Sunday, 1 January 2012

Gigaweek - The End



January

1-7 - You Me At Six -

8-14 - Siencyn, Fjords, The Sky Designed -
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
(Sandro - The King Blues) -

April

2-8 - The Sunshine Underground -

9-15 - Pete & The Pirates
(Sandro - Rival Schools) -
16-22 - Metronomy -

23-29 - Beady Eye -


May

30-6 - Camden Crawl  -
(Part II & Part III)
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 - (Part II & Part III & Part IV)
25-1 - Glastonbury - (Part II & Part III & Part IV)

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 - (Part II)

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 - Emmy The Great (Sandro - Cloud Control) -
15-21 - Sŵn -
(Part II)
22-28 - Sŵn (Part II) + John Mayall -

November
 
29-4 - Arctic Monkeys -

5-11 - Girls -

12-18 - Wise Blood -

19-25 - Wild Beasts -

26-2 - Foster The People + Kasabian
-

December

3-9 - The Drums -

10-16 - Straight Lines, Cuba Cuba, Tiger Please -

17-23 - Dopamine 
(Sandro - 2manydjs/Soulwax and Manic Street Preachers) -
24-30 - The Blackout -
31 - Johnny Cage and The Voodoo Groove -


Saturday, 31 December 2011

Week 53 - New Year's Eve - The End


Week 53 – Saturday 31/12/2011 - Johnny Cage and The Voodoo Groove – Globe, Cardiff - £10

“That’s the end of that chapter.”

Although 2011 was already over 52 weeks old, it wasn’t quite finished with us yet. As anyone who knows his 52 times table will tell you, 52 doesn’t fit into 365 without some excess baggage. Earth still had a few hundred thousand kilometres to go to complete its annual orbit around that big yellow thing.

The 365th day, became the 53rd week of Gigaweek, which meant Sandro and I were compelled to spend it away from Jools and his rampant hootenanny at a gig of some kind.

Week 53 was also, of course, New Year’s Eve, so there were all sorts of events and gigs across the country. But where better to spend the night than at our most frequented venue of the year, The Globe?

There was a band playing and they were charging for tickets, which makes it a gig as far as I’m concerned, and as far as you’re concerned.

The band that were playing were local heroes Johnny Cage & The Voodoo Groove. The fact that they would have burlesque dancers with them didn’t even enter our thoughts.

They’d also played last year when I stormed the stage dressed in my ‘Sumo-in-a-tutu’ suit, so we knew what to expect. On that occasion, Sandro had been dressed as ‘O-Man’ in tribute to the country and superhero of the same name, but this year we’d disappointingly matured and fancy dress was out of the question.
-------

Sadly not all of the cast of Gigaweek were with us, but many regulars (and not-so-regulars) from the past year were present, including Salazar, Gavlova, Flapjack, Little P, Buster Douglas, The Wendys, J Meaty, Karen T, Lucy D, Little Bird and Little John. 


There were even some fresh faces in the form of Shell C (or Sporty Spice), Portuguese Tony (Hairy Spice), Sam eH (not-so-Posh Spice) and Hannah dC (not-so-ginger Spice), plus China Mike (China Spice), an old friend of Sandro’s who now lives abroad. He didn’t say where.

All I recall about the gig, is a rendition of a Tom Waits song, or as it’s more commonly known, the theme tune from The Wire.

One member of the band was half-naked, while the rest weren’t so shy. That was about it. It was probably the best gig of the year.

An excessive amount of alcohol  was flying around (particularly in the literal sense) which is why my memory is so limited. A beer bottle hit me on the head. 


Did we even sing 'Auld Lang Syne'? I’m pretty sure we did and I’m the most reliable witness I know.


For some reason the staff at The Globe started kicking us out well before closing time, which was supposed to be 2am and all that remained was an Onion Bhaji fuelled frenzy at local late night curry house Tandoori Mahal.


Then it truly was all over.


We were in 2012 and the Chinese year of the Gigaweek was over.
------

It’s been a long year.

There’ve been highs (I didn’t mention them), lows, but mostly bits in the middle.

Sandro and I have been to over fifty gigs each, 4 music festivals (which featured 70 to 80 different sets, don’t you know), and we drank at countless pubs.

We’ve spent thousands of pounds, sunk hundreds of beers (slowly in some cases), and eaten dozens of unhealthy meals.

Many people have joined us along the way to make the experience bearable. Some have been welcome, some less so (Flapjack), but I thank all of them for their contributions. Admittedly, without you it would have been better but at least you tried.

At the very least, without you, Sandro and I would have come to blows and we all know that wouldn’t have lasted long. He’s renowned for his blowing ability.

To those who’ve read this blog (Marge), if you’ve managed to stick with Gigaweek from beginning to end, you should probably take a long hard look in the mirror. You may also remember that one of the initial challenges we set ourselves was to attend at least one gig abroad (in hot pants).

You will therefore note that we’ve failed. This is of course, irrelevant and I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it.

So what does next year hold in store for me and Sandro? Well, as my friend Ferris once said, life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it. I would add that you’ll also get really, really tired, so next year I thought it would probably be for the best if I did nothing whatsoever.

But that sounds too difficult. The best idea I had is to travel, taking in a new country every week, but I couldn’t think of an inoffensive enough name for it. Plus I spent all my money this year.

The next bright idea was to go to the cinema once a week, but apparently you can’t drink beer or yell ‘Arriba!!’ during a film. With that in mind, we’ve settled on Pubaweek, whereby we drink at a different pub every single week of the year. Doesn’t sound like much of a challenge does it?

Feel free to do the same. Don’t worry, I won’t be writing about it.
-------

December

3-9 - The Drums -
10-16 - Straight Lines, Cuba Cuba & Tiger Please - (2manydjs + Manic Street Preachers)
17-23 - Dopamine -
24-30 - The Blackout -
31 - Johnny Cage & The Voodoo Groove -

The End

Friday, 30 December 2011

Week 52


Week 52 – Friday 30/12/2011 - The Blackout – Cardiff Student’s Union: The Great Hall, Cardiff - The Blackout - £20

“Shall we just go to the pub instead?”

So this was it. Armageddon. The End of Days. The Apocalypse. Now.

Somehow, we’d made it to the final week of the year. 51 weeks had passed, with each featuring at least one glorious/ghastly gig, meaning we were hours from the conclusion of Gigaweek.

All we had to do was find one more gig and we’d be certified Gigaweekers.

(In actual fact, we had to also go to a gig on New Year’s Eve as per the rigidly flexible Gigaweek rulebook, but that’s beside the point.)

As throughout the rest of December, there were very few gigs on offer. Apparently, musicians celebrate Christmas too.


Christmas Day and Boxing Day were gigless, as is tradition. On the 27th we were at Chepstow racecourse as part of Sandro’s birthday celebrations. While there was a live band playing in one of the marquees for most of the day, that didn’t satisfy our strict Gigaweek criteria, which was a shame because it would have allowed our older brother Bryce Val Doonican and younger sister Ugly Betty to make a Gigaweek appearance.

There were no options either on the 28th so it looked like we might have to go to a gig by Hondo Maclean, a Bridgend band who were essentially forerunners to Funeral For a Friend. They were playing two reunion shows at Clwb Ifor Bach, one of which was on Friday and had sold out, while the other fell on Sandro’s birthday, Thursday 29th.

Sandro decided that he couldn’t think of a worse way to spend his birthday, so we looked for alternatives on the Friday.
-------

The Blackout were playing at The Great Hall, which didn’t appeal to either of us, especially considering tickets were over 15 quid.

The always unhelpful Salazar pointed out that Wu Tang Clan were apparently in Cardiff, according to several unreliable websites. They suggested that Ghostface Killah and his chums would be appearing at Sherman Theatre (or Sherman Cymru as it’s now known). As if it wasn’t a busy enough time of year for rappers already.

Aside from the fact that the theatre would seem an unusual venue to host a hip-hop collective, I found it particularly strange as I was almost certain that it was the last night in the run of The Elves and The Shoemaker.

I was right to be suspicious. It turned out Wu Tang Clan were in fact playing the Sherman Theater (that’s Theater not Theatre) in Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania. I was wrong about The Elves and The Shoemaker though.

Just when we thought we were destined for a blackout, Sandro plucked a gig from nowhere. At Café Jazz in the city centre, the John Davies Quartet were apparently playing some traditional and vintage Jazz.


“Jazz is just musical wanking though isn't it?” I said.

“No. And whats with the Irish accent?” Sandro replied.

“I always speak with an Irish accent,” I said.


“No, you usually speak with an Australian accent,” he reminded me.

I was in a forgetful mood. The night began ominously as I met Sandro at a house that I’ve spent many nights at over the past few years, only to question myself as I stood at the gate in the dark and damp.

Those blinds look different, I thought to myself as I approached. That door looks different too, I thought as I hesitantly opened the gate. That head looks different, I thought as a face I didn’t recognise peered around the opening door.

“Sorry! I must have the wrong house, I was looking for my friend,” I apologised as I made to walk away, before hearing my name.

It was Mrs P, mother of P Mushy and Little P. She was visiting with Mr P. Fortunately for me, she’d recognised me and saved me from a confused walk up and down the street.

“Are those blinds new?” I asked K May once inside.

“Nope,” she replied.

“Is that door new?” I asked her.

“Nope,” she replied again.

“Is that head new?” I asked finally.

“Yes, that’s Mrs P’s head. P. Mushy is out.”
-------

Sandro and I were watching the first half of the Liverpool v Newcastle game in the house when he casually mentioned that the gig we were planning on seeing, didn’t appear to be going ahead.

“According to their website, Café Jazz is actually closed tonight,” he said.

“Oh good,” I replied. “Wait, what do you mean ‘closed’?”

“If I’m going to have to explain every word to you, this’ll take all night,” he replied.

“Wait, what do you mean ‘If’?” I asked.

“It says they’re closed online, but let’s give ‘em a ring,” he suggested.

We did. Fortunately, the website was wrong, they were indeed open.

There was however, no gig.

“Where did you see this gig advertised?” I asked.

“I’ve no idea, I can’t remember,” Sandro replied.

“It wasn’t one of the websites that were advertising the Wu Tang Clan gig was it?”

“Probably.”

It was gone 8 o’clock, so we had less than 4 hours to squeeze a gig into, or else the previous 51 weeks had been in vain.

“You know what this means don’t you?” I said. “It means we have to go to The Blackout.

We bowed our heads silently.

“Shall we just go to the pub instead?” Sandro suggested.
-------

“I’ve no desire to see The Blackout and I wouldn’t mind watching the second half,” Sandro continued.

“But this is the last ever Gigaweek,” I said. “We can’t fall at the last hurdle.”

“Tomorrow is the last hurdle,” he corrected me.

“No, tomorrow is the home straight. There’s no danger whatsoever of us failing on New Year’s Eve,” I replied.

“What if we do a Devon Loch?” he said.

That was true. Could I guarantee that I wouldn’t suddenly fall down and knock myself out in the middle of the street tomorrow, and miss out on New Year’s Eve altogether? Past experiences suggested not.

“We’re unlikely to do a Devon Loch, although that would be a glorious end. But can we really give up now?” I asked.

“I’m quite comfortable with the idea,” Sandro replied. “It’s not the end of the world.


I disagreed.


“We can tell everyone we did it anyway,” he continued. After all, what’s the tagline to Gigaweek?”

“Say cheese and die?” I guessed.

“What? No. Based on real events. . . loosely.”

It was tempting. We could pop to the pub, watch the football, have a couple of beers, save money on attending a gig we were unlikely to be enthralled by and then lie about it and say the gig was great. Who wouldn't believe us?

To have come so far and to have spent so much time and money, only to throw it all away within touching distance of the finishing line did seem oddly appealing.

At the same time, it seemed like the single stupidest idea of the year, in a long line of stupid ideas.
-------

As Sandro admitted, we couldn’t afford to repeat it, so we’d never be closer to earning our Gigaweek stripes. Plus, with the world predicted to end next year (and yet nobody willing to bet their life savings with me that it doesn't), we may never have another chance. All we had to do was drum up the effort to get out of the house, walk for fifteen minutes in the cold (and possibly rain), fork out a few quid, stand and stare at a stage for a couple of hours, then we’d be more or less home and dry (or a little wet).


Essentially, that’s how hard it is to attend a gig and we’ve managed to do it fifty odd times this year.

While the temptation to fail was strong, the temptation to trick Sandro into failing and succeeding myself was even stronger. Luckily for him, the memory of my one and only gig alone flooded back to me and I decided against it.

“I tell you what,” I said to him. “As the birthday present I bought you was the same as one of your Christmas presents (a nose trimmer), I’ll pay for your ticket.” How could he refuse?

It was fitting that we returned to The Great Hall, where it all began with YMAS, with The Blackout playing the part of ZMAS. I vowed that, should any 17 year olds ask me to buy them a beer, I would, for old time’s sake. Of course for all we knew, the gig could have been sold out, so we approached the box office with some trepidation.

“Have you got any tickets left?” I asked the glum looking girl in the box office box.

“Yeah,” she replied glumly.

“Thank God for that!” I said. “Can I have two please?”

“Yeah. That’ll be 40 quid.”

“14 quid each? That’s not so bad,” I replied.

“No, 40 quid overall,” the girl said.

“14 quid overall? Even better,” I said delightedly.

“No, no. Forty. Four-Zero,” she said.

“Fourteen? Four-Teen?” I asked.

She held her hands in her head for a moment.

“It’s twenty quid each,” she said finally.

I turned to Sandro.

“Fuck it, let’s go to the pub.”
-------

We didn’t go to the pub. I did reach into my wallet and reluctantly hand over two twenty pound notes, and we went inside. The room was less packed than I’d anticipated, though there were still legions adorned in various Blackout T-shirts, with the usual mix of kids, adolescents with extravagant haircuts and multiple tattoos on their faces. It was like a scene from Mad Max.


There was also the odd chaperone, who no doubt secretly like the bands a lot more than the bored kids they accompany. 

Attack! Attack! were the band on stage when we entered and they’d followed two other Welsh bands I didn’t know. Sandro and I grabbed 3 Bulmers for a tenner between us, and hid in the corner not paying much attention to anything else. When the world does end, Attack! Attack! will provide a pretty decent soundtrack to it.

We didn’t have to wait too long for The Blackout, who took to the stage chanting “We! Are! The Dynamite!” which probably made more sense to them than us, at which point we decided to move to the other side of the room and prop ourselves against the bar.

From our new vantage point, we had a good view of the chaotic mosh pit in front of the stage, from which two youngsters escaped and stumbled over to us. One of them looked on the verge of death. He was sweating profusely but managed to lift his limp arms up to the bar to retrieve a glass of Water. He leant on the bar next to Sandro.

Sandro dwarfed him, but the boy revealed that he was a veteran of Download festival and was therefore experienced in this sort of thing. I couldn’t really hear their conversation, but it looked like he wanted Sandro to join him in the mosh pit to provide some extra heft.

“We could do with a bit of bulk,” I imagined him saying.

“If you call me bulky again I’ll sit on your puny head,” was Sandro’s imagined reply.

The boys returned to the pit, and my thoughts returned to The Blackout.
-------

Four albums in, the latest of which was a Welsh Music Prize nominee, and I couldn’t name a single song of theirs. Cousin Bish and I had briefly seen them at The Big Weekend a few years ago, but we didn’t stick around for long. They had duelling frontmen, one of whom was a growler called Sean, the other a singer called Gavin (the singer being the fella who’d supported Dopamine the week before).

My personal problem with this kind of music, has always been the growler. What is he saying? Why is he trying to swallow the microphone? Why do my ears hurt? I’ve never found answers to these questions, and never really wanted to. So when the growler first growled early on, I wasn’t particularly excited about what would follow. His spectacularly bad haircut and constant prowling of the stage weren’t promising signs either.

But who ever said you had to be likeable to be a good frontman? Slowly but surely, their energy and their relentless, furious pace won us over and I’m not ashamed to say I enjoyed it. Sandro was converted as soon as they unleashed their cover of Andrew WK’s ‘Party Hard’.

Both frontmen spent time whipping up the crowd and chatting away, but when Gavin addressed the crowd part way through the set, we were shocked and appalled.

“Today is a special gig. It’s a celebration, because yesterday was the most special day of the year. . .”

“What have you paid him?” I said to Sandro.

“. . . Sean’s birthday!” Gavin finished.

“For fuck’s sake,” Sandro muttered.

When Sandro told me that he later saw Sean classily spit in the air and try to catch it in his own mouth, I knew for certain that 29th December was a cursed day for mankind.

Nevertheless we were enjoying the gig rather a lot when one of the frontmen declared that they would be playing their last song at around 10:40.


“Will there be an encore d’you reckon?” Sandro asked.

“Yeah, there’s bound to be,” was my verdict, so we bought a few more Bulmers.

No sooner had we sipped our drinks, than the band downed their instruments and walked off stage. The lights in The Great Hall came on and people began to flood out. Much to our surprise, we were actually disappointed that there wasn’t more to come.

We smuggled our drinks out of the venue, and our final post-gig pint of the year was therefore drunk en route to Albany fish bar. With that, it was all over, not with a bang but a whimper. Sandro was in tears.

Except, it wasn’t over just yet. . .
-------

December

3-9 - The Drums -
10-16 - Straight Lines, Cuba Cuba & Tiger Please - (2manydjs + Manic Street Preachers)
17-23 - Dopamine -
24-30 - The Blackout -
31 - ?

Thursday, 22 December 2011

Week 51


Week 51 – Thursday 22/12/2011 - Dopamine – Buffalo Bar, Cardiff - £8

“Is there anyone alive out there?”

’Twas the week before Christmas and in Cardiff, not much was stirring. With my larger brother having already covered his sizable behind with an expensive Saturday night out with the Manics in London, for the second week running I’d be gigging sans Sandro.

He spent the rest of the week counting his money and throwing humbugs at any little boys he could find called Tiny Tim.

The weather was frosty, and so were the receptions from the city’s live music venues. The gig landscape was so barren that I feared I’d miss out on a Gigaweek certificate. I’d thought Gigaweek was too big to sink, but I was in serious need of a lifeboat.

My search was long and arduous but using all my powers of investigation I eventually found a lead.

I’d worked my fingers to the bones, typing several different words over the course of several minutes, until I finally found a gig on Thursday night (which was Christmas Eve Eve Eve) at buffalo bar.

Fortunately, while most bands are using up their annual leave visiting their mums, there’s a certain type of band that can be relied on to plough on through the fallow period.

This time, that band was called Dopamine, who are from Caerphilly. Although I’d never heard of them, considering they were being supported by Gavin Butler from The Blackout, it was a fair guess that they would be one of those Valleys Alternative/Nu-Metal/Pop-Punk/Something or other bands that we’ve come to know and tolerate.  

So, who could I rope in to join me this week? Was there anybody alive out there?

Cousin Bish had served his sentence last week and I doubted whether I could hoodwink him again. He was still pestering me about why I felt Tiger Please were comparable with Right Said Fred. Besides, I’m sure he’d been planning a trip to Whoville to steal Christmas (although that might have been my mind wandering as I noticed the unusual shape of his nose).

Surely it wouldn’t be too difficult to persuade someone else to accompany me in the name of Gigaweek. But as I trawled through the contacts list on my Nokia 0010 (which took 7 seconds), a thought crossed my mind (I was surprised too.)

The thought was: What if I go it alone?

-------
People go to gigs on their own all the time don’t they? I’ve seen them there, standing still, and then occasionally moving. Looking around because they’ve nothing better to do, except to stand still and occasionally move.

Of course, some of those who go alone know full well that they’re likely to bump into half a dozen people they know, so they don’t count. I’m talking about the people who head out knowing that they’re unlikely to see anyone who knows their name, and don’t care a jot. They are there solely for the gig itself. I most certainly wasn’t doing it just for the music, my reasons were much more sensible.

Just two weeks ago we’d bumped into Buster Douglas who’d gone it alone to see The Drums, and as far as I knew he’d made it home in one piece. Surely I could do the same.

Throughout Gigaweek and before its inglorious birth, I’ve always had someone to hold my hand. To buy half my drinks, chat about cheese between bands, and to stop any strange men from approaching or painting me naked. I’ve never before had the guts to go solo.

But I’ve done it at Glastonbury and I’ve done it at Reading in wellies. Surely I could pull it off in Cardiff in daps and a life preserver.

I’ve always maintained that should the situation demand it, I would go to the cinema on my own, but I’ve never put my money where my mouth is. Except for that time I swallowed a fiver.

I could do this. I didn’t need Sandro. I didn’t need Cousin Bish. I didn’t need anybody.

Except for Parge. I needed a lift.
-------
As I neared the venue, with Bruce Springsteen blaring through the car stereo, I began to have second thoughts (or at least a second thought). This time the thought was: What the hell am I doing?

It was Christmas time after all. Nobody should be alone at Christmas, apart from really weird people. Oh.

All I could think about was a big bellied, jolly man in red, sipping sherry and scoffing down mince pies, and that was when a third thought struck me. Candy, who is a student at the North Pole University (he calls it Aberystwyth), was back in Cardiff for Christmas.

I sent him a text to see if he wanted to join me.

‘Hey Candy. Going to a gig. Do you want to join me?’

‘Hi m8. Who u going 2 C?’ He replied. I slowly worked it out.

‘A band called Dopamine. They’re like Right Said Fred.’ I texted back.

‘Lol. I don’t like Right Said Fred,’ was the response. Bugger, that was the other guy.

‘I meant, they’re like Beyoncé,’ I texted again, remembering Candy’s love for the bootylicious one at Glastonbury.

‘Lol. Really? Thats not wot the net says. Pmsl. Soz, busy ne way. BB4N x’. He replied.

I didn’t know what half of his reply meant, but he clearly wasn’t buying it. It didn’t matter anyway, because in the time it had taken to have a conversation via text, I’d entered Buffalo, paid £8 for a ticket, bought myself a drink and found a wall to stand still near. I should have rung him.

I occasionally moved and looked around as though I expected to see someone I knew.

I didn’t see anyone I knew.

There was no band on stage and people were chatting happily, presumably discussing what presents they’d bought for Christmas, and asking each other who the weird guy sipping a Magners very slowly and staring at them was. It’s only paranoia when you’re wrong.
-------
It was 8:03. I’d arrived way too early. Perhaps if I walked from one side of the room to the other and back, time would go quicker. I did this. It was still 8:03. I lingered over everything, trying to drag a few extra seconds out of everything I did. I even scratched my nose in slow motion. 8:04. It was a good scratch.

I got my phone out and looked at it. Unfortunately I don’t own a smart phone, so aside from the indispensable coin toss game and the handy converter that told me that 0° Celsius was 32° Fahrenheit there wasn’t much else I could do with it.

Nevertheless, I figured that if I stared at it for long enough, eventually a text would come through. 8:07. Still nothing. Is 4 minutes usually a long time to go without a text? I wondered. I suppose that depends on one’s popularity. I thought to myself, as I stood alone in the corner of a busy room. It’s certainly a long time to stare at a phone.

I could have been home alone watching Die Hard, but here I was staring at an old Nokia.

I retried the trick of walking from one side of the room to the other and back. 8:09. I was clearly getting slower but it was working. I tried it again. 8:11. I did it twice more. 8:15. It was a cunning plan, but people were definitely staring at me now. Perhaps a trip downstairs to the loo would prove a useful time waster.

The floor of the toilet cubical was soaked with piss. If I use the toilet paper to wipe the floor clean, I’ll use up loads of minutes! I thought excitedly. Five minutes later when I rose from my hands and (wet) knees I decided that was a bad idea.

Now people wouldn’t just wonder who the strange fella on his own was; they’d wonder who the strange fella on his own who stunk of piss and had wet patches on his knees was.

Fortunately when I returned upstairs, I could hear music, which meant I could happily stand and stare in one direction without fear of ridicule.
-------
The man on stage making those comforting vibrations was Gavin Butler, one of two frontmen for the greatest Alternative Rock band to come out of Merthyr, The Blackout. They’re a band who aren’t really my cup of tea so I’m unlikely to ever see them live (although that doesn’t usually stop me), but I imagine one of their shows would be a lot more frantic and loud than Gavin’s solo set.

Of course, once he’d said his goodbyes, I had the loner’s predicament all over again.

More mentally strong loners than I wouldn’t have even flinched. I, on the other hand, started flinching uncontrollably. I needed a beer to calm myself, so I headed back to the bar. I also needed to eat up as many minutes as possible and I didn’t fancy cleaning the women’s toilets. Or did I? . . .

No, that would have attracted too much attention.

There were five people waiting at the bar when I reached it, and the sole barman made light work of their requests, which was bad news for me.

“Yes mate,” he asked me in turn.

“Err, he was before me,” I said nodding to the guy who’d arrived at the bar just after I had.

“Thanks mate,” the guy said in surprise, before ordering his drink.

The barman then returned to me.

“I think she was next,” I said referring to the girl who’d been behind the guy who’d just been served. The barman arched his eyebrow, but served her nonetheless. She smiled to acknowledge me, before noticing my knees and scurrying away.

Unfortunately, no one else was waiting, which meant the barman came back to me again.

“What can I get you then pal,” he asked.

“Err,” I looked around for others but I was alone.

“Um, how much are the Magners again?” I asked.

“£3.70,” The barman replied.

“Hmm, quite expensive. . . What about the Brothers?”

“£3.60,” he replied.

“That’s a saving of 10p isn’t it?” I said.

He didn’t reply.

“Right. How much is the cheapest lager?” I asked.

“Stella IV is £3,” he replied.

“Blimey! That’s the cheapest? How much is the most expensive lager?”

“Are you genuinely interested in this type of thing?” he asked back.

“Well, a little. How much is the average lager?” I probed.

“Do you actually want a drink or not pal?” he asked with an air of finality.

“Uh, I’ll have a Magners please, with a glass of icebergs,” I said at last.

He stared at me.

“Uh, I mean ice,” I said sheepishly.

I’d done my best and whiled away a few more minutes but I still had a good ten minutes to waste. Luckily I received a text. It was only from Orange but nobody else knew that.

By the time I’d finished texting my reply (which Orange had specifically requested me not to do), Dopamine were on stage.
-------
They were exactly as I expected them to be. Hard, fast and loud, which was no bad thing but they weren’t really my bag. Still, I applauded their energy and their lively fans seemed to enjoy them a lot. I decided not to stick around ‘til the bitter end, patting myself on the back and pushing past several women and children to abandon ship about three quarters of an hour in.

I left full of admiration for people who go to gigs alone, people who’d no doubt wonder what all the fuss was about. For me it was a harrowing ordeal.

Perhaps I’m just not a mature enough candidate to gig alone yet. I vowed that I would try again in the future, perhaps to see a band I’m actually a fan of, as soon as I’m able to grow a beard.

As I wandered home alone, cold and lonely, listening to Celine Dion on my iPod, it suddenly dawned on me just how close Sandro and I were to completing Gigaweek.

I wasn’t sure whether to cry or to rejoice, so I did both at the same time and I’m pretty sure people started staring at me again.
-------

December

3-9 - The Drums -
10-16 - Straight Lines, Cuba Cuba & Tiger Please - (2manydjs + Manic Street Preachers)
17-23 - Dopamine -
24-30 - ?
31 - ?

Tuesday, 13 December 2011

Week 50


Week 50 – Tuesday 13th December – Straight Lines, Cuba Cuba & Tiger Please – Clwb Ifor Bach, Cardiff – £5.00

“I would rather stab myself in the eye than see them again. . .”

Thankfully no eyes were actually pierced in the making of Week 50 of Gigaweek, though a few ear drums were. Sandro and I achieved our Gigaweek half centuries separately, as he had plans to raise his bat to the sky in London.

The bearded one was being treated by Salazar (his carer) with a trip to the big smoke to see an oxygen fuelled Friday and Saturday night combo of Soulwax/2manydjs at the O2Academy and Manic Street Preachers at the O2, while I was left to fend for myself.

I didn’t even have a bat.

With Cardiff bereft of gigs in December, I had little choice but to opt for a cheap Tuesday night gig at Clwb Ifor Bach. The bands on show were called Straight Lines, Cuba Cuba and Tiger Please, who we’d seen at Sŵn.

I politely asked Sandro if he’d care to add to his gig tally for the week by joining me, but he opted for a night in poking himself in the eye instead.

Fortunately, a family member who goes by the name of Cousin Bish had never heard of Tiger Please, and was therefore more than happy to help.

“What are they like?” he enquired.

“Oh, uh, you’d really like them,” I replied. “They’re a little like Right Said Fred.

“Excellent!” Cousin Bish said, licking his lips.

He spared me the fate of being the weird loner at the back of the room. We were the pair of weirdos at the back of the room instead.
-------
An enjoyable night began with a pre-gig pint and rare visit to The Rummer Tavern, which gave us a great view of the Castle and of the hundreds of scantily clad girls and boys making their way to Revs in the pouring rain.

The Rummer was empty, save for a couple of middle-aged ladies who appeared to be giving us the eye, although admittedly one of them was cross-eyed. In any case, they were a little too old for me and a little too young for Cousin Bish so we swiftly moved on to Clwb.

The gig was upstairs and Straight Lines were already playing when we entered. It was packed, full of people who, I presume, know a lot more about Straight Lines than either of us, but nowhere near as much about wonky ones.

We picked up a bottle of Kopparberg each and burrowed into the crowd, which seemed to be singing along in a thick valleys accent. It was a voice that hadn’t quite broken, as most of its contributors seemed far too young to wear one of the over-18 wristbands that were pinching hairs off mine and Cousin Bish’s wrists.

“These bloody wristbands!” Cousin Bish complained, “I won’t have any hair left after tonight!”

I bit my tongue.

Straight Lines are one of a long line of bands of their ilk, that have dominated the South Wales landscape for the last decade or more. They played at breakneck pace with guitar riffs galore, and sang in accents closer to those found in the San Fernando valley than the Rhondda valley.

“This kind of music is rife in Wales,” Cousin Bish said, “and I don’t mean in a good way.”

“You don’t use the word rife if you mean good,” I said helpfully.

“Exactly. You say prevalent or predominant. This stuff is rampant, it’s endemic.”

“Like the clap?” I suggested.

“Exactly like the clap!” he nodded. “Wait, who have you been speaking to?”

Regardless of whether Cousin Bish thought the band were inferior to the average STI or not, the rest of the crowd lapped up their brand of Valleys Nu-Metal/Pop-Punk/Rhubarb Rock. There was even a massive conga during their set, so how could I possibly pour scorn on them?

I shuddered to think what Sandro would have said though, especially when it was mentioned that they would be returning early next year to support Canterbury, a band who featured back in the very first week of Gigaweek and had swiftly been rechristened.

In true festive spirit, Straight Lines finished their set with a cover of Wham!’s ‘Last Christmas’, which was much more to Cousin Bish’s tastes.
-------
There was a mass exodus once they’d vacated the stage, giving us plenty of room to manoeuvre. For the rest of the show we positioned ourselves with our backs to the sound engineer’s booth, avoiding any potential rampaging congas.

Next up on stage were another Welsh band called Cuba Cuba, who had themselves played at Sŵn, though Sandro and I had missed them. The band appeared dressed all in white, suggesting that we might hear a cover of ‘Flying Without Wings’ if we were lucky.

In the crowd, a lad who liked to shout “Yeah Boy!” with a few extra Ys, was identified by Cuba Cuba’s singer as one Leon Jones, who seems to have a reputation in the Valleys for shouting out the words “Yeah Boy!” with a few extra Ys, to the great amusement of everyone.

Cuba Cuba were certainly less shouty than Leon Jones and mixed the tempo up a lot more than Straight Lines. Their ginger singer even sang in what seemed to be his own accent. Cousin Bish argued that they were like countless bands across the country, with no real X factor to separate them from the crowd.

He suggested that a good way of separating the wheat from the chaff would be to have a reality TV show where all these acts came together in a mass competition, with the winner gaining warranted exposure, but I thought it sounded shit.

Without being outstanding, they were certainly different to what had come before, and had a few decent songs I thought. However, I overheard a couple of unhappy youngsters next to us referring to them as being, “like a more mellow Snow Patrol,” and then discussing Snow Patrol’s back catalogue at length, which was quite alarming.

“You mean a mellower Snow Patrol,” I almost said, but I didn’t want them to know I was dropping eaves.
 
Meanwhile Cuba Cuba invited Gary Barlow on stage, which was the cue for the singer from Tiger Please to join them for a duet. So, that’s who this Gary Barlow fella is, I thought to myself. He still had the same distinctive haircut, floppy on one side, shaved on the other. It served as a reminder of why Sandro was tempted to blind himself. As promised, Cuba Cuba left without a Christmas cover, and Gary was able to bring the rest of his band on stage.
-------
As at Sŵn, they once again wore black waistcoats and ties, save for the singer and the two on strings (who were girls rather than puppets). Their set began in epic fashion, with a song that seemed to run and run. It also took me completely by surprise as it was actually rather good.

Maybe it was my diminished expectations, but I did genuinely enjoy them. Honestly, I did. Admittedly, they tailed off enough towards the end of their set, and I wasn’t inclined to stay for their encore but overall they were more than adequate.

The floppy-haired shaven-headed singer dedicated a song towards the end of their set to a man name Paul. Paul was apparently a man who follows them around and has seen them on many occasions. It was clearly a heartfelt dedication, as the singer went on for about five minutes about him.

“I always speak to Paul. He’s come to so many of our gigs, all over the country,” he began. “He’s almost as cool as that fella at the back.” (I’m paraphrasing of course.) “We always discuss his two most beloved things: his country, Wales, and his Son.” By now tears were streaming down faces. I assumed Paul and/or his son had recently succumbed to a tragic illness of some kind.

“Tonight,” the singer continued, “is the first time Paul has had the chance to see us in Wales.” It was worse than I’d thought.

 “Paul told me that the first two songs his son learned were ‘Something, something’ by Straight Lines and ‘That other one you don’t know’ by Tiger Please.”

“Jesus Christ!” said Cousin Bish. “Has Paul never heard of The Rolling Stones?”

Presumably they then played the song of theirs that Paul JR had learned but I’d stopped listening. Cousin Bish and I had started discussing how The Rolling Stones were really just a more mellow version of Snow Patrol.

We left pleasantly surprised and congratulating ourselves on another good night.

“I’ve had a good night. . .” Cousin Bish said.

“Not tonight?” I guessed.

“No. You said they would be like Right Said Fred!” he raged.
-------

December

3-9 - The Drums -
10-16 - Straight Lines, Cuba Cuba & Tiger Please - (2manydjs + Manic Street Preachers)
17-23 - ?
24-30 - ?
31 - ?

Thursday, 8 December 2011

Week 49



Week 49 – Thursday 8th December – The Drums – O2 Academy, Bristol – £15.00

“It was so funny, that I told Mummy. . .”

December eh?

Our journey so far has been fraught with peril, but we’ve battled our way valiantly past legions of homeless people into the final month of a long year. It’s almost been as long as one of those pesky leap years.

This month, more than any other, brings people closer together, to eat, drink, chat, celebrate and generally do anything to escape the shitty weather outside. Maybe I should have invited those homeless people in.

It’s also the month that marks the birth many years ago of a special little guy, who went on to become a bearded, long-haired man and roam the world in a pair of sandals regaling the masses with tales of miracles and astonishing achievements.

I speak of course, of Sandro (they’re flip-flops rather than sandals).

This December is a particularly significant month for our family. As well as the small matter of my own 10th birthday, Sandro turns 30.

Even more spectacularly, Parge turns 60 and Grandparge turns 90.

More importantly some would argue, Gigaweek comes to an end.

We’ll only be celebrating 4 of those 5 special occasions though. None of us like Parge.
-------
As with January, December can be a difficult month to find gigs, and is therefore a particularly testing time for Gigaweekers. It should serve as a reminder to those who attend numerous gigs throughout the summer and sneer at us (such people exist in my imagination), that quantity was never the challenge. What was the challenge again?


Very little happens in the gig world in December, with the rappers of the world understandably preoccupied. We did manage to find something though.

On the day after my birthday, Sandro and I travelled to Bristol once again. This week, we had tickets to see The Drums at the O2 Academy. The Drums are a band I’ve managed to see live twice before, without ever really getting into them, which meant them ideal Gigaweek candidates. 

It was no chore jump on a train and head in their direction. Aboard that train I sat next to a young man of East Asian descent, who was doing his level best to sleep while listening to his favourite lullabies, which were leaking rather loudly from his headphones.


Sadly there was no sign of ‘Rock-a-Bye Baby’.


Instead, about fifteen seconds worth of hypnotic beats looped at about 150bpm for almost an hour. It was the kind of thing one may have found slightly annoying if one is the type to be annoyed by such things. Is one?

Personally I found it oddly funny, especially when Sandro picked up the East Asian boy, and threw him onto the station platform at the Severn Tunnel Junction.

Once in Bristol, we made for a slice of Wales in the form of the Llandoger Trow pub where we sank a quiet pre-gig pint.

“Do you think he survived the fall?” I asked, sipping a cider.

“I really don’t care,” Sandro replied compassionately.

“I’m pretty sure I saw him slip back onto the track,” I said.

“I don’t care,” Sandro reiterated. “Jesus would have done the same thing.”
-------
A short walk away was the O2 Academy, where we bought a couple of Gaymers and found a decent spot to stand in. We’d stood in that very spot to watch Black Rebel Motorcycle almost a year ago to the day. On that night, I vividly remember looking into the heart of the crowd, where a giant of at least 8 feet (he wasn’t an Octopus) stood proudly, inadvertently obstructing the view of anyone silly enough to stand in the same building as him.

One memory triggered another and I thought back to last week’s post-gig pint discussion on the subject of height.

“Ha,” I laughed to myself, remembering how the inept J-Mo had thought Sandro was shorter than me.


“It was so funny, that I told Mummy. . .” I stopped dead.

“What did you just say?” Sandro said, his ears pricked.

“I, I said, ‘It was so funny, that I owed money’. . .” I lied, cleverly covering my tracks.

“No, no. No you didn’t. You said Mummy didn’t you?” Sandro replied.

“I meant to say Marge, but Mummy just popped out,” I admitted.

“You do realise that you’re a 25 year old man?” Sandro said.

I didn’t. How horrible. I was sure I was 10.

“I want my mummy,” Sandro will tell you that I then said, but I must insist that he’s lying.

“You make me sick,” he said finally, shaking his head as I sucked my thumb.
-------
Before I could embarrass myself further, the supporting band appeared on stage, led by a man in a red hood. 

“I think I’ve seen these,” Sandro said during their first song.

“Are you sure you’re not just thinking of the fairy tale?” I asked him.

“I think it’s Cloud Control,” he said ignoring me. 

It was Cloud Control, which meant I’d also seen them before. In my defence, when I’d seen them it was well past midnight and I’d been drinking for 12 hours. 

“You never really told me how that went,” I said to Sandro.

“Funny you should say that,” he replied, before beginning a tedious tale that went a little like this.

****
Sandro’s Supplement is supposed to appear at this point 
but Sandro said he couldn't be arsed to write it.
****

Since I’d seen Cloud Control at Camden Crawl, I’d neglected to listen to their album even once. 


Perhaps it was because Salazar had recommended them.


Tonight they weren't bad at all so I made a mental note to listen to them at least once in future, but I deleted it soon after to make room for a reminder about brushing my teeth.

Between bands, Sandro and I embarked on a toilet trip to end all toilet trips (until the next one). We bumped into none other than Buster Douglas. Sadly there was no sign of The Wendys but Buster, being a regular gig-goer had his ear caught by one song from The Drums, saw that they were playing locally and decided to check them out. That’s the spirit all Gigaweekers aspire to. Both of us.
-------
We bought another Gaymers each and returned to our spot. The stage was set for The Drums. Either side of it were bright white lights that formed the title to their second album, Portamento.

As the band appeared the crowd greeted them with delighted cheers, especially a group of enthusiastic fellow Welshmen next to us, who seemed to know and love every one of their songs.


They proved to be a rowdy bunch, particularly the big bearded fella in a twat hat (a tiny trilby), who was clearly covering his bald spot. What other reason to wear a horrible hat indoors in winter?

He came to my attention as he jumped around and knocked my cider-holding hand, spilling cider on my brand new purple daps in the process.

“Watch your step you stupid bald bastard!” I yelled, quietly enough for no one other than myself to hear.

(Before I’m accused of being a baldist, I should say that some of my best friends are bald and I abhor baldism in every form.)

Refocusing on the music, I have to say that I enjoyed The Drums’ set more than I thought I might, without being swept away and proclaiming them as the new Smiths or anything. They clearly have talent to spare between them, and the front-man’s shameless dancing is on a par with Frankie (friend of the Heartstrings), but I don’t think they have too many outstanding songs.

The ones that really stood out to me were ‘Down by the Water’ which was a lovely slower moment, new song ‘Money’ which was a lovely faster moment, and ‘How It Ended’ which was a lovely inbetweener, but I’m sick of inbetweeners. For the most part though, I still had the sound of the techno beats from the train looping in my head.

The Drums were on for just under an hour before they took an obligatory pre-encore break. Sandro and I stuck around for the 1st part of the first song from their encore before it came time to bid farewell to Buster Douglas. We departed in a taxi, in a race to the train station.

Unfortunately, that meant we missed the one song we knew well, ‘Let’s Go Surfing’, and annoyingly it wasn’t much of a race, as we arrived at the station with 10 minutes to spare before the next train.

You just can’t find a reliable taxi driver these days.
-------
December


3-9 - The Drums -
10-16 -?
17-23 -?
24-30 -?
31 -?

Thursday, 1 December 2011

November


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 – Emmy The Great -
15-21 – Sŵn -

22-28 – Sŵn + John Mayall -


November
 
29-4 - Arctic Monkeys -

5-11 - Girls -

12-18 - Wise Blood -

19-25 - Wild Beasts -

26-2 - Foster The People + Kasabian
-
December

3-9 -?
10-16 -?
17-23 -?
24-30 -?
31 -?