King Creosote - Colston Hall, Bristol 9 years ago
Posted in SHOFT on Monday 23rd January 2017 at 11:25pm
It had been a while since we'd managed to get out to see a band. It had certainly been a while since I'd seen King Creosote too - an entire year by my reckoning. It had been a quiet year by Kenny Anderson's standards too - with just two eponymous releases under his belt. However, his return was a triumphant one. While he played the intimate atmosphere of Lantern on his last visit to the Colston Hall, Simply Red were busily creating blandness in the main hall. This time, King Creosote - with his proper tour bus outside - we're playing the main stage. It promised to be an interesting evening...
First up though, were Modern Studies - something of a supergroup, featuring Rob St. John, Pete Harvey of various Scottish bands and Emily Scott along with Joe Smillie of Call to Mind. Thus assembled from individually remarkable pieces of Perthshire, Glasgow, Edinburgh and Lancashire's musical finery, this collectively rather wonderful band have recently produced a debut album - Swell to Great on Song, By Toad. Live, as on the record, Modern Studies take their cues from some of the best quietly powerful acts - I'm hearing a little Low and a little Yo La Tengo. Coupled with Emily and Rob's own explorations of their national folk traditions, and filled out with harmonium, electric piano and cello, this made for a spellbinding set. For once, a Bristol audience was definitely listening to the support band - and the reaction was warm and appreciative rather than the usual cool disdain. The pin-drop quiet in the softer passages was filled with the clanking of harmonium pedals and scraping of bow on cello. This was chamber music for the 21st century, with hints of Scottish ballads and the bleak folk music of the Pennines. It's fair to say that everyone was sad to see them depart, with a collective groan from the audience at the announcement of their last song.
Sometimes, being a King Creosote fan is a bit like being a DIY expert. If you want results, you have to work at it. New songs are best heard by travelling to a remote Fife village and piling into a sweaty room above a rubgy club. Then they'll be reinterpreted on record - likely on a vinyl-only release which is available at shows, or - if the stars align and you're in the right place at the right time - from the resolutely low-tech website of the Alter Ego Trading Company, where things drift in and out of stock regularly, and the whole place shuts down for months at a time. Eventually though, some of the songs make it to one of the more commercially available releases. Kenny's most recent Astronaut Meets Appleman is rare in that most of the tracks here haven't been through this genesis, and have sprung onto record in their fully-formed band version. To do this justice requires quite an ensemble, and tonight he is joined by cellist, organist, synth player and piper among his usual band. All of them arrive on stage in sort of low-fi sci-fi Bowie-esque costume. Stick on stars and hastily cut-out KC lettering, silvery eye make-up and lurid pink and white wigs adorn band members. Amidst this, Kenny appears. And he seems to be remarkably happy!
I'm not suggesting that KC is anything less than entertaining usually, but when he's touring with a band he always seems just a little more chipper. This time, with his entourage in tow and their rather grand bus (apparently great for everything except perhaps the more involved toilet visit!) he's positively beaming. The band are slick and know the material well - working through the whole album in a slightly amended order. The poppier moments - like Love Life sitting neatly alongside the more reflective, drawn out tracks such as You Just Want and the closing The Long Fade. A significant highlight is Melin Wynt where the drone of pipes fills the hall while an insistent bassline drives the song on. As the set draws to a close Kenny notes that encores are silly, and explains that the band will just hide on stage - and they do exactly that, barely concealed behind the various bits of equipment, before heading back to play a request. Each night, they've take a request from the audience, learned it after the show, and played it at the next date on the tour. Thus we get a spectacularly fulsome sounding take on Admiral from 2007's would-be-breakthrough Bombshell album.
Leaving the Colston Hall and reflecting on some of the great (and not so fantastic) acts I've seen here since my teens, I find myself reckoning that this is among the best nights. The company, the music, the atmosphere and the receptive audience all adding up to a pretty special occasion. May there be many more opportunities to see the King at court.
Guided By Voices - Let's Go Eat The Factory 14 years ago
Posted in SHOFT on Monday 23rd January 2012 at 7:01am
It's strange to be sitting here, in 2012, reviewing a Guided By Voices record - and it brings back all kinds of memories for me. To begin at the beginning, there's no reason that anyone reading should remember Revolver Records in Bristol. The shop was tucked away in a doorway which led to a long passageway adorned with gig posters, into a cramped windowless room. The room was full of treasures - and presided over by the man with the loudest voice in Bristol, booming out his disdain for music which didn't cut the mustard, or yelling praise for his latest and usually most experimentally unlistenable discoveries. It was here I first discovered GBV, clutching my copy of "Vampire on Titus" on the train home and not quite knowing what to expect. Then, almost ten years later and just before the turn of the century I'm stalking around Bristol again, but in a mess. My life as I'd planned it is collapsing around my ears, and my uncle and I - and he's hardly a lover of cutting edge music - find ourselves in the Fleece and Firkin drunkenly watching GBV. Robert Pollard is smoking, slugging beer and high-kicking from the stage, the songs last mere seconds each, the band just keep playing - loud and messy but drifting occasionally into focus. It's the perfect distraction from the chaos of real life. My uncle yells in my ear: "he's almost like a proper rock star".
So, just over twelve years after that fateful evening and nearly twenty years since GBV first pricked my consciousness, we have "Let's Go Eat The Factory". I confess I was a little apprehensive about making the purchase - just like I was when the shouty man at Revolver tried to make me do so all those years back. I'd not been a good fan - as the number of GBV releases multiplied and with a soap-opera of line-up changes, quality inevitably dipped and I'd lost track. Like all the best soaps it was possible to dip out for a number of releases and to return to find not much had changed. But I still found myself returning to the churning noise and buried tunes of those early purchases because, frankly, no-one quite did it like GBV on form. This release is marketed as being recorded by the "classic line-up", which refers to that 1993-1996 or so collision of Pollard, Tobin Sprout, Kevin Fennell, Greg Demos and Mitch Mitchell. A collective of musicians content not to let technology or fidelity stand in the way of a wonderful tune - and one which had a thorough grounding in the pop and rock of the sixties and seventies rather than an education in the 90's indie-rock scene with all its attendant posturing and eclectic referencing. Listen to the output of this GBV line up and you'll find T Rex in the crunchy guitar riffs, John Lennon in the surreal but downtrodden lyrical preoccupations and a vocal delivery which often pays tribute to David Bowie.
Perhaps the most reassuring element of any reunion is not how many of those original features which once hooked you in survive, but how real and unforced they feel when delivered twenty years later? I'm overjoyed to say that "Let's Go Eat The Factory" in all its ramshackle, chaotic glory, retains all of the incoherent brilliance which "Vampite on Titus" provided all those years back. It's just as inconsistent, frustratingly patchy but ultimately gloriously experimental as those early 90s records. There are cuts which deliver straight out, medium-fidelity garage rock - but with Pollard's cynical, nasally Bowie-like croon overlaid they become tiny epics with nonsense lyrics, "The Unsinkable Fats Domino" and "Chocolate Boy" being perfect examples. Elsewhere they stray into the more experimental territory which has always confounded and amused, with "Old Bones" being an oddly Caledonian effort which shares a buried melody with "Auld Lang Syne" delivered on a cheap keyboard. There are also further deliciously odd synth-pop treats such as "Hang Mr. Kite" which adds an unexpected layer of strings to the reverb laden vocals. Only on "Doughnut for a Snowman" do we get hints of the later-period Rik Ocasek moderated, radio friendly GBV which never quite delivered. It's a curiously gentle ballad, with an impenetrable lyric which is delivered with genuine feeling nonetheless. Compressed into a couple of minutes and shorn of any attempts at production, its a shimmery pop delight which makes you realise why they might once have thought a radio-friendly GBV could have worked. There are also a couple of acoustic tracks here, the like of which both Pollard and Sprout both toyed with in their more obscure solo efforts. These are fragmentary, brief and tantalising with "The Room Taking Shape" clocking in at under 45 seconds, tailing off just as it starts to get interesting. The only track to break the three minute barrier is "We Won't Apologise for the Human Race" which closes the album in strangely pensive style. By GBV standards it's an epic, with chugging glam rock guitars and stabs of strings which burst into an anthemic garage rock chorus. The relatively extended length is provided by a minute of so of squalling, tangling guitar fuzz.
The question I've seen raised repeatedly by reviewers elsewhere, who've had the benefit of advance hearing of "Let's Go Eat The Factory" is whether these 21 sprawlingly unrelated tracks really make an album? With few of them exceeding 180 seconds in length and many of them tailing off into oblivion early with a click of the portastudio, the album shifts along at a curiously stuttering pace I'd agree. However, it was always thus - and a listen to any of those "classic line-up" era records will deliver a similarly uneven, sometimes disconcerting experience. This is the great joy of this type of recording - the experiment is captured and delivered to the listener pretty much unmoderated. Sometimes it doesn't work, but on other occasions GBV seemingly accidentally capture a classic pop song buried in the murky recording. This approach isn't for everyone, but in my case it's probably one of the reasons I got involved in making music, and certainly relates to my decision to write about it all these years later.
With some of the reunion dates cancelled and the band reportedly on the verge of dissolving again, it's worth remembering that this line-up was never far from complete implosion. Conversely, there is more positive talk of another album in the can and more material to follow, and this work ethic always set GBV apart from the slacker mentality of the scene which they found fame within. Perhaps the trick is not to look at this as a reunion album, and to expose it to all the intense scrutiny and criticism that inevitably brings, but to consider GBV as something which has drifted in and out of existence for almost 30 years now, and shows no signs of disappearing while that 'almost proper' rock star in Pollard continues to stalk the stage. This line-up though, captures the sense of unbridled energy and no-stone-unturned inventiveness better than most, and as a result "Let's Go Eat The Factory" is full of tiny masterpieces.
"Let's Go Eat The Factory" is available now from all good record retailers on both vinyl and CD. You can also download via iTunes. A video of the band's recent performance of "The Unsinkable Fats Domino" on Letterman is also pretty essential viewing.
Guided By Voices - The Unsinkable Fats Domino
After a good few years of trundling around the UK, I thought I'd encountered most of the hazards which travellers meet with these days. However, this morning convinced me otherwise. Having stayed in a very convenient hotel mere seconds from Wolverhampton station, I blearily stumbled down to reception ready to catch the early train to Machynlleth. There was no-one at reception but I didn't let this bother me, dropped my keycard into the slot and walked towards the automatic sliding doors. But they didn't. I wandered back to the desk and found a sign suggesting I press the bell for attention. I did. No-one came. So, I dug out the particulars of the hotel and telephoned. The phone chirped loudly behind the desk. Still no answer. With my keycard now out of reach I was trapped in the lobby. The minutes before my train ticked by. Eventually, a rather dishevelled looking chap arrived and unlocked the doors from the outside. He looked rather startled as I cannoned out of the building and launched myself up the stairs to the walkway leading to the station. He shouted an apology, but having no time to vent my frustration I decided not to answer. He let fly a somewhat quieter expletive, but I was now getting into my stride and didn't let it stop me. So began a very strange day on the rails!
Once at the station, there was just time to grab breakfast and a newspaper before the 06:24 arrived. There were a surprising amount of people on board - most of which seemed to be going home from a night out in Birmingham. We made good time in the dark, and I began to relax after my odd start to the morning. Eventually we slipped quietly into a dark and freezing Shrewsbury where we were due to reverse and head for the coast. Spotted one of Network Rail's Class 97s stabled beside us, but decided not to go for a shot as we'd soon be leaving. But we didn't. After what seemed like a very long wait indeed, we were turfed off the train and asked to wait for more information. The incoming service was delayed with our driver on it, so they planned to turn our train back to Birmingham and let us wait. My connection at Machynlleth wasn't particularly tight, but as the expected departure got later and later I realised I had a big problem. Talked it over with a member of staff - he was sure they'd do something for people going up the coast - a taxi maybe? But it wouldn't be them who organised it. They'd wait until we were further into the journey to decide what to do. It might be that given the disruption, the next train in two hours time was the sensible option. Almost quit there and then, but a wander into a dark cold Shrewsbury morning put me off. Back onto the station to get a shot of 97304 before boarding the unit which finally arrived around 35 minutes late.
The guard on board was a little more helpful, and he explained he'd wait until after Caersws to decide what to do. He pointed out though that if it was a taxi it would take some time to get organised, so they might just hold the train. I asked him to Excess me to Aberystwyth and I'd decide what to do as we went along. Settled in to enjoy a quiet run through the hills of central Wales. A lot of snow remained on the hilltops, and there had been a hard frost. Soon at Machynlleth where the depot was shrouded in mist which stayed with us out to Dovey Junction. Here I was amazed to find the unit to Pwllheli waiting for us. Contemplated the leap to do the original plan. However, the train was now well over 25 minutes late and would turn around as soon as it arrived - I didn't have the stomach for a straight six hours of rail travel without break or refreshment. Realised that my last bit of track wasn't going to happen today, so pressed on to Aberystwyth - an unexpected second visit within a year in fact.
Aberystwyth was just getting going as we arrived. People were waiting to head back east on our train when it turned around, and the streets were beginning to get a little busy. Strolled into town, noting the Central Fish Restaurant and the National Milk Bar - two blasts from the very distant past, when I convinced myself that Aberystwyth was in the grip of some sort of authoritarian restaurant-based regime given those names. Took some pictures before getting food and coffee and settling on the chilly and misty seafront - a short curve of black sand with a dilapidated pier and mess of stuccoed hotel fronts. I was calm, comfortable and despite being way off track, strangely enjoying myself. In fact I felt fairly relaxed for the first time in a week or so, no doubt helped by a call to the Customer Services department of the hotel to vent my frustrations! Eventually returned to the station for the 11:30 train back to England. This was a little busier and I amused myself by watching and listening to the odd mixture of passengers. It's easy to forget this is a long train journey in an area where road travel isn't much fun - and there was just a hint of the romance of rail travel around today. As we climbed the easy side of Talerddig the sun finally broke through the mist and warmed the carriage. Possibly the first time I've seen the sun this year, and oddly the atmosphere of the train changed with it. At Welshpool we passed 97304 with a short rake of coaches and 97303. A pleasant wait in the sun before we set off once again towards Shrewsbury and eventually back to Wolverhampton.
As I was back a little before I'd planned to be, had a wander out into the city. It was still the rather rough-edged spot I remembered from previous visits. A match at Molineux added to the crowds, but as they began to disperse a little I found a spot to enjoy a coffee while watching people wandering about. Sent some emails planning future trips, and had a slow wander back to the station for 350125 in to New Street. A bit of a wait here for the Bristol train, which I spent out on the open-air end of the concourse watching trains - something I haven't done at New Street for a long while. Glad to be on board the 17:12 to Bristol and in the warm at last. Snoozed through the dark journey home, which was all on time until the last few frustrating minutes when we got held up behind other local services. Made the unit back to Highbridge without any bother, and was soon heading for home.
So, the last major goal in the Baker atlas remains unconquered! A strange couple of days, which ended a rather odd week in many ways. A lot of uncertainty lurks around the corners at present, so these jaunts become as ever, far more important. There is clearly something about West Wales which stills the disquiet, as my forays to Holyhead over the years have proved. For now though, I'm content to research the curious history of the National Milk Bar chain. I suppose I'm never far from some sort of conspiracy.
I've moved a few things around on the site, which will hopefully make things easier to find. Firstly, I've condensed the galleries into categories roughly based on people and places - which should make things easier for adding more in future. The railway galleries are also a little easier to get to - but are still in a different format to the rest of the site for now.
I've also added a page for the Wessex Class 158/9 Fleet, and tidied up the side bar a little.
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.
