How NOT to write about music – 185. Adwaith (the interview)

Adwaith

By Everett True

Adwaith is Welsh for reaction.

Adwaith have been to Austin, New York, Portugal, Netherlands, Germany and the UK since I last saw them at the mighty Vera Groningen last February. Then, I wrote “THIS is what it was like being Everett True when all that meant was rock and joy and wonder and anticipation of the next cloud-scraping harmony, the next climactic chord change and drum roll of distant thunder”, reminiscing as usual back to a moment in my life when clarity and passion mattered, when I felt I had some value. I guess this is the downside of growing older, that life is a series of vividly remembered dreams but no actual memories: not least because I cannot visualise pictures in my head. Did I mention that I have aphantasia?

Now, Adwaith are on the opening night of their UK tour, backstage at the Hope & Ruin in Brighton. I say backstage: it’s one small room near the toilets, carrots and humus in the fridge, a couple of soiled armchairs for seating, band graffiti on the walls. There are three of them with me – Hollie (vocals, guitar), Gwen (bass, vocals) and Heledd (drums) – they have an obvious ease in one another’s company that is disarming. They repeatedly say how much they’re enjoying the interview, which is nice as I am nervous – this is the first face-to-face interview I’ve done Robert Forster in Brisbane, 2015.

Such is the nature of transcribing recorded conversations I have difficulty separating the voices later. So, apologies if I attribute the right quote to the wrong person.

Adwaith have been going for nine, 10 years with their psychedelic, folksy Welsh language music – picking up the Welsh music prize for best album twice: once for Melyn (2018), and once for its follow-up Bato Mato (2022). I don’t think I’ve heard the former, and I was scared to play the latter, with its gorgeous gatefold sleeve and what looks to be fluorescent vinyl, on my £32.99 Argos record player for fear of lasting damage. So I mournfully listened to it on iTunes instead and noticed an echo of other psych bands I’ve loved: Hookworms, Thee Open Sex and that Melbourne band I can never remember the name of.

Gwen: “We didn’t have big ambitions. We were 16, 17 in school and decided we wanted to be part of the Welsh language scene.”

Hollie: “We didn’t see many females on stage, it was all males – and I remember thinking we could do that.”

What were your initial goals?

Heledd: “To prove a point. To be heard on the radio, to be on BBC6 Music…”

Gwen: “To play Green Man, to play America, to play Glastonbury… “

Hollie: “The difference between the scene now and 20 years ago is that then a lot of the bands had to turn to English to get success – Super Furry Animals did it, and Catatonia and Gorky’s. Now, people have the belief that they can be successful outside of Wales without doing that and do more gigs outside Wales.”

Do you encounter much resistance?

Gwen: “I think some people – and it’s usually not audience, but industry people – don’t know where to place us within the whole UK music scene. We always have people saying, ‘Wouldn’t you be more successful if you sang in English?’”

You think that’s true? To me, that makes no sense. Welsh sounds way superior to English as a sung language – the best thing Cerys Matthews ever did was that solo EP sung entirely in Welsh.

Heledd: “It would take what makes us unique away from us.”

What was your inspiration when you started out? Why did you feel you needed to prove a point?

Heledd: “It felt like things needed to change, because there was a very specific type of boy present, very egotistic.”

Hollie: “It was all like boys and their mates, and when they’d start playing, they’d be like YEAAHHH, and when we’d start playing, they’d be sitting back and not showing the same support.”

Gwen: “We weren’t great when we started, and people would go on about how we can’t play our instruments, which wasn’t far from the truth… but they still shouldn’t be saying it!”

Hollie: “All these 40-year-old men…”

Why would they care anyway? Surely, what matters is the resultant sound not technical proficiency? It’s just a different way of playing. What you’re talking about here – kicking back against assumed male privilege on the Welsh language scene – reminds me of the early Riot Grrrls, who had to fight back against entitled gender imbalance.  I remember one of Huggy Bear saying in response to a similar charge (of not being able to play their instrument), “I know thousands of chords, they don’t have any names. I just make them up when I need to.”

Who were your musical influences when you started out?

“Folky…”

“The Slits…”

“We were obsessed with The Staves…”

“We loved Wolf Alice.”

Gwen: “At the start we were too scared to make much noise. We were much more folky. No pedals or anything. I was playing a mandolin and for ages I had an acoustic guitar that had a pick-up sellotaped and that was falling off it. It was a hodgepodge.”

Hollie: “We kind of grew up a little and bought some pedals and began to rock.”

What inspires you now?

“Ourselves.”

“Our daily life, landscapes, situations…”

Gwen: “We have very broad tastes in music, we all like different things. Our playlist in the car is anything and everything, Disney channel hits, early 2000s stuff, world music, Krautrock, folk, pop…”

Heledd: “The only thing that is not allowed is pop-punk.”

Gwen: “… and maybe hardcore metal.”

So, if you had a piece of advice for a band starting up?

“What makes you different is what will make you successful.”

How NOT to write about music – 184. The New Eves

I have a new favourite band.

Some drummers know shit. Some drummers think they’re there to fill in spaces and cross their arms and wave fancy sticks in the air. That’s not The New Eves’ way. She looks calm, relaxed – moving with the flow, never once crossing her arms, standing up (of course) as she hammers out a litany of wonderment and magic, thunderous yet oddly sparse… someone who understands the importance of Moe Tucker, Jacqui Ham and Maher Shalal Hash Baz, someone who feels so natural and unafraid it puts 98% of all other drummers to shame, someone who moves and rocks and closes her eyes as she feels for the moment, leading intoxication after intoxication. I am so in awe of The New Eves’ drummer, it makes me tremble. If only more drummers would stand up and not cross their arms. If only more drummers cared.

The voices are just fantastic. Caught billowing and yodelling in mid-air, like a moment caught out of time, weaving and interweaving and catching harmony and discordant beauty, sometimes quietened and sad, other times full-throated and captivating, other times both simultaneously and many other things besides… intentional chaos. It’s performative and theatrical sure, but simultaneously it really isn’t – this feels so natural, so organic in its joy and exploration.

Think of The Roches, even though it clearly isn’t.

I am here because a week ago, someone described this band to me as a “medieval UT”. (UT being the contrarian NYC noise band I saw 45 times between 1981 and 1982.) You think I’m gonna pass up a description like that? Seven years ago, I nearly passed up an opportunity to see Porridge Radio, same venue (the Prince Albert by Brighton Station) until someone threw in a Raincoats comparison, and I ended up writing this – http://collapseboard.com/i-watched-40-seconds-of-the-greatest-band-a-tragedy-in-40-seconds/. I ain’t so stupid this time around. I come prepared, although I haven’t heard a note. This music matters to me, you understand.

This is my heartland music.

This is my life.

The cello is wonderful: poised, elegant, primal… soaring when you want it to soar and soaring when you don’t. The interplay with the jarring Richard Hell-type guitar and … oh, Raincoats… violin is something magical when it occurs, and it occurs a lot. The bass… wowza. The bass. So fluent, so responsive… this whole play-and-respond thing is what lifts them far above other bands who understand the importance of theatre and aesthetic cohesiveness. Some songs are like Gregorian chant echoes, others abrasive textural challenges. Some songs make you want to lift your arms up high, reach for the upper firmament, others… wow. Well, other songs build a cold fury and hold it for hours at a time, a welter of blurred strings and broken promises. Other songs make me think of that time I saw Patti Smith at the Brighton Dome and how righteous she still is, after all these years. Other songs make me realise how futile, how useless most music is when compared to The New Eves. Other songs simply are.

Other bands played last night and they were great too, but…

Tonight, I have a new favourite band.

How NOT to write about music – 183. Everett True plays The Fall + David Lance Callahan

I’m not going to linger for long here.

Honestly? This was two weeks ago. My memory is crap. David Lance Callahan always struck me as a much better (in every respect) Morrissey than David Gedge. The Talleyrand had a perfectly functional piano in the corner of its back room. It’s fucking fantastic to take two five-hour car rides with a friend you haven’t seen for at least 10 years: we have a healthy suspicion for each another that fuels the closeness. Alice is wonderful. Great call on the recommendation for food – Levenshulme Bakery is nothing of the sort, but does an incredible kebab. Martin Bramah left halfway through, no doubt nonplussed at the sight of a Fall fan clearly unable to play even the rudiments of Fall songs; I’m told his companion found it highly entertaining, though. There were far more people present during Dave and Theo’s set: there again, they played something approximating (spiky, angular, folksy, danceable, human, heartwarming) music and have a deserved rep for doing same. I have no such rep.

Honestly? I wasn’t necessarily phased by the fact at least three ex-members of The Fall were present, or that I attempted to start at least five songs to no avail. ‘Hit The North!’ would have been the popular choice: I discarded the notion beforehand, fearing it too obvious and patronising. (Rule number one of playing live: never discard the obvious – especially if you only play live three times a year.) The line about my daughter heckling me with the “play another chord” shout got the biggest laugh of the afternoon. The Talleyrand does very good beer, so I’m told. David Callahan is a diamond; driving us to our door after, through all the diversions and crashes – very much appreciated. ‘Frightened’ was my favourite; possibly, ‘Spectre Vs Rector’ cos that’s the one where everyone hears all the words for the first time. Pleasure to meet so many friendly faces, especially Julia, David, Theo and Jack.

Honestly? I don’t remember being on stage. Happens like that sometimes. I know I forgot to use the sustain pedal and melodica, and should’a told a couple more stories. I know it was disconcerting being able to see the whites of everyone’s eyes from my vantage point. (David, on the other hand, much appreciated it.) ‘Rebellious Jukebox’ was OK. ‘Repetition’? Sure. The highlight was – uh, easy, ‘Eat Y’rself Fitter’, the crowd joined in, exactly the right places, with gusto.

Sure. I’d love to do this again. All over the UK and elsewhere, if anyone lets me get away with it again. I’m doing an Everett True plays Jonathan Richman set in Brighton on 30 September. Come down, if this hasn’t put you off.

How NOT to write about music – 182. At The Edge Of The Sea

You have to understand, I did ‘A’ Level maths. Back then, we didn’t have autism or ADHD.

I was 17 when I attended my first concert (Darts – someone paid for that; Buzzcocks – I paid for it). For years, certainly into my 22nd year I graded all the concerts I attended. Two marks: one for my perceived notion of how ‘good’ the band were (even then, a problematic concept): the other, for my enjoyment of the show. I graded everyone I saw and while the two marks were often similar, they were also radically quite different on occasion. (For example, Nico at The Venue. For example, The Smirks when really I should have been watching Joy Division in the adjurning hall. I didn’t because the trumpet was so bright and everyone else had disappeared. Plus, I’d already seen JD three times – plenty of opportunity to see them in the future, I thought to myself, bouncing up and down with glee.) Although the grades had a limit (6 stars, I believe), it was all in the pluses and minuses – which could be added with gusto, in deference to some long-lost value system. (I also liked to play number cricket in class with the numbers etched into the side of my pencil. The resulting scores, involving my classmates, were a matter of considerable interest to the entire class after the lesson was finished.)

Anyway, you achieve a grade of above 3 stars (yes, I did allow halves) and I knew I’d enjoyed your set, in one respect or another. In the interests of brevity, then…

You know what’s coming, don’t you?

First, a little context. At The Edge Of The Sea is a two-day mini-festival The Wedding Present and pals put on at the Concorde 2 (two stages, one inside and one outside) right next to the beach in Brighton every year. I’ve attended one before, at the behest of Helen McCookerybook. It was when I was in a very dark place indeed. Today, because of an incident we’re not going to go into here, I am feeling like shit. Be among similar-minded souls, I think to myself. The greatest thing about these mini-festivals – they’ve been going on for quite a few years now – is the sense of community they engender. A sense of belonging. Just a few short hours when you can still believe. All inclusive and slightly self-deprecating.

Plus, the raffle!

Of course, I miss the one band I’m here to see. Cinerama. Damn, and double damn.

Here are mygrades then.

Terry de Castro & Friends: 3.5 stars/3 stars (I didn’t really watch but they seemed friendy.)

Canned Pineapple: 4 stars/5 stars ++ (I was feeling shit: they stopped me feeling shit and put a massive smile on my face. The moment when the five lads announced they were going to cover a Wedding Present song but the drummer was still unsure of how it went – cue sight of drummer holding a mobile device to his ear, listening to said song – was pure genius. Reminded me of The Undertones too, and man that ain’t never a bad thing.) (Don’t overlook the additional pluses I’ve given them.)

ARKK: 3 stars/3.5 stars (A little too metal for my taste, but loved the stage set-up and warmth emenating from the two members, also my mate Michelle dug them.)

Hypsoline: 3.5 stars/4 stars (The kind of band we’d have featured in Plan B Magazine, for damn sure.)

Blood Red Shoes: 4 stars/2 stars (Good band n’ all, but I couldn’t handle the volume after Swans the night before.)

Berries: 3 stars/2.5 stars (Hunger was starting to do me in.)

The Wedding Present: 4.5 stars/4 stars + (Don’t take this the wrong way but surprisingly good. Vibrant. Don’t overlook the bonus plus.)

How NOT to write about music – 181. Swans

Swans played in Kemptown, St. George’s Church.

The above isn’t a photograph of them, or even a mediated representation of a photograph of them. I find it near impossible to type while Swans are playing through my speakers. Swans are playing through my speakers. The last time I saw Michael Gira’s band play, it was more akin to Live Skull. It was 1987, or thereabouts and as I attempted to walk in the door of Fulham Greyhound. I found myself near physically buffeted straight out the door of the Fulham Greyhound, such was the volume. Back then, I always went down the front of stage. That night, I cowered at the back, far away from the speakers as possible. (Or maybe I watched it from outside, through thickened walls?) Back then, I never wore earplugs. Tonight, I wear earplugs and the very floorboards tremble and air particles shake.

Gira rises from his seat occasionally like a demented preacher. The beauty is to be found in the devotional attention, the noise attrition, the way notes linger and seem to last for eternities, the layering of noise upon noise, note upon note, the sudden CRACK of drum and pounding inside your head. The beauty lies in the stillness, the brief tempest change. You don’t need me to describe Swans in 2023, surely? You already have a vision, a sound in your head. Not to be taken lightly. Scary, in the way cults are usually scary. Beautiful, in the way cults are often beautiful. Loud <<– goes without saying.

Yeah, it was an experience.

How NOT to write about music – 180. Even As We Speak + The Luxembourg Signal

I need to lose the purple filter from my iPhone camera.

This is a scene I was never a part of, but can relate to. Sarah Records, a few years on, when it was gently more mature – the music still as fragile, personal, tremulous; but not so transparent in its formation and more inclusive as far as gender went. (Sarah Records was always so resolutely male in the early years, and I loved the switch of later emphasis.) I guess the touchpoints I knew were Trembling Blue Stars and The Field Mice – but there was plenty of other bands around, bubbling ‘neath the surface, if only I’d looked. (Matt sent me the first Sarah Records CD, and I couldn’t figure out how to remove it from the case, snapping it in two in the process.) It’s a scene (a community) that has never gone away, supported enough to continue existing through the years. Tonight is (to me) surprisingly packed and hot – the previous night at the Lexington in London was sold out. Three bands, a shared aesthetic, a shared audience.

My community? Probably not, but there again I’d say that about most shows. Doubtless, most people feel the same. Nonetheless, I do not feel excluded: the banter on stage is genial, self-deprecating, familiar. Banter is so important.

I cannot figure out Even As We Speak. (DISCLAIMER: that’s one of my PhD supervisors on guitar right there in the photo, to the left of the lady in the sparkly Pride dress and platform boots.) Perhaps their music is too sophisticated for me – too much Prefab Sprout and second album Scritti Politti, not enough ramalama punk. Certainly, the music feels thoughtful, smart and undone because of its awareness, Lush questioning melancholia. I recall being taken with their cover of ‘Bizarre Love Triangle’ all those years ago, and they play it tonight halfway through, me having retreated to the back to stand next to a jug of water on the bar, and it still entreats me. It gladdens me watching them, good people, Mary joking with the audience about a bag of stuff she wants to give away before they take the flight back to Australia – a John Grisham book, a pair of airplane slippers, a half-finished bottle of wine.

Afterwards, a very sweet man named Nick who used to do a very sweet fanzine called Diana Rigg, gives me two Even As We Speak 10-inch singles – which look lovely, and are beautifully packaged. “This is the man who taught me how to dance,” he announces to a passing musician. Sorry Nick. Anyway, this gift makes me happy indeed, and I spend the next day (today) falling in love with a slightly turbulent Peel Session version of ‘Straight As An Arrow’.

I miss Jetstream Pony cos a) it really is hot, and b) I’m catching up with old friends, not seen for decades.

I find myself staying far longer than I expected, watching Beth Arzy and her bewitching The Luxembourg Signal – I don’t use ‘her’ to suggest Beth owns or possesses them, incidentally, it’s just a turn of phrase to make the words slip down easier and now of course they don’t. This is dreamy upbeat/downbeat slightly psychedelic, slightly bewitching (oh, wait…) music I have more of a handle on – and now I understand why it was so crowded before. How many members have they got up on stage? Man, they must scrabble to eat on tour! Whatever. Each number, they seem to grow in stature a little more – bursts of red frenzy and blue harmony, sudden distortion and sudden beauty. I’m reminded of (let me see) The Aislers Set, Slumber Party, Belle & Sebastian (but nothing like, no really, I have no idea why I typed their name just now)… and I like being reminded of these bands. Kinda band who if I’d encountered before I would’ve developed something of a secret crush on – much like the good folk around me in the audience – and be smiling whenever I heard them mentioned. (Still might.) What I’m trying to say is…

Yeah, baby, yeah.

“The drummer likes any sort of whiskey as long as it’s stolen,” announces Beth in answer to a query. And I like tonight. Lots.

How NOT to write about music – 179. Snoozers + Two White Cranes

Sadly, we missed the first act, Irritable Bowel.

Fortunately, I had one at home I had already experienced.

It’s very purple and blue down the Bee’s Mouth in Hove. Just the splash of red for contrast. It’s the small details that matter. The minutaie. The way a hand grasps a guitar, the mournful echo of a drum machine. Harmonies, tentatively attempted. Your colour socks. A corner someone can find to watch from, huddled in secret appreciation. A chance encounter with an old friend: “You looked like a complete wreck five years ago. You look great tonight.” The Snoozers stickers and cassette tapes going unnoticed on the counter. Should that chord be an A or an A minor? The length of time between notes. A flourish of barnstorming guitar heroics that could have been The Jam, Brighton Centre 1979.

For clarification, I am not referring to Two White Cranes here: confusingly, there are no white cranes present, and only one person on stage. (I say ‘stage’: are you fucking kidding me?! This is the Bee’s Mouth in Hove not Glasgow fucken Barrowlands or the Avalon Ballroom!) She is fragile and full of hope and one-word songtitles: at the Bandcamp, quite gorgeous and expressive, not least because I can make out the words and I’m reminded of Simple Machines perhaps. Confusingly, this does not translate to the live setting until the final brace of numbers where the mode of accompaniment switches to sparse electronica and supportive whoops, much more suiting the singer’s Voice. The new Kristin Hersh album reminds me of Nirvana in places. This doesn’t.

Good.

I’ve had occasion to remark upon the Pat Benatar oooomph of Snoozers before now, and doubtless will do so again; this is misleading of course, but frankly if you’re not checking out the Snoozers Bandcamp for yourselves already it’s your loss baby – and perhaps theirs – and no, no one cares about what you gonna do with those baby blues, honey. Simple, intricate songs with the workings laid bare and the best stand-up drumming I’ve seen from someone who is sitting down. The music whirls and dips and quite often stutters to a brief halt, before starting up again even more glorious again for the heightened anticipation. Small details, see. There is such a lovely sense of belonging, inclusion. Nadia’s voice is wistful, mournful and sometimes downright scary: Jon’s voice is plain scary: Steve’s drums are front seat driver good.

To use an old music press cliche, Nadia’s voice transcends description: like other great blues singers, she lives every moment. ‘Duke And Bear’ is my favourite: just rapturous. (Actually, my favourite is the one they open with – but I cannot find that one online to listen to over and over again while I type these words.) I had occasion to mention Kristin irrelevantly already and I kinda want to do so again now here.

No reason. Just been sent her new album.

Tonight is glorious: I am smiling from one side of my mouth to the other – the best Snoozers show of the six I’ve seen, and they’re my favourite band of 2023. “You’ve only seen four,” remarks Jon. He knows the score.

Yes, but I know the next two are going to be rotten.

How NOT to write about music – 178. Jeanines

I didn’t take notes. I was too busy smiling.

Forty years ago, a handful of people who I (briefly) went on to consider friends chanced across a beautiful truth. The less you play, the more precious it sounds. I know it’s difficult to believe now, but once upon a time Jim Reid (Mary Chain) and Bobby Gillepsie (Primal Scream) were considered borderline visionaries: they deliberately limited their song lengths and set times to a maximum of two and 20 minutes respectively. (I want to type ‘respectfully’, but to what end?) Of course, they only ever had that one great idea each, and didn’t stick to it… but what a great beautiful truth. The less you play, the more precious it sounds.

If I was to sit here and type all the bands that Jeanines – from Massachussetts, I believe – remind me of, then we’d be here for a very long time indeed. It’s the grail, you see. My grail. The Vivian Girls, TV Personalities, Slumber Party, Helen McCookerybook (a lot), Tunabunny, Shop Assistants, The Goon Sax, 12 Cubic Feet, The Pastels, Marine Girls, Talulah Gosh, The Clean, Girls At Our Best!, The Aislers Set, Dolly Mixture. Opal, Mitski… (oh my fucking god! Maddy just came downstairs with one of her very rare recommendations for me, just two minutes ago. “Dad, I think you’ll like this artist,” she says typing the word ‘Mitski’ into my search bar.) Most of these artists (not all) understood the beautiful truth. The less you play, the more precious it sounds. Tonight Matthew, Jeanines – three of them, and that too is the perfect number – played around 12 songs that lasted 20 minutes, I swear down. And if they were on stage for twice that length of time, it was only because all the chat and genial, gentle banter between songs lasted longer than the songs themselves.

Now, you may be reading that sentence like it’s a bad thing.

It’s not. Not at all. The chat between the songs was as important as the songs themselves, and I do not mean that to seem a slight, but… a sense of belonging, remember? We belong here.

This was my world in 1985 and 2003. I guess it still could be.

So, the songs. Gorgeous, melancholy, beautiful. Literary, punk. (Yes, I’m looking at you, Richard Hell.) Never too long, and never overstated. Literate, charming. Sad but not in a downbeat way although if you want to choose their songs to be the only songs you play at your lonely home disco you’ll have a wonderful time. Sunday afternoon drizzly rain music, but not in a bad way. I don’t know any titles. I mean, I can cheat and find you titles but that wouldn’t be a fair representation of how I experienced Jeanines last night. Sweetly surprised and with a smile in my heart that kept doubling in size. Jeanines are the kind of band I would have fallen deeply in love with 40 years back, 30 years even… and might even in 2023 yet. Those harmonies! That voice! I knew the drummer’s name but kinda don’t want to spoil the moment by doing my research and finding out the other two’s names. I kind of really want to know their names, though. As I typed all these years ago, WHY AREN’T THESE PEOPLE MY FRIENDS?!

Thie fellowing album is what you need, but oddly it only really makes sense after you’ve seen them live.

Always love a band whose songs are shorter than the gaps between the songs.

I had to leave straight after cos a) I was shy, b) I needed to get back to my kids, and c) I was shy. But… wow!

How NOT to write about music – 177. Arrington de Dionyso

Honestly? I couldn’t tell you whether Arrington de Dionyso conjured any Utopic Spaces with his multiphonic vocal work and minimalist instrumentation. I couldn’t tell you whether he played any of the tracks from his new Chocolate Monk album Exorcist Blues – whether it was the trance-dented ‘The Lungs Are The Amazon Rainforest Of The Body’ or the frightening dislocated skronk of ‘The Urgent Message of Nonduality’ – although I rather suspect he didn’t. No recorders were blown down. (I think.) No harsh words were exchanged. (I think.) No one wandered away into the night muttering about the all-pervasive influence of the alt. right. (I think.) No balls were touched, causing electricity to flounder. (I think.) No a cappella songs were performed while wearing upside-down trash cans. (I think.)

One of the above may well be not true.

This much I can tell you:

1. The chips at RYBKA are twice-fried.
2. Ted Milton from Blurt still blows a ferociously-charged sax.
3. If it’s good, it isn’t Britpop.
4. Do not attempt to catch the 26 bus to Hollingbury after 9.15pm on a Saturday evening, lest you like very lengthy waits listening to drunken pavement student reveller nonsense.
5. Arrington de Dionyso still lives in Olympia, WA.
6. WordPress does not encourage bullet-points.
7. The smell of sweat seeping up from floorboards on a hot summer’s evening in a tiny, full attic room does nothing for my anxiety.
8. I forgot what eight was for.

This much I can tell you.

1. AdD is talented, charming. Rocks a hat like no one this side of Alice.
2. AdD is talented, searching. Rocks a large tenor sax (tenor?) like no one this side of Ted Milton. in a room of his own, but always welcoming of strangers. “It was just him with a very large sax [bass clarinet actually – Ed]. He then blew and throat sang into plastic drainpipes, then another made into a sax, and lastly twanged a large jew’s harp with an extremely fast-moving forefinger.”
3. AdD is talented, inquisitive. Rocks a stage like no one this side of Portland. “It was all raw music! He wore his hat in a Jamiroquai kind of way, he wore a striped colourful dust coat/open front kaftan to match. Before this, he burned juniper in and around these instruments in a shamanistic manner.”
4. AdD is a prime mover. “He stomped smoothly and silently from the back to the very front of the allocated floorspace, almost like the air he breathed into his instrument was lifting him off the ground.”
5. AdD is empowering, energising. “Any tiredness I’d felt during the second act had now turned to energy I didn’t know I had. His performance gave me a big grin that stayed with me to the end.”

Anxiety was threatening to overwhelm me.

The first band did nothing to allievate my nerves, just increased them a hundred-fold and I could not bear the thought of sitting through another act jealously guarding two chairs waiting for Arrington to appear. I’m sure he would have soothed the savage beast but could not afford to take the risk, minus alcohol. And this whole depressingly familiar refrain around alcohol… I cannot go back down that path. Sure it’s fun, but… paranoia, anxiety, eczema, sleepless nights. My eyes were so fucking tired it hurt. I walked away and instead of the solace of Arrington found myself waiting for a bus for more than 50 minutes.

I’m sorry I didn’t stay, but it was truly lovely to hang out with you beforehand, mate.

How NOT to write about music – 176. Pulp + Wet Leg

So, I saw Pulp last weekend.

I kept wanting to grab the people standing next to me and yell, “I work alongside that man every day” and point to the 60-foot (?) hi-resolution representation of new Pulp bassist Andrew McKinney on the giant screens either side of the stage. I didn’t, but only cos I wouldn’t have been able to make myself heard over the din of the crowd and sound system.

THIS IS WHAT WE DO FOR AN ENCORE boldly state the screens, before the giant velvet curtains are rolled back and the band is revealed.

The woman to my left turns around and asks, “Are you excited?” Yes, we’re excited. She doesn’t miss a single word during the four songs that follow – ‘I Spy’, a tumultuous ‘Disco 2000’ with exploding streamers high above our heads, ‘Mis-Shapes’ (dedicated to the Pride revellers, in a rambling Jarvis Cocker kind of way), ‘Something Changed (dedicated to former Pulp bassist Steve Mackey) – and I try not to myself, although a lot of what I’m singing is extended vowels and not words at all.

Sorry to be obvious but I like to sing along with the common people.

Early on, I am aware I will need to leave early to avoid the inevitable crush at the train station – and I think, no problem, large gigs don’t hold my attention that closely anyway. First time I glance at my phone, 70 minutes have sllpped by.

There is a lot – and I mean, a LOT of onstage banter. Some of the banter involves aliens and reminisces about previous gigs, throwing jellybeans into the crowd and the string section donning masks and waving spotlights around, much to everyone’s delight. I remember ‘Sorted For E’s And Wizz’ being triumphant and simultaneously terrifying when I saw it performed at T In The Park in the 90s, but tonight it feels almost apologetic, as if we all know the drugs wore off years ago – or rather were switched for the over-the-counter type.

‘This Is Hardcore’, on the other hand, is electrifying – as in the Olivia Newton-John use of the word. As is ‘F.E.E.L.I.N.G. C.A.L.L.E.D. L.O.V.E.’ Not sure how, but I’d forgotten what a total S.T.A.R. Jarvis is. Aside from anything else, I can’t imagine many other heritage bands pulling off the downright weirdness of ‘Weeds’ and ‘Weeds II (The Origin Of The Species)’, on a greatest hits tour. Sparks, maybe. That’s it.

The antics of the string section certainly help.

Wet Leg are awesome, Breeders good in places. I’m surrounded by women singing lustily and dancing to near every word. I try my damndest too, but am somewhat hampered by the fact I’m smiling so widely. ‘Wet Dream’ is a towering highlight, made even better by the antics of the delirious fans aound me. Fully about the live experience. And that bit where everyone screams at the top of their voice…! Brilliant pop band, and empowering too.

I start the outrageously long walk back to the tube around the time ‘Babies’ fades into ‘Sunrise’, or is it ‘Sunrise’ fades into ‘Like A Friend’. Certainly it is after Jarvis entreats us not to leave quite yet, after the closing lines to a raucous ‘Do You Remember The First Time?’ suggest we might want to do otherwise. Happiness and enthusiasm are ringing in my head, and there’s nothing quite like hearing a full-throated lusty ‘Common People’ singalong (followed by ‘Razzmatazz’) from the comparitive safety of a train station, knowing you’ve missed the crush and enjoying it all the more for that.

As it turned out, there were no more trains running south that night and I got stranded in London alongside thousands of others, but that’s OK. It was worth it for ‘Disco 2000’ alone.