Ain’t no good hats here in Badhat Town

So, the evenings are gloomy, we’re wrapping ourselves up in layers of fleecy material, the weather’s increasingly grim. Halloween is past, Bonfire Night’s gone, I’ve had my first trip of the season to Kingsholm (it was characteristically gruesome). Winter’s properly on us.

But… hand-in-hand with all the chilly melancholy, there’s a tingle of cinnamon and Christmas in the air and in spite of my advancing years, I still look forward to the celebrating, the birthdays and the general overdoing it.

It’s also been the season of live music shenanigans for a few years now but that’s something that’s not really re-established itself since Covid. This year, however, I have an encouraging run of gigs to go to in the next few weeks and the first of these was last night.

Wreckless Eric

The name on the ticket was actually “Dr Feelgood” but to be honest we should probably draw a discreet veil over that part of the evening – they were pretty wretched, like a pub band covering Dr Feelgood songs (the guitarist particularly seemed never to have heard of Wilco Johnson – it was as if Eddie van Halen had turned up in the Beatles).

To be fair, I’d expected as much – it was the shambolic charm of Eric Goulden I’d come to see, been wanting to see for quite a while.

I don’t really know why Wreckless Eric is such a minor footnote in the history of Punk and “New Wave”. I’ve always really enjoyed his self-deprecating lyrics and his (quite modern) positioning of himself as one of Life’s losers. But I know of literally no one who is interested in him amongst my circle of elderly heads – and the demographic in the Guildhall was pretty much the oldest I can remember. 

But there were a few of us – the grand old hall was refreshingly half-full – and the rest of you, well, you can watch this:

Yes, that’s Ian Dury behind the kit. (Also his girlfriend, Denise Roudette, on bass and Blockhead Davey Payne on sax.)

Ambling onstage at a very civilised 7:45, ochre-tinted spectacles and black denim jacket, he was as casual and self-effacing as I had imagined he would be – “I’m here to entertain you while Dr Feelgood trouser up…”. 

He has a record out at the moment, Leisureland, which he released this August, and he ran through a selection of tracks from it and its predecessors of the last few years, some of which I knew, some not. But they all sounded good – rough, abrasive and carried off with trademark nasal whine.

He stopped songs a number of times, to adjust himself with a few gentle asides, before carrying on – honestly “casual” doesn’t really do it. Also showing a welcome fondness for mucking about with a bit of feedback and some rough white noise, he was pretty loud at times, too.

I’ve given the new record a couple of listens now – my mate very kindly presented me with a copy as an early birthday present – and I like it. His weary, baffled touch are all over it, but there’s some lovely interventions from wife Any Rigby and the contributions from other musicians are excellent to the extent that there are a couple of instrumentals on it.

I was aware that Gouden was going through something of a miniature re-appraisal – I’d read a couple of articles about him recently – but I did miss this:

A confused sage if ever there was one, and a thoroughly nice bloke afterwards, signing my record and chatting cheerfully away to a handful of other fans. 

I’m glad the man is … if not actually “back” … at least not entirely forgotten. I’m not sure he ever went away to be fair – perhaps I just haven’t been looking hard enough…

Ilusiones a través de un Cristal

Usually one of the pleasures of coming back from being away is the whole business of unpacking various goodies and treats you’ve brought back with you.

On this occasion, however, I’ve travelled light and come back light. I’ve certainly spent a bit over the weekend, but I think the technical term for it would be … “pissed away”.

I make no apology.

I say “light” but I did bring a couple of things back with me, including this absolute belter of an LP (proper vinyl too) …

Brasil 66

Clearly, it’s a great cover and I did what any right-thinking man would do… (I’m particularly keen on the “ESTEREO” sticker.)

I’ll confess as the rest of the weekend kinda took over, I did almost forget about it. Putting it on yesterday though, with a swing of its velvet hips, a whole world of smooth, polished, slightly corny brilliance made itself known to me.

Sergio Mendes is something of a legend of Brazilian music, as I’m sure you all know, his “Mas Que Nada” launching a thousand BBC football sequences. But up to this point I have been pretty ignorant about his career, and I find now there are a string of late sixties albums that were really pretty fine, Crystal Illusions being the last.

Watch this and if you can tell me you’re not hooked, we may have to reappraise our relationship…:

Aside from Mendes’ willingness to Samba Up any cover pushed his way, the secret of these records appears to be his prowess as an arranger and pianist but what really brought him near-instant success over this period was the acquisition of a pair of gorgeous voices to add a certain seductive charm to his undoubted genius.

Lani Hall and Janis Hansen were the voices, singing in glorious tandem (in English or in Portuguese) and at times virtually inseparably, they provided such a lustre to Mendes’ arrangements that smooth success was quickly theirs.

There’s a nice little documentary about Lani Hall’s introduction to the band that puts you pretty much up to speed with me on Brasil 66 and is full of other clips of the band:

The actual record is the same mix of cheesy, classy charm with one or two moments of genuine oddness, the chief of which is the final, title track – seven minutes of ambitious, flirty strangeness which is quite remarkable but is too long to post here. I recommend you look it up, though.

But what’s that you say? More?

Well… if you insist and with all due apologies for the YouTube-heaviness of this post, maybe just one more

This is pretty much what my whole weekend in Madrid was like:

(I’m the guy gliding in almost unnoticed at 1:20)

Still a good man’s daughter…

Well I’ve had a good weekend, how’s yours been?

I took the plunge and with a childhood friend splashed some money out to celebrate very significant birthdays for the both of us. In an act of outlandish extravagance, we flew to Madrid for a long weekend, ostensibly to watch a football match but we packed a whole lot more into it…

We went to the fabulous new space-age stadium of Atletico Madrid to see them beat a game Alaves team – I’m sat here in my pristine replica shirt right now, as it happens. We did plenty of other things too: we cruised record shops; spent a load of time in bars and restaurants, eating very well and drinking moderately; grubbed around the massive Sunday street-market, El Rastro – learning along the way that haggling is a much less socially-awkward experience when doing it in pidgin Spanish; and had an immense afternoon in a very crowded bar watching the Clásico and drinking (less) moderately.

What a time to be alive!

And topped the whole thing off with a gig – another lovely, lovely experience…

Weyes Blood

Once again, I’m fairly late to the Ball with the theatrical charms of Weyes Blood, only noticing her at the time of her “break-through” record 2019’s And in the Darkness, Hearts Aglow. (Not so much getting on at the basement, as elbowing my way into the Shed at 2:55.) No matter, I’m there now and that’s what matters, eh?

The Sala Paqui is a decent-sized venue, Guildhall-ly (or something like the Academy in Bristol, for non-Gloucester folk), packed full of a pretty varied audience of enthusiastic punters and surprisingly obliging to a couple of wretched-looking old gits asking if they could sit down in the VIP area (shameless blagging in Spanish proving to be as painless as haggling had been).

Catalan singer, Nuria Graham, was an able opener to the evening. Singing in English but speaking in Spanish, her songs were intriguing and I shall be exploring quite a back-catalogue. I liked the way she phrased her songs and the way she delivered them generally. (She also sported a very cool brown checked suit and from our seat in the VIP area, seemed visibly moved during the set that followed.)

My experience of Spanish people is that they like to chat, particularly when they’re out, and at times there was quite a noise coming up from the bar which was noticeable from the stage, but reassuringly, a chorus of shhh-ing from the punters at the stage seemed to do the trick.

This was never going to be a problem with Weyes Blood – there was quite the sense of expectancy in the hall as the ambient chords of “It’s not just me…” rolled across the stage. Someone has already uploaded video of her floaty entrance onto the stage and the song itself…

Magical moments, for sure.

The tone having been set; the evening soared along blissfully with one ethereal song joining the next in a procession of dreamy melodrama. My friend had no prior knowledge of the record, and I’d dragged him along on the “you’re going to love it” premise which so often proves hard to live up to, but I could tell he had the same sense as I’d had on first listening that we’d known these songs all our lives.

Fabulously, Klimt-ishly, bedecked in white sequined dress and gossamer cloak, she pranced and flirted around, danced with a charming amateurishness, part-fairy, part-child in a fairy costume. At times she looked as if she was trying on a wedding dress for the first time and at others, she looked so at home in it that you could imagine her wearing it all week around the house, doing the washing up and putting out the bins. She totally owned her look and her songs. It was very impressive.

Between songs, she was confident and personable, giving flowers to the audience and receiving a bouquet in return, being given DVDs, including Mulholland Drive which prompted a story about getting high as a child and watching the film in sopping wet clothes, a little Ophelia in an empty theatre (“this could explain a lot”).

There was a lovely connection with the audience (who sang along enthusiastically throughout – in a second language) and a general warmth to the evening that was impossible to miss. Her band were sensitive to the songs, performing them beautifully and providing tender backing vocals to her own lavish, money-in-the-basement tones.

There’s a gorgeous KEXP clip of possibly the best song of the night which I’ll offer you in place of a recording from the night – some cack-handed idiot having accidentally turned the recorder off halfway through:

I actually cut this song almost immediately after the “treat me right” quote – which is particularly cruel. I can only apologise. I did, however, manage to rescue a couple of files from the general fuck-wittery, though, and I humbly submit them to you as testament and proof of an absolutely stellar evening:

It’s Not Just Me, It’s Everybody

God Turn Me into a Flower