Week 39

Week 39 – Friday 30^th September – The Subways – Sin City, Swansea – £12.00

“I wish we’d gone to Bristol instead. . .”

As we waited for a delayed train to Swansea, Sandro was already showing the first signs of regret. It was the last day of the month so we had left it late to leave the city limits. Most of our options had been on the wrong side of the Severn Bridge, but the likes of Fenech-Soler, Angelic Upstarts and Ruarri Joseph had failed to tempt us abroad and we instead travelled to Wales’ second city.

The Subways gave us a reason to head west for the first time this year and visit Swansea. The only reason in fact. Not that I'm bitter about them having a Premier League side. Bastards.

The weather was beautiful and the sun was shining, with temperatures reaching their highest of the summer. It was the perfect weather for a train journey.

Sandro’s second thoughts were brought on by a short delay and a platform change at the station. A train had arrived in good time, but an announcement over the PA advised people not to approach it.

A chilling bilingual voice declared that it was: “not for public use/nid yw at pwblic usiau” and repeated the message several times.

 “Does that mean we’re not supposed to board that train then?” I overheard a young lad say in a thick West Walian accent nearby.

One of the station’s attendants then charged along the platform, barking the message loudly to a curious would-be passenger. The voice of the PA came to life once more to clarify the position.

“The train to Milford Haven will now be leaving from platform 3a. The train at platform 4a is not for public use. Please, for f-, I mean for Goodness sake, do not approach it!/ Bydd y trên i Aberdaugleddau awr yn cael ei adael o 3a llwyfan. Nid oedd y trên yn 4a platfform ar gyfer pwblic usiau. Os gwelwch yn dda, am f-, yr wyf yn ei olygu i mwyn Goodness, peidiwch dull mae'n!”

Strange that he stuttered in English and Welsh. I’m not sure that the announcer could speak Welsh at all, you know.

 “Is this the Milford Haven train then?” the West Walian accented lad asked me moments later at platform 3a. 

 “No,” I replied good-naturedly, and directed him to platform 4a.

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Aboard the correct train Sandro convinced me to trade a few cans of Magners for some beans. 

“But I don’t even like beans!” I protested initially.

“These are magic beans.” Sandro replied, holding them out.

“Really?” I asked in wonder.

“Yes, really.”

“What makes them magic? They just look like soggy baked beans, covered in dirt and fluff to me.” I asked him.

“That’s because a homeless man gave them to me. They originally came from far away though. They make you more intelligent,” Sandro Said, “and less gullible.”

“Wow!” I replied in amazement.

“So, three beans for two cans okay?” Sandro offered.

“How about four beans?” I replied. 

“I’ll give you four beans, if you give me four cans. . .” Sandro responded.

“Deal!” I agreed. 

Aside from bean haggling, we kept our heads down as best we could. The Jacks can smell a Cardiff accent, and it’s not a smell they’re fond of. In fact, I believe they describe it as “buzzin’.” We managed to escape the attentions of the ‘fake-tanned ones’ and infiltrated their homeland at around seven o’clock.

The gig was at a venue called Sin City which was hitherto unknown to us. Having gone to the painstaking lengths of googling it, it looked a straightforward walk less than a mile from the station. Half an hour later, we were on the famous Wind Street, which was nowhere near where we wanted to be.

After a bit of circular backtracking we found an information point and examined a map. It seemed so simple. We couldn’t have been more than a few hundred meters away. It looked like we’d just made one wrong turn. Relieved, we set off in the correct direction.

Ten minutes later we were back on Wind Street scratching our heads. I’m sure I have a degree in Geography. Nearly an hour after we’d arrived in Swansea, we finally found the venue, and the Wetherspoons opposite it.

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After a pint and some food in The Potter’s Wheel we crossed the road to Sin City. Supporting band The Computers, who Sandro had seen during Camden Crawl, were already playing. They were a loud bunch whose front-man enjoyed talking more than singing. Sandro (renowned for being irritable) found him entertaining, whereas I (renowned for being irritating) thought he was a bit of a prat. Fortunately, that’s one of my favourite characteristics in a front-man.

By that point it was pretty busy and there appeared to be plenty of students present (you could tell they were students because they paid for their drinks with coins).  Many gathered their shocked young faces in a circle around The Computers’ singer who’d disembarked from the stage with his guitar in hand.  Having witnessed Tim Harrington live, I was unfazed as he bustled about inches in front of me, staring wild eyed and strumming his guitar furiously.

“Playing the guitar is easy isn’t it?” he said above the din. I tried to tell him that he shouldn’t be so modest and that his parents would be proud, but I don’t think he heard me. He clambered aboard the shoulders of one of the beanstalk like gentleman nearby, but may have regretted doing so when he found himself being whisked around the room. His antics made for a pretty good spectacle, although I couldn’t possibly remember how any of their songs went.

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At 9:30 The Subways were still nowhere to be seen and Sandro and I were beginning to get anxious about our travel arrangements. The last train to Cardiff was at 10:32 and our contacts (P. Mushy) had revealed that there were no later buses. Amazingly, it seems the people of Swansea aren’t especially desperate to leave.

I didn’t particularly want to share a room at a Travelodge with Sandro (though he was keen) and our pleas to friends and family for a lift were ignored, with nobody interested in making the two hour round trip to collect us, which was baffling.

The Subways clearly weren’t aware of our predicament, but eventually appeared on stage to do their thing. Their set was almost identical to what we’d witnessed at The Globe a few months earlier. Thankfully the venue wasn’t quite as sweaty, though it was still moist enough to leave me cursing my choice of jeans and woolly underwear.

The crowd was as enthusiastic and energetic as we’ve come to expect at a Subways gig, jumping around to the likes of ‘Oh Yeah’ and ‘Young For Eternity’. Their signature tune ‘Rock & Roll Queen,’ was unleashed midway through their set, which was handy as sadly we were doomed to depart early. No doubt we missed two or three more songs, and likely a stage dive from Billy the front-man too, but the Jacks had smelt the blood of two Cardiffians, so we had to escape before it was too late.

-------

We left Sin City and walked to the end of the road before heading off in different directions.

“It’s this way isn’t it?” I called to Sandro, resisting the temptation to let him disappear into the night.

“No. It’s clearly this way,” Sandro replied impatiently. “Isn’t it?”

It was 10:20, so we didn’t really have time for another tour of Swansea.

Fortunately, Swansea was as keen to get rid of us as we were to leave it, and right on cue, a Taxi arrived. The driver sped through the mean streets, whizzing by angry drunken women and men in short skirts as he went.

We were delivered to the station with five minutes to spare. Worryingly though, the door to the train was blocked. 

Standing in our way, was a huge, beast of a man.

He was tall, tanned, and was wearing a rugby kit. He looked keen to smash us to pieces, but didn’t look the brightest and his legs had clearly been shaved.

“Fee, fi, fo, fum! Yes, it’s me, Gavin Henson.”

I knew I shouldn’t have eaten those magic beans.

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September

3-9 - Willy Mason - ✓
10-16 - Toots & The Maytals - ✓
17-23 - Little Comets - ✓
24-30 -The Subways - ✓

Week 38

Week 38 – Thursday 22^nd September – Little Comets – CF10, Cardiff University – £8.00

“I’ve had a good night. Not tonight, but I’ve had a good night . . .”

It was Cousin Bish who uttered these words, which were unsurprising considering he had Sandro and me for company. I don’t know if it made sense, or which dodgy comedian he’d stolen it from, but it seemed funny at the time. The night he wasn’t speaking of, was one on which we headed deep into University territory during Fresher’s fortnight.

We’d begun with a visit to see K-May and P. Mushy’s new bundle of joy, who was beautiful enough to throw P. Mushy’s paternity into doubt. After the bawling had ended, I wiped the tears from Sandro’s face and we left them in peace.

Deciding against food and a pint at a pre-gig venue, we instead headed directly to a new area of Cardiff University as far as I was concerned. The venue was called CF10, a smaller alternative to the Great Hall and Solus. It seemed spacious enough when we arrived, but mainly because there were very few human bodies to fill the space.

Showering down from on high (or Newcastle upon Tyne to be precise) were Little Comets, a band Cousin Bish and I had been entertained by in Camden, and Sandro and I had enjoyed at Reading and whose album, In Search of Elusive Little Comets, I’d enjoyed immensely. Consequently, I was surprised that the venue wasn’t filled to the rafters, but I suppose they haven’t had a deep impact on the public consciousness as yet, being quite little and elusive after all.

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Handily, the student bar maintained its student prices, which meant that bottled beverages were only £2 a pop, a massive improvement on the £5.73 a pint rate next door that had so infuriated me for five minutes last week. 

By the time the first support act appeared on stage, the crowd had swelled and there were at least six other people present. I had an inkling that they may have been members of the other bands, but that didn’t discourage The Slowdown.

“I can’t see much with the lights,” the young singer said as the bright stage lights shone in his eyes.

“It’s really busy!” I joked.

“It’s packed!” Cousin Bish yelled out. 

Spurred on by these words, they continued and concluded their set triumphantly, before leaving the stage and regaining their vision. “Everyone must have left as soon as we finished,” the singer was overheard to say despondently.

-------

The Slowdown were the first of two supporting bands, the second being The Low Suns, who the Little Comets had presumably invited to continue the cosmic theme. It definitely wasn’t because of their music. I’m kidding; they weren’t that bad. Although their fashion sense was. Sandro and I, renowned as the Trinny and Susannah of Cardiff, were deeply disturbed by what we saw. Two of the band wore black blazers with vests underneath (vests!) and the front-man topped off this repulsive combo with a red hat, evoking memories of Orson, or the infinitely superior Tequila Dealer.

They reminded me of the New Romantics that Cousin Bish is so fond of, and I get the feeling they have ambitions to be a massive pop band in the Duran Duran mould. The only feeling Sandro felt was revulsion, as he was reminded of The Feeling themselves, which infuriated him enough to demand Armageddon. An overreaction I felt.

Once The Low Suns had finished, one of their guitarists spent time wandering among the audience with a clipboard, recruiting for the bands mailing list. He didn’t bother asking Sandro, shying away when he saw a look of pure disgust, but while I also showed no inclination to reach for his pen, Cousin Bish grabbed it with both hands. It was a big pen.

“So, you liked them did you?” I asked our cousin curiously once the clipboard carrier had sauntered off. “No, but you did. . .” he replied cryptically. Of course! I thought to myself. I finally realised why I keep receiving emails from sources as varied as Alpecin.co.uk, Jonasbrothers.com and Arseticklersfaggotsfanclub.org.

-------

Before the main event we discussed an upcoming fundraising duck race, for which Cousin Bish and I had been dealing ducks for £2 each, with a £222 prize on offer for the owner of the winning duck.

I’d cleverly offloaded ducks onto an unwitting friend in an ingenious plan as I went on to explain.

“I sold three to Rhys Geese, a dozen to David Duckinson, plus Candy owed me twenty quid, so I gave him ten ducks and we called it even,” I said proudly. Strangely, the looks on their faces suggested they were unimpressed.

“Doesn’t that mean Candy now owes you forty quid?” Cousin Bish asked.

I thought about this for a moment.

“And isn’t David Duckinson a made up name?” Sandro added.

I didn’t have time to answer, and rushed outside to phone Candy instead.

-------

For some reason, when I returned Sandro and Cousin Bish were laughing uncontrollably.  I never found out why, because Little Comets arrived to add to the atmosphere as they took up their instruments. They were received with cheers by a crowd that surely now exceeded thirty in numbers.

They only played for forty minutes, which wasn’t surprising considering their only album so far is less than thirty five minutes long. The set was long enough to feature plenty of perky indie pop beauties, beginning with ‘Adultery’. More poppy indie tunes were peppered throughout, made all the better by one of the best Geordie singing voices since Jimmy Nail, which is the finest praise I can give.

In terms of their songs, ‘Joanna’ was the pick of the bunch, as far as I’m concerned. The likes of ‘Darling Alistair’, ‘Mathilda’, ‘Tricolour’ and ’Lost time’ all entertained, while the lyrics of‘Isles’ are pretty well observed. ‘One Night in October’ is their signature tune though, and reaffirmed in my eyes, that these guys are stars. The Comets didn’t even tail off towards the end, keeping up the tempo and entertaining to the last, finishing on a dancey number called ‘Dancing Song’ before they slipped away into space once more.

Our night wasn’t quite over. There was still time for a taxi ride home where we were amused by a portly forty year old taxi driver with a thick valleys accent and no semblance of shame. 

“I tell ‘ew what, some of these students. Cor!” he drooled.

“They get in the back in their short skirts, and I tell ‘em: I’d do you,” he said, reminiscent of the suave bachelor himself Gavin Henson.

“They bloody laugh, but I’m like, I’m serious!” he went on.

“Really, that never works?” I asked in surprise.

“Nope! They’re too stuck up see,” he said. “I’d give my right nut to be twenty-one again,” he added wistfully. 

We got out, making sure he couldn’t see up our skirts in the rear-view mirror, and wished him good night. We’d had a good night ourselves. Not that night, but we’d had a good night.

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September

3-9 - Willy Mason - ✓
10-16 - Toots & The Maytals - ✓
17-23 - Little Comets - ✓
24-30 -?

Week 37

Week 37 – Wednesday 14^th September – Toots & The Maytals – The Great Hall, Cardiff University – £27.00

“I can’t believe you’re going to see Tony Hibbert and I wasn’t even invited!”

Hardcore Toffee Cousin Bish was disillusioned when he thought we’d abandoned him to watch the man he models his footballing skills and hairdo on. Sandro and I clarified that the only Hibbert we were interested in tonight was Toots, so even Dr Hibbert could go chuckle elsewhere as far as we were concerned.

After the joys of Willy last week came the contrasting thrills of Toots, as Sandro and I admired the enduring talents of the Reggae legend, swapping folk for a show from Toots & The Maytals.

We began the night with a logical choice of pre-gig pint venue, The Vulcan, where we were amazed to find that lager would cost us just £1.50 a pint between five and eight o’clock. Renowned Reggae authority Uncle Benjammin joined us midway through our fifth pint five minutes later. Well, fifth sip in my case.

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Benjammin told us that it was Toots himself who in fact coined the word Reggae, in spite of what Levi Roots may claim. Uncle B also bore the news that the support act would be a local group of unknown white boys. Not exactly what you’d expect when tickets cost more than twenty five quid. At this news, I looked at Sandro in alarm.

“Are we performing tonight?” I asked. 

“We’re not in a band,” Sandro replied.

“I know, but, what about that other thing we do. We don’t have a booking do we?”

Sandro sighed. “Listen, we are not Chippendales and we’re not doing the full monty for anyone.”

“But I’ve put an ad in the paper and everything!” I protested.

“Yes, and you also put a picture in, which is why you haven’t had any response,” Sandro said hurtfully.

Sandro hadn’t been the only one to ignore my innovative idea to raise a few quid in these harsh times. 

“Anti-wrinkle cream there may be, but anti-fat-bastard cream there is none,” Candy had said, while Parge had been equally forthright. 

“He's fat, you're thin, and you're both fucking ugly.” 

I went on to later destroy one of Parge’s prized gnomes in an act of vengeance.

-------

Once our many glasses were drained, we left The Vulcan and trekked toward the venue, which was Cardiff University’s Great Hall. The supporting band were on when we arrived and in fairness to them, they were a whole lot more entertaining than a couple of gyrating erotic male dancers, which is high praise indeed. 

They were called Captain Accident & The Disasters and they prepared the crowd perfectly for what was to come, setting the tone with some entertaining and well played Ska. Or was it Reggae? Or both? Whatever it was, it was a lot better than we’d feared it would be when we saw their name.

On a sad note, value for money on beer had greatly decreased on entry to the Great Hall, with 330ml bottles of Bulmers selling at three for a tenner. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this on every other occasion I’ve been there and paid the exact same prices (I have), but that’s over a penny per millilitre! That’s a rate of over £5.68 a pint you know? (£5.73ish in fact.)

Expensive enough to boycott? Of course not, but expensive enough to make me tut and shake my head a few times. If only we had some kind of get rich quick scheme to afford such expenses. 

“People’d pay a tenner a head to see us you know?” I said to Sandro. 

“I reckon we’d get a thousand people too,” he admitted.

“Times ten quid by a thousand, and you’ve got . . . A lot.” I said.

“Ten thousand quid,” Uncle Benjammin chipped in.

“How much!?” I asked in wonder. “Ten thousand quid, now there’s a thought.”

“Forget it. Unless you want to be known as The Cocktail Sausage from now on,” Sandro warned, clearly ignorant of Señor Pecker's virtues.

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Following Captain Accident on stage were The Maytals, but Toots wasn’t with them. Instead the de facto leader of The Maytals asked if we minded Toots’ daughter Leba singing a few songs. He ignored our objections and she sang a couple of songs which were pleasant enough, before stepping aside dutifully when her sixty five year old father appeared on stage, greeted by rapturous applause.

“Gentleman, the lunchbox has landed.” Uncle Benjammin said in awe. The pensioner looked in fine fettle, sporting a sleeveless top that showed off some powerful looking guns, prompting me to roll down my sleeves and cover up my pipe-cleaners. By now the Great hall was packed and expectations were high, with the atmosphere almost as electric as when Magnetic Man had shaken the walls.

Toots & The Maytals fulfilled those expectations with a captivating display. Unsurprisingly, considering my limited knowledge of Reggae and all other music, I only knew a few songs beforehand and was expecting them to be saved ‘til the end, but I was entertained by everything they played from start to finish. Well, I was pretty drunk and can’t really remember, but it seems likely. 

I’d managed to keep up with the drinking pace without even having to resort to spilling my beer into Sandro’s bottle when he wasn’t looking. Although that may be a lie.

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Toots’ voice was still incredible and he was a master showman. Among the better known songs on show were ‘Reggae Got Soul’ and ‘Pressure Drop’, plus a version of the classic ‘Louie Louie’. There was also a rendition of ‘Roots, Rock., Reggae’ which became ‘Toots, Rock., Reggae’ unless my ears were also drunk, and they went out on a corker in the form of ‘Monkey Man’. 

Of course, Toots was only disappearing as a prelude to an encore, and possibly a trip to the toilet. “Who wants more Toots?” the guitarist and spokesman for The Maytals asked. There were a couple of Maybes, a few Suppose Sos, and even one No thanks I’ve got work in the morning, but nearly everyone was delighted when the man himself returned. Naked.

Ok, he was fully clothed, which left me in no doubt that doing Full Monty would have been more appropriate for Willy last week. 

A fine encore featured the legendary ‘54-46 Was My Number’ which is up there with anything we’ve heard this year. It’s wonderful riddim prompted dances such as the bump, the stomp and the bus stop, all performed admirably by Sandro. I was a particular fan of the bus stop though Uncle B managed a funky chicken in riposte, while I relied on my degree in arse wiggling.

Applause was lavished on Toots, his daughter and The Maytals, who’d put on a fantastic show for the reverent crowd, and they left the stage leaving no man, woman or child disappointed.

Sadly, there wasn’t enough time for us to get our kit off and storm the stage, so we strolled home fully clothed and much poorer for it.

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September

3-9 - Willy Mason - ✓
10-16 - Toots & The Maytals - ✓
17-23 - Little Comets
24-30 -?

Week 36

Week 36 – Tuesday 6^th September – Willy Mason – The Gate, Cardiff – £12.50

“That’s not the first time I’ve seen Gaffa tape on Willy you know?”

Following the excesses of Reading Festival, Sandro and I were in the mood for a much more relaxed and much less draining gig. Willy Mason obliged, giving us an opportunity to sit down and make crude and childish puns. 

Sandro has been a fan of Willy for several years, ever since his first sniff of ‘Oxygen’ in fact. Inevitably, it wasn’t long before he’d turned me on to Willy too, and I haven’t looked back since, except for when Willy’s behind me of course.

Even more disturbingly than my thought processes, the gig fell on the same day as an almighty football fixture. The biggest fixture of all for Welsh football fans, as our formidable national team, who are currently ranked an impressive 117^th in the world travelled to the home of football to face England, ranked 4^th.

Of course, this clash was unknown to Sandro when he bought four tickets for the gig. The intended recipients of two of those tickets had said “balls to that!” and decided that they wouldn’t let Willy get in the way of such an occasion and pulled out. 

Fortunately, somebody else had shown a fondness for Mr Mason. 

“You’re going to see him are you?!” Proud parent Parge said when I told him.

“Yes. But it’s Willy Mason, not Willy Nelson,” I clarified. Old people do get easily confused.

“I know that, I heard him on the radio the other day. He was terrific,” Parge said surprising me.

“You know how to use a radio?” I replied. 

He did, and that was that, as Parge volunteered himself and Marge for the spare tickets.

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Willy was playing at a venue neither of us had been to before, Roath’s The Gate, so beforehand we headed to nearby pub The George, where we squeezed a pint or two into our schedule along with some of the England v Wales game, which Marge particularly enjoyed.

While Wales’ hopes of qualifying for Euro 2012 were already over, we’d put in a decent performance to achieve the unthinkable and win a game a few days earlier. That promise continued, with England only leading by a goal to nil after an hour, so the thought of leaving was heart-wrenching. Not for the first time though, Sandro and I were prepared to make a huge sacrifice for Willy, and we unglued our eyes from the screen and walked to the venue.

The Gate, it turns out, is one of those picturesque converted churches that I’m so fond of. A listed building that’s over a century old, so obviously there was a bar inside. However, as I’d feared, there was no TV, so we had to rely on updates via text for any news from Wembley. Once inside, it wasn’t especially clear which door would lead us to the main hall so we ended up in the toilet, which was fortunate because urinating on stage would have been awkward.

We tried the lift and found ourselves stranded outside a back door to the main hall. The door was ajar and we could hear second support act The Staves playing inside, and we could also see that the crowd were seated and silent. Ominously, a sign requested respect for the performers which suggested immature Willy jokes would be at a premium, which was a bummer.

Unable to enter via the back passage, we retreated the way we’d come to find a winding staircase a small queue of a people were already waiting to enter. After the band had finished we entered and finally glimpsed the inside of the venue in all its glory. It must have been quite near capacity already, as there were precious few empty spaces among the pews that lined the hall.

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There was just about enough space for the four of us to plonk ourselves on pews to the left of the stage. In our position we had the unusual disadvantage of having our view obscured by a fridge. The fridge was part of a temporary bar which was serving drinks between acts, although the queue was long enough to keep us sober. Willy was due on at half past nine, but appeared just beforehand to let the crowd know that there was a technical issue, as his treasured thumb pick had become two thumb picks. He asked the audience if anyone happened to have a spare but I’d forgotten mine and so it appeared, had everybody else.

There was a slight delay while he sought a plan B and we spent the gap admiring our surroundings. The pews were packed inside the cavernous hall, whose high ceiling looked like the inverted hull of a huge ship, or an ark if you will, which prompted Sandro and I to start picking out people in the crowd who looked like animals, for reasons which seemed more rational and humorous at the time. Parge, the Walrus, and Marge, the cat were unimpressed.

Luckily our zoology studies were interrupted by the frantic buzzing of phones before we got round to each other. There must have been significant news as text messages were flying in. I’d received a record breaking three, surprisingly not from three attractive ladies, but in fact three spectacularly unattractive lads.

A text from J-Mo read: Oh My God!

A text from Cousin Bish simply read: What a goofy twat!

A text from P. Mushy elaborated: Unbelievable open goal miss by Earnie!

Devastating. Of all the people to spurn a glorious chance to get a result at Wembley. Tap-in specialist Robert Earnshaw had blown it. To console him, as I know he’s a regular reader, it was a nothing game and Wales played well enough to offer promise for the future, plus everybody loves Earnie (except Cousin Bish) so it wasn’t too disappointing. Honestly. I cry after every game.

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About fifteen minutes later than planned, Willy returned to bring smiles back to our faces. He was grateful to gaffer tape, having eventually managed to repair his own thumb pick. Willy would prove to be a genial and likeable stage presence throughout, possessing a helluva voice and showcasing some lovely songs. He may only be in his mid-twenties but he’s got one of those deep smokey, story-telling American voices, not dissimilar, if you were wondering, to my own.

He hasn’t released an album in four years, but the two he’s made so far contain songs that demonstrate his talent and fill a fine set. Admittedly, Willy may not be to everyone’s tastes, ‘We Can Be Strong’ and ‘Hard Hand to Hold’ are fine examples of his craft as a songwriter and just the kind of songs that a seated, respectful audience admires. Naturally, Marge was snoring by this point.

Surprisingly early in his set he played ‘Save Myself’, a personal favourite of mine and the lead single from his second album, which is much more immediate than what came before, with a riff to nod along to and smart sing-along lyrics, that I wasn't smart enough to sing along to. There was a literal and metaphorical hiccup (admittedly, it may have been a burp) during ‘Riptide’ and Willy had to stop twice, which the crowd forgave with good humour, before demanding refunds behind the scenes. 

Towards the end of the gig, he sang the incomparable ‘Oxygen’, which is so good I doubt he’ll ever surpass it, but it wasn’t the finale as I’d guessed it would be. After leaving the stage to an ovation, he awkwardly turned at the door and returned to his guitar once more for an encore. He asked the audience for suggestions, but ignored cries for the likes of ‘Our Town’ and instead played a couple of songs from his very first EP. 

We left The Gate contented, although Sandro shared his mild disappointment at hearing the three minute single version of ‘Oxygen’ rather than the five minute album version, which was peculiar, as three minutes of Willy is usually enough for Sandro.

Sorry Marge.

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September

3-9 - Willy Mason - ✓
10-16 -Toots & The Maytals
17-23 -?
24-30 -?

August

Monthly Non-Ramble

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

April

2-8 - The Sunshine Underground - ✓
9-15 - Pete & The Pirates - ✓
16-22 - Metronomy - ✓
23-29 - Beady Eye - ✓

May

30-6 - Camden Crawl  - ✓
7-13 - Devlin - ✓
14-20 - Beatles For Sale  - ✓
21-27 - Manic Street Preachers - ✓
28-3 - We Are Scientists - ✓

June

4-10 - The Subways & Gomez - ✓

11-17 - Marcia Griffiths - ✓

18-24 - Glastonbury - ✓

25-1 - Glastonbury - ✓

July

2-8 - Tribes - ✓
9-15 - The Big Gig - ✓
16-22 - H. Hawkline - ✓
23-29 – Eddie Spaghetti - ✓

August

30-5 - Wibidi - ✓
6-12 – Alice Russell - ✓
13-19 – Brother Steve - ✓
20-26 - Reading - ✓

27-2 - Reading - ✓

September

3-9 - Willy Mason
10-16 -?
17-23 -?
24-30 -?

October

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

November
 
29-4 - Arctic Monkeys
5-11 -?
12-18 -?
19-25 - Wild Beasts
26-2 -?

December

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