Go Lucky, The Lonely Oatcake and Barn Owl - 13th Note, Glasgow

Posted in SHOFT on Thursday 21st October 2010 at 11:51pm

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Its become apparent that age and aging will be the recurring theme of this visit to Glasgow. Turning up the day after my birthday, in the midst of a month which is always turbulent, means that it was never going to be far from the agenda. However, oddly, I seem to be enjoying the first flush of a mid-life crisis which is allowing me to behave cautiously badly. Yes, the late nights take their toll - and the ever present hint of a cold surfaces in the dark mornings - but mostly, I feel strangely free to do what I wish just now.

Hence tonight - originally my 'evening off' of the trip, but populated by a late showing at the 13th Note. It's a fair number of years since I've been downstairs here - and I confess I can't even remember who I saw. Tonight though, things kick off with GoLucky - essentially a one-man show, but helped on this occasion by "Mrs Go Lucky" on vocals and 'rockenspiel' and a colleague on keyboards and violin. Of the three bands on the bill I knew least about them, and possibly left most impressed by them. The tight, cleverly-worded songs were carefully accompanied with enough embellishment to draw out their intricacies. A fragile voice, buoyed when it counted, by his wife with a high, clear and alluring voice of her own. Bonus points to Go Lucky for naming a song "Texaco" - a word I used to obsess over slightly, noting how strange it sounds if you repeat it to yourself over and over. I suppose I had quite a sheltered childhood in some ways...But as for Go Lucky, they are very much worth your time and effort.

Looking around the dungeon which is the downstairs part of the 13th Note, I realised that the only people even close to my age were the parents of one or two of the bands, and some spectators who seemed to be linked to the rather wonderful Glad Cafe project - which recently benefited from a fine compilation CD released by 45 A Side Records featuring one of tonights bands. If this was making me feel old, then the next act surely would. The Lonely Oatcake sound like Hank Williams, had he been reared on Withered Hand and Nirvana. The music is clever, quick-witted and tinged with Ben's sad violin. The lyrics however, are straight from a bedroom or a sixth-form common room. This isn't always bad, and some of the songs, taken in context have an internal charm of their own. However, it gets a little hard to splice the music and the lyric at times, which is a shame - because it's never less than enjoyable to listen to these guys. For me, raised on a diet of Dylan and Neil Young long before I discovered indie music, this is the band I wish I could have been in twenty years ago. The troubling matter is that I couldn't guarantee I wouldn't be in the same band today given half a chance!

Finally, we come to Barn Owl. Despite being 'yet another animal named band', these guys have done incredibly well over the past year or so. Certainly, I've been hearing their names in all sorts of places - which given the huge physical distance between me and the grassroots music scene in Glasgow, is no small feat. It's a stripped down Barn Owl tonight without their organist - who also adds a variety of other tweaks to the sound. However, this didn't change the fact that these gents can write a sterling song! Tight, clever and almost effortlessly, they slipped through a set of occasionally stratospheric pop songs. Dual vocals, with an occasional nod to Pavement, are supported by a really great little rhythm section who hold everthing together. Highlight for me is "When No-one Is Around" which appeared on the aforementioned Glad Cafe CD. It's a complicated song which rewards a good listen. All sheen and pop on the surface, but with hidden depths.

So, I left the 13th Note feeling decidedly old, but also thinking that maybe I could use the excuse of a crisis of confidence to revive my own musical meanderings. I think, perhaps, I need a good night's sleep!

Cristin Mackenzie, Sarah Banjo and Esperi - Macsorleys, Glasgow

Posted in SHOFT on Wednesday 20th October 2010 at 11:30pm

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It's been a long day - and Birmingham seems like another country now. Quite a bit has happened since then in fact. I got up early, and disappeared into the bowels of New Street while it was still dark. I felt pretty grim, the usually October cold barely suppressed, and strangley nervous about the days ahead. I stake a lot on my visits to Glasgow - and sometimes expect too much.

As we emerged from the tunnels though, I knew today was going to be just a little bit exceptional. The day had dawned cold and clear, with perfect blue skies. As we sped north, through familiar territory from last week's jaunt, I managed to settle my unease with coffee, music and the chance to really relax for the first time in a long time. I contemplated the announcement of the Comprehensive Spending Review later with some magnanimity - I'd made my predictions, but wondered if this trip might be a last fling before the belt tightened. All the more reason to make it count in one sense. No pressure then...

So fast-forwarding a little, I find myself in Macsorley's - a corner bar near Central Station which I'd wandered by countless times on my travels. Inside, it's tiny and the interior is like a shrine to traditional Scottish pub traditions - a U-shaped bar, surrounded by woodwork. Just dark enough to feel private, just busy enough to feel comfortable. I was immediately at home. It was interesting to study the customers - a mixture of town centre types, out for an early drink, and those here for the entertainment - a more mixed bunch, lots of knitwear and the inimitable Glasgow style. In the corner, big Jim Gellatly appeared to be conversing with a lost Kray triplet. I felt instantly at home, found my corner and settled in.

First up was Cristin Mackenzie from the Isle of Lewis. His gentle songs were carried above and beyond the bar chatter by way of his colleague who deployed a range of instruments, from whistles to what appeared to be Northumbrian Pipes. Occasionally, his voice too soared high above the background noise, which unfortunately prevented him from being heard fully. A talented young guy with lots of local support in Glasgow. A real pleasure to hear him.

Next up was Sarah Banjo - a recent discovery for me, and someone I really wanted to see perform. She started out, an alluring and unassuming shamble of clothes and glasses at the front of the room, before very suddenly, a high clear voice soared. There was something about her phrasing, her use of repetition and the construction of her songs which made me think of Olympia and K Records - Lois and Mecca Normal. But her use of guitar and banjo brought the music effortlessly back to it's Scottish roots in that rare pool of talent, Anstruther. She also practically refused to stop playing, which is always a good thing in my book. Part way through the set she switched from a quietly strummed guitar to a more robust and eponymous banjo. A remarkable set which lived up to all my expectations.

And so, to Esperi - perhaps the artist I knew most about on tonights bill. His recordings are careful, fragile things which threaten to dissolve like ancient wax cylinders. Live, it's quite remarkable to see how these tiny works of genius are created. He flits from instrument to instrument, setting up a loop from live sounds. The microphones are moved, and impossible toys are produced from his bag. Tiny whistling sea horses, bells and whistles. Over all of this, his quiet voice weaves gentle songs. I'm glad I got to see this because the performance is so much part of the sound. A remarkable talent.

So, as I trudged down Argyle Street in the inevitable rain, I reasoned that today turned out pretty well, despite my reservations. It's good to be back.

Parrington Jackson, Haight Ashbury, The Vaselines - The Thekla, Bristol

Posted in SHOFT on Tuesday 21st September 2010 at 11:09pm

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Its almost four years since I was in The Thekla - that time it was for Arab Strap's farewell tour. Tonight was different. It was about something beginning afresh. A lot has changed in four years too, and after a perplexing day at the office and a comfortingly irreverent post-work conversation, I found myself daydreaming through the train ride to Bristol. After all it was something I used to do daily, and in the current work turmoil, I almost felt nostalgic for. Tonight was about looking back too - with The Vaselines together again after twenty years. A second album complete - and the novelty of being able to get it on iTunes almost instantly wasn't lost. After all, this is one of the most confusingly and oft-reissued bands, with their slim but near flawless canon of material being made available in various collected forms, seemingly at once. My own introduction to The Vaselines came in the form of the Seminal Twang 7" of "Dying for It". This amazing label managed to turn up fifteen gems of eclectic, weird pop music during 1991-92 and introduced me to such fantastic gems as Half Japanese howling through "Turn Your Life Around" and Velvet Crush with their soaring power pop on "Ash and Earth". The Vaselines contribution was a scorching, punky blast of blues with boy/girl sing-song vocals. I loved it instantly, and played it relentlessly, at least until the "All The Stuff and More" compilation finally arrived. Then of course, Kurt Cobain posthumously championed The Vaselines, and suddenly everyone knew their songs. They just didn't know that they were their songs.

So tonight, drifting across town without too much thought, I stumbled across a sign advertising a "Minge Fest". Half tempted to investigate, I pressed on and found a small but motley crowd developing outside the Thekla as the sun dipped behind the houses on Redcliff. I was much relieved not to be the oldest here, and there were some who could clearly have been veterans of the Vaseline's last performance in Bristol during November 1987. However, there was a surprisingly young bias to the crowd - too young to be accounted for by the Nirvana effect. Some of this contingent had clearly come to see the first support act Parrington Jackson - a professional enough bunch trying hard, and clearly with tons of support from family and friends. I'm not sure if it was because they were pitched against such mighty opposition, or because they squeezed a hurried set into a short slot, but their singer's elegant frontman act just failed to fly tonight. They had fun though, and for tonight at least had a sense of local heroes about their post-performance schmoozing. There were also a disproportionate amount of flat caps in evidence. Don't tell me we're heading down that road again?

Next up were Haight Ashbury from Glasgow, who are travelling with The Vaselines on this UK tour. I confess to a little pre-judgement of their set, and perhaps a disappointment that some other unsigned Glasgow acts hadn't made the cut. However, tonight showed that this curious three piece can make a racket live. The sound is hard to pin down - a guitar and bass make a swampy, bluesy racket while a single drum beats time, rather like the opening bars of "Be My Baby" by The Ronnettes. Over this, two sweetly harmonising Wilson Pickett style vocalists tell disturbing tales, sometimes veering into a controlled howl of rage - without breaking harmony. If it sounds strange it's because it is. The whole sixties dressing up thing and the name just get in the way of a really interesting band who are going to be worth following as they develop and change.

Barely time to replenish my drink, as the early curfew meant the stage was prepared for the main event. Right on cue, looking relaxed and genuinely pleased to be here, Eugene and Frances took the stage. Now this was quite a moment for me - quite apart from not ever imagining I'd see The Vaselines, here they were ripping into an opening "Oliver Twisted" which sounded like it had been written last week, not last century. Early in the set, it was revealed that the Bristol show in 1987 was in fact the very first the band had played, and to celebrate this twenty-year long circular journey, a little wine had been enjoyed. This seemed to have put the duo in a frisky mood, and good-natured but utterly filthy banter punctuated the set throughout. It was interesting to note too, how seamlessly the majority of the new material worked into the older stuff - and there was a certain irony in hearing "The Day I Was a Horse" crashing into "I Hate The 80s" - the very decade of it's birth of course. The simpler, perhaps less charitable view would be that The Vaselines write simple songs which haven't really changed much. However, I think it's more to do with how out-of-time they seemed then, with their frantic bluesy riffing and old-fashioned punk sensibilities. Nowadays, all of that stuff is entirely acceptable. So, the remarkably good "Mouth to Mouth" and "Whitechapel" earned their place alongside "Molly's Lips" and "Jesus Doesn't Want Me For A Sunbeam". During the latter, a young audience member confided in her friend that this was "a rip-off of a Nirvana song". Several old hacks and I exchanged glances, but I was the only one drunk enough to take issue. I made myself look foolish perhaps, but felt vindicated. For me, the high point of the night was the completion of my own circle - hearing "Dying For It" - as urgent, vital and raucous as on that now very warped 7" single - itself now near twenty years old.

The Vaselines left the stage bang on their curfew, and I was left to ponder the curious hole in the timetable which left me waiting until the 23:35 train to get home. It was a pleasant enough night to stroll and to watch the station closing down with much needed coffee in hand. On reflection, I'm a strange presence at these occasions, reserved as they are for the younger, hipper crowd - but then, as I realised tonight, I felt that way twenty years ago too! Age hasn't wearied The Vaselines, and just for a bit, it didn't bother me either.

On Mixtapes

Posted in SHOFT on Tuesday 7th September 2010 at 7:03am

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Since my efforts to regularly blog about the music which is capturing my imagination has run into real life - and found work, and unusually a number of other creative exploits blocking the way - I've decided to try to capture more sporadic thoughts. One that has cropped up recently is the thorny issue of learning about other's musical tastes - especially at the beginning of a relationship, when I often find music takes on a disproportionate importance. The extreme lack of commonality described in Kid Canaveral's "Smash Hits" is of course fairly unlikely - you wouldn't generally find yourself having much in common with someone with wildly opposing tastes, but there is always that risk - to the ego if nothing else - that your dearly held gems are not appreciated by your significant other. That the time and attention you've lavished on collecting, understanding and appreciating these significant pieces of music is seen as time wasted on a harmless, if geeky, hobby. The word itself conjures images of garden sheds with suburban housewives reassuring each other that "it's fine, he's out there playing his music".

Like all of the cultural preening and positioning which goes on in these formative early days of a relationship, there was, at least when I was younger, an etiquette of sorts - and the mix tape was the ultimate expression of your musical feelings. This carefully filled C90 cassette was sweated over, the selection designed to express everything which your inarticulate teenage tongue just couldn't seem to speak aloud and to do so in ways which just wouldn't have worked well in your clumsy inexperienced voice. Perhaps now, seeking the same effect I'd be moved to think about B.S Johnson's words on originality: Certainly I feel it has all been said The short fear is that even saying it in my own way is equally pointless

I confess to spending serious amounts of spare time on sequencing these tapes - carefully ensuring they mixed the key point of my musical interest with sufficient hooks to ensure that the intended recipient couldn't help but be ensnared by my remarkable and eclectic taste. And the odd thing is, sometimes it worked! Naturally there were failures - there was a period during which I was roundly accused of "musical fascism" and I'd be lying if I denied the existence of a counter-compilation of 1990s 'baggy' music entitled "Fuck Off Mike Newman". Even then, back in far less certain times, I thought that one was a compliment. The mix tape doesn't always - indeed very rarely gets the girl.