London Fields # 80
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 14 July 2010
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here
As much as migrating birds have their annual cycles, so do comedians - mainly based around the annual pilgrimage to Edinburgh for the Fringe Festival each August. As that month now looms into view, comics up and down the land are immersing themselves in the ritual dance of writing, panicking and trying out new material that will (hopefully) sustain them for the three weeks of festival and most of the nine months following, before the whole cycle begins again in earnest. On seemingly every night now there’s many an act doing open rehearsals or warm-up performances. These can vary from late starters whose sets are primarily last year’s show with perhaps an additional ten minutes of new material awkwardly inserted, to those that have entirely new shows although these may fall quite short (in either length or quality) at the moment.
Daniel Kitson fell into the latter of these categories (length not quality) when I caught a very early run through of his 2010 theatre show It's Always Right Now, Until It's Later last week. Run was really an appropriate word here, as it is a work in progress, and the cohesive part of what he’s written to date takes him about 17 minutes to read, although he did tackle sections of it with breathless speed. Like last year’s wonderful The Interminable Suicide of Gregory Church, it’s a story piece and is also going to premiere at the Traverse Theatre. Via a series of interrelated vignettes it illustrates the unrelated lives of William Rivington and Caroline Carpenter; their stories will eventually intersect, but only the once. Even at this early stage, it has moments of great depth and emotion, and it’s hard not be in in awe of some of Kitson’s turns of phrase. While these make me wish he’d go and write a novel, that perhaps would deprive us of the chance to hear the way he weaves these diverse threads into a greater whole. Whereas Gregory Church (which he later tells me he will be touring in Australia next year) showed that events that seem minor at the time may go on to have greater significance, the new piece is a step forward wherein Kitson is purely a narrator, and the breadth is to depict two entire lives. At the moment it’s really just an outline, yet like its predecessor it’s clear that capturing even the simplest of moments can be the sometimes be an important part of a genuinely lived life.
The following day I head down to Brighton to see The National, as it’s my only chance to see them in a reasonably-sized venue this year. Checking the stage times for the evening, I run in ¾ of The Veils outside the venue, who have also ventured seawards for the gig. Soph gives me a huge hug, and Finn tells me that he’s been busy writing and that they’re heading into the studios this week to record an EP of new material. Eschewing the support act, I take advantage of the beautiful evening and savour a quiet moment, sitting in a beachside bar slowly sipping an ice cold pint as I watch the sea while the world passes by. For years I’ve loved The National on record but for me they have always seemed to somehow fall short as live performers. The musicianship is there, as are the songs, but it always has felt as though something was missing. Yet tonight, with an extended line-up of two horn players, and the ever-present (and irreplaceable) Padma Newsome on keyboards and strings, they come close to bridging that gap. It’s wonderful to see the recognition they now have; what were once mere lyrics becoming crowd anthems, while frontman Matt Berninger seems to have peeled away his restraint, actually hurling himself into the crowd at one point. Tonight’s highlights are the slower numbers, the best being a sublime version of England, the accompanying horns just perfectly undercutting the song’s triumphant swell.
Afterwards, when the journey homewards takes more than three hours, the train delayed by a suicide on the line, I again think of Kitson’s idea of the importance of moments. These could be as simple as the touch of another person or the wonder that is that repeated lyric from Slow Show. After all, it is in fleeting moments that all life resides.
© James McGalliard 2010
Showing posts with label Brighton. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Brighton. Show all posts
Wednesday, 14 July 2010
Wednesday, 16 June 2010
Tales Of A City
London Fields # 79
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 16 June 2010
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here
As much as it’s easy to sometimes loathe where you live, dreaming of other far away or remembered places, sometimes events conspire to deflate fantasies of an imagined life elsewhere by providing experiences that couldn’t be found elsewhere. At times like this you find yourself tearing up those mental lists of reasons to be or not to be here and just revel in your time. Recently I’ve looked enviously at Melbourne shows by The Chills (compensated by seeing The Clean here), the closure and rebirth of The Tote and commemorations of The Seaview Ballroom.
But when you’re standing in a 350 capacity club, and Peter Hook is playing his six string Shergold less than ten feet in front of you, and Mani is a few feet further away playing the lower baselines, you just know that this is something you’d be unlikely to experience in the confines of the Northcote Social Club. For this is Manchester supergroup Freebass playing only their second proper gig. Andy Rourke is sadly absent, and Hooky is the centre of a fine night‘s entertainment, one which may recall the past, but is also entirely of the present, the band not relying on any of its member’s huge back catalogues to get by. It’s a performance free of frills, and watching it I’m reminded of the difference to seeing another new buzz Manchester band this year - Hurts, who had everything right as far as looks and staging, but had forgotten the need for songs.
Two nights later comedian Stewart Lee is playing a free show in a woefully ill-equipped pub on the edges of Shoreditch. The circumstances see him abandon his plans to test new material, and instead he improvises around some themes from his 2009 Edinburgh show. That night, his thoughts on leaving London for the country or places further afield struck a certain resonance with me. Escaping the confines of the Hobby Horse for a calmer locale, a wander down Orsman Road ends at The Stag’s Head. But I’m soon drawn into the band area where I witness an extraordinary bass groove that loops hypnotically for the next fifteen minutes. This it turns out is the single launch of Chips For The Poor and I leave happily clutching their new 7” clear vinyl and a free bonus CD of the full version.
Between these two nights I’m in Brighton to witness Julian Cope turn in a virtuoso solo performance. After sitting on that strange cobbled beach (nothing stranger than the sound of waves rolling over pebbles), I head off to the Komedia. While he can tend to be a little erratic, somehow on this barmy Brighton evening it all came together brilliantly, nearly leading to me missing the last train back to London. He’s a fabulous raconteur, and extremely funny, interspersing songs with thoughts arising from research into his next book (Lives Of The Prophets), weird Japanese lyrical translations, and tales of his 50th birthday acid trip. He chooses a wonderful selection of songs and his voice and playing are pristine while simultaneous displaying a lived-in wear of love. His acerbic wit remains and his comments that The Teardrop Explodes were consistent at being not very good makes his non-appearance a few days later to collect an award from Mojo in their honour not unsurprising.
With shows this month by Gang Of Four, James, Brendan Perry, The Lotus Eaters and Marc Almond, you do sometimes wonder what decade this is. But other than a visit in May 1982 with a disintegrating The Teardrop Explodes, when has Julian Cope visited Australia? Where else but London would you see John Foxx reunited with guitarist Robin Simon to perform songs from the landmark Systems Of Romance album? Or experience the preternatural stillness of the streets during an England World Cup game? And while Daniel Kitson may seem to spend more time in Australia than he does here, never would his former landlord and enemy turn up at the end of an Australian performance of 66a Church Road as happened here last Sunday.
As I reflect on all this heading home on one of the last remaining bendy buses , I think that despite all the fears for a bleak future forecast by the new Liberal Con coalition, it’s worth enduring life here for the things that couldn’t happen anywhere else. But as Daniel Kitson’s landlord said, there are two sides to every story.
© James McGalliard 2010
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 16 June 2010
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here
As much as it’s easy to sometimes loathe where you live, dreaming of other far away or remembered places, sometimes events conspire to deflate fantasies of an imagined life elsewhere by providing experiences that couldn’t be found elsewhere. At times like this you find yourself tearing up those mental lists of reasons to be or not to be here and just revel in your time. Recently I’ve looked enviously at Melbourne shows by The Chills (compensated by seeing The Clean here), the closure and rebirth of The Tote and commemorations of The Seaview Ballroom.
But when you’re standing in a 350 capacity club, and Peter Hook is playing his six string Shergold less than ten feet in front of you, and Mani is a few feet further away playing the lower baselines, you just know that this is something you’d be unlikely to experience in the confines of the Northcote Social Club. For this is Manchester supergroup Freebass playing only their second proper gig. Andy Rourke is sadly absent, and Hooky is the centre of a fine night‘s entertainment, one which may recall the past, but is also entirely of the present, the band not relying on any of its member’s huge back catalogues to get by. It’s a performance free of frills, and watching it I’m reminded of the difference to seeing another new buzz Manchester band this year - Hurts, who had everything right as far as looks and staging, but had forgotten the need for songs.
Two nights later comedian Stewart Lee is playing a free show in a woefully ill-equipped pub on the edges of Shoreditch. The circumstances see him abandon his plans to test new material, and instead he improvises around some themes from his 2009 Edinburgh show. That night, his thoughts on leaving London for the country or places further afield struck a certain resonance with me. Escaping the confines of the Hobby Horse for a calmer locale, a wander down Orsman Road ends at The Stag’s Head. But I’m soon drawn into the band area where I witness an extraordinary bass groove that loops hypnotically for the next fifteen minutes. This it turns out is the single launch of Chips For The Poor and I leave happily clutching their new 7” clear vinyl and a free bonus CD of the full version.
Between these two nights I’m in Brighton to witness Julian Cope turn in a virtuoso solo performance. After sitting on that strange cobbled beach (nothing stranger than the sound of waves rolling over pebbles), I head off to the Komedia. While he can tend to be a little erratic, somehow on this barmy Brighton evening it all came together brilliantly, nearly leading to me missing the last train back to London. He’s a fabulous raconteur, and extremely funny, interspersing songs with thoughts arising from research into his next book (Lives Of The Prophets), weird Japanese lyrical translations, and tales of his 50th birthday acid trip. He chooses a wonderful selection of songs and his voice and playing are pristine while simultaneous displaying a lived-in wear of love. His acerbic wit remains and his comments that The Teardrop Explodes were consistent at being not very good makes his non-appearance a few days later to collect an award from Mojo in their honour not unsurprising.
With shows this month by Gang Of Four, James, Brendan Perry, The Lotus Eaters and Marc Almond, you do sometimes wonder what decade this is. But other than a visit in May 1982 with a disintegrating The Teardrop Explodes, when has Julian Cope visited Australia? Where else but London would you see John Foxx reunited with guitarist Robin Simon to perform songs from the landmark Systems Of Romance album? Or experience the preternatural stillness of the streets during an England World Cup game? And while Daniel Kitson may seem to spend more time in Australia than he does here, never would his former landlord and enemy turn up at the end of an Australian performance of 66a Church Road as happened here last Sunday.
As I reflect on all this heading home on one of the last remaining bendy buses , I think that despite all the fears for a bleak future forecast by the new Liberal Con coalition, it’s worth enduring life here for the things that couldn’t happen anywhere else. But as Daniel Kitson’s landlord said, there are two sides to every story.
© James McGalliard 2010
Wednesday, 27 May 2009
South By South East
London Fields # 65
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 27 May 2009
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here
While most of Great Britain sat inside to see how Graham Norton handled Terry Wogan’s Eurovision crown, I found myself wandering the lanes and seafront of Brighton seeking another type of music entirely. The Great Escape festival is a three-day event combining music conference and showcase spread over thirty Brighton venues. Perhaps partially a UK response to South by South West, it’s now in its fourth year, and draws around 3000 delegates and press and over 10000 punters. This particular weekend Brighton was literally overrun, as it coincided with the Brighton Festival, and its accompanying Fringe events, as well as ‘Heroes Run’ on the Sunday morning after the final night.
But it’s not just about seminars and performances, there’s networking as well. Outside the Thistle Hotel I run into Andrew Todd, the guitarist of The Boxer Rebellion. There’s a big announcement to be made regarding the band very soon, but for the time being they’re being very tight lipped about it. However if things go as planned, Andrew may well get to play his Adelaide home as part of a large touring summer festival in early 2010. The Australian presence was a little muted and understated this year; certainly there was nothing to rival the New Zealand showcase which saw Die! Die! Die!, Connan Mockasin and The Veils amongst the acts performing on the pier on the Saturday afternoon, although their twenty-minute sets were a little restrictive.
As the evening’s events began, so did the inevitable clashes. Torn between I Heart Hiroshima and Yves Klein Blue, we end up at the latter as it’s closest to our next destination. While you couldn’t fault their confidence, I kept waiting for one song to pull me up and make me pay attention; sadly it doesn’t appear. Maybe I’ve become too British in my tastes, but they sounded like 2004, and seemed to be lacking cohesion in what they were trying to do.
The next decision was a difficult one. Two of my favourite bands were playing at exactly the same time, but seeing either one of them ruled out seeing School Of Seven Bells, British Sea Power or Idlewild. However as Joe Gideon & The Shark have a London show next month, we opted for I Like Trains (formerly iLiKETRAiNS) at the large Concorde 2. There’s a disappointingly small crowd, which is a shame as iLT put in a first rate show. Keeping nothing back they open with Terra Nova, with a Rickenbacker bass you feel as much as hear, and the band silhouetted in dry ice in slowly rotating spots. It’s an old school approach but it works brilliantly. It’s hard to see why this band found themselves without a label; the new songs indicate that the next album is likely to sidestep the pitfalls of their ambitious yet flawed debut, and they are a great live act. While there are times it’s not quite gelling, it all comes together for the epic closer Spencer Percival, where the brooding menace which has been building up over the preceding eight minutes explodes into an apocalyptic cataclysm that is literally jawdropping.
Word reaches us that Patrick Wolf’s show is completely full, so do we see whether British India can justify their full page ad in that week’s NME, or go catch Gang Of Four? It’s not a hard choice. With the previous act running vastly over time, Gang Of Four have only fifteen minutes playing time before the curfew sets in, so they make the best of it. Jon King is one of the most brilliant and confrontational frontmen around. There’s a steeliness to him, whether conveyed by his impassioned wail, or the systematic destruction of a microwave with a baseball bat. He and Andy Gill are constantly moving between the three mikes, weaving like some deranged dervish. Their energy can barely be contained. Losing one of the best rhythm sections around is a cruel blow, but Mark Heaney is a strong presence on drums and Thomas McNiece nicely replicates those immense bass lines. While they may not cause structural damage like Allen’s did, it suits the band well. Gang of Two? Nah, they’re still firing on all cylinders.
Then there’s another long walk, trying to catch Dark Horses, Lisa Lindley-Jones new act which for these shows featured guest vocalist Emiliana Torrini. Sadly they’re done by the time we get there, but we do see a relaxed Patrick Wolf walking down the road tucking into chicken and chips. A midnight street conversation sees us at Audio, where I lose my friends to the packed throng on the dance floor. By now it’s nearing 1am and alone I catch the end of the set from one of the last acts performing, The Shiny Brights from Adelaide in the small downstairs bar of Jam. Singer Wolfgang brings some genuine frontman pizzazz to proceedings, and while not quite my thing, there’s a joyous energy here that is somewhat infectious.
The next morning I’m recovering in the Hove sunshine, watching hundreds of people dressed as superheroes trying to break a world record for the largest number of capes ever assembled in the one place. It’s a surreal end to a great experience. Next year I’ll be back for all three days. I only hope they get more extended licensing, or begin shows earlier so that the bands that have travelled so far to be here may be able to play for longer.
© James McGalliard 2009
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 27 May 2009
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here
While most of Great Britain sat inside to see how Graham Norton handled Terry Wogan’s Eurovision crown, I found myself wandering the lanes and seafront of Brighton seeking another type of music entirely. The Great Escape festival is a three-day event combining music conference and showcase spread over thirty Brighton venues. Perhaps partially a UK response to South by South West, it’s now in its fourth year, and draws around 3000 delegates and press and over 10000 punters. This particular weekend Brighton was literally overrun, as it coincided with the Brighton Festival, and its accompanying Fringe events, as well as ‘Heroes Run’ on the Sunday morning after the final night.
But it’s not just about seminars and performances, there’s networking as well. Outside the Thistle Hotel I run into Andrew Todd, the guitarist of The Boxer Rebellion. There’s a big announcement to be made regarding the band very soon, but for the time being they’re being very tight lipped about it. However if things go as planned, Andrew may well get to play his Adelaide home as part of a large touring summer festival in early 2010. The Australian presence was a little muted and understated this year; certainly there was nothing to rival the New Zealand showcase which saw Die! Die! Die!, Connan Mockasin and The Veils amongst the acts performing on the pier on the Saturday afternoon, although their twenty-minute sets were a little restrictive.
As the evening’s events began, so did the inevitable clashes. Torn between I Heart Hiroshima and Yves Klein Blue, we end up at the latter as it’s closest to our next destination. While you couldn’t fault their confidence, I kept waiting for one song to pull me up and make me pay attention; sadly it doesn’t appear. Maybe I’ve become too British in my tastes, but they sounded like 2004, and seemed to be lacking cohesion in what they were trying to do.
The next decision was a difficult one. Two of my favourite bands were playing at exactly the same time, but seeing either one of them ruled out seeing School Of Seven Bells, British Sea Power or Idlewild. However as Joe Gideon & The Shark have a London show next month, we opted for I Like Trains (formerly iLiKETRAiNS) at the large Concorde 2. There’s a disappointingly small crowd, which is a shame as iLT put in a first rate show. Keeping nothing back they open with Terra Nova, with a Rickenbacker bass you feel as much as hear, and the band silhouetted in dry ice in slowly rotating spots. It’s an old school approach but it works brilliantly. It’s hard to see why this band found themselves without a label; the new songs indicate that the next album is likely to sidestep the pitfalls of their ambitious yet flawed debut, and they are a great live act. While there are times it’s not quite gelling, it all comes together for the epic closer Spencer Percival, where the brooding menace which has been building up over the preceding eight minutes explodes into an apocalyptic cataclysm that is literally jawdropping.
Word reaches us that Patrick Wolf’s show is completely full, so do we see whether British India can justify their full page ad in that week’s NME, or go catch Gang Of Four? It’s not a hard choice. With the previous act running vastly over time, Gang Of Four have only fifteen minutes playing time before the curfew sets in, so they make the best of it. Jon King is one of the most brilliant and confrontational frontmen around. There’s a steeliness to him, whether conveyed by his impassioned wail, or the systematic destruction of a microwave with a baseball bat. He and Andy Gill are constantly moving between the three mikes, weaving like some deranged dervish. Their energy can barely be contained. Losing one of the best rhythm sections around is a cruel blow, but Mark Heaney is a strong presence on drums and Thomas McNiece nicely replicates those immense bass lines. While they may not cause structural damage like Allen’s did, it suits the band well. Gang of Two? Nah, they’re still firing on all cylinders.
Then there’s another long walk, trying to catch Dark Horses, Lisa Lindley-Jones new act which for these shows featured guest vocalist Emiliana Torrini. Sadly they’re done by the time we get there, but we do see a relaxed Patrick Wolf walking down the road tucking into chicken and chips. A midnight street conversation sees us at Audio, where I lose my friends to the packed throng on the dance floor. By now it’s nearing 1am and alone I catch the end of the set from one of the last acts performing, The Shiny Brights from Adelaide in the small downstairs bar of Jam. Singer Wolfgang brings some genuine frontman pizzazz to proceedings, and while not quite my thing, there’s a joyous energy here that is somewhat infectious.
The next morning I’m recovering in the Hove sunshine, watching hundreds of people dressed as superheroes trying to break a world record for the largest number of capes ever assembled in the one place. It’s a surreal end to a great experience. Next year I’ll be back for all three days. I only hope they get more extended licensing, or begin shows earlier so that the bands that have travelled so far to be here may be able to play for longer.
© James McGalliard 2009
Wednesday, 29 April 2009
Memories In Future Tense
London Fields # 64
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 29 April 2009
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 29 April 2009
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here
When was the last time you walked on St Kilda Pier? Or took a stroll through the Botanical Gardens, or a gander at Cook’s Cottage? When you live in a place, you tend to take the local attractions as part of the background. There’s no imperative to see them, as they’ll always be there (as perhaps may you). So you get on with your life, tied up in the patterns of the daily commute, where to get lunch, and what housework probably needs doing but you can put off for just one more day. lf both life and work are based in suburbia, you can become so absorbed in all that entails that you lose sight of where you actually are.
This is true of adopted homes too. On a glorious autumn day last week, I travelled down to Brighton to catch Ultravox on their Return To Eden tour, which sees the commercially successful line-up of the band playing together for the first time since Live Aid some 23 years ago. Getting out of London can prove difficult, and once you do it’s still a long way to any beach, but seeing the sea made me wonder why I didn’t more often. While Brighton did have a pretty dingy period of faded glamour in the nineties, now its myriad streets of small and varied shops seems a world away from the recession-hit capital where the only new outlets seem to be bookies, pawn brokers and money lenders – some taking over the abandoned offices of real estate agents. Yet prices are steep down on the Suffolk coast – even a simple round of drinks was more than I’ve ever paid in London.
I had temporarily forgotten it was St George’s Day, until a labourer-philosopher on a nearby table in the pub started to lecture his mates on the subject (this just after his lengthy diatribe on the particularly outstanding qualities of the breasts of that day’s Page 3 girl). Now every English pub will have one or more of these chaps, and today’s outrage centred on how he wasn’t allowed to celebrate being English; especially as all these foreigners got their special religious holidays (obviously he’d momentarily forgotten that four-day Easter weekend a few weeks back). So here he was, wanting to celebrate a Roman soldier born in Turkey who may never even have existed. And while England should have a national holiday to match Ireland, Scotland and Wales, some nasty racist factions have appropriated this flag as England for the English, so it’ll be a difficult balancing act to get right. Maybe April 23 should be celebrated as Shakespeare’s birthday instead?
I’m glad to say Ultravox weren’t a disappointment; Midge’s voice is still outstanding, and it was joyous to see onstage the one reformation I feared would never happen. I still remembered every lyric, and was glad I was in a place and time I could see this limited reformation. Recently it’s been hard to know what decade this we’re living in here. The reformed Spandau Ballet are appearing on chat shows, ABC just played the entire Lexicon Of Love album with an orchestra, and lame Life On Mars sequel Ashes To Ashes has returned for a second series, set in a imagined 1982. Meanwhile, highbrow digital television station BBC Four commemorated the 25th anniversary of the miners’ strike with a series of documentaries. The heavy-handed response by the police at some of those pickets is still shocking today, and while you’d hope such things are remnants of a dark past, the kettling tactics and assaults on some people in the vicinity of the G20 protests is a sad reminder that the world has not progressed as much as you’d hoped it had.
Anyway, so the train pulled into London Bridge from Brighton late at night and I had about twenty minutes to make the connection to Liverpool Street, which involved crossing the river that really divides the city in two. The Thames is not a sedate meanderer like the Yarra; it’s wide, turbulent, fast, and unpredictable; it’s unlikely you’d survive if you fell in. To my right I saw Tower Bridge for the first time in a few years, and it struck me that I was living in a place I had seen nightly on TV programmes on the ABC as I grew up. Unreal city indeed. Off to the left the huge dome of St Paul’s was still dominating the skyline as it has for hundreds of years. With so much despair around, it can be difficult to see the simple beauty that surrounds us. This floodlit colourful vision snapped me out of my reverie and left me vaguely awestruck, a feeling which as clung to me for several days. As the late Grant McLennan once sang, “If you spend your life looking behind you, you don't see what's up front”.
© James McGalliard 2009
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