Sŵn – Sŵnday
“Clearly, he’s forgotten his cape. . .”
I would have happily slept all through the Sunday of Sŵn, but I decided to sleepwalk through
it instead, making it as far as Clwb Ifor
Bach by quarter past five. It was there that I met Sandro, who looked how I
felt. Lovely.
This was a festival Sunday, so the music was slower, the
crowds were quieter, and so were we. Accordingly we were on a strict
hangover-absorbing, Coca-Cola only diet.
Naturally, my second drink was a pint of Guinness
Upstairs in Clwb
we watched a wonderfully entertaining young fellow named Gideon Conn, who had the whole room engrossed and entranced, by
both his songs and personality. I didn’t quite know what to make of him at
first, but he proved to be a genuinely unique talent and impossible to describe
(which is handy for me). Suffice to say he made us laugh, smile and clap a lot.
Sandro remarked that the fella who was laughing, smiling and
clapping a lot next to us had forgotten his cape, so I nodded and smiled
myself, meaning I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.
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As Gideon departed to
whoops of delight, we tumbled downstairs to see Al Lewis, a Welsh singer-songwriter whose lovely first album, In the Wake, was nominated for the Welsh
Music Prize. Sandro and I saw him at Sŵn
in the same place two years ago and his gentle Welsh folk had left an
impression. His songs impressed again, particularly ‘Make a Little Room’ and ‘The
Arsonist’.
We tumbled back
upstairs and found a lot of people sitting on the floor in front of the stage.
Even the arrival of teenage West-Walian singer Jodie Marie couldn’t raise the lazy buggers off the floor.
Sandro and I decided
to pop to see something a little more frenetic at Dempsey’s instead. Local rockers Tiger Please were playing, and while they weren’t really my bag, I
was hugely impressed by the singer’s floppy hair, and the way he wore his underpants
outside his trousers.
On our return to Clwb we took up our X-factor judge
seats, hoping for an improvement on the act we’d seen the last time we’d
occupied those much envied chairs, the excellent Brother Steve. Ryan of Brum will be surprised to learn, that our
hopes were fulfilled.
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Sandro’s earlier comment suddenly made sense, as a man
stepped into a telephone box wearing spectacles, and stepped out a second later
still wearing the same spectacles, but now equipped with an acoustic guitar. It
was none other than Sam Duckworth, the artist formerly known as Get Cape. Wear Cape. Fly.
Though I’ve never been a fan of his, Mr Fly was engaging,
sang some fine songs (‘Glass Houses’ was particularly smashing) and showed off an outstanding ability to open his mouth
incredibly wide. It was super.
“Wow! He’s like a little Richard Beckinsale,” I said enthusiastically
to Sandro, whose shirt was tucked into his unnaturally high jeans.
“In what sense?” he replied, looking confused.
“He’s part Burmese,” I said.
“Any other reason?” Sandro asked.
“Well, there’s the seven characteristics of living things too. How many reasons do you people need?” I asked
exasperatedly.
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We then flew to O’Neill’s to see our final act of the
weekend. Frankie Shape and Shape Records had been showcasing their stuff, so
there’d earlier been shows from Truckers
of Husk and H. Hawkline, but we
were there for Sweet Baboo.
Another Welsh Music
Prize nominee, for his album I’m a Dancer
/ Songs About Sleepin’, Baboo, a North Walian singer-songwriter, proved to
have a very fine sense of humour and sang some lilting lullabies to prime me
for sleep. He also had a sore throat that put me and my severe illness to shame,
and gave him a husky voice to be proud of.
“He’s like a little
Rhys Ifans!” I said wisely.
“Because?” Sandro
asked with an arched eyebrow.
“He’s funny, he’s
smiley! He’s entertaining!” I said, desperately trying to think of similarities in addition to them both being White and Welsh.
Soon after, Sŵn was over for another year, but Week
43 of Gigaweek, was not.
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Made me laugh, as ever. 2012 will suck.
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