Taking Flyte

Oh, and whilst I'm at it (blogging, I mean), here's a lovely video by Flyte, Over and Out, their brand new song, which is jangly and lovely and summery. Will Taylor's voice is haunting and powerful, rising and falling over luscious chords. Plus, the video has the best use of an egg in it that I've ever seen.

Charlie Siem: Interview for PORT

Charlie Siem: Puckish

Hello there, I've interviewed the excellent young violinist Charlie Siem for PORT magazine. He's tearing up the international music stage - check out the piece here. The photos are by Sean Frank Johnson.

Bernie Simpson: Into the Sea

A quick post: Llama Farmers were - still are - one of my all-time favourite bands. Their songs, with their sweetly surreal lyrics and crunchily grungy guitars, swoop emotionally and deeply and still, as they say, get me every time. I often listen to "Big Wheels", or, in particular, "Get the Keys and Go", if melancholy is in the air.

But the band were young, and as young bands go, they went. So I was very glad to find out (through the magic of Tumblr) that Bernie Simpson (the lead singer) has written a new song called Into the Sea. The video is embedded below. It's a lovely, lilting elegy for a lost love. Listen! Love!

Thurston Moore at The Union Chapel: Blessed Be the Noisemakers

"You're so tall!" PW and Thurston Moore.

A late night missive from the poet-den. Your correspondent has just been to see the legendary black-winged angel (in his own words. Well almost.) Thurston Moore play at the Union Chapel in London's Trendy Islington. Your correspondent was minding his own business on the pavement outside when who should walk by, long black coated, carrying a blue plastic bag from the local newsagents which contained, as far as yr sharp-eyed corresp. could see, a copy of Mojo magazine and a packet of Purple Silk Cut. There were so many things I wanted to say: Thurston Moore! You are a legend! being one of them. So many things that we could discuss about the structure of his music, his harmonies, the way that he makes abrasive sounds so beautiful. I caught his sleeve. What did I say? I commented upon his height. 'You're so tall!' My friend took our picture and Thurston swept off again, spindly and kind, into the corner where he supped on a beer with some friends. There is something remarkably nice about rock stars hanging out in the pub before their gig. It should happen more often. (Of course we exchanged numbers and now I am his best friend and will be joining him on tour as lead guitarist. NB This last bit may not be true.)

The gig itself was in an old church. We sat at the very top, at the back, commanding a view of the whole chapel. The audience was a good mix of ages (including a baby, to whom Thurston dedicated a song). The songs were from the new album, Demolished Thoughts, which are shimmering and hazy and controlled at the same time, carrying all the hallmarks of a Sonic Youth / Thurston Moore production: the dizzying ascents into cacophony, the sudden lapses into harmony, the juddering guitars, all with Thurston's rough-edged Silk-cutting voice over the top, and with the addition of a rippling harp and a violin. The songs had suitably pentecostal titles: Benediction, Illumine, Space. Bliss and joy come from that man's guitar, which seems somehow to be a part of him. He shuffles and stands like a teenager; his voice sounds gravelly and timeless. He read a poem at the end: whatever its qualities, it didn't matter. Thurston Moore could read a shopping list and make it sound cool. ( Can you imagine going shopping with Thurston Moore? 'Washing powder....carrots....narcotic squads sweeping through poet dens...small flowers...don't forget the cauliflower...'). He extended an open invitation to the audience to come and visit him in Massachussets and finished his poem with 'Blessed are the noise musicians.'

As an encore he played two songs from Trees Outside the Academy - but not Honest James (my favourite); however he did play my Absolute All Time Favourite, from his first solo album, Psychic Hearts, which I happily sang all the words to (although I'm not sure anyone else did). Blessed are the noise musicians, and blessed is Thurston Moore.

Everything in Between by No Age: review

I haven't been listening to much new music recently, but this album has really taken control of my consciousness. I've been listening to it almost every day since I bought it. No Age are an American two piece, but this record sounds as if there are twenty of them. Scuzzy, stylish guitars hook and wriggle through fuzzy distortions; lilting tunes arise out of chaotic rumbles. 'Glitter's elegant songline sounds lazy and sharp at the same time; 'Fever Dreaming' is pure hectic riff joy; 'Valley Hump Crash' is almost a surfing love song - (almost). It also appears to be addressed to 'Catilina' - surely not the Roman Catiline? Well, I hope it is. They are, quite frankly, my New Favourite Band. And they even aurally quote Sonic Youth at one point, with a sound from 'Goo' appearing on one of the songs. And this can only be a good thing! Now, when will No Age come to England so I can go and watch them? Very soon, I hope. (And, ideally, supporting Sonic Youth... come on!)

Standon Calling!

Festivals are safety valves: a controlled release of built up steam, allowing the populace to return to their quiet humdrum lives for the rest of the year. Or so it used to be. Once humans were happy with one day of wearing silly clothes, saying naughty things and drinking too much: now we seem to do it all the time. Now the darkness that surrounds us lights up constantly; now the jokes and jests and japeries run free.

So what is the function of the ‘festival’? Some people spend all year going to them, weekend after weekend in tent after tent (or teepee after teepee, or yurt after yurt if you are particularly flash (or flush)). I went to three last year, and only one this year; I now own more fancy dress costumes than I do real clothes (having managed to lose / destroy everything else). Now is the time for festivals to seep over into real life: now we must attend our jobs and our schools in soldiers’ uniforms and clown outfits, in shiny silver trousers and with glitter on our faces and ribbons in our hair. I can only hope that we are returning to the glorious days of the eighteenth century, when peacocks and pimps and fops and courtesans all jostled about in their finery and fripperies.

We do not need one festival a year any more, because life is becoming a festival. This can only be a good thing.

And one shining example of the new breed of festival is Standon Calling. Held at Standon Lordship, and organised by Alex Trenchard, this started not as a festival per se, but as a birthday party (its raison d’etre is celebratory; this permeates the fields and tents, a beneficent miasma, even now). This year there were more people than ever. Murder and detection was the theme, which spurred on many a marvellous costume: tweed-heavy Sherlocks and cartoonish Scooby Doos, white-faced zombies and grim forensic officers. An entire Cluedo board paced patiently around in pairs: I saw Colonel Mustard with the Study by the Lead Pipe. Sinister white-suited agents padded around, putting up tape around suspicious bodies: they descended upon the Cluedo people and surrounded them. A grim reaper stalked the alleys; two people maneouvred through the crowds in a cardboard coffin. Most interesting were those who had either misunderstood the theme or completely ignored it: the fat man in tiny blue shorts, or the huge, peeling banana. Although perhaps the blue-shorted man was showing that he had nothing to hide; and maybe the banana had once killed someone who’d slipped on it. Who knows.

Of the bands that I saw, the black suited and white-lighted Metronomy played like they knew everybody in the crowd and like the crowd knew all their bladed, shiny songs. I wanted to be friends with geeky, sweet CasioKids who electro-popped into the night. Marthas and Arthurs, feathers in their hats and skirts held up by safety pins, gently eased me into Saturday morning, strumming softly and melodically on guitars (and strange instruments whose provenance I know not). Three Trapped Tigers were roiling, addictive, pounding. I’d never heard of Revere, but they played so hard they knocked over their stands and dropped their guitars and they were all sweating very very hard. I at least was impressed by their passion. Hook and the Twin had a technical error which alas made them halt, but the three songs they played were beat-filled and frenzied. I was under the impression that I had seen British Sea Power, but the band that I saw turned out to be a rockabilly band. I missed Etienne de Crecy, but I heard the music coming up through the ground and wished that I could have been there. As ever my favourite haunt was the cattle shed, known mysteriously as Camp Alcatraz. On Friday night we stayed in there till dawn: it started raining, but nobody noticed.

I had to leave on Sunday, which was a shame, as Buena Vista Social Club (whose average age must be about 100) were playing. I’m sure they were brilliant. But I take with me the glitter (quite literally: I still have some on my face, three days later) and the music (thank you iTunes), and I will make sure the festival infiltrates through the rest of the year. Which you must all do too.