Ephemeral, mercurial summer. Seemingly here one day and gone the next in a flurry of settling into new abode, gigs, bashes, festivals, weather grumblings, a not-quite-there heat and lazy hazy sundays… Suddenly, the early August chill attained a permanent air, a heads-down vibe permeated the atmosphere and September had arrived.
Tagged art, documentary, film, gig, jean painleve, london, martha wainwright, southbank, travel, yo la tengo
Being fairly petite and vertically challenged, my gig modus operandi, is to rock up suitably early to secure myself a raised vantage point, with a railing to lean on when Knee tires. The only fly in the ointment is that after having secured such a position, one needs to hang on to it for dear life. Unfortunately, after a pint or so, the need to relieve one’s self may interfere with this. This is when having a bud comes into its own. However, my buddy Jaya was wandering far and wide, trying to secure his ideal vantage point in the midst of the scrum. With a shrug, I thought ‘easy come easy go’ and scuttled off to the ladies’.
So came the inebriated cry, in a quieter moment during the Wilco set at the Shepherd’s Bush Empire on Sunday 20 May 2007. Wilco frontman, Jeff Tweedy, wrapped up in bringing a song to a close, did not acknowledge it but most within the vicinity chuckled.
Clumsily articulated, perhaps, but never was a truer sentiment expressed.
Put on the guestlist of a friend’s DJ’ing gig at the rather cozy Luminaire (Timeout venue of the year last year) on Saturday night, I was startled to find out that the guestlist had been abolished and the compulsory doorcharge was now going to Amnesty International. Because the night’s music promoter had died.
Further queries revealed the cause of his untimely demise to be electrocution by err… electric guitar. The poor chap had apparently been strumming away when a current had unexpectedly coursed through the instrument.
How totally rock’n'roll.
A 48 hour hiatus from 19 days straight and 53 matches of the World Cup means withdrawal shakes and a chance to catch up blog-wise with what I’ve been up to.
London turned on a warm one last Sunday as we headed down to Brighton for Dylan Moran, Terre a Terre and a coma-inducing 90 minutes or so in a crowded pub watching England bore Ecuador into submission. The only amusing incident involved little old Granny, in usual Granny uniform of pale hair, floral dress, grey cardigan and sturdy shoes, jump into the pub, shout out “Eng-er-land!” and do a little shimmy before exiting as abruptly. Bless.
The Arctic Monkeys played the Brixton Academy on Thursday, 27 April 2006, the last night of their 2 week UK tour. These four young’uns (all 19 or 20 years old) and their cheeky tales of Sheffield life – stories infused with wry social commentary and the sheer exuberant energy of lads with electric guitars – are the latest NME cover stars… and yes, i can see eyes rolling at the phrase ‘latest UK indie sensation’. But they’re very much a band of this century. Their initial success resulted from free dissemination of their music at gigs and through the internet and led to two number 1 singles and the fastest selling album of all time.
There it was. The heavy weight of mortality and the insidious passage of time, making itself evident in the form of neat clinical signs posted throughout the Hammersmith Apollo.
A portent as it were.
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The End of the Road Festival, 12-14 September 2008, Larmer Tree Gardens, Dorset
Festivals: General
It is a peculiar quirk of the English psyche – call it optimism, stoicism, delusional or plain eccentricity – that any prospect of sunshine, no matter how vague, must be celebrated out of doors, in a field, throwing shapes or gently swaying to live music. Because it’s summer, yeah, and the weather is gonna be wik-ked! Never mind that the chances of extended brilliant warm sunshine during the English summer are, although less slim than Gwyneth Paltrow contributing something of relevance to the average person’s reality, still quite unlikely. It’s summer, and that means it isn’t spring (grey, with the sort of rain which gets inside your socks and winds gusty enough to turn your umbrella inside out), winter (dark, cold, with winds capable of whipping through your outer layers to your bones) or autumn (shorter chillier days wreathed in misty flumes, bonfire smoke and golden sunshine).
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Tagged americana, dorset, england, festival, folk, gig, music