And One Guy Played a Saw

A busy weekend has passed leaving bruises, a bad back and worries of impending hypothermia as souvenirs. I swear a solemn oath to the stars above to never, never go to a festival ever again. Never... though I seem to remember saying that last time.

A few years ago the Electric Picnic went badly wrong; the bands were brilliant and atmosphere great, but thanks to an overly enthusiastic night in Dublin (and the need to buy wellies) I found myself picking coins from the floor, pitifully trying to garner enough to buy food to go with my free samples of iced tea (like tea but cooler). Four years on; I'm older and wiser (and I own wellies). Four years on and I was determined my Electric Picnic would be foolproof: ney, it would be nothing short of triumphant! Waterproofs, camping stove for morning brew, air beds for old bones, sun screen, anti-histamines, enough plasters to bandage a mummy, eye masks, ear plugs, warm clothes, sunny skirts... the list of was endless, it would make everything perfect - and I took it all, as my now strained back can testify.

And yet it still went wrong - I forgot to pack a spare tent.

To say the tent leaked gives the impression of the odd few drops tattooing an unwelcome wake-up call on a partied out sleeper. The tent did not leak - the tent streamed water in order to give a reproduction exact in its verisimilitude to the lashing storm outside. There was no sleep, no sleep at all, only sopping wet sleeping bags, drenched clothes, floating air-beds and hunched figures huddling over a dying lamp holding umbrellas in what was technically indoors. I blame Dublin Gospel Choir and their quite frankly unnecessary, though funky, prayers for rain earlier on the Sunday. And the tent. I hate that tent. And I hate the bus that made me late for my flight back; so late in fact that I had to fork over more precious euros for the pleasure of waiting 8 hours in Dublin airport in bone-chillingly wet clothes, getting steadily drunk, sleep deprived and maniacal.

As for the Picnic itself, well, it's changed a lot; the crowd is now young, drunk, and not too interested in music, or maybe I'm old, grumpy and fed up of being barged into by festival zombies smacked out on the thrill of underage booze and cigarettes. It did seem a shame to be surrounded by solipsistic youngsters, flush with a sense of self-entitlement, wrists wrapped in special wristbands denoting access to the poshest camp sites that their parents' money could buy; most of whom were content to swig jelly shots and scream at each other rather than listen.

It wasn't all bad though; alongside the youth, the poets trying out sex noises as performance pieces, fire-dancing hippies and the over-priced cartons of noodles there were still some decent acts; I wouldn't have missed Seasick Steve's gurning or Marc Almond putting his heart and soul into his set for the world. Not to mention the sheer joy of looking on as a 55 piece orchestra was upstaged by a spoon wielding tramp, though oddly enough he wasn't advertised in the line-up.

The outstanding band was undoubtedly The Low Anthem; easily one of the most impressive and diverse musical outfits I've seen for a good long while. Their second album, the self-released 'Oh My God Charlie Darwin' drew high praise, signings with the Nonsuch and Bella Union labels, wider re-release and then even more critical acclaim and as much wealth, sex and beardcare products as the band could want. Not content to rest on these laurels Ben, Jeff, Jocie and Matt have also been touring heavily, including some new material rumored to be from a forthcoming album, currently somewhere in the works.

The band is unashamedly talented, with members frequently swapping between the harmonium, oboe, drums, mobile phones, "singing" saws and some weird bell like contraption (crotales - thank you wiki), whilst blending their voices in perfect folky harmony. There wasn't a single trace of the ennui that seems to riddle other indie-folk bands, you know, the ones where members project so much artful disaffection that they can't even to be bothered to sing their own turgid songs.

The Low Anthem played like they meant every minute, their songs rang clear with skill and care, whilst Jocie Adams' voice couldn't be more beautiful if it tried. Also, one band member looked a lot like an incredibly smiley Asian Robert Winston, which was just the icing on an already very well iced cake. Highlights included the post-apocolyptic, but "now performed as a love song" 'Ticket Taker' and 'This God Damned House' accompanied with melodic mobile phone feedback.

The gig was a tad spoiled by the dull bass of the stupidly positioned 'Electric Arena' stage, and by the brusque time-keeping due to the damn schedule. Still, if I should die of galloping influenza it'll all have been worth it thanks to these tip-top folks. I'll be seeing them again as soon as I can. Assuming of course that the galloping influenza thing doesn't happen....

Have a wee listen...

• 'The Horizon is a Beltway'
• 'The Ticket Taker'

Since it's early let's keep the false cheer to a minimum

Good Morning Nantwich, Adventures in Breakfast Radio

I bought Phill Jupitus's 'Good Morning Nantwich' today, ostensibly to read during the quiet moments of the Electric Picnic, but since I've just finished it we can assume that said plan is now moot and another trip to the bookshop is in order...

What with the grinning cartoonish cover, the boy's own adventure title and Phill Jupitus' down to earth cheery wit you'd be forgiven for thinking that 'Good Morning Nantwich' is an avuncular, gossipy tale written by a cheeky, cheerful chappy. Think again - clowns are always crying on the inside. 'Good Morning Nantwich' chronicles Mr Jupitus' experiences during his stint at the 6 Music breakfast show, but it is more than that - 'Nantwich' is a manifesto of what music radio should aspire to be.

Phill Jupitus' breakfast show launched 6 Music back in 2002. I didn't listen. Not many people did, but as an avid listener of the recent 'The Perfect 10' podcasts with Jupitus and long time collaborator (and 6 Music producer) Phil Wilding I can only say I missed out. I missed out on on eclectic music, missed out on some decent banter at breakfast (not to mention a presenter who wasn't going to fake being a morning person), and missed out on Wilding's strangely sexy Welsh accent... The music's what's important though, and that was certainly what the breakfast team thought.

Throughout this account, Mr Jupitus' chafes about the various managerial constraints that limit a deejay's freedom, particularly the playlist - why bother to employ someone interested in music if you don't want to hear any of their collection? His criticisms are far from malicious, but neither are they benign. Typically he concedes that first thing in the morning listeners probably didn't want their boat rocked, but come on; if you want to hear Coldplay then why not fuck off and listen to Radio 1, 2 or worse any god awful commercial station where tosh, blather and inanity all go hand in hand. 6 Music was supposed to be Peel's legacy so it should damn well be living up to the name, not trading on it.

Despite a slightly scarring experience at the station Mr Jupitus' has always been vociferous in support of 6 Music and the BBC's mandate alike. He's given various interviews about how 6 Music has once again found its feet and was one of the key spokespeople who campaigned against its closure. His commitment is unquestionably undiminished, but one can't help hear a heartfelt sigh echoing through 'Nantwich' of how much more 6 Music could still achieve were it not crippled by corporation bureaucracy. Not because Jupitus wants to be back on the air, but because he's part of its core disenfranchised demographic - the music snob, and without aspirational radio stations, (like 6 Music at its best) all music snobs have are their own mp3s to listen to and their own vinyl collections to reorganise. Okay, that's hyperbole - there are blogs too, but when did radio become so circumscribed?

With no small amount of charm Phill Jupitus has written a behind the scenes story of the foundation of a music station, a template for forward thinking broadcasting, and conveyed a touching and touchy autobiography that's reminiscent of former Auteur's frontman Luke Hain's 'Bad Vibes - Britpop and My Part In Its Downfall'. 'Nantwich' is nothing short of one a giant 'harumph' ( harumph -the bitter sigh that fed up dogs occasionally make) of deprecation, despair and independence albeit tempered with wit and the virtues of hindsight. Or as Phill put it in a recent Guardian interview it's "a love letter to radio, but also an apology for not being better at it".

I'd expected a lighthearted holiday read, instead 'Nantwich' is a passionate plea for intelligent radio and a call for deejays to receive faith from their bosses, not to mention freedom from focus groups and RAJAR pressures. Above all it's a reverberating statement of "damn you all, I really tried". Not a bad read all in all.

Top marks to Phill. He always has lovely suits too.

Things To Make And Do

Are you friends tired of being on the receiving end of your unwanted mixtapes (ungrateful buggers)? Interested in having a CD of random stuff come through your door? Most importantly of all; do you have faith in human nature?

If you're almost nodding your head off in agreement then the Mixtape Project may be for you. Sign up with your name, postal address and willingness to make one mixtape a month. You should find yourself on the receiving end of sparkly new compilation CD. Some of which are rather lovely, like this one...

Scrawl in Permanent Ink? NO THANK YOU.

Here's an appropriate song; Beat Radio's 'Teenage Anthems for the Drunken Boat', it's rather good.

Cheers to twitter buddy and cracking artist @Duchamps_Bride for pointing this out.

Money Can't Buy You Happiness...

Emmy the Great's album 'First Love' made a beeline for my heart; to get her next album off the ground the folky darling is making a beeline for pockets...

Starving Musican? With That Ice Cream?

Asking fans for cash in exchange for musical perks certainly isn't anything new; there's an ever increasing lineup of artists seeking money up front, with varying degrees of success - Public Enemy's fan base certainly weren't too keen on stumping up $250,000. The appeal of a tangible connection to a musical project is obvious. Options to go see a sound mixing, to melt into a puddle at a meet and great, or get a signed t-shirt, allow an enthusiast to collude. As a small bonus the major labels get to suck lemons in penance for price fixing CDs, back in the day.

It's not all about innovative music making, or putting over over on the man though (my god, I used used the phrase 'the man', I half expect to hear the muted sound of a stoner cheering). Over at pledge, Madina Lake have appealed to fans to help cover bassist Matthew Leone's substantial medical costs, after he was injured intervening in a domestic dispute, offering access to EPs, t-shirts, interviews and house concerts; donations welcome here.

As for Emmy; starting at £8, a contribution secures support for the album, garnering a wee prezzie for yourself and donation to a good cause (Amnesty, WaterAid, Samaritan's Purse). All gifts can be found here at pledgemusic.com. Her last album was rather splendiferous, and she seems a nice lass, so she's had some of my shiny pennies.

• Here's First Love, live, see what you think.

Ghosts of Wales

Photo taken from one Jim Blob Blann's flickr stream. He has some lovely picture of Aberystwyth which make the place (if not the people) look almost attractive.

Well, there's been bit of a strange start to the morning; after a troubled and largely sleepless night I was rudely awakened by thunderously loud music. 'Music' is stretching it; the dawn was broken by an ebullient cacophony that sounded for all the world as if ghosts of Wales had risen up to march to war. Rolling timpani drums, competing (equally boisterous) male voice choirs, and chorus of lamenting women thrown in for good measure; all singing/howling "Bread of Heaven" as if they were on the wild hunt.

The odd thing is that the origins of this frenzied Wagnerian terror are an absolute mystery. It was supposed to be a copy of Cerys Matthew's new album, 'Tir', a lovely lilting affair, but somehow, I'm told, iTunes has channelled the host of hell into a stirring rendition fit for an epic medieval battle. The next track was a strange pizzicato string thing...

I shall be spending some time deciphering it, whilst polishing my sosspans bach and mawr into armour.

In the meantime, why not have a wee listen to the songs they made me sing back in school assemblies and eisteddfodau (big artsy competitions, which all learning must grind to a halt for). Additional bit of trivia Cerys Matthews's former bandmate Owen Powell was once my old welsh teacher. Wales : it's a cwtchy little country.

I'm moving so so soon.

• Myfanwy - Cerys Matthews
• Ei Di'r Deryn Du - Cerys Mathews

Shhhh, tell no one.....

Secret queues, secret buses, secret warehouses, spectacular times and a film on top; all part and parcel of the lastest Secret Cinema outing.

Secret Cinema is a quasi-regular event organised by some nice folk in London; you pay your money, get a location, some clues to the film, advice for fancy dress and before you know it you're being whisked away to a brave new world.

In this case it was a world based around Blade Runner; a neon dystopia with Voigt-Kompf tests, replicons, snakes, and pickpocketing dwarfs running rampant against the worn future backdrop. Men wore trench-coats and steely expressions, and women were clad in nowt but bits of plastic. Best of all, it was all hidden amongst a maze of shipping crates. just under the shadow of that bloody big tower at Canary Wharf.

Apart from getting annihilated in chess by some fiedish chess-child, it was all pretty amazing; I played with snakes, had a massage, and got to see a classic film in a great setting. Tiptop time. But Shhhh, tell no one....

Photos taken from Future Cinema's flickr stream.

Unrequited Love with Workers in the Service Sector

In Glen David Gold's magnificent story 'Carter beats the Devil', the titular magician Charles Carter visits a fortune teller whose sole revelation is the name of the woman of his dreams - Sarah. It's a name that never leaves his mind. A few years ago I had a similar experience...

Don't look at me like that, I only went to keep a friend company, and quite frankly the lady in question certainly couldn't muster abilities to trouble either James Randi's proffered million or Tim Minchin's offer of his left leg, piano and wife. She did tell me about a man called 'Steve', who is supposedly destined to be the great love of my life. 'Steve'. It's hardly an auspicious name.

All that preamble brings me in a roundabout way to my point; Teitur Lassen and his songs of love yet to come. Teitur is a singer/songwriter of the fay variety, who is out to pluck heartstrings with his plaintive voice. Chances are you'll have already heard one or two of his songs on some film or another; yet despite wit and craftsmanlike skill, not to mention artistic accolation from the likes of Rufus Wainwright, the Faroese singer's profile is woefully low in the UK.

Don't be mean - his Gran made him that jumper.

Teitur may be an unabashed romantic but his music is far from being a boring dirge of fragile emotions. Fourth studio album 'The Singer' is full of grand ambitions, breezy soundscapes and a cavalcade of interesting arrangements that flow alongside heartfelt writing. It's music with deep pauses that allows the sighs to escape.

As for my story, since my visit to 'Gypsy Rose' I've only ever met one Steve; Steve-the-Barman, who worked all the hours under the sun at the pub at the top of my old street. Upon whom I had a hopeless, not to mention paralyzing, crush. It was all I could do to stop myself breaking things out of nervousness as I tried to force out the odd word. Then I found out he had a girlfriend. So much for destiny anyway.

• Catherine The Waitress
• Start Wasting My Time

The Blue Blue Bluegrass of London

I have a confession - I quite like country songs. Sorry. I like the melodrama, the unabashed heartache and alcoholism. Hell, I have a not very secret, and not at all ironic, love for Dolly Parton - great woman that she is. Admittedly most country music is a bit of a guilty pleasure for me though; there's only so much you can take of yearnin', cheatin', or dogs dyin'. Not to mention the pungent evocations of leather and spilt whisky that have proved a bit too corrosive for any lengthy musical exploration - but very now and again I have found someone who is a bit special , someone who holds my attention...

The Barker Band hail from London, which is a bit of a shock, not because all Londoners must play plinky-plonky pianos, sing about "Mother Brown" and do 'nuffick else, but rather because all that hokey Americana has managed to survive a transatlantic transplant with no ill effect. A cynic may get the impression that this six piece outfit is playing at being cowboys, but that's utter nonsense. These guys mean it with all their hearts, and they're not alone - British country is small but tenacious. The Barker Band is stronger than just a genre though.

The Barker Band is a a bluegrass outfit with everything you could wish for: fiddles, banjos, a sound full of wide skies, sad eyes and bags of soul. The band's fourth album 'Sorry For The Kissing' came out last year and gathered quite a bit of critical acclaim for its blend of upbeat tempo bluegrass knee slapping, wistfulness and longing. It's a bit different and well worth a listen. And since they've had support from 6Music and Steve Lamaqc in particular, I'll just crowbar in a reminder to 'Save 6Music'.

Anyway, here's a wee sample;

• Cheating Heart
• Make Him Stay
• Die Tonight

The Other New Worlds We'd Discover

I could write so eloquently about ...

No, that's not true: I could write so much about the myriad of shattered memories that scattered into the air when I put the wrong song on today- they hung around like dust in sunlight, a halo of broken dreams picked out about my head, or drunken bats clashing into each other, etc, etc. That sort of poor prosy lyricism could continue for a tediously long amount of time, all I can say in my defence was that it was a song that bit down hard and elicited a choking response.

It's all Josh Ritter's fault. Damn you Ritter, damn your poetic lyrics that puncture like tattoo needles, damn your sensitive new album, and damn, damn, damn my own stupid self for being such a soft touch that one song can make my heart feel like chipped pottery.

If you're not aware of Mr Ritter then you're in for a treat; he's a folky gem from Moscow, Idaho with dazzlingly beautiful lyrics and quite a few natty tunes too. 'So Runs The World Away' is his

fifth studio album: it isn't bad at all. In fact the sheer amount of emotional charge he manages to pack in reminds me of why I love music, and just how expressive a good song can be. I'm head over heels for him.

A melancholic Josh Ritter is the voice you wished you possessed when you find yourself hemorrhaging aerial recollections of loss, resignation and beauty -the voice of the tales of one too many, though whilst you're busy sliding down that bar, he's poised, charming and totally disarming. And yet with the sudden spin of a coin, his tunes can switch to peels of jubilation: resounding hope, triumph and shining lights abound. Sincerity and heartfelt earnestness are his hallmarks throughout.

Sadly this ability to turn on a sixpence creates a fault line that undermines 'So The World Runs Away'. Ritter's shift in mood oscillates a little too wildly, and for once doesn't seem to be deftly managed. The changes in style are choppy and slightly chaotic, but if you're only going to unpick it all and stick it in a playlist then maybe the arrangement is ephemeral anyway. I'm probably being old fashioned in complaining at all. It does sound a little unpolished though.

What does work however is the quixotic balladering: Josh Ritter continues to create folksie songs that sound like they've existed in the ether forever. They're perhaps a little disenchanted, and quite a bit tougher than second (and sublime) album 'Hello Starling', but then there's been an odyssey of wandering in between the two. 'The Curse' (quite Cohen-esque), 'Latern' and 'Another New World' are the perfect accompaniment for the ghosts that waltz at the back of your mind. The tender reaction they provoked was worth its weight in gold.

Ritter writes that he is living a charmed life, and though the life of a professional musican may be a story he has at times fallen out of love with, he's still going strong and still creating wonderful songs - that alone makes my heart beat a little faster.

Whilst I go exorcise some demons, you can hear the whole album here, which is rather nice, eh? And here's a free mp3 of 'Change of Time'.

Where Did You Go...

Hola!

There's been somewhat of a hiatus here at 'Fun Things' but there you go. Real life ticks on, what with weddings (an actual fun thing in Aberystwyth!), illnesses, madness, watching the Rex Harrison's career killing Doctor Dolittle (very eccentric, but it wouldn't be Easter without it), snooker, and lots of time spent at other coal faces. Here I am again though; let's speedily shake hands, and it's very nice to see you.

Now that's all over, let's press on to business. Last night I had the pleasure of going to Clwb Ifor Bach, Cardiff to see 'The Bluetones' - yes, obviously they're still going. There's even a new album out on May 24th too.

Come on, there's no heart you can't melt with a certain little smile... is there?

I had my fingers crossed for a jolly time: I hoped for a band that were adjusted to their slip from the 90s limelight, good music, and for a bit of nostalgic indulgence. I remembered the Bluetones fondly as a sparky set providing lilting pop with an audible smile. They formed part of the soundtrack for a great slur of selective teenage memory; a time that was always sunny summer, with trips to Cardiff to buy cds, making mixtapes, festival going, a time in fact when I was actually generally pretty miserable - probably due to nasty sunburn from all those balmy halycon days.

Back then The Bluetones were in the second tier of Britpop, not huge, but catchy and infectious, popping up everywhere, and slogging along even when the bubble burst. They never quite lived up to their early promise but they were always around, all whilst clad in some form of denim.

I have a quite a bit of affection for Britpop in general, but I'm not a diehard fan weeping over copies of Select; I like The Bluetones's greatest hits, but I've not really kept up with their slighter returns. So I must confess that, alas, I had an ulterior motive to going last night. Bobbing away to the hook-heavy blast from the past were bound to be people my own age, people who sang 'Alright' on bikes, who were once naive enough to have clearcut views on Blur vs Oasis, people who Luke Haines wouldn't piss on if they were on fire. People who *must* be around the same age as me, and surely one of them must be mildly attractive and worth talking to....

How does the adage go; man makes plans and God laughs?

The gig itself proved to be rather lovely, which sounds a little twee, but thanks to a mix of old sing-a-long favourites and slightly darker, but still frightfully pretty new songs I had a delightful time. Lead singer Mark Moriss was engaging, everyone on stage looked to be enjoying themselves, and the crowd were friendly too -mostly couples though. Smug ones. The old songs you know all about, most of them have featured on the 'Teachers Series 1' soundtrack, but as for the new...

It's a shame that The Bluetones have slipped off the radar, as their newer offerings demonstrate a rather interesting progression; refinement rather than reinvention, and pure pop rather than jaded carping. They're not ashamed of being the less than cool cousin gamboling behind the bigger Britpop kids, and why should they be? The band have always managed to mask the slightly sinister, even downright heartbroken with upbeat melodies and Moriss's indefatigably chirpy voice: as their concert t-shirt says, they've been 'shitting hits since '96' (you've got to love the irony) so theirs is a skill pretty much honed to a tee. The newer material is both fine and at times poignant, and all the more charming for its utter lack of world weary cynicism, which struck me as rather unusual.

Long story short it all worked well, a good time was had and there was even a wee moshpit for 'If', which has to be the most bizarre bounce arounds I've ever been involved in, and in heels too. Yes it was those ones....

Ow.

Here's a Bluetones selection including 'Head on A Spike', which features Julie Andrews's niece, no really! Moriss observed that it "would have got into the charts if any of you bastards had bought it". But he's not bitter.

• Marblehead Johnson
• Head on a Spike
• Slack Jaw

Paul Haig Day 2

The Day of Daffodil Theft

Cate Le Bon - ready to be frisked for daffodils.

Break out the welshcakes,* it's St Davids Day! St David is the patron Saint of Wales, but rather than get plastered on erm... sheepdip, we Welsh celebrate by aquiring daffodils to wear patriotically, whilst we moan about the rugby team. In a similar vein, little girls have to dress up in itchy woollen blankets and those funky hats; boys must smell of leeks.

* Like a sort of flat scone, but with sugar on top and much nicer.

It's also a day when various Welsh people in their (gulp) late twenties all collectively muse "didn't we used to get a half-day off for this? Y'know when we were about 6, what happened to that?" The answer no doubt lies with the bloody Thatcher: shutting out mines, stealing our milk, personally kicking our Nans in the face, mutter, mutter, where's our half -day?

Thankfully the embarrassing "Cool Cymru" tag has also been consigned to the dark days of the past, allowing Welsh music lovers to quietly disown the Stereophonics and appreciate new bands without a cup of nationalism on the side. So who's worth a listen?

Cate Le Bon, that's who.

She's folky and melancholic, often described as haunting; so translate that as a shawl wearing fey woman, possibly prone to introspection whilst standing in the rain. In keeping with the internecine spirit of Welsh music, she had her big break after charming Gruff of Super Furries fame.

Cate's songs sound very traditional and homely; there's no overt quirkiness or trilling lyrics that quickly fall to the floor and flower, nor is there a grand sweeping scale rich with wild themes. The music is simple, stripped down, slow, and sad. Oh my are those songs sad - even on the one that sounds quite happy. They're also pretty, deceivingly so in their simplicity, as they linger for a long time.

Her first album is a solid starting point, though admittedly one that twirls immaturity on its fingers as if it's hair about to be chewed. Nonetheless, you certainly get the impression that there is more to come - it's experience rather than ability that's lacking.

Judge for yourself though: here she is at Glastonbury 2007;




And here's something to take home and enjoy. In a gloomy way.

• Hollow Tree Hounds - Cate Le Bon. 

Re. 6Music

Spoke a bit soon there didn't I?

According to the Times, the BBC Trust will be axing 6Music to forestall bloody incursions into the licence fee, by the future Tory government; either it's just too  much of a minority to be worried over, or it's the case that 6Music is actually eating into the share of commercial radio -  to quote Chris Addison, BBC bashers should "pick a fucking line".


The Trust has yet to decide, but it doesn't hurt to be part of a furore, so wave your hands, add a twitter ribbon, but most of all write a strongly worded letter to the Trust, patiently explaining that most radio stations are so awful that they actually cause ears to bleed; indeed, the first vacuous garbled utterance from Fearn Cotton's mewling twitish mouth makes me want to eat bricks... or pelt her with some. 6Music is quite simply a gem of a station, where interesting people play good music  - amazing how rare that is today, eh?

#save6music, damn.. another hashtag is more popular - #saveBBC6Music. Save it!

Put on your Red Shoes and Dance to the Blues: Fun Thing # 192

 These Ones. Yes, they do hurt - thanks for asking.

One upon a time I used to write about fun things to do in Aberystwyth, the highlights of which included: getting covered in flour then managing to burn the bloody bread I'd been making, visiting Spar late at night... and er... no, that really is about it. If you go do be sure to visit the Camera Obscura - the largest in the world; sadly it overlooks Aberystwyth so there's nothing to see, apart from decaying Victorian architecture and students puking.

Then I moved (temporarily) to South Wales, to embrace a form of civilisation where public transport doesn't involve donkeys, carts, or the investment of a great deal of time and energy weeping. You'd think I'd be happier, more outgoing... full of joie de vivre, no end of interesting pleasures to throw myself into.

This is not the case. I still live in a stupid place, but as I said the saving grace is the regular trains out.

As for fun things to do- almost every Tuesday I allow myself to associate with 'Creepy Man', 'Scary Woman with the Shark Eyes', occasionally 'Stripey Man', 'Snooty Man' and 'Nice Guy' who goes out with 'Curly Haired Girl'. I have no idea of their names.

Yes, my nicknames suck, but there's no time to think of better ones as I try to avoid stepping on toes, twisting in the wrong direction, or falling out of time; also, in the case of 'Creepy Man' I desperately try to avoid eye contact (or any kind of contact). I salsa. That's what I'm trying to say. Step one, two, three... forward one, two three... collapse in a dishevelled heap and eat the free olives, two, three.

Salsa annoys me: it isn't helping me lose any weight (see free olives as mentioned above) and that was the intital impetus for going. There's also a distinct lack of  sleek latin types that I'd hoped to be schmoozed by - though it is Cardiff after all:  home of the short, round and sweaty. Mostly it annoys me because I'm no good. In fact not only can I not dance, I probably shouldn't even attempting rhythm, due to a dangerously placed balcony and my own inability to walk without tripping.  I'm persevering though, albeit with a bitter commitment commonly known as sheer stubborn idiocy. All because I'm determined that some swan-like transformation will surely allow me to heap scorn on the 'Scary Woman', with her strange black irises and snotty comments of "can you do this one, hmmm?"

I will show them all!

Anyway, there you have it: a fun thing, one that is driving me absolutely bloody crackers.

• Goldfrapp - Yes, Sir I Can Boogie - The b-side to Twist; a live, low key, synth-enthusing, throbbing little cover.

How I learned to Stop Worrying and Love Six Music

Raindrops on roses? Whiskers on kittens? No, sorry, neither of these feature on a list of my favourite things - not that I'd want to see any unwhiskered kittens- but BBC 6Music is on there however, and I've been worried about it.

What's to like about 6Music? Obviously Adam and Joe, though they're currently on hiatus, getting on with their careers, damn them- but the holiday cover is Collins and Herring, so that's okay. Then there's Lauren Laverne's weekday show; which is just cracking, and dry wit on a Sunday courtesy of Jarvis Cocker. Jarvis Cocker! Soon Cerys Matthews will be back too, and of course there's the ever reliable stints from both Steve Lamaqc at drive time, and Stuart Marconi's 'Freak Zone'.

All in all (in case you hadn't worked it out) there's plenty of good music, both new and old, without too much filler or any irritation - at least not now George Lamb's been relegated. 6Music is tackling remit no other mainstream station wants to fulfill: y'know, being interesting, diverse and...  consistently listenable. I just wish it still had Phil Jupitus on breakfasts.

So what's up? Well the BBC as a whole is facing mounting pressure- resources are tight, the Daily Mail is still stalking about in a rabid fashion ready to froth and scream about any mishap, and of course there's general concerns that the Tories will do something atrocious to the licence fee when they get in- probably bathe in it like sour faced, pasty Scrooge McDucks.

6Music's faced a bit of criticism in its own right too: whilst some has been justified (bloody George Lamb) other moans and groans have been petty and unfair. Radio Centre (independent radio's mouthpiece) had a pop back last August, complaining about the station's cost, how dare the fee paying alternative music lovers want/need their own service!

These past few months I've been afraid that 6Music - ray of sunshine though that it might be to me - would be pilloried by the upcoming service review. Or  worse, that maybe the BBC Trust wouldn't feel it was worth the hassle to its tiny listenership (though the listening figures have risen by 11.% this quarter). Worst of all I've been dreading the day that I'd be tearfully saying goodbye to all the live sessions, the interesting presenters and 6Music's distinctiveness.

Joy of joys, all seems to be healthy: the recent trust report says 6Music is doing just fine- apart from managing to successfully  retain its anonymity. Yes it does cost a lot, and some of those costs can be trimmed, and maybe there are improvements to be made in some areas (like documentaries), but the Trust also recognises that  it offers higher quality services  than most other independent competitors -i.e. the live shows, and that it needs to continue to ensure that its DJs are be credible guides to alternative tunes.

So, today, on St Skeletor's Day, I'm raising a glass to 6Music: a wonky little digital station, that really is doing quite a fantastic job.

Go on, give it a listen.

Jaw to the Floor.

Did you know Dolph Lundgren sings? Yup, that Dolph Lundgren. Honestly! The Dolph Lundgren who was awarded a Fulbright scholarship, the Dolph Lundgren who gets it in Rocky IV; you know him... he lived with Grace Jones for four years, speaks about seven languages, has a masters in chemical engineering: Universal Soldier, He Man- that Dolph Lundgren. No really, he sings, look;

I didn't say he sang well, but you just watched the highlight of my trip to Sweden: the star turn at Melodiefestivalen - the five part Swedish eurovision semifinal. If only the Swedes were sending Dolph to Eurovision....

The Boat that Rocked - Fanfarlo on the Thekla

Another picture of an unhappy indie band.

Ventured out to Brizzle last night to see Fanfarlo, with a quick stop off in the trendy Apple cider barge. In retrospect, that was a slight mistake: I'm fairly sure the mulled (not to mention amaretto spiked) cider (delicious) ate through my stomach lining, leaving me rather squiffy, slightly larcenous, and now the not-so proud owner of a liberated lemon.

How were Fanfarlo? Pretty bloody good. I think...

As I'm sure you know, Fanfarlo are a London based indie outfit, producing a panoramic sound that's heavy on trumpets, violins, clarinets, lions and tigers and bears - oh my. It's a little bit Arcade Fire, with crescendos ahoy, but that's not a bad thing. Their debut album 'Reservoir' took a while to grow on me, but I'm now of the opinion that it's pretty jim-swish with every tune hitting the right pace for pint swinging, or, er-hem, drunken swaying. Though if there's any criticism to be made it's that the songs can blur into each other at times, that and I can't understand a word that Simon Balthazar sings: it's all slurred, but after a few listens that becomes incidental.

The actual gig was beset with technical problems, but these didn't dampen any spirits. I enjoyed Fanfarlo -self conciously indie though they may be. I can't give a fuller review as I enjoyed the pre and post concert cider too. A wee bit too much. I highly recommend the Apple on Welsh Back.

• Fanfarlo - The Walls Are Coming Down

Pollocks, what a cheap pun!

If you google Emma Pollock you'll find a lot of pictures of a slightly (but artfully) grumpy looking woman -eyes downcast, mouth down turned and obviously deep in though. You'll also find that she was a founding member of The Delgados, but has been a solo artist since the band split.

She's not going to smile.

Emma's 'I Could be a Saint' is getting a fair bit of airplay at the moment courtesy of Six Music's rebel playlist vote, and I'm jolly glad is it is too. I was so smitten with the song that I went out and got hold of Miss Pollock's first album, 'Watch the Fireworks', which is really rather good too.

Emma Pollock is a little Polly Jean-esque, by which I mean she's not an insipid warbler, churning out run of the mill 'angry woman with piano/guitar' nonsense. Whist she's not quite as heavy as PJ, Emma's songs cleverly combine fermenting intensity and lowfi values with distracting melodies. She's a little bit of the exception to the norm and the highlights on her first album are very high indeed.

Here's one of my favourites-

• If Silence Means So Much To You: Emma Pollock

What a Swell Party It Is

The slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune are whirling around with frenzied abandon - brand new iPod in the sink, the hard-drive gives up the ghost (if anyone mentions the word back-up I shall almost certainly cry blood); on a personal note it's been the end of a tempestuous era (for the best though), and to top it all there's the ignominy of getting just that slightly bit older. And celebrating said aging by getting a fringe cut in - so I look like a disgruntled Vulcan. It could all be worse, I suppose.

It's not all doom and gloom; some good things have come my way - I've discovered I can earn a living off Deal or No Deal on quiz machines, and I went to see the excellent live podcast recording of Collings and Herrin at St David's hall where I became indoctrinated into the black arts of 'secret dancing'.

Secret dancing is a wonderful thing indeed; the basic tenant is -if people can see you movin' and a groovin' (when you're on a train, bus or public non-dancing area: somewhere that no public displays of rhythm are allowed by law) then... you aren 't doing it right!

Give it a try; I can confirm there's something strangely satisfying about surreptiously patting your pockets to to a hidden beat, scratching you ear when a high note plays... that is if you have a working mp3 player, and earphone obviously. However, since I don't I'm forced to make my own entertainment, this includes whistling annoyingly, and occassionally talking to myself like the mad old woman I am.

Still like I said earlier it could all be worse: I could be the person sitting next to the Vulcan be-fringed, gibbering, whislter on the bus. Ho-hum.

Fyfe Dangerfield

I'm rather looking forward to 'Fly a Yellow Moon', the upcoming album from Guillemots front man Fyfe Dangerfield; he of the slightly crazy whooping noises, bags of envied talent, and heart on sleeve. If the first two singles are anything to go by it should be a joyous affair.

The second single 'She Needs Me' is getting a fair amount of radio play at the moment, rightly so; it's a throbbing, sweet little melody, and incidentally mixed by Bernard Butler. 'She Needs Me' is a pretty pop song, and one that isn't shy of adding the odd flourish of strings, brass or synths into the mix, though nothing is wasted, or (shudder) deliberately kooky.

Dangerfield pulls off the same trick as crazy, grin coaxing, uncles everywhere - "is that a smile I see? I think it is, isn't it? It's a smile."

Go on, have a listen...