Song, by Toad

Well thirty-four seems little different to thirty-three, apart from the fact that it seems to involve a severe headache and an aversion to bright lights.  What I need is a lunch and the King’s Wark and a couple of pints and I’ll be right as rain.  Hopefully.

You’ll be blindly indifferent to know that after my back injury (yes, months ago) I am now finally feeling brave enough to go back to playing some gentle 5-a-side football again.  It’s weird with backs – I’ve done some running, and it feels fine, but because I’m not all that confident it’s all still a bit stiff because it’s tough to actually let all the muscles in the base of your spine relax when you’re still a bit nervous that your spine might turn to jelly if you do.

Anyway, we’ll see.  I won’t be pushing it that hard, that’s for sure, but it’s about time I got my lardy arse moving again and at least attempted to wheeze my way through an hour of physical punishment.  Let’s face it, after thirty an hour’s worth of de-fitnetising takes weeks to claw back, so best not let it all get too out of control before I try and get back out there again.

So if I can brave the Scottish Winter in a pair of shorts, you can brave making your first comment.  Why the fuck not, it’s Friday anyway, and everyone else will be talking total nonsense anyway, so why not take advantage of the de-lurking amnesty and get stuck in with a comment.  It doesn’t have to be witty – mine won’t be – so there’s no pressure.

1. Which age was your favourite so far.
2. Which age did you fear most as a kid?
3. How old are you compared to how old your folks were when they had you?
4. What do you fear most about ageing?
5. And what are you looking forward to the most?

David Byrne – Glass, Concrete & Stone

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Randy Newman – Political Science

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Howe Gelb – B4U (Do Do Do)

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Shiva Burlesque – Do the Pony

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The Jesus & Mary Chain – Just Like Honey

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Yes, that’s right, it’s Blue Peter weekend at Toad Hall this weekend.  Not in the kiddie fiddling, coke snorting, hard drinking sort of way (well, not all of them anyway) but in the stickyback plastic, here’s one I prepared earlier sort of manner.

What crafts, you ask?  Well the Meursault singles are being recorded in the living room for starters.  But while all that’s happening, the rest of us will be in the dining room with felt tips and hot glue guns doing the following things: painting and folding the Jesus H. Foxx EPs, which arrive today; painting, shading and titling the next run of Nothing Broke, which sold out last week; adding a little colour to the Builders & the Butchers/Loch Lomond Split 12″ vinyl covers; and finally, folding the inlays for ninety Song, by Toad Records Samplers for the Avalanche Album Club.  They are going to look brilliant, so it’s a shame we’ll be giving them all away.  I’d like to sell them on the site, but divvying up the money between twelve bands would be a pretty considerable pain in the arse, so I don’t think I’ll bother.

So, I am still up do my puckered anus in Proper Job, but there is a fine meal down at the Shore waiting for me this evening, with the light of my misspent and wayward life, the beautiful Mrs. Toad.  I am very much looking forward to that.

This weekend’s podcast and Sunday Supplement will be coming from Ruth, who runs the Bowery with her friend Jane.  After being turned into a Magner’s trough during the Festival, The Bowery is reopening on Monday 7th, so this is rather good timing.  I for one will be grateful to have it back, not least because the Jesus H. Foxx EP launch is being held there on Saturday 12th September, assuming the paint has dried on all the covers by then!

1. Last really Blue Petery handcraft thingy you did.
2. Did you make your own Christmas cards when you were a kid too?
3. Favourite kids TV programme which encouraged you to do things other than TV (and no, teenage pregnancy and experimenting with hard drugs do not count, so Grange Hill is forbidden – let’s maintain some innocence here please, people).
4. Most surreal kids’ TV programme you watched.
5. At what stage in the computer revolution did your childhood generally occur?

Jay Farrar – Cahokian

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Howe Gelb – Felonious

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Jim White – Christmas Day

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Kelly Joe Phelps – Taylor John

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Bonnie Prince Billy – Wolf Among Wolves

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Maybe it’s because the weekend seems to be within reach, so the idea of slightly overdoing it on Thursday doesn’t seem so bad. Maybe it’s because you don’t get the chance to sleep it off like you do on Saturday or Sunday. Or maybe it’s because feeling a bit shit seems so much worse when you have a deadline and a hell of a lot to accomplish in order to meet it. That, in fact, is probably it.

Mrs. Toad made cheesecake yesterday. Considering that she is the World’s Least Domesticated Woman (TM) this is something of a turn up for the books. Mind, it was for something work related (although I got one out of it myself – mwah hah haaa!) so this morning she was swearing at it and wondering aloud why the fuck she’d bothered when she could have just bought something. It was, after all, just for work.

I love cooking, actually, but I never bake. Mrs. Toad does, but only once in a blue moon. She baked brownies when we did the Meursault Toad Session, and they were fucking lovely, so maybe I have her to thank for getting them signed to Song, by Toad Records. But for such a pair of foodies, we don’t really bake – or do deserts at all, for some reason.

I mean, I do have a sweet tooth. I munch my way through all sorts of biscuits at work – which they provide for us in pretty much limitless quantites for free. At first this seems like a good idea, until you realise that in the fight between self-control and biscuits, the biscuits always win. And I drink enough beer, I don’t need another arch-enemy in the fight against impending obesity.

But yes, deserts are not really my thing. We tend to have cheese if we have anything after a meal. I would have sorbet, but a sorbet is supposed to be icy, not creamy, and served in a portion no larger than that which would fit inside an egg-cup, and so many places treat it like a serving of ice-cream these days I am becoming somewhat disillusioned with the stuff.

So if you can bear that sort of banal, tedious whine of distress, please take the opportunity to de-lurk this Friday and chip in with your Friday Five. The hardcore group of commenters on this site shifts over time, but it would always be nice to meet some new people. Almost a thousand people read this site every day – who are you all? Are you nice? Hopefully not especially.

I like the sound of Lovvers tonight, at Sneaky Pete’s. That, after recording the Funkcast for tomorrow. Yes, you heard me, the Funkcast. Don’t miss it!

1. Favourite kind of cake.
2. What was the last thing you baked, if anything.
3. After a meal – cheese, sorbet, or ‘desert’?
4. What don’t restaurants do like they oughta anymore?
5. Last really domesticated thing you did.

M.J. Hibbett & the Validators – Do More, Eat Less

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Riff-Raff – Sweet as Pie (Billy Bragg’s band before he was just Billy Bragg)

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Morcheeba – Women Lose Weight

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Howe Gelb – Cake Baked in the Sand

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Hey! Elastica – Eat Your Heart Out (Thanks to JC for this one)

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2001 was a very odd year for me on a personal level.  I spent most of it in a surprisingly long term relationship with a girl with whom I was not in the least bit compatible, and I was made redundant in November in the wake of the World Trade Centre attack and the dotcom crash.  Jolly times.

It wasn’t bad though, funnily enough.  I hated work, sure, but it was my first professional job and I was living in Cambridge which, although it’s not somewhere I’d want to settle down, was extremely pleasant.  Actually, to be fair to the place, it’s not all that unlike Edinburgh in many ways – very genteel.

I also heard the album which led to me rediscovering folk music.  I got into popular music largely via the Pogues, and after moving to the UK in 1993 at age seventeen I got really into both Britpop and a lot of increasingly folky stuff.  That sort of petered out as I drifted more into indie over the years, and by about 1995/6 I was pretty much an out and out indie kid.  When I moved to Cambridge it was on the back of Yo La Tengo’s And Then Nothing Turned Itself Inside Out, Moby’s Play and Doves’ brilliant debut. Read the rest of this entry »

FUCKING COURIER FUCKING COMPANIES! The Meursault album is currently in FUCKING DUMFRIES, whence I have had to despatch a courier to collect the bastard things and drive back here immediately. This means that assuming all goes well, which of course it always does when matters are urgent like this, I might just have them in my sweaty little mitts by half five. Maybe.

Anyway, to soothe my fevered brow, apart from a pint of neat gin with a little tiny squeeze of lime, I probably need some music. Some quiet music too – something calming. Breathe in… …and out… …and drink… …and drink… and breathe in… …and out.

Well, whatever happens, things tonight should be tremendous fun. I’ll be shit-faced by ten, presumably, but all in all I think it should be a brilliant night. So to warm up for the evening we shall have our now-traditional Five Friday Favourites, as pinched from GUT. De-lurk and take part, people, nothing you say has to be clever or witty or anything, just slap down your answers and watch us bicker amongst ourselves. And the offer is always there to write next Friday’s five if you want to – just bung me an email with your choices and I’ll use them.

1. Favourite Christmas Tradition.
2. Worst Christmas present some distant relative insists on giving you every fucking Christmas.
3. If it’s not turkey, then what?
4. Work’s Christmas night out: the best bit.
5. Work’s Christmas night out: the worst bit.

Ella Fitzgerald – I Get a Kick Out of You (Cinematic Orchestra Remix)
Howe Gelb – Nail in the Sky
(The Real) Tuesday Weld – Nightingales
Morning Bride – Isabelline
Ndidi Onukwulu – Goodnight JF

I will go so far as to say that I don’t actually like this very much.  Don’t get me wrong, Howe Gelb is one of the most remarkable and gifted musicians of his generation as far as I am concerned, but then, you can’t always like it all.

Basically, the part about Gelb with which I am the most smitten is his amazing ability to let his songs amble along as if they have lost all sense of where they were going.  His tracks stop and start, fade in and out, lurch, stumble and generally carry on as if there are times he has forgotten that he was even playing a song to begin with.  ‘Hm?  What? Oh, right the guitar.  Um, yes, what was I doi.. oh yes, that song!’

It shows real confidence in both his music and his audience if you ask me, not that he shouldn’t have that confidence after so many years at the pinnacle of his art form.  Sno Angel Like You was a break though, incorporating gospel choirs into freshly polished pop songs to wondrous effect.  I thought it was brilliant, and still very much Gelb.  There followed an abrasive, spiky Giant Sand record, All Over the Map, and since then there have been a couple of slightly loose home recordings.

This is Howe’s first serious, shiny release in a few years, and I am just not as smitten as usual. The songs are still the polished ones that we saw no Sno Angel, but the eccentric edge has gone.  There is barely any noodling, scratching or teasing.  In their place come thirteen slightly squishy alt-country numbers that lack almost all of the idosyncratic genius for which I love their creator.  If you want to start with Giant Sand, I wouldn’t start with this.  If you are a fan, I think you can skip this with confidence and, like me, settle back down again to wait for the next one.

Giant Sand – Increment of Love
Giant Sand – Stranded Pearl

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I know, I know, there are plenty of women who visit this site with absolutely excellent taste in music.  And some of the best music blogs out there are written by women.  But the title of this post is not to criticise all women, it is aimed at a very particular sort whose relationship with music makes me want to set fire to cute little bunny rabbits, and in particular a song that, no matter how incognito they try and remain, always roots the old boots out in any situation.

Specifically, it’s women whose response to ‘that song is fucking dreadful and makes me want to burst my eardrums with knitting needles’ is invariably ‘oh don’t be so boooring’.  Or ‘just relax and have fun’.  Or something equally deserving of punishment by breast cancer.  ‘Having a good cry, sweetheart?  Chemo getting you down?  Fuck’s sake cheer up – don’t be so boooring.’  Just relaxing and having fun is not an option when this shitty Radio 1 Party Mix is playing.  No amount of relaxation, even to the point of a coma, is going to be sufficient to not fucking detest Dancing in the Moonlight by that curly-headed cunt and his baldy-dwarf-shagging cohorts.

Why so bitter about this in particular?  Well there is a very specific reason.  Firstly, the ‘don’t be so boooring’ defense has irked me since school.  People always used to respond with this stinker when you didn’t want to dance, and they had things completely fucking backwards.  Having a pleasant conversation with one’s friends is not boring.  What is boring is spastically hopping about to some fucking woeful Glenn Medeiros number in a desperate attempt to assert your social conformity.  How the fuck is choosing not to do something I don’t particularly enjoy boring, you silly tart?  And why is it always, always the most unimaginative, lifeless, one-dimensional, ultra-conventional dullards who use this particular gambit?  Sometimes I like to dance, sometimes I don’t.  Go.  The Fuck.  Away.

But more specifically this is about that one song: Dancing in the cunting Moonlight.  Unspeakably awful it is in the first place, but the sort of vapid, bovine old slappers who embraced the bloody thing back in about 2001 or whenever it was made it even worse.  You’d be in a bar and that teeth-grindingly awful intro would play: doodn-do-DO-DO-DOO! and whilst you tried to find a door in which to slam your penis in hope that the pain might distract you from the song, invariably the most depressing, largely unattractive, not as young as they pretend they still are, slightly overweight old heifers in the place would give an incoherent little shriek of delight and start, in the unusually large herds in which they tended to move, doing that little epileptic black woman’s Jerry Springer head movement, whilst stepping back and forth in the exaggerated style that is meant to say to everyone ‘Yeah, I can move.. yeah, I’m out with my friends… yeah, I’ve actually got friends, despite what you may think… yeah, in my herd I can gain some tiny measure of fucking self-esteem back from my completely unstimulating existence and comfort myself with the fact that however much I disappoint myself my friends are all equally mediocre and in this dismal company I don’t feel quite as inadequate as I do when I compare myself with the rest of the world.  Yeah!’

‘Oh can’t you just relaaax and enjoy yourself.  Don’t be so boooring.’
‘Do not tell me to FUCKING RELAX!  No amount of fucking relaxation can make this festering, white-boy  cod-soul by one of the most punchable cockmonkeys on the fucking planet anything less than three minutes of brain-melting, utterly inhumane mental fucking anguish.  Boring?  BORING?  If your capacity to appreciate art is so FUCKING STILLBORN that you are capable of anything other than pathological loathing for this steaming, god-punishing excrement then it is very much not myself who needs to fucking well consider whether or not they might be a little boring.’

The depth of the bile represents the hatred of the song, I hope, rather than any particular misanthropy on my part.  *Cough cough*

Anyway, can you imagine my horror when, at my housewarming party in Cambridge, I heard that unspeakable doodn-do-DO-DO-DOO! emanating from my fucking stereo and all the spastics started to twitch so immediately that I couldn’t even turn it off, although I did consider jamming one of their kids’ fingers in an electrical socket – power failure or poignant punishment: a win-win situation really.  Not only that but one of these tired old mares even had the temerity to say, on hearing this aural abomination in a pub six months later: “I’ll always associate this song with your lovely housewarming party”.  Is there a statement in the world more likely to drive me to suicide?  Or spontaneous combustion?  I doubt it.  That fucking song.  My House.  Please god, no!

I hate that fucking song.  Can you tell?

The music I do associate with that house would be far more along these sorts of lines:

Howe Gelb – Pontiac Slipsteam
The Pernice Brothers – Our Time Has Passed So Quickly
Badly Drawn Boy – Stone on the Water I don’t care how shit the rest of it’s been, this is still a good album.
Doves – Here it Comes
Grandaddy – Miner at the Dial-A-View
Lambchop – Nashville Parent

It’s a bit late to be pointing out great gigs taking place tonight, so I hope you’ll excuse my tardiness today. Such tedious annoyances as real life and having a proper job have rather irritatingly inserted themselves squarely in the path of the blogging juggernaut that is Song, by Toad and brought production to a grinding halt for the last couple of days.

So, erm, this week then. Well I am on gig-verbot for the next little while because I have been paying scandalously inadequate amounts of attention to my midget companion, and that won’t do at all. For either of us. So once this week is over there will be lots of nice things done with Mrs. Toad to try and make up for my negligence. No-one wants to be the sort of husband who fails to pay attention to that which is most important to him, no matter how much one might get caught up in exciting projects. In other words, no-one wants to turn into a prick, now do they. Although I my case the ‘turning into’ part might be questionable.

Tuesday 13th May: Isosceles, Sportsday Megaphone & Envelope at the Ark.
The Ark might be the worst venue in Edinburgh, but Isosceles are clearly worth seeing. Jumpy synth-pop with plenty of tunes and a really good spread between vocals, synth, and bass as to which provides the best bits. A actual group in every sense of the word. I don’t know anything at all about the other two, although Sportsday Megaphone sound quite promising from their MySpace page.
Isosceles – Watertight
Sportsday Megaphone – Bikini Atoll

Wednesday 14th May: Inspector Tapehead, Molly Wagger & Flying With Penguins at the Wee Red Bar.
I know little enough about all of these bands, but Inspector Tapehead include Jonnie Common from the superb Down the Tiny Steps in their number, so that is pretty much all the information I need to go along. That and the fact that this is a Trampoline gig of course, and I have yet to see a Trampoline lineup that was any less than fucking superb.
Inspector Tapehead – A Fillet of Bozo

Thursday 15th May – Willard Grant Conspiracy & the Pilgrim Orchestra (incl. Howe Gelb) at the Queens Hall.
This gig gets me all shaky with excitement. The Willards have produced three or four of my favourite albums of all time, and Howe Gelb is hardly a slouch either. Two of Americana’s most prolific collaborators coming to town, and I’d steal a ticket off a defenceless old granny if I had to. WGC’s new album The Pilgrim Road is out now too, even more reason for giddy excitement.
Willard Grant Conspiracy – Evening Mass (Live)

Thursday 15th May: Eagleowl & Emily Scott at the Collective Gallery.
You know how highly I think of Eagleowl, and Emily Scott is someone who I have mentioned scandalously little on these pages of late. She recently finished runner-up in King Tut’s monthly Your Sound Artist of the Month, and has a lovely, delicate folk album to her name, to be bought from her MySpace page. Definitely one to check out.
Emily Scott – Humming Song

Sunday 18th May: The Mae Shi at Cabaret Voltaire.
I learnt about the latest signings to Moshi Moshi, the label which can do no wrong at the moment, from Tim at the excellent Daily Growl. They are meteroically up and coming indie synth-popsters with bags of energy and exuberance. I am really looking forward to seeing them in the flesh and finding out if the hype matches the goods.
The Mae Shi – Lamb & Lion

My what a splendid festival. You’ve read what I had to say about the thing (overview, day one, day two & day three), now here’s the ‘downloadable in one easy to digest chunk’ version, with more tunes.

I had a splendid time at this, I really did. The line-up was spectacularly good and, despite being not much more than a well-executed variant on the standard festival format, I would highly recommend it to those of you sick of the exercise in cattle-herding and aggressively intrusive marketing that the modern festival has become.

Anyhow, I’ve gone through the festival in chronological order, playing songs from artists in the order in which I attended them over the weekend. Hopefully I give you a decent overview of the festival itself as well as a taster of the quality of the lineup, from the indie legends to the connoisseur’s selection of emerging acts that made this such a quality bill. No ranting in this one either, or at least, very little. What a relief for you all.

Toadcast #12 – The End of the Roadcast

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1. Midlake – Young Bride (02.08)
2. Yo La Tengo – By the Time it Gets Dark (07.43)
3. My Brightest Diamond – Dragonfly (14.17)
4. King Creosote – You’ve No Clue Do You (23.19)
5. Monkey Swallows the Universe – Sheffield Shanty (28.29)
6. David Thomas Broughton – Unmarked Grave (34.56)
7. British Sea Power – Remember Me (46.11)
8. Port O’Brien – Five & Dime (51.39)
9. The Young Republic – Excuses to See You (56.14)
10. The Wave Pictures – Long Island (63.28)
11. Johnny Flynn & the Sussex Wit – Tickle Me Pink (70.44)
12. Paris Motel – My Demeter (77.20)
13. Charlie Parr – Worried Blues (80.53)
14. Howe Gelb – Get to Leave (88.34)
15. Lambchop – Up With People (95.35)

On Sunday I awoke feeling rather less groggy than the previous day, presumably owing to the lack of that marvelous late-night tequila/pink champagne combo. To further cement their legendary status, my splendid tent neighbours provided both bacon sarnies and tea when I dragged my freezing arse out of my tent in the morning. I could have married them, and their friend Ian and their silly lavender coloured VW camper all at once for that act of charity. Lovely, lovely people.

I scarpered up to the main stage to start the day on the Sunday. On the back of the festival, Simon has formed End of the Road Records to champion some of the splendid groups he came across in setting the thing up, and on Sunday there was something of a showcase of the people he signed.

Port O’Brien: Confident and entertaining, these lads play a kind of dusty West Coast Americana that can be sad and can be a full-on rock out. They went down so well they could barely dig up enough CDs after the gig to satisfy all the eager punters, which was brilliant to see.
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Port O’Brien – Five & Dime
The Young Republic: This was a cracking set. I actually enjoyed it far more than their performance the day before because they pretty much played all my favourite songs. They clatter along when they get going, these fellas, with a brand of rock ‘n’ roll country music meets film score that takes them through the genres at a frightening pace. They adjusted seamlessly to playing the big stage, and if you can catch them supporting My Brightest Diamond on her current UK tour then I highly recommend it. I had the opportunity to interview them afterwards as well, which was excellent fun – had The Wave Pictures not been on at four then it could have gone on for hours.
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The Young Republic – She’s Not Waiting Here This Time

The Wave Pictures: Brilliant – these guys are so relaxed and affable on stage they come across as a slapdash pub band who accidentally happened to be extraordinarily gifted. It’s about the most unpolished sound in indie at the moment, but they had a hardcore group of fans who knew ever single song, which they played on request basis. Just signed to a small label and with a new album release hopefully on the horizon, these lads truly are excellent. Difficult in some ways – Dave doesn’t exactly boast popular music’s most mellifluous voice – but excellent nevertheless.
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The Wave Pictures – When I Leave You For Somebody Else

Johnny Flynn & the Sussex Wit: Another superb performance. This is the new sound of English folk at its finest. Wistful and contemplative one minute, then foot-stampingly infectious the next. I knew a few of Mr. Flynn’s songs beforehand, but he played plenty more that I loved during the set which bodes very, very well for future album possibilities. Quite excellent.
myspace | hype | buy his vinyl singles

Johnny Flynn & the Sussex Wit – Leftovers

Paris Motel: Everyone has an image in their heads of the band on the Titanic playing as the ship tragically sank (although when it took that prick Leonardo Di Crappio with it, it somehow seemed rather less tragic I thought). Well, this lot are a bit like the band on the Marie Celeste. Spooky, slightly magical tales that can come across as macabre old fairytales, mix with sea shanties and old-fashioned laments to create a truly amazing atmosphere. Their formal dress makes it even more so, with the gorgeous Amy May in her plain black evening dress leading proceedings, although any pomposity is instantly diffused by her self-deprecating and humorous manner. I loved this set, truly exceptional, and their album is out on Loose on the 1st of October I believe. Buy it, honestly do.
website | hype | amazon

Paris Motel – City of Ladies

Charlie Parr: A classic, bearded old bluesman, with rich deep voice, beard and scruffy demeanour. He plucked at his guitar, invited us all to visit him in Duluth, Minnesota and played half a dozen songs written whilst thinking about his dad. I know absolutely nil about this gentleman I’m afraid, so you’re on your own exploring his stuff. Let me know how you get on.
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Charlie Parr – Worried Blues

Howe Gelb: One of my musical heroes and one I came within a whisker of being able to interview for Song, by Toad. Rats, bollocks. Anyhow, his set was just like his music: meandering, explorative and prone to following whatever train of thought kidnapped it at the time. Gelb is a serial collaborator with his records, and the show was much like that as well. He called all sorts of other musicians on to help him perform, bringing an ad hoc, friendly tone to the show. None of this veneer of ‘performance’, just a load of people sharing music together. Superb.
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Howe Gelb – Felonious

Lambchop: Not a natural headline act, one might think, with their hushed, delicate country music perhaps far too quiet for this kind of slot – traditionally a rowdy celebration of three days of hedonistic excess. Or so you’d think. Actually they played their set with much more vim than you’d generally hear on record, and they ended with the glorious crowd-pleaser, with absolutely everyone coming on stage to provide the fantastic choral climax. Brilliant.
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Lambchop – Let’s Go Bowling