[This week's Sunday Supplement is written by Matthew, who has volunteered to help out with the label and the blog until he goes back to college in the Autumn. Oh, and that image isn't one of the album cover, because I couldn't find that anywhere, it's just a random one from their MySpace.]

Although this came out in january I thought I’d write a wee bit about this because I don’t reckon many people will have heard of Brendan Glasson. I don’t know an awful lot about him other than what’s on his myspace page. As far as I know he’s just a rather lovely, modest guy who makes music in his living room. How unusual.

The album is a bit mismatched and sounds a tiny bit rushed, but I’m not complaining. It gives the album a kind of energy which really compliments it as a whole. I mean, if it didn’t have that slight boost of eager bewilderment it might sound a tad boring. Maybe it’s just me.

This is an astoundingly dreamy album; it’s not particularly clever or conceptual and it’s not really really about anything at all. It’s just a really lovely album to have on while you lay in bed and scratch yourself and think about what you could but won’t do later that day or while you’re on a bus or train just daydreaming, though it may cause you to miss your stop. Brilliant.

One song is actually about forgetting where your picnic spot is. May I be the first to say, aww bless.

Vio/Miré – A Nice Spot Somewhere in the Woods

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Vio/Miré – Appleseeds

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MySpace | More mp3s | Buy by contacting the band via their MySpace

Dear God I never thought of what I do as an endurance sport before – after all, it’s really just a case of endlessly farting on about some tunes which I happen to like – but this year’s Festival is going to become just that.  This week has been punishing enough already, and next might be even heavier going.

This week so far I have been to a fucking superb performance by Jesus H. Foxx on Tuesday at Electric Circus, supported by my first real experience of Art Fag, who tortured songs by Meursault and Enfant Bastard with considerable enthusiasm.

Then on Wednesday I witnessed a shambolic performance by the sound guy at the Forest Cafe, presumably determined to ensure that the White Heath EP launch would be dominated by his own World Championship levels of incompetence and indifference, and fuck those arrogant bands and their ridiculous notion that people might actually have turned up to hear them play songs.  Someone should point out to him that just because Debutant is only a bloke and a guitar doesn’t mean no-one wants to listen to his music or that a sound guy can necessarily spend the entire gig with his head wedged firmly up his own arse as his sound system totters and staggers around him.  Oh, and White Heath have a pianist and a violin player in the band for a reason: because what they are doing is supposed to actually make a contribution to the sound they are trying to make – if they were just there to be like Bez they wouldn’t bother miming away on instruments, would they?

At least he couldn’t ruin the Meursault solo set.  With a voice like Neil’s that would be a challenge for even the most determinedly ham-fisted sound guy, and proved to be beyond even whichever distant relative of Coco the fucking Clown had turned up that night.  Mind you, the  monumentally pig-ignorant pseudo-hippies who seemed to fill half the place were clearly determined to raise their dreadlock-sporting, oatmeal-knitting, soap-dodging, dismally joyless conversations above any and all bands who thought that they might try and play some tunes, their slightly desperate, vacant faces grimly clinging to the last vestiges of the illusion that their particular hollow brand of bovine conformity represents something even mildly alternative.  It doesn’t.  You’re just another bunch of sad cunts in need of an identity to submit yourselves to in a pitiful bid to avoid having to face your lack of anything much to contribute to the world.  Sorry, welcome to real life, we all have to face it at some point.  And no matter how fucking loud you try and talk, Neil is louder than you, which makes me feel good about the universe.  And presumably cheered the front half of the audience too, who were brilliant, lest it seem that I am trying to tar everyone with the same brush.  I assume there are plenty of good people who both run and use the Forest Cafe; unfortunately there also seem to be some pretty bloody depressing ones as well.

Anyhow, the talky hippies and the clod of a sound guy clearly put Neil in a mood, which meant his set was confrontational and fucking brilliant.  I am starting to realise that the best way to make Meursault really famous might be to send them on a Hostile Venue Tour of the UK – fuck we’d get some good shows, although we might have to keep the engine running in the Toad Van out the back.

Oh, and yesterday was FOUND vs Cybraphon, which was ace.  Most of it was a presentation about the genesis of the moody musical wardrobe, followed by it accompanying the band on about four songs.  It was a great talk actually, as witty and whimsical as the project itself.  And being in an actual art gallery made me feel like a more worthwhile person for a little.  Support the arts and all that, jolly important stuff.

Tonight, Shenandoah Davis is playing at Carter’s Bar on Morrisson Street, and I will be going along to sample her live set in advance of recording a Toad Session tomorrow.  And on the subject of Toad Sessions, the FOUND one goes up this weekend too, which is why I was up until 5.45 this morning working on it.  Which is why I may be just a little more grouchy than is entirely reasonable this morning.

Then it’s Trampoline on Saturday night, after the Toad Session.  Then Retreat the following day.  Then Broken Records, Frightened Rabbit, Meursault and so on at the Queen’s Hall next week, and Playing With the Past.  And… oh never mind, my body has just given up on me.  By the time the Festival ends I may have to sleep through September just to get over it.  My Latest Novel have been added to the Broken Records bill on Monday, incidentally, which is good news as I haven’t seen them live for quite a while.

Apparently there are things on at the Festival which are Not Music.  At this rate it looks highly unlikely that I am going to be found at any of them.

De-lurk.  Oh stop it, just fucking de-lurk, alright?  I’m too tired to ask nicely, but I’ll secretly be happy if you do, even if I don’t realise it until I’ve had a good sleep.

Fucking hippies, honestly.  SHUT UP – no-one came to listen to your tedious excuse for a conversation.

1. Last proper art thing you went to.
2. Favourite grown up art form.
3. Most under-rated form of art which still isn’t treated as being as bloody clever as it is.
4. Most boorish arty attitude you have.
5. Most intellectual and highbrow arty attitude you have (pseudo or otherwise – we’re all pseuds to one extent or another).

Art Brut – Modern Art Just listen to the lyrics – this song is a work of genius.

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Shenandoah Davis – These Rocks

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The Pogues – Lorca’s Novena

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Enfant Bastard – Landscape Painting is Easy

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Sleepy Jackson – Acid in My Heart

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Everyone who reads this blog knows that I am usually pretty shallow when it comes to my reactions to music – I make snap judgements, I am borderline fetishistic about certain production styles, I find it almost impossible not to completely dismiss anyone too dapper, too attractive or too immaculately groomed, and once bands get too famous or ubiquitous I find it hard not to completely unreasonably lose interest.

Well, here’s another one to add to the hall of shame: I only gave this album as much chance as I did because someone told me that Julian Plenti happened to be that chap out of Interpol (Paul Banks, as his mother knows him).  Until that point this was another release where I had half-listened to an mp3 which hadn’t grabbed me in the first twenty or thirty seconds, after which my attention span had drifted and I had lost interest.  Sadly, this kind of thing happens to me a lot these days – it’s almost inevitable due to the lack of time I have to try and digest all the music I get sent.  I don’t like it, but I don’t think it can be avoided.

Plenti’s press release is worded in a way which I admire, however.  In fact, his Interpol past isn’t mentioned at all, so they have clearly decided that they want this music to stand or fall on its own merits, as an independent piece of work.  Given the instant audience they could rope in by flogging the Interpol angle, I have a lot of respect for their decision not to.  I have to confess, though, that once I had discovered that fact I listened with renewed interest.
Again, it may be superficial, but I thought two things as I finally took time to sit and listen to the whole album: firstly, that I had better give this a proper listen this time, as I knew I had been too hasty the first time; and secondly, that I was genuinely curious to see what that guy from Interpol had in him other than Interpol.

And the answer, it seems, is rather a lot.  This album came together, according to the press release, on Plenti’s embracing of modern music software.  Software which allows you to sound like a band, to build a big, layered sound, without actually having to have a band.  Closer to home, think of the Meursault album: a deep, big, textured sound gradually built up on a laptop from recordings made in someone’s living room.

In a sense, I suppose, it can be a double-edged sword.  Yes, it allows you to build a sound at your own pace which is exactly what you want, but at the same time it can cut you off from the creative stimulus of sparking ideas off other people.  In this case, maybe because I had grown a little bored of the ‘Interpol sound’ – particularly from their last album, where that sound was about all that was left of a once-great band – it is the the least Interpolly songs which I like the best.  Skyscraper is great, Madrid Song is lovely, No Chance Survival and Fun That We Have as well, and they all have an experimental, textured shimmer to them which I really do like.

Conversely, it’s when Plenti goes uptempo that thoughts of ‘ah that chap from Interpol’ can raise their head, and the album loses a bit of its sparkle.  Games For Days doesn’t cut it at all, for me personally, sounding just like what made the last Interpol album so lifeless.  It’s not all that common though – as Unwind demonstrates, with a downright jaunty trumpet riff bringing something altogether unexpected to the table.

So, I’ve mentioned bloody Interpol in virtually every paragraph in this review, and I accept the fact that Plenti and his band will probably hate me for it.  And I have to say that they are right because it is only when this record sounds anything like Interpol that I don’t like it.  Ninety-five percent of it is really good, genuinely new, and a real treat.  It didn’t grab me immediately, but with every listen I am enjoying this more and more.

Julian Plenti – Skyscraper

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Julian Plenti – Unwind

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Website | More mp3s | Buy from Amazon

This stuff is lovely: ghostly Americana with broken, desolate vocals full of heartbreak rather than rage, and the most bare-boned of backing.  Yes, I know, I cover a lot of this stuff.  In fact you may have heard fragments of this music before, as there is a connection with Dame Satan, whose album I reviewed very positively a couple of months ago.  Basically, this is the work of Andrew Simmons of that band – it’s a project, not a band, as his MySpace page informs us.

I’d be pleasantly surprised if anyone reading this remember Lincoln, apart from Tim from The Daily Growl, but that is the immediate comparison which springs to mind.  They were a London-based band who recorded two great EPs, Barcelona and Kibokin, and a great album, Crooked Smile, before disbanding roughly four years ago or so.  The sounds were quite similar: with relaxed splashes of organ, a casual drum beat and lazily played guitars creating the atmosphere, augmented with care by banjo, some deep strings and the odd bit of what sounds like a melodica.

The distinctive character, however, comes from the tentative, slightly reedy male vocal and the gorgeous female support which decorates it.  There is a sincere yearning to the vocal sound which makes this EP sound just a little desperate at times, with the warmth of the female more mocking and tantalising than comfortable.  It is the voice of the slightly malevolent fairy you think you glimpse in the reeds as you slowly drown, who may be the one to save you, or a jilted spirit who has lured you to your death out of vengeance – you’re never quite sure.

In some senses I’d say that this record needs a little patience.  It starts quite slowly, with the excellent Memphis clocking in at a stiflingly unhurried seven minutes.  The pace picks up later, but it this does give things a slowish start, and many of the songs themselves follow this lead.  It grips you, this EP, though, just in a paralysed and uneasy way rather than a manically excited one.  It makes me slightly uncomfortable, but I really like it.

Tabernacle – Memphis

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Tabernacle – Lady Bird

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MySpace | More mp3s | Buy from Ghost Mansion Records

Lincoln – Great Wall of China Just because they were really good.

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Well the Trampoline show for this Friday, with Ziggy Campbell and Yusuf Azak has been cancelled, which is a bit of a tragedy for my music fun, but at least spares me some of the Olympic amounts of typing this post is going to require all through bloody August.  Fucking hell, it’s like a mini novel.  Fortunately I don’t think much was actually on yesterday, when the sort of hangover generated only by consuming an entire bottle of gin prevented me from doing anything productive at all.

So this post is being written now and dated two days ago so, erm, well fuck it, shoot me, there’s always the list of course.  But my listings are way better – everyone knows that.  Aren’t they.

Yes is the answer to that, in case anyone was taking too much time to think about it.

Tuesday 11th August 2009: Jesus H. Foxx & Art Fag at Electric Circus.

I was about to say that two Toad bands on the same bill means I am guaranteed to enjoy this, but strictly speaking electro-experimental loonies Art Fag are Scotland’s hottest new unsigned act and I will have to fight every label in the land with sticks for their signature.  Or, um, something like that.  And Jesus H. Foxx were superb at the Forest Cafe last week, so this should be a cracking show.
Jesus H. Foxx – Elegy For the Good Times

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Wednesday 12th August 2009: White Heath EP Launch at the Forest Cafe with Meursault, Foxgang and Debutant.

I am really looking forward to hearing this, and genuinely curious.  For all I’ve seen White Heath a few times recently I haven’t heard any of their recordings recently, and I am very much looking forward to hearing what Alex from Fentek has made of their sound, which can be chaotic to say the least when I’ve seen them live.  Quite how he mixes the trombone and fiddle in with the electric guitar and drums is something I’d like to hear.

Thursday 13th August 2009: Battle of the Bands – Cybraphon vs FOUND at the InSpace Gallery.

This is sold out, but apparently any returns will be available on Thursday.  You can’t have them though, because I need them.  Let’s be honest, I’m not going to miss a chance to watch one of my favourite Edinburgh bands face off against a moody musical wardrobe am I.

Friday 14th August 2009: This is Music at Sneaky Pete’s with The Foundling Wheel & Dead Boy Robotics.

Dead Boy Robotics had a very successful set at T in the Park this year (see video at the bottom of this post) and apparently their new stuff is something of a shift from earlier material, which makes me really rather curious to hear what they’re up to these days.
The Foundling Wheel – Out to See

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Saturday 15th August 2009: Woodenbox with a Fistful of Fivers, Lovers Turn to Monsters & Shenandoah DavisTrampoline at the Wee Red Bar.

Woodenbox are a cracking live band, I don’t really know Lovers Turn to Monsters, and Shenandoah Davis is bloody lovely.  We’re recording a Toad Session with her this weekend as well.  Splendid.
Shennandoah Davis – We, Camera

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Sunday 16th August 2009: Retreat Festival from 11.30am in the Bristo Hall, upstairs from the Forest Cafe.

The collection of bands playing here is in some senses irrelevant.  Even if you’ve never heard of a single one of the groups playing, you can be absolutely guaranteed that this is going to be an amazing day.  Those of you who like your rock music with a little bit more in the way of coke and whores may not be quite as thrilled as others by the Bristo Hall’s family and cuppa-friendly atmosphere, but I am hugely looking forward to it.  And the lineup is fucking amazing, as it happens:  Withered Hand, Jo Foster, Wounded Knee, Hexicon, Rob St John, Viking Moses, Tisso Lake, Moustache of Insanity, Allo, Darlin’, My Tiny Robots, Come In Tokyo, Enfant Bastard, The Pineapple Chunks, Meursault, The Leg.

I can easily imagine someone reacting very negatively to George Pringle. The pleasure of another middle-class white girl archly proclaiming the unbearable pain of her trivial problems to the world in an over-stylised and self-consciously literate manner is one I can easily imagine not all people sharing. Look at her stuff through the worst lens and it is really a bit self-indulgent. Then again, look at anything we do, not least this blog, through that lens and you’d probably get much the same thing.

I do not see her work that way at all, however. In fact, I bloody love it – I think she’s brilliant. Sure, it’s highly stylised, but it’s humourous and entertaining, affecting most of the time, and an absolute pleasure to listen to. She calls herself a diseuse, which means in practise that she makes laptop sounds and talks over the top of them. Bluntly put, that’s almost all there is to it. Samples, loops, skittering beats, and on top of it all, constantly, her plaintive voice talking away to you – sometimes keen, sometimes wan, but somehow always rather fascinating.

A lot of her work, in some vague sense, reminds me of the slower moments of Tiger Bay-era Saint Etienne. I saw her perform at Cabaret Voltaire a year or more ago and she basically just played her iPod and talked, all the while looking like the slightest heckle or snigger and she might burst into tears. It was oddly compelling. In fact that might be how I’d describe her music in general: oddly compelling. She does employ some singing, and has a lovely voice when she does, but for the most part her songs are simply spoken word. The lyrics are something of a stream of consciousness, for the most part. Although she does occasionally employ poetic techniques, particularly in terms of generating rhythm through image and alliteration and the odd deliberately turned phrase, generally it sounds naturally conversational in terms of actual structure.

Her delivery is often quite deadpan, with hints of quiet desperation and the odd burst into slightly over-wrought emotion and yet for all it’s a very carefully assembled style, it does somehow manage to sound sincere, funnily enough. Actually, this may be why I like it: it’s arch, but it’s not distant. She has a self-released album on the verge of hitting the digital shelves (September 7th) and I am really interested to hear what it sounds like. I can’t imagine how she’d sustain anything that long without risking a certain uniformity of sound, but if it’s as good as it might be then it could be really rather brilliant.

George Pringle – Carte Postale

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George Pringle – Kill Her if You Can, Loverboy

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I should start by apologising to Matthew and to you, dear reader, for how late this Sunday Supplement has been delivered. It’s been a mental busy day, so busy in fact that I’ve had to abandon my plan to be at Toad Hall this evening for the inaugural home gig. Unfortunately Animal Magic Tricks had to cancel, but some eleventh-hour negotiations last night, combined with heroic dedication from The Japanese War Effort and Jonnie Common of Inspector Tapehead, both volunteering to step into the breach, has meant the show can go on. I’m gutted I can’t be there, but I’m sure Matthew will have a lot to say about the evening in due course. Watch this space, as they say.

Like Clockwork

Part of the reason the day has got away from me is, inevitably enough, the fact I was up until daft o’clock last night and then slept in this morning. Saturday had been a long day which led into an even longer night.

Moody, unpredictable and obsessed with its online popularity, and the other one's an antique cupboard! (Ba-dam! Tssh..)

I’d planned to pop up into town to take some photos of Cybraphon during the day, and Matthew, Neil (Meursault) and Fee (Mrs. Neil (Meursault)) all joined me. Matthew offered to drive and, as the Toad Van tortuously inched its way through the devil’s own Scalextric set that used to be Leith Walk before the tramworks arrived, people were actually singing the A-Team theme at us from the pavements.

There’s little that can I can write about Cybraphon that hasn’t already been said in the national papers or on CNN, but it was wonderful to finally meet the ingenious machine and to watch the hypnotic movements of its components as it came to life.

Keeping The Faith

Later, I went to photograph Mumford & Sons at Cabaret Voltaire while the others headed for the second night of Trampoline’s brilliant festival line-up.

There have been some hesitant notes of concern raised about The Mumfords on these very pages since His Royal Toadiness and I were first treated to their gobsmacking live show in Glasgow last year. While the general concensus is that the recorded output to date has been great, greying clouds of doubt have appeared on the horizon regarding whether they could keep up that sort of momentum, or indeed generate the variation in sound and texture needed to produce a really good album.

Were they a one-trick-pony or some sort of flash-in-the-pan novelty act?

Well fortunately, after their performance last night, I’m pleased to report that I’m reassured and that I’m a believer again. A fully-fledged, card carrying, fundamentalist Mumfordian. There’s new material to match anything we’ve heard so far in terms of quality, but importantly there’s variation to the sound. They haven’t stopped sounding like Mumford & Sons. They never could with those vocals. However, they’ve introduced new senses of tone, direction and nuance which bode well for the forthcoming album.

So you can happily ditch that “one-trick-pony” tag if you were tempted to start using it. I learned a lot about the band last night. I didn’t know, for example that double-bassist Ted could play the drums, or that banjo-toting ‘Country’ Winston could play bass. Or, indeed, that Marcus Mumford owned an electric guitar.

That’s right. Electric.

The Mumfords preach to the converted

Hang on. Bass, drums, electric guitar? That sounds like a regular rock-band line up, not a nice dependable waistcoat-wearing, barefoot, beardy alt. folk troupe. However, there were no cries of ‘Judas’ from the Cab Vol crowd, just rapt attention, an eagerness to embrace the new ideas, and that unmistakeable sense of communion that a band with a genuine following tends to create in a small, dark, sweaty venue.

Things are looking promising for Mumford & Sons. I’m sure they have something special in store for us when that album comes out.

My own personal credit crunch

I’ve tried to give myself a strict budget for August, in order to make sure I make it through to the end of the month without spending more than my pocket money will allow. However, unless I can get through the rest of the week on just eight quid, I’ve blown it already. This month is clearly going to be one big, daft, expensive horror story.

I can’t wait.

Cybraphon – The Balkan Bazaar

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Mumford & Sons – Little Lion Man

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Bedouin Soundclash – Money Worries

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Helloooo people.  This morning the Toadcast comes to you from Leith.  There were beers and there was a fuckload of incoherent rambling, and it ran way over time but, erm, who really cares?

This week I went to visit my crippled friend Steven (v? ph?) Kearney in Leith and we recorded a podcast in his house prattling on about all the usual nonsense.  He got all jumpy about sound quality, omitting to notice the fact that the Toadcasts are the most incredibly badly recorded show on the interwaves.  Honestly, why would this week be the one single week it suddenly didn’t sound like shit?

Still, Steven has recently started his own podcast, leading on from his Fresh Air show Dylan and the Mule.  It’s only one episode down, but it sounds very promising indeed, so with a bit of luck there could be very good things coming from that part of the world this year.  Me, I just desperately need a sleep.  Night night Toadlings.

I will probably be gawping at the wonderful Cybraphon by the time you read this.  With a hangover.

Toadcast #81 – The Mulecast

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01. Withered Hand – No Cigarettes (06.56)
02. Buster Fantastic – Mess of Me (17.57)
03. Mountain Goats – Genesis 3-23 (19.47)
04. Kill It Kid – Send Me an Angel Down (29.07)
05. Joe Cocker – Dear Landlord (33.51)
06. Loch Lomond – Blood Bank (44.52)
07. Micah P. Hinson – Don’t You Forget (Parts 1 & 2) (59.24)
08. The Palace Flophouse – Until My Lungs Hurt (64.52)
09. Tom Waits – A Little Rain (78.17)

Yes, I know it’s early for you, but it’s late for me and a massive greasy great kebab is calling to me like the siren song of a thousand virgins who just might be persuadable that hours spent in one’s bedroom listening to sincere young men complain about how unfulfilling their tediously middle class life is constitutes some sort of social protest.

I remember living in Cambridge and having a kebab at the sterling Gardenia.  Crikey that was good stuff.  In Manchester Abduls was always the place, although admittedly that was something like fifteen years ago, and things have probably changed since then.  In general though, this Friday Five is going to be more cheese related than kebab related.  Although I am admittedly a massive music snob, there were times before the global internetosphere made all my fashion choices for me, and so I thought it might be time to celebrate those times.  Were you a stupid sappy cunt once?  Yes, me too.

Since pretty much everyone reading this was a bit of a pillock at some point in their past I think that the idea of commenting for the first time should probably pale into insignificance.  Generally speaking this site can be more than a little cliquey, but on Fridays absolutely everyone, from Kim Jong Il to Kim Basinger is encouraged to chip in have their say.  What, after all, is the point of a website if people don’t come along and tell me what a tit I am on the comments page.

So to encourage you, I have come up with the silliest moments in my life, set them to music, and asked you to do the same.  Enjoy, Toadlings.

1. Cheesiest song you’ve ever bawled your eyes out to because of some lost lover.
2. You’re at a disco, the songs are shit, the crowd is shit, and suddenly some contemptibly populist nonsense comes on the stereo and you find yourself boogying away like a muppet anyway.  What’s the song?
3. Yes it’s shit, but which song gets you fist-pumping like Song 2 by Blur?
4. I’m alone, I’m miserable, but I’M GONNA BE OKAY dammit!
5. Let’s get pished!

Bruce Hornsby & the Range – The Road not Taken (I was a very sensitive child.  Stop laughing – very sensitive.)

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Erasure – Sometimes (I know, I know, I know, but it’s just so… catchy, I guess.  Oh, the shame.)

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Bon Jovi – You Give Love a Bad Name

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Willard Grant Conspiracy – Fare Thee Well

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The Walkmen – The Rat

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It’s been a while since we had an update on exactly what on Earth is going on at Song, by Toad Records, so I thought I might let you all know what our plans are for the rest of the year.  Partly for shits and giggles, partly because I am really excited, and partly as a desperate marketing ploy to wear you down by constant repetition into accepting that everything we ever release will be the best thing you have ever heard in the world.

It will be, you know.

So, in chronological order, here’s an brief outline of our release schedule for the rest of the year, although some of it is still a little undefined and a couple of things are still being negotiated.  We’ll be popping a label sampler in the Avalanche album club soon, so anyone subscribed to that will get a nice CD taster of what we’re planning to get up to between now and Christmas.  For the rest of you, that taste will come in digital form, below:

Jesus H. Foxx – Matter

We are planning a release party for their Matter EP on the re-opening of the Bowery in mid-September, but I told you all about this quite recently, so that’s all I’ll put in here.
Jesus H. Foxx – Trying to Be Good.mp3

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Loch Lomond & The Builders and the Butchers – Split 12″

This is being released in partnership with Matt from Bladen County Records.  We love both these bands anyway, and they were the most amazingly lovely people to hang out with when we were in Portland last year, and even offered to allow us to release this over here.  The muppets never sent me the artwork though, so I’ve used one of my own drawings, which I also really like.  And it’s our first vinyl release, which is just fucking exciting in itself.  The vinyl itself is just being made now, so it will be out in a month or so.
Loch Lomond – Elephants & Little Girls

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Maxwell Panther – Do You Feel Different Yet?

Maxwell’s recordings are rough as hell, but his songwriting is bloody great.  I genuinely don’t know what people are going to make of this, but I love it, so I decided not to second-guess myself too much.  I like it, so it’s being released.
Maxwell Panther – Tip of the Tongue (The Quiet One)

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Meursault 7″ singles.

We’re releasing two double a-side singles on white vinyl in the Autumn, with William Henry Miller Parts 1 and 2 paired with The Furnace and The Dirt & the Roots respectively.  The band are just putting the finishing touches to the new versions of the Williams Henry Miller, and we’re looking at release dates in October for these.  Meursault vinyl.  Fucking yes!

The Savings and Loan

The Savings and Loan are my friend Martin Donnelly and former De Rosa pianist Andrew Bush, and they self-released an EP of gloomy Scottish Winter music last year.  Currently they’re fleshing it out into a full album, and have specifically decided to release it in mid-November as that’s the season they think it suits the best.  And I think they’re right.
The Savings and Loan – The Virgin’s Lullaby

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Inspector Tapehead – Duress Code

The band are still working on this, but Jonnie has news to deliver when he plays his Trampoline gig on Saturday – which is where I first heard Inspector Tapehead, funnily enough, and Meursault come to think of it.  They don’t exactly work at pace, these lads, but I love the results so I don’t really care how it all comes to pass.  I can’t tell you much about artwork or release dates or anything like that, but I reckon this should be out by the end of the year too, hopefully.
Inspector Tapehead – I am Your Pedigree (There are supposed to be naughty words in this song.  Where have they gone, boys, eh?)

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Trips & Falls – He Was Such a Quiet Boy

This is far from certain just yet, and I don’t want to jinx anything, but I am talking to Jacob and the band about a UK release for what is pretty much my favourite album of 2009 so far, give or take a best guess here and there.  We’ll see what they say, but I would be fucking chuffed if they wanted to release this on Song, by Toad because I think it’s weird and brilliant.
Trips & Falls – How Do You Do

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Enfant Bastard

Cammy is erratic, I suppose, and I don’t love everything he does, but I do love a fuck of a lot of it.  In general though I reckon the moments of clarity far outweigh the times it doesn’t quite come together, and anyone who’s prepared to let the times when they don’t quite get it pass them by and wait a little for it to click is going to be rewarded. As with Trips & Falls, this is hardly a done deal, but I’ve told Cammy I’d love to release the next album he wants to really put out there, so I just have to wait and hope he takes me up on it.
Enfant Bastard – Landscape Painting is Easy

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I am going to be a busy, busy boy, it appears.