"Did you hang-a my picture on your wall?"

It's been a while. Did you miss me, dear and loyal reader, or was your interweb down as well? Without giving too much away, no desire to besmirch etc etc, but a tad peeved with my supplier. Let's call them "earth" to maintain their anonymity, but the signal has been dodgy for ages, precariously teetering on the brink of non-existant, bar the occasional totter whenever I get through to their eumpemistically entitled helpline. And with all the usual Xmas hoo-ha, not at work to moonlight. Mind you, I missed my last couple of gigs for the year, so very little to write about anyway. (Can you believe I even got out my sickbed and pressed my staprests for Any Trouble only to discover they were the night before?)
So they tell me it's 2015. Afteword is still down, so this phoenix has to keep on rising a while yet, one flag in a sea of similar, the bereft beardy bloggers of blighty, all having to put their own show on here right now, or otherwise resort to faecebook and it's various charms.
Happy New Year

Lunchtime with the Lad: Social Meat Club @ the Sun & 13 Cantons

Where: Sun & 13 Cantons, Gt Pulteney St, Soho
When: 3/12/14

A break from music because, if music be the food etc, then surely the reverse must also be true. And it isn't every day (yet) that my boy is running his own kitchen and bistro in a London boozer. Social Meat Club is a new venture, born out of the Brook Green Market & Kitchen in Hammersmith: british meat cooking with a definitively scandi bent, think Nobo doing a BBQ in your own garden. Or your corporate function. That's the deal really, chef for business where you want him, except for November and December he has set up pans at the Sun &, as part of their regular revolving pop-up of gastro-treats. Even in this short window he has caught the attention of many of the capitals intrepid food bloggers, grabbing also a mentioning last saturdays Guardian. I had been literally drooling for weeks in anticipation of this one.......

Definitely a train day, it was chilly as we stood shivering at Lichfield Trent Valley station. (Where's that much missed coffee van when you need it!?) Thankfully no leaves on the track meant we were tramping the streets of Soho less than 2 hours later, searching for the Crown, to meet big sis and Martin, there too for the occasion. Only time for a swift one and round the corner for 2 pm it was.

Small by London standards, the Sun & is in 2 parts, a compact bar and a side arm of bistro; roughly 10 tables set out with plenty of room for hungry punters. A warning about the chef's sausage greets all through the portals. (You can take the boy out of etc etc.) It wasn't long before Matt (Young) bounced downstairs to meet us, to tell us of his plans, a special bijou tasting menu being the order of our day.

Settled at our table, with precautionary Shiraz and Sauvignon Blanc on hand, the feast began. First off was his feature dish of home cured and wood smoked salmon, a flaky explosion of flavours corralled into place by wafer thin radish on a toasted sourdough base. This was swiftly followed by delicately soft medallions of rare venison, juniper aromas wafting through it perfectly, complemented by a lingonberry jam. The cottage pie came next, but not quite as school dinners might define, deconstructed into a hefty chunk of ox cheek, falling slowly apart on a bed of bone-marrow mash, the textures both melting together yet discrete. Quick pause for breath and a slurp before my favourite, duck breast to die for, and I was beginning to think I might. This was widely scored the winner by all present, but not by more than a whisker. Or feather. And still the food kept coming, mostly presented on wooden platters to preserve the rustic vibe. I confess my taste buds were beginning to wilt under the assault, so all I recall of the last main course was that is was lamb and that it was luscious. Thus it was a wake-up that the much needed thunderbolt of the fabled Nduja scotch (quails) egg came as "pudding", soft cooked yolks being challenged, in a good way, by the spicy cured meat mince surrounding. Phew! That was it. Whilst desserts are available, we were pogged and some.

It seemed only reasonable to buy the chef a Laphroaig, as he came to join us, Martin and I having one, well 2, ourselves. Photos aplenty and plans for the New Year and we each toddled off to our trains, via the delights of Covent Garden, busked by a string quintet so lively they were sweating in the freezing twilight. Home, full bellies and bed.

(P.S. Those of a delicate nature, offended by all this flesh should note there are further alternatives to these carnal treats, mussels and (mu)shrooms proving popular options on a changing and evolving menu.)

NEW! SINGLES REVIEW : Disappointment Choir/A Pretty Good Christmas

It's not often I review a single, let alone buy one, and, in truth, I haven't yet bought this one, as it isn't out until monday, but I will be, and not out of loyalty alone.

"A Pretty Good Christmas" by the (doomed to?) Diaappointment Choir is that rarity, a realistic seasonal song, with a hefty residue of the ennui that struggle can bring to the enforced and compulsory jollity of Yule, truly a song of making do, in times of tightening belts, and, defiantly, of not tightening nooses. A plaintive vocal and repeated minor chords, with elegant harmonies, swathed synth coming in before the end. But don't trust me, listen to it. Surely it's time to banish the usual garbage, Slade, Cliff, Wham, to the dumper. For the sake of posterity, sorry, austerity.

Buy it!!

A NIGHT OUT WITH: PETER GABRIEL

Where: LG Arena (NEC)
When: 29/11/14

I was looking forward to this one, having had a brief surge of re-involvement with his back catalogue of late, invigorating enough to extinguish my memory of an over-long and over-pompous slot at Glasto twenty odd years ago. And this was to be playing, as is the current style, his 1986 masterwork, "So", front to back, or as the tour legend proclaims, back to front, which it wasn't. With the original players, apparently. Were we to get Kate, I wondered, or Youssou N'Dour?

Arriving at the NEC I was swiftly reminded, yet again, why I always vow never to return, parking in a far distant carpark and following the hordes, refugee like, massing towards the distant arena. The unwelcoming hall of budget food and liquid, all pitched at lowest common denominator taste for top end wedge, resulted in a foamy pint and a plastic pino. The evening could only improve.

Missing the support slot, we fought our way to our terrace, the lottery having granted us quite a decent view of a busy looking stage. Shortly before the expected start time a stocky fellow shambled onto stage, house lights undimmed, and wandered over to the piano set stage right. The shock of recognition filtered through the nearer seated, for it was he. He introduced a show of three parts, some quiet, some experimental and So, and kicked off right into a new song, accompanied by cello and the electric stand-up bass of long term sideman, Tony Levin. His voice, pitched a tad below memory, was immediately stunning, cracking into the sustained notes he is rightly acclaimed for. Glorious. A few more band members appeared, drummer Manu Katche, another blast from the hoped for past, loyal guitarist David Rhodes and, a surprise for me, ex early Springsteen alumnus, David Sanctious on keyboards, accordion and guitar. Another girl singer, to complement the cellist, also snuck on, one Jenny Abrahamson. With Gabriel still on piano, the group played a further few songs, including a particularly affecting "Talk to Me".

The lights abruptly went down and we were into part two, industrial noise, flashing lights, camera trickery aplenty, from the sometimes intrusive banks thereof and a bludgeoning canter through his catalogue from Solsbury Hill to Shock the Monkey. All very 1984 as imagined in the 70s. Alternating between prowling the stage and electronic keyboards, this was powerful stuff, the thumping drums being particularly memorable. The frontline of Gabriel, Levin, Rhodes and the backing vocalists sporadically dipped into little choreographed routines, the Shadows inspired through Hawkwind, that were maybe more amusing than meant to be. Even Gabriels utility wear of cagoule cannot disguise he is now of somewhat portly proportion.

The segue into part three announced only by the stage lighting switching dramatically into red, for Red Rain, it soon became obvious how known and loved is this body of work, the audience afeet and adulatory. Smashing into and through Sledgehammer, anticipation began to arise as the mournful and haunting synth chords of Don't Give Up pierced the gloom. With clearly no Kate, it was down to Abrahamson to deliver her part, a thankless task, which is the kindest thing I can say about her thin vocal. I am not sure why "Mercy Street" was delivered flat on his back, but it was, being a good enough song to survive that shenanigan. (Pompous? Soi?) Onward, and even the two songs nobody remembers, middle to end of side two are their presence, punching beyond their weight. Edging toward the two hour mark, it was finally into the home strait with"In Your Eyes", presented masterfully and emotionally. On this occasion Abrahamson was in far safer territory, relaxing into N'Dours keening coda. Applause aplenty and off, via an atypical and appreciated exhortation of praise to the crew responsible for setting up and putting on this enterprise. I wondered even if he would come back, but he did, with a new song and the inevitable "Biko", he seemingly unable to ever stop playing this, for me anyway, stodgy dirge, however worthy. I think even Bono might find the sentiment cloying, but I am sure I am being unfair; this had been a stonking show and I was delighted he can clearly still pull it off, voice unbowed.

A Night Out With Robert Plant

Where: Wolverhampton Civic Hall
When: 21/11/14

I was never a big Zeppelin fan. Sure, I had 4, it was compulsory at my school, but I have honestly never listened to anything beyond 1-4, other than by chance. So what the was I doing at a Bobby Plant gig? And why did I love it? The answer is probably because he has become so identifiably the anti-zep, supposedly leaving a trail of torn up cheques in the wake of Jimmy Page's tears. And, let's face it, the boy can sing.

I slowly found myself thinking his way round about Big Log, the unfortunately titled lead song from his mullet years, then beginning to keep an ear close to his ground. Mighty Re-arranger I didn't like, but suddenly, there he was with Alison Krauss and, then, Buddy Miller and Patty Griffin, singing a Richard Thompson song too, no less. Clearly right up my street and it was. Initially non-plussed by a return to shape-shifting, I then read he had hooked up with estimable ex-Jah Wobble alumnus, Justin Adams, and caught a glimpse of his Glasto show on the telly, being especially captivated by the beard of one "Skin" Tyson on other guitars. The rest just sort of fell into place.
The drive to Wolverhampton is always far longer than it ought, but for once I made it in decent time, joining the crowd standing outside in the rain, awaiting the doors to open. No way to treat pensioners, I thought, but the door staff eventually relented. The support, Last Internationale, started promisingly with a solo acoustic song strummed by an extremely strong voiced siren. This was Workers of the World Unite, reminiscent, strangely, of Joan Baez, before the remaining couple of band members came on and the set fell into derivative and generic heavy rawk, Joan having now become Grace (Slick), unable even to grab my attention with a Neil Young cover.

After a long gap and in a flurry of facial hair the Shape Shifters kicked off in top gear, launching straight into songs from the excellent Lullaby and the Ceaseless Roar, Plant in a good humour, mane tied back. Controlling the centre stage with the occasional twist of his microphone stand to complement commendations to clap, Adams bobbed and weaved about to his side, looking like a young Joe Strummer. A delight whenever he appeared was Juldeh Camara on a one stringed african fiddle, transforming the ambience of the strategically placed LedZep songs in the show. The first of these was a charming Going to California, with Babe, I'm Going to Leave You, not far behind. Maybe annoyingly, it was these old faithfuls that drew the greatest applause, despite, on occasion, being the least interesting to my ears. Thankfully there was plenty enough of the new album available, with Tyson skipping from flamenco guitar to banjo to 12-string electric, underpinned by the keys/loops/computer of John Baggott, sometime of Massive Attack, chunky drums by Dave Smith and Billy Fuller's lithe bass.

Rainbow, a Radio 2 Ken Bruce acclaimed track, we were told, was a high point before a blasting Whole Lotta Love to end proceedings, Plants voice belieing any idea he may have lost his range. An old Bukka White song, Fixing to Die, and "another folk song" Rock and Roll made for a satisfying encore before the lights came up on the celebratory local boy made good. Show of at least the week.

Loved it.

A NIGHT OUT WITH: Dr John & the Nite Trippers

Where: Warwick Arts Centre
When: 16/11/14

Bit of a trek down to warwick these days, so was well pleased when SteveT offered me a lift, more so when I was able to get a ticket. With only 2 UK shows in his current bijou tour, that surprised me in itself. I used to go to WAC quite a bit when I lived in Solihull, but I was unprepared for the massive growth of the university campus. And the Arts Centre seemed roughly thrice it's old size, albeit minus the cute little shop. An interesting cloudy ale from Coventry watered the chaps as we awaited the show, Byatts, cloudy due to the inexpertly decanted yeast from the bottle, but a cutting hoppy bitterness hit the spot admirably.

I had seen Dr John just the once before, perhaps a decade ago, in New York, wondering if he could scale again the heights of that particular gig. The near-emptiness of the somewhat sterile hall, think school gymnasium, wasn't promising, even if the noisy anticipation of an ageing hipster crowd was. 8pm prompt and the band marched on, ramshackedly, coralled into their places by a behatted woman who seemed to be mastering (mistressing?) the ceremony. It looked like his regular band, elderly black dudes on bass, drums and keys, and, I'm sure, the same guitarist as he had had last time. The M/C then started rousing the audience: "Who needs a Dr? Who needs a Dr?" The temptation would be to answer Mac Rebennack himself, as he now needs 2 sticks to totter out from the wings, immaculate in his suit and decorated fedora, grey dreaded ponytail hanging halfway down his back. Dr John is 74, and I was worried this was a sign of his possible decay. I need not have worried, as, once perched on his stool, his fingers displayed a mighty much more than  mere full working order.

Again it was over to our M/C to kick things off, counting the ensemble down into life, waving her hands about, and suddenly brandishing a trombone. This was apparently Sarah Morrow, the "musical director" of his recent tribute, Ske-dat-de-dat, Spirit of Satch to fellow New Orleans legend, Louis Armstrong. You might think that the good Dr, with his career of bandleading and record production would have no such need, but I have to say she has, literally, blown new life into proceedings. And soon showed herself to be a shite-hot player as well, no mean feat in a cast of such champions.

The set list was a mainly of well-established standards, his own, and of the classic N'Awlins repertoire, with a nod or three to the latest aforementioned record. Iko Iko kicked us off, with the band locking into a watertight groove, which continued across the setlist. Particularly heartfelt was a version of Motherless Child, with a stunning and soaring hammond solo from, I think, Jon Cleary, who excelled throughout. Not so keen on What a Wondeful World, as I can't get a gurning Satchmo out of my head, but it was a stout re-interpretation, funkier than on the LP. At one stage Dr John staggered to his feet and had a guitar strapped on, remembering it was, unbelievably, his primary instrument. Maintaining a jaggedy style, with shards of notes slipping between his fingers, this was a side of him I hadn't seen before, even if the fear of a fall remained distinct. Warming to the appreciation of the compact crowd, he had begun to smile and seemed to stretch out a bit, as he sat back in front of his steinway, turning for occasional forays onto an electric keyboard. Going Back to New Orleans, was a delight, as were Right Place, Wrong Time, and the promised 90 minutes and offstage were looking under pressure. (Very) extended solos came towards the end, almost stand alone slots rather than segued into their parent song, and aren't usually a personal pleasure. Tonight, though, Matthew, I was convinced, with the lithe bass runs of the portly bassist and another tour de force from the hammond organ, incorporationg, ye Gods, O When the Saints, being positively celebratory. Then there was just time for Such a Night, cementing the fact it was. No encores, but a good half hour more than expected, giving me the feel he had encored before the end. Happy, happy and home.

This man is a legend. Catch him while you can.
(Apols for lifting the pictures......)

Nebraska

No, not the album, this is the film, tho'  I can see little to draw 'em together, beyond a post-exposural pleasure. OK, it's been wee while since it was at the cinema, but being consciously art house fare, I dare say that a blink would have missed it at the mainstream. As ever the Johnny come lately, there being no cinema in my town, I caught it on the telly, where it's lack of action and defiant monochrome fitted the small screen perfectly.

A slim tale, it recounts the tale of a washed-up innocent, albeit with a back draft of booze and bad-parenting, searching for an unassailable truth, known these days as money for nothing. My definition of a road movie is one that so little happens that you have time to grasp the inaction, and this fitted that bill consummately. Black and white demonstrated the drive-over state reality of the american dream, memories set in a stark stucco of poverty and resentment, boredom being the only action in town.

Bruce Dern plays the hero, a phrase used with all irony, as Woody, emoting an identifiably lost identity, whilst his son, played by Will Forte, tries to haul it and hold it all together, acting as the ghost of christmas present for his fathers wish. The film is nearly stolen by June Squibb as Woody's wife, initially seeming long-suffering, before demonstrating an exquisite insufferability, coloured with vivid dismissals of most if not all in her orbit, a kiss at the end making it all (nearly) worthwhile. A near unrecognisable Stacy Keach plays the bad guy, with nary a trace of leading man visible in his ravaged physique.

I loved it.

Find it and be enriched.

Also well worth a mention is a fantastically bleak soundtrack, from which I enclose this clip. Mark Orton is responsible, and it is available to buy.