Week 29 – Thursday 21st July – H. Hawkline – The Globe, Cardiff - £4.00
“That’s probably the best Yiddish song I’ve ever heard. . .”
On the day that NASA’s Space Shuttle Atlantis returned to Earth for the final time, budding astronaut Sandro and I boarded the human gyroscope that is Gigaweek for the 29th time. Sandro’s mood had somewhat improved since our last gig, and tonight he only kicked three helpless kittens on our way to new pre-gig pint venue, The Pear Tree in Roath.
It was a pleasant surprise to find it a nice enough place for a quiet drink, and delightfully the burger standard was well above average, but sadly so was the price of a Peroni. The quiet and respectable atmosphere was in stark contrast to that of previous incarnation, The Billabong, and while I wouldn’t say I’d do anything as radical as go there again, you’ll be delighted to know that it had surpassed my low expectations.
Just a few doors down is a place we’re far more familiar with, The Globe. We were making our second consecutive visit to what is by far our most frequented venue of the year. The Peroni was marginally cheaper, the lights were lower, and the people were prettier, until we arrived of course.
Sadly there was no competition of any kind this week; instead a musician/group going under the moniker H. Hawkline was performing. The inviting poster read “TURN ON…TUNE IN…FREAK OUT!” and we paid our pittance for two tickets to the old boy on the door. “Ahh, are you here to freak out?” he asked kind-heartedly, to which we nodded sheepishly.
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Sandro and I had both heard of H. Hawkline, but neither of us had actually heard him/them, so we weren’t sure why. Following some pre-gig digging, I discovered that he was a he rather than a they (I think) and that he’d supported Gruff Rhys on tour in the past and rightly or wrongly we formed the opinion that he was a Welsh-language folk musician so we invited Don Delveinho and Her Margesty along (both of whom despise Welsh folk music) but they politely told us to “Folk off”.
The audience was among the smallest we’ve been part of this year, so small in fact that I was able to do a head count. It peaked at fourteen and a half, although my counting was hampered by Sandro fiddling with my abacus.
The sole support came from a local band who describe their own style as folky gypsy jazz, which promised much. They went by the name Miss Maud’s Folly, and consisted of a couple of guys and a couple of dollies. Before they began, the front-woman dropped her microphone and guitar one after another, which was both amusing and endearing, and therefore must have been carefully and cleverly planned.
The other girl impressed as both a flautist and cellist throughout, while the hat-wearing keyboard player was a wizard at the keys and the drummer was a drummer. They were all undoubtedly talented musicians, although none of their songs stuck in either of our sticky heads. We were treated to the unusual delight of a song sung in Yiddish, a first in the course of Gigaweek and possibly a last, unless Sandro has that Bar Mitzvah he’s always banging on about.
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If anything, when H. Hawkline and his drummer took to the stage, the crowd had thinned further, I’m not even sure whether Miss Maud’s Folly stuck around to see him. It was heart-wrenching to learn that he is not the same H who was a member of prog-rock legends Steps, but is in fact a different Welshman altogether. Sandro felt the same disappointment he’d experienced when he saw Lost Prophets, a band led by the wrong Ian Watkins, and he was left wondering if he’d ever get to perform the Tragedy dance at a live gig.
This H is actually known as Huw Evans by day and his stage name is apparently formed of a combination of his first initial and favourite book, The Hawkline Monster. He’s also a TV presenter on the best Welsh language channel in Wales, and probably the world, S4C, presenting a music show called Bandit with Huw Stephens, Gigaweek’s second favourite bearded Welshman.
He released his debut album A Cup of Salt toward the end of last year, and there was indeed an element of folk to his music, but there was also a significant slice of krautrock and a healthy psychedelic edge; we were supposed to be freaking out after all. Some of his songs were sweet instrumentals, while others were more eccentric and lyrically challenging. “Ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring,” he sings repeatedly during the infectious Hell’s Bells.
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Huw generously took time between songs to describe in detail the collection of guitar pedals he had it his disposal, a selection that Dave from U2 would have been proud of. It was hugely informative, but also very amusing to the tipsy fella on the table next to us, who may or may not have been in on some kind of pedal related in-joke.
“If ever there was a good place to play a new song, this is it,” H said prior to the newest of new songs, although it could just as easily been his oldest number. He was likely referring to the fact that as there was hardly anyone present, it wouldn’t really matter if the song went down like a lead balloon, but as far as we were concerned, they were all new songs.
None of his songs did go down like a rusty Space Shuttle, but neither did they take off and go into orbit either, which was unsurprising given the barren venue. Huw went out with a whimper rather than a bang, but I’d still like to see him at a smaller venue with more people, or a bigger venue with more people, or the same venue with more people, and I’m sure he’d feel the same.
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Disappointingly, the night ended with no examples of disorderly drunkenness, even from Sandro, who just seemed satisfied with not having to see Ffred Jones’ face. As I tipsily made my way home close to midnight I decided the only sensible thing to do would be to pick up some Chinese food.
I found a worthy location, and stepped inside. It was empty, so I studied the form and eventually a plump Chinese lady appeared from the kitchen. I’m not the type to rely on the patronising numbers on the menu or be troubled by the fear of mispronunciation, so I called on all my linguistic ability and ordered a couple of traditional Chinese dishes.
“Chips and chicken fried rice please,” I said, and was asked for a meagre seven pounds in return.
Regrettably, my only note was a twenty, so I apologetically handed it over to the lady. Seemingly taken aback by my extravagant paper money, she looked at me suspiciously.
She called out a few words to the kitchen in an exotic language (possibly French), before beginning to rummage inside the till for change, but after what looked like a double-take, her hand moved away from the notes to the coins, and she handed me three pounds.
Regrettably, my only note was a twenty, so I apologetically handed it over to the lady. Seemingly taken aback by my extravagant paper money, she looked at me suspiciously.
She called out a few words to the kitchen in an exotic language (possibly French), before beginning to rummage inside the till for change, but after what looked like a double-take, her hand moved away from the notes to the coins, and she handed me three pounds.
A horrific realisation entered my mind: she hadn’t been looking suspiciously at me, she was acting suspiciously. She was trying to mug me off.
I know what you’re thinking, “Tell her! Tell her you handsome devil! What’s wrong with you!?” but although the words ‘I gave you a twenty,’ were fully formed in my head, for some reason I couldn’t get them out of my mouth, and instead I stuttered and dribbled as she turned away and disappeared into the kitchen.
How could this happen? I’d even taken the precaution of saying, “Sorry, I’ve only got a twenty,” as I handed the note over.
Was that it? Had I let the moment slip? Was it too late to now point out her error?
The longer she stayed in the Kitchen, the more I began to doubt myself.
Maybe I did give her a tenner after all. Or maybe I gave her a fiver, and was being rewarded with a two quid meal.
To make it worse, a couple of fellow drunks entered and started queing behind me, which meant I'd have an audience. When she returned with my food, I had one last chance.
Still clutching the three pound coins in my hand, I thanked her and made to turn away, before the image of Dom Littlewood flickered inspirationally in the corner of my eye.
Was that it? Had I let the moment slip? Was it too late to now point out her error?
The longer she stayed in the Kitchen, the more I began to doubt myself.
Maybe I did give her a tenner after all. Or maybe I gave her a fiver, and was being rewarded with a two quid meal.
To make it worse, a couple of fellow drunks entered and started queing behind me, which meant I'd have an audience. When she returned with my food, I had one last chance.
Still clutching the three pound coins in my hand, I thanked her and made to turn away, before the image of Dom Littlewood flickered inspirationally in the corner of my eye.
“Excuse me,” I said emboldened by Dom’s bald dome, “I gave you a twenty.”
“Oh!” she said, feigning surprise, “Very sorry,” she added without any attempt at denial, thus proving her guilt, as she opened the till and reluctantly handed me a tenner.
Once I’d prised it from her hands, and given her a look that said “I know the truth,” I walked past the impressed fellow customers, and set off again into the darkness outside. I felt much richer for the experience, but was actually seven pounds worse off.
As I put my change away, I felt a loose note in my pocket. It was a twenty.
Maybe I was three quid better off after all.
Once I’d prised it from her hands, and given her a look that said “I know the truth,” I walked past the impressed fellow customers, and set off again into the darkness outside. I felt much richer for the experience, but was actually seven pounds worse off.
As I put my change away, I felt a loose note in my pocket. It was a twenty.
Maybe I was three quid better off after all.
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July
2-8 - Tribes - ✓
9-15 - The Big Gig - ✓
16-22 - H. Hawkline - ✓
23-29 - ?
2-8 - Tribes - ✓
9-15 - The Big Gig - ✓
16-22 - H. Hawkline - ✓
23-29 - ?
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