Duke Spirit, 229, London 21/11/07

Last time me and Bossman saw the Duke Spirit was in December last year, so this was another great chance to catch them in a London venue. 229 has good acoustics, good stage height and is of a small enough size to keep it intimate. It must be new, as I'd never heard of it before.
This photo shouldn't be seen in public, it's too Addams Family... but hey-ho, who cares, we're going to the Texas Chainsaw Travelling Horror Picture Show next week, so we need to get the look sorted. This is a good start.

First up was Creepy Morons, playing sinister guitar / drum rock. Will see them live again I'm sure.


And then after a short break, the main event, The Duke Spirit. The gig the night before was cancelled due to Leila's vocals needing a rest, but thankfully the London audience was treated to a great gig. It was pissing down outside, and once a few JD's warmed the bones (JD and Duke Spirit - the perfect match) we were ready. They played some new stuff, some old classics (good to see Dan's machine gun guitar solo back in action on Red Weather) and Leila's voice was pure blues honey, smooth and sultry, from another era. Timeless. Fantastic gig. Tight musianship, lyrically moving, pulls at your heart, and great JD.




Got a new camera, so wasn't best pleased with the results, think I over-exposed some shots and realised I stupidly had a low shutter speed which blurred some images too. Shame I'm thick otherwise, these shots would have been much better, but the grainy quality gives them a certain seedy appeal. Got some great shots of Dan though, the backlight worked wonders for my rubbish photo-technique. A happy accident which compensated for my technical inadequacy.

Got lucky when the light glared out from behind the band, gives a lovely bright image.



This next one is particularly nice (in my opinion!). Again, out of focus and grainy, but I love the dark/bright contrast, Toby's sillouette and Leila poised for a strut.

Finally I had to get a photo of the photographers stripey pants. I want some. And so does Bossman.

He played for West Ham, honest!

When I was around seven years old, this bloke moved in next door to us. He looked over the fence at me and my friend kicking a ball around in the garden.
"I used to play for West Ham you know" he remarked casually before continuing to rake his lawn.
I didn't give a crap, but my friend asked what his name was. I can't remember exactly what his name was, probably something football formulaic like Jimmy Hardacre, Alf Rodgerstone or Billy Bignuts. In retrospect I have to admit he did carry himself as a failed 1970's footballer. Mullett, lambchop sideburns, medallion, vein ridden pickled red nose, but you don't notice those details when you're seven.
So we went inside and asked my dad whether he'd heard of Alf Rodgerstone (or whatever his name was), he said no, never heard of him.
So we went back outside and proceeded to crush this mans dignity as only seven year olds can do.
Me : "My dads never heard of you."
Alf : "But I have played for West Ham"
Me : "If you played for West Ham, why don't you live in a mansion then? Why are you living near Manor House?"
Alf : "I got injured"
At this point Alf was almost in tears, his rake had dropped to the floor and his eyes welled up. I saw his wifes sad face despairingly sway from side to side as she dried the cups from the inside of his kitchen window.
My friend, who wasn't as articulate as me, then delivered the classic line. His statement was a sock filled with snooker balls compared to my rapier like precision questions.
"If you did play for West Ham, you must have been shit."
Alf Rodgerstone moved out of the area shortly afterwards.

Black Lace and Blue Midgets

So what have I been doing these past few weeks?
Well, I had a lovely trip to Cornwall at the end of September, Ongey and Paul were there. I wont go into mega detail, but one thing that amused me is how certain people percieve themselves. Or rather, how I percieve them to percieve themselves, which may be a figment of my rampant imagination.
So we go into one of those hippy / mystical / witch shops. You know the ones, they sell crystals for 5 quid which will grow back your severed leg and the whole place stinks of patchooli. They sell all sorts of otherwise useless stuff, like a 15 inch wide candle holder shaped like a dragon. Or some sort of glass orb on a mount, so that when you squeeze it, it recites Lady of Shallot by Alfred Lord Tennyson in a serious deep voice whilst swirling some pink gassy shit inside the glass of the orb.
I only spend a few minutes in there, as whenever I go into a shop, any shop, I suddenly well up with guilt that people may see me as a shoplifter. I don't know why, I've never stolen anything from a shop in my life, but I get a complex. Maybe its because deep down I am a shoplifter, and I am guilty for crimes I am yet to commit. But I get paranoid and leave and stand outside.
It was enough time to size up the guy running the shop. Clearly he'd gone to a lot of trouble to come across as some sort of "warlock" or "wizard", but in a sort of contemporary take on the subject. He didn't wear a robe and a floppy felt wide brimmed hat, or anything like that, and he didn't have a beard.
He was about 50 odd, of average height, with a middle aged spread. He had a crisp white shirt, tucked into black jeans, which showed off his fine gut. He had a belt with a big buckle and some sort of Celtic design on it. A black leather waistcoat and winkle picker boots. His hair was also immaculate, tightly curled and of a shoulder length.
Now clearly he thought he was a wizard, I thought he looked like the lead singer of Black Lace. Doo Doo Dooooo lets all do the Conga.
Maybe he was the singer and this shop was his retirement project? It amused me in anycase.
Part II -
Just got back from my good friend Des' stag do in Killarney in the west of Ireland. The guinness is lovely, the scenery is gorgeous, but a night on the town was terrifying. I'd never thought I'd say this, but Stevenage is quite classy in comparison.
So anyway, blue midgets. Apparantley you can hire a midget painted blue for a stag weekend. They handcuff the midget to the stag and you are inseperable for the whole weekend, including having to share a bed (you are handcuffed after all). I guess you can dangle him out of the window if you want some privacy.
The charge 500 quid. i don't know if it's true or not as they'd "run out of midgets" for Des, but we discussed how wrong it would be if you had to take a crap with the midget in the cubicle with you. And then I thought there was only one thing worse than that, if the midget wanted to have a crap and your hand was cuffed to his wiping hand.
Have you ever seen a smurf shit? Nows your chance.

Making Crab Apple Jelly

On Sunday, me and Deb went into the moors near our house to collect crab apples. This blog will take you through the process of making crab apple jelly. My job was simple. Thrash the shit out of the tree and make the apples fall.
Step 1 : Hit tree with stick. (Be careful, crab apple trees have lightning reflexes and may dodge your blows)

Step 2: Use martial arts bushido attacks on the tree with your stick to soften it up some more. The tree has done a side step on this occasion, I am attacking thin air. The canny tree bastard!


Step 3 : Centre yourself and gather the apples.


Step 4 : If a passing cow comes past, then try to entice it with some apples. Beef goes very well with apple jelly.

Nearly there... come on daisy.... the most humane way to kill a cow is to throttle it with your bare hands, any other way is cruel. Confuse it first by pointing at an imaginary monkey playing in the apple tree. It will buy you valuable seconds and allow you time to pounce.

Damn! Someone already tried the "look at the monkey!" line on this wise old cow. She escaped, outstripping me with a bovine spurt of speed. I am left holding my apples.

Step 5 : Collect the apples in a big barrell. Cut them up and strain them to collect the juice.

Step 6 : I got bored, but I think Debbie puts them in a pan and boils the juice with sugar or something.
Step 7 : Allow to cool. Eat it on your toast.

Just because I look like America’s most wanted…

An elderly couple struggling with their luggage at the train station. I offer to help them in my bestest least aggressive posh customer service voice, honed from those years I worked on helpdesks.....
"Would you like me to help you?"
The old lady looked me up and down with fearful antipathy, steeled her eyes and sneered "No thankyou." and proceeded to huff and puff with her stumbling bald husband till they got on the train seconds before the door closing beeps.
OK, so I look rough, I have a beard, I have long hair, but I was not in any way interested in stealing a suitcase full of her big pink elasticated knickers and his awful Ronnie Corbet cardigans.
I think I represented two archetypes for her :
1) Arab fanatic
2) English dastardly villain (my accent is ever so posh when I'm doing customer service stuff)
She should stop watching those Hollywood films I reckon.
I also ate raw garlic the night before, just to see what it tasted of, so maybe I stank too. I can forgive her that I suppose.

I dream of Floella Benjamin

So Kay was comparing my nephew Mick to Floella Benjamin and goading him that she was prettier than him. But that's not really important, because of this comparison, my mind harked back to Play School, the golden Era, with Derek Griffiths doing some oddball jazz / folk / ragtime crazy speed induced guitar and vocal mash up tunes about a goose, Hanbell, Humpty, Big Ted, Little Ted and Jemima. Shouting at the TV as a five year old, "The Arch window, choose the f*cking Arch Window you cock!", ah those were the days. And Brian Cant, what a nice man.
Anyway, Floella Benjamin corrupted my mind and I dreamt about her. It was really messed up.
Basically, and no sh*t I did dream this, my dreams are weird, she was some sort of Matrix/Blade style anti-hero, in an all in one black leather cat suit and cape. She had various weapons at her disposal which were secreted in concealed pockets, ninja death stars, daggers, acid squirters and poison darts. She was a one woman fighting machine. She also happened to be an England footballer (with the men) playing central midfield with Stephen Gerrard, she was so important she was exempt from wearing the England kit, she could wear her cat suit. And as she was so important she was allowed to kill people on the pitch, the ONLY footballer in the world given permission to do so by FIFA, Pele forced the motion through or something.
So England play the Czech Republic and she kills Tomas Repka playing centre half, the former West Ham player and I'm shouting at the TV, "What the f*ck is going on!" (in my dream). But then she comes out of the TV and says, "You got a f*cking problem?" and I say, "No Floella, you kill them all if you want." And then I woke up hyperventilating.
What does this mean?

Sonic Youth and Vashti Bunyan

Saw Sonic Youth last week (or was it the week before?) at their residency at the Roundhouse playing their "classic album" Daydream Nation.
They were good, I enjoyed it. I dabbled with grunge as a teenager, although strictly speaking Sonic Youth only dabbled with grunge themselves.... I would describe them more as Art Noise. Quite melodic, almost poppy but capable of roaring white noise which makes my heart leap,my eyebrows furrow and my smile gently twitch. I do look like a psycho when this happens to my face I hasten to add.
So on two scores I was happy.
1) I'd never been to the iconic venue the Roundhouse before, and I have to say I was impressed.
2) I've now seen Sonic Youth, one to stick on my gig CV.
Back in the day, whenever it was, maybe 1990, I had a chance to see Nirvana, all my mates from the comic shop in Tottenham were going to go and queue up and buy tickets. I was going to as well. But I was such a loser I slept in. One of the biggest regrets of my (gig) life. I heard afterwards people were knocking shit out of each other in the queue, but I'd have snuck in under the radar and I'm sure I would have got a ticket had I bothered to get up. Turns up not many of my other loser unemployed mates got a ticket either and decided to stay up late and watch open university or Kojak or some other bollocks of the era thus rendering them incapable of an early start!
Ah, those days. Never mind.
As for the Sonic Youth gig, as I said, I enjoyed it. I didn't enjoy the young buck trying to dry hump me from behind because he couldn't get through the crowd and get to the front. He was like one of those dogs ready for their nadgers to be cut off, all frisky and annoying. I swung round and gave him a Ray Winstone cockney volley and he backed off. I was so angry. During my favourite song as well!
Anyway, on to Vashti Bunyan, Ongey came round the other night and we had a very civilised evening (only punctuated occasionally by childish references to bumming) with Debbie and we stuck on the original Vashti Bunyan album from 1970. What a beautiful, sentimental and gorgeous piece of music. Her poetry is lush too and it recounts the songs she wrote on her long journey by horse and gypsy cart to the outer hebrides..... It could be described as twee folk, but knowing the backstory generates an enourmous warmth and nostalgia. Then, I unwrapped her second album (from 2005!) as I bought it and hadn't played it and we listened to that too. It followed the same vibe, but I felt it was overproduced, too clinical. Spoilt it for me somewhat, but again, worth a purchase for her poetry alone. Her song "Brother", the lyrics made me want to cry. But I didn't, cos I'm a hard bastard.