Webbing and curfews and rain

Although they didn’t open with it, their set ironically included the track ‘Good Time’ in which the pineapple haired Adam sings “I just wanna have a good time, just like everybody else”. I hate to tell you Adam, but this was my overwhelming thought at a gig, that I suspect might have just been a bit of a trip for you.

Last year I booked tickets to see the Counting Crows at Wembley, tickets booked in July for a gig in December. Already this is some unprecedented forward planning on my behalf. The gig was then postponed to May this year, which, my friends, is 2 months short of a year and 5 radishes short of a spring salad. Nevertheless, excitement builds unbound and May eventually swings its grey head around the door. Wembley Arena (not stadium) is pretty packed with fans and their unsuspecting friends along for what their expectant little faces anticipate to be a night of musical joyousness. How wrong you are!

The first and last time I saw Adam Duritz and his musical entourage was in 2004, and they were fucking splendid. As much as I love and revel in new music, I very much resented the fact that they opened their Wembley set with two very obscure, manic depressive ballads. Now, Adam, I am not asking you to bust out Mr Jones for the millionth time in your merry dreadlocked life, but please, give me something I can work with. A little later we managed to get a slight groove going, and a few cheers emerged barely drowned by a half hearted applause, as we dreamt of Michaelango and took a quick trip to Miami. Not a minute too soon and they were ferried offstage for the obligatory, ‘applause till your hands are raw and maybe we’ll give you an encore’ session, at which point we made a run for the door.

The train journey was a little more interesting, a few hardcore disappointed fans harping on about the good old days and sell by dates. An interesting crowd of lads and their loony friend drew some curious looks, after the loony chap decided that his t-shirt which was originally inside out, was better inside-off. He then proceeded to show his belly to the world, or at least to those of us on the Jubilee line heading slowly south from Wembley. It was a merry old journey, and almost the most fun we’d had all night. However that would be doing a disservice to the electric shoe polisher we found in the Indian Restaurant before the gig. In fact it would do a disservice to the whole experience at the Indian restaurant which was nothing short of confusing and awkward hilarity. 

right said small town

After immersing myself in the second successive Gilmorefest, I’m beginning to believe that if you watch something enough, you’ll probably grow tired of it.  You must be thinking - what on god’s green earth is Gilmorefest? Well for the fortunate few who are pondering, you’ve probably avoided the television phenomena known as ‘The Gilmore Girls’. I’m not even sure it has a ‘the’ in the title, but my brain hurts and I’m not googling it.  Despite being firmly in the ‘hate it’ camp for years, I grew soft in my old age and started to value the charm, the formulaic speedy diatribes, the pain, the heartache, their joy, their sorrow. It’s just that two weekends of none stop Gilmore later, I feel drained and exhausted. You’re worried? So am I!

We did however tear ourselves away from the TV long enough to throw on a pair of heels, a slightly mental floral skirt (I speak for myself here) and stalk up the hill (all of ten paces) to the pub. A few appletini’s and 3 bottles of rosé later we were singing into pool cues, throwing pounds at the juke box and picking out some dancefloor classics.

Newcomers to our town will be forgiven for thinking that The White Hart is not really your average dancing establishment. Maybe you’d think that a quiet drink and a bit of Bruce on the jukebox would suffice, but that’s an entirely different night all together. On those nights I’ll battle your ‘Streets of Philadelphia’ with an upper cut of Celine Dion. This particular Saturday night however was reserved for dancing. What with the one and only night club in our town charging a whopping £8 (eight English pounds!) for entry and overpriced alcopops, we know how and where to make our own fun. So do Right Said Fred. We strutted our stuff to Beyonce and some upbeat Celine, but as soon as “I’m too sexy” slowly crept through the stereo pipes, my dancing buddy was throwing shapes and jackets in ways I’d never seen shapes and jackets thrown. I was close to tears and bent double in hysterics. The owner of the pub, decided that it was too good to be missed, and within minutes her husband was part of the audience. We thank our lucky stars on occasion that she has a sense of humour.

With exhaustion setting in and the end of the work day (yes! I’m at work) slowly approaching I bid you farewell. Please exercise caution and moderation where television is concerned.  

ticketed

Well that certainly is an interesting way to eat an apple. I can tell you, that while you are munching away in that most peculiar of fashions, I am sitting here, opposite you on the train, thanking god for my iPod, headphones, volume control and Stevie Wonder, all individually. Perhaps you are just biting off pieces of the the apple in a hapless attempt at politeness? Yet it looks like you could inhale the entire apple in one mouthful, so why not give me something worth looking at? Go on, I dare you.

Evidently I’m in a joyous mood when I’m commuting home. I guess I just wasn’t cut out for the hazards of British public transport.

Other items of great joy; I feel like the right honourable Bridget Jones, quizzed by the elders of her tribe “why are their so many single women in their 30s?” Hold on! Yes, I know, I’m not yet 30, but I am well and truly single.  It has dawned on me, and those around me that for some time now, there has been no sign of a significant other. One elder took it upon herself to advise me that “it really is about time you found yourself a nice young man”. Which of course is splendid advice, but it needs further instruction. Perhaps you could elude to where I might start looking, or tell me where those with personality defects and bad shoes aren’t hanging out?

Another moment of pure genius: yesterday I paid for a week’s worth of parking at the train station, today I forgot to  put the ticket in the window. So now I’m sat at work wallowing in my idiocy. I will no doubt have the joyous task of writing to the council and asking them in the sweetest ink on paper tone of voice to revoke the fine, because, and I’ll apologise profusely for this, I am a little brain dead. 

cardboard cutout

Our house is made of cardboard. Either that or the bricks have holes in, which allow sound to travel magically through it. This was all well and good when my dad possessed only a starter-kit for the amateur guitarist. Alas he has now in all his elderly wisdom upgraded to the obesity amp. The thing is enormous, and the Fender sign and long line of little dials appear to mock me with their shiny new-ness. Bastards. I guess I’ll spend this weekend at Homebase getting the necessaries for sound proofing my room.

I’m escaping the house a lot lately. Finding my own place is proving tricky, so running away is my temporary solution. Requirements for said place of own, are basically that it needs to be a bargain, but preferably the kitchen should not be in the bedroom. This, it seems, is a pretty big ask in the city of London. Bah.

Escapes include Paris last weekend and up up and away to the north of England this weekend. Paris was of course entirely fabulous, a bit of a university reunion, our trio harking right back to the dynamics of old. Prancing about the city is always fun, I really love it there, it has a glamour about it, that we went to many lengths to ruin. My travelling companion and I astonished the French with our eating and drinking capabilities. The novelty of French cheese and wine could not possibly have worn thin in 3 days, so much so that we single-handedly stunk out public transport from Paris back to London, bags bursting with the stuff.

Anyway, after New York and now Paris I’ve become obsessive about moving abroad. I keep being tempted to move to Paris, with friends holed up in the city already. Then again, I don’t speak French, at least not in a way that is comprehensible to people living in France, minor problem! The plan is to get my rear end out of Britain by 2012, that way missing the joys of London public transport during the olympics and giving me some kind of goal. Both very, very good things.

all star banker

'Workers in the city are being advised to dress down and postpone non-essential meetings amid fears that they will be forced to run the gauntlet of protesters'

The above is an extract from an email sent to employees of a London bank last week, prior to the G20 summit and organised protests taking place from today. Do not yee worry, I'm not here to discuss politics, lets leave that for another day. 

I'm privy to the above because a banking friend happened to forward the message, I didn't think twice about the email. My place of work is on the outskirts of nowhere in West London, and we tend dress down. However, at approximately 7:42 this chilly spring morning, I was reminded of the aforementioned warning. Commuters know well the routine of the journey they make, and are used to seeing many of the same faces day in and day out and more to the point, many of the same suits. Imagine my amusement when a few of the faces turned up, with their suits nowhere to be seen. 

One of my favourite suits, because he bears a resemblance to a certain sex and the city character, looked like he had fallen straight out of bed into Topman, where he was swiftly spat back out onto Platform 1. He stood there, lit from above by a stretch of sunlight, looking down at his mobile phone. The effect was quite endearing really. The sunlight obviously didn't make looking at the phone easy, but made it look like it was the first time he had encountered this particular piece of technology. Either that or he had abandoned his blackberry for the day, and the retro Nokia was part of the 'I'm normal like you' disguise? The rest of the outfit consisted of casual corduroys and some fresh-from-the-box converse all stars. 

I'm also curious about this 'gauntlet' they'll be running. If you've ever been down to London's financial abyss, you'll know there is little there, apart from some quite nice architecture, some rather big banks and I think The Independent newspaper office is knocking about too. Personally I think it's a lot of hype about a lot of nothing, other than the gauntlet it will be interesting to see how the G20 miraculously solve all our current crises with their overpriced discussions. I'm inclined to think that the protests and summit are unlikely to achieve anything. A number of 'stop the war' protests are taking place, while at the same time troops being removed from Iraq - a marginally futile exercise. I don't need to ask what the real cost of the summit is, I expect an intern at one of the nationals is furiously doing sums on my behalf.

After all I didn't see Obama or Sarkozy in their all stars this morning. 

the good ship spotify

It's a voyage of discovery. Today's voyage started at Deep Purple, did a pit stop at Peter Gabriel and finished somewhere near Fats Domino. If I'm correct in my estimations the journey is probably going a little backwards. The problem with this sort of travel is that it is really quite unpredictable, you never know who will crop up along with way and who they might introduce you to. Of course, all this not knowing is rather hazardous, it insisted that I discover the wonders of Melody Gardot. She wasn't a discovery I particularly wanted to make, although she reminded me in her own sugar sweet bluesy way, that it is probably okay to outgrow your music collection. 

I'm sure you'll know exactly how I'm undertaking this bizarre trip. On the good ship Spotify of course! An invention that in the music world received so much hype I was certain it wouldn't deliver. But by bollocks! does it deliver. Right now it's delivering unadulterated David Bowie, and I'm face to face with the man who sold the world. Cue raucous applause! I'll never ever get to grips with the fact that for at least a few months of its existence I lived without this incredible feat of human invention. Supplying me with an endless archive of music that were never within my reaches or budget or living years for that matter. 

Never again will I be tortured thinking that just maybe, I was born in the wrong decade. A decade where the elders of the tribe constantly remind you that 'they just don't make them like they used to'. The green button glows it's little hello from the dock on my mac drawing the mouse ever nearer. Seconds later I'm flicking through Bonnie Raitt's back catalogue, a whole world of Bonnie Raitt at my fingertips, I'm still not sure its a good thing. The recommendations bar at the top right informs me I might also like to try Darden Smith on for size...why not, he looks about my size. 

All this music, and the only price I'm paying is having to listen to random advertisements every 3 or so songs. Self control is not even an option, every time a name pops into the void that exists where the mathematical part of my brain used to be, I'll search and fill the empty space with Joe Bonamassa or Amadou&Mariam or a John Mayer album that I never quite got round to buying. Then I'll flick on back a few years to Led Zeppelin and Miles Davis. I've had to start keeping a pen and paper next to my laptop, to scribble down names of artists who keep presenting themselves to my brain. My ears can't listen fast enough, perhaps Spotify will force them to evolve multiple listening cavities of some sort? I can only live in hope. 

Apparently 10,000 songs are uploaded onto Spotify every day. Self control has been totally abandoned and I am rejoicing in the fact that most of my friends are otherwise occupied on a Saturday night. I don't resent paying for music, in fact I love shopping for new music. It is just made virtually impossible in today's download culture to walk into a music store and listen to anything that takes your fancy. Having to read about new and obscure artists that iTunes and amazon only give me split second recordings of, doesn't allow for intelligent decision making. This is evidently one of the thousands upon millions of reasons why those lovely people somewhere in the Swedish hills came up with Spotify. 

Further reason to block out the aforementioned droning paternal guitar sound of my previous entry.

Who needs a drink?

surround sound scales

Merry Christmas. This year your dad's fiancé has given him guitar lessons. It seems on the surface, an innocent and benevolent gesture. It is not. 

Here's what we know about your dad. For years now he has been playing the guitar, singing along in the shrill poorly timed tones of a pre-pubescent chipmunk. His guitar skills and salary have never quite been in sync. In fact it would be safe to assume, that as the one got better, the other has taken a mind boggling nose dive. Four guitars and one too many versions of 'Summer of '69' later, you're a few radishes short of losing your mind. 

To make matters far, faaaar worse, he is in possession of an amplifier. So despite having said goodnight, and being behind the once safe enclosure, that is your bedroom door,  you can still hear the not so distant, not so bluesey version of Eric Clapton's Layla. Clapton himself is no doubt having a sleepless night at the very thought of the massacre. Layla stripped of all her blues, her off-beat, decidedly on, her swaggering confidence destroyed by a teenager sipping white lightning in a cold park.

Three lessons, with a floppy haired son-of-a-gun surely not more than 3 weeks your senior, and you're longing for the days when the rumbling downstairs was unrecognisable. Your every waking hour is interrupted by scales and screeching and wailing that no new-born baby has ever been able to match. If he confined himself to one room of the house, you could cope. You could watch Friends on surround sound, so that Ross burning his fingers on the fajitas, sounded like it was actually in your kitchen. That would be very well and good, if your dad hadn't decided to entertain both you and Ross in the living room. 

You didn't think the fiancé was evil, I bet you do now.