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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 Cakecast? Yes, the Cakecast, because I turn thirty-six today, and in the absence of a real cake and in honour of the fact that I have a gig tonight at the Wee Red and will hence be working, I decided that at least a picture of some cake was in order. I don’t worry about age particularly, but I have to confess that thirty-six sounds suspiciously more like ‘nearly forty’ than it does like ‘thirty-something’. Curse you time and your unrelentingly linear nature!
