Sandro's Supplement - Week 13

The King Blues

"You don't know your own postcode?

The problem with mugging a 16 year old girl for her e-ticket is the questions asked by the staff on the door at the venue. On her first appearance of gigaweek the evil Salazar appeared destined not to even make it into the venue. Luckily a handsome stranger stepped in - "It was my girlfriend's ticket but she couldn't come," interjected Sandro before reeling of the reference number when it was requested (28792494 for all you reference number aficionados).

Salazar isn't really evil and she hadn't mugged anyone but got the ticket off our friend Kimbo Slice who was busy fighting for her supper and couldn't make it. Unfortunately Salazar wasn't up to the simple blaggers task of lying to the doorman and had simply announced that she didn't know her postcode. Luckily our hero had averted yet another crisis.

I know what you’re thinking. The style of writing (shit) is the same but the Sandro abuse has been replaced by Sandro-love. Well let's get rid of that. The shit writing I mean. G couldn't make it to this gig because he was on his period or something. So this is Sandro's Supplement. The most swearingest rooting tootingest blog in the west. Clunge-monkeys.

I was going to see the King Blues and as I love a contrivance I decided we'd start in the same place we'd started for Blues King Larry Miller - the George. I was joined by Mushy P and Salazar and as G wasn't in attendance there was some seriously normal paced drinking going on. We sunk pints and battleships at a rate of knots before leaving to meet K-May who would be our driver for the evening.

After we jazzed it down to Brizzle (the journey was fairly uneventful but I know how you like it when G makes stuff up so lets say.... we ran over Mike fucking Tyson with hilarious consequences. Good enough?) we thought we'd start at Start the Bus. Whilst I've had some fairly eventful nights in there this one wasn't one of them. We drank some lager that wasn't that nice so we drank some other lager which wasn't much better. Then chicharita (little P if you don't speak español), Lucy Clarke and their band of merry women turned up. One of the merry women went to get one of the other merry women from the train station and got lost herself. Hahaha... do you find that funny... hahaha... whatever.

By the time we'd had three drinks it was time for the gig and obviously the tediously told events of the first two paragraphs occurred. Once inside the Bierkeller the fun really began.
The support act were just finishing and I know that mug G would have found out about them for you but you've got Google so find out yourself. I'd never visited this place before but the size and atmosphere impressed me and I thought - to the bar! Obviously it was Mushy Ps round and he was procrastinating so I got him moving with a patented Sandro Wet Willy (why use a wet finger when you can use your cock eh!)

The only thing you can drink in Worzel country is Cider and my Tommy was going down a treat. K-May was sipping a lemonade but when I looked over at Salazar, Mushy P and Chicharita they were getting their tongues into a Snatch. Sorry Natch. I'd never heard of it either so I went to the urban dictionary:

1. Abbreviation for naturally.
People who use abvs are cunts


5. A secret society of natch's. The society has very strict rules and and is very selective of their members. The meaning of natch is never spoken and is held only among those who go through natch cycle. A natch is someone who lives by the code of the natch.
People in this secret society are homophobic cunts.


7. The best corporate brand of cider from Somerset, or in fact anywhere in the world. 5% alcohol content and the best dry flavour possible, contributing towards the amazingness of this drink.
Normal person: Hey, want some blackthorn?
Well-Mannered person: No, I don't drink poison, I drink Natch.
Well-Mannered people are racist cunts.

Anyway it was interesting to drink something different but ultimately Natch is fucking minging cider. Like drinking from the back end of a human centipede. Don't try it. And certainly don't try it again.

So the gig eh... King Blues.... who I'd text Chicharita two days earlier to describe as 'Shit'

Well. I was just being a miserablist and I hadn't even listened to them at that stage. They were..... actually.... quite.... ok.... good even.

As I didn't have to look after G I even decided a little dance may be on the cards. I left Mushy P and K-May at the back and walked five yards in front of them to dance.

From the first song Let’s Hang The Landlord the skanking started. Obviously I'm too old and too cool for that kind of thing but once I was sure no-one was watching I was skanking like a skanky skunk from scankdinavia. i.e. badly. They set the room ablaze with Set The World On Fire and the musicality of Mr Music Man was very musical. Out Of Luck and I Got Love seemed quite contrary but maybe the singer pulled between songs.

And Headbutt - what a song - reminded me of that kiss I had in Glasgow. Their fake finish with The Streets Are Ours left everyone clamouring for more and the refrain was sung until the band appeared back on stage.

And then. For an encore. Fucking Poetry. Fucking Feminist Poetry. About Shampoo. Five Bottles of it. The man they call Itch came on and did some poetry. Fuck me that was shite. Obviously none of those five bottles of shampoo are Head and Shoulders if he's still itching. Cunt.

And just when you thought it couldn't get any worse... It didn't obviously - I already said they were good - can't you read you Reet. They finished with the Heroes song Save the Cheerleader, Save the Wo.... sorry the cracking Save the World, Get the Girl. Great tune to finish. Great Gig. Much enjoyed.

After the gig the King Blues were heading to the Croft for an aftershow party and Little P, Lucy and the girls were going with them. Whilst gigaweek protocol clearly states never leave a man behind it says fuck all about women and my famous laziness meant I couldn't turn down the ride home. I got in the car, said adios and ate a family box of chicken.

Week 13

Week 13 – Thursday 31^st March – The Fleece, Bristol – The Thermals - £10

“It couldn’t get any fucking worse!” 

Being an appalling planner, it wasn’t until a few days before our scheduled gig for Week 13 (The King Blues in Bristol on Tuesday 29^th - Sandro’s Supplement) that I realised I wouldn’t be able to make it, due to a crucial matter of life and death, also known as a football match.

However, I was determined not to be defeated and desperate to avoid suffering taunts from Sandro for the rest of my life. It would have been less concerning if I hadn’t been in danger of breaking one of the few important written rules of Gigaweek; to attend at least one gig outside our home city per month.

Fortunately, a close personal associate of mine works in Bristol, and he agreed to come to the rescue, by joining me for a gig in that fine city for the third month in a row. 


Unfortunately, that close personal associate was Cousin Bish.

We had options. Hip hop on Wednesday on The Thekla in the form of CunninLynguists was tempting, particularly as Cousin Bish is such a huge hip hop fan (his all time top 3 artists being: MC Hammer, Snoop Dogg and Right Said Fred). 


The less cleverly named rockers Band of Skulls were also an option that night, and they were playing at The Fleece, which was the main appeal for me as it’s a venue I’d never visited.

On Thursday night, the electronic duo Younger Brother were aboard The Thekla. With both Cousin Bish and I being younger brothers (he’s my younger brother and I’m his younger brother), we decided that one was probably worth avoiding. 


In the end we plumped for Portland, Oregon’s The Thermals, at The Fleece on Thursday. They were guaranteed to be the greatest indie/alternative/post-pop-punk rock band either of us had ever seen.

-------

I finished work at five and headed straight to the bus stop, hoping to catch the 5:30 train from Cardiff Central. A bus was due at 5:15, but astonishingly, the bus was tardy and turned up at 5:21. I therefore arrived at the station at precisely 5:33 (and 17 seconds) which meant I’d have to wait for the next train. I was understandably furious and decided that I'd write a strongly worded letter to Cardiff Bus. I didn't.


Cousin Bish had finished work and would be waiting with a paper and pint in a pub by now. Thankfully trains are much more reliable than buses, and I boarded the six o’clock train on time. It was £10.60 for a single or £10.70 for a day return so naturally I bought two singles.

At around 6:35 the train came to an abrupt halt just outside the Severn Tunnel. 


I paused 'Deeply Dippy' on my iPod and listened out for an explanation. For a while there was none forthcoming and panic set in (not from me of course, I’m not known as ‘Iceman’ for nothing).

“Oh dear Lord Jesus, this ain’t happening, man. . . This can’t be happening, man!” said the guy sat next to me, who looked suspiciously like Cardiff City Centre-Back Mark Hudson.

I personally thought this was a bit of an overreaction.

“Err, are you ok mate?” I asked him tentatively.

“They’re all around us, man. Jesus!” he said sweating heavily.

“Who? I can’t see anyone,” I replied looking out of the window.

“Look, I’m telling ya, there’s somethin’  movin’ and it ain’t us!” he responded, looking at me wild eyed.

“Well, I’ve noticed that but it’s not really worth panicking about is it? Here, have a listen to 'Deeply Dippy'. It’ll calm you down.”

After around ten to fifteen minutes the driver spoke over the PA, and informed us that we could now proceed through the tunnel, but only at ten miles per hour, to allow himself and the conductor to check the other side of the track at the same time for ‘metal objects’.

The train proceeded into the dark tunnel, before a strange groan and a loud creaking sound that were too much for the man next to me to bear.

“They’re coming outta the walls. They’re coming outta the goddamn walls!” he squealed.

“Jesus H. Christ pal, get a grip!” I comforted him sympathetically.

“That’s it man, game over man, game over! What the fuck are we gonna do now? What are we gonna do?” he cried grabbing at my arm.

“Why don’t you just go nuts and run around like a deluded nutball?” I suggested helpfully and he did, disappearing into the next carriage shouting pleasantly, “We’re all gonna die man!”

The train finally escaped the four mile tunnel after what seemed like an age, but was actually less than half an hour, and we stopped again to allow the driver to speak to the signaller. Apparently, no metal objects were found but a hysterical mad man was seen sprinting down the tunnel screaming wildly.

-------

Cousin Bish had left the pub and had been waiting at Bristol Temple Meads station for over an hour by the time I arrived, at about quarter to 8. Trains to Cardiff had been cancelled for the time being which was ominous for our return journey.

We hungrily headed to Subway for our dinner. As we walked toward The Fleece carrying our foot-long meatball feasts, a likeable seagull unleashed a carefully aimed bomb of excrement at Cousin Bish, missing his meatballs by just a few inches, but leaving a lovely mark on his coat. I didn't tell him but I thought it was an improvement.

Inside The Fleece, a band from Cardiff called Among Brothers were playing, so fittingly we picked up some Strawberry Brothers Cider. We stood by one of many thin black cylindrical pillars that double as drink tables. This particular pole was right next to the desk where merchandise was (not) being sold from, and I had to double-take as I noticed the image of Myra Hindley's face on supporting band The Coathangers’ T-shirts and badges.

The Coathangers announced themselves on stage as hailing from Atlanta, Georgia. Praise must be given to the four girls in the band for making a lot of noise, but that was about it. They switched singing duties and instruments regularly throughout, and went on a lot longer than expected (or desired). They did show an impressive amount of energy, but so did Big Jeff in the front row and to be honest he was the superior spectacle.

When they finally finished one of them joked “Don’t worry, it will get better!” to which a man with a strong Cardiff accent called out in reply “It couldn’t get any fucking worse!”


They weren't my words, but I couldn't have put it any better than Cousin Bish. Before any accusations of sexism, let it be known that I’m very fond of women in general. My mum is one, I have over four female friends, and Ellen Ripley is a role-model of mine. Similarly, Cousin Bish grew up in a house full of women and no man is more feminine than he.

-------

“They’re an improvement on the last band already,” Cousin Bish said after The Thermals’ first song. The trio opened strongly, before playing the first two songs they’d ever written, according to their front-man, who wore a grey V-neck T-shirt that became as sweat drenched as a pair of Sandro’s boxers in no time at all.

Like The Coathangers they made a heck of a racket, but crucially they also had some great tunes. Neither of us were familiar with their work beforehand, but they've made five albums and have been affectionately compared to the Pixies (by someone, somewhere).

My pre-gig research told me to look forward to the song 'Now We Can See', which contains a catchy “Oh-way-oh-a-whoa” refrain, the toe-tapper 'Never Listen to Me' and the head-bobber 'I Don’t Believe You' as well as the hip-shaker 'A Pillar of Salt'. Sadly there were no chin-strokers. Due to an enforced early departure we missed the pick of their songs, 'Returning to the Fold', although its live performance may not have matched its video.

We had to disappear at 10:40 to catch the 10:55 train (I wasn’t prepared to risk a fiasco of Week 5 proportions).

It was a crime to suffer the full set from The Coathangers (which, like my train journey, probably didn’t last as long as it felt like it did), and to then have to cut the gig short, because the half hour or so we did see and hear from The Thermals was enjoyable. Thankfully the train home was on time, and the journey back to Cardiff was smooth.

-------

Back in Cardiff, we passed a half dozen or so taxi drivers who stood chatting on the corner of Kingsway, their cars parked in an orderly row. We asked a glum looking driver who was sat in his car if he’d take us to our respective homes, but he pointed us to the unmanned cab at the front of the row.

“There’s no driver in that one,” Cousin Bish said.

The silent driver pointed to the group of taxi drivers stood chatting or smoking.

“Why can’t you take us?” Cousin Bish asked.

“Queue,” the taxi driver grunted in reply.

“Queue?” Cousin Bish replied.

“Queue,” the driver repeated.

We looked over at the seemingly uninterested group of men.

“What, is it against the taxi driver code to pick up a fare if another driver’s car is parked in front of you or something?” Cousin Bish asked.

The taxi driver stared unblinkingly for a few seconds before replying.

“Queue,” he said.

“Oh, forget it then,” Cousin Bish said and we made to walk away from the taxis altogether.

“Ok, ok, I’ll take you!” the taxi driver called out after us.

“What?” I replied,

“I’ll take you, get in,” he called.

“You had your chance!” Cousin Bish called back and we walked home triumphantly instead.

We’d stuck to our principles, and scoffed at the taxi driver’s desperate attempts to call us back. More importantly, we’d put one over taxi drivers in general. I don’t know how, and I’m not even sure which particular principles we’d stuck to exactly. Plus it did add over half an hour to our journey home. 


Shit! The taxi drivers win again!

-------

March

26-4 - Larry Miller - ✓
5-11 - Daedelus - ✓
12-18 - Benjamin Francis Leftwich - ✓
19-25 - Elbow - ✓
26-1 - The Thermals - ✓

Week 12

Week 12 – Wednesday 23rd March – Motorpoint Arena Cardiff, Cardiff – Elbow - £27.50

“Anticipation has a habit to set you up for disappointment in evening entertainment, but…”

These are not the words of Elbow’s beardy front man Guy Garvey of course, but the wise words of less beardy Arctic Monkey Alex Turner, and sprang to mind prior to Week 12's gig.

It was the first time this year that we were actually going to see a band I can admit to genuinely loving.

Sorry You Me At Six, but the truth had to come out eventually.

When I say genuinely loving, I mean it. In all senses of the word.

Emotionally. Spiritually. Physically.

Well, maybe not physically, unless you count the body part.

My love of Elbow dates back to the first time I heard the song 'Forget Myself 'on a cold, lonely night about five years ago (I’m talking about the band now, don’t be childish). That song led me to the album Leaders of the Free World which, to my surprise, was their third. It’s a brilliant album, so I decided to check out the two that preceded it, Asleep in the Back and Cast of Thousands.

Both of those, are brilliant albums. I sensed a pattern emerging.

At this point they were still a relatively small band, but a couple of short years later they literally exploded, in a shower of guts and Guy Garvey’s gristle.

There may not have been any real explosions but their sales rocketed with the Mercury Prize winning fourth album The Seldom Seen Kid.

Everyone seemed to love it (I, of course, decided it was brilliant), and Elbow barged into the public’s consciousness as a result.

I’m sure some of those who had been Elbow fans since their inception may have felt a tad rueful at this point, having lost their prized secret of sorts to the mainstream, but being a third album wonder I had no such worries. I can relate to that selfish pang though, it’s how I’ll feel when Fjords hit the big time.

Following in The Seldom Seen Kid’s considerable footsteps, just a couple of weeks before tonight’s gig Elbow released album number five, Build a Rocket Boys! which, it must be said, is also very good. Ok, it’s brilliant.

So there it is: Five brilliant albums, dozens of great songs and the most expensive ticket of the year so far, which is where the anticipation comes in.

-------

Joining Sandro and I for the first time in over a month were those loveable scamps Ryan and Jess of Brum. During the taxi ride from their house to town, Ryan of Brum revealed his shocking fact of the day; Chesney Hawkes didn’t even write his massive hit The One and Only.


I was understandably distraught. What would Zowie Bowie think!? Twisting the knife, Ryan stated that the song was in fact written by one Nick Kershaw, and thankfully the Taxi driver was on hand to advise that Kershaw was “a singer in the 80’s” (full of useful information these Taxi drivers, you know). 


It gave me a whole new insight into the world’s greatest song, and I spent the rest of the journey wondering if Nick Kershaw would rather be Chesney Hawkes, or vice versa. Who is the one and only?


On Ryan of Brum's recommendation, our pre-gig pints were an interesting concoction called Blue Moon, which were accompanied by a lovely pre-gig steak at Henry’s on Park Place. Thanks to Jess of Brum we paid far less than we might have otherwise. She suggested running before we got the bill.


We ran all the way to the Motorpoint Arena Cardiff (or Motorpoint Arena for short) which is the new official name for the CIA. Supporting band, Villagers, were finishing off their set when we arrived at around 8 o’clock. Like Elbow, Villagers' debut album was nominated for the Mercury Prize so let’s assume they were entertaining and that it was a shame to miss them.

-------

Screens on stage showed each member of Elbow in individual Harry Potter style moving portraits. At around quarter to 9 they each left their frames and wandered on stage, dressed in smart suits. It was a magical entrance. Sorry.

“We’ll be playing quite a few new songs tonight,” Garvey declared, and he wasn’t lying. Most of the songs they played came from their two most recent albums, with no songs at all from their first two, which was a shame because their brilliant y'know?

They kicked off with slow burning opener 'The Birds' and Garvey then confidently predicted “I think you’ll know this one,” before they followed it up with a fine rendition of fan-favourite 'Bones of You'.

'Lippy Kids', an ode to children with lips and a highlight of the new album was next and outstanding. Accompanying the following song, 'Mirrorball', was an amazing light show which, curiously enough, involved a giant mirror ball (or disco ball to me, you and Disco Stu) that descended from the ceiling and reflected the lights spectacularly all around the arena.

The affable Garvey walked onto the elongated apron of the stage (which isn't usually a feature of the CIA) and enquired as to who in the crowd had never been to an Elbow gig before. Sandro and I were among the majority whose hands were raised (or should have been). Ryan of Brum looked on with pity.

Throughout, Guy showed his good humour and charm, thanking the audience for wolf whistles when he took off his jacket (Sandro had been practicing), and even announcing that statistically, Cardiff gets more sunshine than Milan.

“I read it on the Internet,” he said.

He also praised the talent of the musicians accompanying them on strings, playing down his own and the rest of the band’s talents in comparison, which is self deprecation or false modesty depending on whether you see Garvey as a lovable, schlubby everyman poet, or an evil genius.

Ryan of Brum called out for older Elbow songs such as 'Red', 'Newborn', 'Bitten by the Tailfly', and 'Any Day Now', but nobody was listening. Not even Jess of Brum.

I was still hanging on to faint hopes of hearing 'Forget Myself'.


'Mexican Standoff' would have been nice too.

Or 'Leaders of the Free World'.


Or 'Fallen Angel' or 'Fugitive Motel'.


Or 'Grace Under Pressure', 'Powder Blue', 'Asleep in the Back', 'Scattered Black and Whites', 'Switching Off', and maybe 'My Very Best' but I suppose they didn’t have all night.

Instead they played a few more songs from the new album before dipping into the back catalogue for the only known mention in popular music of Stockport Supporters Club, with the song Great Expectations.

That song, like most of Elbow’s stuff (and most of this set) rewards patience and repeated listens, but they do also do songs that offer immediate satisfaction, and one of them followed.

-------

The incredibly good 'Grounds for Divorce' shook the arena, and is one of Elbow’s best in my opinion. With deceptively emotional lyrics about the death of a close friend in a three and a half minute catchy rock song. Sandro was weeping like a baby. After I’d changed his nappy, he grumbled that they’d used the song too early in the set. That must have been what set him off.


The subtle growers (an Elbow specialty) 'Loneliness of a Tower Crane Driver', 'Puncture Repair' and 'Some Riot' followed before a wonderful performance of The Seldom Seen Kid’s 'Weather to Fly'. 


They finished off their main set with 'Open Arms', the new albums worthy successor to the song they are now arguably best known for, the ubiquitous 'One Day Like This' (which was clearly being saved for the real finale).


Garvey told the crowd that Elbow will have been together as a band for twenty years this June, which triggered a chorus of “Happy birthday to you!” 


Before they left for the obligatory encore, Guy revealed that a man on one of the balconies named Adrian Jones was the person seated furthest from the stage.


He encouraged us to give him an ovation, and suggested that we sing “Adrian Jones” to a tune of our choosing to persuade them to return for an encore. I racked my brains desperately for a suitable tune, but decided this was no time for 'ooh eeh, ooh ah aah, ting tang, walla walla bing bang'. Sandro’s suggestion of The Shoop Shoop Song was rejected and 'Hey Jude' was the best anyone else came up with.


Elbow returned with a beautiful 3 song encore of 'Starlings', 'Station Approach' and 'One Day Like This'. 'Station Approach' was dedicated to one of Guy’s five sisters. He told a story of their early days before the band had any success, when they’d had some expensive equipment nicked and she’d given them the money to enable them to be able to afford replacements, a deed worthy of a song dedication.


Before the inevitable closer, Guy told us we’d been beautiful (it was dark) and praised the “Brilliant” (he likes the word as much as me) Villagers, before they launched into a memorable performance of 'One Day Like This'.

-------

It must be said that Ryan of Brum and I were both slightly disappointed at the lack of songs from their earlier albums (although it was perfectly understandable), while Sandro of course wasn’t overly impressed with the early use of 'Grounds for Divorce' in the set, but you can’t please everyone all of the time. (Nor would you want to; some people are just not very nice. A certain Mr. Hitler for instance. Always bashing poor Richie around.)

So in respect of Alex’s wise warning there was an element of disappointment, but they were never going to play for the four or more hours that I’d have happily watched for, and on the whole it was a more than satisfying show from a truly brilliant band.

“Tonight there’ll be some love!” Turner continues in 'The View from the Afternoon'. True in terms of the music. But considering I was going home with Sandro, thankfully it didn’t apply in a physical sense.

There wasn’t even any elbow action.

 -------

March

26-4 – Larry Miller - ✓
5-11 - Daedelus - ✓
12-18 - Benjamin Francis Leftwich - ✓
19-25 - Elbow - ✓
26-1 -?

Week 11

Week 11 – Thursday 17th March – Buffalo, Cardiff - Benjamin Francis Leftwich - £6

“The forest had a rock in it. . .”

When Benjamin Francis Leftwich sang those words, to a mostly still, respectful, and near silent audience, one man guffawed. It wasn’t a snigger, it wasn’t a chortle and it definitely wasn’t a cackle. It was indisputably a guffaw.

It was a guffaw that led to another man/boy giggling uncontrollably, in an impressively manly manner, for the remainder of the song.

I'm afraid you win no prizes for guessing that it was Sandro who’s guffaw triggered the giggler, who has yet to be identified, although is suspected to be spectacularly handsome, witty, intelligent, has absolutely no difficulty growing facial hair, and has an imposing physique.

His nickname 'Weedy' is clearly ironic.

Of course the lyric itself was probably just the beginning of a no doubt intriguing story told within that particular song, but unfortunately the bout of giggling and Sandro’s guffawing meant that to us it was just a single sentence, standing alone as though it were a profound statement uttered by the prince of profundity Brian Cox.

“The forest had a rock in it. . .”

I knew there was something about that forest. I always suspected there was a rock in there.

Our childishness shouldn’t count against Big Friendly Leftwich though, I’m almost certain it was a rock of some importance. Thankfully our laughter went unnoticed, in spite of the hush that occupied the room at the time, and BFL was able to continue to woo the crowd with his delicate voice.

-------

It was St. Paddy's Day, and in spite of last week's chastening experience, we were winging it once more. The Wombats were gigging in Cardiff Uni’s Solus, but had sold all their tickets to better planners (and people who didn't detest them), which left us with a choice of some prog rock in the form of Martin Turner’s Wishbone Ash at The Globe, some reggae/ska in the form of Jaya The Cat in Undertone (the basement of 10ft Tall), or some indie folk from singer-songwriter Benjamin Francis Leftwich in Buffalo Bar. 


None would provide the kind of music to get us in the mood for St. Paddy's Night, but we decided that Benjamin Francis Leftwich had the best name and plumped for him.


We entered with our £6 tickets and were subject to Buffalo’s foolproof security procedure of marking our hands with a small B in black ink. Once safely inside, I contacted P. Mushy and Cousin Bish to tip them off. 

Unfortunately, my plan was unsuccessful and they were both denied entry. Cousin Bish had unfortunately misheard, marked his hand with the letter P and was promptly shown the exit. P. Mushy had misinterpreted my information altogether and using black and yellow markers, drew an amazingly elaborate bumble bee on his own hand. Unfortunately, he didn’t take refusal lightly. When asked to leave he threatened to sting the bouncers, leading to ugly scenes.


Support was due to from a duo called The Sorry Kisses who have been touring with BFL, but instead came from the male half of that duo, Sam Forrest, who apparently had a rock in him. We realised during the gig (when he told everyone) that he was also the lead singer of grunge rockers Nine Black Alps. 

We consulted Wikipedia to check he wasn’t confusing himself for somebody else, and found that he was indeed correct. Forrest may have been interested to know that he has also released a few solo albums of a much softer nature than those produced by Nine Black Alps, plus a few albums as part of The Sorry Kisses with Hayley Hutchinson, who Sam told us was unfortunately ill, and spending the evening lying down with a cat on her belly watching TV.


He declared his fond memories of Cardiff, having apparently lived here for three years, but remarkably made no attempt to pronounce any Welsh words. He mentioned multiple gigs with Nine Black Alps here, with Sandro claiming to witness one such occasion, although strangely, Forrest didn't seem to recognise him. 

He played guitar and sang some slow, pleasant enough songs for about half an hour. My personal highlight was a song called 'Just my imagination' in which he seemed to repeat those three words ad infinitum, although that may have just been my imagination.

-------

It was the last night of Benjamin Francis Leftwich's tour. BFL is a twenty-one year old with a medium-sized future ahead of him (size not to be confused with length of course). He was bearded, and slightly schlubby looking. In a pretty small, quiet venue, his melancholic music, introspective lyrics, and compelling voice demanded a hushed audience. I quickly lost hope of hearing a cover version of Dropkick Murphys' 'I'm Shipping Up To Boston'.

“You are the most respectful audience I’ve had during this tour,” he declared toward the end, clearly ignorant of Sandro’s guffawing. The audience was made up of a greater proportion of youngsters than we’d anticipated (by that I mean student age rather than nappy wearers) and sadly there were barely any nappy wearers at the other end of the age scale, i.e. incontinent old people, which was a shame.

So far BFL has only released a couple of EPs, with his first album due out later this year. As with most singer-songwriters, his lyrics were very much of the earnest variety, but the lyrical content seemed secondary to the effect of his voice, which in my mind actually made him less pretentious and more naively charming. Sandro however decided this verdict made me more pretentious and called me a patronising twat.

BFL also used trusty self-deprecation to endear himself to the audience.

“I always feel very Rock ‘n’ Roll when I do this,” he said between songs, as he switched from his trusted acoustic guitar to an electric one, before telling a story of a gig when his electric guitar had been causing him problems, until a sound engineer had joined him on stage and solved it by switching his amp on.

All things considered, if you like your music gentle, and you're a fan of unique and interesting singing voices, I heartily recommend BFL. If you don't, then I heartily discourage you from so much as googling his name.

-------

After Benjamin’s performance, we went for a post-gig pint at the Rummer Tavern. En route we saw several groups in green St. Patrick’s Day T-Shirts. We were accosted by a mad man looking to give away free mini-torch keyrings, that shone light through a specially designed Guinness St. Paddy’s day template. 


Mine didn't work so I felt like I’d been ripped off, even though it was free.


I was then asked by a homeless man for 50p. 


Is that being too presumptuous? How did I know he was homeless? 


Well, he looked homeless. No, that came out wrong. 


He looked poor. No, that’s worse. 


No, okay, what really happened was, a thoroughly normal looking man approached and said:


“Excuse me, good sir, I am an indisputably homeless person and I was wondering if you might be so kind as to lend me a few pennies, if you have any spare change that is of course.”


Being the benevolent soul I am, I of course reached into my pocket and offered him 50p.

“There you go, sir. All the best,” I replied.


“Why thank you, sir. How generous of you, and may I say what a lovely, handsome young man you are,” said he.

-------

After Sandro had told him to fuck off, we found ourselves in the Rummer where a promotion offered a St. Paddy’s Day prize for every Irish drink bought. I ended the night with a Guinness pin badge, but we left a couple of ridiculously large unwanted Guinness top hats behind.

Neither of us were working the following day, but unusually for St. Paddy’s Night, we weren’t particularly keen to head on anywhere afterwards. Perhaps it was because Benjamin Francis Leftwich had left us drained of energy, or perhaps it was because it was the week of the Cheltenham festival, and with its temporary Irish invasion, Cheltenham was clearly the only place to be. More likely it was because we're very boring people.

Before we left there was an unexpected visitor to the Rummer.

“Your money’s gone to a good cause,” Sandro said nodding to the bar. I turned and saw the homeless man I’d given 50p queuing at the bar.

Bugger. I knew that polite, posh homeless man down on his luck shtick was an act. He spoke to the barman and appeared to be turned away. Spinning around, he clocked us and headed over.

“He’s got your number,” you may be thinking cynically.

'He has got my number,' I thought bitterly.

But I was wrong. You were wrong. Or you were right if you thought the opposite to the people who were wrong.

He merely asked if he could change ten pound coins for a ten pound note because they wouldn’t do so at the bar.

Is that too much to ask? I prefer coins, if anything. They’re gold for a start. And they don’t rip as easily as notes. That's about it really.

“You can count ‘em,” he said in a far less posh voice than he had used previously.

“No, no, I trust you,” I replied, before counting, recounting and carefully checking the weight of each individual coin. As Benjamin Francis Leftwich may well one day sing; if you can’t trust a homeless man, who can you trust?

-------

March

26-4 – Larry Miller - ✓
5-11 - Daedelus - ✓
12-18 - Benjamin Francis Leftwich - ✓
19-25 - Elbow
26-1 -?

Week 10

Week 10 – Friday 11^th March  – Cardiff Arts Institute, Cardiff – Daedelus - £4

“Does it still count if you leave four hours before the end, barely drink, spend most of the night sitting down, and don’t actually see the guy who is named on the bill?”

“Yes it does,” was of course the desired response to the question I asked Sandro when we left Cardiff Arts Institute as it neared midnight on the final night of Week 10. This was before Daedelus, the night’s main draw, had even taken to the decks.

We’d taken the laid back approach to planning for a second week running, leaving it until the last moment to plump for the unknown delights of Daedelus. He sounded splendid based on our thorough research.

We only listened to one track, but we did play it twice.

At just £4 it was the economic option, always a consideration in Gigaweek, as my meticulous reporting of the cost of various beers and taxi rides proves. The main competition for our attention this week was Sean Ryder, with support from The Twang, at the Millennium music Hall on the same night, which would have set us back a further £11.

Sandro has always maintained that he won’t watch any musician perform if they’re going to be drunker than he is. Surprisingly he has never had any such issues in the past, but with the Happy Mondays man he wasn’t so sure. For some reason he said he had no desire to see The Twang whether they were drunk or not (“Neither way, thank you very much. . .”).

The clincher that pushed us to Daedelus was the fact that a certain Flapjack had a ticket to see Sean Ryder. 

We did briefly bump into Flapjack beforehand at pre-gig pint venue The Pen & Wig, where we were also met by two merry men who’d be making their first appearance in Gigaweek colours of the season, Little John and Little Bird, or Robin as he’s known by tight wearing men such as myself and Sandro.

-------

Cardiff Arts Institute was another new venue for the year, and although Sandro and I had bought 2 tickets online the previous day, all 4 of us walked through the back door unchallenged at around half past 8.

After the guitar wizardry of Week 9 courtesy of Larry Miller, we were now at the other end of the musical spectrum entirely. Daedelus, whose real name is Alfred Darlington, is a multi-talented music producer who hadn’t brought such primitive instruments to put on his show, instead using advanced technology such as a laptop and the mystical Monome and utilising miraculous discoveries, such as electricity. Hailing from Los Angeles, he’s an American who has an astonishingly unusual fascination for the fine country of Wales. 

Apparently having some relatives here, and visiting as a kid, he even spent his honeymoon here and called one of his albums Of Snowdonia. Most impressively, Alf used to tell kids in school in America that he was born in Wales. He wasn’t. I was. I used to tell kids in my school that I was born on the moon. Wales didn’t seem as exotic to me.

The omens were good. Welsh musical genius Gruff Rhys’ twitter account had plugged the gig, and equally Welsh (which is no mean feat) music guru Huw Stephens was present, although he does seem to be ubiquitous. If that wasn’t enough, the poster for Daedelus’ appearance at CAI quoted the acclaimed Flying Lotus, as saying “He’s the best. He is so talented!” What could go wrong?

-------

Once again I’d been trying to remain teetotal for the night, which hadn’t been a problem when Frankie & The Heartstrings were on stage a couple of weeks ago, but considering I was looking around a table tonight at Sandro, Little John and Little Bird, I was understandably desperate for a can of Red Stripe (four for a tenner by the way).

I recognised Daedelus by his distinctive mutton chops as seen on the poster, and he was still sat chatting with Huw at a table on the dance/stage floor, as it neared 10 o’clock.

Time ticked on and on, until they and others sat in the area began to relocate, which eased my anxiety slightly. Little Bird had run out of cigarettes and therefore decided to give up for the night, so naturally ten minutes later he disappeared in the hope of nicking one off someone outside. He was successful, declaring that the girls who’d generously shared their death sticks were “Quite fit, actually.”

Support came in the form of local DJs/Producers/Deck botherers Darkhouse Family and Mr Healan. Would you call it electronica? Or dubstep? Does it matter? No. Whatever they played it was nice. It was enjoyable. But it was background music. Was that because we were sat down, instead of drinking and dancing? Possibly. Or was it because we were focusing on just how many packets of crisps Little Bird could polish off? Probably.

Daedelus disappeared upstairs soon after 11, and I started to accept that maybe we weren’t going to be getting the most out of our £4 tonight. Little John decided it was time to leave, and I reluctantly agreed considering that Sandro had predicted Daedelus wouldn’t be returning until around 1am.

As we left we bumped into a couple of girls who greeted Ash as “The Fastest Smoker in The World.”

“Aah! A little bird told me you were quite fit, actually. I’m disappointed to see it was a wholly inaccurate description,” I nearly said, before deciding I’m not as cruel to people’s faces as I am as an anonymous writer. Just to confirm, they were not “Quite fit, actually.” They weren't P. Mushy ugly, they were more Cousin Bish ugly.

-------

And that’s when I started to ask life’s important questions.

How ugly was P. Mushy?

Was I ugly?

How ugly?

What do you mean pug ugly?

Does being ugly make me a bad person?

Does being a bad person make me a bad person?

So many questions, but none were more prominent in my mind than the question.

No, not about life, the universe and everything. The question was: Did this count as a gig?

Based on the Gigaweek rules it did. We’d bought tickets. It was live. It was music. Original music even. I think.

But was it in the spirit of Gigaweek? After all, what is the point if Gigaweek? Isn’t that the other question we’ve all been wondering?

It didn’t feel like one. It felt like a night out, backed by some higher-than-average-profile DJ’s. Maybe big fans of dubstep and electronic music would be happy to confirm that it was a proper gig. Although, they might take issue with the fact that we left at 12 rather than 4am.

I didn’t know how to feel. Dejected or satisfied. By my own rulebook we’d succeeded in ticking off the Week 10 box, but not in a fulfilling way. In fact I hadn’t felt as bad as this since Goose died in Top Gun (if that’s a spoiler for you, I apologise, but really, what have you been doing with your life?).

I resolved to ensure that we had fulfilling gigs for the rest of Gigaweek, fully aware that I could do no such thing.

After being disappointed by the lack of wisdom from taxi drivers in recent weeks, I was pleasantly surprised to find a taxi driver with a few interesting things to say tonight. The big news of the day was of the devastation wreaked by a massive earthquake and subsequent tsunami in Japan, so we discussed the fallout, including an ever increasing death toll.

“And we moan in this country about a little bit of snow, or even rain,” he said sagely. It was enough to put my grief over Goose and Gigaweek into perspective. 


“It is a bit chilly tonight though drive,” said Sandro.

-------

March

26-4 – Larry Miller - ✓
5-11 - Daedelus - ✓
12-18 -?
19-25 - Elbow
26-1 -?

Week 9

Week 9 – Thursday 3rd March  – The Globe, Cardiff – Larry Miller (The Tim Crahart Band)

“Why isn’t he a superstar?”

No, the above quote does not relate to Sandro. It is in fact a question posed by Classic Rock Magazine, and it appears on the homepage of Gigaweek’s entertainer of choice for Week 9, Larry Miller. I assume it refers to Larry rather than Sandro anyway, otherwise it would be very confusing.

In a week where we’d decided to wing it, having not planned in advance, we were left with two contenders for the honour of hosting Gigaweek 9.


Amy Can Flyy and Larry Miller.

What a poser. Naturally, I’d heard of neither. Naturally, Sandro was a huge fan of both. Particularly Amy Can Flyy.

“They’re like that amazing band we saw at the You Me At Six gig. Canterbury, remember?”

“The one’s you called StephenHuntBury?” I asked, vaguely recalling their irritating singer.

“Yeah that’s them. Well they’re actually incredible! And Amy Can Flyy are even better!.”

(You’re right to be sceptical about the above exchange. Of course Sandro doesn’t prefer Amy Can Flyy to Canterbury.)

Nevertheless, after listening to a song from each, I dissuaded him and we opted for blues guitarist Miller instead.

Classic Rock Magazine weren’t Larry Miller’s only fans. He was also described as a “sensational rock blues guitarist” by Guitar World USA. Well, his website said he was anyway. I made no attempt to verify with Guitar World USA or Classic Rock Magazine to be honest, so maybe Larry was just pulling a fast one.

Come to think of it, I’m not even sure if Guitar World USA or Classic Rock Magazine are real people.

In a moment of inspiration, Sandro had decided it would be an appropriate occasion to invite our father, Parge, to join us. I wasn’t sure it was such a good idea, and I wasn’t sure he’d accept. He was nearly as old as Larry. And who would give us a lift?

But accept he did, so Sandro decided we’d probably have to plan a gig sometime where we could invite our mother, Marge.

“What do old women like?” I wondered aloud when we broke the news to her.

“Who says I won’t like Larry Miller,” Marge replied. “I like a bit of head banging.”

After reminding her we were going to see a blues guitarist and not a heavy metal band, she confirmed she was still keen, and it was settled. 

Just when it seems like we can't get any cooler, we start going to gigs with our parents. Gigaweekers are always one step ahead.

-------

Sandro, Parge, Her Margesty and I took in a pre-gig drink at The George, whose regulars, mostly students, were no match for our combined ages, before we headed to The Globe. 

“You? You’ve come back! You don’t want a refund for last time, do you?” the old boy on the door greeted us as we entered. Once more we amazed him with our pre-paid tickets, and headed in.

What was I expecting? A bit of Clapton? Jack White? With my exceedingly limited knowledge of blues and blues influenced music, I didn’t know what to expect, but that was half the fun. 


The closest I’ve come to live blues music before was probably Siencyn’s cover of Seasick Steve in Week 2. This was much more up Parge’s street. Blues is one of many genres of music (along with all the others) I have no great knowledge of, so I was hoping for education as well as entertainment. I wasn’t disappointed.

Larry’s support came in the form of The Tim Crahart Blues Band. A gospel blues playing trio led somewhat surprisingly by a man called Tim Crahart. Tim's facial hair and shirt and tie combo evoked memories of the great Murray Hewitt, but unfortunately he didn't have a couple of gormless Kiwis for company.

Behind Tim and his band, the back of the stage was adorned with the image of a white poster with the words “No Drinkin’, No Cheatin’, No Shootin’” an apparent slogan that doubles as the name of their debut album, designed presumably to discourage Ashley Cole from attending their gigs.

While I wouldn’t quite apply their maxim to Gigaweek (I like Shootin’ too much), I enjoyed Tim and the band, as did my companions, particularly Marge, who danced happily while I looked away in horror.

Their set seemed to be a mix of original songs and covers of classic blues songs, the highlight being a sing-along near the end, with the song 'John the Revelator'. Tim invited the half-enthusiastic audience to sing “John the Revelator!” whenever he sung the words “Who’s that writing?” I didn’t know who John the Revelator was (presumably a rival blogger), but I was far too polite not to join in, although half the audience didn’t have such a problem.

Others, such as Her Margesty joined in with admirable gusto. So admirable in fact, that I took two further steps away from her. 

During their last song, a technical issue with the projector meant their slogan was briefly replaced by the Windows logo, and the message '3 Programs Running' which may well be a hint as to the title of their next album.

 -------

“It’s Miller Time!” the headline act declared as he took to the stage, before launching into 'Mad Dog'. With his half open shirt, long hair and (in the nicest possible way) lived-in face, Sandro’s comment that Larry could well have been Justin Hawkins’ Dad was apt. My suggestion that the bassist was a ringer for Bruce Springsteen was probably a touch generous.

What followed was again a mixture of blues covers and original songs and was incredibly entertaining. By the end we were all asking the same question as our good friend Classic Rock Magazine; Why isn’t he a superstar? Well, there are plenty of reasons obviously, you might contend reasonably, but shut up. To see this man play his guitar, was to witness a wizard at work. I felt how I’m sure spectators feel when they see me lying down, like you're in the presence of a real master of his craft.

If he wasn’t completely crazy, he certainly wasn’t afraid to give the impression that he was. He displayed plenty of humour throughout, chastising the audience for our perceived lack of enthusiasm between songs, and asking us to make more noise, as well as inviting one vocal spectator up on stage to see if he could do any better, before sending him packing when he unexpectedly accepted the invitation.

Don’t worry, it wasn’t Sandro.

It was Parge.

As Sandro pointed out to an awestruck Marge, Larry was in complete control of each of his digits, with each finger operating independently with great dexterity. She, of course is from a family of mitten handed nincompoops and stood gobsmacked.

It was like a masterclass from a professional typist given to an old dear who is solely reliant on her index-fingers, except it wasn’t boring. That’s the thing about this kind of live music; you can appreciate the talent, the ability and skill of such a musician, as opposed to a few guys sat on stage with laptops in front of them.

“Man, I’ve got the blues. They call it a gift, I call it a curse,” Larry sang on 'As Blue as it Gets'. Maybe it is a curse, in terms of commercial success. Far less talented musicians have managed to write incredibly catchy hooks that seep into the public’s consciousness and into the charts, while Larry tours the smaller venues around the country.

But then maybe that’s exactly what he loves doing. Touring the country, playing the type of music he loves and showing off his guitar solos. Judging by the gleeful look on his face, I’d say that’s quite likely.

“I’m a Blues man,” he continued toward the end of that same song, “just like. . . . .Jimi Hendrix!” before launching into a delightfully received rendition of Jimi’s 'Voodoo Child'. I’m unlikely to ever see Jimi live, unless Sandro ever gets that DeLorean fixed, so this was a more than welcome inclusion.

-------

They mixed the set up with some slower songs, including one called 'Delilah' which sadly had nothing to do with Tom Jones. He indulged in plenty of guitar soloing, hinting at ending one song on several occasions with a clash of the drums, but instead embarking on another solo with looks of delight to the audience.

On the whole, most of the other audience members were closer in age to Her Margesty and Parge, than to myself or Sandro, which was much to Marge’s relief. There were some particularly enthusiastic middle-aged ladies dancing at the front, but thankfully Marge resisted her obvious temptation to join them.

Larry talked with the crowd about the various South Wales venues he’d played over the years, and there was room for the obligatory mention of the Welsh language. He proved the usefulness of bilingual road signs, making a decent fist of the Welsh word for services (Gwasanaethau) before introducing a song the Welsh way, with “un, dau, tri.”

For their encore, Larry picked up a glittering, golden guitar, and dedicated their final song to the recently deceased blues legend Gary Moore. 

I’d have enjoyed it much more if I hadn’t been desperate for the loo at the time.


Unfortunately, blues songs aren’t always the most concise, and I thought it might be considered innappropriate to leave during a tribute to a much loved guitarist who'd just passed away, so I stayed and grimaced.


What should have been a glorious finale was galling, and by the time he'd eventually finished, it was too late.

Leaving a puddle behind, I fled the Globe in a hurry.

-------

March

26-4 – Larry Miller - ✓
5-11 -?
12-18 -?
19-25 - Elbow
26-1 -?

February

Monthly Non-Ramble

You didn’t think I was gonna do this every month did you?

The Updated Itinerary so far:

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 & Frankie and The Heartstrings - ✓

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 -?