Tuesday, 19 October 2010
Tuesday, 14 September 2010
My 'Favourite' Song
I have over six and a half thousand songs in my iTunes library. But I only have an all consuming obsession with one of them - 'The W.A.N.D.' by The Flaming Lips.
Never mind Flaming Lips I hear, more pursed lips. Lips pursed with indignation. 'It's not even very good!'. Quite right, it isn't, within the grand cannon of wondrous, splendid and thrillingly moving couplets in Wayne Coyne's armoury, no one's reaching for 'you got the power aw yeah, waving that wand in the air' to sum up how they feel about the big questions. No one's life is affirmed by the synth chord progression in a way that it is by, say, the bullish sugar hit of 'Race for the Prize'. It's not my favourite Flaming Lips song. It isn't even in my top ten.
But...
But every time I'm at a want for which of those six and a half thousand to turn to, it's there in my head - 'play The W.A.N.D. again', and fuelled by sheer instinct I've clicked through. And then it finishes. And then I play it again and I think to myself, whilst waving my hands aloft, 'you don't even like this fucking song'. And then I play it again. Normally four or five times before I get bored and that bassline turns up ABSOLUTELY EVERYWHERE. It's in all six and a half thousand songs in my iTunes library.
On occasion as my brain idles (which happens relatively often) it's there too 'dum, dum, duh-duh, der' , raising the same approximate feelings as the embittered realisation that you've just been caught humming 'Go Compare' at the water fountain. On boring phone calls, it's there, 'sorry could you just go over that again. Was inwardly humming the all pervading bassline to The W.A.N.D.' My brain even has a clever little trick it plays - starting me off on the intro to 'Marquee Moon' which it knows I adore and lures me into thinking the unthinkable - 'wow, this isn't the fucking W.A.N.D.' But then, of course, it is The W.A.N.D. again. For at least an hour.
I've tried W.A.N.D. aversion therapy but I get 'W.A.N.D. hallucinations'. Oh, I think, this sounds a bit like 'The W.A.N.D.' (it doesn't, it's the kettle boiling or a dog farting) and then we're off. My brain's back in it's immovable cycle of 'wavin' that waaaaaaaaaaaaaand in the air' for a good 20 minutes and if it isn't on my iPod I start get facial twitches.
The W.A.N.D. is ruining me. I watch 'Strictly Come Dancing' and I chuckle that Paul Daniels should dance to it - I spend 20 minutes scratching my face - I like it, not a lot, not at all in fact. I walk through a hen do riddled Leicester Square and the spawn descended from my native North wave it in motion. At me. They're fairies but in my mind they're witches and they only know one spell and it goes 'dum, dum, fduh-fucking, der'.
Master wandmaker Mr Ollivander told Harry Potter that a wand picks its owner. It appears that this one's either found me or that Wayne Coyne wants rid and is trying to foist it on me by shoving it into my brain through my ear.
If you want me for the next six months I'll be at home listening to the 'We Buy Any Car' jingle on loop. If you see my hand aloft, do us a favour and put me back in prone.
Never mind Flaming Lips I hear, more pursed lips. Lips pursed with indignation. 'It's not even very good!'. Quite right, it isn't, within the grand cannon of wondrous, splendid and thrillingly moving couplets in Wayne Coyne's armoury, no one's reaching for 'you got the power aw yeah, waving that wand in the air' to sum up how they feel about the big questions. No one's life is affirmed by the synth chord progression in a way that it is by, say, the bullish sugar hit of 'Race for the Prize'. It's not my favourite Flaming Lips song. It isn't even in my top ten.
But...
But every time I'm at a want for which of those six and a half thousand to turn to, it's there in my head - 'play The W.A.N.D. again', and fuelled by sheer instinct I've clicked through. And then it finishes. And then I play it again and I think to myself, whilst waving my hands aloft, 'you don't even like this fucking song'. And then I play it again. Normally four or five times before I get bored and that bassline turns up ABSOLUTELY EVERYWHERE. It's in all six and a half thousand songs in my iTunes library.
On occasion as my brain idles (which happens relatively often) it's there too 'dum, dum, duh-duh, der' , raising the same approximate feelings as the embittered realisation that you've just been caught humming 'Go Compare' at the water fountain. On boring phone calls, it's there, 'sorry could you just go over that again. Was inwardly humming the all pervading bassline to The W.A.N.D.' My brain even has a clever little trick it plays - starting me off on the intro to 'Marquee Moon' which it knows I adore and lures me into thinking the unthinkable - 'wow, this isn't the fucking W.A.N.D.' But then, of course, it is The W.A.N.D. again. For at least an hour.
I've tried W.A.N.D. aversion therapy but I get 'W.A.N.D. hallucinations'. Oh, I think, this sounds a bit like 'The W.A.N.D.' (it doesn't, it's the kettle boiling or a dog farting) and then we're off. My brain's back in it's immovable cycle of 'wavin' that waaaaaaaaaaaaaand in the air' for a good 20 minutes and if it isn't on my iPod I start get facial twitches.
The W.A.N.D. is ruining me. I watch 'Strictly Come Dancing' and I chuckle that Paul Daniels should dance to it - I spend 20 minutes scratching my face - I like it, not a lot, not at all in fact. I walk through a hen do riddled Leicester Square and the spawn descended from my native North wave it in motion. At me. They're fairies but in my mind they're witches and they only know one spell and it goes 'dum, dum, fduh-fucking, der'.
Master wandmaker Mr Ollivander told Harry Potter that a wand picks its owner. It appears that this one's either found me or that Wayne Coyne wants rid and is trying to foist it on me by shoving it into my brain through my ear.
If you want me for the next six months I'll be at home listening to the 'We Buy Any Car' jingle on loop. If you see my hand aloft, do us a favour and put me back in prone.
All Of Your Thoughts *Are* In Tone In Town
Three charming young Mackems. I presume they're charming - I've never met them. Can't imagine them being divas though. Do they look like divas? What do moderately unsuccessful indie rock divas look like?
Is it a bit naval-gazing to write a blog post based on the album that gave your blog its name? Um, probably. Well, whatever. It's naval-gazing time.
It sometimes feels like call centres have invaded every single pore of our lives. Maybe it's just because the rise in social networking, the Internet and instant communication has meant it's a lot easier to vent frustrations, and generally when we do, it's a sight louder too. And god knows call centres make enough people want to vent, often enough. Anyway, there seem to be two different types of call centre – the first, the outsourced, is generally somewhere on the Indian Subcontinent, and company has gone there because it fills one important criteria: cost. This isn't meant as a judgement on that, I should probably add. Anyhow, if they've not outsourced, the chances are you'll be speaking to someone from that forgotten part of England known as “the North East”. Far from the “here be monsters” (unless you're stuck in the Bigg Market of a Saturday night) such far-flung corners generally provoke, apparently it's because the north eastern accents, be they Geordie, Mackem, Smoggie, or whatever the hell else they call themselves, tend to sound friendly, jovial, sympathetic, and most importantly persuasive. If you can sooth the temper of someone calling a call centre and try to put doubt in my mind, I guess you win the customer service thing.
How does this link to anything? Aha, this is where the fact I've put at least a little thought into a blogpost for the first time shows. Field Music, for those not in the know, are a pair of brothers (and occasional support musicians/temporary members), from Sunderland, right in the heart of persuasive-accent land. They emerged during a glut of vaguely angular bands, and in terms of sales sit in the shadows of peers like the Futureheads and Maximo Park. But as far as critical acclaim goes, Field Music have always been right up there, and for me, their peak is their excellent second album, Tones of Town. You may have heard of it. You probably should recognise the phrase from somewhere not a million miles from here. In any case, the Brewis brothers that form the backbone of Field Music have soft Mackem accents, and, gentle and persuasive, they're the perfect kind to lull me, Derren Brown-victim style, into really buying into a message. Especially when it's one I could probably relate to even if Tom Waits were singing it in maximum gruff mode.
The interesting thing about Tones of Town is, for me, the sort of suite of four songs in the middle of the album. Maybe it wasn't intended as a suite, but while the whole album generally deals with issues of the banality, the routine and the apathy you find when embarking on the first few years of adult life – your first job, the drudgery of getting home after annoying commutes and the like – tracks 4 through 7 really nail the feeling.
Music's generally burrowed a snug warren in my heart because it depicts moments I relate to. I imagine it's the same for a lot of you. And it's because of that, that Tones of Town abides so well – it continues to revisit the themes we never escape, and it does it with such deftness of lyric, melody, and most importantly, rhythm, that it's completely irresistible. Take “Kingston”, for example. It's under two minutes, but the ornate strings and drums which eschew the first of the bar to wobble slightly merely set a scene for an eerily accurate description of not seeing your friends enough, because they live not too close or too far away to warrant the effort. The protagonist fails to maintain a friendship, asking “the tube is fast, the distance small – so why should I come?”. The whole song sounds a bit withdrawn, he works hard, gets paid, and it makes no difference to anything, and then the urge to visit a friend passes, and anyway he finds that “you haven't the time”.
Hardly overwrought, flowery prose is it? But it doesn't need to be – a few words here and there, and it's a universal feeling – I have a friend a couple of miles away, why haven't I visited them? And I can say, oh you know, this and that, there hasn't been chance. Absolute bollocks, and the character in the song knows this, knows how ridiculous it all is.
“A House Is Not A Home” sums up the soullessness of living on your own about fifteen times within the one song, observing things that just aren't the same as being somewhere chock full of characters. Tinkling pianos, occasionally emphasised bars, and voice reminding you that “on your own, you only learn to like what you know” - well, of course you do. But you don't always realise that, do you? And maybe “you recognise the smell”, but again, “a house becomes hotel when you make it what you want to”. Yes! Somewhere that has entirely your own personality, it's as creepy as the hotel room that has none of your own personality.
And what about “Working to Work”? Again, it's a rather simple idea, and one done to death by a million bands, mostly pretty crap, but it's not crap here. Jerky guitars, stop-start rhythms again perfectly sitting alongside the lyrics. What are they suggesting? Among other things, that “Leisure is useless/When nothing is easy/When you're working to work”, and that you're “Taken to task/To spend another day going home and/Diving to drown/I'm coming up for air”. It's not really about the time you're losing during the days, though we're all aware of that, it's the effect is has on your life outside work. You're being taken to task, probably in a pretty remedial admin job, and it just leaves you completely unstimulated when you get home, where slumping in front of the telly feels like coming up for air, or when your leisure activities, sports or dancing or whatever just feel like you're putting off the inevitability of work next day.
It's “In Context” that brings these three themes together, marrying them all with all the disconnection of being stuck in that twentysomething rut. And yeah, it's pointing out “you're a long way from home/all of the thoughts you had were not your own”. A simple plucked guitar and off-kilter rhythm rumbles through the song – it's not quite hypnotic, but it's a little bit relentless. The song itself almost sounds like a love song to someone – someone not really alluded to – but the protagonist couldn't quite fall in love because life, mistakes, the feeling of not quite 'getting' their lifestyle, just sort of got in the way.
Music's a personal thing. I can sit back and analyse how good the music is – and it is, Field Music are a bit of a thinking man's band but there's plenty of melody and plenty of “hmm, interesting” moments to take you by surprise on each listen. But...that's missing the point. I've picked the middle third of an album alone here to show how the combination of music and lyrics feel like they're echoing part of my existence, and as wanky as that sounds, that's the appeal of music. Yes, I've felt slightly discombobulated in houses I've moved into – A House Is Not A Home knows how I feel. Yes, I've seen friendships kind of drift into nothingness because I don't see friends for months on end even though they live in the same city – but the protagonist from Kingston's been there too. Yes, I've felt stifled by shite jobs I've had in the past that've resulted in nothing really cutting it as escapism – Working to Work pretty much sums it up for me. And yes, it's all come together to stop me really...settling into life at times, just like it says during In Context. But what's really the key for me is that they feel like universal themes. I'm almost dead certain they are. We've all been in similar positions, and the feeling we have isn't that of tearing our hair out, or collapsing in floods of tears necessarily. It's the sort of vague feeling of impotence – the discontentment from just looking around and asking “is this it?” But not in such a way that it makes us angry, more that it makes us sigh. And that's the feeling this captures for me, and it's why you should probably embrace this album – especially those middle four tracks – into your life.
Wednesday, 8 September 2010
Emerging From A Barren Spell
This charming bunch are Seattle band, Grand Hallway. I talk a bit about them in this post. Hence the picture. Duh.
Music's not a lifelong obsession for me.
Ah, shit, I've started with a grandiose statement that's not strictly true again. What I'm getting at I – and I imagine most music fans – go through stages where music's barely incidental to their lives, where they listen to about 3 albums a week, and they're old favourites that are more a comfort blanket than a, uh, multi-sensory experience (in a way that, say, I imagine listening to Ladies and Gentleman we are Floating in Space while on DMT/Acid/Other drug I've also heard of but never come remotely near trying, is). I was going through one of these a couple of months ago, and yeah, this is the bit where I pass off the gap in blog-writing as caused by that, as opposed to the more honest answer of a combination of laziness and ennui.
Obviously the gap's done nothing for my tendency to write long, rambling, multi-clause sentences that make about as much sense as any kind of logic trying to explain how that Simon Amstell sitcom got a) commissioned and b) broadcast.
I picked up just one album in that time, by a little-known Seattle-based band called Grand Hallway. Crap name, great band. The album's called "Promenade", which is better. They're very much of the current Pacific Northwest in tone, performing florid, textured indie-pop songs, making use of beautiful melody and an occasional jawdropping grasp of dynamics (just go on Spotify and listen to “Raindrops (Matsuri)”, please!), and creating a wonderful album with the spirit of Sufjan Stevens, Andrew Bird, and anyone else who can use a multi-instrumental backing band/tons of instruments, parts, textures, counter-melodies blah blah blah. I realise this is a bad time to say this post isn't about them, but it isn't; it's just a personal thing about what's going through my head while listening, and other magubbins relating to them. But it's not about them.
(Though before I go any further, I should say that one of my favourite things about Grand Hallway is that when you mention them – recommending them to a friend, say – on Twitter, they always retweet your tweet. And as I'm a creature of shallow, easily-placated ego, that appeals to me. Hell, even though most of my tweets are complaining the album's not available in the UK – I don't know who I'm complaining to – they still retweet. There's going to come a point where I'm like “hey, why don't you follow me”, and then the circle will be complete, and my life will have officially become classified as 'pathetic'.)
First things first, it's the first album I've ever bought on import. As I said (if you read things in brackets – and if you don't, you'll miss this clause so I don't know why I'm typing it...verbal diarrhoea I guess), it's not available in the UK. And yeah, I was never one of those music fans who Have To Hear Everything First; I remember downloading the first Bloc Party album before it was released, like, and felt so bad about it, I went out and bought the album when it came out. I'm not even sure why. 2005 was a weird year. Anyway, I'm not even sure how I heard of them – in fact, if anyone had heard of them before 27th April this year, tell me, because you probably recommended them and I need to thank you.
I'm emerging from the end of a phase of playing far too many computer games. This isn't unusual for me, but that's something that saps your will to listen to music. It's hard to explain why, but I think there's a couple of reasons for this, so here goes:
First one's pretty obvious, that you're listening to the in-game music to add to the atmosphere; it's part of the all-important immersion. Any activity, from TV to art galleries to music or computer games, requires you to buy into the vision it's trying to create in your head in order for you to get the most out of it. Appreciating this, I always listen to the music.
But beyond that, computer games are a pretty overwhelming activity, insofar as you're giving them 100% concentration; all of your mental energy and it's kind of draining. So when you're not playing, you're sort of unwittingly doing whatever you do in relative silence, because it doesn't occur to you to listen to music.
That's really bad, in a way, isn't it? Makes it seem like I don't really like music. But I do, I swear! Sometimes, and yeah, the lives we live, the changes to our daily routine; to work, the people we meet, the activites we partake in socially and professionally, they all affect what we're looking for, and while I'm sat here listening to music and doing no'ver'much this evening, and it's something I love doing, it's not something I've had much compulsion to do. I mentioned Grand Hallway because theirs was the only new album I acquired – yes, bought via Import – during this time, and I'm kinda grateful that I still had some anchor in music. Now I'm buying stuff, going to gigs and proms and having conversations again, and it feels a bit more....like I'm used to.
But yeah, thanks Grand Hallway.
Saturday, 4 September 2010
Classical Music Is Something You Don't Think About Enough
The European Union Youth Orchestra's viola section. Did you know there's a whole subculture of jokes about viola players in orchestras? Well there are. My favourite is the one my old A-Level music teacher (a conductor himself) told me:
Q. You see a viola player and a conductor standing in the middle of the road. Which one do you run over first?
A. The conductor. Business before pleasure.
So, classical music then.
Wait, come back! I don't know if I'm projecting, but it seems there's this inherent fear of classical music from most if not all quarters of the young music fan community. Certainly around the music I tend to go for, anyway. I should qualify this a bit, so here goes.
I've been to a couple of Proms this summer, at the Royal Albert Hall. I've got one more planned too, next week, and it's a unique benefit of living in London that you get these 70-odd events mostly fairly affordable (I paid £11 a ticket, you can get them for as little as £7 if you don't mind restricted view). It's a couple of hours, in an absolutely lovely venue, listening to the sort of stirring dramatic music of styles that essentially persevered – and changed perceptibly many many times during this time – for a couple of hundred years. And still does today – not only is a vast majority of computer game, TV and film music essentially influenced by or styled upon various eras of classical music, many many bands incorporate it into their music. Every fucker has a string quartet at some point, and think how bands like Mercury Rev, Sufjan Stevens, The Delgados, Vampire Weekend have built music around it rather than just using the odd flourish.
Where was I? Oh yeah. No-one talks about it. Maybe when I was about to rail about inherent fear, what I meant was this kind of apathy towards classical music that I see in fans of pop music and its derivatives. I want to be ageist and say “especially those in their twenties”, but I have no idea how applicable that is. I remember reading a thread on a music message board when the Prom line-ups were announced. It was full of people getting excited about Stockhausen and Webern. I say 'full', but there were about 5 posts. On a popular site. Stockhausen and Webern are composers of contemporary music, and contemporary classical music is to classical music what modern art is to, er, art. I don't want to detract from contemporary music, purely because I'm a bigger fan of 19th century era music, but 20th century contemporary stuff probably has more in common with what you'd call the most popular experimental acts. Hell, Squarepusher's performed with the London Sinfonietta before. What I'm getting at here is, yes, it's people dipping into classical music, but it's the kind of classical music that probably isn't that much of a logical leap for them from the music they like. I realise this is sounding like criticism; it's not. Or at least, not meant to be.
Later today I'm going to an all-dayer. It'll be a good gig and a lot of fun, but I'm quite tempted to try and start up conversations about Prokofiev, Haydn, J.S. Bach. Mainly this is because I'm a contrary fucker, but just because no-one'd be bothered to get involved, or maybe some would express sort of vague intention to go to a Prom in the future. Now, my taste in 'indie' music is pretty narrow, I'm more than willing to admit that. So, why do people who have more diverse tastes than me have a classical music blind spot?
Well, maybe they don't. Maybe it's just something that never comes up; if you're getting enough joy from a relatively diverse area of music, you're in your mid-twenties or something say, there's not really any need to think “whither classical music?”. People come to classical music later in life, perhaps. Or maybe it's the fact that there's a different atmosphere that emanates from classical music than say, going to see The Thermals or something. That's a no-brainer. And yeah, you don't really want to be stuck watching the Proms surrounded by Talkers, people who aren't interested but just want to say they were there.
What do I get from classical music? Well, I'm a bit of a beginner, but I can be stirred by the wonderful swooning motif from Tchaikovsky's Romeo and Juliet Fantasia Overture; I can thrill and be entertained by the joyous Barber of Seville. Popular classics like Ravel's Bolero, Beethoven's Symphony No.5. But it just gradually seeps in, the vast dynamic differences, the changes in mood and the way it rises and falls, whether you've got a stirring, dramatic piece, or something light and whimsical. Sure it's not as full of hummable tunes but everyone knows fucking...Peter and the Wolf, or Dvorak's New World Symphony or something. It soothes the soul.
I seem to have lost the run of myself a bit in this piece. I'm just...I just don't really know why classical music isn't even considered by the people I talk music with, that I see at gigs. Yes, it's a different atmosphere and type of appreciation of music, but it's – okay, not valid, but I think more people would appreciate classical music earlier than they expect they would. Are you in your 20s? Never considered giving classical music a chance? Well, maybe I wouldn't either. And yes, maybe I wouldn't choose to listen to it while sat at home or something, but the unique experience of sitting in the Royal Albert Hall, as a whole host of amazingly talented musicians create such a vast collage of moods, it's a wonderful experience.
So, classical music then. Anyone fancy giving it a go? Proms next year?
Sunday, 1 August 2010
Festivals: Bands, Booze, or Boredom?
How many music festivals are still about the music? That’s the question I’ve been asking myself having come home from last weekend’s Indietracks festival. For those who’ve yet to sample the charms of the Derbyshire-based indiepop festival, the facts are as follows: you have an outdoor stage, and indoor stage, a stage in a church(!) and bands playing on the trains. Aside from spending your entire weekend riding on the steam trains, in the merchandise tent, or in the craft workshop marquee, that’s your lot. In many respects you HAVE to be there for the music, and as such it seems to attract a crowd who – in the majority, at least – are there for one reason and one reason only. The reason, lest we forget that MUSIC festivals were originally conceived.
But looking at other festivals one has to question if the same mentality exists. Reading and Leeds have, over the years, appeared to degenerate into hoards of faux-rebellious teenagers turning up for the annual final-night riot and for the opportunity to set fire to their tents and maybe see a band or two while they’re there. The Wakestock festival at Abersoch (about 40mins away from me) appears confused as to whether it’s a wakeboarding festival with a side order of music in the evening, or vice versa. What it ultimately does is attract the masses of the North West (who in this day and age are unusually poorly catered for in terms of festivals and gigs) who then proceed to get utterly shit faced for 3 days straight and not do much else (or it was the last time I went there a few years ago, and I doubt much has changed). It was a scene repeated – by all accounts judging by the office banter at my workplace – at the recent Radio1’s Big Weekend, but as with Wakestock it’s the only logical conclusion when you take an area not catered for in terms of entertainment, and then give the populous free tickets. There’s a plethora of jokes I could make about getting wankered is the only way to put up with a Radio 1 festival bill, but that would require much stooping on my part.
You’ll have noticed that Latitude and Glastonbury haven’t been mentioned. That’s due to the fact that – in my not-so-humble opinion – both festivals have so much going on that it’s near impossible to class them as purely music festivals. Latitude’s attempts to cater for poetry, literature and comedy means to lump it in with the likes of Reading and Leeds would be ridiculous. The same applies to Glastonbury which for as long as I can remember has also not been marketed as solely a music festival. It has so much going on throughout the site and appeals to such a wide demographic for a variety of reasons that as with Latitude, I don’t think I can really classify it in the same terms as I’ve done with those above.
It’s hard to think of recent trends in anything other than a chicken-and-egg type scenario. Have the arrival of crowds who actually aren’t fussed about the music necessitated the arrival of fairground rides and god knows what else to the festival sites? Or have such additions been the catalysts for recent shifts in punter demographics and attitudes? Have people just generally switched off to music at a music festival? Short of doing some sort of mini psychology thesis on such matters I doubt we’ll never really know.
What I do know is that not even Indietracks was immune from apathy from its attendees. Just the other day I read someone’s day by day account of the festival on their blog. A sentence jumped out at me while reading, which stated that they went to the festival on the Saturday to see two bands, and were complaining about not having anything to do in the meantime. Now, I don’t know if they meant that they’d seen everyone on the Saturday bill already and only wanted to see those two bands, or whether they had loosely heard of those two bands and decided not to check out the rest, but the fact they only saw the headliners on the Sunday would suggest the latter. If my assumptions are correct it’s almost as if the concept of actually checking out new bands was totally lost on them. In comparison – and I’m not blowing my own trumpet here, a number of other people I know did something similar – I saw 14 bands on the Saturday alone, 9 of which I’d never heard of before, and of the remaining 5, only 3 had I ever had any meaningful exposure to.
As I seem to do whenever I conclude a piece for this blog, it’s time to qualify what I’ve said. I’m not saying we should all go to music festivals with a sense of Cromwellian austerity hanging heavily over our shoulders, and that we should all sit cross legged in the same spot from dawn until dusk watching bands and nothing else in some sort of puritan cult. I woke up last Saturday in my tent with a crippling hangover that necessitated a bacon roll and a J2O, I missed bands on the Sunday by going for a ride on a steam train, and at other festivals going for a spin on the dodgems has been a great antidote to being crammed in between people at the stages. But it’s about a balance. Seeing people mashed the entire weekend (via some form of substance or another), behaving like an idiot all weekend and taking a wazzeroo on their mates’ tents (thankfully not something I’ve witnessed, though I’ve heard the horror stories) can - and in all probability will - impact negatively on your weekend. If you’re anything like me you’ll be left thinking ‘what’s the point?’ at spending a considerable sum of money to attend a festival you can’t remember jack shit about. Surely a festival is an opportunity to discover new bands, become re-acquainted with others you’ve loved in years past, or to check out if XYZ band are live as people say they are/as they are on record. If you want to spend the whole weekend tripping/inebriated then go with your mates to a farmer’s field for a weekend and do it there. Come to Anglesey, we’ve got hundreds of the damned things.
Ultimately it opens up the whole debate about gig and festival ethics. It’s not something I actually wanted to happen when I started writing it, for it’s a topic boards such as Drowned In Sound have had played out more times than I can remember. I don’t especially want it to happen again, but we’ll see which way the comments go. Please do comment, it’ll be interesting if I’m a lone agent on this or if there are others who share my views. Given my opinionated rant to date I sincerely hope it’s the latter.
But looking at other festivals one has to question if the same mentality exists. Reading and Leeds have, over the years, appeared to degenerate into hoards of faux-rebellious teenagers turning up for the annual final-night riot and for the opportunity to set fire to their tents and maybe see a band or two while they’re there. The Wakestock festival at Abersoch (about 40mins away from me) appears confused as to whether it’s a wakeboarding festival with a side order of music in the evening, or vice versa. What it ultimately does is attract the masses of the North West (who in this day and age are unusually poorly catered for in terms of festivals and gigs) who then proceed to get utterly shit faced for 3 days straight and not do much else (or it was the last time I went there a few years ago, and I doubt much has changed). It was a scene repeated – by all accounts judging by the office banter at my workplace – at the recent Radio1’s Big Weekend, but as with Wakestock it’s the only logical conclusion when you take an area not catered for in terms of entertainment, and then give the populous free tickets. There’s a plethora of jokes I could make about getting wankered is the only way to put up with a Radio 1 festival bill, but that would require much stooping on my part.
You’ll have noticed that Latitude and Glastonbury haven’t been mentioned. That’s due to the fact that – in my not-so-humble opinion – both festivals have so much going on that it’s near impossible to class them as purely music festivals. Latitude’s attempts to cater for poetry, literature and comedy means to lump it in with the likes of Reading and Leeds would be ridiculous. The same applies to Glastonbury which for as long as I can remember has also not been marketed as solely a music festival. It has so much going on throughout the site and appeals to such a wide demographic for a variety of reasons that as with Latitude, I don’t think I can really classify it in the same terms as I’ve done with those above.
It’s hard to think of recent trends in anything other than a chicken-and-egg type scenario. Have the arrival of crowds who actually aren’t fussed about the music necessitated the arrival of fairground rides and god knows what else to the festival sites? Or have such additions been the catalysts for recent shifts in punter demographics and attitudes? Have people just generally switched off to music at a music festival? Short of doing some sort of mini psychology thesis on such matters I doubt we’ll never really know.
What I do know is that not even Indietracks was immune from apathy from its attendees. Just the other day I read someone’s day by day account of the festival on their blog. A sentence jumped out at me while reading, which stated that they went to the festival on the Saturday to see two bands, and were complaining about not having anything to do in the meantime. Now, I don’t know if they meant that they’d seen everyone on the Saturday bill already and only wanted to see those two bands, or whether they had loosely heard of those two bands and decided not to check out the rest, but the fact they only saw the headliners on the Sunday would suggest the latter. If my assumptions are correct it’s almost as if the concept of actually checking out new bands was totally lost on them. In comparison – and I’m not blowing my own trumpet here, a number of other people I know did something similar – I saw 14 bands on the Saturday alone, 9 of which I’d never heard of before, and of the remaining 5, only 3 had I ever had any meaningful exposure to.
As I seem to do whenever I conclude a piece for this blog, it’s time to qualify what I’ve said. I’m not saying we should all go to music festivals with a sense of Cromwellian austerity hanging heavily over our shoulders, and that we should all sit cross legged in the same spot from dawn until dusk watching bands and nothing else in some sort of puritan cult. I woke up last Saturday in my tent with a crippling hangover that necessitated a bacon roll and a J2O, I missed bands on the Sunday by going for a ride on a steam train, and at other festivals going for a spin on the dodgems has been a great antidote to being crammed in between people at the stages. But it’s about a balance. Seeing people mashed the entire weekend (via some form of substance or another), behaving like an idiot all weekend and taking a wazzeroo on their mates’ tents (thankfully not something I’ve witnessed, though I’ve heard the horror stories) can - and in all probability will - impact negatively on your weekend. If you’re anything like me you’ll be left thinking ‘what’s the point?’ at spending a considerable sum of money to attend a festival you can’t remember jack shit about. Surely a festival is an opportunity to discover new bands, become re-acquainted with others you’ve loved in years past, or to check out if XYZ band are live as people say they are/as they are on record. If you want to spend the whole weekend tripping/inebriated then go with your mates to a farmer’s field for a weekend and do it there. Come to Anglesey, we’ve got hundreds of the damned things.
Ultimately it opens up the whole debate about gig and festival ethics. It’s not something I actually wanted to happen when I started writing it, for it’s a topic boards such as Drowned In Sound have had played out more times than I can remember. I don’t especially want it to happen again, but we’ll see which way the comments go. Please do comment, it’ll be interesting if I’m a lone agent on this or if there are others who share my views. Given my opinionated rant to date I sincerely hope it’s the latter.
Wednesday, 19 May 2010
No Sleep 'Till Woodlsey Road: 12 Hrs on The Road With This Many Boyfriends'
I don’t know how many of you have been reading Nick Kent’s latest offering ‘Apathy for the Devil’, but if you haven’t, you should, if only for an insight into the music industry in the 1970s. I haven’t yet finished his tales of 1973 and he’s already done cocaine with Led Zeppelin at 3am (fact of the day: my mum – a former swimming instructor – taught Robert Plant’s kids to swim), been taken on an all expenses jaunt around Europe with the Rolling Stones and seems to be on the cusp of boning Chrissie Hynde. Not a bad life, eh?
So, with this in mind – coupled with a desire to finish my 2 weeks off work in style and an even greater desire to escape the insanity-inducing mundane provincial hellhole where I reside – I decided over the bank holiday weekend to stage my own, albeit much smaller, version. Though without trying to bone Chrissie Hynde, obviously, as she a) is rather too old for me these days and b) was nowhere to be seen anyway. The band who had the unfortunate task of putting up with me were Leeds-based indie-poppers This Many Boyfriends. You probably haven’t heard them or indeed of them, and that is why you have no job, and are single, have no friends, and aren’t loved by your own mother. You may think it’s down a load of other contributing factors, but you’d be wrong – it’s all down to you not having heard TMB (as they shall henceforth be referred to throughout this article). Musically, descriptions involving the words ‘C86’ ‘The Pastels’ ‘Shop Assistants’ and (for those with a death wish) ‘twee’ can usually be found, but for me it’s best described as a joyous cacophony which includes a healthy dose of what seems to be missing in a lot of music these days – fun.
But before we go any further, I need to make a couple of admissions. Firstly, as I only decided to embark on this mission the day before it took place (and only decided to write about it halfway through the day itself), I didn’t take a Dictaphone. As a result, it’s going to be based purely on anecdotal evidence and what I can remember. Not the most professional of approaches, granted, but at least I am owning up to it. Secondly, this is hardly going to be a neutral piece. I would like to think I could class all band members as friends, to the extent that if I was an MP I could probably claim 2nd home allowance on drummer Lauren and guitarist Adam’s sofa over the last month given the amount of time I’ve spent on there. Having said that, as I intoned to singer Richard’s dad at one point ‘Thing is, if I liked the people but hated the music, I’d just arrange to meet them down the pub, not at their gigs’.
However, it was at a gig which I did indeed meet them, and so after an epic 4hr journey to Leeds I breezed into Escobar (part of the May bank holiday Live At Leeds event) to be greeted by drummer Lauren, and guitarists Adam and Jamie (thereby apparently causing much amusement by doing the always-entertaining ‘walking into somewhere to meet someone as they’re texting you’ routine). Given the roller-coaster week Adam and Lauren had had up until this point, it was pleasing to see them in such high spirits, as was Richard. Bassist Tom (the FB fan page states that all band members have the same surname – Boyfriend – like The Ramones, Los Campesinos! and…..err, The Fratellis. Yet to see this monikers actually mentioned in the real world, though.) was absent owing to other pressing engagements, and as such was replaced by respected Pulp biographer Mark Sturdy for the day. After the inevitable catching up, drinks buying and consuming, and handbag watching (an event I’m pretty sure never befell Nick Kent or Lester Bangs) TMB finally afford me the opportunity to hear new compositions ‘Young Lovers Go Pop’ and a yet-to-be-titled 6 minute epic alongside old favourites (well, to me anyway) ‘I Don’t Like You (Cos You Don’t Like The Pastels)’, ‘Trying Is Good’, and ‘#1’. Unexpectedly being gestured up by Richard to add backing vocals to the group sing-a-long at the end of ‘It’s Lethal’ unfortunately led to nothing more than an embarrassed, flustered me, an empty microphone, and a vague promise of actually doing it at that evening’s gig in Bradford once I’d had a few drinks. Meanwhile, raucous closing number ‘That’s What Diaries Are For’ is on this occasion heralded by TMB’s resident Scotsman, Jamie, doing a scarily accurate approximation of Gladiators referee John Anderson’s ‘CONTENDERS, ARE YOU READY?’ catchphrase. Afterwards, spirits are high; as well they might be considering this gig was in reality (in the band’s eyes) nothing more than a warm-up for the evening’s show in Bradford. While the post-mortem is underway however, Lauren had a problem, and quite a serious one at that. A quick flick through my pictures of the set had given her concerns about her choice of attire and more specifically about the levels of midriff on show. Suddenly, buying a belt became a top priority.
So it was then, that while the ever-professional Richard sorted out the logistics of transporting the equipment to Bradford, myself, Lauren, Adam and Mark hit Leeds city centre to satisfy our respective top priorities: buying a belt (Lauren), getting some food (me, Mark and Adam), and getting a drink in (all of us). Having taken in a late lunch over which conversation ranged from Mark’s encyclopaedic knowledge of all things relating to (that evening’s headliner) Hefner and Darren Hayman to passing wind on small children in the workplace, it was time to embark on the 20 minute train ride to Bradford. It was at this juncture that Mark decided to press the button marked Frank Spencer/Spinal Tap, and end up separated from us and on the wrong train. To Wakefield. This was confusing/amusing/mildly annoying in equal measures. Confusing as Mark had bought tickets at exactly the same time as us, yet somehow lost us. Amusing because 1) he was the promoter of the Bradford gig in question, and 2) only over our post-gig lunch he’d said that every time he’d booked Darren Hayman something had gone wrong (the previous two occasions had seen Darren arriving with nothing more than Hefner merchandise to wear having had his car broken into the night before, and being badly beaten up outside a gig in Nottingham late last year). Mildly annoying for the band as they would be without a bassist until at least 7pm (it would be even later than that as Mark would realise on the way back that he’d left a drum pedal in Escobar – scene of TMB’s earlier gig – prompting a rapid dash via cab from station to venue and back again before eventually rejoining the rest of the band much nearer 7:30pm), while we’d arrived not long after 6pm. Richard, using the power of a fatherly taxi service was there even before us. Impressive.
It was now that I first encountered the aforementioned headliner Darren Hayman, and to be honest it was something of a car crash moment. Quite literally, as he nearly ran me, Lauren, Adam and Jamie over on the venue’s narrow driveway as he drove up it and we walked down. For those of you Hayman-ites desperate to know what kind of car a British indie-pop legend drives, it’s a new shape mid-blue Ford Focus. Once out of his car, the quiet, unassuming individual one might assume Mr Hayman to be given his music is very much in force. This is hardly surprising given the events of the last few months, and anyone who’s heard of his plight of late could only look on with a mix of understanding and sympathy, as well as find his desire to apologise to Mark later on for his perceived introversion and quietness wholly unnecessary. From the outset it’s clear that TMB adore him, Mark and Richard especially. An exchange with Richard after the weekend elicited the following quote, which provides a pretty succinct summary of why he’s so loved by the band ‘Darren was absolutely AMAZING. Ten billion times better than us. You’re following the wrong band! TMB HEART DARREN HAYMAN. You should listen to Hefner. It was a huge, huge privilege to support him. He's the reason I started this band. Therefore he will always be better than us when we play together. We probably wouldn't exist without him’ (for the record, I do listen to Hefner. No idea where Richard got the impression I don’t!). An unexpected highlight was watching a full run-through of Hefner’s ‘Good Fruit’ during his soundcheck (along with the realisation that one of his Secondary Modern backing band was also a member of ‘Allo Darlin’, a great band which you should go listen to if you already haven’t).
A swift changeover followed, where TMB’s soundcheck was accompanied by a testing of the stage lights. The difference it made to the venue was incredible, as can be seen from the contrasting images posted in the link to be found at the bottom of the page). Richard, having viewed my photos, has described them pre-lighting as looking like they played in an aircraft hanger, which in fairness to Bradford’s Theatre in the Mill probably says more about my photography skills than anything else. During soundcheck I fast came to the conclusion that ‘Young Lovers Go Pop’ was my new favourite TMB song, though in retrospect it’s running close with ‘It’s Lethal’, ‘I Don’t Like You (Cos You Don’t Like The Pastels)’ or indeed ‘Trying Is Good’…it’s genuinely hard to choose. I also discovered somewhere around this point that you never, ever ask Jamie as a joke to play ‘Duelling Banjos’ from the Deliverance soundtrack on an acoustic guitar, because the skilful bastard will actually do it, and you’ll spend the next 5 minutes trying to pick your jaw off the floor. Some post-soundcheck envy of Nick Kent unfortunately occurred, however. While at his peak he seemed to enjoy going to fine dining establishments and gentleman’s clubs with the likes of Keith Richards, Rod Stewart and Ronnie Wood and enjoying the luxuries that such jaunts inevitably brought, my ‘tea’ consisted of a packet of Walkers crisps and a 69p can of 7.5% white cider (which, believe me, was as grim as it sounds), as this was pretty much all that was available from what seemed to be the only shop within a reasonable walking distance of the venue.
After a brief sojourn with Adam outside the venue to finish our respective tipples – he chose the slightly more palatable Carlsberg – during which I learned that while intoxicated he once made the rather amusing assertion that David Cameron was his favourite fictional creature. Politicians as fictional creatures, would, unfortunately have to wait as music beckoned – you, dear reader, could be forgiven that this was nearly a secondary issue given the fact I’ve mentioned seemingly ‘everything but’ for a while now. The first act was The French Defence, essentially a vehicle for a criminally shy young songwriter called Owen (though there was a full band in past incarnations). It was clear that he’d been to the Bobby Wratten school of songwriting, all heartbreak and anguish, and as such it wasn’t surprising to find Trembling Blue Stars, and Field Mice listed as his influences on his Myspace. As a huge Bobby Wratten fan, however, this was no bad thing, despite the feeling that given the slightly more up-tempo and fuller-sounding efforts of TMB and Darren Hayman, The French Defence was perhaps a strange choice for an opening act. No matter.
But Richard meant business. This much was clear just by looking at him. Since the Escobar gig he’d raised the sartorial stakes by donning a shirt, jacket and tie, to put him right up there with Mark’s post-punk outfit (who’d spent the day looking – and playing, though sadly not dancing – like OMD’s Andy McCluskey). Richard’s assertions post-Escobar that everything sounded great but needed to be ‘tightened up’ appeared to have been noted and processed (not that it sounded anything less than brilliant at Escobar), with ‘Young Lovers Go Pop’ rattling along like the bastard son of The Cribs’ ‘Our Bovine Public’, while ‘I Should Be A Communist’ got an airing – an omission at Escobar owing to time constraints. Yours truly didn’t get invited back on stage during the Orange Juice melody-meets-Michael Stipe lyrical ambiguity of’It’s Lethal’ as in Leeds, which was understandable. Getting what could be viewed as indie-pop’s answer to Bez to run on stage, ‘sing’ the same 4 words 8 times then disappear again is certainly an unorthodox, and risky, way to make an impression in front of one of you musical heroes, and one which is probably fated to fail from the outset. The fact they did it un-amped only added to the pressure, which they all handled very well. At this point it’s worth mentioning Mark’s efforts to learn the basslines in a limited space of time. Yes, he may have needed crib sheets at his feet to remind him, but nonetheless a sterling, mistake free effort. In fact, the only hiccough all day was when Jamie’s guitar lead cut out during the un-named 6 minute epic, and even that was sorted in impressively short order. For a band that describes itself as shambolic, it was an impressively tight performance all day. Credit where it’s due. A set-closing version of ‘Diaries’ saw Jamie get all Angus Young and scale a speaker while Richard made his way into the audience (which owing to a quirk of the Theatre could be found sat behind tables, making the whole gig feel like a really weird secondary school-level music lesson) and back to the stage. Post-gig Richard could be found beaming madly (as he had been the first time I’d seen them play in Manchester in January) while professing how much fun the whole experience had been - clearly fun has been on his agenda too, as it always is mine when discussing the music.
Much as I’d love to comment in depth about Darren Hayman’s set, I’m unable to. Firstly, because the last train left halfway through it, prompting all but Mark and Richard to leave early, and secondly, a mix of spirits in Leeds and cider in Bradford has rendered this bit of the story little more than a hazy blur, embarrassingly enough.
Some people can come up with great ways to sum things up in a sentence – F1 driver Nelson Piquet once described the Monaco GP circuit as ‘like riding a unicycle round your bathroom’ while Pennie Smith once described being around The Clash was ‘like being on a commando raid with the Bash Street Kids’. As you can probably tell, I’m not one of those people. Put it this way, I spent the next day shaking due to sleep deprivation, and I didn’t regret a thing (incidentally, the only other time I got the sleep-deprivation shakes was after pulling an all nighter when I attended Underachievers Please Try harder, Britain’s best-kept clubnight secret – put an attendance on your bucket list. Didn’t regret it then, either). Let me at least try and give a soundbite-sized approximation: the 12 hours or so I spent with TMB appeared to be the perfect encapsulation of what I’ve always perceived their music to be about. Fun.
So, with this in mind – coupled with a desire to finish my 2 weeks off work in style and an even greater desire to escape the insanity-inducing mundane provincial hellhole where I reside – I decided over the bank holiday weekend to stage my own, albeit much smaller, version. Though without trying to bone Chrissie Hynde, obviously, as she a) is rather too old for me these days and b) was nowhere to be seen anyway. The band who had the unfortunate task of putting up with me were Leeds-based indie-poppers This Many Boyfriends. You probably haven’t heard them or indeed of them, and that is why you have no job, and are single, have no friends, and aren’t loved by your own mother. You may think it’s down a load of other contributing factors, but you’d be wrong – it’s all down to you not having heard TMB (as they shall henceforth be referred to throughout this article). Musically, descriptions involving the words ‘C86’ ‘The Pastels’ ‘Shop Assistants’ and (for those with a death wish) ‘twee’ can usually be found, but for me it’s best described as a joyous cacophony which includes a healthy dose of what seems to be missing in a lot of music these days – fun.
But before we go any further, I need to make a couple of admissions. Firstly, as I only decided to embark on this mission the day before it took place (and only decided to write about it halfway through the day itself), I didn’t take a Dictaphone. As a result, it’s going to be based purely on anecdotal evidence and what I can remember. Not the most professional of approaches, granted, but at least I am owning up to it. Secondly, this is hardly going to be a neutral piece. I would like to think I could class all band members as friends, to the extent that if I was an MP I could probably claim 2nd home allowance on drummer Lauren and guitarist Adam’s sofa over the last month given the amount of time I’ve spent on there. Having said that, as I intoned to singer Richard’s dad at one point ‘Thing is, if I liked the people but hated the music, I’d just arrange to meet them down the pub, not at their gigs’.
However, it was at a gig which I did indeed meet them, and so after an epic 4hr journey to Leeds I breezed into Escobar (part of the May bank holiday Live At Leeds event) to be greeted by drummer Lauren, and guitarists Adam and Jamie (thereby apparently causing much amusement by doing the always-entertaining ‘walking into somewhere to meet someone as they’re texting you’ routine). Given the roller-coaster week Adam and Lauren had had up until this point, it was pleasing to see them in such high spirits, as was Richard. Bassist Tom (the FB fan page states that all band members have the same surname – Boyfriend – like The Ramones, Los Campesinos! and…..err, The Fratellis. Yet to see this monikers actually mentioned in the real world, though.) was absent owing to other pressing engagements, and as such was replaced by respected Pulp biographer Mark Sturdy for the day. After the inevitable catching up, drinks buying and consuming, and handbag watching (an event I’m pretty sure never befell Nick Kent or Lester Bangs) TMB finally afford me the opportunity to hear new compositions ‘Young Lovers Go Pop’ and a yet-to-be-titled 6 minute epic alongside old favourites (well, to me anyway) ‘I Don’t Like You (Cos You Don’t Like The Pastels)’, ‘Trying Is Good’, and ‘#1’. Unexpectedly being gestured up by Richard to add backing vocals to the group sing-a-long at the end of ‘It’s Lethal’ unfortunately led to nothing more than an embarrassed, flustered me, an empty microphone, and a vague promise of actually doing it at that evening’s gig in Bradford once I’d had a few drinks. Meanwhile, raucous closing number ‘That’s What Diaries Are For’ is on this occasion heralded by TMB’s resident Scotsman, Jamie, doing a scarily accurate approximation of Gladiators referee John Anderson’s ‘CONTENDERS, ARE YOU READY?’ catchphrase. Afterwards, spirits are high; as well they might be considering this gig was in reality (in the band’s eyes) nothing more than a warm-up for the evening’s show in Bradford. While the post-mortem is underway however, Lauren had a problem, and quite a serious one at that. A quick flick through my pictures of the set had given her concerns about her choice of attire and more specifically about the levels of midriff on show. Suddenly, buying a belt became a top priority.
So it was then, that while the ever-professional Richard sorted out the logistics of transporting the equipment to Bradford, myself, Lauren, Adam and Mark hit Leeds city centre to satisfy our respective top priorities: buying a belt (Lauren), getting some food (me, Mark and Adam), and getting a drink in (all of us). Having taken in a late lunch over which conversation ranged from Mark’s encyclopaedic knowledge of all things relating to (that evening’s headliner) Hefner and Darren Hayman to passing wind on small children in the workplace, it was time to embark on the 20 minute train ride to Bradford. It was at this juncture that Mark decided to press the button marked Frank Spencer/Spinal Tap, and end up separated from us and on the wrong train. To Wakefield. This was confusing/amusing/mildly annoying in equal measures. Confusing as Mark had bought tickets at exactly the same time as us, yet somehow lost us. Amusing because 1) he was the promoter of the Bradford gig in question, and 2) only over our post-gig lunch he’d said that every time he’d booked Darren Hayman something had gone wrong (the previous two occasions had seen Darren arriving with nothing more than Hefner merchandise to wear having had his car broken into the night before, and being badly beaten up outside a gig in Nottingham late last year). Mildly annoying for the band as they would be without a bassist until at least 7pm (it would be even later than that as Mark would realise on the way back that he’d left a drum pedal in Escobar – scene of TMB’s earlier gig – prompting a rapid dash via cab from station to venue and back again before eventually rejoining the rest of the band much nearer 7:30pm), while we’d arrived not long after 6pm. Richard, using the power of a fatherly taxi service was there even before us. Impressive.
It was now that I first encountered the aforementioned headliner Darren Hayman, and to be honest it was something of a car crash moment. Quite literally, as he nearly ran me, Lauren, Adam and Jamie over on the venue’s narrow driveway as he drove up it and we walked down. For those of you Hayman-ites desperate to know what kind of car a British indie-pop legend drives, it’s a new shape mid-blue Ford Focus. Once out of his car, the quiet, unassuming individual one might assume Mr Hayman to be given his music is very much in force. This is hardly surprising given the events of the last few months, and anyone who’s heard of his plight of late could only look on with a mix of understanding and sympathy, as well as find his desire to apologise to Mark later on for his perceived introversion and quietness wholly unnecessary. From the outset it’s clear that TMB adore him, Mark and Richard especially. An exchange with Richard after the weekend elicited the following quote, which provides a pretty succinct summary of why he’s so loved by the band ‘Darren was absolutely AMAZING. Ten billion times better than us. You’re following the wrong band! TMB HEART DARREN HAYMAN. You should listen to Hefner. It was a huge, huge privilege to support him. He's the reason I started this band. Therefore he will always be better than us when we play together. We probably wouldn't exist without him’ (for the record, I do listen to Hefner. No idea where Richard got the impression I don’t!). An unexpected highlight was watching a full run-through of Hefner’s ‘Good Fruit’ during his soundcheck (along with the realisation that one of his Secondary Modern backing band was also a member of ‘Allo Darlin’, a great band which you should go listen to if you already haven’t).
A swift changeover followed, where TMB’s soundcheck was accompanied by a testing of the stage lights. The difference it made to the venue was incredible, as can be seen from the contrasting images posted in the link to be found at the bottom of the page). Richard, having viewed my photos, has described them pre-lighting as looking like they played in an aircraft hanger, which in fairness to Bradford’s Theatre in the Mill probably says more about my photography skills than anything else. During soundcheck I fast came to the conclusion that ‘Young Lovers Go Pop’ was my new favourite TMB song, though in retrospect it’s running close with ‘It’s Lethal’, ‘I Don’t Like You (Cos You Don’t Like The Pastels)’ or indeed ‘Trying Is Good’…it’s genuinely hard to choose. I also discovered somewhere around this point that you never, ever ask Jamie as a joke to play ‘Duelling Banjos’ from the Deliverance soundtrack on an acoustic guitar, because the skilful bastard will actually do it, and you’ll spend the next 5 minutes trying to pick your jaw off the floor. Some post-soundcheck envy of Nick Kent unfortunately occurred, however. While at his peak he seemed to enjoy going to fine dining establishments and gentleman’s clubs with the likes of Keith Richards, Rod Stewart and Ronnie Wood and enjoying the luxuries that such jaunts inevitably brought, my ‘tea’ consisted of a packet of Walkers crisps and a 69p can of 7.5% white cider (which, believe me, was as grim as it sounds), as this was pretty much all that was available from what seemed to be the only shop within a reasonable walking distance of the venue.
After a brief sojourn with Adam outside the venue to finish our respective tipples – he chose the slightly more palatable Carlsberg – during which I learned that while intoxicated he once made the rather amusing assertion that David Cameron was his favourite fictional creature. Politicians as fictional creatures, would, unfortunately have to wait as music beckoned – you, dear reader, could be forgiven that this was nearly a secondary issue given the fact I’ve mentioned seemingly ‘everything but’ for a while now. The first act was The French Defence, essentially a vehicle for a criminally shy young songwriter called Owen (though there was a full band in past incarnations). It was clear that he’d been to the Bobby Wratten school of songwriting, all heartbreak and anguish, and as such it wasn’t surprising to find Trembling Blue Stars, and Field Mice listed as his influences on his Myspace. As a huge Bobby Wratten fan, however, this was no bad thing, despite the feeling that given the slightly more up-tempo and fuller-sounding efforts of TMB and Darren Hayman, The French Defence was perhaps a strange choice for an opening act. No matter.
But Richard meant business. This much was clear just by looking at him. Since the Escobar gig he’d raised the sartorial stakes by donning a shirt, jacket and tie, to put him right up there with Mark’s post-punk outfit (who’d spent the day looking – and playing, though sadly not dancing – like OMD’s Andy McCluskey). Richard’s assertions post-Escobar that everything sounded great but needed to be ‘tightened up’ appeared to have been noted and processed (not that it sounded anything less than brilliant at Escobar), with ‘Young Lovers Go Pop’ rattling along like the bastard son of The Cribs’ ‘Our Bovine Public’, while ‘I Should Be A Communist’ got an airing – an omission at Escobar owing to time constraints. Yours truly didn’t get invited back on stage during the Orange Juice melody-meets-Michael Stipe lyrical ambiguity of’It’s Lethal’ as in Leeds, which was understandable. Getting what could be viewed as indie-pop’s answer to Bez to run on stage, ‘sing’ the same 4 words 8 times then disappear again is certainly an unorthodox, and risky, way to make an impression in front of one of you musical heroes, and one which is probably fated to fail from the outset. The fact they did it un-amped only added to the pressure, which they all handled very well. At this point it’s worth mentioning Mark’s efforts to learn the basslines in a limited space of time. Yes, he may have needed crib sheets at his feet to remind him, but nonetheless a sterling, mistake free effort. In fact, the only hiccough all day was when Jamie’s guitar lead cut out during the un-named 6 minute epic, and even that was sorted in impressively short order. For a band that describes itself as shambolic, it was an impressively tight performance all day. Credit where it’s due. A set-closing version of ‘Diaries’ saw Jamie get all Angus Young and scale a speaker while Richard made his way into the audience (which owing to a quirk of the Theatre could be found sat behind tables, making the whole gig feel like a really weird secondary school-level music lesson) and back to the stage. Post-gig Richard could be found beaming madly (as he had been the first time I’d seen them play in Manchester in January) while professing how much fun the whole experience had been - clearly fun has been on his agenda too, as it always is mine when discussing the music.
Much as I’d love to comment in depth about Darren Hayman’s set, I’m unable to. Firstly, because the last train left halfway through it, prompting all but Mark and Richard to leave early, and secondly, a mix of spirits in Leeds and cider in Bradford has rendered this bit of the story little more than a hazy blur, embarrassingly enough.
Some people can come up with great ways to sum things up in a sentence – F1 driver Nelson Piquet once described the Monaco GP circuit as ‘like riding a unicycle round your bathroom’ while Pennie Smith once described being around The Clash was ‘like being on a commando raid with the Bash Street Kids’. As you can probably tell, I’m not one of those people. Put it this way, I spent the next day shaking due to sleep deprivation, and I didn’t regret a thing (incidentally, the only other time I got the sleep-deprivation shakes was after pulling an all nighter when I attended Underachievers Please Try harder, Britain’s best-kept clubnight secret – put an attendance on your bucket list. Didn’t regret it then, either). Let me at least try and give a soundbite-sized approximation: the 12 hours or so I spent with TMB appeared to be the perfect encapsulation of what I’ve always perceived their music to be about. Fun.
(NOTE: I had a beautiful layout with many many pictures set out in a word document, which Blogger then failed to copy over and then then turned into an arse when i tried to upload them all. SO, if you want to gander at the day's adventures they can be found in the link just below. The first 4 pictures are from a January set at Manchester's Saki Bar)
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=219007&id=602766211&l=62a6b97989
(Other) Useful links:
This Many Boyfriends’ MySpace: http://www.myspace.com/howmanyboyfriends
This Many Boyfriends’ Facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/pages/This-Many-Boyfriends/137800675723?ref=ts
This Many Boyfriends EP Pre-Order: http://www.thismanyboyfriends.com/
Underachievers Please Try Harder: http://www.facebook.com/?ref=logo#!/group.php?gid=13022864321&ref=ts
Mark Sturdy’s Pulp tome: http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/0711995990/ref=sib_rdr_dp
(Mark’s advice is buy while you can, the book has gone out of print and what you can find online/in shops are going to be the last copies!)
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