised myself in the boy, particularly his scrawniness and desperation. Or maybe it was because the 330ml bottles of Bulmers were £3.50 (more than a penny a millilitre!), and in my spitefulness I wanted to punish him. 

Principally though, I believe it was because of Gigaweek. The first gig of Gigaweek seemed like the perfect time to break with tradition. It felt right to go to a gig I expected to be shite, for the first time, and it felt right to go against my better judgement, and encourage this child along the path of alcoholism.

-------

We took stock of events over a not so swift pint in The Woodville. Despite enjoying the night, my doubts about Gigaweek briefly resurfaced. Maybe we should've stuck to the more selective policy of only going to gigs we want to. I put this thought to Sandro who replied with a swift slap to my face. It shook me to my senses.

How could I have such blasphemous thoughts?

“Have you not listened to a single lyric Josh Franceschi has sung?” Sandro asked passionately. 

(It must have been a rhetorical question because he talked over my answer of, “um, not really.”) 

“His lyrics of indolence and despair? Loneliness and desolation?” 

So that’s what the song ‘Save It For The Bedroom’ is about, I thought to myself. 

“These are by-products of inactivity!”  he proclaimed.

“I’m not inactive,” I protested. “I actively avoid activity.”

I protested too much. Even as I spoke I knew I had been wrong to question the wisdom of Gigaweek. Of course it was a positive influence. Had I really reached a crisis of confidence within the first week? Or was I just dramatising my feelings in a misguided attempt at humour? 

Either way, I needed that slap in the face, and as so often has been the case, Sandro had been a willing slapper. You Me At Six had triumphed over our cynicism, and for that they have our respect, if not our love.

Actually, they do have Sandro’s love. He said they’re better than Radiohead, but not quite as good as S-Club 7.

-------

January

1-7 - You Me At Six - ✓
8-14 -?
15-21 -?
22-28 -?

Gigaweek

2011 - The Year of the Gigaweek

No, it’s not a legendary or mythical creature. Nor a year consisting of a billion weeks. Neither is it a computing term of any kind. That would be ridiculous. . .

It’s not just a made up word with no meaning as you may have suspected (it is).

Gigaweek is not a nonsensical term. It’s sensical. It is in fact a portmanteau (or a portmanthree if you will).

“Utter bollocks!” I hear you cry. Okay, I’ll stop.

Gigaweek, is a challenge.

A challenge for me and my brother Sandro, set by me and my brother Sandro. Those pesky buggers.

“But what challenge exactly?” I imagine the more enthusiastic among you are thinking (with emphasis on the word imagine).

“Get on with it you fool!” I hear from elsewhere (Sandro, reading over my shoulder).

The challenge, as the name implies, is to attend at least 1 gig a week for the entirety of 2011.

Obviously, your reaction to this challenge is subjective. It’s all relative, as my uncle’s father used to say to his wife’s husband’s son’s dad. In this case, relative to your own gig-going activity. Some people may comfortably manage a gig a week, maybe even double or triple that.

Music Journalists, A&R men, regular frequenters of Drowned In Sound’s message board, I’m referring to you.

Of course, most musicians may comfortably average well over a gig a week as well, including their own (maybe not including their own as well).

Those who fall into this category may possibly feel that the Gigaweek challenge, is not worth writing or indeed reading about. If this applies to you, and you are still reading, this is your last chance to stop, or else you will lose all my sympathy.

Still there? No? Oh. . .

-------

Yes? You fool. 

You’ve only yourself to blame from here on in.

By comparison with the regular gig-goer, others may only attend a handful of gigs a year, and there are even some people who have never been to a gig in their lives. Amish people for instance. But this challenge isn’t about how many gigs per week you or the Amish average. It’s about the two of us attending at least one gig, every single week of the year. Still unimpressed? 

Yes? This isn’t going well.

So where do my brother Sandro and I fit in this continuum of gig-going? In the 10th percentile to be precise. It’s true, I drew a graph and everything. I also made up all the figures so it’s probably not that useful. Somewhere in the middle of the top anyway.

Regrettably (but understandably), neither of our jobs are connected in any way to the music industry, although they do sometimes let me touch the radio in my office. Like most of those message boarders I referred to earlier though, we do like live music more than the average bear. Not quite as much as the dancing bear or Bear Grylls, but that pair are far from average.

We initially resolved to attend at least one gig a week in 2010. Unfortunately, by January 8th we had failed miserably. At least we outlasted most New Year’s Resolutions.

Throughout the year, I probably averaged about one gig a month (counting the annual pilgrimage to Glastonbury as one gig that is). One gig a month is pretty poor going for a person purporting to be a hardcore gig-goer, which is why I’m not purporting to be a hardcore gig-goer. Sandro however. . . 


Well, Sandro may have managed a couple of gigs more than I did through the year, but nothing like Gigaweek proportions. 

Our records were not too dissimilar in 2009, which prompted the idea of Gigaweek. An idea spawned in the sprawling mind of Sandro. I thought of the name though, which is clearly more important. Not many people have the power to perceive how Sandro’s mind works (fewer the desire) but I believe Gigaweek was conceived as a result of an urge to see more live music, and to spend fewer nights in front of the TV. 


I wasn't born this perceptive. It's taken a few blows to the head to get me this far.

Having failed in 2010, the spark was reignited after a double header of gigs in December. Arcade Fire on Thursday 9th in Cardiff, followed by Black Rebel Motorcycle Club’s 999th gig the next day in Bristol. Two gigs in two days, I know, who wants to touch me? Anyone?

-------

Of course, going to watch a band or musician is neither a challenge or chore. It’s entertainment. A luxury and a privilege for anyone who can afford it. So if you’re choosing to do something that you have to pay for, how can you possibly fail, if you really want to succeed? Well, there are endless reasons.

A year is a long time, and there are all kinds of events that occur during the year to derail you. Some are planned and expected. You can account for them and organise around them, such as a summer holiday or a stag do. But some are unplanned and creep up on you, such as your birthday.

A lack of discipline or commitment. Money issues. Work issues. Tissues. The list of reasons is endless, but that's about the end of it.

You may also find yourself making excuses or using reasons that are imagined or exaggerated. For instance, in the first week of 2010, the reason we failed to attend a gig was because Sandro wanted to reread all the books in the Twilight saga and reorganise his collection of Taylor Lautner photos.

The reason we didn’t manage a gig in the 2nd week, was that I was busy in Africa, teaching poverty stricken kids how to fish.

Admittedly, one of those reasons isn't true. All I know is that I don't know how to fish.

But mostly, I think you just get lazy. Or one gets lazy. Or I get lazy. I’ve frequently been described as laid back, by people too polite to call me lazy, but there’s laid back, and there’s lying down, and I’m often guilty of the latter. Including now.

Therefore, finding an excuse, or allowing Sandro to get away with an excuse that shouldn’t really be acceptable, such as wanting to stay in to comb his beard, was never a problem for me. I blame money, time constraints, football and not wanting to drink too much, for reasons I don’t fully understand.

In truth though, there’s nothing in either of our lives that can’t be worked around if we’re committed to the Gigaweek challenge. There are no kids for either of us to feed (Thank God, the Helen Lovejoys among you are thinking). And you don’t have to drink to enjoy a gig. It just helps.

If you can’t spare a few hours a week to do something that you love, what can you spare them for? Shit TV?

Consequently, the reason for this blog, is to encourage the necessary discipline, and provide the motivation required to succeed in the Gigaweek challenge. Wish us luck. Or don’t. It won’t really make any difference, and if anyone overhears you they might think you’re weird.

-------

The rules of the Gigaweek challenge:

1 - The challenge requires that participants attend at least 1 gig per week, over the course of a 12 month period, commonly known as a year. (That’s year, pronounced to rhyme with fur or beer, but never pear. Unless you’re a bit kooky, or struggle with English in general. Lyke me.)

2 - 2011 begins and ends on a Saturday. For the purpose of this challenge, a week will run from Saturday-Friday. The 53rd week of the year therefore, consists of one day: Saturday 31st December 2011. This day shall henceforth be known as 'New Year's Eve'.

3 - A gig, is defined as live music which requires the purchase of what’s commonly referred to as a ‘ticket’ to attend. I’m not saying that’s the actual definition of a gig, but that’s our definition, which means live comedy doesn’t count, and nor sadly do pub singers/bands, as enjoyable as both can be. Novelty folk music does count, but seeing as we saw Flight of the Conchords in 2010 and they’re not due to tour the UK in 2011, I’m not sure why I bothered to make that point.

4 - My brother and I don’t need to attend the same gigs, or any particular gig together. This rule was his idea. If you’ve met me you’ll probably understand why he suggested it.

5 - We live in the glorious city of Cardiff, which has a variety of venues that range in size and quality, and attracts some fantastically talented musicians, and some pretty shitty ones too. They all count though. But, seeing as in life, variety is spicy (or something vaguely similar), we must attend at least one gig a month outside Cardiff.

5b - And if you think it still sounds about as spicy as a chicken korma, to add further spice, we must attend at least one gig during the year outside the UK. In hot pants.

N.B. I reserve the right to amend any of these rules, should I need to cheat at any stage. Especially the hot pants abroad rule.

P.S. Yes, Sandro is his real name. Honest.

-------

What people are saying about Gigaweek:

“What’s Gigaweek?”

- You


“I couldn’t give a stuff.”

- Everyone else

“Gigaweek - Gimmicky? Yes. It’s a bit like the film 9 songs, but with less gratuitous sex between the two leads. Thankfully. And it’s not a film.”

- The Author's Father.

“The last thing you’ll read by this author.”


- I.P. Freely

“The best thing you'll ever read.”

- This Author


“What a stinking pile of shit.”


- The Author's Mother.


“I really am a complete twat aren’t I?”

- The Apprentice’s Stuart Baggs The Brand


(Disclaimer: The above quotes are entirely fictitious. Except the last one. . . and the one above it.)

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The Itinerary so far (There’s a fair bit of work to do):

January

1-7 - ?
8-14 -?
15-21 -?
22-28 -?

February

29-4 -?
5-11 - ?
12-18 - NME Shockwaves Tour
19-25 -?

March

26-4 -?
5-11 -?
12-18 -?
19-25 - Elbow
26-1 -?

April

2-8 -?
9-15 -?
16-22 -?
23-29 -?

May

30-6 - Camden Crawl
7-13 -?
14-20 -?
21-27 -?
28-3 -?

June

4-10 -?
11-17 -?
18-24 - Glastonbury
25-1 - Glastonbury

July


2-8 -?
9-15 -?
16-22 -?
23-29 -?

August

30-5 -?
6-12 -?
13-19 -?
20-26 -?
27-2 -?

September
3-9 -?
10-16 -?
17-23 -?
24-30 -?

October

1-7 -?
8-14 -?
15-21 -?
22-28 -?

November
29-4 -?
5-11 -?
12-18 -?
19-25 -?
26-2 -?

December

3-9 -?
10-16 -?
17-23 -?
24-30 -?
31 -?

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