1001 Fun Things to Do in Aberystwyth

Here's to Glen Campbell. Seriously.

2011-10-24T12:05:00.002+01:00

I was going to be all trendy with a roundup of Cardiff's Swn festival (Nikki and the Dove stood out), but, er... well, I went to see Glen Campbell the other night; he kind of took the cake.

Glen Campbell may turn out to be one of the most memorable gigs I've been to. He's 75, suffering from Alzheimer's and yet still performing in a farewell tour - one that includes a costume change no less. He basks in a haze of glorious neon Americana (does a mean Elvis impression), and whilst on stage he appeared to be enjoying himself immensely. The dexterity of the septuagenarian's guitar playing and his lyrical recall remains untouched by the ravages of dementia - there was even an outbreak into 'Dueling Banjos' at one point, causing my poor charred husk of a heart to burst with joy. He still can perform.

Watching Glen, one is apt to be reminded of the redoubtable Mrs Beetle from Stella Gibbon's 'Cold Comfort Farm', she who planned to turn her grandchildren into a jazz band. Glen's done it. His daughter's a multi-instrumentalist, one son plays bass and another plays the drums. They all play and sing. Whilst that kind of forward planning must certainly keep the overheads down, I suspect it's also the reason that he was able to undertake this last tour. His family treats him as a treasure.

They weren't alone in that sentiment - I don't think I've ever seen a standing ovation given before an artist has even sung one note, but there was a palpable genuine affection in sold out St David's Hall. It was never hard to watch Campbell on stage (despite my pre-concert worries), there was never a pause to allow a crushing weights of concern and sympathy deaden the mood. Alzheimer's wasn't so much an elephant in the room as a buzzing fly to be hand-waved off , at least while the limelights shone. "I'm 54", he joked, "I forget things!".

As the evening wore on Glen's banter became at times a little confused but the show's structure and band provided direction and focus. He remained in high spirits, surrounded by his children,even singing some 'new'. The picture of a man at peace; one who has the good fortune to be on stage, appreciated, and singing with wizened gusto. Would that that level of attention and fondness could be so easily granted to other dementia sufferers, providing a constant tonic of reassured self worth. That said it's not all peaches and gravy; on the way out one old chap muttered about Campbell's voice being "different" since the last time he saw him, 35 years ago.

Glen Campbell's certainly never been cool. Not even ironically, despite the potent combination of Rhinestones and faux folksiness. Nor has he been rejuvenated and re-marketed by the loving ministrations of a seminal producer (one suspects he wouldn't have submitted to such attentions), or fixed into the firmament as an American icon. Yet he's still wearing spangly cowboy jackets, and the Witchita Lineman is still on that line. The evident pride in his career must surely contrast with what his happening to his mind, yet he looks to be content. A man who knows himself, and is in on the joke. To watch Glen Campbell was to be provided with a rare glimpse into unique performer's longevical life, and to be given cause to celebrate.

Here you go, you know you'll enjoy them really:

Power Pop for Nuns: Hazey Janes

2011-09-30T15:40:00.010+01:00

Writing about the Hazey Janes should be simple. They're a Scottish band with faux American accents. Their music is unassuming power pop; between the jangly guitars you can hear echos of nifty West coast three part harmonies. There's a spot of self-effacing Bon Jovi fandom in there too - though they just about get away with it. The songs are catchy enough to raise a smile and enjoyable enough to warrant more than one listen. The Hazey Janes seem to have mastered the art of being uncomplicated without being dull.

Oh boy, is that ever damning with faint praise; it's also pretty unfair as I've willingly given the upcoming album 'The Winter That Was' a few repeat hearings.

Carmelite is one of the more boisterous offerings. If I liked it less I'd call it a skillful package of cliches; driven, sweet sounding and not a little soft-rock. They're a little like the post Holy Bible Manic Street Preachers, without the 6th form poetry.

The ingenuous truth is that although the Hazey Janes fall into the (somewhat long-winded) category of dime-a-dozen bands "capable of putting out a decent tune without signifying anything", actually that's okay in this case. They're solid, not boring. Perhaps it's indicative of my current tendency to overdose on lots of angsty, hand-wringing indie and a bit too much electro, but these guys feel like a gust of fresh air; there's unabashed jubilation to be found in their gusto too. They're not so mild that they're inoffensive, but for a simple band they've been a pain in the backside to analyse.

The Hazey Janes, Carmelite.

St Vincent - I'm flicking through a thesaurus for superlatives as I type

2011-09-30T10:46:00.009+01:00

I'm trying to find a prosy way to start talking about St Vincent. Maybe a comparison with other bands that use St as a honorific, maybe some sort of poor ramble about the singer-songwriter's beatification after leaving the smiley happy, cult-like Polyphonic Spree...

No. Sod it.

St Vincent, aka Ann Erin Clark is bloody good. Her first album 'Marry Me' was bloody good, 'Actor' more of the same, and not only does 'Strange Mercy' fail disappoint in any way whatsoever, it keeps on improving with every listen. 'Cheerleader', taken from the newly released third album proved to be my personal highlight of last night's Music Geek Monthly meeting; even though I completely misheard the chorus and thought she was singing about not wanting to be a "chimney". Totally understandable; chimney isn't exactly the sort of career for a young, talented woman.

Generally Miss Clark gadds about as an alternative darling; popping up here and there in elite touring bands, or as an opening act to indie groups with serious chops - Arcade Fire, Grizzly Bear etc, etc. Usually garnering plenty of critical acclaim and Kate Bush comparisons. Did I mention she's bloody good? She plays a dirty bass, she sings - she probably doesn't want to be a chimney (her lyrics tend to be a bit cleverer than that) and if that's not enough she plays a slew of other instruments too. Flute, organ and piano aren't enough for her or her heavily layered arrangements.

Strange Mercy is a curious beast. The album sounds raddled; a travel-soiled girl weary under florescent bus station lights, hands clenched into fists, palms marked by half moons. It spins from from fragility to aggression; catchy riffs subvert the dark, challenging and frank tone as the music ripples with raw emotion, painful stories and originality.

Second track 'Cruel'is a perfect example of the music's schizophrenic nature; bright, breezy start with a luscious stroke of 'Spanish Eyes'-like balladry, counterpointed by a chirpy electro beat that bob-bob-bobs along until... until... Until there's a crescendo and you're not quite in Kansas anymore. Yet as suddenly as it changes it reverts to being a blowsy singalong once more, albeit about someone "someone waving flares in the air so they could see you".

There's not a hint of pretension, not even in tracks with titles like 'Neutered Fruit' (which include a Disney choir like warble). It's the music of someone who is clearly in love with what she does; complex, creative, crafted.... And it's bloody good.

A Weakness For Harmonies

2011-09-11T13:54:00.014+01:00

There are plenty of slightly doleful, jean-clad, folky harmonisers lurking out in the mists. Sweet, twee and utterly vapid, yet hell-bent on clogging up one's ears with cable-knit earnestness. The demonstrable effect of which is akin to a giant smug sigh. There are few things truly as dull as when an otherwise inoffensive genre shuffles up to politely handbag the listening public, but that's what happens when folk attacks. Tea, trees and twiddly-dee songs of melancholia for everyone!

Right now contemporary folk feels almost beyond redemption. Boring music by numbers, thoroughly moribund with both a sense self-inflated authenticity and well stroked beards in dutifully curated states of distress.

Thankfully there are exceptions to this stream of tediousness...

March of Dimes are a alt-country band, rich with the sort of concinnity that acts as a lodestone for attention. After following up on a recommendation, the Leeds based group have become addictive listening.

The (now) five-piece started as a musical project of commemoration and celebration. The first album, 'All Intents And Purposes', 2008, certainly does sound personal, but there's unexpected quirks and tangents that transform the songs into something greater than audio diary entries of middle-road lyricism. It serves as a reminder that ardency isn't always a bad thing; running alongside the (rather charming) mostly sad songs is unheralded vein of flippancy and musical skill that is very definitely beguiling.

Aside from the first album there's a couple of EPs too, all under Hope House Records; the entire collection can be found for streaming here. I promise it's worth it.

The latest EP is a little richer in tone; a little more polished, but it bodes well for future releases. B-side 'The Navigation Song', is just the right side of wistfulness to make it the perfect accompaniment to fleeting scenes from train windows, or all other autumnal travel needs.

I'm a sucker for good harmonies; it's a pleasure to find a new reason to actually enjoy them.

Musing on Billie Holiday... and Bananas.

2011-08-28T09:19:00.007+01:00

I once had a falling out over Lady Day. Yes, it was late at night. Yes, whisky sampling had been taking place - how clever of you to guess.

My friend was being a pretentious jazz snob (the worst kind of music snob, so sayeth the shoegazer) belittling her later work. Okay, she lost a lot of her range to booze and drugs, but an expansive range was never her big thing. I think the later fragility adds a poignancy to her music. People are at their most interesting a study when they're less than perfect. You can marvel the sublime, but half its glory lies in being able to bare witness in the face of the moment's brevity. Beauty doesn't remain fixed, all skill fails; the passage time takes its toll (especially bananas). We all have failings and lord knows we acquire more (or better disguises); ultimately Elvis was no less great because he got fat.

Okay, some stuff to know about Billie Holiday, though I'm sure you all do....

Billie Holiday is the perfect accompaniment to heavy rain and introspective writing. She was born Elenanora Fagan back in 1915, died an old, old young in '59. Jazz purists are apt to talk about her phrasing and pioneering vocal style - she liked to emulate the band, particularly the cornet. Music historians cite her tragic upbringing, though in her autobiography she made light of it...

"Mom and Pop were just a couple of kids when they got married. He was eighteen, she was sixteen, and I was three'.

Her mother sold her into prostitution age 13, the men she loved treated her badly, but all that was nothing. She was raped as a child by her neighbor: she was arrested as she lay dying. If she'd be around today there's no doubt the only thing you'd know her for would be her prodigious heroin addiction.

Holiday co-wrote only couple of songs, but they've become standards - including "Don't Explain" posted down below. As I mentioned above, she shot her voice through booze and drugs, but the fragility became her. She sang for crying hearts, and broken spirits; for those who've been wronged and those who didn't/couldn't help themselves. Injustice and pain is universal, but that music can only ever be hers.

Her final album, Lady in Satin was recorded with Ray Ellis and his orchestra a year before her death. In the liner notes wrote of her...

"I would say that the most emotional moment was her listening to the playback of "I'm a Fool to Want You." There were tears in her eyes ... After we finished the album I went into the control room and listened to all the takes. I must admit I was unhappy with her performance, but I was just listening musically instead of emotionally. It wasn't until I heard the final mix a few weeks later that I realized how great her performance really was."

If I had to listen to only one record for the rest of my life, it would one of Billie's. Here are some of my personal favorites:

Stand-Up Review: What Is Love, Anyway?

2011-07-29T13:45:00.010+01:00

Richard Herring is a sweetie. There's simply no denying it. He may have stood on stage and delighted in the vulgar and sophmoric in "AIOTM", or tormented comedy partners with sick imagery and a sicker brain. He's still a sweetie. His new show "What Is Love, Anyway?" is a triumph, or rather I expect it will be - since I've only see the (very polished) preview. Despite it's unfinished nature, it was the best stand-up set I've had the pleasure of seeing. You might say I'm biased since I'm a long time fan girl -I even own a t-shirt, but last night I put down my wine, listened and felt deeply touched. Not like that.

What is love, anyway? Howard Jones says it's leaving room for doubts, other songwriters tell you that despite the dark night, the heartbreak, the physical abuse, the cheating or otherwise hell to pay, that some people muster up a love so intense, so pure that it can endure any attack no matter how atrocious. People are immortalised by their love - or fossilised by it. Finally the bible comes along and defines a kind of love so bloody blissful that it is nigh on unattainable and if you had it, well you'd probably be bored.

Love is not boastful, love is kind, it is not arrogant nor rude - all of which seems to be at odds with Herring's on-stage persona of a juvenile bombast, delighting in the moronic. When one thinks of Richard Herring the first thing that comes to mind ridiculer of the offensive and champion of the absurd. Though he has presented a softer side before, both in his delightful and long running blog Warming-Up and in the reflective "Headmaster's Son".

In "What Is Love, Anyway?" Herring purports a rationalist perspective; love is as ridiculous a belief as religion. Faith in soul mates, in moonlit walks and hands held tightly, is all just as foolish. It the hands of a less skilful comic, the show could easily become the same bitter rant that's been spewed at bartenders through the ages. It never does. Instead "What Is Love, Anyway?" skilfully blends the pitfalls and absurdity of romance; it's never mawkish, nor wistful, nor is it overly cynical or cruel. The humour is keen, personal and utterly beguiling. You leave needing to think on about Herring's observations, not because they're so quotable, nor because of the unexpected tenderness flourished at the end, but because the jaunty pace and blithe delivery mask unexpected wisdom.

The show hits the highest peak of comedy, it is both funny and astute. It does not lecture, it does not harrange. It is quick to laugh at the foibles of human nature and sniggers at delusions. Like the Apostle Paul, Herring it seems, trusts, hopes, perseveres (even when he claims otherwise), but later laughs heartily.

Well worth a look. Go, go, flock in your droves.

Cider, Parks and the Creeping Sensation of Sunburn

2011-04-27T16:38:00.007+01:00

The Lure of the Possibilities of Summer ... Aber Almost Looks Nice

Matt Pond PA were one of the first bands I found courtesy of the sparkly new technology of the interweb, with its “www’s”, mp3s and other … modern things. Back in the dark age of dial-up. Back before google had become a verb when rickets still roamed the Earth. If I remember rightly Polyvinyl Records were offering some free tracks of Saturday Looks Good to Me - least I think they were free, surely everything was back in those halcyon days; free or bartered for with pigs. Anyway, since Matt Pond PA were part of the same stable and also (very probably) free I gave them a go.

I’ve a soft spot for the band. Matt Pond, now located over at Altitude, ticks along with a myriad of chums who come and go like ships in the night. Generally Pond et al, create gentle indie of a wishy-washy nature; expansive yet at odds with Pond’s frailty. Don’t get me wrong, it’s (thankfully) nowhere near Conor ‘here’s-a-tissue, give-it-a-good-hard-blow’ Oberst’s intense wail, but there’s the same time there's a similar crunched up awkwardness; Pond oscillates between nervy hand-wringer and dreamy tree-hugger. At worst it’s just pleasant background music but at best it’s ridiculously catchy, or apt to tweak the corners of your mouth upwards. It also fits well with the sunshine.

Which brings me to my point; the nice weather dictated a playthrough of 2010’s ‘The Dark Leaves’ in its entirety; I really rather enjoyed it. Whilst it's neither bursting with originality or tenderness, Dark Leaves is however good at what it does; with a nature element that makes one feel almost out-doorsy. It's the musical equivalent of a hand crafted wooden kitchen table, one whose burns and spill stains only make it seem all the more homely and loved. Dark Leaves is gentle but solid, and I’m recommending Matt Pond PA as the perfect accompaniment to cider, picnics in parks and the creeping sensation of sunburn.

New Hampshire - Emblems,2004
Ruins - The Dark Leaves, 2010
Possibilities of Summer - Deer Apartments, 1998

With Blasphemy So Heartfelt, And Tired

2011-04-07T11:20:00.009+01:00

Not A Happy Bunny.

Jessica Lea Mayfield may look like a wee country poppet, but her songs are as weighty as an apathetic partner forced to waltz. At 23 she's a veritable connoisseur of misery - all perfectly okay for bluesy country, especially as there isn't a trace of bad teenage poetry, emotional aggrandisement, nor a misplaced quest for empathy. The girl is just plain miserable. She's not happy being sad; she just is.

She's also just released a new EP, 'Tell Me', but I'm behind the times and still caught up with 2008's 'With Blasphemy So Heartfealt'. 'Blasphemy...' is a break-up album that hits all the right notes and won't spare a single one extra. The sparsity of each track reigns in mawkish tendencies, and the sullen delivery is strangely evocative, despite its detachment. This is an album of lyrics churned from nights spent with eyes fixed upon a spot on the wall, and where fleeting western skies can be found in a few chords.

All in all, it's impressively bitter. The only problem is that listening to the whole thing in one go feels like being beaten over the head with a brick by someone who consistently sounds too bored by their own anger to care. However taken in little pieces it's a beautiful broken necklace of an album with gems that are burnished brightly. Mayfield is a talented soul, and one I suspect will be accompanying my night whiskies for some time to come.

Lived in Bars and Danced On Tables

2011-04-02T00:54:00.005+01:00

It's late and I'm wistful. Circumstances that are far from mutually exclusive, though it's usually thanks to whisky that the two dance to their private waltz. There's nothing like living in a bottle.

Which brings me to Cat Power's 'Lived In Bars'. The last song of the night for the drinker who's up way bedtime and reached far, far beyond Darien's peak. At least until the beat kicks in.

Always stay for one last drink. That's when the interesting things happen.

Lived In Bars - Cat Power, The Greatest

Still Corners - The Musical Equivalent of Floaty Sleeves

2011-03-13T11:09:00.009Z

Another beautiful spring Sunday; blue skies, birds, squinting whilst muttering about lost sunglasses (left in a pub). It can mean only one thing; time to pull shut the velvet curtains, maintain my consumptive pallour (not to mention vitamin D deficiency) and wither away in bitter darkness, but all whilst listening to sunshine songs.

Still Corners recently signed to Sub Pop where they're currently slogging away on an upcoming album that should be out in time for summer. The band makes 'dream-pop', aka music that sound wispy/ethereal and is this case comes with with heavy organ usage; it's melodic, but too skewed to be wholesome. Imagine the tunes playing in Christopher Lee's head when he's gadding about in that Wicker Man wig; all flowers and nature one minute and then virgin sacrifices the next. Got it? Lord Summerisle's internal soundtrack -that's them.

Not that that's bad thing! Still Corners's first self produced album 'Remember Pepper' is intriguing and eerily tranquil; a 1960s dream of smoke and silent waters, though like the sticky drips of a melting mivvy it can be a bit too much of a good thing. However their last EP 'Endless Summer' is a haunting ball of fuzzy noise and reverberating drums, packing a hidden punch and boding well for the upcoming album. It may be a hazy summer love-affair brought on my the shimmer of the sun, but right now they're definitely worth a listen.

Endless Summer - Still Corners

Brighton Rocks

2011-03-07T09:50:00.012Z

Hullo!

Bloody hell it's been a long time; a long, long time; a long, long, long, long time. A long, long, long, long ... ahem, enough of that! Thanks to the friendly folk who emailed to ask if I was dead. I'm not. So, aside from listening to too much Josh Ritter (you can never have too much, never), hating Aberystwyth with the fire of a thousand suns, collecting evesdropped beauts like "real zombies shuffle" and bemoaning being old, what do I have to offer you?

Well, to ease myself back into the swing of things, I'll start with a wee band called The Blue Hearts. Confusingly there happens to be two sets of Blue Hearts, one was Japanese punk outfit and the other is a Brighton purveyor of self proclaimed 'neon rock'. Unlike most irritatingly titled music sub-catagorisiations 'neon rock' comes with a handy little definition that one suspects was scribbled on a beermat; an "eclectic mix of brash rock n roll tones steeped in the sexuality of a down-town late night speakeasy". Yes, well.

The Blue Hearts have been around in one incarnation or another since the early 90s. The front man, Bob Powell sounds eerily like better adjusted Nick Cave, whilst the music rings with echoes upon echoes of nostalgia; solid rock 'n' roll hooks of simpler times, but with typical three piece rhythms enriched by Sue Bradley's violin.

The latest album title 'Jukebox of Maladies' may put you in mind of a pic'n'mix of venereal diseases, but it's a hearty listen of extreme reverence to mythologised rock and roll. Influences lie heavily but each song never quite tips into tribute or wholesale imitation. The whole record is undoubtedly loving made and it is a thing of quality - old fashioned but certainly not without style.

You can bop a bit to it too.

Snake Oil Sam - The Blue Hearts, Jukebox of Maladies

Jukebox of Maladies - The Blue Hearts, Jukebox of Maladies

And One Guy Played a Saw

2010-09-07T11:30:00.017+01:00

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...

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

2010-08-21T00:00:00.010+01:00

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

2010-07-29T14:31:00.010+01:00

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...

2010-07-27T13:28:00.010+01:00

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

2010-07-08T09:20:00.013+01:00

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.....

2010-06-21T12:09:00.019+01:00

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

2010-05-24T15:48:00.019+01:00

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.

The Blue Blue Bluegrass of London

2010-05-14T16:30:00.008+01:00

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;

The Other New Worlds We'd Discover

2010-05-04T09:40:00.008+01:00

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...

2010-05-03T11:53:00.012+01:00

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.

Paul Haig Day 2

2010-04-06T15:26:00.012+01:00

Quite a few people will be blogging in detail today about Paul Haig; there will be wit, erudition and obscure tracks galore (hop on over to Vinyl Villain to see who is participating). Unfortunately I was woefully ignorant of most of Paul’s solo output until I signed up to be part of this - so I've found myself wondering what I could add without sounding like a total fool. I applaud the spirit of the day, I liked Josef K, and in the run-up to this day I've been listening to as much of Paul as I can...

Before I get going I'll cover some basic bullet points for those of you who aren't up to speed with the whole Paul Haig shebang:

Paul Haig has a beguilingly lush voice, he makes rather good records, and if that’s not enough to warrant a bit of a backslapping, then it’s also worth noting that he’s also a friend to bloggers.
A year ago JC at Vinyl Villain ran the first Paul Haig Day, to thank Paul for his support of TVV and other blogs being snowballed by dmca takedown notices, notices which caused entire posts to be lost.

Now on with the show...

It's laudable that artists like Paul get involved to support the fans who flag-wave for them, so I’m very pleased to be able to tip you a wink to a remix of ‘Trip Out The Rider’ – the opening track on his most recent LP, selected by Paul especially for today. I’ve also selected my favorite Josef K track, Chance Meeting – nothing too esoteric there, but it’s a good day’s work.

Paul’s done a lot since Josef K, so I don’t want to denigrate any of his later music, I do however have a soft spot for the band, plus it’s how I was first introduced to Paul’s songs so I feel fully justified in offering it as my addition to Paul Haig Day 2.

Josef K is the perfect sort of band for a cult following of record nerds. Existing for a flash during the freezing rain fury of early 80s, the post punk outfit was an arty lot: disdainful of the spotlight, exacting in their standards, and blistering live performers. Their mystique was only increased by the disappearance of the test pressing of their debut album amidst a mix of heady rumors, though the band have later stated it just didn't sound right. It also helps that the group was short lived – with longevity assured through mythos and influence alike: Josef K are welcome echos in the songs of Franz Ferdinand and The Wedding Present.

As for my pick, ‘Chance Meeting'; it first came out in 1979 on Steve Daly’s Absolute label - the first and last release on that lable actually, and was then re-recorded a year later with some adjustments for Postcard. It’s sparse, bitter-sweet and almost painful in poetry and sincerity. Ah sincerity, again, the sort of word that comforts a music nerd. This version is from the 1982 Crazy to Exist live album, recorded in London just before the band broke up. Enjoy.

Here's to Paul Haig Day 2, and JC at Vinyl Villain folks.

The Day of Daffodil Theft

2010-03-01T12:20:00.010Z

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

2010-02-26T13:37:00.001Z

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

2010-02-22T16:55:00.014Z

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

2010-02-15T13:57:00.021Z

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.

2010-02-11T09:43:00.003Z

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

2010-02-10T16:14:00.007Z

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!

2010-01-29T11:51:00.012Z

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

2010-01-28T13:15:00.008Z

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

2010-01-04T13:42:00.013Z

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...

Kathryn Williams - The Quickening

2009-12-30T22:50:00.005Z

I’ve only wonderful things to write about Kathryn Williams’ new record ‘The Quickening’. Whilst it’s easy to have a soft spot for dainty folk- the audible equivalent of wistfully gazing into candle flames- this album is all the more marvellous for being filled with unpretentious, devilishly pretty music.

Each song possesses an airy grace, and a pace as slow as the closing of heavy eyelids: consequently the whole record seems to twine into a wonderland of slow yearning. There’s humour there too though, the light hearted merriment of ‘Wanting and Waiting’, mixes against songs that sound like sighs of self-reflection.

Kathryn’s voice beguiles through simplicity, her songs are personal without being navel gazing, and the music grows to envelope the space you're in; one minute it’s a nice song in the background, next you’ve been charmed into paying attention to it alone. Great stuff; out in February, and she's touring too.

Here she is on a previous outing with Neill MacColl...

Film Review: The Box

2009-12-17T11:05:00.012Z

Oh. Dear. God.

The Button Unit. Yes, that's really what it's called.

I tried to see the Men Who Stared at Goats yesterday. I really did. Even going so far as to briskly walk into the dark depth of shady Cardiff to the lovely, but badly located, Chapter cinema; alas it was only to find for some inexplicable reason (read as my incompetence) that it was on earlier on Wednesdays. As my friend and I hastily awayed to more civilised climes we settled on Paranormal Activity, a decision that was at least half popular (with me). Inexplicably and somewhat suspiciously we arrived too late, so by default The Box became our poison of choice, and by it we were doomed.

I'd rather eat my own curried optic nerve than watch this long winded, directionless drivel again. Indeed as one of the few people not to be crazy over Donny bloody Darko, I didn't exactly have high hopes for Richard Kelly's latest outing - The Box. I should of known better and pitched any sense of expectation in a subterranean cave; one so dark that the flickerings of life inside have never seen light. The only thing to like about this film was that it wasn't Sunshine ("for seven years I've talked with God": can you hear my teeth grinding out there?) which like The Box is a massive waste of life. Other geninue plus points? Frank Langella's make-up, maybe, certainly his tailoring; for the duration of the film I was a Woman Who Stared at Coats.... and sighed.

As to the nitty-gritty of the picture; I'll charitably say that the first twenty minutes are interesting enough; the trailed premise of a million dollars for sanctioning the death of someone you don't know is mildly thought provoking. More so when you hear the entire cinema to a man all whooping and shouting "yes!" - that made me worry, and I thought it was the civilised bit of Cardiff!

As for the rest; oh god no. No. No. No. Oh, it's awful; mystery is throw upon mystery until the whole thing creaks with the weight of its own tediousness, and instead of being engaged, you find yourself consigned to boredom. Just when you think it can't get any worse, trust me it does; the plot takes a turn for the utterly farcical. None of this film fits together - it feels as if it's been heavily edited to deliberately remove any coherence, and yet the bits that are left in labour heavily, like a ragtag child with a particularly splodgy potato print, just to make sure you understand what someone thought was obviously a fiendishly clever plot.

The Box is really, really, truly god-awful. I can't stress this enough. If I do one good thing this year I hope it's saving someone some time and money by dissuading them from going to see this pile of steaming offal.

Put it in a box, tie it with a ribbon, and fling the whole crescendo of dull down the nearest open sewer.

Film Review: Where the Wild Things Are

2009-12-16T10:31:00.015Z

Directed by Spike Jonze, written - Spike Jonze & David Eggers, starring Max Records, James Gandolfini, Catherine Keener, Paul Dano, Lauren Ambrose and Forest Whitaker.

Looks good, doesn't it?

Yesterday I sniffled back a snuffle and tried not to get all maudlin to 'Where the Wild Things Are'. The plot, in case you don't know, involves the adventure of an angry young boy called Max; one evening he runs away from home, finds an island, and convinces the mosterous inhabitants that he's their king - 'Let the wild rumpus commence!'

It's melancholy rather than wild though; sad-sweet, like a terrible Jim Croche ballad that you shouldn't like, but that somehow makes you wistful, though this film is far classier than Jim and far more engaging to look at than his furry face. The verdit is: it's good. Jonze and Eggers capture the crushing inarticulacies of childhood: I know all the angst, rage, inability to continually do the right thing, not to mention the delightful inventiveness, flooded out from my deep dark past as soon as the silver screen started to flicker.

When watching you remember what it's like to be that little, and not just the bad parts of stomping, crying and slamming doors at the injustice of the world, though this gloomier aspect is firmly in the driving seat. I don't remember the book too well (wow, what pictures) but I'd have thought the process of being King of the Wild Things would have been more joyful. Then again, perspectives change. I don't like the idea of a tiger coming to tea anymore either! Regardless, the introspection isn't a bad thing. Chaos, forts, wrinkled brows and wobbling lips. That really seemed like the old days to me.

The island of the Wild Things is a surprisingly physical place; the cliffs are hard work for a small boy, there are long walks to take and the monsters throw themselves about with gusto, providing piquant moments of comedy. I loved the puppets actually, especially the way they were able to interact with weight since they're not just CGI. I did wish they'd cheer up a bit at times though; speak with some animation rather than their half-committed drawl. That said, the Wild Things are interesting fusions of children who need mothers and strangely unknowable adults, bundled into feathers and fur. Max Records also aquits himself very well indeed.

Would little ones enjoy this? I'm not sure; partly because it's quite slow, but mostly I think they'd find the monsters incomprehesibly sad indeed. Then again maybe not, as all my evidence points to the contrary; I sat in a cinema with 60 (very well behaved - well done) small children who watched enraptured - their only noise was laughter. It is, however, quite rightly a PG.

Where the Wild Things Are made me feel very grownup, despite giving me back a bit of my childhood; I constantly wanted to explain to Max and his chums what they needed, or to tell them off. It remind me how far away I've gotten from being able to visit that island, but I still remember the reasons why I'd have wanted to go - that powerful sense of rebellion came as a marvelous shock.

Incidentally the Karen O's soundtrack is pretty marvelous too and compliments the picture nicely.

You Can Do It With A Sailor from Peru to Venezuela

2009-12-14T14:16:00.007Z

What's not to like about Alma Cogan's 1954 hit - 'You Must Never Do a Tango With An Eskimo'? It's festive, but not overplayed; there's cheesy horn section blowing whilst party girl Alma trips around witty lyrics, sounding as merry as gran tippling a Snowball, and what's more you can swing about to it under the mistletoe.

As for taking a turn with the Eskimo, who could resist?

Alma Cogan - You Must Never Do a Tango With an Eskimo

Charismatically Challenged

2009-12-02T23:47:00.020Z

I live in tent made of Beaver skin. Is good. Tsarina stiched it herself.

It's day two of the 'Hundred Days' project, and though I'm not intending to blog about all the rinky-dinky little pictures I'm planning to draw, I am taking advantage of striking whilst the inspiration iron is dazzlingly white hot. Well, luke-warmish. In all fairness I'm put to shame by some really great blogs, and some interesting self improving ideas, including; a classy art blog, limericks, learning about stuff and 140 character plays. So, I'm drowning not waving whilst trying to do my bit

Above is first sketch of a Rasputin caricature, object of my current fixation- I'm now on biography number two (in a week). This post was going to be about the nature of obsession itself, but it became a bit of a solipsistic drawl, blathering on about my amazing abilities at tetris and the price my compulsive, but crippled, thumbs have paid.

Then it was going to be about charisma, given that Rasputin was a one suave charmer, and charismatic people would seem, on the face of it, to be an interesting subject. I should confess though that this is the third draft, the quasi-educational number two has also been consigned to the great recycle bin in the sky; you'll never get to know charismatic facts concerning greek etymology, Rasputin's hypnotic eyes, the defunct charisma record label, or Jan Matthys the cannibalistic (and compelling) anabaptist of Munster - though he's an interesting character and well worth looking up.

My conclusion is that charisma is really boring to write about; you try to describe the kind of burning magnetism that brings people to their knees, and end up with verbose drivel, such as; "thank goodness it's a rare thing in a person; as a group we all lived to be moved, to be inspired beyond our humble lives, and history teaches us again and again that the transformation comes with the risk of losing one's way". Bloody hell, I can be pompous. So, just go away and watch Sunset Blvd. instead, Norma's got bags of 'it', whatever 'it' is, or listen to some Pulp.

Here's one of my favourites to get you started;

This is Hardcore - Pulp

The Christmas Tree

2009-12-01T15:15:00.015Z

Wherever I am in the world, and whatever I may be doing, there is one thing that stops me dead in my tracks and drags me to the family home.... the Christmas Tree.

Bertie and the Demon Tree.*

Last year my Mother decorated the tree. Melodrama on par with "so it was you behind the curtain all along!" My Mother decorated the tree, and no matter what you may think about me being lucky to have a mother and so forth, the melodrama is justified because -she just hung stuff anywhere. Yes, that's right, you heard me correctly, hung it anywhere, with no regard to size, shape or colour! That may not sound like the kind of disaster that opens a vortex to some evil dimension peopled with ducks, but- it was not not far off.

Tree decorating is an art. Shiny Christmas whatnot's simply cannot be flung willy-nilly onto branches; to do so is an abuse of the entire idea of Christmas. Hyperbole, I hear you cry, but no - the whole idea of dressing it is surely to produce nothing short of an ascetic delight akin to the Parthenon or the Mona Lisa. Maybe not the Mona Lisa, I've never liked that.

You think I'm taking this too seriously, right? That spending a couple of hours, possibly with a break in between to go out to get more of the right sort of baubles (Christmas 2005), is just shy of madness. Well, you're wrong. Like I said above, tree decorating is an art! I defy disagreement! Last year I spent three days scowling at the wrongly dressed tree before I secretly had to tweak it so it didn't offend my delicate (insane) sensibilities during Christmas dinner.

Where am I going with this? Last night my mother threatened to decorate the tree again, gleefully assigning herself the onerous task due to my convalesance (sounds so much grander than 'due to me lying on the settee, becoming one with a box of tissues'), and though I may be lying on my sickbed, all feverish and exhausted, that sort of fighting talk simply won't do. I may find myself sympathising more and more with a pre-Marley Scrooge each passing year, but I'll be damned if I let the tree go to hell in a handbasket. I know she bought new baubles and lights, and maybe she'd like a chance to decorate her tree by herself, with her trinkets, but no. She can't do a proper job. No one can. Just me. She knows this, I've told her so during many a pre-Christmas row.... and you can guess where this ends.

I've stayed up late and done it (ensuring that it was at least December before I began). Blame the insanity on me being an only child, but take into account that I'm forced to endure Christmas from an egregiously early date by my noel obsessed Mum.

On the plus side, I wasn't able to sleep anyway, and I did feel a bit more sprightly (i.e less snotty) when I began. It looks pretty good too, though the clashing themes of Victoriana (Christmasses 1990-2007) and funky modern woolly cats and such (2008-present) are causing some pain. Alas for the new lights however. My Mother, for reasons unknown, has bought red glowing orbs, which were no doubt designed by some delirious mind to resemble berries. Unfortunately the practical reality is that our tree looks like the devil's tree: full of red glowing eyes, reaching out to snare souls and unwanted Christmas pudding. The dog is both attracted and scared of it. He can't keep away, but whimpers when nearby, which I'm taking as a compliment of the highest order.

Seasons Greetings from an overgrown only child. Pinch, punch, first of the month and all that.

* Picking up a pen and drawing something is my hundred days pledge; in case you're wondering the Hundred Days thing is the brainchild of comedienne Josie Long, who urges us to do something for a hundred days to make ourselves better people. Find out more and pledge for yourself via Hundred Days.Net

Russia's Greatest Love Machine

2009-11-25T20:31:00.041Z

Busy, busy times have been afoot, the highlights of which include -

Winning champagne... okay, I lie - sparkly Jacob's Creek- at a murder mystery evening (it was advertised as champagne though), then like some sort of wine Midas, I managed to accumulate more booze during a successful foray to a pub quiz. Alas the pub wine was an utterly undrinkable Liebfraumilch, labouring under the name of 'Blue Max', which I think is also the title of a WWII centred film starring George Peppard.
VIP seats to Muse in the NIA (private bar, private barman, Muse... I accidentally stumbled onto a little bit of heaven there and I still haven't stopped smiling).
Trips all over the place; London, Birmingham, Leeds, York - no wonder I now have swine flu and I'm totally shot.

I've also been catching up with:

The new Cerys Matthews album 'Don't Look Down', which is really rather good.
Likewise Julian Casablancas' solo effort.
I've been absolutely appalled by Bob Dylan's 'Christmas in the Heart', which is just so terrible that words cannot begin to describe it. Imagine a creaky door; imagine that creaky door trying to lecture you on the spirit of Christmas - it's wearing some sort of holly wreath say, but all the while it's chuckling to itself about how much money it earns with every squeak and grooooooaaan. Not my strongest metaphor there, I know, but imagine all that, add on top the smell of rotting fish, and maybe, just maybe you are half way to understanding just how terrible a monstrosity it is that Bob Dylan has produced.
Telstar, starring Con O'Neill, who is acting his socks off, with a sprinkling of Kevin Spacey, and James Corden (don't let that put you off). It's adapted and directed by Nick Moran of all people, who provides a tender look at the flaws and foibles of Joe Meek, presenting him not as another demented producer, but lauding his talents as a groundbreaking individual albeit one who is beset by demons, fame, and his sexuality.

On top of all that I've been indulging my Rusophillic side, culminating in the reading of what I suspect will be the first of many Ra-Ra-Rasputin biographies. Rasputin, The Final Word is by one Edvard Radzinsky, a historian who sounds like a character from an Ann Rice novel. It's an interesting and detailed history portraying the Mad Monk as a relapsed drunken peasant, easily cowed, eager to please, whirling around in a charitable haze, whilst flagellating himself nightly, smiling at the sky, and of course benignly caring for 'Mama' and 'Papa' Rus and their children.

So what if he occasionally had a bath with the odd lady?

Radzinsky's style leads to some quite superstitious conclusions and doesn't quite gel with the balanced view he purports to give, but for all its faults there is drama a-plenty. There are controversial, and never before aired, pro-Rasputin statements drawn from the findings of the wonderfully titled Extraordinary Commission of Inquiry for the Investigation of Illegal Acts by Ministers and Other Responsible Persons of the Tsarist Regime, and the unveiling of a cunning femme fetal and éminence grise in the form of the the Tsariana's former maid.

So, how does it compare to the Bony-M tune? Was Ra-Ra-Rasputin the lover of the Russian Queen? It's all Edvard can do to shake his head, look stern and sigh about ridiculous questions. I quite like the song though... it's a bit of a guilty pleasure. I hang my head in shame.

Happy Halloween

2009-11-02T15:12:00.021Z

The puppy ate my witch hat, and I got a crick in my neck carving my pumpkin. Super-duper.

Be impressed. It took hours. Hours.

On the plus side there was also a wee trip up North. This meant that I spent about as much time on the woeful rolling hell of a Megabus as I did in the company of friends old and new, but I'm not complaining. I could. I could go on for hours about second hand music, gruff bus drivers (I know it's a low cost mode of transport but manners don't cost anything), traffic, the new shape my spine has been forced to take... but I won't. I'm trying to be a better person.

The delays, the rain in Newcastle (bitter, bone-chilling and relentless), a closed transporter bridge and a mixed performance from Eddie Izzard, was nicely juxtaposed with sightseeing around North Yorkshire (Rievaulx, Helmsley and Bywater), a rather fun Hallowe'en party in Durham, and most important of all, the onslaught of mixed emotions that only a chicken parmo can provoke.

Yes, that's right a chicken parmo. This strange addition to late-night culinary lexicon can only be found in Teeside. According to BBC Tees a parmo is...

A chicken or pork fillet that is beaten until it is flat and roughly the size of half a pizza box, covered in breadcrumbs, then fried. Then béchamel sauce and a layer of cheese (strangely not parmesan) is added and it’s grilled.It's usually served with chips and salad (that’s the healthy part) and some people swear that a layer of garlic sauce (another Teesside delicacy) needs to be poured on top.

Yes, a beaten, folded, cheese covered, water-filled piece of poor quality meat, served with limp salad in a little plastic baggie. I bet you're salivating.

It's pretty strange that something I've never eaten (and never would) is a little time capsule; their very existence became a reassuring presence during my time squatting in my boyfriend's dorm St 'Ockton (home of the friction match). It's the fast food equivalent of a Munchin in Oz; you may not be in Kansas, but it's strangely comforting to have them about. Unlike that boyfriend, I can uncharitably add.

I'd bottle that kind of wistfulness and sell it if I could.

As for the main event of the weekend, well, no, the main event was going back up North and seeing friends who have long been neglected (some of whom read this, and yes you're all more important than a chickeny comestible, honest). Ostensibly we were all going to watch Eddie Izzard. During our early days in Durham- we'd bonded over a mutual appreciation of poking badgers with spoons.

Alas the glory days have come and gone for all of us, but especially Eddie's stand-up. 'Stripped' was notable for glimmers of form, however the overall performance was a little flabby, weighed down perhaps by a focus on atheism that is neither radical, original or witty enough. Whilst there were inovative uses of twitter, lots of reference to wikipedia and a bizzare advert for Apple, the whole perfomance seemed diminished and lacking in zest - heavily reliant on affection for old material.

It didn't live up the legacy of Glorious or Definite Article, nor could Eddie match the works of some the fresher names on the circuit, many of whom have taken his best qualities and run with them. I'd like to single out Tim Minchin, who not only put on a sparkling performance in Brizzle the other week, but has also ruined my life with the bloody catchy 'Canvas Bags'; a song that just won't leave my poor mind alone. Given the option of spending £17.50 to see Tim, or £30 plus for Eddie... well, the choice is clear. And you've change for a parmo.

Listen and be damned.

And she sang upside down from a rope ladder...

2009-10-16T11:29:00.012+01:00

At some point a Noisettes gig will be replete with all kinds of sparkly jim-swishery, but at the moment they're making do with one rope ladder, lots of 'bugger-me, I'm famous!' attitude, large hair, and some flashing lights. The current Wild Young Hearts tour looks acrobatic, and sounds absolutely ebullient, not to mention rather good.
Do they need the props to get things going? No, not at all - this band is 7 parts swagger to 3 parts fizz, not to mention being renowned for raucous gigs. They kicked off with car and crowd pleasing 'Don't Upset the Rhythm (Go Baby Go Baby Go)', and sounded far too big for the shanty stage of Cardiff Student Union - though singer Shingai Shoniwa repeatedly abused her rich voice to make bat-like squeals for purposes unknown. No bats chose to make an appearance.
Despite the odd shriek, the music had our little gang swinging like salsafied snakes sizzling on hot grills: highlights of the night included the cover of T-Rex's 'Children of the Revolution' and 'Saturday Night'. Plus Shoniwa barged past my friend and I as we listened to supporting act Mpho. We felt rather special, and a just a bit cool; even if this conviction was based on a far more glamorous elbow being judiciously applied in our direction. I can safely say that all who attended got to bask in shamelessly upbeat, soulful distinctive pop.

Things A Naughty Puppy Can Eat...

2009-10-14T19:14:00.008+01:00

Cream off my super scrumptious cheesecake brownies, in the bin they go.
Favourite bra
Premium bond cheque
Swanky pub matchbox aka memento of a great night out.
Next door's parcel, loss of which will be blamed on mail strike
Pink Ted's eye- the iconoclast!

I am rapidly falling out of love with my puppy; with his waggy little tail, cute way of jumping on my face every damn morning, and the way he eats absolutely everything, whether it be on the floor, the pavement or on a high seeming unreachable tabletop. I'm done with the whole bundle of fluffy exhuberance. He's free to a mildly indifferent home.

.... Yeah, I love him really.

Film Review : Surrogates

2009-10-01T12:43:00.011+01:00

Directed by Jonathon Mostow, Starring Bruce Willis, with Ving Rhames and James Cromwell, Screenplay John Bracanto and Michael Ferris, based on Robert Veneditti's comic series 'Surrogates'.

'Surrogates': a poor man's sci-fi. No, to be more accurate it's a poor man's Phillip K Dick, but without the paranoia, suspense, or fiendish dystopia. There's a slightly blue/grey tint to the action - so you know the future when you see it, a dash of 'Minority Report' here, a bit of 'Total Recall' there and a small measure of 'Foster, You're Dead', complete with a hold-your-hand plot tied together by the shoe-string of a vaguely interesting concept - in this case living your life through a flawless machine. No part of this idea ever feels properly explored.

The plus side; Bruce Willis does what he does best, i.e strutting around moodily whilst having marital problems. There's some joy to be found in the Hollywood warning of the dangers of superficiality (whilst Bruce is looking very good for his age). Also all the ridiculous stunts from the Borne films are suddenly plausible, though for the most part the human controlled robots go about their very boring (but now very beautiful) lives. Best of all: it has a running time of 89 minutes.

As for what's wrong; Willis' character Tom Greer isn't quite the anti-hero he could be. He's disenchanted with the idea of living through a robot; he hints at a deep ocean of melancholy concerning his dead son, and is grief stricken at the fact his wife is a shut-in, who lives through a giant barbie doll. To top it all off - he's a maverick FBI agent. But he's the everyman too. The robotic, FBI, crime-fighting everyman (although because everyone looks perfect, and is free from danger, there's no real crime). He's everything you want - he's us; but he's the bad us, but then again he's not really that moody, after all he's us, and we're basically alright, but this is a really bad day.

Unfortunately this clashing of tropes makes for a disengaging character, one who is both aloof but begs us to share his pain. The problem worsens as the 2D Tom Greer is the only character we get introduced to in any depth- in a world where image is flexible personality, alas, seems void, even for the 'meat-bag' real humans. Ving Rhames pops up occasionally as the 'Prophet' spouting revolutionary rhetoric like a rasta Tom Paine, James Cromwell gibbers in his plush mad scientist attic room, but there just isn't enough of them to make you care.

I'm sure the intention of the film was to make Bruce feel like the one lost and lonely lamb surrounded by a landscape of plastic dreams, because, as if you haven't guessed it, the theme running through the film is that when humans interact remotely they lose their humanity. It doesn't work though. The robots aren't there enough either and there's very little contrast between machine and 2D meat-bag.

Oh, there's a crime to solve too, but that's all incidental and shouldn't get in the way of the undergraduate philosophising.

In short the film's exploration of what it means to be human is flippant and shallow. It feels like the Hollywood gloss has missed the point, and there may actually have be a good point in there somewhere. Still at 89 minutes it's watchable for an Orange Wednesday. Certainly not worth full price, but it does pass the time. I also took slight pleausre at the idiots in the seats next to me who 'ooohed' and 'ahhhhed' at every, ahem, 'plot-twist'- they better not see Total Recall, lest it blow their tiny minds.

This Song Will Make You Happy

2009-09-18T11:12:00.008+01:00

The Voluntary Butler Scheme is one jingly jangly man named Rob (look, he's got balloons!). Rob has written a joyful collection of low-fi indie noise that you should just adore: they make you feel young, sunny and... happy. Yes, these tunes will make you happy. 'Breakfast, Dinner, Tea' will be speeding me on my way to London today, and because of it I'll be bobbing in my seat, daydreaming out of the window and crucially all thought of what junction and where will be forgotten.

Never mind. Everything is lovely. Incidentally isn't The Voluntary Butler Scheme a great name; it's one of those concepts, like Saki's occassional garden, that you just wish existed.

Voluntary Bulter Scheme The Eiffel Tower & The BT Tower

Fun Thing #881 - Public Transport

2009-09-14T14:34:00.042+01:00

I cannot drive. I can barely walk without tipping over - straight lines in a four wheeled chariot of death? No chance. I rely on public transport and in penance I constantly maintain a thwarted expression. Last weekend, thanks solely to my super skills of organisation (i.e. writing lots of stuff in a notebook), and admittedly a friend coordinating the actual important things, such as pre-booking late night taxis, travel went so smoothly that I felt I must be dreaming. This weekend normal service resumed with avengence.

Saturday night instead of going to see Mesrine parts I & II, I ended up forking over £7 to see cookery orientated chick-flick Julie & Julia recommended by A.- a man who treasures the Dawson's Creek soundtrack in his record collection. Taste is not quite his strong point. I owe him though: I'd put him through Sunshine ("For Seven Years I talked to God... " absolute drivelling pile of ludicrousness), and do I ever hear the end of it? No, so I'm waiting for him to slip up.

Julie & Julia: directed and written by Nora Ephron, starring Meryl Streep, Amy Adams and Stanley Tucci.

Julie & Julia, is... okay, a bit of a strange mix between fussy and fluffy. It's based on two true stories; one of Julia Child's rise to cooking glory, and one about a very thin woman who not only seems to constantly eat butter with no ill affects, but also cooks her way through Child's recipe book, blogs about it, and becomes famous. Damn her.

It has Norah Ephron's typical and tedious generalisations about differences between the sexes crowbarred in, but it's endearing enough in parts. Stanley Tucci and his marvellous voice are a pleasure, and once you get over Meryl Streep's impression the film bobs right along. The downside includes the quirky and narcissistic Julie character, and the two stories are sometimes awkwardly segued together - Ephron's commitment to the parallel lives conceit is slightly grating.

My favourite moment was when Julie's husband suggested she write a blog about how she adores living in Queens, which was of course my original impetus behind '1001 Fun Things'- a plan that quickly disintegrated when I realised I didn't have enough bile to constantly hate Aber and write about how much I hated it too. And I moved.

Anyway, the film, yes, it's okay - it's something safe and inoffensive, your mum would probably like it. Though I'm sure it leaves bloggers everywhere wondering why movie rights haven't been optioned for their solipsistic thoughts, and lastly where did she buy that magic fat free butter?

Here endeth the review and begineth the aforementioned chaos.

A. and I left the cinema, it was late on a Saturday night, we had no time for a drink and post film discussion because the respective last trains were due -in any case the pubs were all full of leering drunks who would love to spill drinks over me. So off we went to the station where A. (who'd travelled 44 miles just for the pleasure of seeing Julie & Julia with me) learned three valuable lessons:

Cardiff - Doctor Who set by day -a special kind of bedlam on Saturday nights.
As the capital of a purportedly developed nation, Cardiff has all the usual indications of progress; tall buildings, lots of shops selling designer kitchen gadgets, asymmetric hair on young men. However these are no guarantees of an efficient public transport system, or in this case any trains to Bristol later than 10pm (I'd checked and found one at 11, but alas... on Monday to Fridays only).
Drunken weirdos flock to the train and bus station like zombies to top-hats.

I in turn learned that my train had been replaced by a bus. Great. I hate all trains, but that is nothing, nothing compared to the unadulterated sheer loathing that I reserve for buses (and Aberystwyth). We journeyed back to my home via the joys of the rail replacement bus, and not just any rail replacement but the last replacement of the night, every seat of which was filled with absolutely tone deaf piss-heads. All of whom were determined to work their way through the soundtrack from Grease. Bastards.

Death by buses continued on into the next day too -sadly there weren't enough replacements to cope with the demand to get out of Bridgend, or some stupid football match in Cardiff was on or something, so we remained stuck in misery-ville, eating blackberries and taking in the odd castle. Eventually A. fled, bemused at the terrible consequences of trying to do something as simple as going to the cinema on the wrong side of the Severn.

I'm sure there's a film in here somewhere, and I'd like either Kate Winslet or Jennifer Connelly to play me please.

You Pronouce it Tinmuff. Really.

2009-09-07T10:36:00.054+01:00

4th September: Teignmouth*

What an unforgettable weekend; I shared a pint with some lovely people, including the great grandson of Harold MacMillan (a thoroughly nice chap), repelled any potential vampire attacks with late night garlic friend rice, crawled through some medieval tunnels, and found myself agog at a breathtaking performance by Muse. It was all achingly good and now I'm back to the green laserless skies of drab reality.

The guys from Muse can't walk down the street without winning some sort of live award, and quiet rightly so: love them or hate them, it's undeniable that they pour their hearts, souls, and three truckloads of equipment into their performance. However the homecoming gig in Teignmouth (pronouced Tinmuff, which like Aber, smells of chips) wasn't so much about the light show, the punch and judy set up, the funky videos, or even Matt's Kaoss Mansun (a guitar with a touch pad connected to a Korg Kaoss pad - sounds a bit like a theremin). Quite simply the band returned triumphant and their music was amazing. Muse played their rock socks off.

Andy, the taxi driver who took our party back to Exeter, was less impressed. He regaled us with tales of ferrying Chris the bassist home from Heathrow. Chris was heading back Teignmouth jubilant at the cutting of a new album; it's fair to say that he can be imagined jumping into the taxi with a certain amount of swagger, though this was soon diminished after hearing the news that his driver ( a skiffle man) had never listened to any Muse tunes. Eager to rectify this sad state of affairs Chris popped the newly made disc into the cd player. After a brief listen the taxi driver's words of consolation were "oh well, you've got a riff to yourself, ay, that's nice isn't it." He cheekily disclosed to us who should know better that "it's a load of old crap" and that he'd lost the copy Chris gave him in a move.

For those who are interested, it's on the Radio 1 and the red button tonight, but here's a clip of my favourite moment, a new arrangement of 'Cave'.

*From the flickr photostream of Olly-Og

It's Only Words...

2009-09-07T09:58:00.008+01:00

I have a challenge and I'm afraid it takes some explaining: I'm looking for a word to sum up all of the below:

A. is decluttering, he took into work some old quiz books and gave them to his friend (who happens to be his boss), this made his friend/boss extremely happy. A's aim was to make his friend happy, but he has also benefitted as he has decluttered, and has of course scored some brownie points with a senior work colleague. Now surely there has to be a word, much like the concept of schadenfreude to describe a benevolently selfish act?

Points to remember -

The self interested consequences of the act remained unknown to the other person

The intentions of the act were equally please another as well as to benefit selfishly: the huge amount of joy felt by the recipient only served to exacerbate the joy in having secretly served a selfish purpose.

Either a real word (from any language) or a very good made up term. Surely there has to be something?

The Joys of Civilisation

2009-08-25T12:06:00.009+01:00

What's Aberystwyth got? Three streets, a pier, mouldering Victorian sea front buildings, Judith Iscariot as mayoress, stacks of pubs, the world's largest camera obscura and a beach? Wo-bloody-ho.

What's civilisation got? Public transport that (sort of) works or at least runs frequently, joy, more concerts than you can shake a thrust aloft (and rhythmically swaying) mobile phone at, happiness, a wider gene pool and ... everything you could possibly need, including paninis at 4am and urchins to shine your shoes.

Maybe not the shoe shining urchins. Still, cor blimey g'vnr... I can't complain and for the most part I'm relishing the opportunities of being away for a while.

Alas you can take the girl away from a torpid Victorian seaside resort town, but you can't take the decaying pier out of the girl - next weekend I am once again eshewing the amenities of the modern world to be off my tod down to Devon. It's worth it though: come next weekend Teignmouth will be basking in the warmth of its favourite sons and hosting two nights of Muse homecoming gigs. I have my ticket and I'm grinning like an idiot.

In Celebration of Some Sunshine.

2009-08-08T17:47:00.012+01:00

Don't-complain-about-the-weather-resist-tempta... oh damn it!

If you must live in Wales then surely you're asking for all the trouble, rain sodden trouser bottoms and unoriginal sheep jokes that get thrown your way. I should be grateful that my health kick has been nicely sabotaged by the unceasing drizzle and gloom - that instead of wandering, er-hem, that is to say power walking (powerfully) around the countryside, flinging myself into bushes to dodge cars, I've been forced to stay in (with crisps) catching up on films . Days in with 'In Bruges' and the like aren't so bad really - so what if nipping out to the off licence gets you a bit damp?

Low and behold here comes the sun though, and to celebrate here's some nice summery records:

Pains of Being Pure at Heart- Young Adult Friction -Distilled sunshine, park benches and furtive fumblings in a cup.
Tom Vek - Nothing But Green Lights - Clangs about a bit but makes a nice understated point.
Asobi Seksu - Strawberries (Ulrich Schnauss remix) - Fey music for celestial nights.

Richard Herring is NOT Racist, so put that in your Guardian Pipe and Smoke it!

2009-07-29T20:14:00.018+01:00

Pass me some oats as my high horse needs feeding.....

Yesterday a Guardian article entitled the 'New Offenders of Stand-up Comedy' unfairly besmirched comedian Richard Herring, deliberately misquoting him as holding racist sympathies. I'd just like to take a moment to stand up for the poor stand-up, not because I'm a nerdy superfan* but because the article is libelous, and being so misrepresents him to potential punters. Once again, I'd like to state in google friendly terms; Richard Herring is not racist.

I'm frankly baffled at where to begin. Firstly I'd like to express my disappointment at the Guardian for their willful misrepresentation of facts to suit their copy. I mean, the 'Guardian' for crying out loud! Next they'll be misquoting talking foxes who miss the good old days being hunted -"we've all gotten so obese without the exercise, don'tcha know".

The gist of Brian Logan's article (here) is that comedy has swung around from political correctness to attacking established "right on" values for the sake of being needlessly controversial, and Richard Herring's new show 'Hitler Moustache' is indicative of this dark trend Logan gives a brief description of the show but then winds up by quoting Richard out of context saying "that racists have a point". At the end of the article he makes a point that outrage can be useful, but the comedy audiences should feel free to stand up and walk away from shows that bully.

By gum it does sound bad doesn't it?

If I didn't know who this Herring guy was I'd assume he was a raving right wing bigot who probably built his own boats to deport any neighbours he didn't like - I'd bet he'd even make them out of old copies of the Daily Mail all the while chuckling to himself at the thought of waterlogging. I certainly wouldn't be interested in listening to any of his views and his name (if remembered) would become an anathema akin to Bernard Manning.

Actually Richard has written thoughtful show around the toothbrush/'Hitler' moustache questioning whether it can ever be reclaimed for Charlie Chaplin and comedy in general. By wearing the moustache and talking about it he's safely in the realms of "right on" comedy that challenges the audience to think about what is offensive. This show, like most of his output, delights in absurdities, irony, and logical fallacies - all of which are astutely constructed with careful wit .

Richard's mortified rebuttal is here, if you want to read anymore about this. Hopefully he'll have a right to reply, not to mention an apology, from the Guardian. Dave Gorman has also written an rather good blog entry on this subject (here), which I'd like to paraphrase; you don't have to like Richard Herring, it's fine not to, but he's not racist and deserves accurate representation, as does everyone.

*yes, I know I am. I love my 'who is Virgillo Anderson? t-shirt and I don't care who knows it.

Film Review: Moon

2009-07-23T17:02:00.027+01:00

Directed by Duncan Jones, written by Nathan Parker, starring Sam Rockwell, and featuring the vocal talents of Kevin Spacey.

One of my favourite anecdotes involves the moon; a group of 18 year old girls are away on holiday by themselves for the first time (ooh exciting). As they lounge about at night, staring at the stars, sipping brightly coloured cocktails from too large glasses, one looks and says - "do you think that's the same moon they're all looking at back home?".

To get to the point: 'Moon' is a nice little film; proud to be smart and far more appealing than most of the dross that's circulating. Sam Rockwell plays Sam Bell, a man who's been working alone on the dark side of the moon with only a legoblock robot for company. Mercifully he's due to go home after three long years.

Of course nothing is that simple: he's been all alone (and looks twitchy and ill), he should be walking away free, the robot has a sinister emoticon 'face', and worst of all the sets are all post modern minimal shiny white...

Let's all scream silently, there's about to be some impeding doom of a familiar nature. So what's 'Moon' got going for it?

The solipsistic plight of Sam Bell presents some interesting quandaries, with close camera work and Rockwell's acting skill hammering home the demand for empathy. Despite being more or less on his lonesome, Sam Rockwell is compelling enough to make the film watchable, and the one man aspect, off putting though it may seem at first, really does work.

Yes, script nods to other great sci-fi flicks, notably Space Odessey and Solaris, dealing as it does with typical psychological space trauma/cabin fever. However, even though it doesn't break any new ground, it is very, very well written, with a certain deft humour punctuating the bleak plot. 'Moon' is clever enough to stand up for itself; giving the general impression of being a lucid Philip K Dick imagining, contradiction in terms though that is.

Moon manages to feel like a complete (albeit small and tidy) package; there's the distinct conceit of a future world, but one that is not totally divorced from ours. Costume and set design is utilitarian rather unfeasibly futuristic. Best of all the cinematography is sharp and creative, if (again like the script) deliberately referential. The brief sojourns around the lunar surface have a distinctive look of calculated artificiality, and indoors there's an implicit feeling of claustrophobia and isolation.

If you do go see it then it's my guess you'll feel engaged, entertained, and you'll enjoy the mull it provokes afterwards. If you're a sci-fi nut (and like spotting homages) then there's probably at least two thousand and one that I missed.

Finally Something New!

2009-07-22T14:31:00.016+01:00

Well a new post about an old song. Sorry.

Jonathan Swift remarked that a fool saying nothing could pass as a philosopher; but if a blogger says nowt it's usually because they're caught up in having a real life. It's less pithy, but it's true. I'm living through the sort of interesting times that are not interesting or funny enough to warrent commentary. I don't have a west wing to seclude myself in whilst I'm quiet, but I do have some music rich with dramatic flare to offer up...

I was going to go with Arcade Fire's 'Black Wave-Bad Vibrations'; a tune built from sawing vocals that cut across the slightly jarring fairground backdrop, to all of a sudden be nicely countered by a switch to stoically paced hand wringing and imploring. However, I think that 'My Body is a Cage' is a better standalone track for anyone who may have been living on Mars and doesn't know the band. Much the song is soaked through with simple pleading, that when coupled with the Hammond organ, the marching drum beat, and everything else (bar the kitchen sink) that gets throw at it, creates a soaring, hopeful, transcendental piece of music.

I came late to admiring Arcade Fire; Amazon.co.uk's incessant recommendation triggered a perverse rejection, and I grumpily sat in the corner shaking my head whilst everyone else, and all the critics raved. I was wrong, Amazon was right. Arcade Fire are exactly my sort of thing; complicated, slightly pretentious ( see above "hopeful, transcendental" comment) and oh so achingly well crafted.

On that note I'll enigmatically flounce off into my own fretting.

Arcade Fire - My Body is a Cage

Retro Charm?

2009-06-30T13:53:00.008+01:00

Recently BBC online ran this story; 'Giving Up my iPod for a Walkman', where a 13 year old wonders why on earth a generation were beguiled by clunky, battery guzzling boxes of hiss and treble. Why, he queries, did we think so much of them?

I don't really think we did. Nor do I think the separation of cultural epochs is valid; certainly the technology is different, but the same people who listened to Walkmans own iPods. This sort of false distinction makes me feel like a dinosaur that's been pushed into a tar pit whilst furry little things gamble about.

I owned two Walkmans during the 80s and early 90s before giving up entirely. At the time I felt like the brand had a personal vendetta, chewing my tapes, dying on me, or just plain not working. It wasn't worth the effort when not there were easier and better ways of listening to music. Truth is that with a Walkman mobility was a strange mix of treat and hassle.

When I was 11 my friend lent me her (she assured me) more reliable Walkman for my exciting first foreign holiday. It chewed my tape up of course, but the situation was worth the risk; 10 whole days somewhere totally alien - I was grateful to be able to take four or five tapes. I could manage now of course, but since I know I don't have to, the limitation is spartan, and that is the benefit of progress.

To come to the point, the BBC junior correspondent, who incidentally writes an fine article, somewhat misses the point, the iPod versus the Walkman? The comparison is invalid in all ways and means. The Walkman generation didn't consume music in the same way, or expect there to be an alternative, we weren't slavishly bonded with the boxes -there was no need. It was a useful-ish bit of gadgetry that could be pulled out when the occasion demanded. The iPod soundtracks life, the Walkman, well when necessary it just, theoretically, made life a little bit more enjoyable.

A Maudlin Post...

2009-06-16T14:26:00.025+01:00

I lost a boy to a city. The desire for it ate away at him, so he didn't appreciate what was around him :the pretty hills and interesting bits were punctuated with rough accents, poor transport links, even poorer manners (his didn't exactly shine) and loneliness. It made him despondent, full of hatred and detached.

All I could do was watch as he drifted into these city dreams - his imagined paradise didn't seem to include me, being , as they were, part nostalgia and part wishful thinking. When the opportunity called, he left his small northern town, fled to bright lights, busy streets, sandwiches at 2am, boats, towers and culture. I was stuck in another even smaller, even more remote small town and couldn't follow right then, but by that time it didn't matter -he realised he didn't want me to.

I'm listening to Emmy the Great, City Song, which always reminds me of that fool of a boy. He isn't entirely happy now, which makes the whole thing tragic. I'd fix it if I knew how, but as the second rule of life dictates -

You can't fix people, don't even try.

And to finish this rather wistful post, the end of my time in Aber is almost up. When I arrived I was a rather blissful soul in my mid twenties, now I'm creaking to the end of them, all jagged and cranky. Am I sad to go? No! What's wrong with you? This place reeks of chips (please remember, it's my new year's resolution to spread this fact) and is utterly bereft of any forms of civilisation apart from competitive inbreeding, there's nothing to do but look at the bloody hills, a foul train service or a bus to the capital that takes four bloody hours, and the dreadful accent....

Okay, I'm slightly choked up. I'll miss the nights on the beach, some of the people that have made it so memorable, and the feeling of welcome return after fleeing in the wake of cabin fever - walking up Fford y Mor, turning the corner and being home and ready for bed. Of course the big wide world beckons, so it's not all bad.

Used without permission, but from the very excellent flicker stream of 'Jim Blob Bann'

Natural Born Millers

2009-06-14T16:17:00.012+01:00

A small sample of nature's latest assault on my well being.

Nature took a dislike to me at an early age; I've been pecked by hens, chased by geese, almost murdered by a feral Rottweiler (slavering twin of the Hound of the Baskervilles, or so my seven year old badly shocked self thought), attacked by a seagull, (definitely not funny), and the latest... stalked by cows. Yes, cows. There's nothing funny about that either!

Animals sense that as a vegetarian I am nothing less than a woebegone doormat to be trampled/chewed/pecked all over, and I've learned the lesson. The only motive for strolling across cow infested fields (on a public footpath I'll have you know) was to try to get fit.

I've seen the error of my ways now, and why people pay so much for the gym. Though in the case of this walk I was so busy grumbling to myself about life in general that I didn't actually notice the huge sleekit beasties. Nothing makes you want to enjoy life (and eat that slice of cake) like the sudden prospect of death by looming cow.

Cows seem inoffensive when you're whizzing past them on a train, after all their only job in life is to mill in a field, chew the cud, sleep; they live to be milked, to be shoes, or jackets or beef. But when there's a herd of the buggers staring right at you with their cold, fathomless, unblinking eyes, stalking towards you on hooves the size of dinner plates, and setting a brisk old pace (cutting off escape) oh boy, they take on a menacing air.

I tried being nonchalant, blanking them from my existence as a hardened soul blanks Big Issue sellers, I tried chatting to them in a friendly way, hoping they'd think I was off my head and certainly not worth trampling, but no, it only lured them closer. Lucky plan C, executed with aplomb, was to nervously glance around and walk quickly.... And of course I live to tell the tale.

Thank god for that most cunning of human technological breakthroughs - the fence! It's what separates us from the animals.

Cows with Guns - Ray Stevens

Film Review: Pour Elle/Anything for Her

2009-06-13T00:02:00.006+01:00

Dir. Fred Cavayé, written. Fred Cavayé, starring. Vincent Lindon, Diane Kruger

It’s been a mixed night; started sophisticated with subtitles, ended with the A-Team and cider; though both experiences involved people incarcerated for a crime they didn’t commit. I’ll stick to telling you about Pour Elle though as it’s by far the classier part.

Pour Elle/ Anything For Her

It’s an interesting take on the prison break scenario. A typical (therefore very passionate and blissfully happy, but what else would you expect?) French family are strained when the wife is imprisoned with no hope of reprieve, convicted of a murder she had no part in. Her husband, Julien, is ‘just a teacher’ yet he sets out to break her free. ‘Just a teacher’ seems a little snide as if he couldn't possibly, especially as he wears a serious leather jacket, but Julien is to all intents and purposes a normal man - he loves his little son, misses his wife, looks bored in class - so how does he manage to pull off something so grandiose and daring?

The answer is that he becomes totally obsessed by the break and that obsession is utterly compelling. His logic is replaced by involvement: executing the plan out rather than his wife being free, is Julien's reason to go on. The wife is undoubtedly innocent, so you can feel sympathetic as well as voyeuristic to his attempt, and in many cases his best guesses of how to execute the details have distinctly unglamorous consequences.

At some point we’ve all fantasised about how to get hold of fake passports, or buck the system in some way (particularly when buying train tickets from the blood sucking poor service providers – you know you’ll be standing, or the air conditioning will break), but putting that into action? I wouldn’t have the foggiest, and I will darkly admit that I’d like to, so I was engrossed by watching this everyday chap read up books by escapees and try to be daring, especially when the momentum of events overtake him.

It’s very good: it feels, and thanks to brilliant lighting, looks real. I don't think I could pull a prison break off though- I’m not a grizzled, passionate Frenchman with a leather jacket that looks like it means business all on its own. Julien, he’s downcast, he’s committed and he’s fanatically thorough. You leave the cinema with a lot to reflect upon which has to be the hallmark of a film worth seeing.

Twitter Comedy Club

2009-05-23T23:30:00.013+01:00

At 8pm on the 8th June, the first online comedy club will be happening via the medium of Twitter. Nine comedians are taking part in the live gig which you can watch unfold from the comfort of your own sofa. No one, comics included, need to leave their houses and assuming you have broadband, it's totally free. Each act will spend ten minutes twittering a comedy set, within the boundaries of the 140 character limit.

9 comedians, 140 characters... can it be funny? Well I hope so as I'm planning to follow! Of course it's not going to have the atmosphere of a 'real life' gig; the bristling fear of being picked on, the smell of beer, the one man who sits stoney faced and cross-armed scowling up a storm, or that one irriating shrieker (mandatory comedy requirement), whose constant "arghhhahahahahahaha" shreds mirth into thin soggy strips. The events organisers have taken into account the crowd's likelihood to heckle though, and instead of laughter they encourage the concept of retweeting (RT to all twitter proficient bods).

Mark 'Stupid Magners Commercial' Watson (one of the famous names taking part) has described it as a 'defining moment', Steven Fry has settled for 'larky'. Either way, if you want to join in with the virtual hijinx then follow the #twitcom tag on twitter.

Comedians include:

• Mark Watson - @watsoncomedian

• Pappy's Fun Club - @PappysFunClub

• Mitch Benn – @MitchBenn

• Matt Kirshen – @mattkirshen (who I'm especially looking forward to, he's quite the exceptional twitterer, not to mention real life stand up comic)

• Rob Heeney – @robheeney

• Carl Donnelly – @carldonnelly

• Terry Saunders – @terrysaunders

• Gary Delaney – @garydelaney

As someone who regularly chuckles away when reading on trains (and of course lives in a stupid place with few ground breaking comedy performances), I have no problems with laughing uncontrollably at a screen... my flatmate may think I've gone off my chump, but she shouldn't be listening through our ridiculously thin walls! Mind you, like I say: Aberystwyth... you take entertainment where you can get it and wall listening has to be fun thing # 872.

For more information you can check out either @tweetcomedyclub or spoonfed, the event promoter's website.

A Little Late Night Craziness

2009-05-15T02:59:00.006+01:00

It's 4 in the morning and I can't bloody sleep. Yeah, it's like Leonard Cohen here alright, but rather less poetic, and I'm afraid there's a fluffy pink dressing gown (replete fluorescent marker stains) rather than a famous blue raincoat.

On the plus side I've fully mastered the intricacies of Last.Fm, I'm therefore no longer feeling quite the dimwitted mutton-head. One thing is puzzling me though; I thought to "scrobble" meant to stuff Patrick Troughton into a large burlap sack and kidnap, as per 'The Box of Delights', no? Well I'll indignantly tell you that the world is all the poorer for the new definition, where Last.Fm merely makes a note of what you've been listening to.

There's loads of good language in 'The Box of Delights', as you'd expect of a poet laureate like John Masefield, but scrobble has always been my favourite, so I'm a little sad that my songs get 'scrobbled' for Last.Fm, but there's not so much as a brown paper bag to manhandle them into.

As for the 'Box of Delights', the stunning BBC adaption (1984) is very probably directly responsible for my box mania, and on a similar Christmas-tea-time-special note, yes I'm afraid I still check ornate cupboards to see if there's a way to Narnia, ho hum - a girl has to have her hobbies.

Mixed Bag Week

2009-05-10T14:29:00.032+01:00

I managed to escape from Aberystwyth again this weekend, though only for a short sojourn down to Cardiff to visit the Centre for Life Long Learning's "History, Archaeology, Politics and Identity" Conference. It was a day of lectures punctuated by a rather snazzy buffet lunch and numerous cups of tea, though when did wraps become part of caterer's set buffet lexicon? My, how times have changed. Best of all considering these wallet mouldering days- the whole thing was free. As you'd expect of a catered academic knees up on a sunny Saturday, the audience consisted only of lecturers, archaeologists, student bums and pensioners - the natural predators of a proffered biscuit, but all of whom have a tendency to fall asleep if provoked.

The vast majority of the conference was excellent. The program was incredibly varied, taking subjects diverse as India, bog bodies, music, architecture and deconstruction of folk lore all within its stride. It is totally without irony that I say who knew that Glasgow tenements could be so interesting? I know, I'm a geek, I really don't care as the knowledge is worth it. Overall the event was tinged with a little sadness as the Centre is cutting all of its courses in humanities and Welsh; the HAPI Conference may be their swan song.

It's worth noting to skeptics that the humanities are important (no, really), and not just for coasting students who want to get in and out of university with as little fuss as possible. Their value is somewhat intangible in real life, lying as it does within the curiosity these subjects can satisfy, rather than their ability to provide you with a job. Nevertheless they do contribute to the development of a well rounded, well balanced, enquiring character. The Centre for Life Long Learning is part of Cardiff University's charter to make higher learning accessible to those not scuttling around within its flypostered walls, and though obviously the budget can only stretch so far, to loose all the humanities is a very sad step.

Overall the day was a good one. Much better in fact than the Save the Children concert in Aber last Thursday, where the best thing was the ultra violet hand-stamp. I'm afraid I simply don't have the vitriol to rail against the shoe gazing student bands I saw there, though I did leave early, so I should charitably note that one of the remaining acts may have been good. Just maybe.

For the two I did see, particularly 'Bell the Cats', well as far as I'm concerned, their mates really should have considered it part of the onerous duties of friendship to have told them that they can neither play or sing a note. The singing may be due to the weak neck muscles, which in turn contributed, not so much to chic indie shoe-gazing but rather eyeballs stuck to their Converse clad toes. Maybe they were embarrassed at their awfulness too; after all they couldn't compose either now I come to think of it.... at least, my god, I hope they were original compositions. I'd hate to think that covers were so wailingly unidentifiable.

Here's something decent to spread joy on a sunny Sunday, two tracks from Swedish ex-music journalist, now singer 'Hello Saferide'.

Always On My Mind
I Was Definitely Made for These Times, which I especially like due to the line praising the tragic ability to quote all of High Fidelity.

Bank Holiday Lesiure

2009-05-04T17:55:00.029+01:00

Bank holiday weekend and for the most part the sun has been shining, though it's dutifully stopped now, it wouldn't do to give too much of an impression of summer would it?

Meanwhile the (four) streets of Aberystwyth have been clogged with unfortunate tourists, most of whom must have thought there would be more to the place than a pebble beach, whilst the pubs were chock full of rugby 7's lads, grunting, sweating and generally labouring under the misapprehension that to knuckled over and squeeze themselves into a seat next to a woman is to charm the pants off her. Ice cream and testosterone perfumed the air whilst the boom-boom-boom of bass from car speakers formed a counterpoint with the shrill spikes of children shrieking.

My weekend began with adventure, or to give it a less grand title: I went for a walk and got lost in the countryside. Harrassed as I was by the influx of visitors to tiny-town, my quest started with the absurd notion to follow a previously undiscovered path to see where it may lead. The answer: over hill and dale (both covered in sheep), through sharp pointy bushes, past a field of sheep, more briar and a river, all to end up in another field of sheep with no escape. What was that about fools rushing in? The proverb should be amended to include brambles, stones in shoes, and if in Wales, sheep.

Aside from those few hours, most of the weekend has been spent indoors (away from the sun, the bikers, rugby boys, brightly coloured students and tourists), watching World Championship snooker; thus maintaining my unhealthy pallor.

I'm actually a huge fan, and there's lots of reasons for loving the game; the relaxing chink of resin balls, the hypnotic commentary, Steve Davis's wry punditry (he's still playing away in the top 32). There's also the strange things that professionals can make a cue ball do that seem to defy all common sense, the waistcoats wrapped around flat stomachs... and of course the characters, which do exist despite the general assumption that increasing professionalism killed the game. It isn't all dour young(ish) men, hitting balls with sticks with consummate concentration for large amounts of money.

Oh no, they certainly don't just play for the money! Nor snooker WAGs or public ambivolence - after all the best part of being a snooker player has to be the nicknames. Where else, outside of test piloting, do you get such incredible epithets? Moreover how else could a young man who looks like Beaker from the Muppet Show ever earn the right to be known as Neil 'the Thunder from Down Under' Robertson, with all the glory (not to mention the potential bedding of Australian soap stars) that, surely, such a name must entail?

Beaker

Neil Robertson

Sadly my favourite players (Neil, Mark Selby and Ronnie O'Sullivan) have all gone, but I've beer, all kinds of nibbly things and one last evening session to enjoy before revision starts again. Happy days.

Finish your dissertation, be almost at the end of your seventh (non-consecutive) year at university and jump for joy - Fun thing #1000

2009-04-28T19:31:00.008+01:00

I never, ever, ever have to look at another press release from any member of the Scooby-Doo cast of villainy that made up the Bush administration, ever, every again. Having finished my masterpiece to the diabolic consequences of the phrase "enemy combatant"* I have wine, I have good music and fine times. I lack a pair of strong hands to administer a well deserved shoulder rub, but you can't have it all.

Did I mention I'm happy? I'd fly a kite if I had one!

Here's the soundtrack to the writing nightmare:

*You might think it pointless but you'd be surprised, or bored if you got me started on it.

Music Review - Swooning over Josh Ritter

2009-04-18T13:59:00.022+01:00

Today I'm in a sentimental mood. I've also been checking the play-count of my iPod where one artist consistently out performs everyone else - so in his honour I'm going to wax lyrical about Josh Ritter; the throaty, achingly talented, smiley, wry and utterly charming singer-songwriter from Moscow, Idaho.

Not just smiley but sharp suited too!

Reasons to adore Josh; songs constructed like fine tapestries filigreed with gold, compassionate lyrics that flit between a simple love-song one minute and a grand theme the next. And he probably sweats poetry. The only time I saw him live (Fiddler's in Bristol) he held the door open for my clueless date, but what's more he's so well mannered that his own website allows you to stream all of his albums and download a plenty of tracks. I'm waiting for his next UK tour so I can work out how to meet and marry him.

There are five studio albums to his name; a self titled debut, recently re-released Golden Age of Radio, utterly charming Snow is Gone, The Animal Years and the rather different Historical Conquests of Josh Ritter. Each goes from strength to strength; there's a melodious cascade of sound surrounding this humble balladeer who troups the plains not only with guitar, but flamboyant schemes and wry smile.

The step to grander orchestrations does not detract from the sincerity of the songs, which I think is the most pretentious thing I've ever written, but if Mr Ritter is to be described in a nutshell then it has to be sincere - it's why his charm is so compelling. The latest album flaunts Josh's brazen ability to make large bands and diverse influences a comfortable part of his traditionally folky repertoire, so much so you'll be wondering why more artists don't have horn sections. Well, maybe not, but it is pulled off admirably in the Historical Conquests.

Josh's songs have gained a fair bit of critical applause for their wordsmithery, from the 9 minute epic and revelatory 'Thin Blue Flame' to the slightly cynical prom-night sentimentality of 'Kathleen', a truly beautiful song that cannily disguises teenage hormones and the desire for a night with an untouchable girl, especially when a perfect night is all it is ever intended to be.... Excuse me, I'm just sighing to myself.

Here's a selection anyway, including the humorous 'Stuck on You', which just about broke my heart when my iPod shuffled it into play as I sat on a train station bench, dumped, drizzled on and in Doncaster - damn all heart-wrecking physics teacher ex boyfriends.

Music Review - The Blims (aka Fun Things to do in Bridgend)

2009-04-12T13:39:00.011+01:00

Every town has a pub band that's been doing the rounds for a while. In Bridgend it's the unfortunately titled 'The Blims', proof that the naming of bands is a dying art. Many a new year, summers day or random weekend will have been soundtracked by the boys own brand of mellow harmonising pop.

Unlike Bridgend the Blims are sunny, irreverent and likable - they're the South Wales version of The Monkees. Performances are always packed as they're friendly folk who encourage an entourage. The latest gig at the snug Star pub was was no exception.

So that's what I was doing last night; part of the crowd at the bar, trying to work out what hadn't been sold out (hard drinking fans went through all the soft drinks). Cider retrieved, cider spilled through jostling and elbowing the Bridgend version of the beautiful people - (coke-addled gentry princesses; sort of orange, chunky expensive necklaces and very blow-dried hair, usually paired with surfy, likewise blow-dried, check-shirted chaps). I ended up sitting in a fireplace, grateful for the space (geddit), marvelling at how much the band has developed over the years.

Live you can't beat 'em; it's always a good show with a bit of a knees up as befits a veteran pub band. There's also two self produced albums to their name (available on iTunes) and though these sadly don't sound quite as polished there's some gleaming potential on the latest 'Working Class Poetry', particularly 'She Said', 'What I Really Want' and the standout 'Four Letter Word'. Lyrical sources of inspiration are far from profound - friends, family and bumming around in a band when maybe you might be a bit too old for it, sing-a-long potential is high nonetheless.

'Working Class Poetry', although riddled with local references and cheeky asides to friends, is worth a go; easy summer pop that perfectly compliments beers on the beach and laughing with your mates.

Oh and they still don't like Gavin Henson much.....

Deadlines Loom Like Fogbound Cows.

2009-04-08T13:44:00.008+01:00

Ah, the Easter 'holiday'. At first the days lose meaning because there are so many of them to come and it's sunny, there are friends to visit; then the realisation of finishing the dissertation hits you like a brick made of cow pats. You find yourself waking up at four in the morning clutching your chest, seeing words fly around the inside of your eyelids and every now and again when in normal conversation with someone who actually has a real life, you find yourself drifting off into your own world of re-phrasing, and the panic of re-drafting hits. If you type it, it will be done.

Much wine will soon be spilled in merriment, but before that happens here's a few non-holiday songs ...

Comedy Review: Mark Watson

2009-03-28T20:18:00.017Z

Last a night a full house gathered at the Sherman Theatre, Cardiff. A colourful mix of students, radio 4 listeners and people looking for something to do on a Friday - all in turn serving themselves as people watching entertainment extraordinaire. Yes, I had wine in hand and slightly nervous conversation to make. The reason for the milling? Mark Watson; sometime radio and TV funny chap, who was out to entertain with his ambitiously titled "All the thoughts I've had since I was born' act. Unlike most of the things I blog about he did actually play Aberystywth a few days earlier, bless him.

Within minutes of Mark's somewhat eccentric appearance the crowd were completely disarmed and delighted. His engaging manner, impeccable delivery and self-deprecating ways were winning and witty, as was his anecdotal set. Mark Watson isn't surreal, he doesn't have catch phrases, and he's not witheringly sarcastic: he is a rare gem of an observational comic possessing a charming way with words...

Be prepared though - those words come out at a rate of around a million a minute. My gosh no wonder he's so thin! Not that Mark bounds back and forth around the stage, it's just that the sheer energy and enthusiasm he invests into his ramshackle tales punches home an admirable work ethic. As a consequence stories tend to ramble breathlessly, and not all get wrapped up neatly. For the most part that's okay - firstly there's usually something very, very funny waiting to spring out from reminiscence prison; also the whimsical nature of the musings means that you find yourself chortling away to a turn of phrase, not caring that there wasn't quite an end to the narrative, whilst you're lead down a garden path of a completely different, sometimes dark, nature.

The show was great, and faults were few; maybe there seemed to be a lack of control over the audience in the second half - things became a bit too pally for my liking. Some members rattled on and on. Then again the general high levels of interaction served to spawn one or two big laughs, and the idea of a competition encouraging people to be nice to each other certainly brightened some lives- £3 cash prize not to be mocked in these hard times.

The only other flaw seemed to be the haphazard introduction of general themes, such as compliments or 'Little Book of Calm' style de-stressing; these touchstones of structure didn't quite scaffold the show and seemed slightly cumbersome. Like Eddie Izzard, Mark riffs (about his life, not bees), and I suspect just like Izzard, those riffs are carefully worked out, but they sometimes clashed with the broader musings, throwing out the pace slightly.

Mark's been performing at the fringe and touring generally since 2004 , garnering accolades and praise, but he's still a young comedian and the small niggles are easily consequential of that. I thoroughly enjoyed myself, laughing along to an original, warm and mirthsome soul. I'm looking forward to more of Mark's wry comedy in the future.

Four Stars and a big grin for Mr Watson.

You can stalk Mark on twitter, or find his tour dates listed here.

Friday Pop

2009-03-27T14:56:00.010Z

I'm listening to Candi Payne's excellent 2007 album 'I Wish I could Have Loved You More'. Nice pop music for a Friday; something you can sing along to but still take yourself seriously as a music snob. Mind you, I sing along to Dolly Parton at times, off-key and totally without irony.

Other pop tunes I'm enjoying as I bustle about...

The Rezillos cover of Last of the Secret Agents - looks like one of the band has skinned a muppet....

And, No One Takes You Home by Kathryn Williams

Tonight I'm off to Cardiff to laugh at Mark Watson, which is okay, he's a comedian, a wonderful one at that (who makes the world substantially better), and I've paid for the privilege. Afterwards there may be chess and some drinks, or some storming to the train station and sulking at home (with a consolation pizza - a large one).

It could go either way but I'm all set. I'm oozing deliberately casual in cardigan that looks as if it could have been an Oxfam donation from Kurt Cobain, but underneath I'm a bundle of anticipation/nerves; fed up of let downs and, let's be oh so melodramatic here... false hopes. I'm tired, I really need some nice times and a laugh but I'll settle for winning at chess. At least twice.

Or that pizza and extra olives.

A Grand Weekend.

2009-03-24T13:50:00.014Z

One of the strangest things about the goldfish bowl of Aberystwyth is its ability to instill cabin fever in almost anyone. Probably even hermits. It has indisputably been time to get away and go visit friends (even that does entail a trip to terrible Bridgend), scoring bonus points for being at home for Mother's Day and thus negating the need for a stupid, waste of money, bad for the environment, enslaving of the masses, card. I'm a heartless monster, I know.

What's more the sun has had his hat on! Hip, hip, hip, horray. In fact it has been sunny enough to provoke general panic buying of disposable barbecues and burger buns, and for me to twitch about whether last year's suncream would still be okay to use. The glorious sunshine and gentle breeze stirred all sorts of latent feelings. But for want of any better options I was struck with the desire, nay - the compulsion, to go visit the Merthyr Mawr sand dunes - a magical place where I can change colour like a limited chameleon who only does anaemic white or clown nose red.

The sand dunes are just outside Bridgend, and are part of the largest dune system in Europe, so look impressed. The tallest dune stands at 80m above OD (Ordnance Datum), and on their edge is a small fortified manor that is slowly being swallowed by the shifting sands. There's also all sorts of multi-period archaeology that turns up in the area. So not just a pretty picnic spot.

On a sunny day the first thing you notice is that the dunes are riddled with children on plastic sleighs riding around, kicking sand (need I add at you?), screaming and not so surreptitiously weeing in bushes. To transport all the irritating, ball throwing, temper loosing, skuttling, skidding, urinating children, the parents obviously need big cars. Said cars are then driven as quickly as possible along the tiny country roads. It spoils the walk through the chocolate box village of Merthyr Mawr, but does add quest like peril to the day out.

Despite it all the dunes still seem like the place to be. There's a certain rightness and dogged adversity that a sunny day causes you to embrace - especially when you get to your chosen spot and the chilling breeze makes you to realise it isn't quite as warm as you'd like. The optimistic linen skirt admittedly proved to be a school girl error. Nevertheless there I was amidst the great outdoors; the sun shone down, whilst the wind (which wouldn't stop picking up) whipped the tiny sea grasses into papercut-giving machines. There was good company, sandy hummus and gritty champagne. In keeping with the desert atmosphere, Radio 3 World Routes was the only thing the radio would tune to; no bad thing - it provided funky accompaniment with fusion tunes based on ancient Persian music. I was expecting Lawrence to ride over any minute (the dunes were used as a location after all).

I had a really great time.

Fun Thing # 304 - Cleaning the Kitchen After A BIG Night Out

2009-03-17T10:27:00.010Z

I say 'big', what I mean is a night out where you end up feeling like a sad, mothball smelling granny who no-one wants to visit because you make them eat mint imperials and tell the same story about wart removal over and over and over. It's no comfort to me that my plans of getting older do not, as yet, include either moth balls or warts; I'm anticipating being an old woman who smells of Chanel and bitterness.

Yes that's right- bitterness. I'm giving up all pretence at being a happy, normal, well adjusted person of the sort that welcomes friends into their tidy kitchen, slowly watches it disintegrate into a glass filled, booze-smelling hell hole, and gets up early the next morning to tidy. As yet the kitchen is still a mess, I'm grumpy because I haven't had breakfast and I refuse to make it when the counters are all covered in makeup, vodka, mayonnaise and party popper entrails. Oh and I missed the bloody bins again, bane of my life that they are.

As for the night out: not much went wrong really, I'm just being melodramatic and kicking myself for a really pathetic late night drunken text (not for the first time on here either).

I've vague recollections of seeing a brank or 'scold's bridle' at some museum or another - a barbaric medieval punishment device for people who talked too much. To qualify for this humiliation the scolder would have to be...

" a troublesome and angry woman who by brawling and wrangling amongst her neighbours breaks the public peace, increases discord and becomes a public nuisance to the neighbourhood."*

I'm not suggesting that a return to the 'good old' days of the literal curbing of free speech is in order, or that I brawl or wrangle, or even that I'm overly troublesome. I do think I may need my thumbs chopping off. It would be for my own good.

*Pettifer, E. 1992. Punishment of Former Days. Waterside Press.

Music Review: Emmy the Great - First Love

2009-02-27T13:00:00.012Z

My heart has been utterly charmed by Emmy the Great. I'm smitten, beguiled and completely disarmed. The debut 'First Love' is beautiful, clear, quirky, poignant and a treat in every way imaginable. I'd go further and say the album is just exactly how romantic indie-folky, funky twiddly-dee stuff should sound. It has all the joy of flying kites high into the blue sky and you can get lost listening to each song soar.

Emmy herself has been doing the rounds for a while touring with folks like Martha Wainwright and Tilly and the Wall, not to mention singing away in various festivals and gigs around the indie underground. This album has, by all accounts, had a long gestation period, it's none the worst for it.

Emmy's voice trips along witty lyrics sounding for all the world like a happy version of Laura Marlin - she has the same clarity and the same instantly beautiful voice that makes tuneless people like me green with envy. Then again if you're going to bestow upon yourself the epithet of 'Great' obviously you need some serious gifts, not including modesty - modesty won't pay gas bills. Every band member compliments Emmy, bringing forth songs that crackle with talent. The album affects a carefree air yet there is undeniable depth and skill behind the arrangements; unsurprisingly all band members are involved in their own projects.

As far as the songs go 'We Almost Had a Baby' (acoustic version available to download free via myspace), '24' and 'First Love' stand out as fresh and deft, but the album is a complete whole and a joy to listen to from beginning to end.

As far as pretty pop music for a spring day, you could do far, far worse.... and I venture that Emmy will be around for a lot longer.

St Skeletor's Day

2009-02-12T19:22:00.016Z

Back in 1998 when nervous breakdowns, hair dye, jazz, bloody men and chip stinking seaside towns were still to come in my life, Richard Herring came up with labling February 15th St Skeletor's Day: the anti-Valentine's, headed by a figure who epitomises evilness and the destruction of love (it's about 3 minutes into the youtube video).

Good.

It's not that I'm bitter, it's not that I dislike couples, especially happy ones, or happiness in general, or in fact any and all aspects of life that isn't fermented in barrels (well, maybe it is), but I do hate Valentine's Day. Waste of time, money and just an excuse to have stupid stuffed toys, heart shaped (if you're lucky) balloons, unattractive black and red underwear, not to mention fluffy handcuffs, all bandied from every shop window. Even charity shops, which apparently have no shame these days.... despite being run by little old ladies in floral dresses and knee socks. Very dark.

All across the world people live in misery and poverty; there's starvation, war, misery (more misery), prejudice, hatred and greed, and what do we do? Couples give themselves a nice pat on the back and feel fuzzy smug self congratulation. Most of the time this Carpenter song-like bliss is less about a deep and mutual attraction and more a thankful realisation that there is someone else who can share the responsibility of taking out the bins, chopping onions or unblocking the shower. Valentine's is after all the only day that you have to say thanks for being put up with. It's so caring, thoughtful and charming.

That doesn't cut it for St Skeletor; he doesn't have hair so his shower doesn't get blocked, he has many slaves (who he beats) so he doesn't need to make someone love him for the bins to go away. Being part skeleton he probably doesn't eat much, and all his calcium needs are met by a pestilential milkman. He even smashed the stereo with that ram headed staff of his when "It Had to Be You" came on, and regularly burns DVDs of 'When Harry Met Sally' as a recreational pastime. As Rich reminds us; Skeletor is so evil the only love interest in his life was a woman as diabolical as himself, hence her name; 'Evil Lynn' - and to be fair he didn't seem very keen on her.

So don't make St Skeletor Cards, if you do put some effort into making them equisit and then burn them in front of the potential recipient. Put on your ratty grey underwear safe in the knowledge that no-one is going to see it anyway. If you must buy chocolate hearts do so only to watch them melt into a lake of calorie riddled gloop that'll only make you feel guilty after you eat it. Oh, and wear capes with hoods so you can glare menacingly at happy couples as they stroll hand in hand clogging up pavements. It needs to be a cape though, or else your powerful social statement will be lost amongst the typical hoodie delinquency.

As for me, well, I'm going to the cinema to watch Casablanca on Valentine's Day; but I won't enjoy it, and at the end I'll be muttering loudly that Rick was better off without that heartless bitch.

The 'Heated' Towel Rail

2009-02-12T13:53:00.004Z

The heated towel rail in our bathroom stands as an affront to masculinity. You can bleed it, you can twist valves and/or suck air in through your teeth all you like - it will not be fixed; that it should be so is a source of endless frustration to male visitors. I'm of the opinion that it hasn't been plumbed in correctly and isn't worth the hassle, especially as I've got the quick sprint out of the shower, grabbing the towel and the legging it to warmer climes down to a 't'. This includes strategically placed mats so I don't slip and break a hip.

My flatmate and I aren't inept or otherwise incapable of basic DIY (despite failing to notice all the radiators in the flat needed bleeding, and yes it was rather chilly). We do however know a lost cause when we see one. The frozen implacability of the towel rail will not be compromised. And what doesn't cause hypothermia can only make you stronger.....

Give yourself a Good Talking to and Cheer up! - Fun Thing #15

2009-02-06T13:53:00.009Z

After spending a day being slightly melancholy in a head-tilted-at-an-angle/soulful-crease-between-the-eyes/sniffing-occasionally (into a tissue though; I was brought up proper, thank you very much) sort of way, I got slightly bored. Being sad will do that to you: worse it will make you bore other people too... at length! And then you get wine because you think it'll be the answer.

After drinking it all, oops, you remember that sorrows float; so you end up drunk, slumped in a chair with more sniffing and head tilting. Then you get a crick in your neck, and whilst being still drunk, boring, aching, sniffing and sad, you start issuing the occasional plea for understanding about "what I really mean to say is....", or worse "oh god, you really are my bestest mate in all the world" punctuated by the odd reference to "bloody religion/damn those fat girlfriends, and their squints!" or whatever other topic has recently ranckled. On top of this twaddle you force your friends (who are all by this point reconsidering their allegiance) to eat so many home-made chocolate fairy cakes that they start worrying about their weight and become as sad and boring as you.

All that wine, chocolate and wallowing left me seeking some sort of antidote and this is it: 'Trains to Brazil' by the good ol' Guillemots; a band versatile enough to knock out a good life affirming tune one minute and then depress the hell out of you the next. 'Trains to Brazil' happens to be one of my most favouritest songs in the whole wide world and never ceases to make me smile. I particularly like the line which mentions 'erroneous fools', though obviously if it had mentioned foolish atheists I'd have been rather peeved.

The title is a referance to the shooting of Jean Charles de Menezes, which doesn't bode well, but the catchy tune, sweet sentiments and chirpy beat all serve to sweep you up into a jig filled happiness. Lego Izzard and a few Adam and Joe song wars tracks helped me too, but over all if you need a bit of cheering and something to sing along to then you can't go wrong. Just avoid another of Guillemots effort "Blue will still be Blue" like the plague- at least until you feel better!

My New Most Favouritest Thing....

2009-02-06T11:45:00.003Z

All hail Eddie Izzard and all who have picked up those unusuaaaal speach pat'terns....

All hail lego animators too..... what a wonderful world we live in.

Bus Wars

2009-02-05T17:31:00.008Z

Flicking through the news and what do I see; a Nazi war criminal may have died in Egypt in 1992, there was one bloody big snake roaming around 58 million years ago, it's snowy in Britain and recession is almost everywhere...

Then there was this article from the Guardian online; an attack on the wonderful atheist buses by Rev. Hargreaves, leader of the Christian Party. The Christian Party doesn't like the idea of ads promoting free enquiry by denying God, and plans to run an campaign of its own telling everyone to take it easy: there not only is a God, but also a Christian Party to look after his/her/its political interests. Similar poster campaigns are being mounted by the Tritarian Bible Society and Russian media mogul Alexander Korobko.

The original idea for the atheist campaign telling people to stop worrying as there 'probably' isn't a god, was dreamt up by comedy writer Ariane Sheridan as a counter to all those posters telling you 'Jesus is the Way' scattered round train, tube and bus stations. Stop worrying about damnation? Certainly; there are plenty of other real problems to address.

I shouldn't get rilled really; posters threatening damnation just aren't enough for some groups. But rather than offer any real argument or criticism, both Rev. Hargreaves and the Tritarian Bible group see fit to label the atheist campaign as run by fools, as is everyone who happens to agree, for according to the Psalms (no.52) only a fool knows there is no God. Back when the Pslams were composed, an impressive timespanning 1190-50 BCE (snakes were normal sized); you'd have been looked at ascance (if not stoned to death) for that kind of unsubstanitated foolishness, and there really wasn't an alternative, but I think we have to seriously question whether that sentiment still rings true.

A further criticism by the Reverand; these athiest/humanist fools are spend-thrifty ones too! The atheist campaign raised £140,000 in donations though the target was a mere £5,500, including a £50 contribution from Theos, a think-tank for the CoE. Perhaps the Rev. Hargreaves should remember the words of the Apostle Paul and that 'the love of money is the root of all evil', he did however fail to mention the cost of his party's refutation.

Religious groups have had long enough to get their message across, and have possessed, and stilll do, tremendous resources to do too; surely a poster campaign isn't too hard to accept. We live in an age of scientific enquiry where it is possible to find alternatives to a supreme being - one of which is of course Richard Dawkins - we've free speech and public forums for debate, including the side of a bus. Debate is always good, but name-calling? 'Fools'? Is that really going to draw anyone in, or just bait ardent atheists like me into giving the archaic, irrelevant and tyrannical institution that is the Christian faith a bit of a mild tutting.

Make Yourself Pointlessly Gloomy and Bitter - Fun Thing # 13

2009-02-05T12:39:00.013Z

For some reason when I woke up this morning all I could think about was the end of AI. God knows why- I saw the film once, back when it hit the cinemas and became so upset about it all, especially that bloody robot bear, that I tried to repress all memories; though on balance it was an excellent piece of emotive storytelling albeit let down slightly at the end.

I don't get upset about films (generally); I keep my bleeding heart firmly under-wraps and since becoming a deeply jaded person, who gave away their copy of the 'Princess Bride' and has been too disenchanted to buy another (but oh my word, if ever there is a book that absolutely everyone can love it is William Goldman's 'The Princess Bride'; go, go, go get it!), I can do without the mushy stuff and sentimentality.

Today's distraction from the dissertation is making fairy cakes, listening to Ray LaMontagne and indulging being slightly, ever so slightly wistful. Well rounded soulful pining though; not existential emo angst of the my-parents-didn't-love-me-enough-I-only-had-a-swede-at-halloween moribund variety. It must be one of those days; I was even sent an email of a news clipping of a wet baby koala who'd been suffering in the outback heat but luckily found a bucket of water placed outside by nice people to dunk himself in.

So the only films that make me blue:

Land Before Time. Kills me, never did when I was a heartless child; back then I used to get annoyed at the wanton ignorance of dinosaur terminology.
AI. That poor sad little teddy bear who just goes to sleep next to robot boy Osmet.... oh dear me....
Truly, Madly, Deeply. The Minghella film, not the god awful song by Savage Garden. This is one of those touchstones of memory, like the song Summer of '69 (I know, I know) that a million small but very different recollections orbit around; being 21 in London having seen Sean Bean as Macbeth and watching this late at night, hundreds of nights with a man who couldn't play the cello (or anything actually), but who I ran through the streets of Newcastle with because we needed mushrooms for rissotto.....

Oh I'm going for a bloody walk in the snow! And I'll listen to 'Feeling Good', both the Nina Simone and Muse versions.

Music Review: Dan Arborise - Around in Circles

2009-01-27T10:54:00.007Z

Very deep down almost everyone has one song by a romantic folksy type that they love; everyone has at least one album by someone who may live in the woods. Though admittedly the briefest whisper of the suggestion of sitting through a cascade of Nick Drake songs saps my will to live.

Dan Arborise, according to one reviewer mentioned on his website, 'lives in a barn and grows his own vegetables'. It's not quite the woods, but the whole album is a beautiful, beautiful creation that you can just drift away with. As a musician he's relaxed and melodic with a beguiling guitar; his voice is as pure as organic water bottled in leaves and his songs flow like smoke from a summer beach barbecue. This album has a flavour of summer and warm measure of comfort but enough variation from the usual folk norm to keep it interesting and enough heartfelt honesty to make it accessible than more that just the usual audience of jumper wearing hippies.

What more can I say: I am absolutely in love with Around in Circles and I'm looking forward to it standing me in good stead for a long while to come... I;m also revising to it too, for the information of those who may be concerned.

Around in Circles came out in 2006, and he's a new album out sometime this year. He makes some of the most perfect music I have heard for ages; winsome, romantic and ....oh, just go get it, really! 9/10

Music Review: Franz Ferdinand - Tonight

2009-01-26T18:42:00.016Z

I'll start this off with a confession: I play an awful lot of Tetris, it helps me relax. In fact any computer game where you have to stack up blocks or balls or rings. I adore them all. So what's all this got to do with Franz Ferdinand? Not much really; one of their songs follows the pattern of the Guillemots and the Sister Sisters by including some fiddly computer game music buried in the background; I listen and suddenly I see blocks falling down. I may have a problem.

'Fiddly'; that's the first half of this album alright. Fiddly and trying too hard just like Lincoln Cathedral. The tracks are top heavy with flourishing touches, some which work, some unfortunately don't. The ones that don't tend to take off on beat-morphing tangents; you just have to sit there wishing the song ended back when you were enjoying it . That said the majority of songs on the new album possess the killer rhythms you'd expect: 'Ulysses' and 'What She Came For' are cases in point there. Almost every track feels like it could stand alone as a single.

Franz Ferdinand have pushed themselves, yet sometimes there are just too many layers and songs take so many unexpected twists (especially at the start of the album) that they become tedious, leaving Kapranos's strained voice to quaver over repetitive lyrics. The songs which work best tend to be true to form. Happily there's a cluster of them later on so fans won't be disappointed (in particular I rather like the gentle 'Katherine Kiss Me' it's a nice counterpart to the dance floor ready 'No You Girls').

Generally the band strives for originality and innovation, trying to stay one step ahead, but the culmination of this push results in electronic blundering, acid stylings, the odd Latin beat and strange musical pairings that at times fail to provide a fulfilling listening experience. There's so much crammed into some tracks, like 'Send Him Away' or 'Live Alone' (including computer game sounding music) yet you're left with a hollow construction - songs which are in fact chocolate bunnies. It's a shame; you get the impression that the album might have been a bit of diamond in the rough, as it is you'll get the best out of it when it's played on a night out.

You could do worse: you'll hear and enjoy some things on the radio and down the discos, but this doesn't flow together as an album. As for the band - must try harder to do less: 7/10

Exams..... that's why we pay the money, spend the time and get the degree....

2009-01-26T13:52:00.006Z

As a professional student I've discovered more ways of procrastinating than you can shake a stick at; assuming of course you go on the hunt for a suitable tree, break one of its branches, whittle the said branch into a nice smooth shaking stick, varnish it, find some stick shaking music (I'd currently recommend a slight return to the Bluetoned brit-pop jollity, but then I'm trying to revise so I'm not listening to that much newness)....

Finally, when all this is done - you can shake your stick! Or alternatively you can open that book up and learn stupid political acronyms and jargon until your face swells up. Seriously, this seems to have happened: my right eye is looking distinctly puffy and has left me feeling a kinship with the Phantom of the Opera.

Here's today's procrastination device of choice: http://obamiconme.pastemagazine.com/ and this sort of thing is what it does:

Now, all I need is a theatre, opera house or a seaside Punch and Judy booth to haunt.....

It's a New Dawn, It's a New Day....

2009-01-21T11:13:00.008Z

David Letterman's Top Ten Bush Moments......

George W. Bush; he gave idiot sons everywhere hope. You don't need skill, you don't need to be suave or charismatic, you don't even need to be able to string a sentence together; as long as you have the right background, family money behind you, and your father has the right friends you too can be president. As for the Bush debaucle of a Presidency, well, in the words of Tom Paine; "what we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly".

No one is watching Bush shuffle off into history; yesterday the crowd around Washington chanted for one man, whilst the rest of the world took a sigh of relief. Barrack Obama has taken office and pledged to remake America.

Obama spoke of a mythologised past; one of blood and sweat, ingenuity and the triumph of ideals. A past of drive, courage and purposefulness. The unsavory side of America is swept away by his hope filled eulogy to hard work and dedication and we are reminded of what America has achieved; what the American dream stands for to all the little people who make the nation work. He reminded the citizens of the US the debt they owe their legacy and how far the old leaders have fallen from the founding principals. Our era of crisis has been remodelled as an era of vision and peace. Once again we are moved by words alone to believe that the grasp of man is as boundless as his reach if the nation possesses the courage to stretch out and seize oppertunity.

Now is the pause. Does the colossus have feet of clay or can there truly be a leader with convictions, ambition and the courage to take hard decisions and do what he 'knows' to be right, rather than to be guided by what he believes? It is easy to be cynical; it's even easier for Obama to fail; but maybe, just maybe we can bare witness to a man of whom be proud.

2009

2009-01-06T15:03:00.011Z

New Year's resolutions:

No more photos with drinks in hand; all drinks will lurk just out of frame.
Gracefully accept leaving my mid twenties.
Gain official recognition for the fact that Aberystwyth smells of chips.

2009 has got off to a flying start. I was flying (or fleeing) from Aber as fast as a very slow train could carry me on New Year's Eve. The boiler broke. Which was fine. It wasn't like I had a guest visiting; it wasn't like I'd been scrubbing the floor and fluffing up the towels, or racking my brains to find fun things to do when all of Aber seems to shut down between Christmas Eve and the 2nd of January; the sum total of this racking proved to be practising how to say Pontrhydfendigaid in order to catch buses to a certain stupidly named village near-ish to Strata Florida Abbey. Even the organic food shops were shut as the lazy hippies settled themselves down for their winter feast of pine needles and phallic mushrooms.

I left Aber around half three having been driven to despair by the landlady's inadequate handyman and his bungling, or rather in this case his inability to turn up and fix anything, though all would be handymen should take note; promising various times of arrival and/or perpetually carrying around a tube of Pollyfiller does not make you a DIY god. A mere five hours later when the planned New Year's festivities should have been about to start (meaning Casablanca and wine) I arrived in my guest's flat; there was no food because I'd not been expected, the towels were starchy because he's a bloke, but most importantly, just like my flat, there wasn't a drop of hot water to be found: boiler number two had also given up the ghost.

Mean anything to you?

We went to bed by half eleven, and drank our champagne from silvered goblets the next morning whilst we pined for showers. I then broke one of said silvered goblets which weren't so much metal as foil covered glass.

Happy New Year.

A Most Peculiar Time of Year

2008-12-24T12:14:00.003Z

Crowds, shopping, horrible packed trains (which are of course delayed), familial obligations, tinsel, more Only Fools and Horses to avoid, bloody rubbish songs punctuated by the Pogues' "Fairytale of New York", which when heard elicits collective signs of relief, no snow yet again, being fed up by your mum, getting fed up of your mum (Ah, I don't mean it, I love you mum): Christmas 2009.

Nothing that some absinthe and a fair spell in bed couldn't cure. Bah humbug.

Then there's making your own presents and cards for people (and laughing at the attempts), getting the wrapping paper and ribbons exactly right, sitting under the tree playing with the cat, getting a card from someone you didn't expect, the Perfect 12 podcast, being excited about kissing someone you care about on New Year whilst simmulatenously appearing wry about it and pretending you're cool, dark jokes over the dinner table, sitting down and having a really good catch up with a friend, babycham with cherries in, the Killers' "Don't Shoot Me Santa"which is becoming a bit of a festive favourite of mine. The possiblility someone may give you a bottle of absinthe in case it all goes wrong.

Merry Christmas folks, and if you have to travel by train then take a hipflask with you!

It's A Kind of Magic: Cardini

2008-12-03T20:23:00.010Z

I'm a huge fan of magic, especially the close-up stuff. Partly this is because I have little dexterity myself and admire it so much in others -I'm in my mid twenties and I still haven't cracked walking without falling down! So the suavity and grace of magicians always bowls me over, much like broken paving stones on the street. There's nothing like trying to work out how it's done either; though having been the proud owner of a deluxe Paul Daniel's magic set when I child I actually know - bloody hard work and loads of practise. Those of a cynical nature will notice that Christmas is in fact rolling round again... but, truley I love almost everything about magicians, from the personas, the rivalries, the posters (which would make a great Christmas present), and the showmanship. The actual tricks aren't bad either.

It's such a shame that there isn't more of an opportunity to see more live magic. There are societies around with exhibition dates for the non-magician (not in Aber , oh no, google 'Aber' and 'magic' and there'll be something about druids no doubt - they're the cutting edge round here), and of course there's Derren Brown doing his devilish bit for the art form. I have yet to see Brown perform, due to irritating things like exams, which crop up whenever his tour is nearby (ha -Swansea), but one day. In the meantime I enjoy the TV shows, all of which are available on 4oD. This is nowhere near enough though! Where have all the magicians vanished to?

When in doubt look to youtube: here's a vintage performance from Cardini, the quality is the best I can do sadly....

Cardini is acclaimed as the"greatest exponent of pure sleight of hand the world has ever known", and this magicians' magician's manipulations of cards made me wonder why I'd wasted my life studying? Surely to god I could have been doing something more mesmeric. Then I remembered my aforementioned dyspraxic lack of coordination, and a lack of patience - not something that Cardini suffers from as you can see. The above footage shows one of my favourite magic tricks; impeccable timing, misdirection, slights and superb dexterity all serve to keep the fans of cards falling and you just have to wonder where on earth he stashes them? Sadly there are few recordings of this master, but the wonderful tipsy character he created, who possesses a bizarre Midas touch with cards, billiard balls and cigarettes, is unforgettable.

Cardini was born in 1895, under the unassuming name of Richard Pitchford, in the equally unassuming Mumbles. After enlisting, he passed his time in the trenches practising magic whilst wearing gloves because of the cold; this later served as a hallmark of his skillful routines. In 1916 Pitchford was nearly killed when a bomb exploded nearby, but recovering in hospital gave him ample time for card practise - though his request for gloves promptly had him dispatched to a psychiatric ward.

He was a former President of the Magicians Guild, he chose his name to invoke the stature of Houdini (the self proclaimed 'King of Cards'), and his bell-boy assistant was also his wife, but that's about all I can find in terms of biographical details. That and the rather charming fact that Cardini's son's pram was used in Gone with the Wind - Rhett wheels little Bonnie Blue around in it!

Cardini pioneered many techniques still in use, and has often being imitated; I could watch his routine over and over, but still I don't know how he does it though.

Music Review - The Killers, Day & Age

2008-12-02T19:53:00.012Z

'Are we human or are we dancer?'

This may be one of the most irritating lyrics of the year; dancers! Dancers! If the plural was good enough for Hunter S. Thompson, then it should be good enough for walking ego and Killers front man Brendon Flowers.

After Hot Fuss there was admittedly rather allot to swagger about - what a tremendous album! Then followed Sam's Town, which left something to be desired. All in all the second album was a disappointment; lacking drive, the sweeping 80s fulled musicality and layers of synths; although I was rather fond of 'Read My Mind' and 'For Reasons Unknown'. Likewise the 'b' sides album 'Sawdust' has a few bits and pieces to recommend it, but again is nowt special. Aside from the stellar first album haven't the Killers been a tad overrated?

The next question has 'Human' already been overplayed? Every time I go into a shop or pub it seems to crop up between the Christmas carols, and being that the band have 'beaten' Guns N' Roses to the number one spot (as if that is really the event it's been made out to be) they are featured on almost every station playlist. I can't really decide if I like it or not because the lyric about 'dancer' annoys me so much I just can't let it go.

Day & Age is not really flipping my switches; it's okay and makes funky background music particularly 'The World We Live In' and 'I Can't Say' (although some of that sounds a bit like Lion King theme song 'Circle of Life', no really and there's even a timpani) but that's pretty damning really considering Flowers' hype that it is the "best Killers disk ever!". It's been a long time since I've heard sax solos, and I rather liked Roxy Music and Duran Duran so its nice to hear them being referenced, but Day & Age fails to be stunningly original. Its not as punchy or heartfelt as Hot Fuss. It's inoffensive, and Stuart Price's production has enriched the structure of the songs - maybe its a grower, but I'm afraid to say it doesn't do anything special to me.

6.5/10

Podcast Reviews - Collins and Herring vs The Perfect 10

2008-11-27T14:16:00.020Z

I'm a firm fan of comedy podcasts - particularly the free ones, where the comedians do it out of the goodness of their own hearts rather than cobbling together the best bits of a radio show (tch! Adam and Joe). Especially, because I'm rather malicious, when the podcastees moan about their lack of sponsorship or honest to goodness jobs in radio or TV. Comedy via a podcast is a refreshing way to listen to favourite performers- especially those who choose to work without a script, like Richard Herring and Andrew Collins, or Phill Jupitus and sidekick Phil Wilding. These funny men demonstrate their amazing wit and ability to ramble, but with interest, on all sorts of topics. It makes you appreciate why they can be funny for a living and get away with it.

The 'Collings and Herrin' (misspelling is deliberate) podcast represents one end of the professional scale; they chat away in Richard's attic about whatever - though ginger beer, necrophilia and views through the window crop up an awful lot. I know it sounds dreary but never has looking through a window been so entertaining - aside from Rear Window that is; I am eagerly awaiting the day when life starts imitating art in the London loft space.

These two men eschew proper sound equipment and a pay packet in favour of un-policed swearing, hilarious flights of fancy and very, very witty and ironic dirty jokes. Well they didn't so much 'eschew' decent sound as reject it by necessity - they couldn't get it to work. Rich and Andy are the do it yourself podcast kings, and though we'd all like to believe we could be consistently funny for an hour, it must be a hard feat - they do it for free!

It's probably not everyones' cup of tea, and sometimes the quality can vary a bit, which Rich points out is because their doing a live hour long unscripted performance every week. I have to say though that despite being an acquired taste if you like your humour to be gently warped then you won't go far wrong. When asked the other day in a special live podcast to a professional radio audience, whether they were doing it until anything better came along they both immediately rejected the notion out of hand; Herring pointed out he has soldiered on through hangovers, food poisoning and the flu. The two of the, just enjoy chatting for the benefit of other people. Which sounds eerily philanthropic really. When Richard's not encouraging women to flash him that is.

Like Collins and Herring, Phill Jupitus and Phil Wilding's 'Perfect 10' started as a means to recreate the magic of a now defunct 6 music partnership. Unlike Rich and Andy however, the two Phils are consummate professionals; the sound is good, Steven Fry does the links (!), and the concept isn't just any old rambling, but rambling about 10 randomly chosen subjects, with a bell to time out. And, and, because Phil Wilding's Welsh he is eloquent (his words). The Perfect 10 has made it onto my subscription list with ease; it's a fantastic little show, which never fails to have me in stitches when I'm listening in.

In their discussions the two Phil(l)s throw up the deeper questions of life; what would you like to loose in space? Would you drink something Rolf Harris offered you? Is it possible to go to Ireland and not get drunk?* My flatmate probably thinks I'm mad as I chuckle away to myself, but I urge you to give it a try and you won't be disappointed.

Podcasts don't have any duty of care to their listenership, there's no sacred trust to shelter wee ears from vulgarity, risque concepts, or just waffle, and it's sometimes out of the waffle that comedy gold is struck. They are a great way of listening to new and original material in these icey credit crunch climes; some are polished, others are not, but generally when you hear a performer talking away just from the sheer love of it then it's enough to warm the cockles of your heart and brighten the day with laughter. Give 'em a go.

* I don't think so, despite my experience of a health spa/music festival once. I ran out of money at the Electric Picnic and was forced to scavenge for coins on the floor in order to buy bread: this is a true story. Instead of the ludicrously priced fermented beverages I was humiliated but thirsty enough to resort to drinking free samples of iced tea and thank god for it. Even that spartan time was because of a huge night out in Dublin and having to buy wellies (the weather report lied).

Lazarus Basil and the Three Legged People - Fun Thing #298

2008-11-24T12:05:00.029Z

Ho hum, it's been a funny old week. I've been travelling far afield again (well Cardiff and Bristol), but in my few days absence so much occurred......

Everyone seemed to go mad, or possibly have a good time, robbed as they were of my dour presence glowering away in the corners. What I'm trying to infer is that certain people of my acquaintance did not carry themselves with their usual decorum, well I say decorum, I mean drunken stumbling. It's a pretty shoddy state of affairs when you can't even stumble. Ah, bless them, it's good to blow off some steam, and only a churlish soul would sulk at having missed out. I'm not one begrudge a bit of excitement, especially as the flat was lovely and tidy upon my return.
The walls of the hallway got plastered, like some steam blowing people I could mention... (maybe I'm alittle churlish). Actually the plastering is a huge surprise, can't believe the landlord is actually doing some work to the place!
My basil died - it was a mere six months old. I was heartbroken, No, more! I was utterly wretched; how could I have been so wanton as to leave my special friend in my flatmate's pernicious 'care'.... as you can tell from the title it did come back from the dead, although now it looks like it wants blood.

Okay, when I say "so much happened" I mean a few random occurrences that, aside from the basil, impact on my life in no way whatsoever. Let's not underestimate the impact of that basil though! I love the plant like a member of my own family - more even. It was initially a strange part of the one-up-manship against my ex, who I lost a whole bottle of Lagavulin too when I bet that his basil (which was always on death's door) wouldn't make it until New Year. It did. Then it died. Selfish bloody plant - it never liked me. To be accurate I actually lost two bottles of Lagavulin - one was a miniature; I tried to get out of the bet by stating that he hadn't specified bottle size, which was true, but apparently this piece of legal genuis was dishonerable.

Anyway, aside from the usefulness of the herb in making pasta just that little special, my basil had much meaning of its own. I bought it when I moved back here and it has been carefully nurtured ever since. Okay, okay not that carefully as it's wedged into a broken plant pot I found lying round outside, it's been knocked off its little pedestal and smashed across the floor, it's usually underwatered, and when it's upright, potted and drenched in H2O it's probably cold. I still didn't like to see it in its wrinkly green decay though. It was a dead-un.

...Or not, as I mentioned before (no cadence of suspence here). No, the basil had merely being pining for me, bless it, all the way to the point of dessication. After a night spent in my nice warm room it has returned to life; all hail the basil, it shall be known as Lazarus and my godlike powers shall be worshipped by all. It may have been the water that my flatmate gave it, when she realised she may have killed it and I was on the way back. Surely not though! Surely not something so mundane!

As for me, well I had an interesting time too; I was puzzled to find three cast off boots in lying in the streets of Cardiff. Had there been some sort of three legged person experiencing shoe induced pain, throwing off the boots of doom? Maybe some shoe cult, admittedly a small cult of two people, but one person couldn't bear to give up their right boot? Maybe it was a custom to leave a boot on this particular street? Or perhaps it was rapid evolution in action, and just like that fossilised snake found with legs, the boots are representative of a stage in human evolution where we're casting off our legs so we can do the caterpillar all the better. Except again, one person couldn't quite commit to the trend and was forced to hop. Who knows?

Music Review - The Shortwave Set

2008-11-19T08:52:00.009Z

The Shortwave Set proved to be a class act last night. Playing to a criminally underpopulated Clwb Ifor Bach, in the first date of their 'Glitches and Bugs' tour, they shone out as being something a little bit special. Their avant-garde electronica proved to be both smart and engaging; there is a lot to love about this UK-Swedish three-piece.

The set itself was rather short, and little experimental; somewhat dissappointingly it didn't include some of their strongest tunes from their latest album 'Replica Sun Machine', but new stuff was thrown into the frey and it's reassuring to know there is more to come. The sound they produced, even in that tiny little club, had a polished quality that came straight from their album; 'No Social' went down well and Ulrika Bjorsne's voice was, in particular, utterly entrancing.

All in all the music had a powerful mesmeric quality that washed over the ten people who constituted the audience. I can't recommend this band enough; if you want a night of very fine chilled out indie music you could do no better. The Shortwave Set are a crowd with huge appeal.

Support was from Cosmo Jarvis - the name says it all, but they were a happy lot, with some interesting harmonising.

24-hour Spar adds inches to your waist line - Fun Thing # 62

2008-11-11T20:22:00.010Z

It's late at night, and even though there's a cupboard full of ingredients, even though I'm of the sort that bakes their own bread, buys free ranged organic eggs from the local farmers market, enjoys homemade jam, grows basil......

It's time for a pot noodle from 24 hour Spar!

Aberystwyth is a bustling metropolis alright, there's not just three streets, a camera obscura (the largest one in the whole world) and, well, the sea; we've 24 hour shop to pander to our every need whatever the time. Not to mention 'Little' Spar for snacks when you've come down the hill from a hard day of lectures -maybe a cider lollipop in the summer? Many a student can be caught being blown all about the seafront at 3am in search of some wonderful item that only a 24 hour convenience store can provide. That or they're drunk.

Okay, they're usually drunk and have suffered the indignity of stumbling out of 'Pier' or 'Bay'. Both are dens of iniquity where the walls sweat. The only difference between the two being that they tell you off or chinking glasses in the Pier. Oh, and should the A-Team be trapped in that miserable non-glass chinking fascist regime, then B.A Baracas could make some serious weaponry out of the corrugated tin roof. This is in direct contrast to the Bay, where a friend and I managed to get trapped in the dark cellar when we went in search of toilets with paper (luxuries, luxuries); we weren't able to make anything and our phones barely lit up the Victorian gloom....

Back to Spar; our florescent paradise. Home of overly priced baguettes, pot noodles, ready chilled wine and giant bags of crisps that you could try and sleep in after you've eaten one. Oh and all those strange mini-muffin things they have hanging around in the impulse buy area near the tills. It's the closest thing Aber has to the 'House of the Rising Sun', which of course it beats. The sun never sets on Spar, and they have more to sell than flesh and opium. It is a comfort in these dark days of essay deadlines, always ready to provide escape from actual cooking, ease weary thoughts and sell 'Fry's Chocolate Creams', which really are very lovely when dipped in whisky.