This week’s Toadcast has no theme at all because, erm… well, frankly they’re difficult to come up with and therefore seem just a tiny little bit like hard work.  So given I’m podcasting once a week now, I am not going to be arsed coming up with some immaculately scripted (ah ha haaa!) arrangement once every seven days, so this week it’s really just a brief tour of inbox fodder.

This weekend there are loads of good things happening, not least a performance by Mumford & Sons at the Voodoo Rooms, and a first look for me at what could potentially become an excellent new venue in Edinburgh.  That’s a secret though, so no more details than that.

So, for now enjoy the Soulcast, so named for no better reason than that the first couple of songs have the word soul in the title.  Piss-poor excuse really, isn’t it.

Toadcast #41 – The Soulcast

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01. Nat Johnson – Dirty Rotten Soul (02.39)
02. Maxwell Panther – Lost Soul on a Roll (06.21)
03. Deerhoof – Chandelier Searchlight (11.40)
04. Aberfeldy – Claire (15.01)
05. Hot Lava – Blue Dragon (21.11)
06. Deathbot – The Cold Wind Revival (23.20)
07. Lambchop – Sharing a Gibson With Martin Luther King Jr. (28.41)
08. Wilco – Company in My Back (35.45)
09. Woodenbox – Twisted Mile (39.17)
10. Pale Young Gentlemen – There is a Place (46.33)
11. Japanese Motors – Spendin’ Days (54.52)

Well they already win points for a slightly irritatingly spelled album title. The music, inevitably is far from irritating. A little bit too far from irritating, unfortunately.

I never know what to think of Lambchop.  They have, without a doubt, done some utterly brilliant things.  They have recorded some amazing albums.  They have also mixed in an awful lot of very undistinguished material amongst the brilliant.  So where do I stand, are they great or just good?

I have little doubt that in twenty years I will look back on them as brilliant.  The less memorable moments will have faded into irrelevance next to the considerable body of really great work they have produced, and yet and yet and yet…

Somewhere in my head there is just a nagging doubt.  I have pretty much every Lambchop album and no regrets whatsoever about having bought them, but a little voice in the back of my head won’t stop asking me if I would really miss half of them.  Honestly?  Truly?  If I accidentally deleted them, how much of a priority would be to get hold of them again?  I like this album, I really do.  The more I listen to it, the more I enjoy it, but I can’t help but feel that if I had heard it a few times through I might have felt, given I own the truly excellent Damaged, that this would be far from a necessary purchase.

They are sonically extremely similar.  The gentle alt-country has picked up just a little pace, and there are some (comparatively) downright poppy moments.  It’s a pleasure to listen to but not, I would suggest, a necessity.

Lambchop – Ohio
Lambchop – National Talk Like a Pirate Day

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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

In preparation for applying for a slot on Edinburgh’s student radio station Fresh Air, I thought I would challenge myself to get through an entire podcast without actually swearing because, on public access radio, you can’t use naughty words. A Toad without swearing, you say, what the fuck has the world come to?

Well to make sure I don’t disappoint you in your noble quest for dissolute anti-culture I thought I’d compensate by playing a collection of the filthiest and most sweary songs I could lay my hands on. Thinking about it, I’ve managed to forget Serge Gainsbourg and Brigitte Bardot’s truly foul ‘Je T’aime, Moi Non Plus’, but there you go. I could have improved just about every playlist I’ve ever done in retrospect, I think, so at some point I have to draw the line.

So, I use bad words when I quote other people and when I give you the names of the songs but I don’t think I let a single naughty word slip during my own chat on this one, but let me know if you catch me out.

Toadcast #23 – The Filthcast

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01. Aidan John Moffat – Cunt (01.09)
02. The Pogues – Boys From the County Hell (05.24)
03. Adam Balbo -Let’s Make a Porno (10.03)
04. Celebrity Chimp – Pornstar (13.06)
05. The Tacticians – Hardcore Porn (15.37)
06. Billy Bragg – St. Swithin’s Day (21.05)
07. Grinderman – No Pussy Blues (26.05)
08. The Libertines – I Get Along (33.10)
09. Carbon/Silicon – What the Fuck (35.47)
10. Frank Turner – Heartless Bastard Motherfucker (42.03)
11. Les Enfant Bastard – U R My Fucking Sunshine U Cunt (44.52)
12. Plans & Apologies – Tony Blair Fucknut (49.50)
13. The Libertines – What a Waster (57.00)
14. Lambchop – Your Fucking Sunny Day (60.49)
15. The Ex-Men – Suck Her (67.35)
16. Micah P. Hinson – Patience (73.04)
17. Eels – It’s a Motherfucker (76.59)
18. Doug Anthony Allstars – I Fuck Dogs (80.07)

My dearest Toadlings it is with enormous pleasure and brimming pride that I present the light of my silly life, the bright and shining star at the centre of my universe and the bad tempered little Scottish strumpet to whom my every waking hour is devoted.  That sounds sarcastic, but it isn’t.

She treats the music I play with a sort of contemptuous indifference and has some truly shocking stuff in her rather limited collection.  But she has a punk side, she loves Bob Dylan and has taken to some unexpected groups recently, like The Sequins, The Builders & the Butchers and Grandaddy.  It slowly started to dawn on me that actually, Dolly Parton aside for the moment, she could probably put together a better playlist than I could, and I was absolutely mortified to be proved absolutely right.

So I thought I’d get her along to co-present too, which seemed like it might be fun.  It was a bit odd at first, but we warm up a bit by the end and it turns slowly into what I think it a pretty decent podcast, all told.  I’m not sure I’ll be able to talk her into doing this too often, but if it proves a success I promise to do my best.

Toadcast #13 – The Mrs. Toadcast

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01. Lambchop – Dallas Theme Song (00.00)
02. Sham 69 – Borstal Breakout (03.10)
03. The Clash – I Fought the Law (06.49)
04. Stiff Little Fingers – Alternative Ulster (10.53)
05. Depeche Mode – Just Can’t Enough (16.18)
06. The Cure – Just Like Heaven (19.50)
07. Ennio Morricone – The Good, the Bad & the Ugly (26.14)
08. Nirvana – Sliver (33.02)
09. Guns ‘n’ Roses – Get in the Ring (38.32)
10. Bob Dylan – Tangled Up in Blue (48.21)
11. Eels – Fresh Feeling (53.58)
12. The Von Bondies – No Regrets (61.31)
13. The 63 Crayons – Spoils For Survivors (66.16)
14. Honeytrap – Andy the Freefaller (71.15)
15. The Builders & the Butchers – Black Dresses (76.11)
16. Night Jar – Poor Man’s Son (81.46)
17. The Indelicates – Waiting For Pete Doherty to Die (89.54)

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.
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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.
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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

I have a few miserable pals on the blogosphere at the moment.  Mind you, given the diaristic (yes, I know that’s not a word – like a diary…  mmm, diuretic? – no, that’s worse…

Seesh, didn’t even close the brackets.

Where was I?  Ah, yes, given the diuretic nature of the blogosphere I suppose this shouldn’t be a surprise, but it is always a shame when people you like aren’t altogether happy.  I have no useful advice to offer really, except to suggest doing your best to forget it and enjoy a nice cold beer or a good record or a snuggle on the couch or some truly exceptionally filthy internet pornography and do your best to take your happiness in small doses.

I am generally a happy individual myself, and it’s the weekend, and the sun is threatening to shine, so let’s have some happy music.  Not crazy, mental over the top stuff because things don’t have to be the best thing ever in the universe to just be good and cheerful and a little bit uplifting.  Cheerful days – the time is Beer minus 1.5 and counting…

Breasts
Echobelly – Great Things I haven’t heard this one in ages – splendid!
Lambchop – Your Fucking Sunny Day
The Shaky Hands – Whales Sing If this bass-line doesn’t cheer you up you are clinically deceased.
The Gourds – Gin & Juice Sheer, unadulterated genius.
(The Real) Tuesday Weld – Stand by Your Man