OK Ed, this one's for you

Ed (see comments in my previous post) has an encyclopaedic knowledge of late Breeders, so here's a track from Fate to Fatal which I have to admit is good, though not as thrilling as Cannonball, perhaps because that track is so much of my youth. And no, I haven't heard their cover of 'Collage'

More musical mayhem

Two lots of music today - from opposite ends of the spectrum.

First up is the Bowed Piano Ensemble. I've no idea how I came across them, but they make a beautiful, ethereal noise by, well, bowing piano strings (which are usually hit by padded hammers). Ten people gather round a single grand piano and make this wonderful noise, which sounds more like an orchestra than a single instrument. What's cooler than taking a long-established instrument and turning it into something else entirely?



If that's not to your taste, how about The Breeders? The Byzantine lives of the women at the heart of the band would go on for ever (Kim Deal = ex-Pixies, Tanya Donnelly = ex-Throwing Muses, later Belly then Kelley Deal replaced Donnelly etc. etc.) so I won't. They're been around forever and have done lots of interesting things. Pod was fun pop-punk. Last Splash is my high point, perhaps because the opening bass notes of 'Cannonball' instantly takes me back to the sticky sweaty dancefloors of my late teens (dance fans might recognise it: Prodigy's 'Firestarter' sampled it). It's youth and energy and fun all in one shiny pop package.

Play this very very loud:


After a few years of drug problems, side-projects and the usual stuff, they reformed in the past few years - Title TK is a lo-fi gem, while Mountain Battles is a lovely, rough, fuzzy slab of fun.



And while I'm in the mood: some Veruca Salt

Man Ray (LaMontagne)

Last night I had the pleasure of seeing Ray LaMontagne, of whom I'd only read in Word magazine. (Thanks, by the way, for your comments). Why do all American musicians have beards at the moment, except Kelly Deal? Talking of Kelly Deal, she really is the perfect woman: she's designed her own font and it's free! Her band The Breeders have a site called Breeder's Digest, which is rather brilliant.

I went because Christine and James had managed to book an extra ticket in a different area of the venue - so I ended up on my own, in the balcony, directly in front of the singer - brilliant. Less brilliant was sitting next to a yummy mummy and her daughters Portia and India (I'm guessing). Clearly Mr. LaMontagne and his support act, Radio 2-friendly Josh Ritter, are approved objects of middle-class desire. After they sneered at the scruffy fat singleton in a Green Lantern t-shirt, I sipped beer and read my Shakespeare commentary during the intervals. That showed them.

So anyway, the music. It was odd. I'd heard of LaMontagne and Ritter, and assumed that they were middlingly well-known sensitive folk-country artistes, and so they are. I didn't realise that Mr. Lamontagne is the object of freakish devotion - a mostly full hall (probably 2500) at £25 a go in Wolverhampton is truly astonishing. They whistled, stamped and cheered like Mormons at Joseph Smith's resurrection (don't write in - I've no idea if Mr Smith is expected to rise again, though I imagine the Church would like to know the whereabouts of the golden tablets detailing the Semitic origins of America's ancient peoples he 'received from the prophet/angel/time-traveller Moroni' and then 'misplaced' or 'returned to the angel' before anyone else got a look. Actually, Some Chilean Woman could enlighten us). But I digress. LaMontagne's music was good. It was country-folk-blues and the later the set got, the more impassioned he became. The band was beautifully lit in pools of liquid, varying light, and they stood on rugs, which added to the 1970s atmosphere.

Actually, they reminded me of the post-Slowdive band Mojave 3 but more country, which is high praise from me (listen to some here)!

Then home for the glorious, ambiguous and complex ending to The Wire… Here's LaMontagne on somebody's crappy mobile phone from a couple of years ago, in Wolverhampton. There's nothing up yet from last night's gig.

Lip it Up And Start Again, Or, A Kick In The Quantocks

… is a pun you'll only get if you know who Orange Juice and Melt Banana are, and have seen Lost in Translation. I'm back, and thought I'd start with a little dubious humour there.

So here, we are, all the lads. What have you been up to in my absence? I had a wonderful time at All Tomorrow's Parties. Good music, company and astonishingly good food - my comrades even brought a slow cooker with them!

Melt Banana were at ATP - I didn't catch much of their set, but that's what happens at these events. Merely being in their presence was enough (I had a fanboy moment with them and with Norman from Teenage Fanclub, much to the disgust of Kate and Anita). All you other fans of Japanese post-punk noise will understand. Shame Shonen Knife weren't there too…

So what were my impressions of ATP and the southwest? Somerset's beautiful, and weird - like the far west. It's so utterly rich, complacent and rightwing. Massive mansions and castles command every view, and the hedges are blooming with hawthorn blossom and Conservative Party election placards. Cynically and amusingly, the Tories have stolen Obama's slogan and are running with the message 'Vote for Change'. Ummm… they may have returned a Whig in the 1820s, but this area won't have elected a non-Tory since the Great Reform Act. Their euro-candidate is Mr Trollope-Bellew, whose family has owned the area since the elizabethan period. With such a glorious name, all I can imagine is a portly, beef-fed, red-faced man in a frock coat, beating his horses, tenants, dogs and children, riding to hounds and thrashing the poor if they vote against him.

He has, naturally, aided and abetted illegal hunting activity, hates Europe but claims EU subsidies on his extensive estate. Like all hypocritical Tory bigots.

The two men were caught hunting illegally in February last year. At least 17 riders, including children, followed the hunt, which had been called in by a landowner, Anthony Trollope-Bellew, to cull deer on his land near Taunton and move the herd on.

So anyway, my point is that all the best areas of this country are occupied by the worst sort of people. But on to ATP. It was held in the Butlin's holiday camp at Minehead, which is right by the sea, looking across to South Wales. The wind blew, the rain fell, and I was content. So were my companions, though they were disturbed by the absence of a chopping board, which did cast a pall over the weekend's festivities. Mineshead Revisited, anyone?

Despite this setback, we managed to survive on a diet of cider (for them), fine Exmoor ales, tagine and ROCK. It was a very American affair, curated as it was by The Breeders. Many of the musicians mingled with the crowds - Tricky seemed particularly lonely, though this is possibly because it was the whitest crowd outside the BNP's AGM. Kelley Deal joined the girls (mostly) for the knitting and crochet circle and a subsequent book reading, a guy from Mariachi El Bronx wandered forlornly for the whole event, looking for groupies presumably, and other musicians could be seen checking out other bands without airs and graces.

So who did I see and rate? Blood Red Shoes were OK - spiky pop-rock. Bon Iver was pretty and soulful, and occasionally rocked out a little. They went down well with the many teachers, social workers and couples in the audience. The Breeders, of course, rocked. The crowd was big, they were sparkling witty and bickered like twin sisters who've been playing together for 30 years would do. I thought that some of the audience weren't particularly interested in their new stuff, but I admired the way they threw away their indie dancefloor classic 'Last Splash' fairly early on and showed us all how consistently interesting they've been. It's great to see how an intelligent band can grow up without losing their fizz.

Mariachi El Bronx were kind of cool - rock mariachi appeals, but they were a little too cocksure for my tastes. Respect for the massive acoustic bass guitar though. I skipped Buffalo Killers because there were plenty of other American bands sporting facial hair around for the weekend - the crowd were far more diverse in terms of indie tribes than the performers. While many of the bands seemed to be into, well, The Band, lots of the festival-goers, particularly the women, were into an interesting Fifties scene. Some were the established lesbian rockabilly bunch, but others were wearing headscarves, floral dresses, tightly sculpted twinsets - really interesting. The men largely opted for skinny jeans, competitively obscure band t-shirts, faux-scruffy facial hair and architectural glasses, other than the younger ones. All the public-school sixth-formers were lost in the 1980s. I skipped CSS because I'm too old and bitter for talentless scenesters, and stopped doing what NME told me to long ago.

Deerhunter and Dianogah were pleasantly dull - more beardy folk-rock with bits of punk and electronica thrown in. The first band that really rocked me was Th'Faith Healers (that's a MySpace link). I remember them being good when I was 18, but totally lost track of them. They're so good live - metronomic, loud Krautrock with Scottish woman's interesting vocals over the top - Stereolab meets My Bloody Valentine. Go see them. I bought their Peel Sessions CD after the set, and lots of other people seemed impressed too.

I didn't bother with Foals, but did go for The Frogs, who apparently founded grunge. For a few minutes, I thought they were a bunch of wankers - talentless, arrogant no-marks, then realised that this was the heart of their performance. They essentially make up songs as they go along, swear a lot, and parody other bands, while underneath the costumes (in the case of the lead singer, hologram-effect wings and a mask which made him 7ft tall and totally obscured his face), lurk some brilliant musicians. They really are a band you should experience. Once.

I was a bit disappointed by the post-punk bands, perhaps because I was so excited about seeing Wire and Gang of Four. Both groups just seemed to feel that they deserved adulation and pretty much went through the motions from what I saw - very disappointing. I still think that Wire's Pink Flag and Chairs Missing albums are amongst the greatest of the last 40 years.

Giant Sand - more Americana for the married Word reader. Heartless Bastards - good fun live, probably a bit derivative to follow. Erika Wennerstrom's voice is absolutely amazing though: a tuneful bellow which could drive ships onto the rocks. Sadly, I missed both Holy Fuck andthe Fuck Buttons' DJ set.

One real revelation was Kimya Dawson. She used to be in Moldy Peaches, and therefore off my radar, as I felt that New York anti-folk was too self-conscious and self-congratulatory. I'm still not that into deliberately nursery-rhymed style tunes and rhythms married with confessional lyrics, but her performance was amazing. She abolished the separation between performer and audience, pulling three kids up to perform with her (I suspect she regretted her choice before long), and launched into an hour of stunning emotional intensity, ranging from tragedy to comedy, allied to some good lefty politics. Definitely one to see live.

For a little light relief, I went to see a reading by Scarlett Thomas, from her book The End of Mr Y. I was vaguely aware of it, but was seriously impressed by her declamation. In the book, a lonely and poor PhD student (are you reading this, Deer Friend?) picks up a rare novel which catapults her into the minds of passing beings - cats, mice, etc. Allied to Thomas's brother playing scary organ music, the hour reminded me of the weirder end of Chris Morris's Blue Jam.

Have you ever seen Shellac? I have, ages ago, and though it was a boring RAWK side-project for uber-producer Steve Albini. I apologise to him publicly now. Yes, it his heavy, guitar rock, but live you get an hour or so of punishing guitars, hilariously witty lyrics (how many rockers use 'unattainable' and still make it scan?) and sheer fun - particularly when the bass player takes audience questions, the drummer (who looks like Animal) has cymbals mounted behind his head, and Steve carried him off, still playing. I am totally converted.

Styrofoam - wet indie/electro which will no doubt soundtrack countless ads and teen angst dramas. Teenage Fanclub: Fantastic more like. Kate and Anita were rather bored by their niceness and went off for Shellac's first set of the weekend, but I've got a massive soft spot for Scottish close-harmony Americana and loved every second. I also thought that Throwing Muses were brilliant - spiky, witty, relaxed and everything that America's most thoughtful indie-rock band should be. College Rock seems to be used with a faint sneer these days, but the Muses encapsulate everything about what it could have become.

So that was most of ATP. What did I learn? That beards and designer glasses can substitute for soul. That slow-cookers are the cherry on the festival cake. That indie bands genuinely are friendly, kind people. That however much I go swimming, I'm too fat and old to fit in. Am I going next year? I certainly am.

We're all going on a summer holiday

Well, that's it, comrades, until Monday afternoon at the earliest. I'll take my iPod to All Tomorrow's Parties in case there's wireless access, but it seems unlikely. I'm particularly looking forward to Teenage Fanclub, Bon Iver and The Breeders, but I'm sure others will be brilliant too. I'll be the one in cherry red Doctor Martens, a Green Lantern t-shirt and bad hair, in case that floats your boat. What book shall I take as a prop? I was wondering about On Deconstruction but I've read it several times now, so perhaps a Moomins volume might be more fitting.

Now I'm off to see In the Loop again to top up my epithet levels.

In the fucking loop

I spent yesterday afternoon swearing, with admittedly more perspiration than inspiration. so perhaps yesterday evening wasn't the best time to see In The Loop, the big-screen extension of The Thick of It, Armando Ianucci's cynical, brilliant examination of the way politics has been reduced from principles to venal positioning. It is without doubt the sweariest film since South Park. It is superior to the latter, however, thanks to its relentlessly innovative swearing. This is a family blog, so I won't quote any of the horrifyingly memorable phrases, but urge anyone who thinks that swearing is neither big nor clever to see this film. It will convert you. I certainly found it difficult to shake the habit after yesterday. Steve Coogan's cameo is also brilliant.

This clip is extremely unpleasant so don't play it if you're sensitive to finely-crafted Anglo-Saxon.

After the film we went to the Dilshad restaurant in Wolverhampton. We chose it because it has hundreds of photos of formerly popular entertainers who'd eaten their after performing at the nearby Grand Theatre. My favourite photograph is of Jonathan King (celebrity unrepentant paedophile), Gary Bushell (unrepentant, untalented, unpleasant far-right 'journalist') enjoying the company of a rather young boy. Perhaps they'd ordered the chicken…

I'd intended to take a picture of this historic summit for your delectation, so imagine my horror to find that the venue had undergone a tasteful, minimalist, stylish makeover. Yes, the food was stunningly good, but something special has been lost.

To console ourselves, we subsequently attended the Posada and then the near-deserted Little Civic. I love that place when it's empty. The DJ is open to requests and has a highly-developed love of pre-Britpop Real Indie which I share. Without the check-shirt-and-shaven-head brigade in evidence, I (and occasionally one or two of my friends) could dance like thirty-something losers without the usual mockery and contempt. For the first time ever, I heard Stereolab in a public place, and this DJ hero played Felt, Field Mice and the Go-Betweens without even being asked. Some good Breeders and Jane's Addiction were introduced to the mix as well. 'Props' to this unsung hero, as I believe some people say in these situations.

Bricks are, like, heavy, know what I mean?

Having spent yesterday listening to Tortelier's recordings of the Bach Cello Suites, I'm having a 90s female indie day: Veruca Salt, Juliana Hatfield, L7, The Breeders, Babes in Toyland, Bikini Kill, Huggy Bear and so on. Bliss was it to be alive in that time of para boots, floral dresses and spiky guitars. Where are the riot grrls of yesteryear?

Update - just bought some Juliana Hatfield and received the new The Horrors album, as it's so much better than the first. Anyone rate Luscious Jackson?