Week 22

Week 22 - Tuesday 31^st May – Cardiff University Student’s Union, Solus, Cardiff – We Are Scientists - £14.50

“Who throws a cigarette packet?”

As with The Manics at the Motorpoint last week, this was a rare occasion for us to see a band that I’d not only heard of, but also actually like. This time it was We Are Scientists, who were playing at Cardiff University’s Solus venue, which we were visiting for the first time this year. How lovely. Here was a band that I was a fan of before they even hit the big time. Admittedly, that just means that I was completely ignorant of their first album, Safety, Fun, and Learning (In That Order), and then jumped on the bandwagon just before their successful second album With Love and Squalor was released, which was very groovy indeed.

Without being too offensive to Blackwood, We Are Scientists are from slightly more exotic climes than The Manics. They’re a trio whose two original members Chris Cain and Keith Murray hail from California originally and apparently now base themselves in New York, which I believe makes them American. The last American band I saw play were The Coathangers, so they have a lot to answer for. Their original drummer Michael Tapper, who was also an American, and presumably still is, was renowned for having a spectacular beard, but sadly it wouldn’t be on show tonight. In its place would be the slightly less impressive beard, but slightly more impressive hairdo of ex-Razorlight drummer Andy Burrows, who is an Englishman.

They’re also renowned for having a sense of humour, which has absolutely no place in Gigaweek. If you’ve ever visited their website, you’ll have noticed that it is full of helpful advice, information, and humorous anecdotes. If you haven’t visited their website, you may be aware of this anyway, having read the last sentence.

Surprisingly, they aren’t actually scientists at all, but with their furry facial hair and snazzy spectacles they were once asked if they were scientists, but regrettably answered that they were in fact musicians, a story which inspired the band’s name. I was once asked if I was Ian Beale in a nightclub, which inspired my band’s name: No, I’m Not Ian Fucking Beale You Daft Bint, although at least it made a change from being mistaken for Simon from The Inbetweeners.

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We drunk our pre-gig pints at The Woodville, where I enjoyed a pair of pears in a beer garden that I hadn’t known existed up to that point. Joining Sandro and I were the inimitable Salazar, Gavlova, Little P and Lucy D. The boys from We Are Scientists were also present, but rather than disturbing them in person, Little P decided to proposition them via Twitter. Unfortunately, her attempts were unsuccessful, but Sandro had more joy and promptly disappeared for fifteen minutes or so. There was also an airing of YMAS’ ‘Finders Keepers’ on the jukebox, which brought back some fond memories.

At Solus a fresh faced band from Nottingham called Frontiers opened for the Scientists. I’d thought they were called Francis until Gav told me the disappointing truth. The lead singer told the audience that they were Nottingham Forest fans, and reminded us that they’d shared our recent play-off misery, which was nice of him. They were dressed all in black, and they seemed like talented guitarists, although none of their songs left a lasting impression. Don’t let that put you off though, seeing as it’s coming from a man who was drunk and thought they were called Francis. 

I’m not sure whether We Are Scientists were aware of ours and Francis' footballing heartbreak, although they did release a World Cup song last year entitled ‘Goal! England’. They certainly were aware of the previous day’s Bank Holiday though, and made reference to it when they took to the stage. “I was angry, ‘cause I couldn‘t get any cash!” Murray said, while Cain revealed that it was the first Bank Holiday where he hadn’t at least tried to start a family, which was a relief to all present.

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There was plenty of audience interaction throughout, with Cain admitting his Welsh accent was closer to Scottish, but that didn’t matter. They were definitely an entertaining double act, which is to be expected from a band who called their latest album Barbara. They don’t just rely on humour alone though, and they’ve got tunes to spare.

They opened with Barbara’s ‘Nice Guys’ before an older favourite ‘This Scene is Dead’ from their first major album, and soon after played ‘Impatience’ which is one of the highlights of With Love and Squalor’s follow up, Brain Thrust Mastery. Throughout the set there was a pretty even spread of songs from their three major releases, with Barbara perhaps supplying a song or two more than the other two. There were highlights aplenty including the best of With Love and Squalor in the form of ‘Nobody Move, Nobody Get Hurt’ ‘Inaction’ ‘It’s A Hit’ and ‘The Great Escape’.

The best of Barbara included ‘Pittsburgh’ which is a song they dedicated to the city of Pittsburgh but as far as I could tell isn't actually about the city of Pittsburgh. Another was ‘I Don’t Bite’, a song about not being able to chew food properly, and the album’s finest ‘Rules Don’t Stop’. They turned to one of their most successful singles for their final song of the set, ‘After Hours’ which is a beautiful pop tribute to the joys of staying up ‘til gone closing time and getting trollied. It was an amazing finish and entirely appropriate for Gigaweek and for that reason alone we’ll ignore the fact that they returned for a one song encore of ‘Central AC’, especially considering hardly anyone present knew the song, and therefore most were a tad underwhelmed.

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We then retired to The Pen & Wig for a couple of quiet pears to finish the night with. Little P had an early start the next day and she and Lucy D took their leave, a disastrous decision as it meant that they missed the Gallagheresque incident that followed.

Gavlova, Salazar, Sandro and I were sat drinking quietly outside, and without warning or provocation, Sandro made the perfectly rational decision to throw an ice cube at my forehead. Now, of course I can completely understand why anyone would feel compelled to do such a thing, and accepting that this was perfectly normal behaviour, I definitely didn’t react in any way, and absolutely did not call him “a fat pleb” in retaliation.

A few minutes later, Sandro ‘accidentally’ kicked the table we were sat at. The resultant aftershocks sent Sal’s drink flying, while my tumbler also took a tumble, and only my cat-like reactions saved half of the remaining contents, while my jeans cleverly absorbed the other half. Gavlova, whose reactions have been measured to be even faster than most cats, managed to save his drink entirely, or maybe he had just been tipped off. . .

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Was it just clumsy, or was it deliberate? Sandro isn’t renowned for his clumsiness, but he is renowned for his deliberateness. Nevertheless, he claimed it was an accident, and being such a magnanimous soul, in no way did I chastise him for his clumsiness, or accuse him of any wrongdoing. Instead I forgave him instantly, and then I saved a small child’s life and gave an orphan boy a home.

But then out of the blue Sandro launched an empty cigarette packet at my head, causing blood to spray out horrifically. He’d aimed the hazardous cigarette packet at the small child but I’d bravely thrown my body on the line, and saved the small child’s life for the second time in as many minutes.

Confused by this latest act of terror, I demanded answers.

“Ow! That really hurt! Why would you do that Sandro?” I asked in shock,

“Why not?” he replied,

“You could have had my eye out, or seriously bruised my cheek!” I said reasonably, “Honestly! Who throws a cigarette Packet? You fight like a girl,”

“I agree it’s not exactly a shoe, but I’m wearing flip-flops so I didn’t have that option.”

This explanation didn’t satisfy me, so I returned fire with the remainder of my glass of pear cider, aiming for the crotch area. In spite of the small target, it was a bull’s-eye, which left Sandro fuming, and with steam coming out of his ears.

“We’ll call it even then,” I said, before I realised I had some hugely important charity work to take care of, and dashed out of the exit, dodging dozens of empty cigarette packets as I went.

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May

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

Week 21

Week 21 - Saturday 21^st May – Cardiff Motorpoint Arena, Cardiff – Manic Street Preachers - £30.25

“Roads? Where we’re going, we don’t need roads. . .”

We did need roads, so I’m not quite sure what Cousin Bish was on about. Following a swift lift from the ever-generous Parge, during which we neared speeds of 88mph, the jammy J-mo, custardy Cousin Bish, rhubarby Ryan of Brum and iceberg lettucey I, met the sugary Sandro at the Pen and Wig, where I had some toffee appley ciders, while the others drank normal drinks. It was the second gig in as many days for me and Sandro and clearly my foodstuffs obsessed mind was frazzled.

After leaving The Pen, we headed to the Motorpoint Arena where we were looking forward to seeing South Wales’ very own Manic Street Preachers. We stocked up on bottles of Carlsberg which, at three for a tenner, was the closest thing to a bargain on offer, and took up a central position fairly far forward in the crowd. For the second time this year we were thoroughly entertained by fellow Welsh band The Joy Formidable who played a six-song supporting slot. Although I’d thought the notoriously cavernous arena might be a bit too big for the trio, they had no such problems. Considering their debut album was called The Big Roar I shouldn’t have been surprised, and they continue to grow in my estimation, which will no doubt please them.

They began in typically hectic fashion with ‘Greyhounds in The Slips’ which was the only song they played that didn’t appear on that first album. They also played ‘Austere’, ‘The Greatest Light is the Greatest Shade’, ‘Cradle’ and ‘Buoy’ which made me almost happy enough to smile, before finishing with ‘Whirring’, complete with a trademark two minute thrash out at the end. Their short European tour with The Manics will no doubt introduce them to, and win, scores of new fans such as the influential J-Mo, who was on the phone to his cousin Chuck within seconds. “Chuck! Chuck! It's J-Mo. Your cousin, J-Mo BERRY! You know that new sound you're looking for? Well, listen to this!”

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Despite being a long term fan, and although The Manics were local boys who’d formed before I was even born, I’d only managed to see them live once before, at the same venue back in 2007 with Sandro, when it was still known as the CIA. It was that great sage Sandro who’d introduced my young ears to The Manics back when Everything Must Go came out. Hearing ‘Elvis Impersonator: Blackpool Pier’ via the wonders of the Walkman and its chorus of “It’s so fucking funny, it‘s absurd” for the first time, taught me a new word that I‘ve used every day ever since.

It’s absurd that they now have ten albums and more than two decades worth of touring under their belt, and love or loath them, their story is undeniably interesting and colourful. With two intelligent lyricists in Nicky Wire and Richey Edwards, their lyrics are full of literary references and socialist politics that I’ve pretended to understand for many years. While somehow cramming lines into the tiniest of spaces, James Dean Bradfield and his cousin Sean Moore have managed to write some terrific tunes to accompany them.

On this occasion, they called on material from all of their albums save Journal for Plague Lovers (which is brilliant, but not exactly full of sing-alongs), and kicked off with ‘Stay Beautiful’ from debut Generation Terrorists. That was followed by a more recent favourite ‘Your Love Alone Is Not Enough’ before they really got things going with the classic ‘Motorcycle Emptiness’, which was a single way back in 1992. 2010’s ‘(It's Not War) - Just The End Of Love’  was next before they went back in time to second album Gold Against The Soul’s ‘Life Becoming a Landslide’. “Great Scott!” Cousin Bish said “what a song!” although being a fan of natural disasters, he was disappointed not to hear ‘Tsunami’ at all.

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They played only two songs from what is arguably their best album, The Holy Bible, the rip-roaring ‘Faster’ and somewhat surprisingly ‘Of Walking Abortion’. Sandro especially was looking forward to ‘Yes’ which contains his favourite word, and another favourite of his, ‘She is Suffering’. Even I knew there was no chance of hearing ‘Ifwhiteamericatoldthetruthforonedayit’sworldwouldfallapart’ but was still surprised by the disgusted looks I got when I sang its chorus later on, and felt that Sandro labelling me a “Butthead” was uncalled for.

Lifeblood’s ‘Solitude Sometimes Is’ was the one song that Sandro felt was a dud, and he told me how much he hated manure, which was pretty irrelevant, but he sung along as loud as anybody to ‘You Stole The Sun From My Heart’ which isn’t one of my own favourites, but was a highlight of the set. ‘Postcards From A Young Man’ the title track of their latest album then preceded the riotous ‘Motown Junk’ complete with an intro of the Welsh national anthem, but missing some key lyrics (“I laughed when Tarbuck got shot!”). After a cracking performance of their first number one single, ‘If You Tolerate This Your Children Will Be Next’, there was then a break of sorts.

The Manics don’t seem to bother with encores as such, instead Nicky Wire and Sean Moore took a well earned break, while the tireless James Dean Bradfield performed a couple of acoustic songs including a favourite of Welsh football fans, their cover of ‘Can't Take My Eyes Off You’ and ‘Everything Must Go’. When the band was returned to full strength, the Motorpoint was rocking again to the sound of their other number one,‘The Masses Against the Classes’.

Things slowed back down significantly for Know Your Enemy’s ‘Let Robeson Sing’, the new album's ‘Some Kind Of Nothingness’ and their most famous cover, the misleading ‘Suicide is Painless’, before an intro of AC/DC’s ‘You Shook Me All Night Long’ lead into the presumptuous ‘You Love Us’. They closed an amazing show in style with ‘A Design For Life’, a song typical of their ability to turn meaningful lyrics into sing along anthems, and with no sense of irony at all, we sang along clashing our beers above our heads with pride.

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The Molyneux was on the mind of Ryan of Brum, who headed home early to shake nervously all night long, worrying about his beloved Wolves who were in a desperate fight for survival the next day. J-Mo had told him that he had nothing to worry about, which made him all the more nervous. The rest of us headed to The Old Library, where some incredible shapes were thrown, including the terrifying triangle and old favourites like the Zoidberg. Suitably disturbed, Sandro made like a tree and got out of there.

After Cousin Bish had intimidated several women by subtly blocking their paths with his six foot three frame, we took to the catwalk where J-Mo tried to turn pimp to disastrous effect. He was under the impression that if I didn‘t charm a particular lady, he would cease to exist. I wandered across the dance floor with my chocolate milkshake and said “I’m your density!” to the unsuspecting girl, who smiled politely, before disappearing with someone who wasn’t dressed solely in purple Calvin Klein underwear. J-Mo then mysteriously disappeared altogether, leaving me and Cousin Bish both relieved and delighted.

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May

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

Week 20

Week 20 - Friday 20^th May – The Globe, Cardiff – The Beatles For Sale - £11.50

“It’s a shame he looks more like Jimmy Tarbuck than John Lennon. . .”

As Sandro and I discussed, there is an important distinction to be made between covers bands and tribute bands. A covers band, such as the incomparable Old Trafford Trio, play covers of numerous bands in one set, whereas a tribute band will only cover the songs of the particular band they are paying tribute to (including any songs that band may have famously covered, of course). In the twisted rules of Gigaweek therefore, seeing a covers band isn’t enough, whereas a tribute band is fair game. With this in mind, if you do go to see a tribute band, who better than a Beatles tribute band?

Our night began at The George with a couple of strawberries before we headed to The Globe, which although far from packed, was busier than it had been when we’d seen Fjords and Larry Miller. Presumably, many of those present were regular attendees of the venue’s Friday night tribute band based shenanigans. It’s also fair to say that Sandro and I were among the younger members of the audience, along with Doris and Winifred.

Of course being the most successful band of all time, there are no shortages of Beatles tribute bands out there, with The Bootleg Beatles arguably being the best known of all. The boys playing at The Globe were called The Beatles For Sale, named of course in reference to one of the fab four’s albums, Rubber Soul. Promisingly, according to their website they’ve worked with such luminaries as Morrissey, Midge Ure and New Zealand’s finest Neil Finn, but less promisingly specialise mostly in weddings and corporate events.

That very website also stated that these lads pride themselves, and spare no expense, in trying to recreate The Beatles’ onstage image, and that much was clear when they took to the stage each dressed in black suits complete with white shirts and black ties, and most importantly, moptops. They were a very faithful act, even doing their best to reproduce the fab four’s stage presence, with ‘George’ and ‘Paul’ singing either side of the same microphone. It was almost like watching the real thing and for a moment I thought we were, until Sandro’s allusion to Jimmy Tarbuck shattered that illusion. That and the fact ‘Paul’ didn’t play his guitar left handed. And also the fact that it’s 2011, but that didn't cross my mind at the time.

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As our mother always reassured Sandro though, looks aren’t everything, and while the material they had to work with was obviously fairly limited, the boys made a good fist of it. They kicked things off with the The Beatles’ first single ‘Love Me Do’, which Sandro decided was my favourite Beatles song. Picking a favourite Beatles song isn’t quite so simple though, even if you let someone else do it for you.

Hit after hit was played including ‘She Loves You’, ‘I Saw Her Standing There’, ‘A Hard Day’s Night’, ‘Eight Days a Week’, ‘Ticket to Ride’, ‘Get Back’, ‘Come Together’, ‘Help!’, ‘We Can Work It Out’, ‘Day Tripper’, ‘I Feel Fine’, ‘Nowhere Man’, ‘I Wanna Hold Your Hand’, and ‘Twist and shout’, while hit after hit was also left in reserve.

Their set was split in two halves of forty odd minutes or so each, with an interval of around half an hour in between. We expected costume changes for the second half of the gig and there were. Sadly, Sandro’s prediction that they’d now be wearing Sgt. Pepper costumes and my guess that they’d be dressed as giant beetles were both wrong. Instead they wore tan coloured jackets which, drawing on my encyclopaedic knowledge of all things Beatles, were clearly inspired by those worn by the real fab four a famous gig at the now demolished Shea Stadium in New York in 1965, that was the subject of a documentary called ‘Stop Boring Us With Pointless Facts You Willy’.

Surprisingly, ‘Ringo’ was arguably the most vocal member of the group between songs, presumably because his impersonation was the best, and he was actually pretty funny. There was even the odd mention of Penarth peppered throughout the gig, which was more amusing than it sounds.

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“Who was the best?” he asked early on. “Was it Paul or John?” he continued playfully. “Or was it George? Or even Ringo?” “It definitely wasn’t Ringo. . .” said ‘Paul’ whose Liverpudlian accent was next in the pecking order and did most of the talking along with ‘Ringo’. The Starr of the show even got to sing ‘With a Little Help from My Friends’. “I’m not much of a singer,” he admitted after it. “You’re not much of a drummer either,” ‘Paul’ chipped in, “he’s a good talker though.”

‘Ringo’ also tried to instigate a dancing competition for the women in front of the stage, with the prize being the chance to go out back with him to their Ford Transit. Although said with tongue in cheek, if a real Beatle had said such a thing, then I’m sure there would have been chaos as ladies flooded the dance floor, on this occasion only Sandro whizzed in to perform the funky chicken. After a fine rendition of ‘Can’t Buy Me Love’, ‘Ringo’ was at it again. “You can buy love y’ know. For about a fiver in Penarth,” he said, tarring my childhood memories of Thomas The Tank Engine for good

For the real band, it must have been difficult to decide on a setlist toward the end of their career, and The Beatles For Sale had the difficult choice of deciding what to go out on, but as soon as they started playing ‘Hey Jude’ you knew they'd made the right one. It was a rousing rendition and a perfect end. The audience were thoroughly entertained, and the band had lived up to any realistic expectations, with a repertoire of ready made classics performed well.

Unfortunately, Sandro and I can only sit back and wonder what it might have been like to see the real Beatles live, but I imagine there would have been fewer mentions of Penarth.

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May

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

Week 19

Week 19 - Wednesday 11th May – Coal Exchange, Cardiff – Devlin - £11.50

“Isn’t it a wonder that this building was the place where the first £1,000,000 cheque was written?”

Another week, another genre. After the exertions of crawling around Camden last week, Sandro and I stuck much closer to home for a considerably less expensive gig. The venue was Cardiff’s Coal Exchange which we were visiting for the first time this year, and the performer was grime prince himself, Devlin.

As anyone who’s ever met the two of us will tell you, I can pass for a grime fan pretty well. The attitude, the frown, the piercings, the muscles, the tattoos, the lingo and the little pointless shaven lines in my hair may all be missing, but I do know three Dizzee Rascal songs. Sandro is another matter entirely. With his long hair, beard and wide vocabulary, he’s about as grime as Tim Westwood, so I, knowing that we grime fans can be violent and unfriendly to outsiders, had a job on my hands to get him through the night unscathed.

Sandro and I had earlier met at The George and I taught him ‘the way of Grime’ by requesting my second favourite song, Fatman Scoop’s ‘Put Your Hands Up’ . We took a taxi to the Coal Exchange fairly early, and it was then that Sandro pronounced his awe at the great history of the building, and its significant role within the coal industry back when Cardiff was the biggest coal port in the world. Lots of youngsters with shaved heads turned and stared at us with bemused looks and arched eyebrows.

“Ye, innit wicked bruv. Word,” I replied, saving our lives brilliantly.

In reality though, if Gigaweek has taught me anything, and I do scratch my head sometimes, it’s not to presume anything about anybody. Rather than being full of negativity and vague prejudices, it’s much better to have an open and clear mind to begin (which isn’t difficult for me), and only slag everybody off behind their backs later.

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Inside, the 1,000 capacity venue was far from full, but the couple of hundred or so who were present at the time had taken the refreshing step of standing grouped directly in front of the stage where a DJ was warming them up, as opposed to scattered around the arena in pockets a la many indie crowds. I was also relieved to see a set of drums and a couple of guitars on stage. Another encouraging sight was an empty bar. Having been through the rigmarole of queuing in Camden last week for a beer that was likely to cost upwards of £4, here we were spoiled with instant service and downwards of £4 a pint.

Based on the ease of beer purchase, and the appearance of those present, it was fair to say that a significant percentage of the mostly male audience were under 18, but this was a crowd plucked from the opposite end of the social spectrum to those that populated the You Me At Six gig we’d started the year with. Dark, gelled, spiky haired heads were replaced by mostly shaven ones; ‘Emo-band of the moment’ shirts were replaced by polo shirts; and bad postures and skinny arms were replaced by bad postures and slightly more muscly arms.

Conscious of my bad posture and skinny arms, I followed Sandro, with his bad posture and more muscly arms to the fringes of the crowd. The DJ introduced the first support act, straight out of the ghetto, it was none other than Ghetts, who took to the stage with glee, wearing dark shades and a huge gold chain around his neck. He rapped ‘til his heart was content and the crowd lapped it up. I’ve no idea what his tunes were called, but Ghetts knew his audience, and he worked them well.

Ghetts was followed by Dogzilla, who was accompanied on stage by a guitarist which brought a bit of familiarity to proceedings. 


Dogzilla, aka Dogzy or Dog Z, is a tad fatter than your average MC, which may be why he wasn’t on stage for particularly long. While he was on, he was quite entertaining so it was a surprise when he left so early. Little did I know then that he had a trick up his extra large sleeve.

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Devlin appeared on stage to delight the crowd, accompanied by two guitarists, a drummer and a female singer. Hailing from the mean streets of Dagenham, our Dev was apparently spotted by none other than Dogzilla, and brought into Dogzy’s Outakers (O.T) crew at the tender age of 15. Devlin then joined a group of other MCs who were big news in the grime world, in a collective known as The Movement, which also featured the one and only Ghetts.

His debut album, Bud, Sweat & Beers, was out last year and was well received in the grime world, and the real world too, but shockingly I hadn’t given it much of a listen prior to the gig. My ignorance knows no bounds however, and I was surprised how much I enjoyed the gig, and how accessible the music seemed. Of course, I could rarely make out more than a few consecutive words at a time, what with Devlin cramming in about ten per second, but I have it on good authority that he’s a lyrical genius (Sandro).

It seemed like an amalgamation of several different genres at once, and I couldn’t name any of them. All I knew was that beats were being broken at a furious rate, and we had to adapt to our surroundings quickly in order to avoid sticking out like a pair of badly bruised thumbs with pink polished nails. There was a whole different kind of dancing to what we’re used to, including the use of plenty of ‘finger-guns’. I cocked my thumb and joined in shooting imaginary bullets at the ceiling. “When in Rome eh?” I said to Sandro, who praised my shooting skills and pulled out his sawn-off.

The band stuck around for only a couple of songs before disappearing, although they did return later on. Devlin also reintroduced Ghetts and Dogzilla. Ghetts only stuck around for one song, whereas Dogzilla stayed a bit longer, before taking his own leave and allowing Devlin to finish on his own. He finished with an impressive freestyle as part of his encore, and despite not having a clue what he'd said, I cheered, clapped and capped the ceiling along with the rest of the crowd.

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Pleased with another entertaining and illuminating gig, Sandro and I decided to walk home. Passing through town on the way, we ignored the pull of the fast food chains and instead stopped at Spar to pick up a sandwich. When I exited, Sandro was in deep discussion with three youngsters who were sat on a bench on the corner of Queen Street. They looked like they’d been plucked straight out of west Baltimore, and apparently they’d been hassling some poor soul, before the big S had intervened.

“Whas goin’ on bruv?” I demanded as I swaggered over.

“These kids are causing trouble,” Sandro said.

I knew it was time for our good cop/bad cop routine so I eased off on the grime attitude.

“Is there a problem children?” I said pleasantly.

“Yeah, who are you bro?” one of them replied rudely.

“I’m his partner,” I said in character.

“Sounds a bit gay,” Sandro whispered.

“I mean brother. I’m his brother,” I clarified. “It’s a bit late kids, why don’t you scurry on home.”

“Yeah kids, piss off home, mummy’s probably terrified,” Sandro added.

“Pfft! Where are you two from?” one of the boys asked.

“Gabalfa,” I replied, boosting our street cred.

“Ahh, yeah, I know it well,” one boy said, before naming two or three streets to show off his knowledge.


“Yeah, they're in the general vicinity,” I guessed.
 
“How old are you?” one of the others asked.

“We ask the questions round here squirt,” Sandro said glowering.

It was getting tense. I didn’t like an enquiring mind, and they were wearing hooded tops.

“I’m twenty four,” I replied proudly.

“Really? No way!” the boy said in awe, “No way are you that old!”

“Well I did shave a few months ago,” I said stroking the baby-like skin of my chin. “How old are you?” I asked in return.

“Fifteen,” the boy replied.

“Jesus Christ! Fifteen! It’s a school night you know!?”

For some unexplained reason, without warning or provocation, one of the children suddenly decided to kick me.


I stood silently in astonishment for a few moments.

“What just happened? Did you just kick me!?” I eventually said. 


People usually resist the impulse to kick me.
 
There was a period of silence.

“Did you just kick me?” I repeated. I was suffering from shock. 

Just then, a police car drove by with its lights flashing and siren blaring.

“Shit! It’s the federals!” one of the boys said, and all three of them sprang from the bench and scarpered.

“O! I didn’t kick you hard did I mate? I didn't kick you hard,” the boy called back as he fled the scene of the crime.

“Did you just kick me?” I said once more.


There was no reply. They’d disappeared without a trace, leaving us to reflect with a mixture of amusement and bemusement.

--

“Did we just play a game of cops and robbers with a bunch of kids who are still young enough to be playing cops and robbers?” Sandro wondered aloud.

“Did a fifteen year old boy just kick me, before the three of them ran away because they thought the ‘federals’ were on to them?”

Yes we did, yes he did and yes they did. I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

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May

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

Week 18 - Dessert

Sunday

Our last full day in London and the last day of Camden Crawl began exceptionally slowly, as bodies stirred, eyes blinked, and hangover blacks were deposited. 

Eventually Sandro, Salazar, Cousin Bish and I sleepwalked to the Roundhouse Terrace for our first beer and band of the day at the late hour of two pm. Dry The River were the band and they were fairly impressive. Complete with beards and violin, I was certain they were going to play some electro-funk, but was surprised by a folky, epic sound, with the song ‘New Ceremony’ being the standout example.

After they'd vacated the stage, 2:54 took their place as it neared three o'clock. 2:54 are a couple of sisters (not nuns Whoopi) who, in spite of the apprehensiveness of the sexists among us (Salazar), following the disappointment of Fever Fever, were actually quite decent. They were uncomplicated and a bit grungy, and there was no offensive yelping which Sal always fears from female singers.

We met up again with the rest of the group at The Monarch, where Heat were ineligible to perform due to the ongoing 'Canadian Blast', an event which had been showcasing Canadian music and was coming to a close with The Russian Futurists. They were a quartet comprising a ginger beardy singer (who wasn’t dressed as a mountie regardless of what Cousin Bish tells you), a female singer (who was), a less beardy drummer and the singer’s beardy cousin on guitar and keyboard. 

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In truth the girl’s contribution was fairly limited ("Thank God!" said Salazar), but she did participate in a nice duet for a dreamy song called ‘One Night, One Kiss’. ‘Let’s Get Ready to Crumble’ was literally music to my ears and a fine example of their output, which can only be described as saccharine indie dream pop, or in several other ways if you prefer. Although Cousin Bish and I enjoyed the Russian Canadians, our companions were disappearing without a word one by one.

Sadly the dwindling audience signified that The Russian Futurists were in troubled water, but with songs like ‘Paul Simon’ we found that they bridged the gap nicely between the afternoon’s and evening’s music. I can see you shaking your head in despair even now.

With no real plan of action for the evening, after some canal-side curry and a quick trip back to the flat, Cousin Bish and I headed due south in the direction of Mornington Crescent tube station, more specifically Koko, which we quickly decided was our favourite venue of the weekend. Koko is a glorious multi-tiered former theatre that originally opened in 1900, and we had plenty of time to explore all its levels.

Dinosaur Pile-Up were the band who were playing there at quarter past six, but in my widely-ignored opinion they didn’t quite match the grandness of the venue. They did have one song we both enjoyed, “a new one” called ‘Daydream’ which was a bit less frantic than most of their stuff, which was nuts and bolts alternative rock. Each to their own though, and there was plenty of head banging going on, not least from their guitarist who wore an ‘edge beanie’, which Cousin Bish reckoned could only mean one thing: baldness.

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Next on our agenda were Little Comets, who K-May and Salazar had both recommended, but we didn’t let that deter us. There was still an hour to fill before they were due to play at Annies up north in Kentish Town, so we stopped halfway at Camden Rock where Mirrors were providing the entertainment with some synth orientated electronic wizardry that reminded me of a few dodgy 80’s movie soundtracks.

They played some good stuff, and I could even see some of myself in them, although their show nearly ended early when I came close to destroying the sound technician’s equipment. Luckily I avoided the inevitable seven years bad luck, and along with the rest of a well-populated crowd, had the pleasure of witnessing some weird and wonderful videos on the screen behind the stage, including a baby’s birth in reverse, which, as my mother will confirm with much disappointment, is simply not possible in real life.

Suitably disturbed we made it to Annies, one of the many bars that had transformed into a credible live music venue for the weekend, and it was absolutely packed. Little Comets started at around twenty past eight and looked surprised and delighted at the turnout. The Geordie band were out of this world (too obvious?) and played a riveting set of indie tunes. Their debut album ‘In Search of Elusive Little Comets’ was released earlier this year, and their set including some indie nuggets of gold, the pick of the bunch being ‘One Night in October’, ‘Adultery’ and my personal favourite ‘Joanna’ (or was it ‘D’you Wanna?’).

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We headed back toward Mornington Crescent, where I hoped to introduce Cousin Bish to the delights of Pete & The Pirates at The Purple Turtle. Disappointingly though, there was a rather long queue so we nipped back into Koko instead. The consolation that we’d both been counting on was British Sea Power, who were on at ten. Having seen BSP at The Globe in Cardiff, we knew they guaranteed electricity, just not as much as a dirty, great non-renewable band.

They didn't let us down, setting the tone from the off with ‘Lights out for Darker Skies’, and also playing the hugely entertaining  ‘Atom’, the wonderful ‘Waving Flags’, the brilliant ‘Carrion’ and the protest song of the year ‘Who’s in Control’. Sandro joined us during their set, which might explain why Koko’s urinals all seemed to be overflowing.

As we sang 'Who's i Control's lyrics “Over Here! Over There! Over Here! Every-fucking-where!” and protested about nothing in particular, Cousin Bish and I stormed back to the centre of Camden, leaving our companions trailing in our wake. It was no surprise to see a massive queue for Razorlight at the Electric Ballroom, so we finished our weekend with Johnny Foreigner who didn’t start until twelve thirty.

I’m afraid to say that I don’t remember a single thing about their performance but I’m reliably informed by Cousin Bish that they were very, very racist.

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And that was that. Camden Crawl was over. I wish I could say that was the end of this tale too, as I’m sure you do, but it isn’t.

I was exhausted, and in shock that Cousin Bish didn’t want one last Subway, when we got back to our adopted home. Fortunately our ever thoughtful friends had cooked so when we stumbled in, we ate and had a final drink with the indefatigable Sandro and Salazar. I was looking forward to waking up to the news that Osama Bin Laden had been killed, but San and Sal were wide awake, so I had to resort to one last trick: a second Tim Vine DVD, Punslinger Live! 


First however, I went to share my excitement with the toilet bowl.

Half an hour or so passed, and I hadn’t returned. Sandro, being the concerned and considerate soul that he is, raised himself and came in search of me, presumably fearing the worst.

Had I fallen and knocked myself out? 


Choked on my own vomit? 


Been attacked by an escaped axe wielding lunatic? 


Or worse, bumped into a half-naked P. Mushy in the corridor?

Sandro knocked on the locked bathroom door. There was no response.

He called out my name. Still no response.

Realising that something was awry, he called on one of his trusty coins. Utilising his famous lock picking skills, he forced the door open.

What he encountered then would have been enough to scar most people for life and cause most lady-folk to faint, so it was commendable that he didn’t let out a blood-curdling scream there and then. 


Instead, keeping his wits about him, he returned to the lounge to rouse Cousin Bish and Sal, and gave them the chance to witness the horrifying scene in the bathroom.

There I sat, asleep, propped up on the toilet seat, with 'Mr. Pecker' and his hand luggage in full view. They were kind enough to take a photograph for the ages, which I deleted for the good of mankind, after I'd been woken by the sound of a confused voice. 


"Isn't that usually bigger than those?"

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May

30-6 - Camden Crawl - ✓
7-13 -?
14-20 -?
21-27 - Manic Street Preachers
28-3 -?

Week 18 - Main Course

Saturday

The first day of Camden Crawl proper began the way festivals tend to begin, with an exchange of tickets for wristbands. I always feel ripped off. We also obtained some poorly designed but useful official 'event guides'.

After studying these (the wristbands not the event guides) at The World’s End over a slow pint, we eventually formed our plans for the day. Mine was to follow Cousin Bish. We accompanied P. Mushy and Sandro to The Camden Eye, which was exceptionally small and exceptionally crammed. Feeling right at home were Newport’s very own, The Dead Beggars Club, who were playing a set that lasted less than half an hour and began at twenty to two.

By the time we arrived they only had a couple of songs left to play, but there was just enough time to notice that the singer was rather small, whereas the bassist was rather large. Turning my famously perceptive gaze to their music, I decided it was also quite large and angular, maybe even square shaped.

More importantly, it was five quid for a Gaymers. We were so disgusted by this that we decided it was P. Mushy’s round.

The Dead Beggars Club seemed like a good old fashioned South Walian rock band to me, so it would have been nice to see them from the beginning. In complete contrast to their lo-fi sound was the next act, Rachael Sage, who whipped out a keyboard from nowhere (a big keyboard case actually) and sat down to play a few songs.

She showed an impressive amount of American confidence, played some entertaining songs and frequently engaged with the audience. As she looked around, seemingly making eye contact with as many people as possible, she utilised the eyebrow raise to great effect. Between songs she was very chatty, evoking memories of the old-fashioned, one-man/woman shows that I’ve never been to. Her tour manager stood next to us, holding a clipboard headed with the ominous heading ‘Mailing List’.

Fortunately we escaped with our email addresses unknown, and headed to the Roundhouse.

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An old favourite from Week 11, Benjamin Francis Leftwich, was the attraction on the Roundhouse Terrace Stage at three o’clock, along with the opportunity to drink in the sun. There were plenty present, but on the whole people seemed more interested in the sun-drenched drinking than BFL. Most were sitting down relaxing and weren’t wholly attentive and you could say a melodic, mellow singer-songwriter like BFL created perfect background noise.

P. Mushy and Cousin Bish got to hear his unique voice for the first time and shockingly, we also realised that the lyrics about a rock that had made Sandro guffaw so maniacally and me giggle so girlily (which is a perfectly cromulent word) the last time we’d seen him, were actually completely different to what we’d remembered.

In his song ‘Box of Stones’, the guffaw triggering “In the forest, there is a rock” was actually the much more poignant “The forest had a rock in it” (I've already amended Week 11 accordingly). Apparently it’s not just any rock. It’s a rock that blocks animals and turns them to stone and then they lose their faces! Sinister stuff indeed and certainly no guffawing matter.

Also on the terrace were a crack team of Wrigley’s sales girls and boys, who were handing out Wrigley’s 5 gum for free. On tasting it, I understood why. 


We then stupidly accepted an invitation to climb inside the back of a taxi and have photos taken of us posing in pairs of Ray Ban sunglasses. The upside of this interruption was that we were promised free sunglasses if we went aboard the Ray Ban Routemaster, a double-decker bus doubling as a music venue for the festival. The downside was that we were asked to give our email addresses. 


Fortunately Cousin Bish and I are both well versed in the art of giving out false email addresses, as anyone who’s ever tried to email BertvanWinklevoss@hotmail.co.uk will testify. 


“That’s not your email address,” Sandro helpfully pointed out in earshot the evil Ray Ban man.

“I’ve got two,” I lied cleverly, avoiding suspicion.

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The next venue was the catchily-named Red Bull Bedroom Jam Outdoor Live Arena, a temporary outdoor stage where the eight of us reassembled to see The King Blues. They were on home turf and were superb, with the crowd lapping up their fast and furious Ska-Punk and political lyrics. 'Political' meaning anti-war and anti-establishment, as opposed to lyrics about the day’s discussions within the House of Commons, as heard in songs such as ‘The Streets are Ours’ and ‘We Are Fucking Angry’.

“Going to war, to prevent war, is the most stupid thing I ever heard!” lead singer Jonny ‘Itch’ Fox sang on one of their highlights, ‘Save the World, Get the Girl’, clearly never having played a game of Buzzrection with Little P.

The King Blues were followed by Fever Fever, a trio from Norwich made up of a couple of ladies and a gentleman. Half the audience had disappeared, but Sandro said they’d been tipped by no less than Huw Stephens so we stuck around. It may have been that they weren’t suited to the large outdoor stage, or it may just be that I’m sexist, but unfortunately they weren’t quite as entertaining as we’d hoped. Even so, they’re still the best band I’ve seen from Norwich.

Cousin Bish and I then took a long walk to Kentish Town to the HMV Forum, stopping for an obligatory Subway en route but forgetting to carry out our ‘Kate or Diana’ poll. Little P and Kimbo Slice also appeared at the Forum, and caught sight of us just as we were ducking behind cover. Frankie & The Heartstrings were on stage at quarter past six, playing in very different surroundings to those that Sandro and I had seen them in earlier in the year, but their danceable indie jingles went down well here too.

Little P and Kimbo didn’t stick around for Villagers who were up next, but having missed them when they supported Elbow in Cardiff, Cousin Bish and I did. Theirs was a slower, eerier sound, and the dancing was replaced by swaying, or leaning in my case, which is not to say they weren’t very good. I just like leaning.

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Sandro and Salazar arrived just before Miles Kane came out and stole the show. The former Rascals front-man and one half of The Last Shadow Puppets has his first solo album, The Colour of The Trap, out in May and on this evidence it’ll be worth a listen. He looked a great guitarist (he played chords and everything) and played some great tunes, such as sleazy stomper ‘Come Closer’, beach-pop pearler ‘Quicksand’  and the superb, breathless closer ‘Inhaler’.

I also approved of the way he berated an audience member who’d flung a beer toward the stage. A fella in front of us was using being pissed as an excuse to act like a twat, but thankfully he was thwarted by Salazar. First, she tried to reason with him, but this didn't work, so she had to flex her biceps. As the twat drew back his arm and prepared to launch a bottle to disrupt Miles' chord playing, Salazar bravely grabbed him by the elbow, while I cowered heroically behind, pointing like an evil monkey. 


It was a proud moment, which is what I'm used to in this area. As we strolled away from the Forum, we were chased away from an Indian Restaurant whose floor had amazingly caught my vomit on an equally momentous night last year. Sal disappeared to pull more elbows and watch Little Comets, while the rest of us returned to one of the more central venues, the Jazz Café, where Dananananaykroyd were playing at half past ten. More importantly, it was only £1.50 for a pint of lager. It was finally my round.


We watched the frantic 'fight-pop' from the balcony upstairs. Short and sharp instrumental ‘Hey Everyone’ and big single ‘Black Wax’ were the two tunes I recognised and were worth the entry fee (it was free) alone.  On the whole they were incredibly loud and energetic, which apparently scared off the attending VIP Mark Ronson, but maybe a tad incoherent. Judging by the 28 Days Lateresque scenes below, it was to the fans’ tastes. Not many of them would have joked that they'd would have preferred to have seen Billillillillmurray.


Salazar met us again for a quick trip to Ben’s café and a rubbish small pizza (sorry Ben), before we returned to the Jazz Café at half past midnight for Cloud Control, an Aussie band who'd had a glowing recommendation from Sal. Little P and Kimbo joined us, but failed to recruit Cousin Bish and I into their dancing school, as we welcomed the chance to sit down after a long days drinking and standing up. Little P and Kimbo weren’t bothered though, judging by their energetic performance of the Cha-cha-Cha.


My memories of Cloud Control are positive, with some fine Aussie indie rock on show. The highlight was the unforgettable ‘Of Course I Don’t Remember This Song, It Was Gone Midnight and I Was Pissed’. Their first album is out in May and might jog some well hidden memories if I ever listen to it.


Disappointingly, we encountered no Anglo-Celt domestics on the way back to the flat, but at least I got to fall asleep once more to the magnificent Tim Vine.

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Sunday

April

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 -?
14-20 -?
21-27 - Manic Street Preachers
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 -?