Week 35 - Sunday

Week 35 – Saturday 27^th & Sunday 28^th August – Reading Festival – Richfield Avenue, Reading - £200

Reading Festival – Sunday

“Well, we didn’t get much reading done at that festival. . .”

Sandro’s statement ignored the fact that Salazar had made good progress through Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban but he was right in that I’d barely touched my copy of Twilight. As well as reading less than we’d expected, we’d also drunk less, with over a crate and a half still available for our final day.

With our wallets bleeding money at the expensive bars and food stalls we decided to risk rectal examination, and attempted to smuggle some cans into the arena. Salazar led the way, with her handbag full of cans, and breezed through the barriers without attracting the attention of the keen-eyed security staff. 

I followed in her wake, trembling. I finally understood how Howard Marks and Han Solo had felt all those years ago. The inner pockets of my jacket were full of contraband and I could feel the eyes of the security staff on me. My palms were sweaty, my knees were weak and my arms were heavy. There was vomit on my sweater already, was it my mom’s spaghetti? No. On the surface though, I was calm and ready and I smiled innocently as I passed through undetected.

I’d done it! A warm thrill passed through me. I was elated and encouraged, until I released I’d wet myself. If I could get away with this with only yellow shorts for my trouble, perhaps I could get away with more ambitious crimes. Murder, maybe. I’d never liked that Sandro fellow. . . Speaking of Sandro, where was he? He’d been behind me with his pockets stuffed with cans before the barrier, but when I turned he was nowhere to be seen. 

My worst fears were confirmed when he phoned me moments later.

“They got me,” I heard through muffled tears. “They’ve done terrible things!”

“Never mind that,” I said sympathetically, “did they confiscate the beers?”

“No,” Sandro replied “I’m gonna go for a walk and down them.”

“How many have you got?” I asked.

“Uh, four or five,” he said.

“Ok. See you in two minutes.”

-------

Of course, not even Sandro would down four or five cans in two minutes on a Sunday morning so it was a little while before we saw him again. The weather was pretty nice so Sal and I went for a sit down on the grass outside the Festival Republic Stage where Dutch Uncles were playing. We nervously looked around at the security presence and decided against opening our cans. 

Sal must have been the only person that weekend to pick up a plastic cup without the intention to earn 10p, instead clandestinely sneaking to the toilets to clean and fill it with the contents of one of her cans. You have to admire how seriously we were taking this. When she returned triumphantly we looked around to see a couple of fellow smugglers sipping on cans without a care in the world.

‘Fools,’ I thought to myself. ‘It’s people like them who get innocents kicked out,’ so I reported them to the nearest steward who ejected them from the arena.

The avuncular Sandro arrived in time to see Little Comets who were delightful, even if they didn’t play ‘Adultery’. Sandro and I headed on to the NME tent to enjoy Chapel Club, and Sal joined us after being put off Tim Minchin by a massive crowd and Tim's ginger wig.

-------

We caught a glimpse of Warpaint but decided food was more important and then made for the front of the Main Stage for our festival favourites Friendly Fires. At the end of their familiar yet fresh set the football scores were announced from the stage and it was revealed that Man Utd had beaten Arsenal 8-2. Of course, any genuine football fan would already have known this, but the announcement inspired the thousands of diehard United fans present to squeal and cheer their delight.

We retreated further back to see the less lively but more interesting and influential Interpol, whose set wasn’t spectacular but simmered nicely with singles like ‘Evil’, ‘The Heinrich Manoeuvre’ , and ‘C’mere’ and came to the boil inevitably with ‘Slow Hands’ before they finished with their first single ‘Obstacle 1’. By now we were out of cans which meant I reluctantly went to the bar, only to be ID’d once again.

“Do you know who I am!?” I asked modestly.

“No,” the bar girl whose face mercifully wasn’t covered in glitter replied.

“What do you mean ‘No’? It says right there on my provisional driver’s license.”

Next up, Elbow played their perfectly measured festival set list, with Guy Garvey pulling the crowd’s strings as expertly as he’d done at Glastonbury. On the previous two occasions I’ve seen them there’s been a rendition of ‘Happy birthday’ and it was back again, this time for bassist Pete Turner, although it was Salazar’s birthday the next day so she claimed it as her own.

-------

Sunday’s headliners and the band chosen to close the festival were Muse. Fortunately, they’re fairly good at this sort of thing and their set was phenomenal. From the songs to the lights and the visuals on the big screen, they eclipsed everything that had gone before them in style. Opening with the classic ‘New Born’ they played Origin of Symmetry in full (in order) a decade after it was originally released.

That meant ‘Bliss’, ‘Space Dementia’ ‘Hyper Music’ ‘Citizen Erased’ and ‘Feeling Good’ plus the early use of ‘Plug in Baby’ which is usually reserved for much later. Amazingly, that was only half their set. Sadly there was nothing from Showbiz but they played some of the best of Absolution, Black Holes and Revelations and The Resistance.

Starting with ‘Uprising’ they then set the muddy dance floor alight with  ‘Supermassive Black Hole’, and ignited mass moshing to ‘Hysteria’ and ‘Stockholm Syndrome’ .  After almost every song I expected the end but they seemed to go on and on, to my delight each time, except when they played Undisclosed Desires. The equally recent ‘Resistance’ was an improvement and ‘Starlight’ more so before an intro cover of ‘House of the Rising Sun’ bled into the fabulous and aptly named ‘Time is Running Out’.

I was then reminded of the amazing Eddie Spaghetti, when a rendition of Morricone’s ‘Man with a Harmonica’ preceded the epic ‘Knights of Cydonia’ to finish a set which was comfortably one of the highlights of the year so far.

-------

Satisfied with the musical conclusion to our weekend, we now only had one priority: to stop our tent being burned down. With nothing else worth sticking around for (there was a silent disco but it seemed quiet) we thankfully found our still standing tent and cracked open a few cans. 

We’d seen some appalling antics over the weekend and spent the last hours of the night criticising all those pesky kids who looked like they’d been having more fun than us. In truth, while there were plenty of idiots about, there were also lots of very nice folk present. 

Sadly, negativity can stick in your head sometimes. Growing up with Sandro, my ears have become accustomed to some pretty colourful language so that wasn’t a problem, but there did seem to be more than the average number of people who had no consideration for others, which was the crucial thing for me. Be a dickhead amongst your own group by all means, but pissing on other people’s tents or trying to nick stuff qualifies you for castration in my book.

-------

We woke on the morning of Sal’s birthday with her looking forward to the gift of packing up the tent and driving us home. Some nutters were already in full flow, destroying gazebos and tents with poles and bats, while a group of teens were practising the worst pulling technique I’ve ever seen (and I roll with Cousin Bish). 

The alpha male of their group was delighting his friends with shouts of “Show us your C*nt!”, “Get your tits out!” and the like. Initially I was worried that they were calling to me, but in fact their shouts were aimed at a group of girls sat about thirty yards away. More confusingly still, the girls were giggling and eventually invited him over to sit with them.

Who says romance is dead? 

I just don’t understand kids these days. Maybe twenty four is old after all. Hey, at least it’s not twenty five. Happy Birthday Salazar.

-------

August

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

27-2 - Reading - ✓

Week 35 - Saturday

Week 35 – Saturday 27^th & Sunday 28^th August – Reading Festival – Richfield Avenue, Reading - £200

Reading Festival – Saturday

“I’ve just been ID’d by a boy whose face was covered in glitter. . .”

How young is young? I’m twenty four, which is only old to young people, and as I’m not young I don’t think it’s old. “Old enough to know better, young enough not to care,” as the slogan on my old Fido Dido pyjamas read. Admittedly, I haven’t worn those pyjamas in at least ten days, but the sentiment is still fresh. 

I consider myself to be too young to do certain things, such as complain about young people or grow facial hair, and too old to do others, for instance, get ID’d at a music festival full of sixteen-eighteen year olds. 

How wrong I was. 

By Sunday, I was condemning the nation’s youth and for the first time in a long time (honestly) I was ID’d. I even had a couple of hairs poking out of my chin.

-------

 

Saturday was an especially straightforward day to plan and describe. While the five minor stages had plenty of good bands playing we decided to base ourselves at the Main Stage for the entire day, considering that we were pretty hungover and lazy and the line-up wasn’t too shabby.

That line-up began in style with The Joy Formidable who Sandro and I saw for the fourth time this year. Even a restraining order couldn’t keep us away and this time we saw them joined by a life-sized model goat on stage, which was nice. A band I’d almost completely forgotten followed them. The Pigeon Detectives aren’t the most interesting or experimental band but they had enough crowd-pleasing tunes to justify their place on the bill, ‘Romantic Type’ my personal pick.

An entirely different proposition followed them, in the form of bluesman Seasick Steve, who was joined by Led Zeppelin legend John Paul Jones. Steve showed that he is the romantic type as he chose a lady from the crowd and serenaded her with a love song on stage. 

Sal and I then had a chance to catch up with Two Door Cinema Club, having missed their finale two months ago. ‘I Can Talk’ and others were every bit as enjoyable as expected and it would have been crazy of us not to stick around for Madness who inspired huge cheers when they began with ‘One Step Beyond’. We wandered off for food while they played some of their lesser known stuff but returned in time for ‘House of Fun’, ‘Baggy Trousers’, ‘Our House’, ‘It Must Be Love’ and ‘Madness’ which they played in a pretty impressive row.

-------

Sandro resisted the urge to head to the Alternative Stage to murder Lee Nelson, and we moved a little closer to the Main Stage for the supposed Godfathers of Emo, Jimmy Eat World. There were lots of Jimmy fans present who seemed to know every word of every song, while I barely knew the choruses of their final three, ‘Bleed American’, ‘The Middle’ and ‘Sweetness’.

I was a lot more familiar with The National’s set list, with half of it made up of songs from their latest album High Violet, including the excellent opening combo of ‘Anyone’s Ghost’ and ‘Bloodbuzz Ohio’ and the closer ‘Terrible Love’. In between were a mix of songs from four of their five albums. Singer Matt Berninger acknowledged someone in the crowd who was holding an inflatable alligator, regardless of whether it was actually a nod to their third album or if the individual concerned just liked inflatable alligators.

By that time we’d moved in front of the central barrier that separated the hardcore fans from the hardercore fans, and in front of us was a man possessed of a particularly hard core, who wore a T-shirt that Sal mistook as an homage to Indiana Jones. It bore the words ‘David Attenborough for World Leader’ on the back.

It was around this time that I popped to the bar to get a round in, and I was served by a young boy surely no older than nine, whose face was covered with glitter and multi-coloured face paints.

“Three ciders please little boy,” I said respectfully.

“Don’t patronise me you two’at,” I thought I heard him mutter as he retrieved some pre-filled cups.

“Can I see some I.D?” he asked me suspiciously.

Now, I’m definitely too young to say “I’ll take that as a compliment,” and I’m definitely too old to say “It’s my 18^th birthday tomorrow, honestly!”

 

“I.D? I’m old enough to be your father sunshine,” I replied instead.

“Yeah? Well my father’s seventeen, so I can’t serve him,” he responded with a smirk, which may have been true. Regardless, in a highly dignified manner, I showed him my I.D and no serious harm was done to my reputation, although to my left, a couple of people wearing over-18 wristbands couldn’t hide their sneers.

-------

After The National departed there was a fairly long break, while a curtain was raised across the front of the stage. With the use of some pink lights, words began to flitter across it. They weren’t very clear, but I adjusted to HD vision (which involves squinting) and just about made out the most important words which were Pulp and ‘Do You Remember the First Time?’

That song was the perfect start to a brilliant gig (although of course Sal and San insisted they’d been even better at Glastonbury). They drew heavily from their most successful album, Different Class, and the incomparable Jarvis Cocker was as entertaining between songs as most bands are during songs. “The group is called Pulp,” he said as the crowd chanted his name.

‘Joyride’ was dedicated to those brave rioters from a few weeks earlier; who Jarvis suggested weren’t actually rioting, but were just playing Grand Theft Auto outdoors. ‘Mis-Shapes’, a particular favourite of Salazar’s was next, and Cocker declared that it was seventeen years to the day since they’d first played here. “Who was here?” he asked. “Let me rephrase that: who was born?” 

I was, but I wouldn’t have been old enough to understand the lyrics to their next song, ‘Pencil Skirt’ which Jarvis described as a “dirty little number,” and was juxtaposed with the love song ‘Something Changed’ that followed, which I’m also still too young to understand.

-------

More of their greatest hits followed, including ‘Sorted For E’s and Wizz’, ‘F.E.E.L.I.N.G.C.A.L.L.E.D.L.O.V.E.’, ‘I Spy’, ‘Babies’ and ‘Underwear’ before Sheffield singer-songwriter and former Pulp member, Richard Hawley was introduced to the crowd on guitar, though many will have already spotted his distinctive quiff. During ‘This Is Hardcore’, Jarvis climbed and straddled a pair of speakers, displaying some impressive pelvic thrusts for a 47 year old. 

Following a couple more songs, they came at last to their final song, which was of course their biggest hit and undoubted classic, ‘Common People’. Jarvis referred back to their show seventeen years ago where they’d played it at Reading for the first time and he was told “You’ve written one there.” He said he didn’t even care if it turned out to be the only song Pulp are remembered for. “It’s a good song,” he reasoned, “Black Lace are only remembered for ‘Agadoo’.”

Pulp were co-headlining with The Strokes, which meant that they’d be trading slots when they played Leeds festival the following day. Julian Casablancas suffered tonight by having to follow the other JC, but as ever the laconic New Yorker didn’t seem to care. If it’s fifteen years since Pulp’s peak, it’s ten year since The Strokes’. As a cool teenager, The Strokes were one of my favourite bands and Is This It? is comparable with anything by anyone.

I’d argue that the three albums they’ve made since, Room on Fire, First Impressions of Earth and Angles all contain brilliance, but are diluted with a bit of guff, which shouldn’t cause any problems during a headline set. Indeed, my first impression from the angle I was at, was that they were on fire, though Sandro asked “Is this it?” when they opened with the title track to the album that made them back in 2001 (A new low in the pages of Gigaweek?)

-------

They were indeed on fine form, calling on ‘New York City Cops’ to set a pretty high standard for this year’s brilliant comeback single ‘Under Cover of Darkness’ to follow and they continued to belt out their hits. ‘The Modern Age’, ‘Reptilia’, ‘Someday’, ‘You Only Live Once’, and ‘What Ever Happened?’ all featured before Julian invited Jarvis (or ‘The Jarv’ as he called him) out for a duet.

It was a cover of The Cars ‘Just What I Needed’ which I’m not sure if I’d ever heard before, and looking around at the youngsters present, I doubted I was alone. Julian suggested that they only had about ten minutes left, which is almost enough for a Strokes album, and they managed to squeeze in ‘Juicebox’, ‘Last Nite’, ‘Hard to Explain’ and ‘Take it or Leave it’ in a frantic and fantastic finale.

My only minor gripes were the absence of songs such as ‘12:51’, ‘Razorblade’ and ‘Taken for a Fool’ which would have comfortably nudged out ‘You’re So Right’, ‘Automatic Stop’ and ‘Alone, Together’ if I’d chalked up the set list myself. Among other delights, there was still a headline slot from Muse to look forward to, and with a stroke of luck they would be even better than the first time I saw them.

-------

To be continued. . .

Week 34

Week 34 & 35 – Friday 26^th August – Sunday 28^th August – Reading Festival – Richfield Avenue, Reading - £200

Week 34

Reading Festival – Friday

 “Harrison Ford was in Indiana Jones with David Attenborough. . .”

What finer way to end the summer than a music festival? Sure, it hasn’t been much of a summer, but Sandro, Salazar and I were hopeful our second festival of the season would feature a little less rain than Glastonbury. So hopeful in fact that we decided to leave our wellies at home, putting great confidence in the British summertime. A wise move indeed.

It was dry when we arrived in Reading early on Thursday afternoon and queuing was pretty quick and hassle-free. With Sandro lugging a trolley and Salazar and I carrying our handbags, we found a decent plot of land and set up our tent quickly, without Sandro even having to shout at us. We also had the energy to quickly return to the car and pick up our last two crates of beer, which we let Sal haul back to camp.

San and Sal had both been to Reading nearly a decade ago, whereas I’d only ever been spoiled at Glastonbury. There were chilling warnings about the difference in atmosphere, the lack of things to do, tent fires and most horrifically, the fact that we wouldn’t even be allowed to take our beers into the main arena. At this point however, compared to Glastonbury the only negative was that the guide and line-up lanyard’s weren’t included with your ticket and cost an extra ten quid. Even that didn’t bother me though, considering it was Sal’s tenner.

-------

With no music to entertain us, we enjoyed a civilized barbecue and went for a walk. On our travels we passed an embarrassingly long line of people queuing to receive an ‘Over-18s’ wristband, so we stopped, pointed and laughed at their young faces. There wasn’t much else to see. No Brothers Bar, no Reading equivalent of the Hollywood sign, no Stone Circle and no Candy.

With Little P also absent, it was up to Salazar to take on the mantle of ‘Easy Target’ during the drinking game we ended the night with. “Harrison Ford was in Indiana Jones with David Attenborough,” she said in our film connections game. 

“You mean Richard Attenborough?” I asked.

“Yeah, that’s the one!” She replied.

“Ok, but uh, he wasn’t in it either,” I said. “Sean Connery was, but I don’t think he ever did any nature documentaries.” 

Ominously, it had begun to rain, so by ten o’clock we were back at the tent. Sandro’s powernap turned into a deep sleep before Sal suffered the ultimate insult when I dozed off mid-conversation, just when she was about to elaborate on David’s film career.

-------

When I woke in the morning the other two had already risen, and were deep in discussion. Unfortunately, but unsurprisingly, we’d tempted fate a tad too much and it had rained heavily throughout the night. I was duly informed that our first task of the day would be to buy some wellies.

There was still no let-up in the rain and the ground was slushy with thick mud. Sandro was wearing his signature fedora and was armed with his bullwhip, while I wore the two hats that had earned me my latest nickname (“Two’at”), but the flip-flops we were wearing didn’t stay on for long. Sal meanwhile, was doomed in her daps and tights and she knew it.

“I can't go on, you two go ahead,” she said, “and carry me with you!” 

Sandro had no desire to carry her, and nobody had faith in my underrated strength, so we left her in a not-so-safe place and set off barefooted. Liberated from footwear, we breezed past the struggling hordes, who gave horrified gasps and squeals.  

“Oh my God! That’s disgusting!” the average girl might say as she watched the brown stuff squelch between the toes of our sexy feet, while the average man’s response was slightly different. “Hmm, I bet that actually feels really nice.” 

It did. It felt lovely, relaxing, smooth and it was surprisingly stable. In fact I’d have happily stayed barefoot all weekend if people’s reactions hadn’t started to become so tedious. Trench foot was a secondary concern.

The first place we reached selling wellies had only a pair of size 9s to spare. After shelling out a whopping £18 (begrudgingly) I slipped them on. Sandro remained on dry land while I boldly continued on. At the next store I came to I was able to buy San and Sal a pair of Wellies each for the bargain price of £30, and I returned to share the spoils.

-------

Wellied up and with lighter wallets we had a quick barbecue breakfast, before heading to the arena to begin with the business of Gigaweek. I couldn’t quite believe we’d have to queue each day at the gates to the main arena, where security staff were on the prowl and full of daunting warnings for alcohol smugglers.

“Anyone found to be trying to smuggle beer in, will face an exploratory rectal examination!” was one such message.

Inside the arena were six stages, all within close proximity. The first stage we made for was called the Festival Republic Stage, named for the company who run the show, for a slice of home in the form of Cardiff-band Islet, who were okay as it goes. They showed a bit of talent and seemed to have a few fans present who sang along, despite only having a couple of EPs to their name. Sal was even complimentary of the female drummer.

The most negative consequence of the arena can ban was having to fork out £4 for a Tuborg or £4.20 for a Gaymers. There was a novel idea and incentive for people not to litter (which I’m sure is more widespread than I’m aware) as people were encouraged to recycle paper cups and other such materials with the offer of 10p per paper cup returned, while a precious plastic bottle would fetch as much as 20p.

-------

The young entrepreneurs among the crowd sniffed a money making opportunity and effectively became poorly paid litter collectors for the weekend. Well, I say poorly paid, but the shameless and energetic among them looked like they were more than covering their beer costs, especially as they never seemed to drink themselves.

In the Islet audience was a youngster, who admittedly had a beard that put me to shame, who was holding a stack of thirty odd cups. Testing his instinct, I kicked an empty cup at his heels. Showing his natural talent for cup gathering, he noticed it before it had even made contact with his welly and instantly reached down and put it atop his pile. 

When Islet finished and the crowd dispersed his work really began, scurrying through the remains left behind. Salazar and I decided against donating our own cups to his cause (we’re no mugs) and had a quick chat to him about his motives. Apparently he’d run out of cash at a recent festival and would only be able to afford more drinks if he stooped to these depths. Sandro thanked him for his efforts, grabbed the tower of cups, and pushed the boy into a pool of mud.

-------

Although we were grateful that Flapjack hadn’t joined us at Reading, we risked being reminded of him when we made the trip to see Miles Kane in the huge tent known as the NME/Radio 1 Stage next. Having seen Miles at Camden Crawl and Glastonbury, we knew what to expect and we got it.

Unlike at Glastonbury, gas canisters are prohibited from the Reading site, so aside from our barbecue diet, our food supplies were limited to cereal bars, which left us with little choice but to buy from the food stalls, which were generally overpriced and unimpressive. We did so between watching Miles and another band we’d seen in Camden, Dry the River, who played the Festival Republic Stage at 3 o’clock. There were a couple of good songs and a couple of very bad vests on show.

We then caught a glimpse of The Naked and Famous, who were neither naked nor famous, at the NME tent, before returning to the Festival Republic Stage to see Foster The People, who were genuinely brilliant. “They make you wish MGMT’s second album hadn’t been toilet,” Sandro summarised.

-------

Deftones were the first, and only, band we saw on the Main Stage on Friday, with the bill heavy on hardcore, post-hardcore, alternative rock and Emo music. 30 Seconds To Mars were warming up for headliners My Chemical Romance and I hadn’t brought enough eye-liner to watch either. Sadly the sound was worryingly bad. It was pretty blustery and even a cover of Katy Perry’s ‘Firework’ couldn’t disguise a slight disappointment.

We returned to the NME tent to see The Vaccines although Sandro departed to see White Denim part way through their set, before we all found ourselves at the Dance Stage where Simian Mobile Disco were monkeying around. By this time, the cider was starting to take its toll on Salazar, who couldn’t live with my breakneck drinking pace.

As White Lies played inside the NME tent, outside we tested out my shoulder hoisting skills on Sandro and Salazar. While I failed to raise the human wardrobe, I lifted Sal with ease. As I’d made lifting and holding her on my vast shoulders look so simple, Sandro suggested I offload her in his own patented fashion.

The ‘Sandro Dismount’ involves holding the hands of your jockey and allowing them to slide off your back. Sadly, my technique was modelled on a bucking bronco and Sal toppled backwards into the mud pit behind us. Foolishly, I kept holding her hands and was dragged down myself, though luckily Sal broke my fall so I didn’t get too muddy.

-------

Sal however, was now muddy and drunk enough to sleep, so she and Sandro returned to our tent while I went back to the Festival Republic Stage. The alternative to My Chemical Romance were more Goth than Emo. No, not Beady Eye, whose famous front-man would undoubtedly have loved to have seen MCR, but The Horrors.

Their music is genuinely imaginative and while I didn’t expect them to thrive live (especially after Barlow had described them as horrible at Glastonbury), some of the sounds they squeezed out of the stage’s speakers were extraordinary. They played a mix of songs from recent albums Primary Colours and Skying, which I lapped up while standing alone, as others around me wondered why I wasn’t collecting paper cups.

As I left, I glimpsed the climax to My Chemical Romance’s set, which consisted of ‘We Will Rock You’ followed by ‘Welcome to the Black Parade’. I later found out that fuzzy haired legend Brian May had joined them for their encore, which explained the cover. If I’d known that at the time, I probably would have looked out for his spectacular barnet on the big screen, instead of speeding away swiftly, skating through the mud in my wellies and collapsing on the sleeping Sandro and Salazar.

-------

To be continued. . .

August

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

27-2 - Reading

Week 33

Week 33 – Friday 19^th August – Brother Steve – Clwb Ifor Bach, Cardiff - £5

“Only now do I appreciate your commitment, and the sacrifice you two brave, handsome men
have made. . .”

These solemn words were uttered close to midnight by Ryan of Brum, who’d joined Sandro and me for what would go down as one of the less glorious nights in the Gigaweek calendar. Mr of Brum, who’d been spoiled by the NME Shockwaves gig of Week 7, Sandro’s favourite Spanish archer in Week 12 and the masterful mania of Week 21, finally began to appreciate the true nature of Gigaweek and its punishing demands on its participants.

As Sandro put it so eloquently, the thirty third week of Gigaweek threw up a dirty turd of a gig. Ryan himself described it as worse than genital warts. I thought it was okay.

The night had begun innocently enough, with Ryan and I catching a bus into town to meet Sandro, oblivious of what was to follow. We were headed to see an unsigned band from Llantwit Major named Brother Steve, who were playing downstairs at Clwb Ifor Bach while the slightly more established Pop Will Eat Itself played upstairs. 

I’d never heard of either band, while Ryan of Brum couldn’t quite put his finger on the name of the PlayStation game he knew PWEI from and considering tickets for Brother Steve were a tenner cheaper, pop could do whatever it wanted to itself as far as I was concerned.

“Why are they called Brother Steve?” I asked brother Sandro and the internet, but neither could give me an answer. As far as I could tell, none of the members of the band were called Steve and none of them were brothers. Sadly, it was a mystery that would remain unsolved. “Why are Pop Will Eat Itself called Pop Will Eat Itself?” you may justifiably ask but PWEI is at least a better acronym to have than BS. Marginally.

-------

We met Sandro at Dempsey’s for a pre-gig pint. As I had half an eye on Saturday’s sporting exertions there were no Brothers Ciders tonight and I stuck to avocado and guava juice instead. Honestly.

At Clwb, the supporting band Tequila Dealer (who’d toyed with the name Off-License) were already playing as we entered. Also hailing from the hotbed of rock that is Llantwit Major, they played hard hitting, unapologetic rock music and their front-man was a bit of a character. Dressed in a white suit complete with a tie, donning a white fedora and sporting shoulder length hair and an unkempt beard, whether intentional or not, he was undoubtedly rocking the Sandro look.

The seats we’d taken up were on a slightly raised platform to the side of the stage, away from the dozen or so others present, which Ryan of Brum commented made him feel like an X-factor judge, though he still had a soul. Allegedly.

As well as looking the part, Tequila Dealer’s front man wasn’t averse to the odd yelp or rock star pose. He had plenty of personality and humour, speculating how Llantwit Major would cope without the two bands for the night. “With the 8 of us gone, the other two will be rioting.”

The only negative aspect of our privileged position of power was the fact that with the speakers in such close proximity, tinnitus was inevitable, especially with the ear destroying sounds of Tequila Dealer.

-------

“Oh brother, where art thou?” we wondered between bands, before a disturbing sight caught my attention. I noticed that Sandro was suddenly wearing a horrible v-next T-shirt and his belt buckle was nearly at belly button height, while Ryan had adopted a bizarre Geordie accent and slipped into a short skirt. I suddenly felt the urge to speak in a squeaky Irish voice, tell a brother how much like Lenny Henry he is and start talking about Boyzone and Westlife, but fortunately Brother Steve appeared and stopped me in my tracks.

The brotherhood of Brother Steve was leaner than the Tequila Dealers, which was surely a good omen. They opened with a song called ‘Stupid Stunner’ which was pleasant enough, though the front man’s efforts to encourage people to approach the stage were in vain. The room had steadily filled up but was far from full, which made his job all the more difficult. 

He didn’t quite have the personality to engage with the sparsely populated room in the same way as Tequila Dealer’s white suit wearing cheerleader, his high water mark being set before a song called ‘Addiction’. “We’ve all had an addiction of some kind,” he said looking around the room. “His is cock!” he said nodding towards one of the members of Tequila Dealer, inspiring immature laughter from simpletons like me.

“I think you’ve all heard of this one,” the singer said of their debut single ‘Hot Diggity Dog’, which was either a gross overestimation of their success so far, or an acknowledgment that most of those present were friends or family. Needless to say, Sandro and Ryan were unimpressed, by the title, the lyrics and the tune itself. I thought it was okay.

Someone who did enjoy it is ‘themancalledbob’, a contributor to the comments section of the single’s video on YouTube, who had this to say: 

“I bseen em up at thehighwayman in rhoose and honestly i thought they sucked donkey dick and lickedsheep arse BUUUUT and im going out on a step here BUUUUUT i actually likethis.”

There is no finer tribute than that.

-------

After they’d finished and left the stage, my fellow judges were in the process of pitilessly mocking their efforts, when the singer approached us and introduced himself. He was handing out free CDs containing their single ‘Hot Diggity Dog’, and I was surprised that Sandro didn’t offer him money to take it back.

He seemed like a very friendly chap, chatting to us for five or ten minutes. He was almost apologetic about the atmosphere at the gig, as he bemoaned the way that the crowd avoided the dance floor, but rather than mistaking us for talent show judges, he thought we were in a band ourselves. 

Ryan of Brum had indeed gigged at Clwb himself as the front-man of Everyone Must Win, a band superior to Brother Steve in every sense (except lyrically),  but while Sandro and I both look like band members (Maroon 5 and Kiss respectively), we had to admit that sadly we weren’t.

We were asked if we’d heard of them and what had attracted us to the gig.  “Well, we do this thing; where we have to go to a gig every single week of the year, and you were our very last resort. I suppose we should have spent an extra tenner on PWEI,” was one of many things that went unsaid. Instead we just declared ourselves to be fans of live music in general. 

“They thought you were shit,” I was tempted to say but resisted, after all Ryan and Sandro had no desire to make Brother Steve’s life any more difficult. They seemed like a decent bunch, and we were told that they also do gigs as a covers band to earn enough money to keep going. There are all kinds of bands who make it who the three of us are less than enthused by (I’m looking at you Scouting For Girls), so good luck to them.

I left clutching my BS CD, while Ryan and Sandro misplaced theirs. All that was left for us was a post-gig discussion back at Dempsey’s to determine what was the greatest song to contain the words ‘Hot Diggity Dog’. Admittedly, suggestions were limited, but after careful deliberation the judges decided that The Dandy Warhols’ ‘Get Off’ was worthy of the honour, beating off stiff competition from a little known band called Brother Steve. Apologies to Anton Newcombe.

-------

August

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

27-2 - Reading

Week 32

Week 32 – Thursday 11^th August – Alice Russell - Clwb Ifor Bach, Cardiff - £12

“If Ari Gold ate all the pies. . .”

Week 32 gave Sandro and me an interesting poser to ponder. Should we opt for soul singer Alice Russell on Thursday night or the Islamic punk rock of The Kominas on Friday?

Of course we could have done both, but it wouldn’t have been a poser then. With the beginning of the football season on Saturday, which would have limited my drinking to a dangerously healthy level, we opted for a trip down the rabbit hole to see Alice.

More light had been shed on the mystery surrounding The Globe since last week. The man who’d run the show since it became a music venue in 2008, i.e. the old boy on the door (who I learned was called Allan Jones and also happened to be a member of sixties rock band Amen Corner), had apparently been forced from the premises by the landlords, which was deeply distressing news.

However, the venue itself had supposedly only closed temporarily for refurbishment (which hopefully means installing air conditioning), before plans to reopen and continue as a live music venue soon. Of course, Cardiff doesn’t have enough venues to sustain Gigaweek without The Globe so as far as we’re concerned, the sooner the better, Alice Russell had originally been due to appear there, but this sudden turn of events led to her gig being relocated to Clwb Ifor Bach.

Joining us for only the second time this year were the wonderful Parge and Her Margesty, who were celebrating their 33^rd wedding anniversary the following day. They’d both been keen on The Kominas’ Islamic punk rock but were more than satisfied with a bit of soul instead.

-------

Sandro and I treated them to our joint anniversary present; a pre-gig pint at The Gatekeeper in the city centre. The news had been dominated this week by the riots in London and the copycat riots that had kicked off among the cool kids in other cities in the UK, so the topic of discussion was obvious. “If you were a blithering idiot, and let’s be honest, at least one of us present is,” Sandro said nodding in the general direction of someone behind me, “what shop would you loot?”

“I wouldn’t loot. I have dignity and I’m a respectable citizen.” Her Margesty replied,

“Ann Summers.” Parge said without skipping a beat,

“A cheese shop!” I said panicking.

“You don’t even like cheese though?” Sandro said.

Bugger. He was right.

“What about you?” I asked him.

“It depends,” he replied thoughtfully. “If we’re talking short-term loot before normality is restored, probably a jewellery store I suppose, expensive goods that could be sold on. If we’re talking long-term, apocalyptic scenario, then Greggs the Bakers. Obviously.”

Each delighted to be among such creative looters, we crossed the street to Clwb and headed upstairs. Much to my surprise there was already an impressive crowd of eager fans when we arrived and as a result it was something of a sweat-fest in front of the stage.

Desperate for drinks to cool ourselves down, Parge obliged with a trip to the bar. “Nice pear,” he said handing Her Margesty a Kopparberg pear cider, to which she shook her head and rolled her eyes for the umpteenth time in thirty three years of marriage.

-------

There were no support bands, and back in the humid arena Alice appeared on stage sporting a hairstyle that rivalled Wibidi’s dreadlocks; short blonde hair with an extravagant quiff. She was accompanied by a five-man band, including a backing singer and dancer who Sandro mercilessly pointed out resembled a bloated Jeremy Piven, before showing off his own chiselled abs.

Along with Alice and Ari were two guitarists (one of whom was Welsh as Alice told us gleefully), a drummer and a keyboard player and together they created an energetic and soulful vibe that inspired plenty of hip swaying and toe tapping, even tempting me to rock out the Zoidberg. Fortunately, I resisted and instead swayed gently whilst stewing in sweat, which made me even more attractive than you might imagine.

“Is it me, or are people moving about for no reason?” a bemused Marge asked when we escaped the humidity to buy another drink. “I think it’s called dancing,” I replied wittily.

“I can dance with the best of them,” she said showing off her signed photo of Len Goodman (“To Marge, Nice Cha-cha-cha, Love Len. Call me x . . .Seven!”), “but I just don’t think they’re giving me a reason to.” While Her Margesty didn’t quite feel the urge to dance, most of the audience did and it was quite a spectacle.

British Soul doesn’t quite boast the legendary names of America (Ray Charles, Aretha Franklin, Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder, James Brown vs. err. . .Tom Jones? ) but the women have led the way in recent years, with the likes of Adele, Duffy and Amy Winehouse becoming household names. Alice Russell hasn’t quite done the same and while we couldn’t possibly have named any of her songs beforehand, we could still appreciate her voice and the party atmosphere the band created. They weren’t quite on a par with The Commitments, but who is?

-------

With constant reminders recently on the radio of the untimely death of Amy Winehouse, I’d expected a ‘Valerie’ or a ‘Rehab’ from Alice in tribute, but it wasn’t to be. Who needs such hits though when you can wheel out funky numbers such as ‘Big Shiny Laser’ eh? Alice left the stage beaming like a Cheshire Cat, and we retired to Dempsey’s for a post-gig tea party, to discuss how I could shoehorn as many irrelevant Alice in Wonderland references into my next Gigaweek entry as possible.

“So, how does it feel to be making your second appearance in the world of Gigaweek?” I asked Parge and Her Margesty.

“What? Oh, that. Yes, what an honour,” Don replied, “I don’t read that tedious nonsense of course, but if it keeps you off the porn sites, I’m all for it,”

“Thanks, Pa.” I said proudly.

“Oh, God, not that one dimensional drivel again. You’re not still doing it are you?” Marge said supportively. “No wonder kids are rioting, with shit like that polluting the internet.”

Indeed.

-------

August

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

27-2 - Reading

Week 31

Week 31 – Tuesday 2^nd August - Wibidi - Undertone, Cardiff - £8
 
“Marley, Kravitz, de la Rocha and Faulkner. Even the ginger God of dreadlocks is smiling down on us tonight. . .”

We kicked off August with a trip to see the finest dreadlocked artist from Cardiff since Leigh Bailey, singer of the incomparable ‘Leighton James Don’t Like Us’.

“What better way to begin a new month, than with a trip to a new venue, to see a new band?” I asked aloud as we approached that new venue, before Sandro reeled off a dozen suggestions, including a Whoopi Goldberg marathon.

The new band in question was Wibidi, a ‘side-project’ of Daf, Cian and Guto of Super Furry Animals fame, featuring the eponymous Wibidi as front-man. (If you can pronounce all of their names correctly, you’re a better woman than me.) Daf has form for this kind of side-project, having had Rhys Ifans front his other, other band The Peth, who Sandro and I saw at The Globe a couple of years ago. While Wibidi doesn’t quite have the draw or reputation of Ifans, we thought he must have had something about him, and were intrigued to find out what it was.

Like many of the gigs we’ve seen, the show was presented by Wales’ finest live music promoters Sŵn, and it was due to be Wibidi’s first of three gigs in three nights, with others at Clwb Ifor Bach and The Globe to follow. However, we discovered alarmingly that the latter gig had been cancelled amid whispers of a possible closure. Sandro and I were keen to investigate further, considering that Gigaweek would surely be buggered without The Globe, but that could wait.

-------

The new venue we were visiting was called Undertone, which is the basement of the city centre’s Ten Feet Tall. It’s a delightfully dingy dungeon and neither of us had ever been to a gig there before. We’d made the brave and unprecedented decision to not purchase tickets until our arrival at the door. “It could be sold out, you know?” Sandro warned as we approached.

Naturally, when we arrived just after eight o’clock, it was completely empty. We retreated upstairs to the safety of Ten Feet Tall, where we purchased a couple of manly Skittles cocktails. The macho cocktails were far superior to the average girlish ale, and were a bargain at six fifty for two, with the added benefit of enabling me to drink through a straw without fear of being called a tart, even by Sandro.

At around ten to nine, I’d finished slurping my Skittles and we made our descent back into the dark dungeon. Thankfully, it had filled up while we’d been away, and there were now two other people present. One thing the basement boasts is a couple of comfy sofas, and with no sign of any imminent support we bought a pint of Stella 4 for the hazardous price of two pound fifty each and sat on said sofas. 

Of course, I’m not normally one to drink heavily on a Tuesday, but beer in the basement was dangerously cheap, with bottles of Bud 66 two pound a pop and we had nearly an hour to sample a few lagers before the show finally got underway.

The man who kicked things off was a rapper who was a ringer for N-Dubz’s Dappy, complete with tea cosy hat and short legs, named Enbe.

-------

Enbe was a local boy who looked young and a little nervous. He took to the small stage alone equipped with a microphone, while gentle hip-hop beats backed him up. It wasn’t easy to fully appreciate his quick fire lyrics, but he seemed to have an intimate knowledge of the female anatomy, and he was keen to share this wisdom with the audience. Either that or my mind was wandering, which was worrying considering I was still thinking about Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit.

The audience now included the three Furries, the unmistakeable Wibidi himself and what seemed like a legion of his friends and family. Wibidi, who hails from the Butetown area of Cardiff and whose real name is Rashid Omar, was wearing a yellow and green T-Shirt with a number 7 on the back, clearly in homage to Henrik Larsson, the Jamaican Swede. Wibidi wasn’t raised in Jamaica, but if Bob Marley had been brought up in Tiger Bay, he may have turned out a bit like Wibs. He may have turned out completely differently of course, but the comparison was clear: they both had dreadlocks.

By all accounts, prior to this band Wibidi has been a DJ on Radio Cardiff, a community radio station that promotes the kind of music that taps into Butetown’s multicultural heritage, such as the mellow reggae of the legendary Marley. Having played football against many kids from Butetown and Grangetown growing up, I can confirm that none of them were mellow, and one pair of shin pads was never enough, so I was expecting a violent performance tonight.

The man from Tiger Bay and his band will shortly be releasing a debut album called Tigerbaby, and presumably what they played tonight will make up the meat of that album. It wasn’t until gone ten o’clock that they were able to finally get going. There was the guarantee of at least three accomplished musicians and they didn’t disappoint, departing from the furry sound slightly to produce a fusion of rock, reggae, funk and soul with a front-man who was nothing like the placid Gruff Rhys, but thankfully he didn’t put in any horror two-footed challenges.

-------

The opener was a crunching statement of intent and struck a chord with the ideology of Gigaweek. “What keeps you home at night?” Wibidi sang, in a song that wondered what kept people indoors in the evening, rather than out and about with Sandro and me, things such as: possible liver damage, tooth decay and gum disease. His vocals were rasping and he danced around the small stage with shapes that evoked Shakira-like choreography.

Wibs was joined on stage by a rapper (not Enbe) for half of their songs, though the Undertone stage couldn’t quite squeeze the entire band on, with Cian in the Wizard of Oz role, playing just behind a curtain off one side. With 3/5 of the Furries involved, the music was always going to be strong, and Wibidi was clearly a colourful character, but as Sandro pointed out during our post-gig pint and discussion at Lloyds Bar, the lyrics may have been a weak point. 

It’s a bit difficult to judge lyrical content based on one live performance, but that wasn’t going to stop us. Sandro, an acclaimed bard, thought that Wibidi was trying too hard, to make as many rhymes as he could, and I must say I understood. Also, if my hearing was correct, and I admit I should have it checked, the chorus to the final song was particularly crass: “I praised her smile and her hair / Are you kidding, did you see her fuckin’ ass?”

All things considered though, we were well entertained. Wibidi could well prove to be the biggest thing to come out of Tiger Bay since Shirley Bassey, and the biggest rising star with dreads since the ginger Predator himself, Newton Faulkner.

-------

August

30-5 - Wibidi - ✓
6-12 - ?
13-19 - ?
20-26 - Reading

27-2 - Reading

July

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 -?
6-12 -?
13-19 -?
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 -?