moving with pride

Yesterday I accompanied Vic on a bit of flat-hunting, as she and Dan are about to move house and dragging themselves through the awful, frustrating process of haranguing letting agents into showing them suitable properties, and half the time ending up with something entirely inappropriate. Yesterday's contribution was actually rather lovely, a large, high, even two-bed in one of Brighton's nicest roads, and possessed of a wonderful, light lounge with a sea-view. Of course it had a single, bitter flaw - where it was ideal in every other respect, the bathroom was just hideous; a tiny, decrepit booth with a miniature hand-basin, 70s toilet and a shower-cubicle that seemed, somehow, to be leaning to one side.

I tried to make the best of it, romanced by the large bedrooms and the beautiful lounge.

"You won't find somewhere that has everything for the money you want to pay", I said. "There'll always be something - a small bedroom, a crap kitchen, an outdated bathroom. At least in this instance the rest of the flat is lovely. It may be worth it".

The words didn't sound quite right coming out of my mouth. The truth is that the shower room was just awful - the sort of thing you might expect to find in the backroom of a filling station alongside a motorway. It came down, Vic pointed out, to pride, as much as anything. What would so-and-so think, we wondered, thinking of a particularly discerning friend. If he wouldn't compromise, why should anyone?

I'm starting to feel really cosy in my flat - having moved in about six months ago and made the initial, perfunctory steps in home-making back then, I've rediscovered my home-making instincts recently. I don't want to live in a scruffy flat, like a student. This means I need to rein in my natural instinct towards hoarding junk, and try to rationalise my possessions. So this week I've been chucking things out, getting stuff sorted. And I've been doing other things too; pruning houseplants, arranging bookshelves, organising paperwork. When I was a bit younger I noted my general messiness with tolerant amusement - when I was a bit older, I thought, I'd be much more organised.

As it happens, I am more organised than I was as a student - but I'm aware that the transformation hasn't been automatic; I have had to discipline myself into becoming more methodical and ordered. Mostly, it's been pride that's motivated me. When I did move last year I upgraded from a studio, and did so because one night, lying in bed, I thought, "Why can't I have a dinner party? Why don't I have enough space? Other people do, so why don't I?". It was a sense of inadequacy, in part, which made me start looking.

There's a part of me that thinks that if the decision, yesterday, had been mine, I would have been bowled over by the bedrooms and said to myself, no, the bathroom doesn't matter, the rest would be adequate compensation. And I would have taken the flat. It would have been the wrong decision, I think, because it would have been an acceptance that I had to compromise on something that others wouldn't think of giving away.

Sometimes, just as you have to remind yourself to be organised, you have to remind yourself to be proud.

currently listening

I've just had a reminder from Lyndsey about just how slack I've been with blogging lately, and she's absolutely right - I've had various fallow periods over the years but I seem to be going through a particularly sticky patch at the moment. It's to do with time management and procrastination, rather than not having anything to write about, so I'm apparently going to have to re-learn the art of blogging, or rather find a way of getting back into the habit of it. Blogging works brilliantly as a habit, OK as a hobby, and terribly as a chore. So will try to reclimatise.

To get back under-way, here's a breakdown of current listening, complete with ropey youtube links where possible. Proper bloggin' to follow.

1. Peggy Sue - Alice In The Kitchen
2. Frida Hyvonen - Dirty Dancing
3. Stricken City - Lost Art (Tin Can Telephone mix)
4. Tom Tom Club - Genius Of Love
5. Diane Cluck - My Teacher Died
6. The Nextdoor Neighbors - The Werefolf Song
7. Jeff Lewis - North Korea: A Complete History of Communism pt 5
8. Harry Nilsson - Nilsson Schmilsson LP

emmy the great at the komedia, brighton

Having obsessed over her songs for a good year now, it was a real pleasure to finally see Emmy The Great play live in Brighton last week. In fact, having waited all this time, I saw her twice in a night as she played a short, good-spirited acoustic set at Resident Records as well as her headline show at the Komedia. At both venues she was outstanding; her delicate, beautiful songs are underscored by a dark imagination and a wonderful way with words. It makes seeing her a dual pleasure: on the surface, melodic and lovely; underneath – unsettling, moving. At Resident, deprived of a mic-stand, she asked a girl in the audience to hold her microphone for her, and stooped from the counter to provide spine-tingling takes on ‘First Love’, ‘The Hypnotist’s Son’ and ‘City Song’. For the latter, her final number, she conjured a moment of awed, shocked silence, as the closing lines rang oppressively round the shop: “they pulled a human from my waist / It had your mouth, it had your face / I would have kept it if I’d stayed”. As we walked away from the shop to grab a beer before her gig-proper, Dan posited that “she sounded like she could be Canadian”, which coming from him is the highest praise – even if she actually sounds like she comes from Primrose Hill.

At the Komedia – where myself, Dan and Sam met up with Lyndsey and a lovely friend of hers whose name I have predictably forgotten – the first act up was Younghusband, the three-piece fronted by Euan Hinshelwood, who plays guitar for Emmy. His songs are really good; hypnotic, mid-tempo indie somewhere between Teenage Fanclub and the Lemonheads, and songs about Woody Allen. Whereas on record the songs are delicately arranged, live Euan plays them in an agreeably straightforward, pure way, with little in the way of effects or complex playing. Once or twice he steps on a pedal and produces a minute or two of controlled, mannered grunge rock, but most of the subtleties derive from his winning way with a vocal melody. ‘Mass Kiss’ is a particular highlight. In a way, his refusal to crank the songs up, or cover them with ornaments, makes his songs less instantly impressive, less powerful than they might otherwise be. But the key is that the tunes stay with you, and that appears to be – and should be – quite enough.

Ex-lovers, on next, are a quite different proposition. Musically their sound is cut from a similar cloth – more hints of melodic US indie, as well as hints of C86, shoegaze and Postcard pop – but they go to lengths to create a busy, rich musical palette, most notably in their drummer’s varied, precise contribution and their lead guitarist’s ability to ring out gorgeous, descending guitar lines in the manner of a young Peter Buck. They’re at their best when they crank up the volume a bit and let go, and their worst when they’re too studious and considered. But I thought they were very promising indeed.

By the time Emmy took to the stage, myself and Lyndsey have allowed ourselves to get a bit over-excited, and an earlier conversation about how much we wanted to be friends with Emmy soon gives way to darker flights of fancy, and before long we are planning a fairly detailed sequence of events, which involve slinging Emmy into the boot of a car, and we are only brought to our senses by the fact that it suddenly becomes apparent that her family are sat right in front of us, doubtless listening in horror. Feeling a bit crazed, we accept that locking Emmy in the attic might not be the be best idea in the world, and sit in embarrassed silence waiting for her to play.

So, relieving us of our imaginations, she takes to the stage and opens with a gorgeous take on ‘We Almost Had A Baby’, which is one of her most tuneful songs and a marvellous dissection of a broken relationship, and the thought that it might have endured had a child been conceived (“and I will think of you now that we are apart / I put my hand across my gut / I plan to feed it with a heart “). So begins a sequence of songs which examine heartbreak, loss and the fall from innocence. ‘M.I.A’s depiction of a car-crash is enormously powerful, where Emmy notes that “you and me are still but the scenery moves / well why would it stop, just 'cos suddenly / there's one where there used to be two”, and the dismissal of religion in ‘Easter Parade’ is clear-sighted and pointed (“And underneath your pastures green / there's earth and there’s ash, and there’s bone / and there are things that disappear / into it and then they are gone”). The other side of her fiercely intelligent style, however, is that she’s funny, too – whether chatting easily between songs about her chances of winning the X Factor or singing, in ‘The Hypnotist’s Son’, “Every time that I think of you / I have to go to the toilet / can’t tell if this is love / or a stomach disorder.”

Musically, her band are spot-on. Other fans appear to be uneasy with the way that her songs are arranged on her album (First Love, out today), preferring her songs when her voice is accompanied only by her quiet guitar picking; but I think the full-band arrangements are both dazzlingly pretty and textbook exercises in restraint. At all times her songs remain the centrepiece, her voice clear and recognisable. My favourite song of the night is the gorgeous ‘Short Country Song’, which shows off Emmy’s talents so clearly. The song paints in delicate strokes the minutiae of a relationship, and closes with one of Emmy’s most beautiful, plaintive verses – one that isn’t, for once, clever, or complex, or wry – but simply heartfelt; the wonderful quality that Emmy, despite all this talk of lyrical skill, possesses in the greatest abundance.

And you say "Somewhere in my body
is a hole without an end"
And I say "Come and let me see it.
It is something I can mend."
And you say "Somewhere in my body
is a hole without an end"
And I say "Come and let me see it.
I can fill it up again."

assistant blog top ten records of 2008

It's taken me SO long to do this. Ben's just posted his top ten records of the year over on his Silent Words Speak Loudest blog, and I'm pleased he has because he's shamed me into finally posting mine.

Here you go - the ten best records of 2008, according to me. Buy them all.

10. CARL CRAIG - Sessions
It often looks tokenistic to include a hip hop or techno record in a list which is inevitably going to be dominated by indie rock acts, but there's no sense of Carl Craig's momentous collection of recent mixes being undeserving of a place in my top ten albums of the year. The sheer versatility, complexity and perfection of his mixes made this a delight - every song a slow-unfolding, spellbinding micro-symphony. And custom-built for dancing.

9. NEIL HALSTEAD - Oh, Mighty Engine
Funny that nearly twenty years ago I used to swoon to Halstead's lush guitar work with his first band, Slowdive, then lost track of him altogether - I wasn't a fan of Mojave 3 - before rediscovering him in 2008. Oh, Mighty Engine is an album I would have hated when I sixteen; it's a collection of lazy, quiet folk songs about surfing and wearing a beard. Summoning up echoes of Nick Drake and Syd Barrett, this album was my summer record of 2008.

8. VAMPIRE WEEKEND - s/t
No, I didn't escape this album eiher, and nor did I want to. In many ways there's something off-putting about how perfectly - and apparently effortlessly - Vampire Weekend composed this set of songs, but there's no denying that Oxford Comma, A Punk, Mansard Roof, Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa and The Kids Don't Stand A Chance were breezy mini-classics, focusing the tight songwriting of the early Strokes with the melodic ear of, er, Paul Simon. In the end, like pretty much everyone else, I simply couldn't resist.

7. PEGGY SUE - The Body Parts / The First Aid
Bit of a cheat this, as Brighton's Peggy Sue didn't release an album this year; but they did bring out two gorgeously packaged EPs for Broken Sound, which combined added up to nine new songs which stitched a gorgeous tapestry of sounds. Much of Peggy Sue's charm derives from the slapdash nature of their instrumentation and relaxed stage demeanour, but their recordings are surprisingly adept and considered, and the vocal interplay between Rosa Rex and Katy Klaw is deeply impressive. I saw them live a lot this year, and was teased by all of my friends for being transparently in love with them. Their confident, irreverent anti-folk is stripped down and raw, made sparkling by lyrical complexity and a lot of style.

6. FRIGHTENED RABBIT - The Midnight Organ Flight
Yet another slow-burner, I mistakenly identified Frightened Rabbit's second album as a tuneful, post-Elbow rock record on first listen, and filed it away unimpressed. Months later, I'm amazed I didn't hear the undercurrent of fury and passion that sweeps through this bitter, brilliant album. The loose, bass-less indie-rock still has fleeting moments of Elbow's majesty, but filtered through a vivid layer of noise and some amazing lyrics; better comparisons are perhaps Lou Barlow's battered, bruised Sebadoh and fellow Scots The Twilight Sad. Ace record.

5. STEPHEN MALKMUS - Real Emotional Trash
Pig Lib is still my favourite solo Malkmus record, but the critical consensus on Real Emotional Trash is impossible to dispute; Steve has made his most rounded, consistent album in over a decade. This glorious LP contains a heap of beautiful songs - notably 'Gardenia', as lovely as anything he's ever written - but it's really a collection of set pieces constructed for Malkmus to let loose his guitar on. Fans of his lackadaisical playing back in the day might on first listen be disappointed by the rounded, progressive licks he unleashes, but it's impossible not to admire his skill. Most importantly, however, the tunes shine through. For the first time in many years, Malkmus is not looking awkward or disaffected, but rather deeply comfortable in his own skin. So this is easily a top-five record, and I'm rapidly talking myself into placing it higher.

4. THOMAS TANTRUM - s/t
What an enthusiastic, colourful and unexpected contribution Thomas Tantrum made to 2008. Their debut album was a marvellously fizzy affair, powered by Megan Thomas's love-it-or-hate-it squeals, a host of tempo changes, and a bunch of buzzy, brilliant art rock songs which sounded like an explosion of Blondie, Sonic Youth and Blur. Lead single 'Shake It Shake It' sounded brilliant all year long, but 'Pshandy' and 'Why The English Are Rubbish' were the biggest treats.

3. LYKKE LI - Youth Novels
I seem, almost every year, to become interested in another Scandinavian singer who makes electro-pop, and yet no record of that ilk (except Bjork's Vespertine) ever stayed with me as long as this one. I first saw Lykke on Jools Holland, playing a mesmerising, stripped down take on 'Little Bit', but was put off buying her album as I imagined it diluted by layers of orchestration. When I eventually picked it up, I was delighted to find it not only full of brilliant, dark and sexy songs, but brilliantly, sparingly constructed - it contains swathes of juddering bass, periods of near silence and spare clicks, bells, off-screen sounds. The constant is Lykke Li's childlike, beguiling voice and her mesmeric self-belief. For the last two months of the year, I found it practically impossible to listen to anything but this fantastic collection of songs; it is a haunting, incredibly rewarding debut album. Really looking forward to hearing what she does next.

2. LAURA MARLING - Alas I Cannot Swim
I'd determined myself that I wouldn't use this space to wax on about Laura's age and how startlingly mature her first album is, but it's impossible to do it justice without noting with wonder the contrast between the youthfulness of its creator and the incredible depth of the songs which populate it. Credit must go to Charlie Fink, whose production is deeply lovely, but it's Marling's record - as complex, romantic and grown-up record as one could possibly desire, and simply chock-a-block full of wondrous songs. Marling's musical ear is superb, her ability to create soaring melodic hooks set against simple, evocative playing, and her lyrics are excellent. If I could only keep one song from every album released this year, it would be 'Your Only Doll', the best song on this terrific, super-consistent record.

1. THE WAVE PICTURES - Instant Coffee Baby
Easily my favourite record of the year. It took me ages to work out the order of the other albums in the top ten (and beyond) but this album's placing was apparent from the day I bought Instant Coffee Baby - it's easily the best record of the year. Given that the Wave Pics have been distributing their music on CD-r for years, it's perhaps a bit much to wax lyrical about how this is a 'debut album', but the fact remains that it came pretty much out of nowhere and contains a chastening lesson in the art of writing vibrant, heart-felt left-field pop. The musical reference points are perfectly straightforward - Hefner, Jonathan Richman and early Dire Straits - but Dave Tattersal's lyrics are what really set the album apart; he's a charming, playful, inventive lyricist, always taking gambles and playing with words, focusing on small events, observations and ideas. He brings the same good-humoured creativity to his lyric-writing as he does to his guitar solos; they're high-spirited, deeply intelligent and terrific fun.

Wave Pictures are my band of the year, and this is the best record of 2008.

Bands who released records that nearly made the list:
Brian Borchedt, Claro Intelecto, Color Cassette, Deerhunter, Desolation Wilderness, Dodos, Elbow, Grouper, High Places, Idle Tigers, Kail, Les Amazones De Guinee, M83, Max Tundra, Portishead, Robert Forster, Roots Manuva, School of Language, Shearwater, Talons, The Week That Was, Tony Allen, Toumani Diabate, Vivian Girls,

Bands who released records that I liked a lot:
The Acorn, Anni Rossi, Black Spade, Bon Iver, Breeders, Brighton MA, British Sea Power, Cause Co-Motion, Don Cavalli, Fleet Foxes, Frokost, Gable, Hercules & Love Affair, Hjaltalin, Hush Arbors, Let's Wrestle, Monkey, Mt Eerie, No Age, Noah & The Whale, Paavaharju, Port O'Brien, Seagull, Stanley Brinks, Walter Becker, Windsurf.

My Top ten of 2007:
1. Field Music - Tones of Town
2. The Good, the Bad and the Queen – s/t
3. Scout Niblett - This Fool Can Die Now
4. PJ Harvey – White Chalk
5. Jeff Lewis – 12 Crass Songs
6. Electrelane - No Shouts, No Calls
7. Burial - Untrue
8. Seabear – The Ghost That Carried Me Away
9. Dinosaur Jr - Beyond
10. Cribs – Men’s Needs, Women’s Needs, Whatever

on carol thatcher

I am disgusted with the fashion in which the Queen has capitulated to the Golly-hating Nazis at the BBC. I used to admire the Queen till she started pushing the diversity agenda of the lefties, signed the Lisbon Treaty which gave over the country to EU control. The Queen took a coronation oath to serve her country but it seems now she serves herself and the Marxist Government! I urge everyone to complain to the BBC and Buck Palace. Carol Thatcher should not be fired over a private comment about a well-loved toy!
- Pat, Dublin, Ireland, 5/2/2009 22:48

If I write about Carol Thatcher and the fact that the Daily Mail are orchestrating yet another public campaign to influence the perception of, and activities of, the BBC, I know that I am just falling into a helpless trap; giving yet more oxygen to a spurious subject and allowing myself to become enraged by myopic prejudices which are, despite the amount of coverage they generate, largely on the wane.

So its ok for that Jo Brand to make jokes about women and their times of periods and the BBC consider it comedy to be broadcast, also Ross and his twisted idea of filth, but to use the word Golliwog is a sacking offence. I hope the tories when they get in purge the BBC of all the freaks who staff it-
Stephen H Print, Thailand, 5/2/2009 6:35

Yet at the same time it's incredibly hard not to be exercised - and incredibly frustrated - by the whole kerfuffle. The facts as they stand are reasonably straightforward. Carol Thatcher, in conversation with a number of colleagues in The Green Room after a recent appearance on BBC's One show, made a comparison between a black tennis player and a 'gollywog'. Several amongst the number present were upset at this remark, which they interpreted as racist, and the BBC, after failing to extract anything but a very half-hearted apology from Thatcher, decided to terminate her contract with the show.

So all those Enid Blyton books I grew up with will have to be edited now, since golliwog is soooooo offensive?
- nell, sydney, australia, 5/2/2009 5:16

Now, as the comments above demonstrate - which are taken from the Daily Mail website - the right-wing media are swinging behind Thatcher (and most importantly, against the hated BBC) by declaring this a victory for political correctness and a defeat for common sense. So far, so very predictable. Just as the Mail occupied a position of moral authority when it decided that Jonathan Ross (the personification of the vulgar, liberal Briton they deride) had gone too far in his merciless teasing of Andrew Sachs, now they decide that Thatcher has been a victim of the same, ultra-liberal forces. Never mind that Thatcher's comments were arguably much more offensive. In the minds of the Mail, there is no connection between Ross's offensive language and Thatcher's. Far more important is that they hate him, and are like her.

If political correctness means anything, it is that those that practice it believe it important to take care, when using language, not to gratuitously cause offence to others. Ross was scapegoated by the Mail because they considered his words gratuitous and offensive (as indeed they were). Yet nowhere in their coverage was any mention given to the fact that what they were in essence asking him to do was think about what he said and not say things likely to upset others; a classic argument for political correctness. Although their intentions were undoubtedly malicious, and borne out of a hatred of both Ross and the BBC, one couldn't help wondering if the Mail was at last becoming alive to the importance of not abusing, denigrating, offending others.

The Thatcher debacle proves they have learned nothing. Their argument is not for sensitivity, care, thoughtfulness and good manners, but rather for the promotion of their own, highly traditional, values, and the disavowel of any beliefs which contradict them. One can say whatever one likes, and offend whomever one likes, so long as one doesn't depart from little-England prejudices. That Thatcher's colleagues were offended by her words is deemed irrelevant. Much is made of the fact that the racist term was used 'in private conversation', but in fact it took place in the workplace, where no conversation can be considered truly private.

So - I admit that getting worked up about all the above is largely pointless. The Mail will continue to pursue it's agenda, and I will continue to either avoid it, or read it in a fury. What I think is relevant, however, and worthy of conversation, is the increasingly importance being afforded to public complaints and online petitions, and the way that media is able to manipulate stories by encouraging reader participation, and along the way turn minor stories which fit their agenda from trivia into headline news.

If I were asked to name one positive thing about the Daily Mail, I'd say that it's always been a good campaigning paper. It has the ability to flag up bellweather issues and make headway with them, and it's certainly the case that over the years it has been a powerful - if not always positive - lobbying tool. I admired it for its coverage of the murder of Stephen Lawrence and its decision to give away energy-saving lightbulbs to readers.

Nevetheless, its influence in the last six months has been deeply pernicious; by encouraging outrage and fermenting dissatisfaction with the BBC, it's whipping up a frenzy which actually puts the reputation and future of the corporation in some doubt. It's a deeply cynical move driven not purely by this simmering, inconsistent moral outrage, but by the fact that the paper's owners have a vested interest in the demise of its most significant media rival.

More broadly, I'm starting to worry that the Mail, with a reach which far outstretches most of its rivals, is using this sequence of media stories to try to encourage some kind of moral revival, akin almost to religious fundamentalism in the US. Its aims are not journalistic, or even strategic, but rather political - it's putting together a coalition of deeply conservative, disaffected readers (not limited to these shores) who are feeling bold enough to decry not just political correctness but the very notion of anti-racism.

I don't mean to say that the Mail is starting a political party, or stoking the fires of revolution, but just as the arrival of Tony Blair and the revitalised Labour Party turned the nation gently leftwards in the mid-90s, there seems a risk that the right is attempting a similar trick. Unless the Mail's petty concerns and prejudices are combated, there's a risk that this mini-moral revival will drag the country to the right - and that would be a disaster.

I am sick of forever walking on egg shells in case some wimp gets offended by something I inadvertently say or do that they chose to misinterpret so they can play the victim card. I cannot believe all the fuss over an innocent toy and it is a repeat of the Sootygate episode! Golliwogs are not illegal and are found in many homes and I for one still have my old Golliwog from childhood. What next? Will this petty. toy-obsessed Government appoint Golliwog inspectors to break down doors and confiscate all the Golliwogs and Sooties?
- Elaine Worthington, East Sussex, UK, 5/2/2009 21:24

john martyn

Ah, sad to hear that John Martyn has died. 'Solid Air' is a beautiful record.

There's a nice tribute to him over at the Guardian, where Erwin James recalled the time when Martyn played a Prison show which he saw. Like all of James' writing, it's rather beautiful.

John Martyn was on top form – he seemed to go into his own dream world as he played through his set, many of the songs the majority of us were hearing for the first time. And then something magical happened. He put down his Strat and called for an acoustic six string. The band slunk back to the shadows. "Some of you may know this song," he said. Then taking a deep breath he steadied his voice and sang, "May you never lay your head down without a hand to hold, May you never make your bed out in the cold…" His signature song, the classic made famous by Eric Clapton's Slowhand cover, but most truthful when sung by Martyn himself. Until that moment we had been a rowdy bunch, revelling in our entertainer's onstage revelry, relaxing in the ambience of the music, chilling, dreaming. But suddenly Martyn was singing directly to each and every one of us: "Well you're just like a great strong brother of mine and you know that I love you true/You never talk dirty behind my back and I know there are those that do/ Won't you please, won't you please, won't you bear in mind, love is a lesson to learn in our time/Won't you please won't please won't you bear in mind for me … "

Those lines meant so much to us, among us the down, the defeated, the betrayed and the betrayers – an anthem for relationships, a hymn to friendship and love. "And you're just like a good close sister to me and you know that I love you true/You hold no blade to stab me in the back and I know that some do…" The words could not have been written for a more needy audience. As he sang, the depth of our exposure was near tangible. Even Crusher looked like he was going to cry. When he finished we stomped, yelled, whistled and cried for more. But with lock-up upon us there was no time for encores. Martyn bade us farewell with a giant, rasping, "Keep on rockin' brothers!" And then we filed calmly out of the gym and back to our cells, feeling for a while like members of the human race once more.

The next day the gym cleaner found Martyn's big mineral water bottle. It stank of vodka – that made us howl. No wonder he was on such good form. Thank you John. Wherever you are now, I hope you have a hand to hold.

Over at his website, Graham Coxon recalls Martyn fondly, too:

i last saw john martyn at the mojo awards when i gave paul weller an award. it was a mass photo of all awardees and awarders (?) backstage somewhere in front of a big sheet of backgroundy paper and it was hilarious. i was next to paul who wouldnt stop having his beer in shot and was talkin in swear words to jerry dammers who was grinning and answering in swear words and not taking the slightest bit of notice of the photographer who was trying in vain to get all these tipsey musicians to pay attention and watch the birdie.. i was leanin on john's wheel chair which was under the control of phil collins and trying not to stare at him. every time john held out his hand a boy would appear and slap a drink in it. john was laughing his head off and swinging his head around to everyone and chattin the fraff...
i saw him in real life around 3 times and each time he seemed to be red faced and out of control with glee and mischief and making everyone else the same way. he was very funny indeed..
well the last time i saw him i thought "christ this man is amazing, how long will he be around for?...logic says he shouldnt even be here now!...how does he have this much energy?.....will i ever see him again?....will i ever see him play again?... no one plays the guitar like him.....he is a one off, like davy graham and jeff beck and nick drake and pete townshend...i have to shake hands with him and say something...like..."

"hi john just want to shake your hand and say how much...i...er..just how much...i..." by which point john has taken my hand in his huge and very warm hand, shaken it heartily and has continued to fall about in his wheelchair laughing at me like a loon.....amazing....lovely...

when i talked to danny thompson, who plays upright bass on many of the songs on my new album, about john he said that when they went to pubs together in the 70s before they drank a drop they would give the barman £200 and say "ok..thats to pay for the damage we are going to cause tonight"

Click here for one of Martyn's characteristically marvellous performances.

semi-educated losers

There's an interesting article on the Guardian website today by Emily Bell, who after digesting the latest Stephen Fry podcast, agrees with him that language pedants are a pain in the arse. This is difficult reading, in part, because I'm instinctively quite pedantic about incorrect usage. That said, I agree with both Fry and Bell for the most part, as the errors that upset me are largely straightforward - people writing 'loose' when they mean 'lose', putting their apostrophes in the wrong places; and I'm actually pretty relaxed about spellings and meanings evolving, as long as those meanings don't become muddied. That's just part of what language does.

Anyway - interesting piece. Here's Fry's two cents:

The worst of this bunch of semi-educated losers are those who seem to glory in being irritated by nouns becoming verbs.

How dense and deaf to language development do you have to be? If you don't like nouns becoming verbs, then for heaven's sake avoid Shakespeare who made a 'doing word' out of a 'thing word' every chance he got. He 'tabled' the motion and 'chaired' the meeting in which nouns were made verbs.

squirrel in st anne's well gardens

gordon brown's worst enemy

The measure of a good politician is often that his decency shines through whatever he says and does, even if one is minded to disagree with him. Frank Field is a public intellectual who is frequently on the opposite side of the argument to me, a politician whose dogged principles mean that he is often infuriating and counterproductive, undermining fellow Labour politicians and siding with political enemies, backing free market policies or supporting immigration caps, but I've always found it hard not to respect him, even where it's been hard to listen. A religious man, a moralist, a believer that the 1950s represented a golden era, Field is nevertheless exactly the sort of man we need in politics; someone to raise unwelcome arguments, to air grudges, to fight for the underpriviliged - something he is always prepared to do.

There was a fascinating, irritating, inspiring interview with him in the Sunday Times magazine this week - it's worth a read. I particularly liked this section:

As we settle into our seats, Field tells a bizarre story, speaking volumes about the singular and eclectic nature of his career. Two nights before Mrs Thatcher lost office in 1990, Field — convinced few Tories had the guts to tell her the game was up — decided to visit Downing Street and tell her himself. “For some extraordinary reason, I used to have — and still do — a good relationship with her.”

Informed that the PM was busy, he settled in a waiting room. After a while Norman Tebbit entered: “Frank, what do you want?” “I’ve come to tell the PM she’s finished. I suppose you won’t let me see her.” Shortly afterwards, Mrs T herself appeared, “trembling”, recalls Field, “as I imagine people do when told they have inoperable cancer.”

Field found her a chair. “Frank, why have you come?” she asked in quavering tones. “I’ve come to tell you that you are finished. I’m not discussing fairness, Prime Minister, I’m discussing the options. You cannot now go on a top note, but you can go on a high note.” He told her that Michael Heseltine, who was leading the drive to unseat her, was vacuuming up MPs’ support in the race to be her successor. “Oh, Mr Heseltine is a dreadful bad man,” she said wearily. Field urged her to get her candidate in the race, and when she asked who that would be, said: “It’s obvious, Prime Minister. It’s the person you’ve promoted to all these offices — John Major.”

Elsewhere there's lots of other interesting things. Try as I might, I can't help but admire Field.

Mrs T (it’s interesting how often her name crops up) once told him her main regret was that the very rich in Britain had not become philanthropists on the scale of America’s super-rich. Field would tax them “till the pips squeaked” unless they “voluntarily” gave away chunks of their fortunes. He believes both rich and poor have been sapped by the collective nature of British society. Leave it to “them” has become a crippling national watchword.

owl parliament

I've got tickets to a stupid number of gigs coming up over the next few months, but this one deserves a particular mention, not just for the lovely name and gorgeous graphics on its website, but for the awesome line-up. A one day, all-ages festival at the Union Chapel in Islington, Owl Parliament will feature sets from Laura Marling, Peggy Sue, Jeffrey Lewis, Herman Dune and Johnny Flynn, as well as Mechanical Bride, Planet Earth, We Aeronauts and Stars of Sunday League. That's a pretty amazing bill, don't you think.

hurray

Just watched Obama's inauguration on the news; what an incredibly moving sight. A million people today will write a short note about Obama, by text, by email, on a blog or a facebook status update, or ring a friend, a parent, to express joy at his becoming President. It makes writing about the inauguration hard, because nothing I could say could, on its own, add up to or intimate the collective happiness that so many across the world are feeling. That is what is important. That and the fact that we now have an American president whom we like, whom we - perhaps naively, but perhaps not - trust.

beautifully mannered

This article, by Andrew Roberts, is a wonderfully bonkers bit of writing, and well worth a read. Titled 'History will show that George W Bush was right', it's an incredible, fawning tribute to the outgoing President, by a historian whose reactionary ideas have been well-documented. It's no surprise to find him so keen on Bush, and the arguments he makes in the first few paragraphs are familiar, even plausible in places, although I fundamentally disagree with most of his conclusions. Whatever, the article only really flies off into the stratosphere when Roberts describes Bush as a:

"charming, interesting, beautifully mannered history buff who, were he not the most powerful man in the world, would be a fine person to have as a pal".

Extraordinary.

no more runways

Quite apart from the climate-related issues, Alex Thompson (of More4 news) made an excellent point about the foolishness of the government's decision to approve a third runway at Heathrow, in last night's Snowmail message.

He wrote:

Forget all the green stuff. It is simply this. The aviation business is contracting, not expanding, because of the current bust. Fact. If bust becomes boom more people travel, more people burn oil. Oil's a diminishing resource, so the price goes up. So fewer people travel because fewer people can afford it. So in a bust aviation contracts - and it will in a boom as the oil runs out. They're sunk either way. So who needs bigger airports?

That may be a pithy summary, but it's a very accurate description of a very straightforward - but often misunderstood - argument.

plane down in the hudson

Just reading some reports coming through about a US Airways passenger jet coming down in the Hudson River in New York. Reports very slow, but it sounds like a small accident, rather than a disaster - or something more ominous. Early days, but it's undeniably a legacy of 9/11 that whenever you hear of anything like this, you just freeze, hold your breath, and hope not. Will we always feel that way?

Update: it was a small plane, and the passengers are reportedly stood on the aircraft's wings, waiting to be rescued, so it looks like it's nothing terrifically dramatic - in fact they're suggesting that the crash may have been caused by the plane, flying at low altitude, colliding with a flock of geese. Extraordinary.

also rans part two

Okay, so I've already done one quick round-up of the first bunch of records which fell just outside of my top ten of 2008, so here's a quick follow up concerning the second set.

The year started with the release of an album which pretty much everyone seemed to be excited about: British Sea Power's Do Your Like Rock Music. It seemed to have everything going for it; great lyrics, an interesting concept, and a big, full sound which recalled The Arcade Fire. It also contained a set of songs that everyone could imagine sounding great at the summer festivals. I'm not sure that in the end BSP fully lived up to these high expectations, but it was a pleasure watching them get some deserved attention (and an appearance on Countryfile!). DYLRM was a good – if not great - album, and it contained three superb songs: 'Canvey Island', 'No Need To Cry' and 'Open The Door', heartbreakingly lovely all.



It's maybe not surprising that the songs I've highlighted above were rather quiet compared to the album's more bombastic tracks, for that follows a trend I can’t escape in 2008. Another band that impressed me, Desolation Wilderness, made a lovely, sun-kissed record, White Light Strobing, which was drenched in echo and sounded like a cross between a quiet My Bloody Valentine and Galaxie 500. It was the perfect definition of a grower, a slow, precise album that got better and better as the winter drew in. Sometimes records don't need to blow you away to win a place in your heart; I've no doubt that the Deerhunter record was better (and it was really lovely) but I preferred this.



I liked the Shearwater record too. They made an very natural, elegant contribution with their ornithologically-minded Rook, a mature, piano-led album made notable by Jonathan Meiburg's clean, pure, almost operatic tenor voice. It was a very pastoral, wistful and beautiful art-rock record – like Radiohead covering Talk Talk's Spirit of Eden. And Brighton MA made another record that might have escaped me if I hadn't for some reason come back for subsequent listens after initially being unimpressed. Their Amateur Lovers does nothing more than run with the spirit of Bob Dylan, Wilco and REM, but it does so in a quietly transfixing way, making for a sturdy, world-weary yet enigmatic album.

This year seems to be the year that the indie fraternity really fell for folk, surrendering to a series of young, serious and often gorgeous singer-songwriters, many of whom seemed capable of playing broadly traditional music, imbued with delicacy and vulnerability, without sounding old-fashioned. Contributions from Bon Iver and Fleet Foxes have been much lauded (and deservedly so) but they didn’t top my listening; I was rather more taken with records by Brian Borcherdt, who is otherwise best known for being a member of Holy Fuck, and whose Coyotes was a very tender, quiet and beautiful album, The Dodos, whose Visiter combined wistful Americana with unpredictable melodies reminiscent of the wonderful XTC, and Noah And The Whale, who made a tasteful, enthusiastic anti-folk album, Peaceful, The World Lays Me Down; the only flaw of which was a propensity towards a transatlantic accent on the part of Charlie Fink, and a bit of youthful precocity that made them sound overly serious. Iceland's Hjaltalin and Sin Fang Bous both turned in sweet, tuneful indie-folk LPs that are well worth a listen, too.

Best of all the non-top ten folk stuff, was an album by an artist I discovered by accident: Talons. Released on the small Bark and Hiss label, Songs for Babes is made up of 12 lo-fi, bedroom-recorded paeans to girls, and is beautifully packaged into a delightfully presented record complete with sleeve notes which provide delicate graphical representations of each track's arrangements. It's a deeply personal record – although my favourite moment occurs halfway through 'Juice', when the song pauses for a brief, celebratory run through the chorus of Steely Dan's 'Deacon Blues'. Songs for Babes is the record that fell just outside my top ten, and comes highly recommended. You can pick up a copy here.

Finally, a mention for two more stunning, stately grown-up records. 2008 was the year I finally admitted that Elbow are a great band, and their Mercury Prize win was richly deserved. The Seldom Seen Kid is a terrific record, full of sadness and joy, memorable melodies and beautiful lyrics. And I've been wrong all these years. So there you go. On the other hand, I've been right all along about the Go-Betweens, so it was no surprise to find Robert Forster turning in another immaculate album, although it somehow felt more important than usual that he did so this year, following the early, tragic death of Grant McLennan. The Evangelist is in some ways a sorrowful record as a consequence, but Forster remains a peerless songwriter – dry, ironic, detached, and yet also deeply moving.

Right, This series of posts has dragged on far too long. Tomorrow I’ll post my top ten of the year, and we can move on.

hipster reading

For reasons I shall not go into, there is a copy of Vice magazine in my flat, which I was reading before I left for work this morning. All articles in Vice magazine, as you will know if you have ever picked one up, are about ketamine parties in Parisian slums, or gangsters getting tattoos in prison, so I was unsurprised to find myself glancing at an article titled ‘How To Buy a Gun: from the Milano Mafia’. I was glancing at it just before I left the house, as I was doing up my shoelaces. I read the following sentence with some surprise.

"We still need the gun, but it’s too early. There’s a change of plan: we’re going to Beppe’s place, to prepare the cuts he’s going to sell tonight. In his basement, Beppe takes a coffee can, full of beans. But something is strange. They don’t smell like coffee. In fact, they’re pure cocaine, pressed. Beppe cleans about 10 beans with vinegar, then he crushes them and mixes them with mannite, the cutting agent, resulting in about 40 baggies ready to be sold"

Blimey, I thought. Fancy that. I picked up my bag and left the house, shaking my head as I wandered down the hill. Who’d have thought it? I mean, I know they cut drugs with other things, but… Live and learn.

Half an hour later I was sat on the train, troubled. Is it possible, I think to myself, that I misread that article? I’ll check when I get to work. So I do. Happily, it turns out that Vice magazine archive all their articles, so it took just a moment to locate the piece and correct my mistake. Mannite. They cut the drug with mannite. I’d misread it.


I’m a bit disturbed that for a good half hour I was prepared to believe that cocaine is cut with Marmite.

new year in paris

Sam and Laura live just south of Montmartre, on Paris's most dogshit-strewn road. It doesn't sound like a glamorous address, put like that, but they have a lovely flat, just off Barbès-Rochechouart (the site where the first shot of the armed French resistance was fired), not least because Paris is such a walkable city and their location puts them right in the middle of things. We spent much of the period over New Year circling the nearby streets, admiring expensive produce in Patisserie windows, or, as often as not, walking off a hangover.

New Year, is, of course, the purpose for being there in the first place. It is shortly before midnight, and Ant and I have sealed off the lounge for our own private disco (noting that the Crass mix of 'Yeah' by LCD Soundystem is just the best dancing song EVER). The rest of the flat throbs with conversation, and at some point a decision is made that we should clamber up to the top of Sacré-Cœur, Montmartre's beautiful Catholic basilica, to watch the fireworks exploding over the city, launched in one year and landing in the next. The basilica is one of the most beautiful landmarks in Paris, so it feels like a real privilege to have the option of heading there. Interestingly, Sacré-Cœur is made of travertine stone, which constantly exudes calcite, apparently, which ensures that the basilica remains white even with weathering and pollution. True to form tonight it is hauntingly pale against the black sky, like an undimmed apparition seeing in the new year.

We pile out of the flat and begin climbing into Montmartre, although we don't really need to do much climbing at all as most of us board the Funicular up the hill, which tonight, like the Metro, is free, and enjoy watching Dan Chequers and Ant run up the stairs to beat us to the top. They succeed, impressively, for we find them at the top smiling and scanning their eyes excitedly round the vista, something we swiftly join them in. We're at the roof of Paris, and although it's shockingly cold, the collective good spirits of the huge crowd of people cheering and yelling seem to warm us through. It's a crowd which seems to be comprised of hundreds of small groups, so there is a constant multi-lingual chorus of voices calling out to people who have been separated in the throng.

We find a suitable vantage point, Sam happily taking on the role of group leader, pounding through the crowd with one arm raised. We glance at each other, amused. It appears he wants us to follow him. We do. Finally settled, we encounter a slight problem. It's hard to ascertain exactly when 2009 actually arrives. There is no collective countdown, no organised display and countless contrasting times on our mobile phones.

We wait a while, confused, before Sam finally shouts "Right, I've had enough of this", and ejects the cork from his bottle of champagne. Hooray, we shout, and cheer and kiss and swig from the bottle, and over the next few minutes pockets of friends scattered over the hill do exactly the same thing. Some fireworks are loosed, zinging over Montmartre at precarious angles, and at some unspecified point, to our delight, the new year begins. Kier has brought a tray of Ferrero Rocher which he begins dispensing to the crowd; I glance at Dan, who is visibly wincing every time Kier manages to miss a chance to give one to a pretty girl. He reminds me of the football fan whose foot moves involuntarily in the stands, playing every kick.

Afterwards we wind through Montmartre's narrow streets and end up in Sam and Laura's local, where it's many hours before, shattered, we return to the flat and, sobered by the walk, pick up the drinking again.

fun with lego

What a joy it was playing with Lego again this Christmas. It's been many, many years since I last played with the toy, and I took great pleasure in putting together, in a variety of permutations, a little spaceship at Sam and Laura's flat over New Year.

It was fun enough for me, Dan and Chequers to spend about twenty minutes ogling the varied sets available in Gallerie Lafayette the next day, everything from lovely little Volkwagon Beetles, Spaceships, Fire stations and, of course, the Eiffel Towel itself. The range takes in Star Wars, Indiana Jones and doubtless countless other alternatives. We drooled at them unashamedly, blocking the view of eager Parisian infants stuck behind us. In a moment of excitement, Chequers swore that he would buy one of the expensive 3 in 1 models once he returned to Brighton. I hope he does.

And invites me round.

also rans part one

Like a lot of bloggers, I’ve been beavering away trying to put together my list of the best records of 2008, and now that I’ve done so I’m immediately struck by how safe my choices are, so I thought a post or two might be needed to discuss some of the other brilliant and sometimes unpredictable records I’ve fallen a bit in love with over the last 12 months.

A lot of stuff this year seems to have been heavily influenced by the less fashionable bits of British music in the 1980s - the stuff that until now people have left well alone. Although I don't like many of the influences, it seems to have worked out nicely, whether it's Vampire Weekend channeling Paul Simon, The Wave Pics recalling the minor-chord riffs of early Dire Straits, or the two bands that sprung out of 2007's best band, Field Music.

2008 saw two wonderful albums by both of them. ‘Sea From Shore’ by David Brewis's School of Language added distortion and collage to the perfect prog-pop of his former band, while the self-titled album by his brother'sThe Week That Was took the ultra-melodic instincts of Field Music even further, and channelled almost to saturation point the big drums and gleaming production of mid-80s MOR pop, recalling Peter Gabriel and Genesis along the way. An odd set of influences, but a remarkable couple of albums.


School of Language - Rockist (above)
The Week That Was - Scratch The Surface (below)


A trio of impressive electronic records, meanwhile, seemed to be driven by similar impulses: the Windsurf album, ‘Coastlines’, recalled Tangerine Dream or Steely Dan via a Parisian nightclub, making for a sometimes cheesy and frequently moving concoction of synthesised driving music, which seemed perfect for listening to while pootling around Brighton in the drizzle.

M83’s excellent ‘Saturdays = Youth’ also built on 80s sounds to create a warm, if retro, dance record which bears repeated listens - it's denser and more fashionable, but still an odd record, full of delightful moments.

Oddest of them all was Max Tundra’s near-bewildering ‘Parallax Error Beheads You’, which was a cacophony of intricate synth pop, electronic beeps, double-speed bursts of melody and autotuned vocals that seemed to reference everything from 1970s TV theme tunes, the art-rock of XTC, the heavily ironic Momus, the pure tones of Scritti Politti and the insanity of Squarepusher. Most detectable, once again, was the note-perfect, deeply unfashionable jazz-rock of Steely Dan – but just weird, weird, weird. I hated it on first listen, and am fast falling in love with it.

I fear I’ll never understand it.

Staying with electronic stuff, I didn't listen to a lot - but I loved Claro Intellecto’s chilly Ambient techno, which reminded me of early Autechre, and 2562’s lovely ‘Aerial’ stood out as the only dubstep album (apart from the ‘Soundboy Punishment’ comps) which didn’t disappoint me; much-lauded albums by The Bug and Benga did nothing for me in 2008. A lot more fun was Zomby’s terrific ‘Where Were U in ‘92’ which took the joyful spirit of rave and distilled everything that was good about it. It was not a serious record - and all the more serious for it.

Elsewhere, I was as impressed as ever by the latest genius offering from Roots Manuva, whose albums get better and better, as well as Kail’s brilliant, explicit, hilarious hip hop concept album, ‘True Hollywood Squares’, which is not for the easily offended but is superbly original. Black Spade’s ‘To Serve With Love’ was another good rap record, soulful, intelligent and understated.


Roots Manuva - Again and Again (above)
Black Spade - She's The One (below)


Lastly, a real winner and a late discovery in 2008 was Color Cassette’s short, lovely album of laptop blips, folk and post-Penguin Café mini-orchestration. If you’ve not heard it, it’s a charming, gentle work of art perfect for lulling one into waves of daydreams. I’m dimly aware that the fact that this was closer to a place in my top ten than Portishead’s genuinely thrilling, astounding ‘Third’ is a grave injustice, but the fact is that I listened to it more. Perhaps you should buy both.



OK, that’s part one of the also-rans. The rest to follow shortly, followed by my top ten of the year. Thanks for staying with me this far.

25th

H A P P Y
C H R I S T M A S

burning of the clocks

Photo courtesy of Vic, taken at Brighton's annual Winter parade. Thanks, Vic.

dan's albums of 2008

This blog has been stupidly quiet recently, for which apologies; I shall try to remedy the situation over the New Year period. In the meantime I am readying a host of posts about my favourite records, books and TV programmes of the year - but first here is an excellent and intriguing Albums of 2008 list by Dan. Quite a few things to explore if you don't know the records already:

1. Bowerbirds - Hymms for a Dark Horse. This is my favourite album of the year by quite a way actually. Very honest recording, very beautiful songs. Tracks sound like they have been sung and recorded in the open and the instrumentation is basic but used to great effect. Saw this band at End of the Road twice, once on their own and also backing up their pal Bon Iver (more of him later). Watch this video of 'My Oldest Memory' to get a flavour of their rustic charm:



2. Laura Marling - Alas, I Cannot Swim. Ah, lovely Laura. She's from the Reading area y'know? This album has been a revelation and I don't know anyone who does'nt like it and who has'nt fallen under its spell. I stalked her this year at End of the Road Festival, this is what I saw.



3. Anni Rossi - Afton EP. Ok this is just an EP but I like her. She sounds a bit like Scout Niblet and quite a lot like Joanna Newsom. However she trumps the two of them - in my opinion. Looking forward to an album next year.

4. Bon Iver - For Emma, Forever Ago. Alright, what end of the year list would be complete without this? I like it a lot, though maybe a little tired of it now. Who is Emma? Does she mind? Anyway, as forced as this sounds at times its still really really good. How much we'll want to pick it up next year remains to be seen however.

5. Hauschka - Ferndoff. This is a great comtemporary classical album. I really like it, it self destructs in places but is underpinned by beauty all the way through. A little like the Penguin Cafe Orchestra and Goldmund which I also really liked this year.

6. Daniel Martin Moore - Stray Age. Superior singer song writer stuff in which you discover more reasons to like with each listen. I think Stray Age was his first album and it sounds a little like Sufjan Stevens circa Seven Swans.

7. Max Richter - 24 Postcards in Full Colour. It's been a busy time for Max Richter. This year he has released this album as well as the soundtrack to the excellent film Waltz With Bashir. Each song here cuts off just as you imagine how they might turn out. It too is soundtrack stuff in a way but you are left to imagine the film for yourself.

8. Krulle Bol - This is the Kit. Second only to Laura Marling this year in my book for solo female song writing prowess. A little known album, but look up the track 'She Does'.

9. Noah and The Whale - Peaceful The World Lays Me Down. Grown a little tired of this now but that is only due to the amount of listens I've given it over the year. The kids are ok - excellent album.

10. Sea Wolf - Leaves In the River. Cheesy in places, not as good as past 'Sea' named bands eg Seabear or Seagull. However there are enough beards in this band to make their sound authentic and there are three or four strong songs here. Their lead singer looks like Michael J Fox I reckon - check them out.




Thanks Dan!

amazon stuff

I used Amazon’s MP3 service for the first time last night – to buy this - and am happy to report that it was a very efficient, affordable process; no DRM, no hassle, and best of all a really good price. They clearly will need to sort out the interface if they really want to take on iTunes, but my initial report is good. This is my first stop for MP3s from now on.

In other Amazon related news; if you, like me, are fascinated by the prospect of digital publishing and ebooks, you may like this blog, which is dedicated to the Amazon Kindle and its various competitors. It’s a bit of a Kindle-love-in, but it contains lots of interesting information, and is making me more and more sure that when the Kindle is finally launched here in the UK, I’m going to have to buy one. This is an emotive subject for me, and my attachment to physical books is incredibly strong, but there’s no point in denying its appeal. Still, the Plastic Logic is my tip for the emerging e-book readers, and the one that’s likely to point the way forward in terms of my publishing career.

Lastly, seeing as we’re on technology, it’s good to hear that iPlayer is finally fully Mac-compatible. Yay.

xmas party

deck the halls

It's very nice to be chaperoned around a foreign city; I'm in Paris this week attending a work conference, and my friends Sam and Laura, who moved here a few months ago, have been keen and dedicated hosts, filling me to the brim with wine and food and ushering me around Montmartre like the seasoned Parisians they are fast becoming. Seeing them settled into the heart of the city provokes a mixture of feelings; mostly real pleasure in seeing them happy, but also everything from non-specific nostalgia for any number of past events that we shared, and envy that their new life has brought them such adventure.

Paris, for its part, is a welcoming set; cold and brisk in the background, scented for Christmas but vivid and warm where my hosts carve me inroads - their family and friends have been around providing good-hearted chat and kindness. The landmarks lose none of their charm with repeat viewings; Gallerie Lafayette is sumptuous (but increasingly expensive!), the Sacre-Coeur magical on its raised perch. Right now, however, I'm sat in a conference centre, a thin head-ache getting slowly cooked by the artificial lights, and I've got toothache, too.

That aside, all is well, and I'm even feeling quite festive.

photo booth, paris

blur reunion confirmed

According to today's NME, the Blur reunion is now, at last, official - what wonderful news; they've been my favourite band for something like seventeen years now, and that love has never come close to fading. They remain, for me, the best British pop group of the last twenty years, bar none, and what's more they've got better and better rather than worse and worse, a more typical trajectory. Although not all of their fans agree, I'd pinpoint their 'Think Tank' as the best record of this decade so far, and one of their finest - and Damon's work since has not been far behind. So the prospect of them being back together, whether it's just onstage at Glastonbury or possibly even working on new material, fills me with happiness. Hurray.

Here's a lovely, sentimental quote from Graham on the Blur message-board:

"i have plunged headlong into self destruction as reaction to others doing what i have done many times- falling in love.it is a pathetic resentment...and after so many years of what can almost be considered (...having to make a few journies alone...) a coma of sorts all that we thought stuck to us, keeping us apart just fell away in seconds of seeing each other and a lightness replaced it all see...terrific relief....the festering and paranoid conjecture....the inferiority complexes..the double guessing...all seem such a waste of time...what the press called falling out and friction.... there was no friction...we never saw each other for there to be friction....that rubbing together and causing of heat/irritation......there came a time where we had to travel the path without each other's support. if it hadnt happened in 2001/2 it would have happened later. it was painful enough to realise we had forgotten how to look after each other....without those in the media telling us it was actually alot worse than it was!

its heavy....its a life regained...not just 4 friends but all those surrounding the friends..the surrogate family, the real family...the extended family, the tree...its many!!! not just 4."

Here's the cover of today's NME - masthead stripped out:

sleep easy

I managed a momentous, and probably record-breaking shift of around ten hours of midweek sleep last night, which is feeling today rather like a necessary luxury. I arrived home last night pretty much ready for bed already, but managed to get through ‘til about eight o’clock in the usual routine – fiddling with iTunes, making dinner, watching Eastenders, before realising just how tired I was feeling and allowing myself the privilege of an early night. So I took a long bath and planned to retire.

By the time I was out, of course, I’d actually livened up a bit, and settled on the sofa with a book, reasoning that I’d just stay up after all. It was at that point, however, that it occurred to me that I’m locked into a system of staying up ‘til eleven, half-eleven, even when my body is telling me to do something different. There should be some connection in my head between “I’m really tired” and the command “go to bed”, but I think it’s something I have to teach myself. So at around half-nine, or possibly even earlier, I went through to the bedroom, switched on the radio, and fell immediately asleep. I wouldn’t say that I found waking up easy this morning, or getting up any more pleasurable than usual, but there was one glorious moment when I woke in the night, conscious that I’d had about the usual amount of sleep, and felt a wave of grim awareness that I’d have to rise shortly. At which point I glanced at the clock and saw that it was only 2am and I had another four or five hours of sleep to indulge in.

For that moment of relief and calm, the early night was worth it’s weight.

review: jay reatard / lovvers / the pheromoans

This is a bit late, but I've not been to many gigs lately so feel I should blog about the ones I do go to; consequently here's a brief review of a recent outing, albeit one which is probably fuzzy round the edges as a consequence of disintegrating memories...

Jay Reatard has garnered a lot of column inches this year and some pretty decent reviews off the back of his recent singles collection for Matador. Without knowing an awful lot about him, Ant and I headed down to the Engine Rooms in Brighton a couple of weeks ago to watch him play with a couple of British bands, local boys The Pheromoans and Nottingham's Lovvers.

On first, The Pheromoans were terrific. Peddling an artless, lackadaisical and nonchalant take on the Swell Maps / Fall / Pavement sound, their sound was obviously familiar, but none the worse for it; short, daft songs riding four note basslines and enlivened by a droll singer and a guitarist fluffing occasionally melodic surf-riffs. It's possible, perhaps likely, that they are self-conscious art students playing badly on purpose (in which case I withdraw my affection), but I'm happy to play along with the idea that they're stoned chancers, short on ambition and fired with a love for simplicity and fuzz. So I thought they were grand.

Lovvers, on the contrary, were incredibly tight, focused and forceful. Their sound was abrasive, energetic, full - and yet they were painfully awful; a sequence of yawnsome redundant cliches and dead-eyed ambition. Only when their macho, show-offy punk slowed down for some churning, slower numbers did they lift themselves out of the mire, but by that time I'd retreated to the back of the room. Bewilderingly, the crowd responded enthusiastically, so perhaps it's just me that can't bear their masculine, heartless hardcore. Ant was more enthusiastic, but not much.

Wondering if the problem is just that I like quiet music, I headed back towards the front for Jay Reatard, who quickly dispelled that notion by playing a set of fiercely enjoyable, high-octane punk rock, fusing the volume of The Melvins with the hooks of a young Evan Dando. Barely pausing between (cracking) songs, his performance is all about speed and energy, excitement and power. All were much in evidence as Reatard provoked a sea of grins and a wave of slightly apologetic headbanging from a reserved audience, perhaps mindful of Jay's unpredictability. And the good news is that, for all that my record collection is getting folkier and folkier, I still like a bit of furious punk. As long as it has pop choruses.

review: waltz with bashir

Waltz With Bashir, Ari Folman’s excellent animated film, is a cool, deliberate and moving evocation of memory, conscience and war which moves from muted tones of yellow and black through luminous multicolour and back again as the director recounts the nightmarish reality of 1982s Israeli-Lebanon War, and his own efforts to reconstruct his recollection of it. Like thousands of men his age, his formative years were defined by his involvement in war, though both his own country and much of the Middle East which surround it – particularly Lebanon – have found themselves the staging ground for much of the world’s conflict since. At 19, be that as it may, he was sent to fight, and to kill. Yet he remembers little. What took place all those years ago?

Part autobiography, part fantasy, and part documentary, Waltz With Bashir is constructed from a series of flashbacks, hallucinations and interviews, all lovingly illustrated. Unable to piece together the details himself, Folman begins a long, painful search for the truth, finding people he served with, drawing out his own suppressed memories and interweaving them with those of his peers. The results are always beautifully drawn, but invariably upsetting; an officer forced to swim out to sea to escape capture by Palestinian forces; a troop trying in desperation to cross a junction while being fired on from all angles; the memory of six men having to gun down a child armed with a rocket launcher.

Worst is the darkest memory of all; Folman’s involvement in the massacres at Sabra and Chatila, where Phalangist Christians led Israeli forces into refugee camps and enacted a devastating genocide on the Palestinians within – murdering young and old, entire families lined up and shot under the yellow sky. As the film’s most devastating line attests, Folman, whose own parents survived Auschwitz, is made unwittingly to play the role of Nazi, firing flares into the sky so that the light persisted enough for the massacre to continue. At the apex of this savage injustice, the film switches not just from monochrome to full colour, but from animation to live video. The final, dreadful moments of the movie consist solely of archive footage of the terrible aftermath - wailing survivors surveying the destruction, the bodies of children poking horrifically from the rubble.

Despite the painful reality of these closing shots, the movie conjures up several arresting images of its own - an early sequence, which describes a memory experiment at a funfair, is echoed, in a moment of playfulness, through a window; a pack of dogs charge vengefully through the streets; a terrified soldier, cowering on a military boat, is provided with a moment’s respite by an erotic hallucination. The most powerful image is that of the auteur’s face, frozen in the streets of Beirut as he witnesses the carnage around him. It’s repeated several times; a slow pan around a youthful face, and gains in intensity with every viewing, until at last you learn something, something, of the atrocity of war. Waltz With Bashir is both chillingly upsetting and notably beautiful – a superb, troubling, and yet strangely cleansing film. Go see it.