Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Blimey, this whole condensedgoogleeverything is a pain in the arse.
Oi, data aggregators, wind your bleedin' necks in.
Oi, data aggregators, wind your bleedin' necks in.
Thursday, February 09, 2012
A Gig Very Much Of Two Halves
Going to see someone largely on the basis of one song you love is always an interesting proposition. Paul Kelly's "Every Fucking City" is one such song, even if I have an album from around that period and I saw him the thick end of a decade ago too. I've been sat on this ticket for over three months, and given that the one previous sighting was in a park with tens of thousands of people, a night in a local club playing to tens of people looks a slightly different kind of spectacle.
Emily Barker is the second support - I missed the first due to momentary difficulties reconciling a building I last went in when it was an Italian restaurant with a venue that doesn't push the boat out when it comes to self-labelling or signwriting. It takes something special for someone to open with a song which includes enough fading vocal moments to suggests the song is coming to an end and then building it all up again despite the plausible unfamiliarity of the crowd with the turn. Emily's voice has the clarity of Kate Wolf, and alternately sounds like Julianne Regan singing Dolly Parton and someone impossible to compare to anyone else. It's fair to say I'm impressed.
Two acoustic songs in, one of which I'm very familiar with, and nephew Dan Kelly steps up to add some electric guitar over Paul's acoustic. What should be an awkward mix of electric and acoustic sounds turns out magnificently as Dan sprinkles shimmering flurries of notes over Midnight Rain, mimicking the album tones and never succumbing to the temptation to rock out except when the song requires. There's a healthy family vibe on the stage, and a crowd lapping up Paul's occasional stories and additional explanatory notes about where certain songs come from.
And the songs are often story songs, Mick Thomas or Richard Thompson universal humanity story songs where the detail never clutters the picture but puts the emotions in a concrete context, with a side order of humour and pathos. It's a beautiful introduction to some songs that might be with me for some time.
And then it happens. Gigs where acoustic artists don't blow the speakers with feedback and volume for its own sake are not infrequently blighted by people who'd rather make their own noise than listen to what's coming from the people everyone else wants to listen to. But this one is extra special.
The general vibe shifts as people move away from our shouty friend, and nobody looks impressed. Then the repeated 'I love you Paul' shouts turn into a move towards the middle of the crowd, quickly followed by him telling someone to fuck off. I'm not afraid of a bit of language, I love 'Every Fucking City' after all, but things begin to look as ugly as our shouty friend, and he carries on in much the same vein.
And then it really happens, as the frustration gets to someone else who dumps most of a pint down the neck of you-know-who. There's a bit of shouting, he pushes her and half a dozen people step forward and eventually he calms down enough to walk off, but not before making threats that 'I'll see you outside and stab you in the throat' and declaring 'I'm Australian, who the fuck are you?' as if shared passports with the turn entitles him to act the clown with impunity. I don't know whether this is an export version of the Bogan kind or just an evening ruined by some tool who lacks the self-awareness to understand that his floor show isn't what everyone else came for. Either way, I'm biting my tongue, because I've talked myself around the edge of trouble enough times before without trying too hard and I don't really want to start anything else with this drunken shouty oaf - it's one of the risks of getting involved with arguing with idiots that you get brought down to their level and the casual onlooker can't tell which is which.
Paul Kelly was tremendous, the expat clown who feels so attached to his genius is rather less so, so take this as a warning and hope that it's only Paul, Dan and co that turn up in your town and that this imbecile is somewhere further down the road.
Emily Barker is the second support - I missed the first due to momentary difficulties reconciling a building I last went in when it was an Italian restaurant with a venue that doesn't push the boat out when it comes to self-labelling or signwriting. It takes something special for someone to open with a song which includes enough fading vocal moments to suggests the song is coming to an end and then building it all up again despite the plausible unfamiliarity of the crowd with the turn. Emily's voice has the clarity of Kate Wolf, and alternately sounds like Julianne Regan singing Dolly Parton and someone impossible to compare to anyone else. It's fair to say I'm impressed.
Two acoustic songs in, one of which I'm very familiar with, and nephew Dan Kelly steps up to add some electric guitar over Paul's acoustic. What should be an awkward mix of electric and acoustic sounds turns out magnificently as Dan sprinkles shimmering flurries of notes over Midnight Rain, mimicking the album tones and never succumbing to the temptation to rock out except when the song requires. There's a healthy family vibe on the stage, and a crowd lapping up Paul's occasional stories and additional explanatory notes about where certain songs come from.
And the songs are often story songs, Mick Thomas or Richard Thompson universal humanity story songs where the detail never clutters the picture but puts the emotions in a concrete context, with a side order of humour and pathos. It's a beautiful introduction to some songs that might be with me for some time.
And then it happens. Gigs where acoustic artists don't blow the speakers with feedback and volume for its own sake are not infrequently blighted by people who'd rather make their own noise than listen to what's coming from the people everyone else wants to listen to. But this one is extra special.
The general vibe shifts as people move away from our shouty friend, and nobody looks impressed. Then the repeated 'I love you Paul' shouts turn into a move towards the middle of the crowd, quickly followed by him telling someone to fuck off. I'm not afraid of a bit of language, I love 'Every Fucking City' after all, but things begin to look as ugly as our shouty friend, and he carries on in much the same vein.
And then it really happens, as the frustration gets to someone else who dumps most of a pint down the neck of you-know-who. There's a bit of shouting, he pushes her and half a dozen people step forward and eventually he calms down enough to walk off, but not before making threats that 'I'll see you outside and stab you in the throat' and declaring 'I'm Australian, who the fuck are you?' as if shared passports with the turn entitles him to act the clown with impunity. I don't know whether this is an export version of the Bogan kind or just an evening ruined by some tool who lacks the self-awareness to understand that his floor show isn't what everyone else came for. Either way, I'm biting my tongue, because I've talked myself around the edge of trouble enough times before without trying too hard and I don't really want to start anything else with this drunken shouty oaf - it's one of the risks of getting involved with arguing with idiots that you get brought down to their level and the casual onlooker can't tell which is which.
Paul Kelly was tremendous, the expat clown who feels so attached to his genius is rather less so, so take this as a warning and hope that it's only Paul, Dan and co that turn up in your town and that this imbecile is somewhere further down the road.
Sunday, February 05, 2012
It Won't Be Long 'Til Summer Comes
Yeah, it's been a while.
Caught between being busy with the stuff of life and seeing people I'm highly familiar with, there's been a bit too much doing going on and therefore a bit less writing about it, but better that way round.
A mere seven weeks since my last gig, I'm expecting to buy a ticket on the door but greeted by ticket office staff ensuring I'm only collecting a prepaid ticket before referring me to a guy with a couple of spares to shift. Outbreaks of humanity in the ticket office are to be recognised and applauded!
Handing over a trifle under face value, there's a search for a seat somewhere I'd no particular plan to be. So I'm up in the roof, with only two rows behind me. Proper up in the roof, at the level of the lighting frame, the one bolted to the ceiling that the lighting rig itself hangs off. At something like seventy foot above the stage, it's a view I don't often have.
I didn't get there in time for the first support, but I'm in my seat to sit through Clutch. Imagine Reef doing Helter Skelter if Gary Stringer's dad was Brian Blessed and you're pretty much there. Nice chunky bluesy guitar sound, but the most exciting bit is when someone taps me on the shoulder to wake me up when he could have just walked past me; there's a lot more legroom up there to accommodate the rake of the balcony sections.
With John Sykes busy with the perming solution, Scott Gorham has hauled in Brian Downey and Darren Wharton, a prospect that clinches my decision to go. Dare were a great band, but it's Downey that legitimises this line up for me. No, it's not Thin Lizzy, whatever it says on the ticket, but it's the most authentic tribute act I'm ever going to see.
The Almighty are a band of my generation, one I never quite got on with over a number of gigs over the years. Ricky Warwick's solo act I enjoyed rather more, and his stepping into Lynott's shoes works better than might be expected. Downey's easy shuffle drumming is bulked out by Marco Mendoza's robust bass-playing, and the unexpected highlight is Damon Johnson's guitar work.
Starting off on the big white guitar he sounded a little bit off, but once he switched to something closer to the to the classically styled Les Paul it sounded a lot more right. Still not sure why Gorham wasn't doing more of the solo work - allowing the younger man the spotlight or having some kind of trouble or somewhere in between, it's unclear, but in any case Scott still nails the diddle-iddle-iddle-iddle-iddle-iddle-iddle-diddle solo in Waiting For An Alibi.
So, I can now include Brian Downey in musicians I never thought I'd get to see, and for that alone it was worth it. And yes, I probably will track down the re-re-remastered versions of the albums which have been available in the last couple of years but am I rushing out to get a ticket for the next clutch of dates? Not right now, no.
Are You Ready
Jailbreak
Bad Reputation
Don't Believe A Word
Killer On The Loose
Dancing In The Moonlight
Massacre
Angel Of Death
Still In Love With You - Wharton\Warwick mixed vocals
guitar solo into
Whisky In the Jar
Sha La La
drum solo into
Suicide
Waiting For An Alibi
Cowboy Song
The Boys Are Back In Town
-----
Emerald
Rosalie
Roisin Dubh (Black Rose)
_
Caught between being busy with the stuff of life and seeing people I'm highly familiar with, there's been a bit too much doing going on and therefore a bit less writing about it, but better that way round.
A mere seven weeks since my last gig, I'm expecting to buy a ticket on the door but greeted by ticket office staff ensuring I'm only collecting a prepaid ticket before referring me to a guy with a couple of spares to shift. Outbreaks of humanity in the ticket office are to be recognised and applauded!
Handing over a trifle under face value, there's a search for a seat somewhere I'd no particular plan to be. So I'm up in the roof, with only two rows behind me. Proper up in the roof, at the level of the lighting frame, the one bolted to the ceiling that the lighting rig itself hangs off. At something like seventy foot above the stage, it's a view I don't often have.
I didn't get there in time for the first support, but I'm in my seat to sit through Clutch. Imagine Reef doing Helter Skelter if Gary Stringer's dad was Brian Blessed and you're pretty much there. Nice chunky bluesy guitar sound, but the most exciting bit is when someone taps me on the shoulder to wake me up when he could have just walked past me; there's a lot more legroom up there to accommodate the rake of the balcony sections.
With John Sykes busy with the perming solution, Scott Gorham has hauled in Brian Downey and Darren Wharton, a prospect that clinches my decision to go. Dare were a great band, but it's Downey that legitimises this line up for me. No, it's not Thin Lizzy, whatever it says on the ticket, but it's the most authentic tribute act I'm ever going to see.
The Almighty are a band of my generation, one I never quite got on with over a number of gigs over the years. Ricky Warwick's solo act I enjoyed rather more, and his stepping into Lynott's shoes works better than might be expected. Downey's easy shuffle drumming is bulked out by Marco Mendoza's robust bass-playing, and the unexpected highlight is Damon Johnson's guitar work.
Starting off on the big white guitar he sounded a little bit off, but once he switched to something closer to the to the classically styled Les Paul it sounded a lot more right. Still not sure why Gorham wasn't doing more of the solo work - allowing the younger man the spotlight or having some kind of trouble or somewhere in between, it's unclear, but in any case Scott still nails the diddle-iddle-iddle-iddle-iddle-iddle-iddle-diddle solo in Waiting For An Alibi.
So, I can now include Brian Downey in musicians I never thought I'd get to see, and for that alone it was worth it. And yes, I probably will track down the re-re-remastered versions of the albums which have been available in the last couple of years but am I rushing out to get a ticket for the next clutch of dates? Not right now, no.
Are You Ready
Jailbreak
Bad Reputation
Don't Believe A Word
Killer On The Loose
Dancing In The Moonlight
Massacre
Angel Of Death
Still In Love With You - Wharton\Warwick mixed vocals
guitar solo into
Whisky In the Jar
Sha La La
drum solo into
Suicide
Waiting For An Alibi
Cowboy Song
The Boys Are Back In Town
-----
Emerald
Rosalie
Roisin Dubh (Black Rose)
