Quick You Fool, Catch The Sun!

Summer arrived last week. It arrived, scorched everyone's pasty skin (except mine, sun: "hisssssssssssssssss") and then departed with the sort abruptness that one might describe as rude. 

Reports from taxi drivers give snow in some parts for tomorrow, but then taxi drivers will also tell you stories about how David Bowie has a house in Maesteg, how pigeons carry space measles and how David Cameron is an entity constructed entirely from ham. 

One of those is absolutely true.

In honour of our fleeting glimpse into the mythical land of barbeque, I give you a couple of summery tracks.

• Haystacks, The Cave Singers, No Witch. Jingly jangly farming fun, fun, fun, fun. 
• I've Been Waiting, Uninhabitable Mansions, live on WFMU. Hipster haze.
• Bola Bola, Gorky's Zygotic Monkey, Barafundle. Always reminds me of the Wicker Man... and misspent summers past.

.... Oh and this:

• Technicolor Health, Harlem Shakers, Techincolor Health. Yes, colour is misspelt, but I like it rather a lot.  

Utter Addiction, Total Conquest

I don't remember where I picked up the Elvis Perkins bug from; it was somewhere recent, almost certainly a music blog ... but I'm terribly sorry, I can't remember the name of the lovely soul who made the recommendation - shine on whoever you are!

What a recommendation it was. Aside from the unbelievable Billy Bragg & Wilco, Mermaid Avenue box-set, Elvis P has had almost exclusive rights over my ears. Over and over and over, until the songs are as ingrained as stains on a kitchen table. Tip-top stuff.

• Elvis Perkins, Ash Wednesday, from the album Ash Wednesday (FLAC)

Here's to Glen Campbell. Seriously.

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:

• Witchita Lineman
• Southern Nights
• Rhinestone Cowboy

Power Pop for Nuns: Hazey Janes

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

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

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.

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:

• I'm A Fool To Want You, Lady in Satin, Columbia, 1958
• Don't Explain (live), Carnegie Hall, 1956
• Strange Fruit (live), Complete Billie Holiday on Verve

Stand-Up Review: What Is Love, Anyway?

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

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

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.

• Jessica Lea Mayfield, Blasphemy So Heartfelt - Kiss Me Again
• Jessica Lea Mayfield, Blasphemy So Heartfelt - I Can't Lie To You
• Jessica Lea Mayfield, Blasphemy So Heartfelt - Bible Days

Lived in Bars and Danced On Tables

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have a wee listen...

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

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

Good Morning Nantwich, Adventures in Breakfast Radio

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Things To Make And Do

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

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

Scrawl in Permanent Ink? NO THANK YOU.

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

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

Money Can't Buy You Happiness...

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

Starving Musican? With That Ice Cream?

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

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

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

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

Ghosts of Wales

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

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

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

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

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

I'm moving so so soon.

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

Shhhh, tell no one.....

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

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

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

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

Photos taken from Future Cinema's flickr stream.

Unrequited Love with Workers in the Service Sector

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

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

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

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

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

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

• Catherine The Waitress
• Start Wasting My Time