Ode to a Nightingale

OK, last night, seeing as my critical judgement is demanded by faithful readers.

The background to the 'Gales' homecoming gig was disaster - deportation and unseemly inebriation rendered their prestigious gig at London's 100 Club a disaster - although the venue manager thought it was fantastic and invited them to play any time, despite some punters demanding their money back! Then on Monday they played a live session for Marc Riley on 6 Music and a decent gig in Mankychester.

But Wolverhampton's what it's all about. On the bill were Violet Violet and Ted Chippington. The Violets of themselves disprove the existence of any kind of deity. It's simple really. They're hugely talented and aesthetically pleasing. A just deity would make talented people ugly, or ugly people talented out of a sense of fairness. A cruel deity would make talented people ugly, or ugly people talented, to punish them for hubris. Ergo, there's no god. They're all-round ace, and I'm neither. Next philosophical problem?

Actually, Violet Violet were brilliant. Echoes of Elastica and Kenickie but sharper, spikier. The guitar lines were particularly sinuous. I found myself buying both singles - I'm a sucker for coloured vinyl. (A tip: if they ask on the door which band you're there to see, give the name of the support band, or they may not get any of the takings). Their onstage needling of the Nightingales indicated that the end of the tour hadn't been brilliant: 'Looking forward to the Nightingales? After London we are, especially Robert [Lloyd, Gales singer known as the Telford Elvis]'.

Next up was Ted Chippington, who specialises in being deliberately unfunny as a kind of challenge to the crowd (yes, there really was one this time). Despite being slightly distracted by a good student who wanted to talk shop, Ted was ace. He did some of his routine in German and avoided anything approaching conventionally funny. It wasn't very edgy though, because most of the audience knew his schtick, so not enough people were infuriated.

The main event was a revelation. I've seen the Nightingales 20 times, roughly, but tonight was different. Apart from the presence of 80-100 members of the Wolverhampton Bald Patch and Band T-Shirt Appreciation Society, there were several of our overseas students (bit of a change from Oceana for them) and even a few punters who weren't on first-name terms with the band. I met the students early and was shocked to discover that they planned not to consume alcohol over the course of the evening. Now, I've taken the pledge on occasion, and even stuck to it, but the eve of a gig with the most erratic band I've ever seen is not the right time to forswear muscle relaxant. Thankfully, I persuaded them of the error of their ways.

However - alcohol wasn't needed on this occasion. Stripped down to a fourpiece, blessed with a decent soundman, a non-paralytic singer and a new album consisting of TUNES for the first time in their long career, the Nightingales were astonishingly tight. As usual, they played continuously, in line with the punk ethos that crowd applause distances a band from their people (or perhaps to drown abuse). The lyrics were acerbic (and certain lines don't bear repeating on a family website) and Alan Apperley's guitar lines skittered between krautrock, post-punk and twisted blues in ways that made me wonder why nobody had thought of it before. Darren's drums, no longer lost in drunkenness and muddy sound, were amazing - complex, funky, decisive and authoritative. I just stood there with a massive grin on my face for the whole event before raiding the merchandise stand.

As I say, I've seen the Nightingales many times, mostly, to be frank, because I share an office with one of them. Now I can say proudly that they're unique, fascinating and brilliant. Why they're not huge, I don't understand (except for the fact that they're fat blokes approaching their collective late middle ages).

PS. I met one of my readers who requested more jokes on Plashing Vole. I'll try, but I'm slightly deficient in funny bones, bar the occasional pun, and they're usually sparked by verbal exchanges.

However, here goes:

Shakespeare walked into the pub. As he approached, the barkeep looks up, scowls and shouts 'Oi. Shakespeare. I've told you before. You're Bard'.

See? Bard/barred? I'll get me coat.