Week 8 - Part 2

Part Two - Frankie & The Heartstrings

“You’re too nice to be a murderer. . . and you’re gutless. . .”

Sandro is a fine practitioner in the art of giving a sugar-coated insult. He demonstrated as much as we casually discussed the most light-hearted of topics: murder.

Initially, I was pleased to be described as being 'too nice' to be a murderer, but after a while I figured out the the real crux of his comment, which is of course the desired effect of the textbook sugar-coated insult.

“I’m not gutless!” I eventually replied indignantly.

“You are. You haven't got any guts,” Sandro assured me.

“I know what it means, but I’m not! I could murder someone if I wanted to,” I told him in my most menacing voice.

“No you couldn’t,” he said confidently, sounding disappointingly unmenaced.

“What if I was brainwashed to kill someone by an evil fashion designer?” I asked.

“You'd still be too gutless to go through with it,” he replied.

“I’ll murder you to prove otherwise if you’re not careful!” I said even more menacingly. I even narrowed my eyes at him.

“I bet you twenty quid you don’t,” he responded, reaching for his wallet.

Damn. He had me.

I laughed, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Two hundred?” he said, raising the stakes.

That was too much money to instantly dismiss.

“No, don’t be daft,” I said after a while. “You can’t afford that. . . And how would I claim the money once you’re dead?” I wondered aloud, giving the offer the consideration it deserved.

“Well, we would have to draw up a legally binding contract I suppose,” Sandro said thoughtfully. Too thoughtfully.

“Even then, I’m not sure the police would be too impressed. I don’t think the two hundred quid I’m unlikely to ever see, would be worth the life sentence,” I said trying to move away from the subject.

“What’s a life sentence these days? Ten to fifteen years? That’s not too bad,” he said persuasively.

“Well. It is for two hundred quid. . . No, I’m not murdering you, and that’s the end of it!” I said decisively.

“How about one million quid?” Sandro asked finally.

I’ve always maintained I’d do anything for a million pounds, so I did, and that was the end of Gigaweek.

Of course, Sandro didn’t really want to be murdered, and I’m no murderer. Not because I’m gutless, but because I’m nice. But mainly because Sandro doesn’t have one million pounds.

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What relevance does the above conversation have, you may be wondering (you probably couldn't care less)? Well, it’s indicative of the kind of conversation that two brothers might have if they spend too much time in each others company, and this week a double Gigaweek was to blame.


Les Savy Fav were always going to be a tough act to follow. For a new band that neither Sandro or I had listened to yet, it was even tougher. Even so, Frankie & The Heartstrings impressed.


Cousin Bish was still in a fragile state of mind and recovering from the events of Wednesday, complaining that he was suffering from the black lung, but Sandro, P.Mushy and I were fit enough to join delectable male models Gavlova and Flapjack, whose noses were still vibrating from the recent NME Shockwaves gig. 


The North Star provided our pre-gig pint, but unfortunately they’d withdrawn their 'Guess The Quote' competition. Presumably they’d been inundated with desperate, alcoholic time-travellers after my late tip-off last time, and thought better of it.


My own pre-gig drink was a soft one. Being the finely tuned, disciplined, committed athlete that Sandro will testify I am not, I was off the alcohol altogether (another first for a Gigaweek event). I was already focusing on the football I’d be kicking around aimlessly the following day, visualising the numerous open goals I would miss.


Tonight’s gig was at Clwb Ifor Bach, rather than the nearby Dempsey’s as had originally been planned. I assumed the move was in response to a greater than expected demand for tickets, but when the first of the two headliners Cloud Nothings took to the stage, there were barely fifteen people in the crowd.

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Cloud Nothings is the name of an American teenager and his support band. Assuming that is actually the young scamp’s real name, Cloud told us he’d never been to Cardiff before and he declared himself to be a fan of Mclusky, but apart from that he didn’t waste too much time talking to the sparse crowd. I don’t blame him, there were some real weirdos about, particularly Gavlova and Flapjack.

Mr Nothings set consisted of fast paced, old fashioned indie guitar music, but his vocals weren’t particularly clear or strong. There weren’t really any standout moments or even melodies that stuck in the head for too long, yet, in my infinite wisdom I saw hints of potential. There was toe tapping, hand clapping and head flapping.

“He's so hot right now,” I told Gavlova. He, however, was less impressed.

“What is the drummer doing facing sideways?” he said with a perplexed frown.

“Maybe he has trouble turning left?” I suggested reasonably.

“Nah, he’s just got trouble not being a prick,” Flapjack said with the aggression of someone who supports a frustratingly limited football side.

“Attention seeking, that’s what it is,” Gav said, “I’ve seen plenty of drummers and drum kits fit on that stage, and none of them had to face sideways.”

Who could argue with that? Could he turn left? Who knew?


Frankie & The Heartstrings' drummer didn’t risk incensing Gavlova, choosing to face the audience in the traditional manner, although the singer did take unusual option of dancing in front of the stage rather than on it. It wasn’t quite Harringtonesque crowd interaction, in fact it was an option that was only really available to him due to the vast oceans of space among the audience, but it did the job of involving the audience a lot more than we would have felt otherwise.

Flapjack had done his homework, having bought Frankie & The Heartstrings newly released debut album, Hunger, and gave an encouraging report of what he’d heard so far, tipping the song 'Possibilities' as one to listen out for. Of course, I made a mental note to ignore Flapjacks tip. Flapjack admitted he was hoping they’d play his all time favourite song 'Relax' to finish, before he tailed off, muttering something about killing the prime minister of Malaysia, or was it the Chairman of Cardiff City?

Sadly, Gavlova had worried me. His own report related to the hairstyle of the singer, Frankie. Whilst I, like Gavlova, try to avoid preconceptions and prejudice as often as possible (except as far as Flapjack is concerned), I must confess that when I saw the singer’s hair for myself, I was reminded of those annoying indie kids who are so easy to mock. No, I don’t mean me.

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Frankie and the Heartstrings took to the stage with Frankie wandering around microphone in hand, displaying some impressive dad-dancing, with no sign of shame or embarrassment as he pranced in front of the sparse audience. His hair was surely inspired by Morrissey himself, more than slightly floppy, and ginger too. Luckily the band's substance was more important than their style and they won me over quickly.


A slightly effeminate singer from up north (albeit Sunderland rather than Manchester), who sings earnest lyrics, with catchy chorus’ backed by jangly guitars; where do the comparisons with Mozzer end? One of the Heartstrings was even a bit like Johnny Marr, although his virtuosity with his guitar and keyboard drew less attention than his legs.


“They are the skinniest legs I've ever seen!” Gavlova said, aghast at the pins on display. His comment was clearly influenced by the skinny jeans 'Marr' was sporting. “What are they? Jeans for Ants? They should be at least 3 times bigger!”


He could have easily been mistaken for a member of Young Legionnaire, if only he’d had bad facial hair.


Luckily the jeans weren’t constricting enough to prevent him and the rest of the band showing off their obvious talents with a string of exciting and enjoyable tunes, surprisingly including Flapjack's tip 'Possibilities'.


Their set even improved as it went on, with break up song 'Ungrateful' and it’s lyrics “I wrote this song with you in mind,” a particular highlight and the perfect accompaniment to Sandro’s favourite song 'Mr Vain' both of which were written about him, he tells me.


“That was great, but still, they are just horribly skinny legs,” Gavlova reasserted, now enjoying himself. But just as some people with weak stomachs watch horror films and spend the whole time peeking through their fingers at the screen, he was unable to resist the urge to gaze at the guitarists legs.


They excelled themselves with their final song 'Fragile' which began as slowly and as gently as a left footed shot from P.Mushy, before growing into a triumphant chorus about breaking down, emotionally I imagine, rather than having to call out the AA, to provide a suitable end to a fine gig.


Later on P. Mushy and Flapjack spoke to skinny legs Johnny Marr in the outside smoking area, and were told that the ginger duo of Frankie and The Heartstrings would be up early in the morning to head to London for an appearance on Soccer AM. 


Despite that conversation, P. Mushy still decided to ask the 3 members who would be having a longer lie in if they were excited about going on the show. 


“That’s only the other two,” they replied glumly. 


Sandro meanwhile probed deeper. “What’s with the other guitarist, hiding behind the curtain?” he asked suspiciously. “Is he the Wizard of Oz or something?”


“He was just tuning. It’s fairly standard”, the ushanka wearing bassist replied shiftily, before disappearing into his own hat. 


“And what’s with your legs?” Gavlova called out, but they were all gone, legs and all.

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“I think we’re all agreed that was a very fine gig indeed, right?” I said afterwards.

“I’m sorry, but the guy’s legs put me off. I felt physically sick to be honest,” Gavlova said.

“Some people don’t need great legs Gav,” Sandro told him, “Think of hand models for instance.”

As we were speaking, Gavlova was tapped on the shoulder by such a hand model. It turned out this young man was Gavlova’s cousin, and was in attendance with his girlfriend.

“I didn’t think this would be your kind of scene,” his cousin said sounding surprised to see Gav.

“What do you mean? Why not?” I heard Gavlova reply as I made for the loo.

“You’re a bit. . . old, aren’t you?” his cousin responded, just within earshot of me.

I didn’t see his cousin when I returned, but Gavlova’s walking stick was dripping with blood.

With this in mind, I turned down Sandro’s challenge to a walk-off, and went home, content in the knowledge that we’d completed our first double Gigaweek. The following morning, I did manage to see Frankie and the ginger Heartstring discussing the merits of Niall Quinn on Soccer AM, and showing themselves to be real (i.e. knowledgeable) Sunderland fans.

Having prioritised football over the opportunity of a Friday night out on the town, and having taken pride in my own strength of will to stay off the sauce altogether, it was only fitting that my game was postponed due to heavy rain.

Isn’t it always the way?

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February

29-4 - The Joy Formidable - ✓

5-11 – Jonny - ✓
12-18 - NME Shockwaves Tour (Crystal Castles, Magnetic Man, Everything, Everything, The Vaccines) - ✓
19-25 –Les Savy Fav & Frankie and The Heartstrings - ✓

Week 8 - Part 1

Week 8 – Wednesday 23^rd and Friday 25^th February – The Globe, Cardiff  & Clwb Ifor Bach – Les Savy Fav & Frankie & The Heartstrings (Presented by SWN)

“Moisture is the essence of wetness, and wetness is the essence of beauty.”

Part One - Les Savy Fav

I always thought hair gel was just for vain, self obsessed, navel gazing fools, but then, during one of my hour long sessions in front of the mirror, I tried some, and realised I looked ridiculously good looking. Sandro recommended an eye test.

Les Savy Fav’s beautiful front man Tim Harrington understands exactly what Derek Zoolander was referring to when he spoke of the importance of wetness, and as I was to find out to my cost, moisture is crucial to his band’s live performances. Aided by their moistness or not, Les Savy Fav unexpectedly made tonight’s gig undoubtedly one of the best I’ve ever been to.

But enough about that, it has been pointed out to me that in recent weeks there has been an increase in attention paid to the musical side of our Gigaweek misadventures, with more talk of the songs and musicians we encounter than of the extracurricular activities that had offered some fascinating and vital insights previously.

For this I apologise profusely. It was not my intention, there just haven’t been many interesting Taxi rides recently.

With Cardiff’s Taxi community clearly wary of potentially devastating criticism from an influential figure as myself, I felt it was wise to engage the services of everyone’s favourite amateur chauffer, Parge, who volunteered (at gunpoint) to transport me and Sandro, along with our associates P. Mushy and Cousin Bish, to The Royal George in Roath for our pre-gig pint (or two).

At The George, making his first Gigaweek appearance of the season, Cousin Bish reluctantly discussed skippering Gareth Bale and winning our school’s player of the year award, (“for the second year running, did I mention?”) even with Bale in the team. Fresh from his exploits in the Champions League, Sandro seemed unimpressed.

(Following a recent poll, Cousin Bish can now add Gigaweek’s award for Febuary’s biggest loser to his burgeoning trophy cabinet.)

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It had been a long time coming, but at last our eagerly anticipated first double Gigaweek arrived. The first leg of the double header began with a return to The Globe to see Les Savy Fav, an American band who’ve released five albums since their first in 1997, and yet have somehow managed to remain under our collective radar.


We arrived at The Globe midway through the set of the first supporting band Truckers of Husk, initially taking a tip-toe view from the upstairs balcony. Admittedly, without being too gripped by what we saw of their mostly instrumental math-rock, it was hard not to be impressed in particular by their drummer, who was a ball of furious energy (think Animal from The Muppets), and appeared to be the leader of the band, even if he was understandably breathless between songs. 


I took up a position on the stairs that border the left hand side of the theatre (facing the stage) to enjoy their last couple of songs, before all four of us moved downstairs in time for the second band, a move that would later prove to be very wise indeed.


The other supporting band were Young Legionnaire. A trio dressed in ridiculously tight jeans comprising members of La Roux, The Automatic and Bloc Party. The latter two seemed to be in competition for the world’s worst facial hair (I’m not just saying that becaues I'm jealous of their ability to grown any), with Bloc Party’s bassist sporting a moustache members of We Are Scientists would be disgusted by. 


The beardy singer from The Automatic showed off a Mackem accent (not to be confused with the dramatically different Geordie accent) and spoke of an affinity to Cardiff having lived here for 3 years, so without wanting to criticise too heavily, it’s fair to say they weren’t the most entertaining band. 


“They're fucking shit,” was Sandro’s verdict. 


Still, they did generate a lot of noise. Well done boys.


In their defence, I think it’s safe to say that anyone would suffer by comparison with the man who was about to show everyone present exactly what a natural front man is.

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If you’ve heard of them (or googled them), then you’ll know that Les Savy Fav have a reputation for being a fantastic live band. So much so that it wasn’t necessary to be familiar with their music, although that didn’t stop me or Sandro trying to catch up on some of their output beforehand. Sure, I would recommend listening to their albums, but not as much as I’d recommend going to one of their gigs. Even if you’re not a fan of the post-hardcore genre, which has become the default genre of choice as far as Gigaweek is concerned, I would be shocked if you didn’t enjoy a Les Savy Fav live show.

Without meaning to disparage their music, or ignore the roles played by rest of the band, the main reason for that recommendation is the personality of Tim Harrington. They do have some catchy tunes and witty lyrics too, as their quality singles collection Inches shows, and no matter how entertaining the front man is, if the music is bad, the gig is bad. They’ve released a couple of albums since that collection, and played a mix of new and old material that did the job of keeping our heads bobbing and our brains interested, while the antics of the singer kept faces smiling.

It didn’t take long for those antics to begin. After informing the crowd that they’d never played in Cardiff before, and mentioning the Welsh language (always a talking point for foreign singers), I wasn’t sure if he’d made a faux pas, or was just toyfully playing with the crowd when he asked “Cardiff, England” if it was ready to party, to a chorus of boos. Maybe it was a savvy faux pas.

As they launched into their first song he removed his T-Shirt, revealing an impressive gut, and surprising lack of moobs, then stepped off the stage for the first of several trips into the crowd, continuing right into the thick of things, and embracing one gleeful onlooker, before singing through another’s long hair.

Returning to the stage he covered up his sweaty torso as he pulled on another T-Shirt, although within minutes he’d ripped it in half so that his belly was back on show (what a relief). Without meaning to insult Mr Harrington, he basically looks like a taller, fatter Paul Giamatti. No offence to Paul either, who I know is an avid reader. Sandro would consider that a compliment, although he rejected suggestions that he was a look-alike for Harrington himself, and quite right too. Sandro’s hair and beard combo is vastly superior to Harrington’s Mugatu look.

-------

With belly bared, the temptation to leap to the stage and bite him was too much to bear for one fan. 


“She bit me on my perineum!” Harrington said in mock shock. “. . . I don’t even know where that is.” 


It seemed like whether you wanted it or not, you were gonna end up with this man’s belly sweat on your face. As the music continued apace, looking over to our corner stage right, tiny Tim gestured to Sandro to down the remainder of his can. Sandro politely declined, and continued drinking at the same pace. When he next looked over though and pointed in my direction, my friendly nodded acknowledgement clearly didn’t appease Tim’s lust for mischief. 


'Uh oh,' I thought as he disappeared back stage.


It was like a scene from Jaws. I looked left and right, but he was nowhere to be seen. And then, without warning, I turned to see a look of pure horror on Cousin Bish’s face. Harrington had reappeared behind us and had forced his head and upper torso up the back of Cousin Bish’s shirt. “Get your own T-Shirt!” Cousin Bish squealed, “This one’s only big enough for one!”


Harrington then took a set of portable steps from the side of the stage, placed them directly in front of me and climbed them so his belly was at face-level. At this range I could see the individual hairs on his midriff, each gleaming with sweat. I could even see his perineum. I think.


Naturally therefore, P. Mushy couldn’t resist pushing my head into the welcoming belly, which I was immensely grateful for. Harrington was singing into the ceiling and didn’t seem to notice, so I withdrew my face and wiped my dripping cheek. Smiling stupidly, I wondered if I’d ever be the same again.


One of Harrington’s many other forays into the audience saw him at the bar, while another found him singing while leaning over the balcony rail upstairs. All the while he was constantly in contact with many members of the crowd, most of whom were delighted, although there was one notable exception toward the end of the night. From the top of the stairs he cleaned out everyone standing on it, by backing into them using the power of his larger than average backside.


Most of those dislodged happily moved aside but one woman took particular offence and refused to be budged, despite Tim’s best efforts. He then offered the mic back and fore and they had a duet of sorts. She was obviously extremely annoyed, and being a lip reader, I had to avert my eyes from the colourful language she was clearly using. 


Later on she did seem to accept an apology from Harrington who of course hadn’t intended to upset anyone. Sadly, he didn’t apologise to me for engulfing my face with his belly, or to an emotionally knackered Cousin Bish for scarring him for life.


His final act consisted of dressing in a flatteringly tight Tiger costume for the last few songs, while multiple fans stage dived without anyone batting an eyelid. It looked like he even left the building altogether, microphone in hand, during their final song. It was a fittingly bizarre end, to a thoroughly entertaining performance.


It was wet, and it was beautiful.

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Part 2 - To be continued

Week 7

Week 7 – Sunday 13^th February – Cardiff Students' Union: The Great Hall, Cardiff – NME Shockwaves Tour (Crystal Castles, Magnetic Man, Everything, Everything, The Vaccines) - £16.59

“So, do you think they are the saviours of Rock ‘n’ Roll?”

A nice teaser put to my by Sandro at the end of what had been a fairly demanding long weekend for me and my frazzled brain already. I’d braved a trip over the border to the murky realms of Bristol and Cirencester in an attempt to try and spread the love of Gigaweek.

I’d failed.

On my return a Sunday night gig seemed like the ideal conclusion to a heavy few days.

We were back at Cardiff University’s Great Hall for the second time this year, but this time You Me At Six were sadly nowhere to be seen. On show instead, were the four acts that make up this year’s NME Shockwaves Tour. All four have had plenty of hype surrounding them, none more so than opening act The Vaccines, to whom Sandro’s question related.

“No,” I answered bluntly. “There’s only one band that can save Rock ‘n’ Roll, and The Old Trafford Trio will never sell out.”

We’d been to the same event, at the same venue a year ago to the day. On that occasion The Maccabees were superb headliners, and they were ably supported by Bombay Bicycle Club. The Big Pink played some heavily distorted, ear-aching fuzz and opening the show were “The Next Big Thing” that year, The Drums, a band whose name could confuse even the most intelligent of simpletons, as I’d found out a few days later.

--

“Did you enjoy the gig?” I asked a friend who’d attended separately.

“Yeah it was great. The Maccabees were really good.”

“What did you think of The Drums?” I asked, to which she looked slightly bemused.

 “Err, I wasn’t really close enough to the stage to see. What were they like?”

Equally bemused, it took me about four days to figure out she’d misunderstood my question. My answer of: “They were ok, not the most interesting in the world,” probably left her thinking I was some kind of authority on percussion instruments.

It turned out she had only heard of The Maccabees and had missed the other bands. After I raised my eyebrows and said, “How about The Big Pink, eh?” she never spoke to me again.

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Along with The Vaccines, this year’s alliterative lineup included Everything Everything, Magnetic Man and Crystal Castles. Sandro and I headed to pre-gig venue The Woodville via taxi, and we were joined by Ryan of Brum (of Week 3 fame) and his better half Jess of Brum. There we met a kindred spirit of mine, fellow sloth Jimbo Richards and his better three quarters Melbo Richards, who sadly wouldn’t be joining us at the gig due to a terrible illness known as pregnancy. 


Ryan of Brum offered Sandro a pint, then turned to me, checked his watch and decided it was safe to offer me one too.


At The Great Hall our growing posse was joined by Gigaweek stalwart P. Mushy who was accompanied by two mysterious figures known as The La’s. No, not the Scouse band, but Gavla and Brynla, or Gavlova and Flapjack as they shall be known henceforth. Also in attendance were J. Meaty and his missus, and the fabulous Nadinho and his fiancé. Contrary to popular belief, the fabulous Nadinho is not a magician, he is however a goalkeeper renowned in the South Wales area for his stylish handling. It didn’t surprise me to see he was wearing his goalkeeping gloves.


We were in safe hands with The Vaccines first up, a good old fashioned guitar band who’ve had so much hype surrounding them they’d be immune to my criticism even if I were inclined to give any. They may not be the saviours of Rock ‘n’ Roll or guitar driven music in general (few can match Terry Phelan’s guitar solos), but they’re definitely gonna be big. 


Even with my finger very much off the pulse, I’d heard their first two singles ('Wreckin' Bar (Ra Ra Ra)' and 'Post Break-Up Sex') on a couple occasions and it was obvious they had an ear for a tune. Live they sounded even better, and I could be found bobbing my head like the Churchill dog to them as they casually kicked off proceedings. 

As well as 'Wreckin’ Bar' and 'Post Break-Up Sex' they played a couple of other songs that stuck in my head, namely 'We’re Happening' and 'If You Wanna.' Thankfully they’ve become unstuck since, and the 'Witch Doctor' song has reclaimed its rightful place between my ears, but I was never less than entertained throughout their set. I might have said that The Vaccines are Britain’s answer to The Strokes, if I didn’t think at least four people had already said the same thing. Interestingly enough both bands have albums out in March, so no doubt the fifth and sixth person will make that rubbish comparison soon enough.

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Following The Vaccines were Everything Everything. I missed part of their first song due to a toilet break (I broke the toilet), and on my return I was shocked at just how young they all looked. It takes a lot to shock me (I’ve seen Sandro naked), but these guys looked younger than me, and I was ID’d recently when I went to see Fred The Movie. I’m kidding of course, I wouldn’t watch such nonsense. It was Gnomeo and Juliet.

Ryan of Brum suggested that the singer looked like one of the actors from the children’s film Scream.

“David Arquette?” I suggested.

“No, not him, the other one” Ryan said shaking his head.

“Skeet Ulrich?” I offered knowledgably.

“Who? No, not Pete or Rick,” he replied.

“The Fonz?” I guessed.

“No, not Henry Wrinkly,” he answered.

“You mean Winkler?” I corrected.

“That’s a bit harsh, I liked Happy days,” Ryan said, visibly offended.

Shrugging off my bemusement, the resemblance finally dawned on me. “Matthew Lillard!?” I declared, “whose best role was as Shaggy in Scooby Doo!”

“That’s him!” Ryan confirmed happily.

“I can see it now, but he’s a bit short.”

“He’s like a short, squashed-faced Matthew Lillard,” Ryan said with glee.

Who wouldn’t be flattered by that comparison?

The fact that conversation was more memorable to me than all but one of the band’s songs shouldn’t be held against them. Everyone Everyone enjoyed their performance. Except for Flapjack Flapjack. The song that I can clearly remember, 'Photoshop Handsome' was their final one and it’s a cracker, even if I did think they were singing about Argos until Ryan corrected me later.

Shame, “Argos! What have you done with my order?” is so much more emotive than “Airbrush! What have you done with my father?” don’t you think? I suppose the clue was in the title.

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Following Everything Everything, the masses were drawn to the stage by the appearance of Magnetic Man, a dubstep trio who had a top five charting album last year. Among our posse they polarised opinion. Sandro found the dreadlocked MC particularly attractive, but others found the seated DJs repellent. . . A bit forced? Guilty as charged.

Forgive me. 

Personally, it felt strange to watch three guys on laptops with another fella wandering around them on stage with a microphone. We speculated as to whether they were actually just playing Football Manager or Counter Strike, oblivious to the jubilant scenes in front of them. Were they actually doing anything that couldn’t have been pre-programmed onto the laptops beforehand? Who knows?


It must be said that despite our reservations, Magnetic Man won the crowd almost completely. I hadn’t seen scenes like this since a young pop-punk post-hardcore band took the same room by storm, but this was on an even bigger scale. Fans of the genre would have absolutely loved it (I’m reliably informed), while even others as wet behind the ears as myself could appreciate the merits of somthing like 'Anthemic.' 


You could say that those with a positive attitude were drawn in, while those with a negative attitude were forced to the outskirts, but that would be pushing it. Even at those edges, there were many moments when the bass was phenomenal, literally causing our vulnerable noses to shake.


It was the closest thing to a rave Gigaweek is likely to involve, with strobe lighting more prevalent than in the average episode of Skins, and in the interlude between tunes at one point the MC invited everyone to raise phones, lighters or, if you were really lucky, the mini torch on your key ring (I got a lot of envious glance I can promise you) above our heads. 


“That’s one way to distract us from the music. . .” one particularly grumpy bastard said. Nearly everybody else however was energetically positive, jumping and whooping. The MC provoked huge cheers at the mere mention of our fair city's name. 


“Wait til he says Nando’s,” Sandro warned.

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It was around then that Flapjack and I agreed that we were in the presence of a greater than average number of individuals (although we used a shorter word for them), who were breaking gig-etiquette. Anyone with experience of being part of a crowd knows to expect a lot of movement. To-ing and fro-ing, fro-ing and to-ing is commonplace and understandable, people will pass in front or behind you on their way to the toilet, the bar, the exit, a better vantage point or in an attempt to escape your unmistakable aroma (I find breaking wind to be an excellent way to gain some much needed space).

We’ve all been the mover and the shifter, some of us moving more than others, others shifting more often than moving. The mover politely thanks or apologises to the shifter, and perhaps lays a grateful hand on his or her breast shoulder, whilst the shifter takes a step back or forward, or left or right to accommodate the mover and acknowledge their position. It’s empathy in its most basic form. Of course this code of behaviour doesn’t apply to the Mosh Pit, where as long as you don’t eat anyone’s baby, pretty much everything goes.

And yet, some people just don’t abide. Put simply, if you make the decision to simply barge past someone in the crowd to get to your final destination quicker, potentially knocking that person off balance or into someone else, and more than likely causing a spillage of some kind, then you shouldn’t expect any sympathy if you then feel the blow of a plastic bottle from J. Meaty to the back of the head. It would be wrong of me to say I condone such retribution. Instead I’ll say I encourage it. And maybe you can bite their nose off while you’re at it. The Dude abides to gig etiquette, so should you.

Electronic duo Crystal Castles were the night’s headliners, and they were gonna have to go some to top Magnetic Man, who in terms of noise levels had thrown everything (including a fridge) but the kitchen sink at the crowd. A guy briefly introduced them and explained that they’d been advised to stop touring after the singer Alice Glass had broken her ankle a few weeks earlier.

They played regardless and she was supported by a crutch. The other half of the duo was a dude in a hoodie who goes by the name of Ethan Kath. As P. Mushy pointed out, he basically does everything while she provides barely distinguishable vocals, but P. Mushy is known for his Richardkeysesque male chauvinism.

By the time they played I was physically and mentally drained, and wasn’t really in the frame of mind to enjoy a level of noise that had barely decreased from the cacophony created by Magnetic Man or the continuing strobing effects, but I did enjoy a tune called 'Not in Love' which briefly brought my mind back to the present, and replaced the incessant 'ooh eeh, ooh ah aah, ting tang, walla walla bing bang' in my head. Gavlova and Flapjack threw in the towel long before the end, and retreated to The Pen and Wig, and Sandro was set to join them before Crystal Castles played their encore.

He was compelled to stay however after I mentioned the 77 76 75 mostly unwritten rules of Gigaweek. “Rule 34: A Gigaweeker must remain until the bitter, bitter end.”

Guitar music may not have been saved, but Gigaweek had.

-------

February

29-4 - The Joy Formidable - ✓

5-11 – Jonny - ✓
12-18 - NME Shockwaves Tour (Crystal Castles, Magnetic Man, Everything, Everything, The Vaccines) - ✓
19-25 –Les Savy Fav

Week 6

Week 6 – Tuesday 8^th February 2011 – Clwb Ifor Bach, Cardiff – Jonny - £10

“I haven’t seen such an unappealing and unattractive stage since we saw La Roux live. . .”

Sandro’s words were not a reflection on the physical appearances of Euros Childs or Norman Blake (although they aren’t exactly Girls Aloud - as much as they try to be), but in reference to the fact that from our position, neither of them were visible at all.

His words were of course a reflection on the physical appearance of La Roux, and being an honourable, upstanding, and respectable gentleman, I felt compelled to tell him that he shouldn’t have judged her based solely on her looks.

“Remember, her music was shit too.”

Her hair had been impressive though. In fact her red spike rose so high we’d probably have seen it had she been sat on one of the chairs on stage tonight.

Instead, sat on those chairs were Jonny, a Celtic musical partnership between the aforementioned Euros and Norman of Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci and Teenage Fan Club fame respectively, and Sandro and I had returned to Clwb Ifor Bach to see them. 


The duo have just released a self-titled debut album that follows an EP that’s available to download for free, inventively named Free EP.

-------

It was almost certainly going to be cheaper than last week’s gig. Despite suggestions to the contrary, I was genuinely disappointed, upset and peeved, yes even peeved, that I’d lost my sister’s iPod, not least because it would impact on my pocket significantly. That I refer to the effect on my wallet, rather than my sister’s feelings may seem selfish and stingy, but that’s not why I say so.

Ultimately, an iPod is an iPod. It can be replaced, as can the music contained on it. 


Aah, so it was a birthday present, la de da. 


So it had your name engraved on it, boo hoo. 


So you had a very personal and sentimental message engraved on it, from someone very close whose life was then tragically cut short in a horrendous bungee jumping accident. Well, that is horrible, I’m very sorry for your loss, but that’s completely different to this scenario.

Yes, my sister had her name engraved on the back, and yes, it was a present, but there was no bungee jumping. I’m just thinking practically and logically, neither of those things matter to you when you’re using it to listen to music. And yes, I am selfish and stingy. 

Whether it was important or not, it was gonna cost me money to replace the iPod. I’d not fully appreciated the value of eBay until now. I found the right model in the right colour, for half of what I thought I’d have to spend, and although it was used, the scratches were only described as “Thick and Unsightly” rather than “Fatal and Important” and I knew my sister wouldn’t mind the engraved message of, “To Louise, Hugs and Kisses from your true love, ‘Ginger Balls’ Warren xxx” 


Would she? These were cosmetic issues, and judging from my sister’s appearance when she heads outdoors, such things don’t concern her at all. She's called Ugly Betty for a reason.

Shit brother? Moi?

If you wondered why I’d been borrowing my sister’s iPod in the first place, you may not be surprised to learn it was because I’d broken my own a couple of months ago. 

How was I to know I couldn’t use it while swimming?

Suffice to say she wasn’t planning on lending me her new one, which meant the padlock on my wallet had to come off again, and I purchased one for myself too (this time the engraving read, ‘Don’t come near me Ginger Balls!')

-------

This week the Rummer Tavern and Dempsey’s took turns in providing us with pre-gig pints. At Dempsey’s we saw the first half of Gary Speed’s first match in charge of Wales’ coveted and prized football team, as we took on the Republic of Ireland in Dublin. 


As any true Welsh football fan knows, watching Wales is a form of masochism. You know you’re not gonna enjoy it, and you’ll only end up getting hurt, but you just have to watch. Without being too disrespectful to our boys, who’re far better than me and have made it to International level after all, you’d usually fancy a team of our injured players, crutches and all, to get the better of the one we manage to get on the pitch, and this game was no different.

To be fair, it was 0-0 at half-time and if anything we’d been marginally the better side, in an admittedly dull game. Thankfully we had a good reason not to endure the second half, and we headed to Clwb, with me confidently predicting a storming second half that we’d regret missing, in which Wales turned on the style and demolished the Irish 3-0. 


It’ll happen one day, sadly not this day, as our match updates via text from P. Mushy confirmed.

When we turned up at Clwb, the cloak room was unmanned, which meant we’d inevitably be joined by our old friend Betty Swallocks at some point. Sandro commented that there were a healthy number of unhealthy looking gig-goers already there, the majority of whom seemed to be either middle aged or bald, or more often both. In fact I may have been the youngest person there, and certainly the youngest looking. Even most of the women had more facial hair than me.

We even glimpsed Super Furry Animal and proper Cardiff City fan Guto Pryce who, as promised, was carrying a little pick and shovel.

-------

Support for Jonny was provided by curly haired Welshman Huw M. Unfortunately, we didn’t get to listen to much of his music, but Sandro swore he recognized him.

“I’m sure I must have had a beer with him or something, at some point,” he said scratching his head.

“That narrows it down,” I replied.

Huw M is a Welsh-Speaking folk musician, who last year released his debut album of Welsh language songs called Os Mewn Sŵn, showed off his bilingual qualities and his North Walian accent between the songs we did hear.

When you (meaning ‘I’) write even a sentence about music, there’s always a danger that you’ll use words you’d never usually use in conversation like ‘Sonically’, ‘Aurally’, ‘Melodic’ or ‘Bristolian.’

Sonically speaking, Huw M was superb. Aurally, he was awesome, with his melodic tunes perfectly befitting the occasion and did you know, he’s not even a Bristolian?

(In case you weren't sure, that made perfect sense, was completely relevant, and if you didn’t understand it, I fart in your general direction. You probably can’t even tell me the difference between sonically and aurally can you? Pathetic.)

-------

Moving swiftly on, we were less than ideally placed toward the back of the room, as Jonny took to their chairs on stage. The gig was a sell out and by this point Clwb was positively heaving, and there were plenty of others in similarly poor vantage points to myself and Sandro. 


In fairness to Jonny, the chairs weren’t solely required because Norman is in his mid-forties, but also because of the various gizmos they would call upon throughout the gig. With no backing band, in addition to their guitars, the duo would also be operating a drum machine, keyboards and maybe more for all I could see.

Both Euros and Norman were clearly aware of the predicament of those at the back, as they made lighthearted suggestions as possible solutions. Norman proposed the provision of platform shoes of increasing height the further back you stood, while Euros’ idea was to install a sloping floor, increasing in gradient the further you went from the stage. “Or you could stand up!” was the more practical suggestion from one of the more vocal fans stood nearby.

Strangely, the lack of visual stimuli did detract from the enjoyment of the gig slightly. Aurally (I knew I could cram it in again) it made no difference of course, and when you go to see two serious musicians such as these you’d have thought that would be the be-all and end-all, but I suppose one of the attractions of live music is seeing how those sounds are made. Staring at the back of Sandro’s head wasn’t quite the same.

Jonny opened with Euros taking the vocal lead on a song from their album that displays their deep rooted desire to break into the top forty. It was a song in praise of bakers and the wonders of bread, which is its title. “Hats off to those who make bread!” Euros sang to universal approval among the bread loving audience. With a catchy keyboard riff and mentions of dough, toast, granary and butter, and a touching slower verse toward the end where Euros relates a dream, no, a nightmare he had, about a land where the citizens have no bread at all, the song can’t fail.

-------

The two continued to show their sense of humour throughout the gig. In addition to their playful lyrics, there were song restarts, usually because of the tempo setting on the drum machine, and plenty of teasing between songs. One minor gripe I had was with the drum machine itself. As great an invention as it is, you can’t beat a real drummer to set the rhythm. They may be more difficult to travel round with or cram in a suit case but still.

Jonny's first single, 'Candyfloss', is a beauty, lyrically and musically. Candyfloss is the name of the elusive blue eyed girl who is the subject of the song. “Someday soon, I’m gonna know where she goes,” they sing, before suggesting Mexico, Japan and Fishguard as possibilities. “I don’t know where she goes,” they repeat over and over at the song’s climax. 


“If she’s got any sense, she’ll steer clear of Fishguard,” Sandro said, shaking his head bitterly. He’s never told me the secret behind his loathing of Fishguard, perhaps I’ll never know. . .

Prior to playing the glorious 'Gloria' from their free EP, Euros told the crowd how it had been inspired by Gloria Estefan. 


“For those of you who are too young to know her, she was like Jennifer Lopez. . . But not as good,” he quipped. Sandro confirmed his knowledge of Estefan’s work (he’s got all her albums) by mentioning the Miami Sound Machine, which Norman then duly endorsed in the song.

Jonny have some lovely songs, but they’re definitely growers. You need to invest time (which I have in spades) in these songs to get the most of them, and the ambling nature of many of their tunes took their toll on the interest of some members of the audience. As Sandro pointed out, at times Jonny became background music to people’s conversations, which was distracting to us and was a bit of a shame, particularly as I didn’t really want to talk to Sandro.

Among these slower songs though, are some of their best, such as 'Gloria' or 'Circling the Sun' or their cover of sixties song by The 23^rd Turnoff, 'Michaelangelo.' They also have songs in their arsenal that raise the tempo when required. 


“Has she got a green nose? Well, I suppose,” Euros sings on 'Wich is Wich' which is one of those. 'Goldmine' also rattles along for two and a half minutes with exciting talk of digging, and there is the incomparable 'Cave Dance' in which Jonny implore us to go “Ding dong crazy like the prehistoric clown” and “Do the Cave Dance!” 


'Cave Dance' is essentially two songs in one, firstly a two minute stomp, followed by eight minutes of gentle meandering, and has the potential to be a ten year craze if someone in the pop world gets wind of it and feels like doing the cave dance.

-------

Their encore consisted of Teenage Fan Club’s beautiful 'I don’t want control of you' and Gorky’s, 'Spanish Dance Troupe' which both regained everyone’s full attention and were very well received, before they finished with a cover of a song by the Everly Brothers, or maybe the Beverley Sisters. 


Whoever it was, the song was a bit slower than the kind of closer my unrefined ears usually listen out for. Before leaving, we noticed both Euros and Norman take positions by the door, looking as though they would take part in selling their own merchandise, and I was left feeling sleepy but more than satisfied, safe in the knowledge that I’d get more than four hours sleep tonight.

Except, I had a nagging feeling I’d forgotten something. . .

I checked all my pockets.

I racked my brain.

I examined Sandro.

I cross-examined Sandro.

I retraced my steps and thoughts, looking for the key to the right memory.

What was it I’d forgotten this time?

Then it hit me.

“KEVIN!!!” I squealed at the top of my voice.

“You don’t know a Kevin,” Sandro responded.

“Oh. Thank fuck for that.”

-------

 

February

29-4 - The Joy Formidable - ✓

5-11 – Jonny - ✓
12-18 - NME Shockwaves Tour (Crystal Castles, Magnetic Man, Everything, Everything, The Vaccines)
19-25 –Les Savy Fav

Week 5

Week 5 – Wednesday 2^nd February – The Thekla, Bristol – The Joy Formidable - £10

“Four hours sleep is more than enough. Look at Christian Bale in the Machinist. He never complained. . .”

As it approached midnight, Sandro tried to lift my mood, but he failed miserably. But more on that later. . .

February. Who thought we’d make it this far?


They said we didn’t have the discipline. They said we lacked the stamina. They even questioned our haircuts. Can you hear them now?


No, because they don’t exist.


Our first gig in February and our fifth of the year so far, saw us cross the Severn Bridge once more to visit the Amsterdam of the West Country. This week’s venue was the unique Thekla (or The Thekla for those not too lazy to drop the The), a ship moored in the exotic Bristol Harbour. It may prove to be the only venue we visit this year not based on dry land, although I’m still hoping for a mid-flight performance by Billy Idol on a Jumbo Jet at some point.


On this occasion, the entertainment was to be provided by The Joy Formidable, a Welsh band who’ve been making waves recently (I couldn’t resist), having just released their debut album The Big Roar to much critical acclaim, following a couple of years of extensive touring, and much hype on the Interweb. Most of this hype is based on their impressive live performances, but also on the taster provided by 2009’s mini-album A Balloon Called Moaning. Once again, Sandro and I were joined by P. Mushy, who’d decided to desist from Schreifels-stalking for one night only.


Before setting off we took in a pre-gig drink at Gigaweek’s favourite pub, where I earned myself a free pint by successfully guessing The North Star’s Film quote of the day; ‘You’re gonna get it Bobby!’.


The answer was Happy Gilmore by the way. If you can make it to The North Star by closing time on Wednesday 2nd February 2011 you can get a free pint too.


On the train we discussed the upcoming six nations, in particular the clash between Wales and England. As optimistic Welshmen, P. Mushy and Sandro predicted narrow Welsh wins, while I’m not ashamed to say, I was more realistic.


“I’ve a funny feeling England will win 26-19. Perhaps with a brace of Chris Ashton tries, and hmmm, maybe a Morgan Stoddart try in reply for Wales. The roof will be . . . Closed. . . ” I speculated wisely.

-------

Once in Bristol, we made the short walk from Temple Meads station to the Harbour. As it was still early in the evening, we strolled past the Thekla and went further along the harbour, stopping instead for our post-pre-gig-pint-but-still-pre-gig pint at a strange and mystical place called The Watershed. Claiming to be a media centre, which could mean anything, it doubles as a cinema, and triples as a bar/café, and quadruples as a building.


Sandro and I had become aware of The Watershed after the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club gig we’d been to in Bristol in December last year, when a mysterious man known only as Portuguese Tony, led us here on the promise of skittles and wine gums. On that occasion my ability to operate doors came in to question. It wasn’t a case of pushing a Pull door or pulling a Push door, I’m more advanced than that, in this instance the door in question required a poorly labelled button to be pressed. As I said at the time, Open could mean anything.


Thankfully there were no such issues today. I’d done my homework, so I breezed through the manual Pull door on our way out, to the obvious admiration of those who were there to witness such skilled door work. P. Mushy tried in vain to flog his spare ticket (I told him his asking price of £53 and a rasberry Cornetto was a bit steep), and we climbed aboard The Thekla.

-------

I’d made two previous visits to Thekla, both in the company of Sandro and P. Mushy. My first trip had been to see Jamie T literally rock the boat, at a gig which was particularly notable for us meeting Mat ‘Gavlar’ Horne. He showered me and Sandro with praise in respect of our hair styles, without a hint of irony (though he is an actor). Flattered, I responded by questioning his age.


“I’ve always wondered. You’ve just got one of those faces, it’s impossible to tell if you’re really, really, old, or still youngish, or just a little bit old . . .”


He was clearly not offended at all, and was in fact hugely impressed by my thoughtfulness and insight.


“I’m 23,” he lied.

“Yeah, I thought you’d be about that,” I also lied. “But I still wouldn’t mind checking your passport to be sure. No? Driving license? Oh, okay. . .” Wikipedia it is, I thought. Turns out he’s 41.


On top of this momentous discussion, that particular night was also noteworthy for Sandro persuading Jamie T to do the Ayatollah, and to get a haircut. He had a thick barnet that night, but within a matter of weeks, he’d shaved his hair almost completely. Coincidence? I think not.


The second gig was when we returned to see White Denim play. On that night the token celebrity appearance was made by Skins character Panda, not to be confused with the actress who played her, who made an unsteady appearance in the mosh pit. I had to help her off the floor on more than one occasion, after P. Mushy had mercilessly and brutally floored her (for some reason he hates Bristolians).


Support this week was due to come from Airship and The Chapman Family, but unfortunately our post-pre-gig-pint-but-still-pre-gig pint coincided with their slot, so when we arrived we had time to get some drinks (Gaymers since you asked) and look for a decent spot to stand in. We tried the upper deck but unfortunately there was a casualty en route, as Sandro’s can of Gaymers fell victim to a stray arm.


“Sorry, but you didn‘t have much of a grip on it to be fair,” the handsome culprit defended himself.

“I didn’t account for Alan Shearer and his swinging elbows walking in front of me,” Sandro countered.

“You must always account for Shearer and his swinging elbows,” the guilty party, bravely and heroically responded.

For some reason Sandro then elbowed me in the face.

-------

It was a fruitless visit anyway. It didn’t feel right to be so cutoff from the main crowd, so we retraced our steps and this time Sandro held his can with two hands. By the time The Joy Formidable took to the stage the place was so packed we’d had to cram right into the back corner, on the starboard side of the ship. Even though they’re only a trio, it looked claustrophobic on stage. I’m pretty sure Arcade Fire couldn’t play Thekla, which they’d probably be gutted to know.


The Joy Formidable are led by a blonde, bowl haired singer and guitarist named Ritzy Bryan who, I think it’s important to point out, also happens to be comfortably the best looking star to have graced Gigaweek so far (sorry Walter Schreifels, that slug-trail moustache has cost you again). Although small in stature she commands the stage and is certainly not shy to join bass guitarist Rhydian in a good old fashioned thrash (no, that’s not a euphemism).


I’d previously seen The Joy Formidable in October last year on the NME Radar tour they were headlining, at the Millennium Music Hall in Cardiff with the infamous Cousin Bish and we'd noticed then that they loved to end a song with an energetic instrumental thrash out.


They began this time on fine form with album opener 'The Everchanging Spectrum Of A Lie' which eases in gently, before finishing accelerating into a row to get the head nodding and the toes tapping. Their set continued at this tempo with 'The Magnifying Glass' and their first single 'Austere' rocking the boat and energising the crowd.

------- 

The Big Roar’s closer 'The Greatest Light is The Greatest Shade' may well be my tune of the year so far (although it was originally on the mini-album in ‘09) and its epic sound was used early on to great effect, with a wall of sound filling the ships interior. Rivalling 'The Greatest Light' as my favourite song of the year (even if that year is 2009) is the much shorter and sharper 'Cradle' which is as breathless live as it is on record, which is dangerous when you're on a boat.


Throughout, Ritzy and Rhydian used their stage craft to keep an enthusiastic audience involved, and weren’t afraid to interact with the crowd between songs, at one point showing off impressive nautical knowledge, “Err, is that the Stern?” Credit should also go to drummer Matt Thomas, who, er, drummed masterfully.


In October, they’d displayed their stage presence and seemed to have developed a strong rapport with a loyal Cardiff following, some of whom had worn home-made masks of the band’s own faces, which were happily handed over to Rhydian and Ritzy who wore them for a few bizarre moments. At the forefront of their Bristol following, was local legend Big Jeff. Big Jeff is a one man mosh-pit with the energy of ten men and he regularly pops up in the front row at gigs in Bristol. It was tiring just watching him.

The main part of the set ended with another fine single 'Whirring' before they closed the show with an encore that included the superb 'I Don’t Wanna See You Like This' whose chorus repeats the title in a surprisingly catchy refrain. Sandro said something similar to me, funnily enough, although he dropped the last two words. And the first five actually. Really, he just said “piss off!” and I did, right after TJF ended the show with the haunting, dramatic sound of 'A Heavy Abacus' which was a fitting finale that allowed the more than landlubbers to escape to dry land.

-------

The gig was over by quarter to ten, so you’d have thought getting home to Cardiff would have been straightforward. It wasn’t.


Complacency got the better of us. Believing the last train to be scheduled for quarter to eleven, but at no time feeling the need to verify that assumption, we decided that rather than waiting at the station for an hour, we would treat ourselves to a drink at the nearby Hole in The Wall (that’s the name of a pub, rather than a few loose bricks if you were wondering). At around ten past ten, Sandro decided it would be a suitable precaution to confirm the train time.


He corresponded with renowned trainspotter Cousin Bish, who advised that in fact the next train was expected at around twenty-five past ten. Bugger. The harbour to the train station in less than fifteen minutes was doable, if you are running at a gallop or are already in the back of a taxi, but I’d pulled my hamstring that weekend and had been limping around like Verbal Kint ever since, which ruled out running.


Also, and crucially, none of us were prepared to leave half a pint undrunk. 


(Can you believe that the spellchecker suggests that undrunk is not in the dictionary? Even though it’s a perfectly cromulent word.)


So we remained, only leaving the Hole in The Wall come closing time at around eleven o’clock, which meant we had time to burn and Bristol to burn it in, before the next train at 1:30am. I was due in work at 8:30am the following morning, so consequently I wasn’t my usual enthusiastic, fun-loving, resplendent, fantastic, wonderful, attractive, well endowed self. Instead I was tired, ugly, and irritable.


Regardless of my mood, I didn’t fancy sitting on a cold bench at the train station for two and a half hours so we agreed to go to the popular Bristolian bar Start The Bus, which I practically sleepwalked into and then nursed a beer miserably for over an hour instead. Yes, my drinking pace was faster than normal.


When we finally did board the train home I popped in my headphones, and dozed off within seconds. What seemed like only a second later I was awake. We were back in Cardiff, and it wasn’t yet 2:30am. I dozed off once more in the taxi, and we were home by 3:00am, by which time I was ready to drop.


Only there was something missing. I checked my pockets, panicking slightly. No headphones. I checked my coat, my jacket, my jeans, and every room I’d been in before reaching my bed. I also checked my ears just in case. Still no headphones. And no headphones meant no iPod.


Shit. 


Had I left it on the train or in the Taxi? Who knows? Unfortunately, you may be aware that alcohol is known to have some negative effects on memory.


Thankfully I did remember one crucial detail that allowed me to relax, lie back, and fall asleep comfortably, with a smile on my face. . .


It wasn’t my iPod. I’d borrowed it off my little sister.


“Aaaaah. . .” I let out a sigh of relief. “Thank God for that.”


What?

-------

February

29-4 - The Joy Formidable - ✓
5-11 - Jonny
12-18 - NME Shockwaves Tour (Crystal Castles, Magnetic Man, Everything Everything, The Vaccines)
19-25 - Les Savy Fav

January

Monthly Ramble

One month into 2011 and we’ve managed to survive somehow thus far. 

There’ve been thrills, spills (mostly of my drinks), and, er, window sills.

January has included such highlights as You Me At Six, Fjords, The Walkmen and Walter Schreifels, and such lowlights as You Me At Six, Fjords, The Walkmen and Walter Schreifels. I jest of course, we’ve enjoyed every single gig so far. None of which we’d have been to if not for Gigaweek. 

You may use that point to argue that Gigaweek has been a negative influence, in that it has forced me and Sandro into going to gigs we wouldn’t normally have bothered with (or would actively avoid in one case), and as a result spend significantly more money and waste a significant amount of our own precious time.

If you agree with this argument unequivocally then you’ve missed the point of Gigaweek. Yes, there is a point to Gigaweek. If you agree equivocally then fine, as long as we both know it’s equivocal. If you disagree with this argument, and think you understand the purpose and merits of Gigaweek then well done, and thank you, but be careful, there may be something wrong with you.

It is true that Gigaweek is principally about enjoying ourselves, and making more of our free time by going to more gigs than we would otherwise, but more importantly, it is about opening our eyes, ears and most importantly our minds, as Kuato told Quaid in Total Recall. 

Yep, he was talking about Gigaweek.

If not for Gigaweek we would never have encountered YMAS and their legion of surprisingly devoted fans. That’s a positive isn’t it? Well, they put on a show, and we enjoyed it. Maybe we shed a few unwarranted preconceptions along the way too (we didn’t). In any case a poster of Josh Franceschi now adorns Sandro’s bedroom wall.

We may never have seen the glorious Trinity Centre or the inglorious West Street (or is that the other way round?), or had an early look at the future, ‘Biggest band in the World,’ Fjords, or the band that against all the odds will be trailing in their wake, Mona. Have you heard, they’re the new Kings of Leon? Apparently the old Kings of Leon are the new Fjords, who in turn are the new Los Campesinos! 


It’s all quite confusing to the easily confused.

If not for Gigaweek, I may also have never discovered the wonderful Walter Schreifels, or known never to tell P. Mushy my address, or indeed stumbled across the true nature of the misunderstood post-hardcore genre (screaming and faster riffs apparently).

Our influence and impact on the lives of others is also of the utmost importance and not to be underestimated. If not for Gigaweek, that youngster at the You Me At Six gig may never have found anyone brave enough to buy him his very first Bulmers. My heart swells with pride at the thought.


In addition to that young scallywag, who I’m sure would be eternally grateful to Gigaweek, if only he were old enough to use the Internet and find out about its existence, numerous taxi drivers have benefited wildly through its influence. Just imagine the fares they would have had, and the lack of frighteningly generous tips. Perhaps even more importantly, Walter Schreifels wouldn’t have had the privelege of shaking Sandro’s hand.

So it’s been a great month. One down, eleven to go. Sandro believes we have what it takes to complete the challenge, but there’s a long road ahead of us. A road choc-a-bloc with taxis, with brothels and sex shops on either side and pubs with drinking manuals on every corner, and a sprinkling of music venues here and there. I think we can do it. Do you?

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The Updated Itinerary so far (because you were dying to know):

January

1-7 - You Me At Six - ✓

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

February

29-4 - The Joy Formidable

5-11 - Jonny
12-18 - NME Shockwaves Tour (Crystal Castles, Magnetic Man, Everything, Everything, The Vaccines)
19-25 - Les Savy Fav

March

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

April

2-8 - Fenech-Soler
9-15 - ?
16-22 - ?
23-29 - Beady Eye

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 - ?