Bat For Lashes 05/10/09

It’s hard to connect with five thousand people, and I’m not going to say Natasha Khan overcame that this evening, but she gave it a good go. As usual at these kind of gigs the low murmur of chatter like an accidental baseline gave that feeling that few were really listening to Khan, as she weaved suburban magi-drama with her new dance led electro bop from this year’s ‘Two Suns’ release. It’s also worrying to see Khan still strut the amateur theatrics that’s hit the mainstream with the likes of Florence and the Machine and Little Boots. But it’s not the theatrics as such that are the problem, but rather the lack of them, and their reduction to a few well choreographed arm swishes and wolf howl manoeuvres.

I first saw Bat For Lashes shortly after the first Mercury nomination and was immediately drawn into her heart transplant bat ache moan, fluttering the wings of blind abandonment. She was god-like, handing out free bat masks and lyric books on the doors, and backed by a full choir of orchestral followers. But this time it was all too dull. The vague smatterings of theatre with her multi-media encore of ‘The Big Sleep’ salvaged something, but weren’t enough to dispel the comedy of tacky lighting bolts during ‘Glass’.

I feel the skin-tight spandex of 09’s fleeting fascination with American Apparel, has paved a predictable path into dull electro-clash, when what I loved about Khan during ‘Fur & Gold’ was the Bolan cat growl, the swishing hippie cloaks and the DIY sound production; banging a wooden stick on the stage to create the cardiac beat of ‘Sarah’.

Saint Cecile

We arrived sweaty from the over priced omelets of Saint Mont Michele and sad throngs of people pushing the sand along the hourglass. The cast assembled whilst the shirt stuck to my back, amongst the small country surroundings of Saint Cecile.

The cider shop door left ajar, and a note said they’d be back after lunch, the hotel was closed till two. A few more cars arrived during the interval, foreign number plates with smiles like a cricket crease and voices we’d later recall at dinner. I tried to feign French with them, whispering hellos and goodbyes and hoping they wouldn’t hear me speak English.

We checked in with a cleaner who finished the hoovering before she spoke with us. The whole place revolved around dinner, served between seven and eight and in the garden were some sheep searching for their lambs we’d later eat.

The evening would play out like a murder mystery. Middle aged women with seductive eyes crave bacchanalia whilst their husbands gave up sex in favour of instant personal gratification. The few staff moved with hidden intent.

The old man in the linen room shifting through white sheets with his moustache and I saw a few cooks open a back door somewhere. Frost expired from the frame and they dragged out a carcass and a dying bonfire outside gave wind of a gardener, although I didn’t see one.

At dinner the only waitress was short tempered. German marching music blasted from the small Ghetto-Blaster and a well dressed Dutch family began to laugh. The waitress proudly offered her coffee specialties, although I wondered where the other staff went and why the cider shop outside still had its door wide open.

A coffee protected by the batak people

Returning from holiday I am to discover the latest in the line of special club Nespresso varieties. Although this time the ‘exclusive’ coffee company has gone completely mental with an ancient civilisation of the Batak people. There’s enough marketing guile to give the impression a‘coffee expert’ (picture Mick ‘Crocodile’ Dundee with a travel espresso machine) climbed the highest mountains and swarm through leech infested jungles to bring you this intense flavour. Rather than the more obvious truth of a middle aged balding golfer liaising in glass fronted offices with a big-shot from the Batak coffee company looking to expand their business.

Merry-Go-Round

It was the first time I’d driven abroad, and before you get any ideas the car returned in mint condition with just a cool thousand or so more miles on the clock. If I’m honest it was surprisingly easy. As soon as we hit French soil I found myself on more roundabouts than the Romford circular, and although the French are still getting used to the phenomenon, I found myself slipping into all the right lanes. I loved the nonchalance of the drivers. They’d all pile straight onto the merry-go-round, happy to sit there for a minute or two, quietly puffing on a cigarette whist more cars poured from the estuaries into the turbine.

I quickly found that being a pedestrian in northern France is a little peculiar though. For some reason no one stops at ‘zebra’ crossings, and when I’d pull up beside one and let the fishes past, I’d be treated with the scornful expression only the French can pull off; as if I’d drank red wine with fish, or demanded an English menu.

Tindersticks 1st July Hyde Park

I finally got to see Tindersticks perform at Hyde Park's Serpentine Sessions this summer. Having shamefully missed 2007's Barbican show of the second record in its entirety, the band, originally hailing from Sheffield have seemingly left touring behind them to focus a wealth of side projects. Staples with his French home and studio 'Le Chien Chaneux' (The Lucky Dog) and original core member Dickon Hinchliffe escaping to score films, the battered line was left only three deep for last years release, 'The Hungry Saw.'

The 1st July saw the three warriors of sorrow backed by a full cast of musicians to crack into sleazy classic 'Rented Rooms.' Next the sticks pulled tracks from almost all their releases from the past 15+ years, that developed into the halftime paranoia of 'Another Night In' followed by the mid-show heart attack with 'Say Goodbye To The City' bursting the audience with a 'Tribute to Jack Johnson' esque smashing trumpet solo.

Highlight of the night though had to be the surprise inclusion of old favourite, 'City Sickness' with it's wise words of city life warning 'so this is where I ran to for freedom, where I may not be free' ringing true throughout the audience of tube trapped photo takers viewing life through the dusty lens of an IPhone. Makes me want a taste of that French escape Staples has found himself.

Journey to work

First in a series with Rashbre of 'cammuting'

Engine Parts

I've been constructing a couple of scripts amongst other bits and bobs. Going to shows, conferences, clubs, having a peanut butter binge and generally doing lots of things. The end of last year was awash with spending money and now I'm considering budgeting.

I'm thinking blog minded again, and need to flex the old muscles to get this engine operational.

This has to be a well oiled machine if it wants to keep going. So I'm swapping out the oil pressure spring, cracking in a new gland nut and washer, replacing the head gasket, taking the spark plugs to town for a wash, and airing the carpets from flood damage.

I'm also thinking about getting one of those flux capacitors? Time travel is inevitable.

Movember

Last chance to support Movember!

Quit while you're ahead

I’m not a fan but this feels strangely subliminal, like Bart’s boy band in ‘The Simpsons’. I’ve grown up with the threat of another terrible Guns ‘n’ Roses record and this proves the point. Utter trash. Even better is the story of bucket head, the lead guitarist who refused to record the album unless he could play in his very own bespoke chicken coup constructed in the studio itself. We know he got his way, and when he performs he wears a stupid KFC bucket on his head – hence the ridiculous moniker. If you though James Bond was soaked in product placement, this is worse.

The best part is that Dr Pepper pledged to supply every US citizen with a can of said drink if Chinese Democracy was released in 2008. Let’s see if they keep up their side of the bargain.

If you like the Tygers of Pan Tang, you’ll enjoy this.

Behind us the storm

Late weekdays, several novels, and an Eric Gregory submission have kept me away these past weeks. It’s all a matter of how you choose to fill your time. Except things aren’t always that simple, and sometimes it seems the way we spend time is chosen for us. Like the time spent sitting in a flood during a recent trip to Scotland:

Behind us the manure flood water
squeezed out through Lucozade bottles,
at the Gateway Inn car park.

Behind us no room at four inns,
and the A591s muddy middle bank,
separating separate rivers on
both sides of the dual carriage way.

Behind us wheel spin on slick grass,
horizontal rain, and mud splat on
bodywork dried like scratch marks.

Behind us the unlucky green car
twice at risk on the same road,
in the same town and
waterlogged, like the grass beneath
a Sunday paddling pool in June.

Behind us foot cramp on pedals
and trainers soaked to soaks.
The white lines lost in the dark,
and only cats eyes to save us.

The tide is high as Scotland welcomes.
The radio recalling last nights lost -
forty four still missing,
and the clouds move faster
than the car can outrun.

The weather turns like a playing card.