overlap

And on that anniversary note, another time and place I don't have to think about to remember is exactly where I was on 4th January 1986, the day Phil Lynott died. Although that's been mentioned on here before, it was in the days before youtube became such an all-encompassing thing, and I've just spent some time going through some stuff on there, a lot of which I've never seen before. Old Town - I've also crossed the Liffey on possibly that footbridge, but I like this in particular as it's off one of the solo albums and it seems a bit more honest and a bit less trying too hard to be a big tough cartoon rock star. That business with a trumpet he can't play is not someone demanding to be taken seriously! The Man's A Fool - much as I prefer the album version, this is great, especially to see Sykes and Wakeman (yes, that one!) really going for it. Please Don't Leave Me - Sykes' solo single, sung by Phil and effectively recorded by Thin Lizzy minus Scott Gorham. This is a mimed for telly version, but it's the best sounding version I can find on youtube, and it's one of my very favourite songs. It'll tell you plenty about my highly unfashionable taste in guitar solos too!

Labels: John Sykes, Phil Lynott, rock, Thin Lizzy

When is a band not a band? Good question. To take a currently on tour case in point, for starters we have Diamond Head. Now, Brian Tatler formed the band, co-wrote almost all the famous early material with Sean Harris, and has been in the band for the entire length it has existed, so I'm comfortable with whatever band Tatler is playing Diamond Head songs with, and indeed recording new material with, being called Diamond Head. That makes its own sense. On the other hand you have Scott Gorham, John Sykes and assorted hired hands playing material largely written by, and originally sung by someone who has now been dead for almost twenty two years. And much as I love the material, nobody's going to convince me that that is really Thin Lizzy. Diamond Head blast into It's Electric, with Nick Tart jumping about like a very junior Bruce Dickinson and a theatre audience relaxed in their comfy velvet effect chairs gradually stir into life. Commenting that 'It's like the cinema in here', Tart has a point, and as last minute replacements on the tour for Queensryche you might expect Diamond Head to be a little off the pace or slow to get going. Not a bit of it, for the first couple of tracks Tatler wields a Flying V with extreme prejudice, and what follows for the next forty-odd minutes is classic trad Midlands metal. Drummer Karl Wilcox does a great line in looking rather like a weightlifter version of Ozzy circa 1985, but exhibits far greater motor control and co-ordination as he batters his kit like there's no tomorrow, Tatler hits solo after solo and it's all too soon into Helpless and Am I Evil to close. Nice. Disappointment not to get to see Queensryche again, who'd been a major reason in deciding to go in the first place, turns into satisfaction at seeing a still evolving act with new material and a vibrancy that belies their vintage. The prospect of sitting through a faithful re-creation of Live And Dangerous, as I had been led to believe was on the cards, wasn't so exciting. As it turns out, that's not what we got at all. Having made a particular effort to get a ticket for a seat that would put me close in front of Scott Gorham, I was both amused and impressed at the will-they-won't-they efforts the security people made to get people to stay sat in their seats instead of all moving to stand at the front, and at his reactions. One bloke stood in front of Gorham for all of about five seconds before being led away by his arm and pointed back to his seat, which had Gorham pursing his lips in disbelief like he'd just watched someone try to pick up a running chainsaw blade first, and responded by coming back to stand even closer to the front edge of the stage when not at his microphone. After four or five songs, two guys who'd already been warned for enjoying themselves too much made a break for the stagefront area, followed by a critical mass of a three dozen people, and more as it became clear that six security were never going to keep sixty people in their seats. This seemed to amuse Gorham and Sykes greatly, and made for a great atmosphere. I stayed where I was, and the movement of people away from being stood right in front of me meant that I had a better shot at getting some half-reasonable pictures of Gorham and the other person I was especially keen to photograph... Tommy Aldridge is 57, and takes to the stage already bare chested. When I first saw him when they opened for Styx and Deep Purple earlier this year, I was mesmerised by his drumming, and while I have no real understanding of the craft, I can almost believe Sykes when he later introduces Aldridge to the audience as 'the best drummer in the world'. It's certainly true he pioneered double bass drums in rock, and how he manages to hit that many skins and cymbals in time while doing helicopters above his head with the drum stick in his left hand is beyond me. I've always been impressed by capability, and Aldridge has it in abundance. And in Ronnie Dio's rock world of demons, dragons and mysterious evil strangers, you have to love the way Tommy's drum solo moves through chucking his sticks out into the crowd, to playing with his hands for a couple of minutes, to picking up another pair of sticks and holding them in the sign of the cross to finish with. If it's his faith that keeps him drumming like that, then it obviously works for him, and I'm not going to knock it. What could have been unspectacular turned out to be a cracking gig, and the rhythmically complex Black Rose gives TA a chance to stick an extra few beats into every bar in between Gorham and Sykes both taking lead guitar solos, and everyone leaves happy. Much as it isn't quite the real thing, you'll struggle to find a tribute band that can rock that hard and have so much fun in Lynott's memory, and a smoother operator you will never see. * the best five Aldridge pics have been on flickr for a few days, this is my favourite of them

Labels: Diamond Head, gigs, rock, Thin Lizzy

I have a passing familiarity with the name since the start of the 90s and Sean Worrall's Organ fanzine, but apart from one support slot in 1995 somehow I've never been in the right place to see any more of Tim Smith's Cardiacs. To tell the truth, I only decided to go this time to see the support band featuring Tamworth's finest guitarist, Jase Edwards, and by a combination of idleness and not getting on with it I missed them anyway. Tim Smith looks a little like an older version of Randy from My Name Is Earl, but he cuts a fine figure as a frontman who knows his audience as well as he knows his craft. Musically you could say it echos the technical intricacy of some of Zappa's stuff, though there's a hint of Half Man Half Biscuit in places too, but it's all served up with a healthy side order of cheery lunacy, challenging the unfamiliar listener to try to make sense of something that very much has its own particular vibe. This is a good thing, though ninety minutes was just a tiny bit more than I needed. Turning to leave the venue, who should I find standing behind me but Jase. So we chatted for a couple of minutes about the Tamworth show and the forthcoming ones, and I left reminded that not leaving before the end sometimes comes with its own rewards. Nice.

Labels: gigs, rock

Two quotes - firstly me, here, a week ago. "I dare say I'll live, but that won't stop me also hoping for another band (that I now won't be seeing) to get the reformation fever thing, that turns one gig into the odd few!" And secondly, Dave Ling, from his site at the link on the right. "Confirming pre-show whispers that FM were already considering some sort of post-Firefest rebirth, a clearly shellshocked Pete Jupp left the stage by informing the crowd: "We'll see you again in 2008". YES! How 'bout that for good news.

Labels: FM, gigs, rock

Every once in a while something comes up that has me wondering how I missed it for so long. Thinking about it on the way home, I'm sure the video for Summertime Girls was shown on No Limits twenty-odd years ago, but that never really grabbed my attention. But I did listen a bit harder when Bruce Dicko played Forever on his Radio2 show a few weeks ago, partly because I was aware this gig was scheduled. Other than that, I've no recollection of ever knowingly listening to Y&T except that in my archives I have a tape of them live at Reading in 1982, which I must have listened to at the time and not got desperately enthused by. Last week I turned the tracks on that tape to mp3s, listened to them a few times, and having missed out on the Firefest tickets, plumped for the Y&T gig instead. This afternoon I had a good scout around youtube to see what else I could find, but still set off to the gig in the fairly novel position of not really knowing what I was expecting. Half an hour of Tigertailz' support slot was about right, and for various reasons I'm unsure where they go from here. I've always enjoyed their humour, and the fact they come from somewhere that isn't London, California or New York but somewhere all their own. I'll leave it at saying that I wish them well. When a band comes on stage and the bass player looks like an Easter Island statue in Steve Harris' haircut, with nothing above the waist but a velvet waistcoat and jewellery, you know exactly where you stand. And it's possibly not somewhere especially fashionable, but it's also somewhere that fashionable doesn't really matter. They open fire with, er, Open Fire, move on to Hungry For Rock and it's all roaring vocal and shred heaven from there on. Dave Meniketti combines lead guitar and lead vocal, which is something you really don't see very often, and it's great to watch the seamless way he switches between both without the need for hot and cold running vocal coaches anointing his vocal cords with soothing honey concoctions. I take that to be a sign of someone who's more than paid his dues, and knows exactly what he's doing. The bit where the audience get to choose a couple of songs brings us Go For The Throat and This Time, and there's something both unpredictable and reassuring about how Dave drags the band through stuff that hadn't been rehearsed and wasn't on the setlist. Of the six tracks from 1982 on that tape, Y&T played all six. And more or less everything else you could ever want. Ninety minutes in and we still hadn't had Rescue Me, I Believe In You or Forever - that's value for money, and then some. Top night out, and I've got some shopping to do! But if they're passing your way, I can heartily recommend checking it out.

Labels: gigs, Meniketti, rock, Y and T

Just got home from seeing Wolverhampton's own Timothy Taylor, better known as Tyla of Dogs d'Amour (in)fame. While I've only been there the once before, I'm already aware it's a funny venue, in a too residential location that involves some complicated one way system shenanigans, but all the same there's really no reason to rush to get there early. Where I live is somewhere I'm pretty comfortable with, and I like such variety of accents as exist, but walking in the door and taking three goes to understand an accent so thick that a vat of molten tar would thin it out nicely is always a questionable start. Finding out the venue part of the place is not yet open, and it's a wait in the bar job means I was right not to rush, and I can sit trying to work out who is meant to be who in the rock stars mural opposite the bar. The distinctive Gene Simmons make up is clearly identifiable, Marilyn Manson's eyes are clearly identifiable, Axl's bandana is clearly identifiable but when the guy stood behind me comments that the "Jimi Hendrix" looks more like Viv Anderson, he's not wrong and that's not the only example. Eventually we get into the gig, and the support is Johnny Trashed, a slightly rockabilly flavoured, heavily Johnny Cash influenced band who do barnstorming versions of Folsom Prison Blues, Boy Named Sue and Jackson to finish, along with a handful of other similar stuff, including Ghost Riders In The Sky. Unlikely to change the world, but good fun, party stuff. Tyla's on stage about eleven, and it's fantastic to hear Drunk Like Me for the first time in years. It's not the first time I've seen some of a crowd talking among itself, but it is the first time I've seen someone rewrite a verse on the hoof to have a go at someone shouting in her mate's ear, which would be less obvious if they weren't stood smack in the middle of the dozen people in front of the stage. Empty World is still Satellite Kid's little brother due to the remarkable similarity, Heroine and a couple of newer ones pass the time till How Come It Never Rains and then it's all too quickly time to go, and on the stroke of midnight I'm already pulling into Tesco. A couple of fantastic old songs and all the hanging about doesn't really make for a great night, and I'm glad it was hardly a big journey to get there. For the price of admission it was ok, but rather than enthused about the gig, I'm still tickled at hearing from Tracey Beehive. Which tells its own story.

Labels: gigs, rock, Tyla

I was about to post about just what a cracking show I've just seen The Oysterband do, and instead I'm sat here listening to Living Without You, having found out that Pepsi Tate has finally succumbed to his pancreatic cancer. Forty two is really no age, and it's a very sad loss. Tigertailz were a great band for doing everything their own way, without the Londoncentricity that sometimes appears to be a requirement for musical success, and without ever giving up on what they knew were their best points. And just in case the world needs proof of just how much fun stoopid metal can be, this should do the trick. The hairspray alone in this is probably responsible for a sizeable dent in the ozone layer, and as for the bleach...

Labels: gigs, Oysterband, Pepsi Tate, rock, Tigertailz

It's a refreshing change to be home from a gig without hours of driving being necessary. Metal done solo acoustic is something that it would be easy to get wrong. especially when your stock in trade is big swooping, almost operatic vocals. Blaze Bayley's got more front than Chesil Beach, and more cheesy lines than a Butlin's redcoat - add those to a fistful of tunes and you get a quality night's entertainment. Which would be plenty enough fun on its own, so it was a huge surprise to run into two people that I certainly wouldn't have expected to see there. Seems I'm not the only one to keep my own counsel, though I'm assured it's more my faulty radar that means I didn't spot the rocker in someone! Having been an internet news story in my own right in the last week, albeit as a minor result of the way some websites aggregate and compile info about what else is going on on the web, I'm now amused to death to find myself featured in another story that is actually reported as news, of the local interest variety. But the funniest thing is how the bit that is claimed to be me actually isn't me at all.

Labels: Blaze Bayley, gigs, rock

And here we go again. With more reformation activity than the sixteenth century currently in the air, there's a freaky inevitability that having just got one out of the way, something else would pop up sooner or later. So there I was checking for info on the Tyketto reunion shows that I'd known for months were supposed to be in the offing this autumn, and blow me if they aren't second on the bill below this proud headline: Now, it's an arm and a leg job, not exactly local, and I'm supposed to be somewhere else that day anyway. I'm reluctant to pay that price for getting there late and only seeing two bands, even if it's these two that are the only reason I'd be going, but all the same, That Girl is in the unremovable folder of stuff on my mp3 player for good reason, and I have no idea at this point how I can possibly knowingly miss that show. In between turning into a tenth rate version of the splendid Dave Ling's diary, I'm aware that this is also gradually coming to resemble an extended obituary feature, which I guess is as much a consequence of growing older in the information age as it is anything else. All the same, Anita Roddick's passing at 64 is less notable for me from an environmental perspective than from a very personal one: the first item of cosmetics I ever bought was a lipstick from a branch of The Body Shop just down the road from Victoria, in a first step marginally less momentous than first seeing Wolfsbane, but significantly more difficult. And without either I wouldn't be the person I am today.

Labels: gigs, rock

So, four hours' sleep later and it was up and off to work. Not quite up to the standards of seeing Springsteen at Wembley, getting in at 3.30 and up at 6.30, though I'd barely left school then. And indeed, amusing novelty though these sort of late nights are, I'm not sure that it's a habit I really need to carry into my 40s as they start to loom over the distant horizon. Going back through my records I see that I saw Wolfsbane five times within two hundred yards of Tottenham Court Road tube, and I think that those trips to the Marquee were among my first experiences of travelling for gigs as a matter of course rather than as an occasional novelty, and other than The Grip they were the first band you'd not expect many people to already have heard of that really caught my imagination. Wolfsbane were of a generation that made a virtue of personal accessibility, and though I have more music by other bands, it's possible that their stuff forms my most complete collection of merchandise and memorabilia. I spent some time on saturday night watching the In Bed With Wolfsbane video, and that merely cemented the monster grin on my face that's been there most of the week looking forward to last night. On the back of that, it was a little disconcerting to see Steve Danger with a shiny chrome dome, and Jase must be really bored of the rogue Magic Number comparison too by now. Jeff looks more or less the same – same bass, same bouncy shoes. Eavesdropping on someone else's conversation, the guy said he'd have crawled over broken glass to get there, but at the same time kinda wished it wasn't happening. The suggestion was that it was like running into an ex, nice to be reminded of the good stuff but one of those things that might be better left to fade away rather than confront anew if raking it all up could be avoided. While I can relate to the broken glass, from where I'm standing it's one of those things that really needed a proper send-off, and laying it to rest in the same spirit of celebration and fun that made such an impression all those years ago is really the only fitting way. Of the three complete one-off gigs I've seen this year, I'd gladly have missed seeing that version of the Mega City Four if it meant Wiz were still with us, and the Jel show was beyond all known laws of probability, so this was the one that I'm both absolutely thrilled to have made it to, and had honestly never expected or even felt it realistic to hope to see. Cheers chaps, and if there's the slightest chance of a repeat, I'll see you there. Rock on!

Labels: gigs, rock, Wolfsbane

Just got home from a pilgrimage to the hotspot of metal that is Tamworth. Some other bands, blah blah blah, but at this time of night the only thing that counts is having had my birthday present a few days early, and seen the first performance of Wolfsbane in thirteen or fourteen years. Setlist: Steel, You Load Me Down, Loco, Kathy Wilson, Temple Of Rock, Manhunt, Paint The Town Red, Born To Run (yes, that Born To Run!). If if turns out that that really is that, then this way we all go out with a bang rather than a whimper. They rocked, I rocked, we all rocked. And for half an hour I was in my early twenties again.

Labels: gigs, rock, Wolfsbane

The anniversary of Elvis' death comes just before Phil Lynott's birthday. And even if Lynott did write King's Call about Elvis, I know which of the two meant more to me. It's interesting (though ultimately fruitless) to speculate what he'd have made of what's happened to rock music in the last twenty years, but the examples of his solo albums, The Greedies and even Paul Hardcastle's work on Nineteen* make me think he might well have moved with the times rather than fought against them. Happy birthday Philo, may the angels be watching over you.** * No, two different songs of the same name. ** Spirit Slips Away from the album Fighting, 1975.

Labels: Phil Lynott, rock, Thin Lizzy

For many bands, carrying on having lost a member who was a major creative force is difficult, if not impossible. And yet every now and then, the enjoyment of making music together keeps those who are still around interested in carrying on to some degree. When I first saw Big Country, I was possibly expecting too much, and without going back to my diary to check, I'm fairly comfortable saying I thought they were great but not quite earth-shattering. They're another band I have more than one album by, and who I definitely like, but for one reason or another never became a devoted fan of. All the same, I was very much saddened by Stuart Adamson's death, and touched by another band who first toured with Big Country dedicating a song to him in their live performances at the time. A gig by Tony Butler, Bruce Watson and Mark Unpronounceablename (as those of us of a certain age and a history of Smash Hits reading will always think of him) as a trio was a very interesting prospect, and one that could have gone several different ways. Rosie Jones' support slot fits somewhere close to Carina Round's mixture of melody and screaming, with a dollop of Lily Allen's almost spoken delivery in places, and Tennessee in particular is good fun. Not something I'm going to chase hard, but I'll be interested to see how her writing develops if our paths cross in the future. Bruce in particular looks like he's having a great time, and Tony, in between taking most of the lead vocals, looks like someone who'd liven up even the dreariest party, so it's great to see people enjoying what they do to start with. Stuart is mentioned enough times that the gig is a worthy tribute without descending into an overmawkish spectacle of sentiment, and leaving it to the crowd to sing the vocal on Chance is a nice touch. The Teacher rocks like a quarryload of granite, Look Away bounces like Zebedee on a bouncy castle, the few new songs sound like they fit right in, and the final encore of In A Big Country finishes early enough for me to be on my way home by 22.15. Here's a set of their autographs, collected eighteen years ago, and my recollection of meeting them to get these was of warm and friendly, personable and approachable chaps, anything but the archetypal rock star nonsense. Given the chance, I'd recommend you check them out, and you will be in Wonderland!

Labels: Big Country, Bruce Watson, gigs, Mark Brzezicki, music, reformations, rock, Stuart Adamson, Tony Butler

After a short break, posting resumes with the news that I'm pleased to be back home to start another football season consisting of about two weeks of hope, and eight months of desperation. There's something about being back in my own bed that's pretty unbeatable, but there's another thing to look forward to and that's working through the autumn touring schedules. The last few years seem to have proven that barring death, almost every band comes back together sooner or later, and often in addition to or despite members moving on to other, bigger and/or better things. Even Robert Plant was recently seen explaining how Roger Daltrey keeps asking him 'why don't you give them what they want?' so the reunion bug really does get absolutely everywhere. Nevertheless, it's a matter of incredible excitement and glee to find myself looking forward to another unexpected reformation delight, namely that the headline slot of Blaze Bayley at Tamworth Rock Of Ages Festival is to be supplemented by a reunion set by the mighty Wolfsbane. It's not for no reason that my HMS card is one of the few items that remains in my wallet all the time, and it's not like there was much of a chance to say a proper goodbye after somebody legged it to join Maiden either. Even though I've run into Jeff a few times over the years, and heard some work Jase's been part of, there's some unfinished business, and that's without the mouth-watering prospect that they might like each other enough to want to do some more. Never say never. Chances of my limited readership here being familiar with Wolfsbane are on the low side, but I can safely say there is no other band on earth I would rather see reform unless the current rules on death and resurrection are radically changed. And I'm utterly thrilled that once again, we're gonna paint the town red.

Labels: Blaze Bayley, reformations, rock, Wolfsbane

It's taken a few days to nearly catch up on sleep and other stuff, so
I need to post and bring this up to date before something else happens
to comment on. Friday morning saw me driving to work, all the better
for leaving directly to travel to Brum to see the living legend that
is Ozzy Osbourne.

There's something unutterably compelling about him shambling about the
stage like a heavy metal Father Jack, alternating between telling the
crowd how much he loves them all, and demanding that people go crazy.
And then shuffles to the side of the stage to collect buckets of water
to hurl at the front few rows of the crowd. It's more or less what you
would expect, and somewhere between six and eight thousand people get
to go home happy enough.

Saturday's Tour de France Prologue in London meant that going home
just to get up to go to London would have been a number of wasted
miles, so I slept in my car in a layby somewhere in Warwickshire.
Bright sunshine demonstrating the greenhouse effect woke me up early
enough to make good time to get a train into the big city, and walk to
Hyde Park before the crowds were too huge.

Seven hours later, I was still at my place right on the barrier having
got through the better part of 500 shots and more than one set of
camera batteries. The best results are on flickr, and while I'm rather
pleased with some of them, it's just as satisfying to be able to say
that I saw the likes of Zabel and Boonen in the flesh, as well as the
largest Brit contingent to take part for some time.

Once the riders finished, it was back to the car and home for about
eleven. Sunday was another load of stamina training, which is how I've
been almost too wiped out to do much with the rest of the week beyond
gradually sort through the Prologue photos.

It was a lot to pack in, but well worth the effort.

Labels: Ozzy Osbourne, rock, Tour de France

There's someting about wine-powered typing that makes for a lot of fun. On friday night I went to see "Europe's Longest Standing KISS Tribute Band" - Dressed To Kill. I've seen the real KISS, and these were at least as much fun, playing for nearly two and a half hours and doing a bunch of great songs I have not listened to in ages. You can see how seriously they take their act here, feel free to stare, point and giggle til you've had enough. Now, in matters entirely unconnected with blokes old enough to know better wearing too much make up, I've been finding that some websites do not reflect what is actually in stock. On friday I was looking at a handbag again that I have been in two minds whether I really liked, but by saturday when I'd decided I did like it and went back for it, it was gone. Which makes for a few fruitless miles driven. In between enjoying the fruits of my most recent make up shopping, I am unable to be too bothered about shops' stocking policies, and remain tempted by the idea of shopping on those websites which promised more than their shops could deliver. In the global scheme of things, it's no big deal.

Labels: Dressed To Kill, gigs, KISS, make up, music, rock

This was the moment it finally started to seem real - the picture above shows a flightcase with the bright yellow tape marked JOURNEY FOH (front of house) - that I was finally going to get to see Journey. I have clear recollections of listening to them in the days when I was cycling to gigs, long before the thought of driving (or even flying) to gigs occurred. It's a long time ago. Some time just over a year ago I was updating my records, and looking at the numbers I realised there was a chance that I could get a couple of round numbers to coincide. For no good reason whatsoever, except it seemed like an amusing stunt if I could possibly pull it off. And so it came to pass that I spent yesterday celebrating the big occasion of my 500th gig; once it was possible that the grail-like appearance of Journey (doing their first shows in the UK since 1980) might fit, I've done my best to engineer things towards that result. I could gush for hours about why Journey, and may yet do so, but what amounts to my life's work in facts and figures comes down to the following. It's an utterly rocktastic 666 different bands doing 1,166 sets in 177 venues in 60 towns and cities, in 7 countries. Fitting that in in just under twenty years means I've averaged a gig every fourteen and a half days over that period, which puts it into context why I often fail to appreciate the 'night out' aspect that gigs can have for some people. And while there's the odd one that does feel a bit like hard work (yes I mean you, RW!) for the majority of the time I'm having a ball. It's true that there are places and indeed countries I've only visited for gigs, and I've been unfashionable in several different languages and a multitude of musical genres - ultimately that's what I do. I'm very lucky that I don't have the sort of commitments that stop me from spending this proportion of time and money in the pursuit of live music, and I'm well aware that that may not be forever. Which is one of the reasons for celebrating yesterday - I've now seen almost every band I could wish to, from old school Brit metal titans like Diamond Head, Judas Priest and Iron Maiden to 90s indie heroes Carter USM, Ned's Atomic Dustbin and Pop Will Eat Itself, from classic credible rockers like Young, Springsteen and Dylan to long gone performance superstars like Wolfsbane, The Grip and Chrome Molly who you're unlikely ever to have heard of. From true pioneers like Tom Paxton, Duane Eddy and Sonny Curtis to lo-fi diy acts like [bis], Helen Love and Disco, from popular 'legends' Nine Inch Nails, Nirvana and the Red Hot Chili Peppers (all rubbish!) to the novelty-tinged genius of Frank Sidebottom, John Otway and Half Man Half Biscuit, from ... well, the list goes on. Deen Castronovo + Neal Schon + Steve Augeri + Ross Valory + Jonathan Cain = Journey Above: Steve and Neal - Open Arms! Below: Neal and Steve Lay It Down

Labels: gigs, Journey, rock

On saturday morning I got up earlier than I do for work, and I've just got home from a cracking day of music. I now have a small amount of sunburn, and a real need to rock up the stairs to bed, but I've got just one more thing to say*, and that's Don't Stop Believing.

* I'll have something more sensible to say and some pictures later...

Labels: gigs, Journey, rock

Well, let's not get carried away just yet. But barring mishaps, friday and saturday nights will see me doing one thing that it never occurred to me would happen, and more importantly something I always hoped for but never dreamed I'd get to do. Saturday should see me back in a great big field I last visited fifteen years ago, watching a band I have previously (and in all seriousness) threatened to cross the atlantic to see, so likely was the chance of getting to see them here. I've seen the guitarist play in two different side project bands, one great and one less so, but this is the real thing and it feels like all my birthdays and christmases come at once to think the day is finally approaching.

Labels: gigs, Journey, rock

Slipping back into the working routine was easily enough, but having got used to having that little bit more time in the morning I'm hoping to stick with having breakfast more often than I don't, instead of the other way around. We'll see. Meanwhile I know I'm back to normal living, having seen a great gig; Justin Sullivan has all the wild-eyed charisma required of some sort of cult leader, and the New Model Army catalogue is a mixture of defiance against authority wielded harshly, and individual and personal responsibility - for me that's nothing but the cult of humanity. And they did Stupid Questions, which is definitely my favourite NMA song, and one I don't believe I've seen done live before so it was with a very broad smile I was running in the rain back to my car.

Labels: gigs, New Model Army, rock