Week 30

Week 30 – Friday 29^th July - Eddie Spaghetti - Thekla, Bristol - £10

“Sergio Leone would have loved this. . .”

Once upon a time in the West Country, the man with no name joined his orang-utan like brother in crossing the border for the first time in a month. In the vein of all great Spaghetti Westerns, and in the vein of all great Gigaweeks, there was a fine soundtrack, a brave hero (Yours Truly), an ugly villain (Sandro), and alcohol aplenty. This Gigaweek featured the spectacularly named Eddie Spaghetti’s Country and Western music which is why Sandro made reference to the legendary film director.

Eddie was an unknown quantity to Sandro and me, but his name was enough to inspire confidence, although we were unable to persuade the Good (Cousin Bish), the Bad (Salazar), or the Ugly (Candy) to join us. 

With it being pre-season, I was yet to enforce my strict no-alcohol-on-a-Friday (unless-my-arm-is-twisted-of-course) policy, so Sandro and I parted with a fistful of dollars for a four pack of Magners to take on the train. We were returning to The Thekla, a venue that would have looked out of place in most Westerns, considering it’s a boat. 

The girls on the door weren’t too sure about letting us board at first, doubtlessly threatened by Sandro’s Stetson and spurs, but they relented eventually. 

The gig was taking place in the small bar of the boat, rather than the main section that we’re familiar with, and when we entered supporting act Howlin’ Lord had already started howling. Although he looked like a hillbilly from the American South, he’s actually a Bristolian, which would have been surprising if I hadn't met plenty of Bristolians before.

He provided the scene setting, background, country music while we spent a few dollars more and sipped on the favourite drink of the Cowboy: a Morgan’s Spiced Rum and Coke.

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Eddie took to the stage with a guitar but sadly no harmonica and introduced himself with a twirl. Spaghetti was going solo tonight and is currently touring his third solo record, but he’s also the front man of an American rock band called Supersuckers who he proclaimed to be “The greatest rock and roll band in the world!” which was either tongue in cheek or he’s never heard of Hanson. 

He was an engaging stage presence who loved the word awesome and he shamelessly gave the audience a queue to go wild at the end of each song, which involved him playing a chord on his guitar three times and singing “Cha, cha, cha!” simultaneously. Impressively, although he kept this up for every single song, he somehow avoided it becoming tiresome, and it genuinely improved the atmosphere with almost everyone joining in.

The audience were also invited to make requests, and there were clearly a fair few Supersuckers fans present, as there were plenty of suggestions made for songs from their back-catalogue. “That’s a good one,” Eddie would invariably say, “I’m saving that for later. Did somebody say. . .” and then he’d play a song with a title that I’m almost certain nobody had asked for. 

Eddie had brought his family on tour with him; with his wife manning the merchandise table, where he mentioned several times that his new record was selling for the ambitious price of ten pounds. His daughter Elvis, who’s a toddler, toddled up to the microphone but then refused Eddie’s invite to sing into it, which was immature of her. 

His son Quattro however, went as far as to take up the guitar and perform a song himself. He must have been about ten to twelve years old and apparently the song was one he’d written for a school talent show. It was an excellent song for a ten year old but if he is actually twelve or older, he needs to pull his finger out.

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Shania Twain is Sandro’s favourite Country singer for obvious reasons (her voice), and while the Country influence was obvious, there was enough of a rocky edge to Eddie’s music to keep the show entertaining to the likes of me and Sandro. He played a mixture of Supersuckers’ songs, his own solo songs and covers, playing both a song called ‘Marie’ from his new album about the “Death of a Homey,” and a cover of Ice Cube’s ‘Dead Homiez’. 

There were a mixture of slow songs and some hectic songs, from the gentle cover of classic Country song ‘Always on My Mind’, to the frantic Supersuckers’ songs ‘I Want The Drugs’, with his own songs such as ‘Everybody’s Girl,’ falling somewhere in between.

He fitted in an AC/DC cover, a cover of Johnny Cash’s ‘Cocaine Blues’, and a song by the lesser known Lee Harvey Oswald Band, who included a member of Supersuckers, called ‘Jesus Never Lived on Mars’ which Eddie guessed may be, “the only song that describes Jesus as a bit of a faggot,” which may be correct.

When I returned from a loo break, Eddie was busy sharing the tale of a faux pas he’d made the previous night in Cardiff where, like Beardo of Les Savy Fav before him, he’d made the classic American mistake of referring to, “Cardiff, England,” much to the displeasure of the locals. 

“Most of them speak English,” he said, excusing himself, “they just put Gobbledygook on their road signs. I didn’t bother mentioning the fact that they put the English on top.” 

As proud Welshmen Sandro and I were both suitably insulted and shook our heads and tutted in fury.

“Has anyone got any Welsh relatives?” Eddie asked.

 “Yeah, my brother,” I said, but sadly Spaghetti didn’t hear.

“If you have, you’ll probably deny it,” he continued laughing.

“No, he’s definitely Welsh,” I said again pointing at my brother, “aren’t you Sandro?”

Sandro thought for a second and then nodded.

(You may be wondering why we risked Welsh baiting in Bristol, when we could have seen him in Cardiff the night before. If so, feel free to keep wondering.)

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Towards the end of the gig, during another Supersuckers’ favourite, ‘Dead on the Water’, Eddie invited everyone to raise their middle fingers and approach him on stage for a photo but Sandro, who abhors bad language and obscene gestures, held me back and called Eddie a ‘fucking wanker’ for being so immature.

Signore Spaghetti finished in true rock and roll style with a final Supersuckers song called ‘Pretty Fucked Up’, another fast-paced song about a girl who used to be pretty, but ended up as the title suggests, which if you’re ever lucky enough to meet my mother, is exactly how she’ll describe me.

Back on dry land, Sandro and I were surprised to find that the 40th Bristol Harbour Festival was on-going right in front of our noses. Intrigued, we did a bit of exploring and found hundreds of people gathered, sitting on the grass around Queen Square where there had been free live music and plenty of drinking. 

There were also plenty of stalls, selling a range of food from all over the world, from Chinese and Indian, to French and Bristolian, but there was no spaghetti. Sandro and I made the regrettable decision to buy some stodgy Paella at the first stall we came to, before heading back to the train station.

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 “So, what did you think of Eddie then? Did he pasta test?” I asked on the train home, with a wink and a nudge.

“Don’t start making terrible puns now,” Sandro warned me unamused. 

“Me!?” I said incredulously, “That’s prepastarous!” I added, while Sandro ignored me.

Clearly striking on a rich vein of comedy, I continued unabated.

“Do you think I’m some kind of pesto? Someone who would shamelessly penne an insult to the English linguini? What kind of a lame excouscous of a man do you take me for?” 

Inexplicably, Sandro didn’t laugh.

I would love to say that our journey home passed uninterrupted, with a constant barrage of pasta related puns, but the arrival opposite us on the train of a particularly irritating idiot ruined that. 

With Sandro and I sat at a table, three middle aged fellas sat at the adjacent table, and were joined by an equally middle-aged Essex girl, judging from her accent and fake tan. She’d clearly had more than a bit to drink, as had the men, who proved to be fairly annoying themselves.

She was full of Daily Mail pearls of wisdom, and some things she said would have made Nick Griffin blush, but more importantly she stopped me getting in some much needed sleep.

“I don’t pay taxes,” she said loudly, “but who are these people coming over here, taking our jobs, and not paying taxes?” she continued with perfect logic. 

“Who are these Romanians, eh?” She asked sensibly,

‘I think they might be people from Romania,’ I thought to myself,

“Are Romanians allowed to work here?” she asked to baffled laughter from the three blokes. “Do they pay taxes?”

When she then asked Sandro and me for a lighter, I wish I’d put on a Romanian accent and told her to choke on her cigarettes, or put on a Mexican accent and said: 

“Hey, Blondie! You know what you are? Just a dirty son-of-a-b-!”

Unfortunately, I doubted she’d ever seen any Spaghetti Westerns, so I just shook my head and reported her for tax evasion instead.

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July

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

Week 29

Week 29 – Thursday 21^st 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 29^th 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.

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. 

“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.

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July

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

Week 28

Week 28 – Thursday 14th July – The Big Gig – The Globe, Cardiff - £5.00

“I’m sorry, but covering one of the most well-known songs in the country at the moment is cheating. . .”

On the day before the release of the final instalment in the little known Harry Potter series, Sandro successfully convinced Salazar to sacrifice her planned night in reading about Witches and Golden Snitches (whilst listening to The Wombats of course), to join us for what was essentially a ‘Battle of the Bands’ contest at The Globe.  

It was the inaugural ‘Big Gig’ competition, with Cardiff Council’s events team, combining with Nation radio to organise an extravaganza over the course of three days. On offer for the winners, was the chance to perform at the Cardiff Big Weekend, a free outdoor music festival in August that I consider to be the most important festival of the year, and definitely won’t be attending. 

The Big Weekend has hosted bands like Los Campesinos, Feeder, Athlete, The Zutons and Ash in recent years, so it was a tantalising prospect for tonight’s contenders, especially for those of them who were fans of Funeral For a Friend, Gabrielle and The Feeling who were headlining the three-day event this year, and let’s be honest, who isn’t?

After a quick pre-gig pint and meal at The Claude where there was a disappointing lack of violence, we headed to The Globe and managed to find a few stools to plant ourselves on. The voice of Nation Radio, Chris Blumer, was the compere for the evening and took to the stage equipped with a microphone and his radio friendly voice, which close friends and family must find irritating by now. 

We were only committed enough to make it for the final of this event, and the two days previously had literally sorted the men from the boys, with a contest for the under-18s on Tuesday, and over 18s on Wednesday night. Mr Blumer revealed that as well as the winners and runners-up from each night, there was also a ‘Wild Card’ selection from each night, which meant that a total of six bands would be performing, which was all terribly exciting.

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Blumer also declared that the judging panel included a Nation Radio presenter, an ex-guitarist for the band Funeral for a Friend, a hairy giant, a lady from Cardiff Council and Louis Walsh, though I may have misheard him for at least one of those. 

The first band of the night brought back fine memories for me and Sandro, from half a year ago, for it was Fjords, who we’d seen in this very venue playing to a far smaller audience. On this occasion, although The Globe was nowhere near capacity there were plenty present, presumably many friends and family members of those involved in the contest.

All seven members of Fjords crammed onto the stage once more, showing that they hadn’t taken (or been aware of) Sandro’s advice to trim the herd. Sandro, who was already angry that The Weird Sisters weren’t playing, was also incensed that Fjords’ trumpeter stood on the opposite side of the stage this time, and he was visibly angry that the short bassist was still short.

‘Russian Doll’ was the opening song of the night, and reminded us that it was indeed a good tune, and we hadn’t just had beer-tinted ear drums the first time we’d heard it. Sal, who hadn’t seen them before, agreed that they had a couple of really good tunes, but argued that there were a few naff ones too. Surprisingly, she thought the naff ones were the ones where the female singer took lead vocals. . .

We weren’t sure how the running order had been worked out at the time, Sandro guessed that some sort of talking hat had worked it out, but being the opening act in such a contest was bound to leave Fjords with little chance of success, so we correctly assumed that they were the ‘Wild Card’ from the over-18s event. The front-man probably mentioned being the “warm-up act” once too often, and with a hint too much bitterness in his voice, but that didn’t stop him from leaping from the stage and dancing with members of the crowd, who on the whole received them well.

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The second band up were the ‘Wild Card’ from the under-18s night, a double-act called The Dead Beats, who were a couple of boys from Barry who had a bluesy edge to them. The singer’s growly voice belied his years and Sandro thought it may just sway the judges and help them to do a Goran, the most famous tennis playing magician (yep, even he’s a witch), and give them the coveted Big Gig trophy, but of course, at that point we didn’t realise they’d only managed the bronze in their heat.

Following The Dead Beats were the runners-up from the over-18s night, valley rockers Eric Unseen. It would be cruel to slag off a new band working hard to get a break, but that’s never stopped Sandro, and Eric Unseen were prime candidates. The front-man had an air of arrogance about him that fell on just the wrong side of the amusing/irritating fence, and their music was in the same vein of the many bands that have come out of South Wales in recent years, which is by no means a compliment.

In fairness, it wasn’t as though they were evil or racist or anything, but you never know. They seemed to enjoy the occasion, and the singer actually seemed humble enough. He certainly said all the right things: “It’s a pleasure to be here; thanks to the judges and everyone who organised the gig; don’t do drugs; blah, blah, blah,” so perhaps Sandro was a bit out of order when he threw faeces at the stage.

The equally poorly-named Ellie Makes Music was on next. Surprisingly, Ellie Makes Music is the moniker for a young bespectacled ginger girl, who may or may not be called Ellie, and almost certainly makes music. Sal suggested that if she’d been born ten years earlier, she would have been the perfect person to portray Moaning Myrtle on screen, which I believe was intended as a flattering compliment.

Ellie was runner-up in the under-18s category, she was clearly a talented girl and different to Eric Unseen in every sense. Equipped with an acoustic guitar she played a series of gentle songs before disappearing to polite and warm applause. Would she woo the judges? Sandro thought so, but then he’d tipped everyone so far, whereas sexist Sal scowled disapprovingly.

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Things started to heat up when we moved on to the winners of the two heats. First up was Ffred Jones, from the over-18s category. Ffred is a big, bearded and bespectacled singer-songwriter, who resembled Harry Potter himself, but in place of a wand was an acoustic guitar, and his most impressive spell was the way he spelled Fred. Ffred was backed by a band that included his brother (Ggeorge), and they were clearly competent musicians, but they didn’t really show off any real magic.

An MC joined them on stage for one song to add a bit of variety to proceedings, and they finished on a cover of Elbow’s ‘One Day Like This’, which was the straw that broke Sandro’s back. It would be hard to do a bad version of Elbow’s famous curtain closer and Ffred’s was pleasant enough and fairly well-received by the crowd, but not quite as impressive as the real thing at the Pyramid stage at Glastonbury less than a month earlier.

Sandro saw the use of such a song as cheating and was apoplectic with rage. “There’s clearly no rule against it, what’s the problem?” I asked him.

“It’s an unwritten rule, which should be observed for the sake of musicianmanship. Without it we are lost,” he replied despairingly, caressing his copy of the Holy Book of Battle of the Bands Etiquette and Musicianmanship. 

“Is that a real word? Is that a real book? Why are you wearing a pointy hat?” were all irrelevant questions that I had no desire to ask. Meanwhile Salazar had only one thing to say: “This is no Bridget Jones.”

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The under 18s category winners were a band called Inconsiderate Parking, who were up well past their bed time, but were actually pretty good. “We’re your headline act for the evening,” their ukulele wielding front-man said cheekily. He also apologised for tuning his instrument in the toilet earlier, which caused alarm bells in my euphemism littered mind.

It had been a fiercely contested competition, with all six acts evidently desperate to win and there was clearly bad blood between Ffred Jones and Ellie Makes Music, with Ellie using language foul enough to make Sandro blush. Eric Unseen were seemingly universally unpopular, shunned by everyone and their mums, whilst The Dead Beats and Fjords took turns smashing each other’s instruments. Undoubtedly also overcome with rage at the Elbow cover, Fjords’ trumpeter finally got his moment to shine, and approaching Ffred, he shoved his instrument where the sun doesn’t.

I jest of course; in fact that last paragraph contains the first fabrications in Gigaweek history. In reality, all the acts seemed to have mixed well and were supportive of each other throughout the night, with a few of them joining in to mosh for the final song of the night from Inconsiderate Parking.

Chris Blumer returned to the stage and indicated that the winner would be announced shortly. Eager to know the result, and with Red Stripe at four for a tenner, we decided to stick around to find out. When Blumer reappeared for the final time, he revealed that the judges had chosen Ffred Jones as the winner of the inaugural Big Gig,  and the prize of performing at the Big Weekend. Ffred was understandably delighted, and he and his band posed for photos and were interviewed by a woman from Nation Radio. 

Sandro, of course, was livid, and he aimed a yellowy spell with his wand (Willow, Four inches, Peacock feather) at the stage, before storming out and tossing away his copy of the Holy Book of Battle of the Bands Etiquette and Musicianmanship as he went.

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July

2-8 - Tribes - ✓
9-15 - The Big Gig - ✓
16-22 - ?
23-29 - ?

Week 27

Week 27 – Thursday 7^th July – Tribes – Cardiff Arts Institute, Cardiff - £5.50

“Roll with the punches. . .”

The post-Glastonbury blues had hit Sandro hard. The knowledge that he’d have to wait two years for the next one to come around was clearly tormenting him and he’d been camping in the garden ever since we returned home. I tried to persuade him to have his first shower in two weeks and join me for another gig. “What do we do when we fall off the horse?” I asked but was met by silence.

“We get back on the horse!” I said answering my own question, 

“Sorry, but I’m not a gymnast,” Sandro answered glumly.

He came around though; however we were still left with the tricky proposition of actually finding a gig to go to. It can be surprisingly difficult during festival season, and it took us at least seventeen minutes to find a rescheduled gig from new boys Tribes, who had been due to play Cardiff in June but had been forced to cancel. 

The contrast with the trials and tribulations of Glastonbury couldn’t be wilder, with tickets at a mere five pound fifty each rather than two hundred, and in place of the muddy fields of Pilton, we found ourselves at Cardiff Arts Institute, one of Cardiff’s least muddy venues. This venue of course, was the scene of the infamous Daedelus gig in March; the closest we’d come to failing in our Gigaweek challenge so far, a memory that still sends chills down my spine. We also had no additional companions, which left us in the unfortunate position of having to talk to each other. 

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Our arrival at CAI was prompter than usual, courtesy of a lift from our sister, Ugly Betty, so we had an hour to fill before the first support act. We grabbed a couple of costly Peronis, which were expensive enough to make cans of Red Stripe seem appealing, and sat down to discuss phone hacking, and who’s phone we’d each hack if it wasn’t morally reprehensible. Sandro surprised me by choosing Gok Wan, whilst I opted for Gandhi. 

As music venues go, the Arts Institute is a pretty small and unusual one. It doesn’t host too many well-known bands and is more suited to the DJ’s that frequent its stage than live musicians. In fact, this was the first time I’d be seeing an actual band play here and I was wondering how they’d manage. 

Sandro and I remained respectfully seated for the first act, who appeared to be just one man, though he may well have had a backing band that remained hidden from our vantage point. He could even have been a She, or one of those in-betweenies, you couldn’t be too sure from our position. 

An atypical feature of the place is that everything is essentially narrow and elongated, and things are at right angles to what you’d usually expect, which may not make sense, but imagine a clock. Not a digital one, that would be pointless. A clock with two hands and a big round face, and maybe a pair of squinty, bloodshot red eyes. 

As you enter CAI, the bar runs along the left hand side at 9 o’clock, there’s a small staircase down to the dance floor beyond it at 12 o’clock, and once you reach 12 o’clock, the stage is to the right at 3’o’clock, with a big black curtain to the left at the new 9 o’clock and a door leading to the garden and smoking area at the new 12 o’clock. If you reach 12 o’clock and your still with Sandro, you should start to panic.

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Very few people had made it to the dance floor to watch the first support act, but Sandro and I and a few more headed down the stairs for the next band, who were a local group called We’re No Heroes. They were a trio that did indeed look like heroes, especially the one in the Spiderman outfit, and they were undoubtedly exponents of the best-named genre of all, Math-Rock. 

Sandro immediately spotted similarities to Foals, which could have been due to their long faces, or their distinctive guitar playing. They shared singing duties, and did their best to enthuse the tiny crowd, inviting us unsuccessfully to move away from the black curtain at the back. They were good fun though, and set Tribes up nicely. 

Tribes had a certain look about them. There were at least two hideous vests that they’d probably insist should be called tank tops, and hair was universally unkempt and possibly unwashed. Those observations are not intended to be derogatory though, in spite of the use of the word hideous. I frequently wear hideous vests, and Sandro’s hair is famously unkempt and unwashed. The singer had that Julian Casablancas style vacant expression that suggested the NME would love him, and he tried to encourage a few who were lurking on the fringes to join us on the dance floor. 

“It’s our first headline show in Cardiff” the front-man said to the modest audience and Sandro, whose arrogance knows no bounds. “We look forward to coming back many times in the future” he added touchingly, probably anticipating bigger crowds and venues in the coming years. 

The wife beater vests detracted slightly from the “New York Cool” they may have been going for, but they had some decent songs and were pretty entertaining on the whole, so may be worth keeping an eye on. More importantly, it was a taxi that would be taking us home, rather than a pair of wellies.

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The taxi driver was an interesting chap, who wanted to start his own business, an accountancy practice, but had been hindered by the dreaded R word. 

“It’s been hard but you know, I’m young, the world is my oyster. Roll with the punches,” he said.

“Err, Ok. Still, at least you’ve got this gig as a taxi driver eh?” Sandro consoled him.

“Don’t fit the mould,” the taxi driver replied,

“Sorry?” Sandro said,

“When I’m producing, that’s production,” the taxi driver said, “It’s all there,” he continued inexplicably, leaving Sandro and I baffled.

“Well, good luck to you pal. The sky’s the limit eh?” I said as I paid the taxi fare,

“Don’t tell me the sky’s the limit, when there are footprints on the moon,” he said, before speeding off, and hopefully crashing.

-------

July

2-8 - Tribes - ✓
9-15 - ?
16-22 - ?
23-29 - ?

June

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 -?
9-15 -?
16-22 -?
23-29 -?

August

30-5 -?
6-12 -?
13-19 -?
20-26 - Reading
27-2 - Reading

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 -?