We were not moved by them

By means mysterious and enforced, I've been meditating a lot on the many station platforms and points failures of Greater Manchester in recent days.

A few years back, at Sandwell and Dudley, I recall watching as one businessman's good humour evaporated following a diversion away from New Street - he hurled his expensive briefcase onto the tracks in a torrent of anger. Helpfully, a man from Central Trains offered up insight aplenty: "your papers are all over the shop there, sir."

At best, the huffs and sighs are understandable. Situations of this sort can be stressful, but I'm fortunate that it doesn't happen to me often. Still, there's something I enjoy about the enforced slowness of it all - it's a bit like an involuntary version of lying in bed, staring at the ceiling.

So. I stared out at Manchester through the January gloom. The city seemed to lose its visual unity - or at least its long-standing mishmash of built coincidences - in the mist. The tall buildings were divorced from their skyline and stood about awkwardly as if blindfolded in an empty room.

Momentarily, I abandoned myself to the hypnotic reveries of urban winter fog, to mills named Daisy, and to oily canal bends. Nothing at all happened until the train began to whisper its way into the terminus.

An hour later, I hung around for another half an hour at Gatley station having run an errand at the end of my half day. Every few minutes, an airport express busied by, whipping up the drizzle and stirring a tumult of wrappers and polystyrene kebab trays.

I sniffed deeply, and resolved to polish my shoes. Enormous barques of cloud shifted silently over the M60. I listened to the gentle hum of the live wires, and thought about Kate and Sam. Good, glad thoughts - nothing deep, that's all.

Every waking second brings something to be neurotic about - one reason why I don't equip myself with ubiquitous computing capability. I think it's good to have time imposed on you, to allow yourself to daydream, and not to be bored by sweet nothings.

On that vaguest tangent, I've always loved these simple lines, which I'm quoting completely out of context here. They entered my head as I boarded my train home:

And the times that we all hoped would last
Like a train they have gone by so fast
And though we stood together
At the edge of the platform
We were not moved by them

Thanks, Billy. Meanwhile, here's a link to a long-forgotten version.

Mmm, coffee...

I'm still smiling from Saturday night at Coventry's Tin Angel, where Ish Marquez - on his first trip to the UK - put on a splendid set for a small, appreciative audience.

Squeezed into a corner cafe somewhere between the huge new blue Ikea and the brutalist blocks and precincts, this was a very personal show - a little bit Pixies, a bit Herman Dune (blame my untutored ears for the bad comparisons).

While Ish confessed (with surprising sincerity) that he was "blown away to be in the city of The Specials," companion Stanley Brinks looked rather taken with the living lights on that tower block in the Lower Precinct, in addition playing the sweetest of sets midway through Marquez' gig.

Coupleted with nearby Taylor John's House, this has to be one of the best small venues in the Midlands and certainly outside the south east. It'd be easy to take issue with the vaguely antifolk circle that rarely plays outside London, Brighton and Bristol. But it's great to see a Midlands venue that privileges this stuff - with (bonus!) David Thomas Broughton bringing his loops in January.

And a quick tip-of-the-hat to the proprietors: it's great to have access to nice coffee when you're driving back to Stoke in the small hours. Very goodly, that.

Nearer to home, this and this also look promising...

Let's end it here

So. Ventured out to the teen haunt formerly known as The Coliseum with Matt last night to see Ladytron. I like them, but I'm never quite sure what to expect with electropop when performed live - lads hunched and nodding rhythmically over a keyboard or two? There's a time and a place called Thursday night.

And there's not much to scribble either. The music was delivered very proficiently and the vocalists were excellent if a bit brooding (maybe that's their territory). The hunched lads hung back and did what it says on their tin. But still, forty-five minutes (including one-song encore) for your fourteen notes, and out on the streets before ten...

It was pleasant enough, but so's the near-identical CD. On the bright side it was a decent opportunity to pop for a beer, or would have been if we weren't both driving.

This, friends, was what a gig review looks like when written by someone's dad. But - I may just pop back to Coventry next week for Ish Marquez.

This man is a genius

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FuXSZJjSWf8]

Arrington de Dionyso, Taylor Johns House, Coventry
Sunday 27 May 2007

I first encountered Arrington de Dionyso (formerly of Old Time Relijun) at Festival Mo'fo in 2005, when Holty and I stood stunned before the stage as the performer greeted the crowd in broken French and proceeded to open his improvised set by blasting and snorting down the wrong end of his saxophone (or bass clarinet, whatever). We rapidly retreated for the bar, trying suppress a tipsy snigger each.

Fast forward to May 2007 and long-time mate Matt has texted me saying he's back in the country for a few days. A quick ride on the internet is enough to enlighten me: there's a gig(gle) on in Coventry and one Mr. de Dionyso of Portland, Oregon is headlining. Woop! Time to give him another spin - and drag along an unsuspecting primary school teacher too. Mwahahaha!

Tonight's venue, Taylor Johns House, is situated in Coventry's canal basin, an area regenerated in the late eighties but cut off from the rest of the city centre by the ever-dispiriting marble-chute of a ring road. The bridge providing access is wobbly enough to put its more famous London counterpart in the shadows - amateurs! The canal basin did however find fame on the back of a Specials LP. In all, though, it's A Rainy Night in Covo, and the wind wasn't whistling any charms (yeah, I know, wrong band).

We roll up during the soundcheck and are a little disconcerted to discover that the venue has been kitted out specially with those wooden chairs you used to have in school assembly's. I half expected to be told to pick up your chairs, 6P, and file back to the classroom. As it stands, we're politely ejected and informed that things are to kick off at 8.15. So we sod off to Wetherspoon's in the pouring rain, only to find there are no real ales on. Nnngh. Pivovar Herold is a worthy substitute. How very Bohemian.

Back to Taylor Johns and Mr. de Dionyso is busy fingering his iBook, pretty much the only other person in the bar. It's a bit like following Darlo away in the LDV vans trophy, when the only other people in the Maxpax queue are the subs, texting away on their mobiles instead of warming up or something. Nice venue though - bijou, housed in a couple of old coal vaults, and with (in the bar at least) nice chairs of comfy varieties.

Gradually, a few punters drizzle in, invariably looking like the sort of people that read The Wire. The only exceptions, us aside, are the group that can only be music lecturers, and the two EMO kids, who have probably come because it's the only gig on tonight. All in all, that makes about 16.

The first act is about to start. One of the staff is very anxious that we all amble over to the other vault: Adrian Palka awaits, with his home-made "bow chime" - a clutch of metal rods, a bow, a drumstick, and an amplifying "thing" that reminds me of a Roman centurion's shield, only much tweer. Palka produces an improvised series of textures, a strokes his instrument as if it it were an embryonic painting. The aural textures are gorgeous, but it's not my thing visually. I do think he should run some ante-natal neuromusical programming sessions - it's just that sort of meditative effect. Great anyhow. I like pop music and it takes me time to adjust, but great.

Ignatz is next, a quietly spoken Belgian who plays geetar kind of like a seetar - and treats the resulting vibes with a range of distorted drones and fizzes. It's the kind of soundscape that used to shake our student house when Ben was in his bedroom reading that massive blue book of Chaucer by which all English Literature students are to be identified. The textures are coarser, perhaps a little harsher, but I'm starting to adjust. Getting into this kind of stuff is a bit like the feeling in your ears as the plane climbs and descends.

It's just as well, since Arrington does not disappoint. His set commences with a freestyle montage on the sax / bass clarinet / whatever. He then carefully disassembles his piece, and experiments with each component in almost every conceivable way. Throughout the set, a cast of several instruments is introduced - two carrier bags, some bits of rubber, a sheet of tin foil, and one of those jaw harp thingies.

The EMO kids slouch in their school chairs, arms tightly folded.

Dionyso's star turn is his Tuvan throatsinging - like an impressive, and passable impression of a didgeridoo. Lungs and throat built at Shelton Bar, clearly. This is probably why critics (via his record company's website) describe him as "some fuckin' scary shit." He is.

After the gig, Matt wondered whether the guy was mad or a genius. I love the fact that he can tour the world and make a living on the back of a very idiosyncratic talent. Long may he continue. As a gig, it's not the sort of thing I'd go to regularly, but it's a damned refreshing (and relaxing) change.

Taylor Johns House is a really friendly joint that seems to specialise in this sort of night. Apparently The (excellent) Chap are there on Friday, so you never know, I may be back.

The words that you heard when you were young

The Levellers, Warwick Arts Centre, 27 April 2007.

At what point should one become concerned about one's experience of live music becoming a matter of nostalgia? Well, if that sort of thing makes you cringe, be warned; the Wordpress servers are poised to splatter my youth incontinently across the blogosphere. Notionally at least, I hauled forth my Alsatian-on-a-string, adjusted the greasy dreads, pulled on the German army surplus overcoat (ironed by mother), and - erm - popped my Saver Return to Coventry on the plastic.

This gig was the soundtrack to my teens, my adolescence bunsen-burnered and reduced to a crystalline musical form in just ninety minutes. I didn't feel particularly wounded that we'd had to settle for 17 quid's worth of upholstery (standing sold out) and a rather acute view of the stage. I was knackered because I'd hopped a train straight from work, but in the (ahem) 'old days' I'm sure we would have boinged our way in with the groundlings. As it was we'd come from Cardiff, Norwich and the Potteries, and I for one couldn't be arsed.

Living in Stoke-on-Trent, I'm largely deprived of double-decker buses nowadays, and so it was with a distinct sense of old-time glee that I rode high above the leafy thoroughfares of Earlsdon and Hearsall Common, past the spot where Frank Whittle first witnessed powered flight, and swamped by gaggles of prospective management consultants whinging about what a shithole Coventry is (their opinion, not mine).

Presently, we approached the university campus. INTELLECTUAL CAPITAL, proclaimed the puffed-up banners on every lamp-post. Ha, clever, these milkround men! FESTIVAL PARK WITH AN IQ would have been my offering. I've never been one for campus universities, and this one is awash with high-end eateries, multi-storey car parks, its own branch of Fopp (a sizeable adjunct to the bookshop) and a massive Costcutter. An oddly repellent formula, but clearly seductive to students. Indeed, it's 36 years since E.P. Thompson wrote a critique called Warwick University Limited and then packed his bags (fat lot of difference that made, then). It's certainly gone upmarket since my dad used to bring me to work on Saturdays, and I'm fairly sure it was rather upmarket in the first place.

A couple of Black Sheeps swiftly sunk (in the upscale arts centre bar) and the three of us wobbled to our seats in time for the last number by a support act whose name evades me. Once the gig was underway, I became painfully aware that I was tapping my feet sedately to the classics - Riverflow, The Road, Hope Street etc.

There may be better bands, but few are as much fun live and on returning from the bar (where some forty-somethings are complaining about the 'fascist stewards') we perch ourselves in the heavens on some handy steps and bob about while the band belts out Beautiful Day. Jon and I righteously concurred, once upon a time, that this song indicated the band's inevitable sell-out, but it certainly sounds grand tonight. Did I say fun? Well I enjoyed it, and surprised myself by not feeling at all envious of the throng below.

A couple of us once secured prized passes for the Levellers' backstage 'party' (same venue: an ice bucket with a solitary can of Guinness, while the band wandered off to watch Match of the Day), but tonight we simply headed off for a curry with the warm echoes of Classic Gold resounding in our ears.

Any free-thinking radicals wearing army surplus had been no doubt intercepted by security upon breaching the boundaries of the Business School. That or they're too busy pursuing MBAs to bother with this sort of stuff. And me? Well, I'd love to blog into the small hours, but I've got work in the morning.