On tour with the Nightingales

Yesterday I went to the Grapes in Stafford to see my friends The Nightingales do a warm-up for their tour, supported by The Courtesy Group and deliberately unfunny comic legend Ted Chippington. I took some photos (the rest are here), though the lighting was dire (I hate using flash) and I reached the limit of what this camera will do (if anybody wants to offload a used full-frame Nikon at a mutually acceptable price, let's talk).

The gig was fun. It was a small venue, packed with men of a certain age. The commemorative prophylactics sold by The Nightingales (£2) were optimistic at best, redundant at worst. I suspect the band slippers sold rather better. The 'Gales have a new guitarist for whom this was his first gig - if there were nerves during their trademark 60-minute no-stopping set, they didn't show. The sound, too, was great: every note and syllable audible. Not always a good thing, but the new album is a joy. Typical of the 'Gales, their manager texted to ask me to bring a stapler, and when I got there he borrowed a couple of quid from me. I guess that makes me a patron of the arts. I want the stapler back though. Limited edition, that.

I'd never seen The Courtesy Group either. The shirts worried me slightly – props make me wonder why bands want to distract from the music – but they were fascinating: a mix of pop hooks with Black Country punk poetry (quite similar to this classic) and Beefheart raw sound. They persuaded me to buy their 2009 CD, Tradesman's Entrance.

Click on these to enlarge.

Al Hutchins, The Courtesy Group

Andreas Schmid (bass), Robert Lloyd, The Nightingales

Andreas Schmid, The Nightingales

Audience member

Hidehiko Nagai, The Courtesy Group

Robert Lloyd, Jim Smith, The Nightingales

Jim Smith, The Nightingales

Robert Lloyd, The Nightingales

Ted Chippington: this is funny because a lot of his jokes start with 'I was walking down the road'

Fliss Kitson, The Nightingales

A Nightingale Sang in…The Slade Rooms

If you're a new reader, you won't know that one of my friends, with whom I share an office, is an on-off rock star. By which I mean that he's a long-serving guitarist in post-punk grouches The Nightingales (formerly The Prefects, apparently 'Birmingham's first punk group'). John Peel loved them. So do Marc Riley, Phil Jupitus and Stewart Lee. Sadly, the record-buying public have remained largely immune to their ramshackle charms. Not that that's stopped them. They tour internationally a couple of times a year and release a new album at least annually. There's a new one out and the first track is called 'Bullet For Gove', which is a sentiment I think we can all share. You can also buy the t-shirt. Ideal for schools' non-uniform days.

I like them for various reasons. Firstly, for being so bloody-minded. Secondly, because they sound like Wilko Johnson on speed, thirdly for the acerbic, convoluted lyrics. They very rarely play their old songs (which made The Wedding Present look like a cabaret act when they appeared together recently) and they never stop between songs because fishing for applause is not punk. So they play for 90 minutes without a pause. It's a thrilling experience. The effect is like having eternal credit on the world's angriest jukebox.

They played a home-town gig (-ish: their drummer's from Norfolk and the bassist is German) last week and I took my camera and played with my new (used) 105mm f/2.8 and the 11-16 f/2.8 wide-angle lens I bought last year, plus the trusty 50mm f/1.4. The support acts were local youths Jump The Shark (better than their name) and notorious anti-comic Ted Chippington. He's not funny, but that's the point.

See the full set, or click these favourites to enlarge. There's only one of drummer Fliss Kitson because she wore black, with black hair over her face, in front of a black backdrop. Cool, but hard to photograph.

The blues and Joyce expert who calls himself Zoot Horn

Typical Gales fans

The merchandise stall is run by the world's leading Charles Manson academic

Ted Chippington

Guitar hero Alan Apperley

Andreas Schmid, ex-Faust

Fliss Kitson, the singing drummer who isn't Phil Collins

Snap, crackle and pop

I see NME's music photography competition is up and running again. I was going to enter but discovered that the file and shot size restrictions are so limiting that none of mine qualify, and I'm damned if I'll compress them to within an inch of their lives.

So instead, a small selection of my favourites:

Low, Manchester. Trying to do something slightly different with focus

David Wrench at the Little Civic, with Julian Cope

Talking of Cope… reality's answer to Zaphod Beeblebrox

Lead singer of the Primitives, Little Civic 2012

Same again

Matt, of the Nightingales. He's so fey. 

Alan, also of the Nightingales. Not so fey.

Duelling guitars with the Nightingales

And a couple from Richard Thompson at Warwick Arts Centre:

Being a bit shambolic, I don't have much advice for gig photography. I do have a regular habit though: no zooms, no flash. Use a 50mm f/1.8 (or a 1.4 if you've more money than me) wide open, fast shutter speed and a high ISO. Easy. 

Turn on, tune in, run away

If you're not going to see The Nightingales at Gulliver's in Manchester tonight, tune in to Marc Riley's BBC 6Music show: they're doing a live session. Hopefully they won't be paralytically drunk this time: it made for exciting live radio but didn't showcase their musical talents.

Here's 'The Crunch':

What I Heard And What I Missed

What an odd weekend: a funeral followed by a gig.

After my grandmother's send-off (I delivered a reading as though it were a lecture to a particularly dim group of students), I spent a day marking online student discussions until my eyes bled, then headed off to London with my sister: I'd bought Belle and Sebastian tickets for her and her husband as a birthday present.

The journey down was quite pleasant, despite me hating car travel. They're both interesting and funny, and I had their kitten climbing all over me: it had been to Shropshire for a few weeks' holiday.

Belle and Sebastian played at the Roundhouse in Camden: they were great, especially at audience interaction, and the new album is loads better than the previous couple. What a venue: a circular Victorian train shed. Great views, good beer, excellent sound quality and no heavy-handed security.

What I missed was The Nightingales in the Purcell Rooms on the South Bank. Between marking and travelling I just couldn't manage it, which is a desperate shame, as they're personal friends. I missed their local gig due to the funeral too: apparently those two gigs are the best they've ever done.

Dates for your diary

If you're bored this weekend, how about seeing The Nightingales?

They're not just three superannuated Brummies with a couple of popstrels to entice the kiddies in: they're Britain's best postpunk band beloved of John Peel that isn't the Fall.

The Slade Rooms, Wolverhampton, Friday 27th May, supported by Ted Chippington!
Purcell Rooms, London SouthBank Centre, Monday 30th May (supported by Stewart Lee, Subway Sect and many others).

I won't be at either, damn it. Funeral/wake on Friday, and marking back in The Hegemon on Monday.

All hail The Nightingales

Post-punk heroes and mates of mine The Nightingales played a gig in London, at the behest of Phil Jupitus, substantial supporter of lost musicians since 1979.

He liked it, as his Twitter feed reflects (bad photograph here):

The Nightingales were, in a word *magnificent* last night. Support band Violet Violet were a revelation. An honour to be on the same bill...

Nightingales! Full tilt entertainment!

Author, Author!

My friend and colleague Alan Apperley (of Prefects and Nightingales fame) has a novel out, Indeterminate Creatures (launched 25th March by Tindall Street Press). We've just seen the first copy of the book and it looks beautiful. Order your copy now! I'll get a free one, as I'm in the acknowledgements…

The Night We Kept for Seething Wells

I mourned, a while ago, the death of angry music journalist Swells, formerly known as Seething Wells the communist poet and officially known as Steven Wells. He hated every band I've ever loved, which made him compulsive reading.

A big tribute night was held in London at the weekend, and my friends The Nightingales (or most of them) were on the bill, alongside poets John Hegley, Little Brother (author of 'PC Gone Mad' - a poem about a policeman with mental health issues), David Quantick, various other indie luminaries and compered by my favourite communist punk poet, Attila the Stockbroker. The 'Gales played an Electric Eels number, a punked-up Mel and Kim track, their recent hit 'Little Lambs' and a thrash interpretation of The Internationale. A good time was apparently had by all.

Swoon to Christy and Emily!

I've been listening to a lot of Christy and Emily recently - they've supported The Nightingales and sometimes play with them. They're perfect for a grey day - subdued tunes and lyrics which remind me of Joan as Police Woman or the very best of Regina Spektor, though perhaps a bit more musically thoughtful - a miz of rock and contemporary classical (how I wish there were a better term for that). Definitely worth a listen.

They're circling…

Management aren't the only things preying on us: kestrels are breeding on the art department building. I'll take some photos sometime this week. Three chicks are completely visible. Not quite the 'Urban Ospreys' of which The Nightingales sang, but still pretty good.

Meanwhile, once I can get my head around iMovie, I'll treat you to footage of Dan shaking his booty most undecorously. I must confess that strong drink had been taken at this point.

The Silence of Sound

For a change in the summer months, I'm not alone in the office. It's rather pleasant - we're all quite relaxed, the place is in turmoil as offices are moved, and there's an end of term atmosphere, though term ended weeks ago. Our least favourite student, a serial cheat, has finally been defenestrated and it's raining - all in all, a perfect day.

One difference is the silence. I usually have music playing, but one of my office colleagues is a punk rocker (he's been in The Prefects and then The Nightingales for 30 years, and the other is an early music fan (Monteverdi for preference). I swing both ways in the this regard, but can't please both of them, so I've opted for silence. Perhaps it's a good thing - over-familiarity may breed contempt for everything other than the absolute best (e.g. The Field Mice - how do you like them apples, Cynical?, Reich, Tallis and Gorky's Zygotic Mynci), so perhaps playing less but paying more attention would be a useful exercise. I listened to Let's Active before they turned up this morning and was highly impressed. They're Mitch Easter's early-80s band, while he was producing seminal REM albums. Imagine indiepop mixed with Southern Gothic.

Sarah's just come into the office and presented me with another book! Hurrah! Archie Brown's The Rise and Fall of Communism, which was on my list.

A miseryguts writes…

Happy Monday you lot! There used to be a tradition called St. Monday in Northern cities, including Stoke. A heavy weekend required a day off - a religious festival. In industries with highly specialised skills such as pottery, enough individuals absent meant that a whole crew couldn't do any work - so men took turns a few times a year. This is how I feel today, except that I'm at work and absolutely nobody else is other than the cleaners, who are always very cheery.

It's hot, sticky and horrible, yet I've already seen one student (advice: don't nick your resit from the internet and characters with speaking parts usually aren't dead in Renaissance literature). I've got to write a conference paper for Wednesday ('O. M. Edwards, Travel Writing and Definitions of Welshness' or something similar and the beer festival is still weighing heavily on my guts.

We all had a good time, without getting hammered. Except for Mr. Radford Sallow, who arrived many hours late and proceeded to catch up in spectacular fashion. Poor old man isn't used to drinking. He took the pledge in 1934…

Many of you seem horrified that I'm indifferent to Michael Jackson's oeuvre. Sorry, I just didn't listen to much pop at that formative age. My parents didn't believe in radios in every room, and they listened to mainstream classical, bits of folk, and a lot of religious music. Dad's concession to Irish culture was a U2 cassette and one by the Dubliners, and Mum played a lot more music than she listens to.

If it's any consolation, I watched Blur's performance at Glastonbury last night. All the presenters were talking about it being a seminal, wondrous, amazing set. I didn't. I thought they were quite good. Maybe I'm just getting grumpy. Wonder how the Nightingales went down? The BBC didn't see fit to broadcast any of their set.

On arrival at university I owned a cassette of Automatic for the People given to me by a schoolmate. A few days later I walked into the fabulous Recordiau Cob Records in Bangor and opened up a financial vein which flowed freely for many years to com. I bought two interesting looking records: Gorky's Zygotic Mynci's Patio and Tindersticks Kathleen/ E-Type Joe, both on 10" vinyl - not bad for a random pick. Henceforth, I'd go in on Thursday and pore over the list of next week's releases, making a list. On Monday, I'd collect several groaning plastic bags, to which the helpful gimps behind the counter would add 'some things we thought you'd like'. Years later, I realised that this meant 'our own records because nobody else will buy them [hello, Ectogram] and anything we've ordered in and realised won't sell'. Add to this the stuff I bought because I trusted the record label and all the secondhand bits, and you get the beginnings of my 30,000 collection, surprisingly little of which I now regret. Except for Cast's album: played once, put away for ever. I had to sell some once - 250 7" singles to Norman's Records simply to survive one summer. very depressingly. The collection is now like a smile with several teeth missing.

Plus de liaisons

Hello again? Did you all cope with the searing heat this weekend? I found it quite difficult. Anything above 23% makes me feel like a polar bear in a microwave.

So. On Friday, after a few ales in the Great Western, a select band of us ended up at the Little Civic, Wolverhampton's premier indie dive to mark its last night.

Few people attended Mozart's funeral, so fallen was his reputation. This was the mood in the Little Civic. The five of us danced to the finest cuts of indie beef, as the DJ indulged our whims for the very last time. Scattered around the edges were a very few onlookers, and once in a while, drunk wandered in looking for Yates's, scorned us and left. I've been attending these Friday nights for almost ten years now, have seen the Nightingales and many other bands play the upstairs room in search of that elusive break: then, indie kids danced, rejecting the mockery of those with shaven heads and checked shirts. Now, it's a sad outpost of a lost culture. The boards are going up, the turntable is long defunct, the Field Mice will echo mournfully round an abandoned building long after the DJ departs. A moment of silence please, for another distinctive, shabby, wonderful place.

Private school hippies - grab your bongs

Full Glastonbury lineup has been announced - it's a humdinger. Of particular interest to Black Country post-punks is The Nightingales: Saturday on the Peel Stage.

Cower, all you hippies

The Nightingales are playing Glastonbury (at 11 a.m. on the Saturday). They will be brilliant. Especially if the American half of the band are allowed into the country.

Nightingales, live at the BBC

They're on the iPlayer for a few more days. This is the four-piece shorn of bassoonist and extra guitarist, doing a session on Marc Riley's Rocket Science show on 6music

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.

In just a few hours

… The Nightingales will be on stage. But before them, Violet Violet will perform - they're very good. Inbetween: Ted Chippington - the anti-comedian. He's not just unfunny, he's deliberately unfunny. Which is funny. He went down very well in Germany apparently.

They come over here, playing our songs…

My friends the Nightingales returned from their European tour last night, playing what was meant to be a triumphant gig at the 100 Club before finishing in Manchester tonight and Wolverhampton (Little Civic) tomorrow. However, they didn't all make it back: rather than turning away all sorts of dubious individuals, UK Immigration decided to deport two women found in possession of a guitar and a bassoon. Despite the fact that they were playing 3 gigs for NO MONEY before going back to the US, the rozzers decided that they were planning to work illegally. Now, if you've ever heard the 'Gales, or know anything about 30-year old bands, you'll know that they only ever play for the love of the music.

Even worse, the band was forced to perform without these essential members in front of Trev and Simon, and Stuart Lee. The shame! Come to support them tomorrow.