Week 43 - Part 3

John Mayall

“Wake me up before you leave.”

Although the second half of Sŵn covered our Gigaweek requirements for Week 43, Sandro and I were far from finished. The odd couple themselves, Her Margesty and His Pargesty, had just returned from a trip to the states equipped with dozens of hard rock café T-shirts, and on the Thursday after Sŵn, we were invited to join them at St David’s Hall, to see legendary 77 year old bluesman John Mayall.

Sometimes, OAPs can really amaze you with their energy. To fly back from America and go to a concert the next day was inspiring stuff. Multi-instrumentalist John Mayall was pretty impressive too. He’s been doing this kind of thing for over fifty years, and was still able to find the energy to break out of his retirement home and put on a show. 

Most of the audience were either grey haired, balding or both, which left me as one of the few spring chickens present. Where’s a pop music lecturer when you need one?

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Support came from an even younger whippersnapper called Oli Brown and his band (named inventively, The Oli Brown Band). Parge and I nipped inside in time to hear a few of his songs, including one in which he asked us to sing the words ‘no diggity!’ evoking more memories of Brother Steve.

After a short break and a swift drink, Sandro and Marge joined us inside to see the main man himself.

John Mayall seems to have worked with almost everyone in the Blues world throughout his illustrious career, and tonight he was accompanied by three accomplished musicians from the US who are relative youngsters. Guitarist Rocky Athas, drummer Jay Davenport and bassist Greg Rzab are all in their fifties (Rzab even dresses like a teenager).

The first of many instruments Mayall used was a harmonica, but he spent most of the night singing and playing the keyboard. It’s no stretch to say that he was comfortably the finest 77 year old multi-instrumentalist I have ever seen perform in my entire life.

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Sandro meanwhile, was slightly underwhelmed.

St David’s was pretty full, but Mayall himself commented about the quiet, respectful nature of the audience. 

“Clearly, he’d prefer a rowdier atmosphere,” Sandro said.

“Even at his age,” I added patronisingly. 

Sandro certainly would’ve preferred a rowdier atmosphere, and felt the venue was to blame, making an unfavourable comparison with the superb show from Larry Miller at The Globe.

“The fact that everyone’s seated creates a dull atmosphere among the audience,” he said, as I mentally scribbled notes. “It’s like we’re at a play, and people are scared to drop a pin. But we’re not, we’re at a gig, and gigs are meant to be loud. Pins are meant to be dropped!”

“Quite. In the same fashion, the atmosphere at all-seater football stadiums doesn’t compare to that of the terraces,” I added sagely, before puffing an imaginary pipe in self-satisfaction.

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We’d been to the same venue previously to see Gruff Rhys of course, and were also seated at The Gate where we saw Willy Mason. At The Gate we were able to take our drinks to our seats which had been a plus. I can’t think of a time when I’d personally prefer to be seated than to stand at a gig, but then I’m a spring chicken and my drumsticks are fine and dandy.

As I mentioned so crudely earlier on, most of the seats were populated by older folk, but Sandro argued that even they (generally) would prefer to stand. I’ve never been old so I’m not fully qualified to comment, Marge and Parge however, are almost as old as time itself, so where did they stand? (Or sit, as it were.)

I put the question to them, and their answers were most enlightening. So enlightening in fact, that if I could remember what they’d said, I’d mention it now. 

I was impressed that they’d even managed to stay awake throughout considering their age. And the jet-lag of course.

Afterwards, Parge claimed a signed John Mayall CD. 

Sandro however, did not. He can probably still be found dozing in his seat.

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October

1-7 – Pete & The Pirates + Gruff Rhys - ✓
8-14 – Emmy The Great - ✓
15-21 – Sŵn - ✓
22-28 – Sŵn + John Mayall - ✓

Week 43 - Part 2

Sŵn – Sŵnday

“Clearly, he’s forgotten his cape. . .”

I would have happily slept all through the Sunday of Sŵn, but I decided to sleepwalk through it instead, making it as far as Clwb Ifor Bach by quarter past five. It was there that I met Sandro, who looked how I felt. Lovely. 

This was a festival Sunday, so the music was slower, the crowds were quieter, and so were we. Accordingly we were on a strict hangover-absorbing, Coca-Cola only diet. 

Naturally, my second drink was a pint of Guinness

Upstairs in Clwb we watched a wonderfully entertaining young fellow named Gideon Conn, who had the whole room engrossed and entranced, by both his songs and personality. I didn’t quite know what to make of him at first, but he proved to be a genuinely unique talent and impossible to describe (which is handy for me). Suffice to say he made us laugh, smile and clap a lot. 

Sandro remarked that the fella who was laughing, smiling and clapping a lot next to us had forgotten his cape, so I nodded and smiled myself, meaning I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.

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As Gideon departed to whoops of delight, we tumbled downstairs to see Al Lewis, a Welsh singer-songwriter whose lovely first album, In the Wake, was nominated for the Welsh Music Prize. Sandro and I saw him at Sŵn in the same place two years ago and his gentle Welsh folk had left an impression. His songs impressed again, particularly ‘Make a Little Room’ and ‘The Arsonist’.

 

We tumbled back upstairs and found a lot of people sitting on the floor in front of the stage. Even the arrival of teenage West-Walian singer Jodie Marie couldn’t raise the lazy buggers off the floor. 

Sandro and I decided to pop to see something a little more frenetic at Dempsey’s instead. Local rockers Tiger Please were playing, and while they weren’t really my bag, I was hugely impressed by the singer’s floppy hair, and the way he wore his underpants outside his trousers.

On our return to Clwb we took up our X-factor judge seats, hoping for an improvement on the act we’d seen the last time we’d occupied those much envied chairs, the excellent Brother Steve. Ryan of Brum will be surprised to learn, that our hopes were fulfilled.

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Sandro’s earlier comment suddenly made sense, as a man stepped into a telephone box wearing spectacles, and stepped out a second later still wearing the same spectacles, but now equipped with an acoustic guitar. It was none other than Sam Duckworth, the artist formerly known as Get Cape. Wear Cape. Fly. 

Though I’ve never been a fan of his, Mr Fly was engaging, sang some fine songs (‘Glass Houses’ was particularly smashing) and showed off an outstanding ability to open his mouth incredibly wide. It was super.

“Wow! He’s like a little Richard Beckinsale,” I said enthusiastically to Sandro, whose shirt was tucked into his unnaturally high jeans.

“In what sense?” he replied, looking confused.

“He’s part Burmese,” I said. 

“Any other reason?” Sandro asked.

“Well, there’s the seven characteristics of living things too. How many reasons do you people need?” I asked exasperatedly.

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We then flew to O’Neill’s to see our final act of the weekend. Frankie Shape and Shape Records had been showcasing their stuff, so there’d earlier been shows from Truckers of Husk and H. Hawkline, but we were there for Sweet Baboo. 

Another Welsh Music Prize nominee, for his album I’m a Dancer / Songs About Sleepin’, Baboo, a North Walian singer-songwriter, proved to have a very fine sense of humour and sang some lilting lullabies to prime me for sleep. He also had a sore throat that put me and my severe illness to shame, and gave him a husky voice to be proud of. 

“He’s like a little Rhys Ifans!” I said wisely.

“Because?” Sandro asked with an arched eyebrow.

“He’s funny, he’s smiley! He’s entertaining!” I said, desperately trying to think of similarities in addition to them both being White and Welsh.

Soon after, Sŵn was over for another year, but Week 43 of Gigaweek, was not.

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John Mayall

Week 43 - Part 1

Week 43 – Sŵn Part Two + Thursday 27th October – John Mayall – St David’s Hall, Cardiff – £27

“Silent disco anyone?”

Sŵn - Saturday

When asked the above question, if you’re response is unlikely to be “pardon?” then we probably wouldn’t get on. If you are likely to respond by saying “pardon?” then we still probably wouldn’t get on.

The silent disco was the Saturday night showpiece of Sŵn, if you ignore the many gigs from the many bands playing at many venues across Cardiff (as we did).

Flapjack, who was wearing a bowler hat and sporting a toothbrush moustache, asked the question to nearly everyone in the city, at least twice. He had to ask twice of course, because not many people he encountered could resist a “pardon?”, while others were just slightly alarmed that he was talking to them at all.

While Sŵn itself continued unabated, Sandro was suffering silently. His double hangover hadn’t stopped him from embarking on one of his famed Cardiff City inspired all dayers, but by the time I joined him afterwards, it was clearly catching up with him.

His eyes were bloodshot, his skin was blotchy and his hair was dank and greasy. But although his appearance remained unaffected, he admitted that he was feeling the worse for wear.

“I’m feeling the worse for wear,” he said.

“I know, you just admitted that,” I replied.

He looked confused. It must have been the booze. Meanwhile, I continued to downplay my own deeply debilitating and life-threatening illness.

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Our meeting place was the downstairs area of Clwb Ifor Bach and North Walian band Gallops were playing when we arrived at half past seven. Sandro didn’t hide his scepticism when I mentioned that they were an instrumental band, but they proved to be quite an enjoyable listen nonetheless.

I say nonetheless, because Sandro and I are in agreement that, in the same way that we generally prefer a film with dialogue to a silent film, we also prefer a band with a singer to one without. As long as Danny Dyer’s not in the film and the singer is a good one, that is. Apologies to the likes of Chaplin, Keaton, Mogwai and Oasis.

(Calm down J-Mo, I’m only kidding. We’re both huge Danny Dyer fans.)

Midway through Gallops’ set we dashed up the street to Dempsey’s to see DZ Deathrays, a hotly tipped Aussie band who were playing upstairs. Downstairs meanwhile, were a couple of people we vaguely knew, who were enjoying a quiet drink. It would have been rude not to say hello, so we did.

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We said a happy hello to P. Mushy and Salazar, a warm hello to Gavlova and Nicko B, a sincere hello to The Wiggler and a “Shit it’s him, hide your face! Damn, he’s seen us,” hello to Flapjack.

Before we knew it, DZ Deathrays had come and gone while we’d been supping on our ciders. Flapjack and The Wiggler had been tempted to get one-off tickets to see The Fall, who were the big name band of the day and were playing at The Great Hall.

In the end they decided against it, as did we. 

There were plenty of closer alternatives but we were seriously struggling. In an effort to restore energy and enthusiasm, Sandro and I took a stroll to Snoop Dogg’s favourite chippy, Dorothy’s. It didn’t work.

We had enough energy for one last hurrah, so we poked our heads into Undertone, where a band called Melodica, Melody and Me, were playing. Not only did they have a catchy name, they also had a ukuleleist, always a delight to see. 

There were more photographers in the audience than normal folk (photographers being abnormal) so it must have been quite an experience for the band.

Most of the snappers were sprawled across the floor poking their lenses up at the stage where, as Sandro pointed out, the musicians were stone faced, and looked like they’d rather have been anywhere else. Even Swansea.

“Miserable fuckers this lot aren’t they?” he said eloquently.

They were pleasant enough, if a little subdued. Even so, we left after about twenty minutes or so. Our intention was to check out The Jim Jones Revue in Clwb, but capacity there had reached ‘one in, one out’ levels. When we reached the front of the queue I was allowed in, but Sandro wasn’t, so I came out. The bouncers then let Sandro in, but wouldn’t let me in until Sandro came back out, so he did. 

After ten minutes on this merry-go-round we finally decided that the ‘two out’ concept was superior, much to the relief of the bored bouncers. Sandro was out on his feet and I was still extremely ill, so we decided that Sŵn was over for the evening. It would have been rude not to have had a skittle bomb though, so we stayed out a little longer.

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I’m glad we did, as we were able to witness a riveting ten pound bet between Flapjack and Salazar at Dempsey’s. With ten minutes to go in a game between the Greatest Team of all Time™ and Sevilla, Flappy made his play.

“I bet anyone here a tenner that this game will remain goalless,” he said bravely.

Despite the attacking talents of Messrs. Messi, Villa, Iniesta and Fabregas, only Salazar had the balls to take his bet. It looked like she’d made a mistake, until injury time, when Barcelona won a penalty. 

With the greatest player in the world taking the penalty, Flapjack prepared to fork out. However, Sevilla Striker Freddie Kanouté delayed the outcome, as he mischievously kicked the ball off the penalty spot and playfully pushed Fabregas to the ground. Later he cheekily accused Cesc of racism. What a scamp.

Amazingly he was red carded for his hijinks. Whether Messi was affected by any this is debatable, but a hush descended on the pub as he finally stepped up.

All were left speechless, as Messi missed, meaning Flapjack won. Suggestions that Flapjack had managed to somehow influence Kanouté’s behaviour using his psychic abilities were denied, but his eyes had been glowing mysteriously.


It’s a measure of the man that he then refused to take Salazar’s money though. What a sexist.

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When the time came to move on, as I was very ill I decided it was probably time for me to go home. It would have been rude to leave now though, so I didn’t. Nicko B however, disappeared without a trace, as his allergy to The Old Library kicked in. It was then that the idea of attending the silent disco at The Great Hall was floated.

Though I was clearly a little ill, it would have been rude not to go.

Sandro and Salazar thought so too. Gavlova and P. Mushy didn’t however, mainly because P. Mushy couldn’t remember his own name and was dribbling profusely. 

Entry cost six quid for those without Sŵn wristbands, and it went on until four o’clock. I don’t remember much of what followed, or many of the songs (Bjork may have popped up), but I do remember that I felt a teeny weeny bit ill, but thought it would have been rude not to stay ‘til the end.

At 4am, the lights finally came on, the music finally stopped and I finally realised everyone else had gone home, and that I was dancing alone with a pair of oversized headphones on.

I hadn’t even heard the others say goodbye.

Oh, they didn’t say goodbye?

How rude.

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Sunday

Week 42 - Part 2

Sŵn – Friday

“Her eyes are about to pop out of her head!”

Friday was a much shorter and simpler day. I was still exceedingly ill. Surprisingly, the hangover I’d added hadn’t cured me. Once again I dragged myself out of bed, stepped out of the crumbling rubble of my home in my dressing gown and slippers, and headed to Solus, the venue at the end of the university. 

That was where I met Sandro, Flapjack and Gavlova, who I was joining to see a special gig from The Joy Formidable which cost £11.50 for those sans wristband. Not only was it their last gig in the UK before they head abroad to support Foo Fighters, it also capped a narrow defeat to Gruff Rhys in the contest for the inaugural Welsh Music Prize. 

Ok, it wasn’t really that special, but it did give them an almost unassailable lead in the race for the most Gigaweek appearances (a stalkerish five).

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Unsurprisingly, their set-list was familiar, beginning with Sandro’s favourite, ‘A Heavy Abacus’ (written about the Milliard Gargantubrain), ending with ‘Whirring’ and featuring the usual suspects in between. 

On stage, behind the band was a large model lighthouse (I thought it was a traffic cone) which took up quite a bit of stage room, and might explain why their drummer faced sideways. 

“What a prick,” Gavlova said sympathetically. 

Their bassist Rhydian, who was wearing a hat in the vein of Dave from U2, didn’t escape his irritation either.

“Look at him. What kind of twat wears a hat like that?” he said.

“P. Mushy?” I suggested.

“Exactly,” said a vindicated Gavlova.

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Flapjack made clear his own concern for the mental well-being of lead singer Ritzy Bryan, who has a habit of beaming at the audience with her eyes wide open, almost protruding from their sockets.

“She’s just happy,” I assured him.

“Happy!? She must be on coke, or acid or something,” Flapjack replied.

“Acid? No, don’t be daft. Coffee I’d say,”

“Coffee!? She looks like one of the children from The Village of the Damned!” Flapjack said. “Mark my words, she’ll have us attacking ourselves with our own pitchforks in no time.”

“You’re thinking of The Bloodening. In The Village of the Damned the worst bit is when the Doctor guts herself with a scalpel,” I replied reassuringly. “Funnily enough, I’ve brought a scalpel with me tonight.”

For some reason, Flapjack started to edge away slowly at this point.

He wasn’t foolish enough to run away yet though. ‘Whirring’ proved not to be the closer after all, as Ritzy returned with her eyes glowing ominously. Fortunately, she was just enthusiastic about playing an encore of ‘I Don’t Want to See You Like This’ and ‘The Everchanging Spectrum of a Lie’.

 

It would have been nice to head into town and go on to see the likes of Racehorses, Gallops and The Victorian English Gentlemens Club, but sometimes you have to know when to throw in the towel. Metaphorically speaking of course, it would have been silly of us to actually throw away our towels as they were the most massively useful things we had and there were still two days of Sŵn left.

Sandro and Gavlova headed for a drink instead, while Flapjack scampered away particularly hastily.

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October

1-7 – Pete & The Pirates + Gruff Rhys - ✓
8-14 – Emmy The Great - ✓
15-21 – Sŵn - ✓
22-28 – Sŵn + John Mayall - ✓

Week 42 - Part 1

Week 42 & Week 43 – Thursday 20th October – Sunday 23^rd October – Sŵn – Cardiff – £50

Sŵn - Thursday

“We’re no spring chickens are we?”

Weeks 42 & 43 were covered by our final festival of the year, Sŵn, which took place in our hometown over the course of four days and therefore requires no less than four editions of Gigaweek to do justice. You could say it’s a trilogy in four parts, but please don’t.

The comment above was made by a grey haired pop music lecturer, who was referring to himself, thirties-dodging Sandro, and alarmingly, me. We were in Ten Feet Tall at the time, waiting for old boys Aidan Moffat & Bill Wells to appear on stage. 

I wanted to tell him how I’d been ID’d as recently as August and ask him to feel the soft skin on my chin, but I didn’t. 

As I looked around at all the youngsters present, and then back at Sandro’s grey beard and walking stick, I suddenly realised that we were the only ones who didn’t have any feathers.

I also realised that he was essentially right.

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Based on my calculations (provided by the best abacus in the galaxy, the Milliard Gargantubrain), there were only a poultry 4,986,449,603 people alive when I was born, compared to 7,000,000,000 now. 

I’d always thought I was special, what with being the 79,881,818,065^th person to have lived since the dawn of time and all, but since I escaped my mother’s womb, more than 3,333,333,333 billion others have done likewise (mostly from other mothers’ wombs).

I’m afraid not all of them were with us that night (which was lucky really, as Ten Feet Tall was heaving). Of those 3,333,333,333  billion, and the 4,986,449,603 others who were already knocking about when I emerged, around 1,300,000,000 billion have since found out the answer to the ultimate question. 

Not the ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything, but to the other ultimate question, “what happens when we die Mummy?” As far as I’m aware, not one of them has had the good grace to report back, so it’s still a mystery.

Nevertheless, at least 2,000,000,000 of the Earthlings that remain are younger than me, it could even be closer to 3,000,000,000. I’ve spent considerable time (the last five minutes) wondering when I’ll reach the age when there’ll be more people on the planet who are younger than me, than older. It’s tricky to say, but I’d guess it’ll be before I’m forty two.

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These thoughts swam around the mini-pond of my mind during the first day of Sŵn, which was taking place throughout a number of venues in the city centre and slightly further afield. Now in its fifth year, Sŵn is the lovechild of local music promoter Jon Rostron and Radio 1 DJ Huw Stephens, who’ve also recently created the Welsh Music Prize, which is nice of them. 

The winner of the inaugural WMP was to be announced on Friday to coincide with Sŵn. Considering The Joy Formidable were nominated and were sort of headlining that night, I knew where my money was going. On Gruff Rhys.

Sŵn was now bigger than ever before, now running from Thursday to Sunday. Hopefully it will continue to expand, attract more and more established bands, go on for decades to come, at some point become a nationwide event, then become global, spread to the International Space Station (which needs a bit of live music) and beyond, until the organisers become embroiled in an embezzling scandal and it comes crashing to earth like a confused Sperm Whale.

This year the line-up was filled by a lengthy list of bands I’ve never heard of. Unfortunately Fjords didn’t make the bill, much to the irritation of their manager Slartibartfast. 

A four day wristband was only fifty quid, so it was pretty good value all things considered. We would have made full use of its value, if not for one major problem. I was tremendously, excruciatingly, unexaggeratably ill.

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I’d been struggling all week with a horrendous, vicious, debilitating illness (a cold), but I dragged myself out of bed for Gigaweek. 

I had to. In case you missed it the first time, the real challenge of Gigaweek is nothing to do with the number of gigs Sandro and I are forced (against our will) to attend, but the fact that we have to go to at least one, every, single, week of the year. 

There is no margin for error. There is no flexibility. There are no weeks off. If one of us were to be bed-ridden for a week, or say, die, we would fail the challenge. We’re quite strict on the matter.

Obviously, it would be melodramatic of me to suggest that I’d actually been on death’s door all week, but I’d been on death’s door all week. I suggested to Sandro that I was in trouble but he remained calm and his advice was simple.

“Don’t Panic.”

I did panic. Lots. Even so, I made it out of my house and was glad I did. Not only did I avoid the bulldozers, but Thursday turned out to be comfortably the best day of Sŵn (as far as we were concerned), even if the line-up wasn’t necessarily the strongest of the weekend.

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Beginning downstairs in Clwb Ifor Bach, we caught the last couple of songs from a duo called Algiers, who didn’t appear to be Algerian, though I didn’t get to check their passports. My critical opinion is that they were loud. 

Thrillingly, we then headed upstairs, where a band named Banded Puma were slated to play. They weren’t quite as loud. Their most memorable song was a catchy number called something along the lines of ‘Mr Thomas’.

It was only afterwards when we were back downstairs, that we realised we’d just unwittingly seen Charlotte Church perform. She was a surprise guest and was showcasing new songs, meaning there was no ‘Crazy Chick’ which I would have instantly recognised.

Hymns were the last band we saw in Clwb. Another duo, this time from Leicester but possessing Algerian passports, they played pretty blunt post-punk rock in the mould of Disaster Area. They weren’t bad, combining awkwardness with humour very well between songs, intentionally or not.

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Onward Sandro and I travelled, to a very busy Undertone, where we saw a couple of punky bands called Caves and The Cut Ups. They were both very popular, not really to my tastes, but mostly harmless.

It was then that we headed upstairs into Ten Feet Tall and our fateful meeting with the rooster and Messrs. Moffat and Wells. The latter two are beardy, Scottish musicians, best known for being in Arab Strap and the Bill Wells Octet respectively.

At times their performance was as much a poetry reading as a gig, but it wasn’t Vogon poetry and was actually very enjoyable. Even so, we left a little before the end to see Welsh band Yr Ods in O’Neill’s, which was equally busy. 

Yr Ods are clearly talented and had a good collection of songs, sung in both English and Welsh. They were also most definitely spring chickens. I’m talking over 5,500,000,000 billion people on the planet when they were born, young. The audience seemed to include most of their school mates, unless I was just becoming more and more paranoid.

“Are you OK Marvin?” Sandro asked.

I was in deep thought. “I think you ought to know I'm feeling very depressed,” I replied, “and my name’s not Marvin.”

“I don’t care,” he replied.

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The last band we saw that evening were Oxford Psychedelic-Pop band Fixers. They were scheduled to begin at quarter past midnight but actually began one minute earlier. I wouldn’t normally mention such an innocuous fact (you know I would), but from about five past onwards, a lovely gentleman in the front row began to loudly voice his disapproval at their lengthy soundcheck.

“One-two, one-two!? We didn’t pay for this! This is bollocks!” he said likably.

Fixers front-man clearly felt compelled to apologise, before seemingly realising that they weren’t in the wrong after all. “Apologies for the slight delay,” he said looking a bit ruffled. “. . . even though we’re now starting a minute before we were due to!” he added with a glare towards the friendly heckler. 

At this, Sandro’s favourite four letter word was yelled from somewhere to describe the offender, who seemed to disappear back up his own backside thereafter. 

Fixers did enough to earn my prestigious band of the day award, although by this time I was pretty far gone so I’m not sure exactly why. I made a mental note to listen to them once my ears had sobered up.

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Our evening wasn’t quite over, as our wristbands allowed us free entry to Glam, the venue I’d been refused entry to all the way back in Week 16 in April. I looked out for the infamous bouncer, Knobhead, but he was clearly hiding in fear.

John Rostron had popped up at virtually every venue we’d been to and now Huw Stephens was present for a DJ set in Glam. Aside from the omission of Neil young’s ‘Heart of Gold’ I felt it was flawless. 

Similarly, Sandro declared Huw’s handiwork as “perfect, except for the inclusion of The Wombats.” He drowned them out with a few Jaeger Bombs, and I almost forgot that I was on the verge of death and joined him, before we said to Huw “So long, and thanks for all the hits.”

Friday

Week 41

Week 41 – Thursday 13th October – Emmy The Great – Clwb Ifor Bach, Cardiff – £13.50

“She’s fine, but she’s not great. . .”

Alexander The Great, Alfred The Great and Peter The Great (not to be confused with Peter The Magnificent). What do they all have in common? None of them are great singer-songwriters. Emmy The Great however, is. Well, she’s not great, but she was the main attraction for Sandro and me in Week 41. 

Emma-Lee Moss is the girl behind the stage name. Neither Sandro nor I would claim to be fans (unless she asked us in a threatening tone), not in the sense that we both dislike her and were attending purely to heckle and throw empty yoghurt pots her way, but in the sense that we hadn’t listened to any of her music. Yet.

“She’s fine, but she’s not great,” is something I decided and declared towards the end of her set. It wasn’t intended as a demeaning and possibly sexist comment. It just came out that way. “She’s fine,” wasn’t (just) an allusion to her looks. She was fine in the sense that she was OK. As in: decent, not bad, alright. 

Closer to praise than criticism, surely? I long for the day when I’m described in such glowing terms.

Certainly, Emmy The Great is a better nickname than Emmy The Decent, but if you set the standards high with your epithet you risk disappointing people, which is why Sandro sings under the name, Sandro The Quite Clearly Incapable and Slightly Hairy.  

Saying “she’s not great,” was only to say that she isn’t ‘Great’ great, in the sense that she wasn’t born great, she’s yet to achieve greatness, and as far as I can tell she hasn’t had greatness thrust upon her, although that can be tough to tell.

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Emmy was playing at Clwb Ifor Bach so Sandro and I met for a pre-gig pint at Dempsey’s around the corner. 

I must admit that out of all uneventful Gigaweeks, this was arguably the most uneventful of all. There were no encounters with unusual taxi drivers or homeless people, so frankly there’s very little to say.

Sandro had been to see Cloud Control on Tuesday at Buffalo, but I’d been unable to join him for that one, so I asked him to share his thoughts.

“They were good,” he said.

“Ok, but were there any unusual taxi drivers or homeless people?” I probed.

“No. None at all,” he replied glumly.

“Really? Never mind. Any appearances by third rate celebrities?” I asked.

“Does Phillip Schofield count?” Sandro replied.

“Yes, of course!” I said excitedly, Schofe being a hero of mine.

“Ok. No, none,” Sandro answered.

“Damn. Any fights or drug related deaths?” I asked hopefully.

“I’m afraid not,” he replied. 

“What a terrible week,” I sighed.

I knew very little of Emmy The Great beforehand, but Tim Wheeler lookalike P. Mushy was kind enough to let us know who she goes out with (not P. Mushy). Worryingly for Sandro, she’s also a friend of, and has worked with, Noah and The Whale. 

Sandro holds Noah in almost as high regard as Texas and can’t listen to a chord from them without stabbing himself in the ear with a spoon. I try to play ‘L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N’ at least once a day.

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First up on stage was founding member of Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci, Richard James, who is now a solo singer-songwriter himself. His performance was fairly low-key and he was pretty downbeat, describing himself as a “miserable fucker,” which was probably unfair, but I’m sure he knows best.

During his set it dawned on me that I actually owned his first album, The Seven Sleepers Den, so I showed it off on my iPod to Sandro.

“Congratulations,” he said. 

I’ve no idea why I did that.

More support followed from Stealing Sheep (who aren’t on my iPod), a trio of Liverpudlian ladies who were similarly soft and slow. 

“A pleasant listen, if not one to stir the soul,” I declared in the voice of Stuart Hall. Aggressive young men like Sandro and I bore of this stuff quite quickly though, so we were hoping for some death metal from Emmy.  

The venue was fairly full by the time she and her band took the stage. It was quiet. Presumably most of those present had a better idea of what to expect than me. 

Most of the audience seemed interested and familiar with her music, and she interacted quite a bit with them. Amazingly the Welsh language and our interesting road signs didn’t come up.

-------

From what I’ve read about Emmy and the two albums she’s released so far, her lyrics receive a lot of praise and seem highly regarded by critics. Unknown lyrics aren’t always easy to appreciate live, so I’ll take their word for it. She did play a song called ‘Dinosaur Sex’ though.

She made a mistake in pronunciation that Sandro and I did pick up on, and then sniggered at remorselessly. Attempting to praise the upcoming Sŵn festival, she referred to it as ‘Swin’ rather than ‘Soon’. What kind of Anglo-Chinese girl can’t speak Welsh?

As with the previous forty Gigaweeks you had to be there.

Aside from that she was fine and dandy. She chatted frequently and asked the locals what the best thing about Cardiff is. 

“You are!” was the reply from one smitten wally.

On balance, she had a lovely voice and her music was easy on the ear. Her lyrics may well be literate, insightful and intelligent, to those who are literate, insightful and intelligent enough to have listened to her beforehand. 

As such it would be foolish to be critical. But she wasn’t great, which is why I said, “she’s fine, but she’s not great.”

Sandro doesn’t mince his words quite like I do.

“She’s fit, but she’s shit,” he said generously.

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October

1-7 – Pete & The Pirates + Gruff Rhys - ✓
8-14 – Emmy The Great - ✓
15-21 – Sŵn
22-28 – Sŵn + John Mayall

Week 40 - Part 2

Part Two - Gruff Rhys

“He thinks he’s Lady Gaga. . .”

Four days after our sweaty trip to Bristol, it was wet and windy again, which meant we were back in Cardiff. I’d stopped believing I was a Pirate, but Cousin Bish was still convinced he was a parrot. Sandro and I prised him off his perch to accompany us to see a genuine Welsh great.

Gruff Rhys, the Super Furry Animals front-man and all-round musical maestro, was touring in support of his third solo album, Hotel Shampoo. Gruff also gave that title to the model hotel made from shampoo bottles he’d collected whilst drawing rings around the world for the last fifteen years or so.

Half of me is certain that he’s an 8-ball short of a rack, while half of me just thinks he has an unusual sense of humour. The other half wonders why I failed my maths A-level.

Sane or not, he’s my favourite bearded musician and if he’s in town with the Furries, Neon Neon, alone, or even with Brazilian TV repairman Tony Da Gatorra (admittedly debatable), you should check it out.

That he thinks he’s Lady Gaga was a claim made by Sandro near the climax of the night’s performance, for reasons that will become obvious (it wasn’t just the meat dress he was wearing).

-------

Pre-gig, Sandro, Cousin Bish and I met for a couple of ciders and some food at O’Neill’s. 

“Hello sunshine!” Sandro greeted me cheerfully. “Are we just gonna play it cool tonight or go loco?” he asked.

“Go loco? It’s Wednesday night! Surely you can’t be serious?” I replied.

“I am serious,” Sandro replied, “and don’t call me Shirley.”

Looks like I picked the wrong week to quit drinking.

We passed the time by discussing the recent and possibly ground-breaking news regarding Oxide and Neutrino. Or something. It was all a bit over my head, but I had the feeling it was an important development. From what I gather time travel in a DeLorean is still light years away, but Sandro seemed excited by the possibility of superfast jellyfish. 

  

Gruff’s gig was at St David’s Hall, which meant we’d be seated. Unfortunately, we weren’t allowed to take our drinks into the auditorium as the good people there didn’t trust us enough to not smash our glasses and cause chaos, which was a mild inconvenience. They also refused entry to anyone wearing spectacles, which I thought was fair enough.

As a result, when supporting North Walian surf rockers Y Niwl began, we listened from the bar and watched via the handy screens. Y Niwl are an instrumental band who’ve already achieved great things early in their collective career. Like Gruff, they are nominees for the inaugural Welsh Music Prize and more impressively still, their track ‘Undegpedwar’ is the current theme tune for Football Focus.

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We entered in time to witness a few of their tunes first hand. There were no crazy naked girls but a curtain behind the band displayed the projected image of a young lady dancing in her underwear, repeating the same few seconds over and over. It was an old fashioned black and white image, so unless the projectionist was cleverly deceiving us all, the dancing lady could well be an OAP by now. Fine by me, as long as it wasn’t Marge.

Different sections of her dance looped during each of Y Niwl’s tunes, which were indistinguishable to the untrained ear.

“Is this the same tune as the last one?” Cousin Bish asked at one point. 

“No, it’s not,” I replied perceptively. “She’s shaking her hips a lot more for this one.”

When the band finished we desperately rushed upstairs to the bar for another pint. Sandro, ever the innovative drunk, also cunningly purchased a bottle of coke and double vodka which he then mixed in secret. “There’s nothing wrong with a little bit of bad behaviour,” he said.

Looks like I picked the wrong week to quit smoking.

We spotted some members of the Welsh A-list among those in the bar area. The splendid Euros Childs was in attendance, as was fabulous furry bassist Guto Pryce. Miniature man from Dirty Sanchez, Pancho, was also present and even Wales’ 23^rd sexiest man Dante Tyte was also around somewhere. Thankfully there was no sign of Gavin Henson.

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It was dark in the auditorium, but with my night vision I could just about make out a few empty seats, which was surprising considering the love for Gruff in the capital. The members of Y Niwl returned to act as his band and they were received with wild applause. Gruff dedicated his show to Bert Jansch, the folk legend who had died that day, which was a nice touch.

His performance was divided into three halves, and featured a mixture of Welsh and English language songs. Though there were no SFA or Neon Neon songs, the frequency of hits was still remarkable. 

The sugary sweet title track to his second solo album, ‘Candylion’, was played early on, and there was room for a rendition of ‘In a House With No Mirrors’ from his collaboration with Tony Da Gattora, which Gruff rightly suggested was the heaviest thing we’d hear tonight. In wild contrast was a new song called ‘Whale Trail’, which is the theme tune to an iPad and iPhone game of the same name. Its accompanyingvideo is truly spectacular.  

Gruff introduced the songs ‘Pwdin Ŵy 1’ and ‘Pwdin Ŵy 2’  in his own inimitable fashion. “It’s a story in two parts. . . about someone. . .  who is happy at first. . . and then sad. . . Errr. . . ” he said, gathering moss as he spoke. 

Sandro and I popped to the loo during ‘Lonesome Words’ and returned with more vodka and coke to the tune of ‘Sensations in the Dark’ which was apt, considering what we caught lonesome Cousin Bish doing when we returned.

Looks like I picked the wrong week to quit sniffing glue.

-------

The interval for Gruff proved not to be an interval for the audience. If you’ve any interest in seeing Gruff’s exquisite Patagonian road movie Separado! I advise skipping the next few paragraphs, as they’ll spoil the lovely denouement to that film.

------

Separado! sees Gruff set out on a journey to South America in search of a distant relative named René Griffiths, an Argentinian whose ancestors fled Wales and settled in Patagonia in the late 19^th century. Griffiths arrived in Wales himself in the seventies and became famous among Welsh speakers as a Latin-Welsh troubadour, before leaving without a trace.

After travelling through Brazil and Argentina, Gruff finds that René is long gone. As you may have guessed, he does find him eventually. In Cardiff. René was here again tonight to play a couple of songs.

He had a natural stage presence a great Latino guitar playing style. “When I left Argentina for Wales,” he said introducing a song called ‘Heno, Mae’n Bwrw Cwrw’, (Tonight, It’s Raining Beer) “my family told me it was more important to know how to drink, than to speak the language.” Sandro wholeheartedly agreed.

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Gruff returned for a grand second part to his own set, which including the likes of ‘‘Honey All Over’ and ‘Gyrru Gyrru Gyrru’. ‘Shark Ridden Waters’ was a fine faux-finish, and was applauded by all present, though no-one was daft enough to depart yet (except for a big fella in the front row with shaggy hair). 

As we waited for an encore, a throne was brought on stage, prompting Sandro’s Gaga observation. It was actually just a pair of aeroplane seats, which hinted at what was to come. Gruff returned to the piano to play a Welsh language song that preceded the fifteen minute epic, Skylon. 

Skylon is a harrowing yet humorous tale about the eponymous bomb disposal expert, who saves a plane full of passengers, goes on to marry the actress/media personality who’d stolen his window seat and has a child with her, selling the photos for a reputed one million dollars. It’s quite a closer.

Not many people would finish on such a song, but I guess the man don’t give a fuck, and with one final “Thankyouverymuch!” he was done for the night.

All that was left for us, was to run away into the night to catch a bus for the first time in Gigaweek history. The bus driver seemed nice enough. Thankfully, there were no bombs to defuse on board, and there was little chance of having a money-making lovechild with Sandro or Cousin Bish. 

Although, Sandro did ask me if I’d ever seen a grown man naked.

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October

1-7 – Pete & The Pirates + Gruff Rhys - ✓
8-14 – Emmy The Great
15-21 – Sŵn
22-28 – Sŵn + John Mayall

Week 40 - Part 1

Week 40 – Saturday 1^st & Wednesday 5th October – Pete & The Pirates + Gruff Rhys – The Cooler, Bristol + St. David’s Hall, Cardiff – £9 +£15

Part One - Pete & The Pirates

“Big Jeff has left the building. . .”

We’ve somehow stumbled into the final quarter of the year, and began it with a double Gigaweek. Twogigsaweek if you will. Now there’s a frightening concept. 

Everybody loves double Gigaweeks don't they? Both of you. Twice the adventure, twice the excitement, twice the Sandro? Thankfully not, as the bearded one was only present for the second of Week 40’s gigs.

The day after Sandro and I had risked a trip to Swansea to see The Subways, I was back on a train, this time heading to Bristol with Cousin Bish, to see Pete & The Pirates. They’d entertained Sandro and I back in April, and since then I’d let their second album One Thousand Pictures sink deep into my impressive consciousness.

The recent heat wave had continued, with temperatures in the mid-20s, so we were lightly toasted on the train. With hardly any windows to open, dehydration and heat-exhaustion were serious concerns.

Fortunately, I’ve seen my share of Bruce Parry in my time, so I knew some key survival skills. I opened Cousin Bish’s bottle of water and shared the contents generously with him, probably saving his life in the process. We also avoided scurvy by sharing some of my Terry’s Chocolate Orange.

-------

Our destination in Bristol was a venue called The Cooler which was new to both of us, and can be found on the steep hill of Park Street. This was slightly troublesome, as I’d been limping like a pegleg due to a calf injury. We stopped for a pre-gig rum at the Bristol Ram, before a very short stroll up the road took us to the venue. 

The Cooler’s a fairly small venue, with room for a couple of hundred or so and it was fairly busy when we arrived. A band called Ulysses were playing at the time, however our interest was only on the Thatchers Cider we’d quickly bought, so I’ve no idea if they were any good or not. It was very interesting cider though.

The next band, Glass, weren’t half bad at all. Cousin Bish noticed that although the venue was half full (I thought it was half empty), it was easy to spot a familiar face up front. A huge figure with a pirate’s beard and barnet, was rocking away wildly on his own in the front row, putting all other aspiring moshers to shame. It was of course, Bristol’s very own Big Jeff, shaking his mop without a care in the world.

Cousin Bish and I had a few cares of our own, particularly regarding transport. The last train to Cardiff from Bristol was at 11:00 and Pete & The Pirates left us sweating as they only appeared on stage at ten to ten, which wouldn’t leave us with a lot of room to manoeuvre.

-------

We’d moved towards the middle of the crowd and were sweating profusely by this point, even though I’d learned the lesson of the night before and worn my shortest shorts. 

Cousin Bish and I were both equally impressed by the talents of Pete & The Pirates. 

“They’re greeaat!” I declared, dreaming of frosties.

“They’re greeaat!” Cousin Bish agreed.

“Ahoy! They arrrghh!” I added, embarrassingly.

“Ahoy! They arrrghh!” Cousin Bish echoed, before scoffing down a cracker.

They were on for nearly an hour, mostly playing songs from their second album, but dipping into their debut for beauties like ‘Mr Understanding’ and ‘Knots’. As we cheered our approval, Cousin Bish turned to me with a horrified expression on his face. In turn, I was equally horrified at having to look at Cousin Bish’s face. 

He’d clearly seen something that had troubled him deeply. 

“What is it lad?” I asked in concern. Cousin Bish then told a harrowing tale regarding an unidentified member of the crowd.

“You won’t believe it,” he said, suppressing tears. “I just saw a man at the front, reach into his own nose, claim some green gold and gobble it up!”

“What’s wrong with that?” I asked, before remembering myself. “I mean, urggh, I’d never do that at a gig. . . I mean, I’d never do that.”

Pete (who of course, isn’t called Pete) and co clearly hadn’t noticed the treasure hunter and continued unabated, finishing their main set with the wonderful ‘Half Moon Street’. They left the stage but everybody in the crowd remained, expecting an encore. 

Everybody except Big Jeff, who walked the plank and left the building, his timbers having been suitably shivered.

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The Pirates returned for a long rendition of the pounding ‘Blood Gets Thin’ to finish for good, leaving Cousin Bish and I impressed, but with less than twenty minutes to get back to the station.

We decided against trusting a taxi driver and travelled on foot instead. I took off my flip flops and peg, putting on a brave face through the pain, and we ran like the clappers. Slow clappers.

We found ourselves two minutes away with only a minute to spare. As we entered the home straight, a girl with an eye patch who was walking away from the station stuck her oar in.

“Why are you running?” she asked intelligently.

“Why are we running towards a train station? I think we may be trying to catch a train.” Cousin Bish replied patiently.

“The trains have all terminated, they’re not running anymore.” she said.

“Why?” we asked in horror, coming to a halt.

“Because they have!” she shrieked, which was when we started to lose faith in her reliability as a source for information, “. . . and it’s late.” She may have been drunk.

“Bore off!” Cousin Bish replied, starting to run again. “Keep your nose out of it you silly cow!” he called over his shoulder in gentlemanly fashion.

For some reason she didn’t take kindly to those words, and called after us with a stream of unrepeatable abuse. 

We sped into the station at 11:01. We were late. 

This, however, was one of those rare occasions when we were grateful for a train being late too. 

Unfortunately, we didn’t quite have enough time to run back out of the station and barrack the cowardly cur who’d delayed us, so we raised the Jolly Roger and set sail to Cardiff. On a train.

PartTwo – Gruff Rhys

September

Monthly Non-Ramble

The Updated Itinerary so far:

January

1-7 - You Me At Six - ✓

8-14 - Fjords - ✓
15-21 - The Walkmen - ✓
22-28 - Walter Schreifels - ✓

February

29-4 - The Joy Formidable - ✓

5-11 - Jonny - ✓
12-18 - NME Shockwaves Tour (Crystal Castles, Magnetic Man, Everything, Everything The Vaccines) - ✓
19-25 –Les Savy Fav & Frankie and The Heartstrings - ✓

March

26-4 - Larry Miller - ✓
5-11 - Daedelus - ✓
12-18 - Benjamin Francis Leftwich - ✓
19-25 - Elbow - ✓
26-1 - The Thermals - ✓

April

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

May

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

June

4-10 - The Subways & Gomez - ✓

11-17 - Marcia Griffiths - ✓

18-24 - Glastonbury - ✓

25-1 - Glastonbury - ✓

July

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

August

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

27-2 - Reading - ✓

September

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

October

1-7 - Pete & The Pirates + 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 -?