Sigur Rós - how to make three thousand souls smile in unison

Sigur Rós, Live at Wolverhampton Civic Hall

Tuesday 5^th March, 2013

I knew my nephew Tom was a fellow admirer of the Icelandic post-rock band Sigur Rós so, when I tentatively suggested we should go to this gig, the response was predictable:  ‘I imagine,’ he emailed me back, ‘after  seeing them, we will scoff at ever debating whether we should have or not.’ Sometimes, the way Tom expresses himself, I think he might actually be GK Chesterton. And so it was that Tom, his affable friend Joseph and I found ourselves waiting for Sigur Rós while the support act – Blanck Mass -- got the crowd into a suitably hypnagogic state. 

When the light show projected white circles across the back of the stage, Tom observed that the Mysterons had arrived. This reference to the 1967 TV series Captain Scarlet had me looking out for the sinister Captain Black. I have to say, there were quite a few contenders in the crowd but, as Joseph pointed out, surprisingly few jumper-wearers considering this was a Sigur Rós concert.

Finally, Blanck Mass ended, and Sigur Rós began to play behind a gauze curtain which only dropped away at the climax of the third song. (Is this what they call in theatre-land a scrim curtain? I'll have to ask another of my nephews, Tim -- a lighting engineer -- about that one.) 

The eerie use of lighting cast giant shadows of singer-guitarist Jónsi Birgisson as he played electric guitar with a cello bow. Stooped in concentration, bowing his guitar, the giant shadows appeared, at times, to be projections of a headless frontman. Visually, the show was astounding, with its clever combination of back-projected film and countless standard lamps on stage, sometimes streetlights in fairyland, sometimes beacons answering the strange flashes of maritime lights playing on the backdrop. The sounds emanating from the stage were as extraordinary as the visual effects, and it was remarkable that everything, from the quietest tinkle of glockenspiel and toy piano to the loudest crescendo of guitar, drums, bass, strings and brass playing together was audible and undistorted, testimony to great sound engineering combined with impeccable musicianship. Sigur Rós‘s music, whether at its gentlest or most searingly dramatic, is transcendentally beautiful and, at certain moments, there appeared to be two or three thousand souls smiling at once. At the end of the show, the musicians lined up to take a bow, as if at the end of delightful, otherworldly pantomime.

Giraffes, harpsichords and black swans

‘We’re going away for a couple of days to Exeter.'

'Why?’ asked my friend Phil.

‘Well, we like mini-breaks in interesting old towns and cities, and we’ve been to York, Chester, Salisbury... but we've never been to Exeter.'

‘There may be a reason for that,' said Phil. He went on to say that, for a cathedral city with a university, Exeter was surprisingly unimpressive and we’d need to think about where else to visit if we were going to base ourselves there. He suggested a little place called Topsham.

Sue and I were just pleased that we’d found a hotel right in the city centre with free car parking. We imagined visiting lots of quaint old pubs and interesting little shops. But, it turned out, Phil had a point. Poor old Exeter, heavily bombed between 1940 and 1942, seemed to have not yet fully recovered. The occasional Tudor building juxtaposed with architecture from the 50s, 60s, 70s, as if the city council had been desperately trying to fill in the gaps between buildings. And still, it seemed, Exeter had too many gaps -- too much space for the population, the streets far too wide for the shoppers and homeless people and the occasional isolated student. 70 years was evidently not long enough to recover, and the latest recession just added insult to injury. Decent pubs were few and far between -- even the Tourist Information Office (hidden at the back of a shopping precinct), struggled to recommend a pub with any atmosphere.

The historic quayside never seemed to come to life -- we kept going back to check. Was it jaunty as it came to life on a Saturday morning, or buzzing with joie de vivre on a Friday night? Well, no. The 12th century cathedral, draped in scaffolding, repelled visitors with its compulsory entrance fee.

There were two oases of friendliness and enjoyment.  First, Herbies -- a welcoming vegetarian cafe/restaurant, with excellent value food that was wholesome and delicious. (Why do so few towns and cities in Britain these days have a vegetarian restaurant and, equally puzzling, why does Exeter have such a good one?) Second, the Royal Albert Museum and Art Gallery (last year named the UK's Museum of the Year.) Here we were greeted by a giraffe called Gerald who has been towering over visitors since 1920. We circled around Gerald to the accompaniment of ghostly harpsichord music, which appeared to emanate from the 18th century Florentine instrument next to the giraffe.

We did follow Phil's advice and visited the nearby village of Topsham but, although prettier than Exeter, we found nothing there to capture our imagination so we continued on for ten miles, on a spontaneous pilgrimage to Dawlish Warren -- the site of a distant memory of a caravan holiday -- and then on to Dawlish itself, where we saw the town's famous black swans and walked out to sea on the jetty. I thought of my mum, who would have been delighted to know that Sue and I had accidentally ended up in Dawlish, more than 40 years after mum and dad had taken my brother and me there. Perhaps Sue and I should have skipped the idea of a city break in Exeter and plumped straight for a caravan in Dawlish Warren, tea and cakes by the seaside and a game of crazy golf as the black swans looked on.

Crime doesn’t pay, writing does sometimes ...

I’ve had a few articles published in the last few months in publications that don’t pay.  One was an opinion piece for a mental health magazine; another was a feature for Acksherley! (the magazine of the Malcolm Saville Society.). My fellow writers in the group known as the SevernValley Authors congratulated me on my Acksherley! article (Treasure and Miracles in Deep England) and commented that it must have involved quite a bit of research. It did, but it was a real pleasure to research and write because it was such a fun and interesting subject, (unlike some of the stuff I have to write and research.) One group member remarked that it’s appalling that writers are often expected to produce work for nothing but, as someone who doesn't make a living by writing,I try to be philosophical about this. My view is: if you can write something you're pleased with and proud of, that's great; if you can get it published that's better; if the publisher will pay you for it, that's better still and, if people like it, that's the best.

My brother Phil, a professional journalist (he’s editor of The Telford Journal – a local paper in Shropshire) read Treasure and Miracles in Deep England and phoned me up just before Christmas to ask if he could re-use it in some of the Shropshire newspapers (for no payment, of course). Not getting paid more than once for the same article is certainly no way to make a living but I said I'd be happy for him to re-use it. I suggested, however, that, for a non-specialist readership who may never have heard of Malcolm Saville, it might not be the most relevant introduction. I offered to write a more general article about the author, emphasizing his connection with Shropshire. I sent the new piece — How Shropshire Inspired the Lone Pine Adventures — to Phil and, I'm pleased to say, it was published in The Shrewsbury Chronicle (on 20^th December) and subsequently in the South Shropshire Journal (on 28 December.) Shrewsbury is, I should explain, the birthplace of both my brother and I.   

Some might call it nepotism (or whatever the brotherly equivalent of this is) but I was quite chuffed because the article was 'commissioned' on the back of a previous article and, after all, published in a paper that my brother doesn't edit. And, if I remember correctly, it's not the first time I've been published in The Shrewsbury Chronicle ... Back in 1977, when brother Phil was a twenty-year old cub reporter, I volunteered to write a film preview for the paper he was working on (— he was a bit stressed and I thought I could help him out).  The review was of a Richard Harris film called Orca: Killer Whale. I never actually saw the film but wrote my piece based purely on the press release. I remember typing it up on a portable typewriter in our mum and dad's living room on a school night while Phil went and had a nice relaxing bath (in the kitchen, of course, as the house had no bathroom!) My ode to Orca appeared in the local paper the following week but I think Phil got the credit for it. At least, I consoled myself, with my most recent triumph in the provincial press, this time round I got a byline, albeit - as usual - no payment!

But I was to be proved wrong. A few days into the New Year, I received a letter in the post. Opening it up, I found not a cheque but something much more valuable. It was a letter from a lady called Rosemary Dowler who wrote to say: ‘I wanted to thank you for the splendid article about Dad in the Shrewsbury Chronicle.’  Rosemary Dowler, daughter of the man himself, had taken the time and trouble to write to me to thank me for my article and, what’s more, had thought it ‘splendid’. I was deeply touched. Who says writing doesn’t pay?

Synchronicities at the end of the year

According to the Mayan calendar, the world was supposed to have come to an end on 21 December. Fortunately, it didn't and, on the morning of Saturday 22 December, I wake up feeling relaxed and glad to have a day off work. Breakfast with my wife Sue and some good music playing in the background. My iPod shuffles and offers up some jazzy flamenco. 

‘Is this the guitarist we went to see in Worcester?’ asks Sue, meaning Eduardo Niebla. 

'No, this is Paco de Lucía,' I say, and marvel at the speed of his playing.

After breakfast we go to Bridgnorth, a quaint little town just over the border into Shropshire. We wander round a few charity shops and I pick up a couple of paperbacks that I've always meant to read -- Jack Kerouac's On the Road (I lent my son Dan my other unread copy) and a nice clean copy of Gabriel García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude.

Later, I treat myself to the latest issue of Songlines magazine. I've never bought this before but I do like a bit of world music and I can't resist a bargain of three free gifts with the magazine -- a free CD, a free calendar and a free book.

When I get home, I have time to relish my horde of goodies. The free book is a beautifully-designed paperback by a publisher called Route publishing, The Train of Ice and Fire. From the blurb, it sounds right up my street:  

'Columbia, November, 1993; a reconstructed old passenger train is carrying one hundred musicians, acrobats and artists on a daring adventure through the heart of a country soaked in violence. Leading this crusade of hope is Manu Chao with his band Mano Negra. Manu's father, Ramón Chao is on board to chronicle the journey... '

And I read on to discover that the train journey ends up in Aracataca which, the blurb explains, is 'the real-life Macondo of One Hundred Years of Solitude.’ So the free book I’ve just acquired makes reference to one of the other books I've just bought from a charity shop.

After that surprising coincidence, I take a look at the free Songlines calendar and wonder who it is pictured playing the guitar. It turns out to be Paco de Lucía, the very same who had serenaded us at breakfast-time.  With such synchronicities I can't help thinking the Maya have got it all wrong.  If this isn’t the end of the world perhaps it’s the beginning of a promising new era.  It turns out that, over in the heartland of the ancient Maya civilisation, the Yucatan governor Rolando Zapata, agrees with me:  ‘We believe that the beginning of a new baktun’ - a cycle of the calendar - ‘means the beginning of a new era, and we're receiving it with great optimism,’ said Zapata. With my free Songlines 2013 calendar, my family and friends, my books, my music and my coincidences, who am I to dismiss these auguries?  So have a Merry Christmas and a very Happy New Year.

Yes, yes, yes, it's ... Ray Davies

Ray Davies

Saturday 13 October

Live at Birmingham Symphony Hall

It's 1974 or thereabouts and I've been playing guitar now for about four years.   Chris fancies himself as the lead vocalist in our ramshackle band but he sings like a choirboy.  Still, we don't object because Chris knows some girls who he reckons might want to be backing singers.  I hadn't considered backing singers but now I can see us being the next Mott the Hoople. 

My mates are assembled in our front room and are keen to learn some cover versions. Luckily, my brother-in-law Geoff, has an extensive collection of sheet music which he's let me plunder merrily.  There's Light My Fire and Paint It Black and The Sound of Silence.  Loads of hits from the 60s, the sheet music (priced in old money,  2 shillings and 6 pence or 3 shillings each) and among them The Kinks' Waterloo Sunset and Autumn Almanac. The Kinks songs are credited to one Raymond Douglas Davies.  Kinks songs? No problem.  I know these songs well from my brother Phil's Golden Hour of The Kinks LP.  But I quickly realise Kinks songs are far from simple, straightforward pop.  For one thing, the music publishers have seen fit to transpose Waterloo Sunset into a really awkward key.  Without a capo, the chords of E flat and A flat test the limits of the 13 year old Tony Gillam's virtuosity.  But then, even in an easy key, lyrically and musically, Autumn Almanac is a fiendishly complex little ditty.  The alliterative and assonant splendour of its opening line single it out as an extraordinary pop song:

From the dew-soaked hedge creeps a crawly caterpillar,
When the dawn begins to crack.
It's all part of my autumn almanac.
Breeze blows leaves of a musty-coloured yellow,
So I sweep them in my sack.
Yes, yes, yes, it's my autumn almanac ...

This is no Twist and Shout - more Edward Lear, John Betjeman or ... Arthur Askey.  The fact that there's a chord change on almost every beat - Yes- yes - yes - it's my - autumn alma- nac ... is enough to make a young guitarist drop his plectrum into his soundhole.  And then there's the structure of the song - one middle eight is not enough; first, there's the bit that goes:  "I like my football on a Saturday ..." but then, instead of going back to the main theme, the song takes off in yet another direction:  "This is my street and I'm never going to leave it ..." This kind of variation and layering is less Dave Clarke Five, more Dvorak.

So, yes, I've always admired Ray Davies as a pioneer of the serious business of writing pop songs, fusing social commentary and poetry with exquisite melodies and rip-roaring riffs.And when my friend Phil invited me to join him to see Ray at the Birmingham Symphony Hall I was delighted to go and expected to see the grand old gentleman of English pop perched on a stool with an acoustic guitar.  The gig began just so, Ray Davies and a second guitarist on the stage that, a few days earlier, had been graced by Boris Johnson as he wowed the Tory Party Conference. Ray worked his way through his opening songs including Autumn Almanac and delivered them in a cheeky chappy, music hall kind of way.  But then, towards the end of Dead End Street, the band arrived on stage which meant, by the end of the evening, we would see the 68 year old Ray leaping around with an electric guitar like the rock n roll legend he also happens to be.

The set included several songs that began like quiet acoustic folk songs and ended up in full rock band versions, Waterloo Sunset among these. Other highlights were an unaccompanied Days and a heart-rendingly perfect See My Friends.    Apart from the sheer musical enjoyment of the evening, there was something life-affirming about the fact that Raymond Douglas Davies the man continues to exude all the good humour, warmth, energy and authenticity embodied by his remarkable catalogue of songs.

“Purify our misfit ways and magnify our crystal days...”

Echo and the Bunnymen 

Live at Moseley Folk Festival, Birmingham, 

31st of August, 2012

I have a theory that the pop music that meant most to us when we were in the first bloom of youth becomes a kind of gold standard by which we judge all subsequent music. Even bad music that was popular in our late teens and early twenties has a special place because of its power to evoke memories through association -- but good pop music that formed the soundtrack of our lives as we came of age is sublimely potent.

So it is that Echo and the Bunnymen, formed in 1978 (when I was 17), released one of my most treasured LPs Heaven Up Here (when I was 20) and the monumental Ocean Rain (two days before my 23rd birthday.) When the 51-year-old me heard the Bunnymen were headlining the Moseley Folk Festival on the last day of summer, it felt like too good an opportunity to miss.

The 80s post-punk sound of the Bunnymen is stretching the definition of ‘folk’ beyond credulity and, in fact, there seemed to be precious little folk music at the Moseley Folk Festival but there were a fair few artists playing acoustic instruments -- particularly on the Bohemian stage. If the migraine-inducing poor man's disco lighting of the Bohemian stage left a lot to be desired, at least the sound engineer consistently got the best out of a mixed bag of performers. Among these, I was delighted to see those old favourites of this blog, One Sixth of Tommy (see the entry for Monday, 29 August 2011).  As ever, they sang and played beautifully but I was dismayed to hear them announce this was to be their last gig. So it was left to the Bunnymen  to make my soul soar again. One highlight for me was All My Colours (Zimbo) which took me right back to 1981. Front man Ian McCulloch will never succeed as a health promotion worker:  where other singers sip mineral water between songs he just goes on lighting up one cigarette after another. In fact, since the smoking ban in pubs, it comes as a shock to see so many people smoking so many cigarettes. At least I could use my inhaler to keep asthma attacks at bay whereas there was nothing that the many children under three could do to protect their hearing. Despite changeable weather and thoughtless parents of young children, that first day of the festival was worth the trip. Seeing Echo and the Bunnymen live, as they scythed their way through a magnificent version of The Cutter, I was once again in heaven up there.