I allow myself a certain smugness when going to see Lambchop. Of course I'm far too ineffectual and timid to let it be known, but secretly I'm sneering. Its all to do with history. About ten years ago, I was happily listening to a wonderful 7" single by Posterchild, and thinking about writing to them to appear on the next Traumatone cassette compilation. A couple of years later, along with fellow Nashville pop act Crop Circle Hoax (who shared the single I discovered them on) and New Jersey's Spent, Traumatone had put out Lambchop's very first UK release.
That badly photocopied cassette (entitled 'Sorry About the Deformed Heart') was a labour of great love for me. With a cover made from a photograph shot through the blinds of a house I stayed in during my 1994 trip to Granite City, Illinois, and with a title culled from the one and only valentine card I have ever received in my life - it could be little else. It sold moderately well, and remains one of the tapes people ask me about all these years later. How on earth did I pull it off?
Fast forward a few years. I've kept up with the first few Lambchop records, but my horizons have expanded and I'm hard pressed to buy all the records I want anymore. Priorities have changed, some old favourites appear to have slipped into history. We're in Bristol, curiously thinking about seeing 'And You Will Know Us By The Trail of Dead' - they're tipped for the top, and its completely sold out. Posters direct us across town, where Mary Lorson (ex-Madder Rose) and Kurt Wagner are playing a solo show at Fiddlers in Bedminster. Its kind of expensive to get in, but turns out to be worth every penny. I've rediscovered Lambchop by accident.
Now its a couple of years later, and 'Nixon' and 'Is a Woman' have catapulted Lambchop into an uneasy sort of critical acclaim. The crowd queuing along the wall of the Seven Stars ("French Maids - after 4pm!") is a strange bunch. I spot a few kids who are maybe ten years my junior - dressed in the timeless uniform of indie-boys. With them, the bored and dead-eyed girlfriends who never wanted to come anyway and just overheard someone say its a country and western night! Beside me (in fact on both sides) are the quiet, introspective and slightly nearer my age alt-country guys. Almost normal looking, if a little glum, generally alone or at least in a group of two, wives and partners safely at home. They've travelled from Cardiff, Worcester, Exeter for this. A few steps back in the line are the Rock Magazine guys. They read Q or something, believe the hype - and sometimes I guess they strike lucky. They exchange facts about the band like a game of top trumps. These people normally travel in pairs. One who got the CD first and told his friend about them, and therefore assumes a superior position in the duo. Otherwise, they form these alliances on the fly with other lone types, and you can watch the vaguely concealed suspicion crackle - 'does he know more than I do?' and 'maybe he has that obscure British tape they released?'.
More people arrive, and the wonderful Lincoln are soundchecking inside. A brace of middle-aged couples stop near the door. They're clearly not used to having to queue for entertainment, and one of the wives 'just goes to see' if they can't get priority entry. Rebuffed they shuffle to the end of the line, the menfolk wondering why, if they're an American band, the tour bus is registered in Austria.
The doors open, and we file in. The Fleece - bless its rickety beams - is just like always - dark, a little too hot, full to just beyond the fire safety limit. Inside I can see everyone better, and its more eclectic than I expected. The ages range between 15 and 60, and suddenly I realise with horror that I'm somewhere in the middle. Its not 1992, and I'm not listening to the Posterchild single thinking I'll probably never see this band. I'm also not in charge of the UKs most annoying tape label anymore. In fact, I'm a withered and somewhat pathetic shadow of that irksome little shit.
Beside me during the support act's set, a girl snipes endlessly to her boyfriend about them. Particularly, about them being a country band and having (to her utmost dismay) a trumpet and a trombone. Another young man beside me (with an impressively long ginger beard) says how he's determined to enjoy this, even if... and he imitates a hillbilly dance with his thumbs hooked into a pair of imaginary braces. A couple of quiet men with the air of country doctors retiring after luncheon discuss an article they read about Kurt's work as a floor sander. Their wives make faces and giggle that "well, he didn't do OUR kitchen".
The music? Lincoln were great, Lambchop have been better - but in fairness I had to leave early to catch the last train home. Everyone seemed really happy. Even the girl who doesn't like trombones.
Lost::MikeGTN
I've had a home on the web for more years than I care to remember, and a few kind souls persuade me it's worth persisting with keeping it updated. This current incarnation of the site is centred around the blog posts which began back in 1999 as 'the daylog' and continued through my travels and tribulations during the following years.
I don't get out and about nearly as much these days, but I do try to record significant events and trips for posterity. You may also have arrived here by following the trail to my former music blog Songs Heard On Fast Trains. That content is preserved here too.
