Waiting On A Sunny Day - Bruce Springsteen Live in Manchester

On a day when the North West was drowning under torrential rain (yet another "wettest June on record", as though it's now become a contest), we were prepared to be Lost In The Flood at Manchester City's Etihad Stadium as Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band returned to town. We'd been lucky at previous outdoor Bruce concerts in Manchester, enjoying rare sunny days at both the Lancashire County Cricket Club and Old Trafford (the first time I saw him, at the indoor MEN Arena, the weather wasn't a worry). But it was inevitable that holding an outdoor concert in June in Manchester was going to risk angering the weather gods sooner or later, and on the day the Isle of Wight festival sank into the mud, we were ready for the worst.

It had rained all day. Not just rain - buckets, frogs, cats and dogs, a plague of locusts - and the forecast for the evening looked just as grim. As we trudged over to the stadium in the drizzle, we enjoyed a brief respite from the torrents, but nobody expected to stay dry over the next few hours. Bruce and the band took to the stage at 7-15, and suddenly the rain stopped completely. At 8 o'clock it made a brief return bid, but the band launched into Waiting On A Sunny Day in response and drove the clouds away. There were a couple more minor showers at 9 and 10, but neither lasted more than a song or succeeded in dampening the electricity in the atmosphere.

At 62, Bruce Springsteen has the stamina of a man a third his age. A three and a half hour set flew by in what felt like minutes, and we could easily have watched the band perform twice that and still wanted more. Having seen the boss live three times before, I've heard him play many of my favourite songs at one time or another, and while there are certain ones he just can't drop  (Born To Run, Thunder Road, Dancing In The Dark), it's not a problem that we didn't get Glory Days, Born In The USA or anything from Tunnel Of Love this time. There was plenty more to keep us enthralled. The sound was a little muddy for the first few songs and there were the inevitable arseholes in the audience who'd paid £50 to chat / shout with their friends or drink as much overpriced beer as they could rather than watch the band, but once the show got going, such distractions ceased to matter.

It was another thrilling performance from the heart-stopping, pants-dropping, hard-rocking, booty-shaking, earth-quaking, nerve-breaking, Viagra-taking history-making, legendary E Street Band... but also a hugely emotional one, this being the first time they've toured without The Big Man, saxophonist Clarence Clemons, who died last year. The tributes brought tears to my eyes, but so did the fact that those enormous shoes have been filled by Clarence's nephew, Jake. The lad blows a mean horn himself.

I've been a Bruce Springsteen fan most of my life and, unlike many of my heroes, he's never let me down. He even managed to drive away the rain on the wettest day of the year in the wettest city in the north. Bring on that wrecking ball!

Live Review: The Civil Wars

So if my life begins on Monday, this must be the death throes of my old life. I have a baaaad cold. And before you all cry "man flu!", can I just point out that Louise had it first and she can testify to the sheer, snot-drenched awfulness of it. If I talk today, I sound like a cross between Tom Waits and Jabba The Hutt. None of this stopped me going out to see The Civil Wars last night, but it might stop me writing much of a review... other than to say they were breathtaking. Maybe I'll just let the music do the talking.



I first came across The Civil Wars about a year ago when I fell head-over-heels in love with the title track to their debut album, Barton Hollow. While I liked the rest of the album, there wasn't anything to quite match that song and I wondered whether I'd spend the whole of a live concert waiting for it. Thankfully, that wasn't the case. Some bands just work better live than on record and last night's performance was a magical case of two performers (with just a single guitar, occasional piano and two amazing voices) holding a packed audience in the palm of their hand. And it closed with my favourite cover version in years. I've heard Michael Jackson's Billie Jean covered by everybody from Neil Finn to Ian Brown, but I never realised until last night the most obvious thing about it. It's a country record, pure and simple.



Wow.

Gig Review: Frank Turner Live In Manchester

I only discovered Frank Turner last year but he's rapidly become one of my favourite artists. His songs are passionate, witty, outspoken and, at times, intensely personal. He mixes heartfelt rock 'n' roll with barnstorming folk like Bruce, Billy and Richard Thompson before him. He's the real deal.

I've been wanting to see Frank live for ages but the last time he played Manchester the tickets sold out immediately. It was obviously time for him to move up and play somewhere bigger... sadly this turned out to be my least favourite venue: the dreaded Apollo. It's a sign of how desperate I was to see this performer live that (still carless) I caught a bus, a train and then took a long walk through one of the dodgiest parts of Manchester... thankfully, Frank didn't let me down.

It was heartening to find myself alongside a great number of Frank-ophiles, many of whom proved all the more devoted with their word perfect singalongs to even the most obscure tracks from the Turner back pages. This is obviously an artist who touches and inspires a great many people and he's surely now on the verge of a tipping point from cult sensation to arena-filling rock star. I missed my chance to see him in the smaller venues but I'll certainly follow him to the larger ones... as long as he doesn't hurry back to the Apollo.

God, that place just goes out of its way to grab my goat. Saturday's annoyance was the heat - turned up so high I almost passed out (no exaggeration for effect). Completely unnecessary... unless it was all a scam to sell more beers. Insert your own Apollo / sun god / surface of the sun gag here; for me it's just one more reason to never set foot in the place again. Please, Frank, make it The Academy next time... or the MEN. Anywhere but the bloody Apollo!

Live Review: Glen Campbell's Farewell Tour

It's long been my dream to see my all time favourite song performed live by the singer who made it famous. Friday at the Salford Lowry was my last chance to make that dream a reality. Unlike many "Farewell Tours" where you suspect the artist may well be "quitting" only to sell more tickets (before next year's inevitable "reunion tour"), Glen Campbell really will be hanging up his mike and guitar once this tour is done. You may have read how the 75 year-old star, famous in his younger days for his baby-faced looks and country choirboy vocals, was diagnosed with Alzheimer's late last year. His return to the road is seen by many as not just a farewell to fans but also a brave effort to publicise a disease which celebrities rarely make public.

It's clear when Campbell takes to the stage that this is not a man in the prime of health. Although joyful and enthusiastic, he does at times appear confused and his legendary guitar playing is no longer at its flawless best. Fortunately he's supported by a band that includes three of his kids: Cal, Ashley and Shannon (Instant People) who help keep him focused throughout the show. And what a show... all the hits that made him famous (many composed by the divine Jimmy Webb), topped off by a showstopping, standing ovation double bill of Wichita Lineman and Rhinestone Cowboy. It was impossible not to be moved to tears by the former, a song that's meant so much to me for so many years and now sounds more bittersweet than ever.

I've added Wichita Lineman to The Mixtape today, but here's the opening single from Glen's final album, a track which echoes the soaring string arrangements of his greatest hit yet also speaks movingly of his current condition. Be well, Glen Campbell. Thank you for the music.

For A Great Night Out - Try E

Tuesday night, I may have upset / angered / disappointed / overly excited my twitter followers by tweeting...

E is fantastic!

...followed a little later by...

On an E high so can't even consider sleep. Thank god Radcliffe's on the radio.

I suppose I ought to come clean and confess - no, I haven't been taking Class A drugs... the truth is (smug, holier-than-thou comment alert!) I don't need 'em. My E high was a natural one, brought about by an evening of top quality musical entertainment from Mark 'E' Everett: lead singer, songwriter, guitarist and premier beard-wearer of the Eels.

E has been on a creative high over the last couple of years, releasing a trilogy of excellent records that deal with three notable stages of a relationship - desire, break-up and moving on - Hombre Lobo,End Timesand Tomorrow Morning. These, together with their sublime predecessor, the career best double album Blinking Lights And Other Revelationscontain some of the strongest material Eels have ever recorded, and as it's getting on for ten years since I last saw them live, it was great to hear so many recent songs played on Tuesday night, along with earlier classics like Souljacker, Saturday Morning and, of course, their debut hit Novocaine For The Soul. The days when Eels troubled the singles chart are long since passed, but like many bands of their ilk they continue to produce records that are easily the equal of their rock star glory days.



Many of Everett's songs are starkly personal and deal with serious issues like depression, death and alienation. You might not know that from hearing them played live though - especially with E's current band, the funkiest group of musicians he's gathered to date, particularly that wonderful horn section. I've always been a fan of brass in pop music (being a former brass bandsman myself) and think it high time more artists roped in a horn section, particularly for live shows. But funk isn't the only thing this band brought to Leeds on Tuesday - they also supplied an outstanding selection of facial hair, most notably on E himself who's returned to the full-on Unabomber look he sported in the Shootenanny days, and wears that beard with panache!

Who needs E when you've got E?

The Flaming Lips at Jodrell Bank: Transmissions

I'm not one for filling my gig reviews with photos. Normally I look down on people who spend the entire show with their mobile phone pointed at the stage. But last night's gig at Jodrell Bank was definitely camera worthy... luckily I had my new Blackberry (yes, yes, get over it) on hand to capture the wonder.

For those unfamiliar with the Jodrell Bank Observatory in Cheshire, it's home to the Lovell Telescope, the third largest radio telescope in the world. This incredible device is manned 24/7/365, recording and monitoring the sounds of outer space - quasars, pulsars... and maybe, one day, extraterrestrial boogie woogie.

But the noises being monitored in mission control last night were of slightly more earthbound origin... I say "slightly" because when your headline act is Wayne Coyne and the Flaming Lips, the jury's still out on whether we all weren't experiencing a close encounter in the shadow of that 76 metre dish. The band were performing at the climax of Transmissions, the observatory's first mini-festival, following an evening of entertainment from Alice Gold (promising), the Wave Machines (ramshackle), OK Go (worthy of further investigation) and British Sea Power (always entertaining). All the acts had a certain spacey or scientific bent to their songs, and the Flaming Lips push the outer limits better than just anyone else in rock... if Bowie's off floating in a tin can somewhere, unavailable.

Two scientists were racing
For the good of all mankind
Both of them side by side
So determined
Locked in heated battle
For the cure that is their prize
But it's so dangerous
But they're determined

Theirs is to win
If it kills them
They're just humans
With wives and children

If you've ever seen a Flaming Lips show, you'll know the music comes second to the spectacle. Dancing cheerleaders, giant animal costumes, lasers straight out of Lucasfilm, even the lead singer walking out onto the shoulders of his audience in a giant Prisoner-esque bubble. But for last night's performance, the Lips had found a way to top even these theatrics... by getting the Lovell telescope itself in on the act. As the band finally took to the stage, just before 10pm, the enormous disc rotated to face the audience for the first time and became a projection screen for deep space imagery, followed by a huge film show tracing the history of Jodrell Bank and its founding father, Bernard Lovell. The Lips rightly saved their two best songs for the encore, but it was too late to stop them being overshadowed by one of the most impressive feats of scientific engineering in the world.

Do You Realize - that you have the most beautiful face?
Do You Realize - we're floating in space?
Do You Realize - that happiness makes you cry?
Do You Realize - that everyone you know someday will die?

Trippy indie music + deep space investigations... it's a geek's dream festival. Thank god I had my camera!

Morrissey - The Vegas Years

On the hottest night of the year, Morrissey brought his sparkly-shirted cabaret act to St. Georges Hall, Bradford... and blew up the stage. Literally.

Whether he likes to admit it or not, these are the Vegas days for the Mozfather. A few years back he was performing in front of huge letters that spelt out his name in light bulbs, a la Elvis: The Comeback Special. Now, while he's not yet wearing jumpsuits or doing ill-advised karate moves on stage, and the lack of burgers mean his waistline stays respectable (for a man of his years), a Vegas residency Greatest Hits package has become his lot, albeit in the slightly less glamorous surroundings of Grimsby, Stoke and Bradford. But should we expect anything else?

The setlist was one of his best in recent years, without an over-reliance on the last three albums, nothing too obscure, and some live gems I've not heard for ages... if ever. Perversely, these included the much-maligned You're The One For Me, Fatty and Ouija Board, Ouija Board: but as I'm an unashamed fan of both, I was pleased as punch. Great to hear Alma Matters and Speedway again too, while the mid-set one-two punch of There Is A Light... followed by Everyday Is Like Sunday would have made for a much more satisfying singalong encore than the tired combo of First Of The Gang (a great song, but it needs a long rest) and a lumpen This Charming Man... which left me feeling JC might be right about refusing access to certain segments of the Smiths back catalogue. Then again, the night's undisputed highlight was a rare 25th birthday outing for I Know It's Over, a performance that made me wonder what'd happen if Moz took the Vegas comparison to its extremes, ditched Boz Boorer and the lads, and took to the road with a proper showband instead... or even an orchestra? He'd have to devise a set-list that steered clear of the sonic battery of Meat Is Murder (no great loss) while favouring tracks like I Know Its Over, Trouble Loves Me and There Is A Light (with proper strings... imagine!), but surely it's time for some kind of change?

Instead, it looks like we can expect more of the same, at least until he finally decides to get off the stage. New tracks performed last night were People Are The Same Everywhere (you can guess the rest) and Action Is My Middle Name, one of his catchiest offerings in years - given that I was singing along by the second chorus. Of course, he's back to being without a record deal, and moaning that no one will have have him, but that's all part of the act. It's impossible to believe there aren't interested parties, given the current state of the music industry, even with his infamous reputation.

One thing that wasn't part of the act was the aforementioned explosion which silenced the main set's final song, Irish Blood, English Heart a few lines in. Darkness and silence filled the stage, and for a moment we all wondered whether it really was over. Given his frequent avowal that performing is the only thing to give his life meaning, it'd be perfectly proper for Morrissey to one day go out singing... but thankfully this was not to be the night. A panic of roadies saved us from the riot, but by then we'd had the best of him, and it was time to say goodbye, if not farewell. Vegas act or not, record deal or gurning busker, I still hope it's a long time before we say farewell to Morrissey forever...

Building A Rocket Live

It was one of the best gig I've been too in a long, long time. Elbow came home to the Manchester Evening News arena... and blew the roof off.

I wouldn't have thought it possible. Not that Elbow aren't a great band, one of my favourites on the contemporary scene, but much of their music, especially on the current album Build A Rocket Boys has a sparse and intimate quality you wouldn't expect to fill an arena. Many of their songs feature minimal instrumentation and allow Guy Garvey's voice to carry the majority of the melody. And yet, Elbow didn't just fill the MEN... that cup runneth over.

Now officially crowned The Nicest Man In Rock, Guy Garvey continues to write heartwarming lyrical stories of home, friendship, family and love. He emphasized these qualities in his introductions, paying special attention to the hometown crowd... so that by the time the band played Station Approach (a song about returning home to Manchester's Piccadilly Station after too long away) even this proud Yorkshireman was feeling fit to call himself an honorary Manc. His lyrics continue to throw up those trademark sweetly sarcastic endearments ("I miss your stupid face, I miss your bad advice") that somehow contain more honesty and better illustrate the truth of love and romance than any number of "I'll climb any mountain" platitudes. He even confessed that the singalong chant title of new song With Love may well have been unconsciously inspired by the "In One!" call of referee Tony Green from the TV darts quiz show Bullseye.

If anyone doubt Elbow's position as one of the UK's most acclaimed rock bands, look no further than their current showstopper, Open Arms. Tears are welling even as I type the title...

Mixing Pop and Politics...

"Mixing pop and politics, they ask me what the use is
I offer them embarrassment and my usual excuses..."

Before the gig, in the Academy bar, we overhear two blokes discussing the forthcoming entertainment. "It should be a good gig," says one. "As long as he stays away from the politics," says the other.

Really, now. Isn't that a bit like going along to a Lady Gaga gig and hoping she stays away from the slutty dresses? The politics are such an important part of Billy Bragg's persona, he wouldn't be Billy Bragg without them. And while much has been made of the fact that the bard of Berking now lives in a lovely "mansion" on the cliffs of Dorset, it would be churlish to deny him the rewards of his success - particularly when he continues to fight the good fight as vocally as he ever did. Saturday's gig, it transpires, is actually a charity event organised to raise funds to help defeat the far-right BNP party in the North West. "Hope Not Hate" is the message, and given that this is exactly what brought Billy to Manchester on Saturday night, you can hardly expect him to stay quiet on the subject.

"As Brother Barry said
As he married Marion
The wife has three great attributes
Intelligence, a Swiss army knife and charm"

But even the man himself admits there are two kinds of Billy Bragg fan. There are those who are brought to him through the politics, who feel stirred and empowered by his performance of songs like Between The Wars, World Turned Upside Down, NPWA and There Is Power In A Union. And there are those who fall instead for his pithy, heartfelt, witty and truthful kitchen sink relationship dramas and "love songs". Valentine's Day Is Over, Saturday Boy, A Lover Sings and the forever devastating Levi Stubbs' Tears. I've always been in the latter camp, though I respect and agree with many of Billy's opinions in the former and have no problem showing my support for a cause like "Hope Not Hate". I've seen him live many times now, and though I always prefer the shows that are steered towards Billy the performer rather than Billy the revolutionary, I accept that they're two sides of the same man, and that sometimes one will take prominence over the other. Fortunately he maintains his sense of humour whichever badge he's wearing, and it's impossible not to be inspired by him either way.

"A cynic is just a busted optimist" he says at one point in the show, and he makes me think about how easily I let cynicism rule my own life at times. Reading this blog sometimes, you might think that the cynic has won. But I do strive to be optimistic - it's essential if I'm to continue striving to achieve my ambitions. Optimists keep trying, cynics give in. So maybe I'm not as cynical as I sometimes think... and maybe it takes a little Billy Bragg rabble-rousing to remind me of that every now and then. You've got to keep fighting for what you believe in, and you've got to keep believing in yourself. We're all of us Waiting For The Great Leap Forwards...

"If you're lonely, I will call -
If you're poorly, I will send poetry


I love you
I am the milkman of human kindness
I will leave an extra pint"

There's Always Someone Cooler Than You

So on Saturday night me and Dave spent £25 each on a pair of tickets to see Craig talk to his girlfriend, live at the Sheffield Academy. Craig's a particularly talented young performance artist, able to hold a pint of beer in each hand while telling hilarious stories about all the amazing things that have happened to him on Facebook (Yes... On. Facebook.)

On Saturday though, Craig found himself having to compete with a fucking musician - Ben Folds, you might have heard of him, some American piano playing geek - and his band, who'd taken it upon themselves to pitch up at the same venue and start playing songs on the stage while Craig was telling his hilarious Facebook stories. As a result, Craig had to shout to be heard over the top of this inconsiderate yank and many of Craig's audience didn't catch the subtle nuances of his drunken ramble profound storytelling.

Dave and I were lucky though, we'd found the best place in the house - Craig and his insipid girlfriend were standing right behind us! That's like front row seats - and we didn't have to pay any extra! Unfortunately, as the show progressed, Dave decided he'd rather listen to Ben Folds sing his witty, heartfelt songs than Craig go on and on about how he refused to accept Trevor's Friend Request, so we had to move away from the performance area and closer to the stage where Folds was giving it his all, Jerry Lee Lewising the piano for all his worth, making up songs on the spot from lyrics given to him by members of the audience, covering The Divine Comedy and Kansas (though not, sadly, playing Belinda or Doc Pomus) and generally being one of the most energetic, passionate and creative live acts you'll ever see...

...but still not a patch on Facebook Craig.

Justin Time

Twice now I've had tickets to see former Del Amitri frontman Justin Currie playing live in his new solo incarnation. Twice, despite the fact that he's written some of my favourite misanthropic songs of the last twenty years, I've had to give those tickets away... once because I'd just broken my arm, once because my back was so bad I couldn't stand up. (Back update - I still can't stand up for long, but using a combination of seated or partly-seated venues or painkillers/heated wraps, I'm not letting it spoil my appreciation of live music too much.)

Saturday night it was third time lucky, in my new favourite venue (and not just because it's a five minute drive over the hill), the Holmfirth Picturedrome. The last time I saw Currie live was back in 1998 when he was just a Drunk In A Band. The general consensus by all who attended that evening is that it's one of the most memorable gigs of our life. True, a certain amount of alcohol was consumed (those were the days, eh?), we were wild, we were free, we were still in our 20s... and Del Amitri looked like they'd last forever. And so would we.

In the cold light of 2011 then, when we're all starting to feel our age, there's no more Whiskey Remorse to be had (not for me, anyway), and JC's binned the band as part of "the new austerity"... how would the solo act compare with the hellraising days of old?

Well, it won't. They're two entirely different beasts. But while Wednesday October 28th, 1998, was exactly what a 26 year-old semi-alcoholic hedonist needed to blow his mind... Saturday January 22nd 2011 was much more in-keeping with the wants and needs of an occasionally morose teetotal 38 year-old. I don't care about getting old, as long as my favourite artists come with me.

The first time I heard the song below was in the early days of 1990. I was 18, hadn't yet touched a drop, and still believed my future involved spinning records and talking in between them for a living. How wrong can you be? Sitting there in the last free seat on the Picturedrome balcony, I wondered where I'd be in another ten of these increasingly fleeting years? As long as Justin Currie's still singing, it won't be too bad...

Two Gig Memories (2) James

My second gig of the week - and final gig of the year - was James, a triumphant hometown performance at the Manchester Evening News Arena on Saturday night. It was, as James gigs always are, a memorable event - packed with hits, and highlights from the two albums they released earlier this year (The Night Before and The Morning After). As somebody always remarks at a James gig, you forget how many great singles they've had. Not just the obvious ones like Sit Down, She's A Star and Laid, but stirring and inspirational tracks like Sometimes, Say Something, Come Home and my personal favourite (it brings a tear to my eye if I'm in the right mood) Tomorrow.



For a while though, it looked like I might not make it to this gig at all. All because of the weather... and the weather forecasters.

I'm starting to think weather forecasters should not be trusted. I'm starting to think they haven't a clue what they're talking about. I'm starting to think they should all be taken out in the street and shot.

To be fair, the rest of the country seems to have suffered quite badly in the weekend's snow, while our own little pocket of the Pennines (West Yorkshire and Manchester) appears to have escaped relatively unscathed. The forecasters though, they were determined to sow fear in all our hearts. All last week they were giving out dire warnings that the snow would stop me getting across to Manchester... so I decided to be on the safe side and post the tickets to Dave (who lives on t'other side of the hills) so that at least one of us would be able to go.

The tickets didn't actually arrive till Wednesday (bloody slack promoters!) so on Thursday morning I popped into the Post Office (well, I say 'popped' - what I actually mean is waited half an hour to be served, though not in a queue as our post office doesn't believe in queues anymore, they now operate a rubbish numbered ticket system). Knowing that the Christmas post is unreliable, I chose the Guaranteed Next Day Delivery option...

"That'll be £5, please. Oh, and because of the snow, they've lifted the guarantee."

"Hang on... so what exactly are you charging me £5 for then?"

"Well, they'll try their best to get it there... but if they can't, because of the snow, they won't refund you or pay you any compensation."

"So what's the difference between just sending it First Class for 35p?"

"Oh, that wouldn't be guaranteed at all."

"But this isn't guaranteed at all."

"No, but they'll try their best."

If the tickets didn't arrive Friday, chances are Dave wouldn't be able to go to the gig either. But if I didn't take the risk and it snowed, neither of us would be able to go. So I paid the £5 and crossed my fingers.

On arriving home, I checked the weather forecast again. It had been revised. All mention of Heavy Snow had lifted for our area. If this new forecast was to be believed, the tickets would arrive no problem, wearing sunhats and bikinis. But if this new forecast was to be believed, I needn't have sent them Special Delivery in the first place.

The new forecast was, for once, accurate (minus the sun hats and bikinis). The tickets arrived, I got across the Pennines, the snow stayed away (mostly - though the rest of the country has descended into a new Ice Age) and all was well.

See, I'm not just here to tell you about when things go wrong. Every now and then, they don't. I still had to pay a fiver for absolutely no reason at all... but it could have been worse. It could always be worse.

Two Gig Memories (1) Half Man Half Christmas

My final two gigs of the year... first up was Half Man Half Biscuit, live in Holmfirth. I can't tell you how happy it makes me that a band like HMHB will now play a venue less than 10 minutes drive from my front door. I'm almost smiling as I type this.

I smiled a lot on Thursday night... here's five lyrical reasons why I love HMHB...

(With thanks to The Half Man Half Biscuit Lyrics Project.)

1.

Car crime’s low, the gun crime’s lower
The town hall band CD, it’s a grower
You never hear of folk getting knocked on the bonce
Although there was a drive-by shouting once

(For What Is Chatteris)

2.

Checkmate! Dennis Bell of Torquay
Too late with your Nxe3
Good game sir, do you want another bout?
Well Dennis ain’t replying ‘cos he just signed out

(Bad Losers On Yahoo Chess)

3.

God I could murder a Cadbury’s Flake
But then I guess you wouldn’t let me into heaven
Or maybe you would
‘Cos their adverts promote oral sex

A Romany bint in a field with her paints
Suggesting we faint at her beauty
But she’s got Dickie Davies eyes

(Dickie Davies Eyes)

4.

I stick me big nose in
When I go out
Sealed-off car park
What’s it all about?
I like an altercation with a member of staff
“That was a ten pound note!”

I ring up Dial-A-Pizza
I ring up Dial-A-Pizza
I ring up Dial-A-Pizza
And say that’s not how I would spell “Hawaiian”

(Petty Sessions)

5.

You don’t have a tree
And your smile has a fee
All the same, here’s a card
For your boring facade
Jingle Bells, piney smells
All the boys and the girls
Say it’s cliched
To be cynical
At Christmas

(It's Cliched To Be Cynical At Christmas)

An Evening With Neil Hannon

I'm enjoying another much-deserved day off, so I'm not going to hang around here writing another blog post nobody will read. Well, not for long.

Last night, we raced off to a packed (oversold, if you ask me) Manchester Academy 2 for an evening with Neil Hannon. Yes, he's still the Divine Comedy, but it's pretty much just him these days: on piano, occasionally guitar, but mostly voice - that utterly distinctive, bastard-son-of-Noel-Coward voice we love so much. Yes, he does get a bit Richard Stilgoe at times these days, but there's nothing wrong with that. He's an artist who sometimes uses humour in his storytelling, or to get his message across... there's really nothing wrong with that, you know.

Great Human League cover too... he should release that.

The Good, The Badly & The Ugly

In which I end up walking out of a gig after a blazing row over a mobile phone...


You know how most gigs start out a bit rubbish, with a lacklustre support act, then gradually improve as the artist you've come to see plays all their new songs before working up to an amazing greatest finale hits finale that sends you home on a high?

Friday night was a gig in reverse.

It began with the best support act I've seen in donkey's ages, The Candle Thieves, just two young lads with guitar and keyboard, yet they filled the venue with their quirky, Eels-influenced-but-poppier, songs and their big-hearted bravado. For one song, Stars, lead Thief Scott McEwan unplugged his guitar and walked around the quarter-full audience, singing as he went. After that, the Candle Thieves had us. I bet they sold a lot of CDs from the merch stand that night; I certainly bought one.

After this, the headliner had a lot to live up to. Badly Drawn Boy's whole act however is one of ramshackle can't-be-arsedness. This is amusing for a while, and certainly on his opening acoustic set wherein he played a number of his biggest songs (occasionally accompanied by his 10 year old daughter, which even I found sweet) he looked liked he was going to deliver the performance we'd all been revved up for. The problems began when he invited on the rest of his band. The whole "they'll wander on and start playing as they feel like it in the middle of the song" routine felt contrived, and the band brought little to his act. The new album is a slowburner, but too often its delicate tunes just turned to mud and even Mr. Gough himself seemed unhappy with the way it was sounding, eventually calling for a half-arsed "fag break" interval right when any other act would be switching up a gear to the show-stoppers. Maybe they came back on and tore the roof off... I'll never know.

Because, midway through BDB's act, I became distracted by the woman next to me who was having a long text conversation on her phone. I mean, a LONG text conversation - it went on for over two songs by the time I'd finally had enough. She had one of those phones that double as lighthouses when you switch them on and her texting was illuminating the whole row.

Finally, I couldn't take it any more. I turned to her and, polite as I could manage, asked if she wouldn't mind switching her phone off as all I could see was the light.

"I was just sending a very important text to someone who's in hospital," she tried to explain. I shrugged - if it's that important, why not take it outside the auditorium rather than disturb everyone else and disrespect the performer? - but as she acquiesced and turned the phone off I said nothing more and carried on watching the show. As far as I was concerned, the matter was settled.

I've watched enough Curb Your Enthusiasm to know things are rarely that simple...

As BDB called fag-break, we took a moment to stretch our legs and use the loo. On returning to our seats, the woman with the phone decided to have her say.

"You were very rude to me," she said, "are you going to apologise?"

I explained that as far as I was concerned it was far more rude to spend ten minutes lighting up the whole venue with a phone...

"It wasn't ten minutes."

"It was over two songs!"

"It was two songs. And I explained that I had to send an important message to someone in hospital. And I apologised. But you were rude and you didn't apologise."

I began telling her I didn't see how I had anything to apologise for...

...which is when her son turned up.

"Is there a problem here?"

"There's no problem," I told him.

"I DON'T CARE ABOUT YOUR OPINION!" he shouted, pointing an aggressive finger in my face, at which point they both started on me.

So we left. It seemed the easiest option, rather than trying to argue my case. It was after 10 and Badly hadn't built up enough good will for me to want to stick around and put up with this abuse. I was furious...

...but afterwards, I started to wonder: was I in the wrong? As hostile as he'd acted, I couldn't really blame the son. He'd come back in to see what he thought was me having another go at his mum. He wasn't to know that it was her who'd started the exchange. If I saw someone having a go at my mum, I'd probably have been similarly incensed. But did this woman really deserve an apology? I'd restrained my original request to a polite "would you mind...?" rather than the "TURN THAT FLIPPING THING OFF!" I'd been feeling, and I'd made no more of it after she finished her texting. She may well have been worried about a relative in hospital - but not worried enough to cancel her evening out, or even to step outside the auditorium to send her messages. And I wasn't the only one getting annoyed by the light from her phone. But should I have said nothing? Or should I have dropped to my knees in supplication at the very mention of a sick relative? Is it just me? Do you think I was in the wrong?

There Goes The Thea

If I ever became a singer-songwriter (don't worry, being unable to sing and rubbish at rhymes it seems highly unlikely), I wouldn't want to get too famous. I wouldn't want to play cold, hollow stadiums or large capacity venues that smell of flat beer, vomit and piss (to uninterested, 'entertain me!' audiences who largely smell the same). I'd much prefer it if I developed a strong, loyal fanbase that was just big enough to allow me to pick and choose high quality muso-friendly venues where respectful, seated audiences hung on my every note without a glass in their hand.

For the next three weeks, I'll be visiting Manchester's Royal Northern College of Music, which is just that sort of venue, to see three just-successful-enough singer songwriters ply their trade to people who actually want to listen. The first of these was last Friday night, the UK's best contemporary female lyricist and performer, Thea Gilmore.

With a set largely made up from her current album, Murphy's Heart, plus selected treats from her back catalogue, Thea and band gave this show all they had - and the RNCM rewarded them with some of the best acoustics I've ever heard. No wonder Thea chose to end the show with a solo acapella song rather than a barnstorming rocker, there's not many venues where such a decision would be prudent, but here it sent us home with tears in our eyes. After another soul-destroying week at the pit-face (with no Chilean rescue parties in sight), it was just what I needed.



UPDATE... I just realised this is my 1000th post on Sunset Over Slawit.

Wow.

And they said I'd never achieve anything!

Paul Heaton Spills The Acid

"I worked it out the other day," says Paul Heaton. "Since 1986, there have been 19 Mercury Music Prizes, 189* Q Awards, 350* Brit Awards..." etc. etc. (*I don't remember the exact numbers, but I wouldn't be surprised if the ones quoted by Heaton were accurate) "...and what have I won? Fuck all. I'd have more chance of winning a Mobo!"

The by now veteran singer-songwriter is half-joking with his audience in Manchester on Friday night, but only half. And he's got every right to be pissed off when everyone from Robbie Williams to Kula Shaker has walked away with armfuls of awards from the various music biz schmoozathons over the last 25 years, yet an artist who's been part of two Number One-selling groups, one half of the most successful British songwriting duo since Lennon & McCartney, and a critically acclaimed solo songwriter to boot... all he's got on his mantelpiece is dust. Oh wait, I just checked, The Beautiful South won Best Video in 1991. So that's all right then.

There are no Beautiful South songs in Heaton's solo set - the truth behind their split remains a mystery - but he has spiced it up from the last time I saw him solo with a welcome selection of Housemartins favourites, including a timeless Build, We're Not Deep, and a roof-raising Me & The Farmer. There's also a strong selection from his last solo album The Cross-Eyed Rambler - though nothing from its long-forgotten predecessor Fat Chance (by "Biscuit Boy") - and his typically acerbic new record Acid Country, which takes a while, but is a definite grower.

Never mind the lack of awards, Friday night was sold out and everyone at the Academy loved Paul Heaton. He knows it too, and is suitably appreciative, thanking us for our support over the years. Besides, a little bitterness becomes him - a more content man wouldn't ever write songs like this...

The Wedding Present Go Bizarro In Holmfirth

Congratulate me, I managed to stand up for a whole gig without too much discomfort. Still some discomfort, but nowhere near how bad I felt when I saw Ash back in April. Maybe the chiropractor is having some effect after all! He reckons I have weak knees which might be adding to the pain in my back when I'm standing. So he's got me wearing knee braces when walking, which are definitely helping manage the pain. Why not try them at a gig? Hey... there might be something to this...

Anyway - The Wedding Present in Holmfirth. There's a trend at the moment towards artists with a certain heritage digging into their back catalogues and performing a classic album all the way through, just as it appeared on record - twenty-odd years later. Never one to miss out on a bandwagon (one of his new songs involves a wife cheating on her husband via iPhone), David Gedge is dragging his latest incarnation of The Wedding Present out on the road to re-present 1989's classic Bizarro - and great it sounds too.

I was disappointed to miss out on the support - particularly when I discovered it was Cinerama. That is, the other name for The Wedding Present. Damn them! (My favourite David Gedge memory is still the Cinerama gig I went to where he was running his own T-shirt stand.) Still, whether my back would have stood up to an extra hour's punishment I'm not sure. It was Bizarro I came to see, and Bizarro I got. After an opening set of new songs and a couple of classics, the repeating voice of John Peel filled the Picturedrome, an edited montage of "The Wedding Present / The Wedding Present / The Wedding Present..." before the great man himself introduced the opening track from beyond the grave. (21 years later, David Gedge is a lot more animated than he was in this video.)

Have you ever seen a bunch of late 30-something / early 40-something blokes moshing? It's a sight to lift your heart. And though I couldn't join in myself (that was never really my scene, even as a younger man with a stronger back), I cheered them on through No!, Thanks, What Have I Said Now, Granadaland and the mammoth, showstopping Take Me! I never saw The Wedding Present back in 1989 - hell, I'd barely even heard of them - but I can't imagine them sounding any better than this. Especially on the song below, perhaps their greatest single... fans of My Favourite Dress may disagree, but as Mr. Gedge was happy to point out, "I think you paid to see the wrong album - you should have come when we did George Best."

Suzanne Vega At The Lowry

It's 25 years since the release of Suzanne Vega's eponymous debut album, a fact her manager apparently told her to keep quiet about on her latest tour. She doesn't comply. And why should she? It's something to be celebrated, with a selection of classic songs from that record (including Marlene On The Wall and Small Blue Thing) plus other greats from her impressive catalogue - Caramel, Frank & Ava, In Liverpool... and, of course, the twin behemoths of Tom's Diner and Luka.

Vega's voice sounds better than ever. Warm, rich and just like caramel itself, while she hardly seems to have aged from the waif like singer songwriter who dared to buck the mid-eighties trend of high-production sheen with her folky acoustic ways.

I've been a fan since the late 80s, yet this was the first chance I've had to enjoy Suzy V live and the Lowry Theatre was the perfect venue (and not just because I could sit down - no more standing gigs till my back is fixed, I'm afraid!) with impressive acoustics and a mature, well-behaved audience. Sadly she didn't play my favourite (99.9 °F), but she did persuade me that her new album of re-recordings will definitely be worth a listen. Some singers just get better...

The Imaginary Gig

Thursday night, I went to an imaginary gig. Justin Currie is an artist I've been looking forward to seeing live (and solo) for a good few years now. I'd see him with his former band (the criminally underrated) Del Amitri back in the days of wonder, but missed the tour for his first excellent solo album, so was eager to catch him touring its sequel. We got the tickets well in advance and I was all set to go.

But I didn't. I couldn't. Because of my worsening back. I can't stand still for more than a few minutes at a time without absolute agony. I can sit down fine, I can walk about OK... but standing still is impossible. Unfortunately, at venues like Manchester Academy, standing still is your only option. So I had to tell Dave to find someone else to go with him... I just couldn't stand it.

Instead, I went to an imaginary gig. I built a stage in the living room and imagined a misanthropic, curmudgeonly, archly-cynical songwriter was up there singing his bitter heart out (to help me visualise this, I put a mirror at the back of the stage). Then I got Louise to push past me on her way to the toilets or the bar every two minutes, to have loud conversation with her friends just behind the sofa, to film the whole gig on her phone, and to whistle shriekily after every song.

Then I sat back and listened to the new Justin Currie album, The Great War. It was almost like being there. And as close as I'm going to get to gigging until my back is mended...

Never mind, there's always album #3.