Tag Archive for 'nights out'

exerpts from a travel journal: what was left of what would become of my america;

Published on September 16, 2009 in a little more personal and travellin'. 7 Comments Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .

It’s probably fair to decree this US Week around these parts, as I have the better part of 300 photos and twenty pages of journal to share. I’ve had a fantastic week away, and one I hope you don’t mind me taking some time to relive. More photographs, as ever, on Flickr.

10th September 2009
Cincinnati Airport, KY

When they come to tell the story of my great American roadtrip, it will smell predominantly of horse. It will sound like drivetime rock radio, with lots of Springsteen and Tom Petty, and it’s going to look like the open road – and I’ll be pointing out license plates from all the different states along the way. It will probably taste of cheese, whether on a steak or a cake or white pizza or a Skyline three-way, and if I have to be honest it will probably feel a little too hot for my tastes.

It’s been an incredible week, and I hope I can bring some of the freedom, inspiration and sense of adventure I have experienced here back with me rather than grinding back to my medicated pause as I await the next adventure.

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Ohio started out with me crying off dinner plans and sleeping for twelve hours, either because I was exhausted after one exciting day after another or because I’d had a bad reaction to cupcakes for breakfast or the fast food we’d consumed along the way. I couldn’t resist KFC in Kentucky; Elizabethtown no less where we’d stopped to fill our trusty truck with gas and so I could take a picture of the bridge Orlando Bloom drives under. We’d also stopped by the side of the freeway so I could take a picture by the Glasgow, KY exit – certainly one of the scarier experiences of my time in the States.

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Once I’d had the chance to rest up a little though my adopted American family did their best to incorporate me into their usual hangouts. I got a serious case of property lust by Katie’s new house, with its sunny deck which will be perfect for what we called “cook-outs” in the south by the time I make it back, took in Skyline Chili and Graeter’s ice cream. I also got to experience the infamous Wild Mike’s Wednesdays, where the wings are delicious and everybody knows your name. After our show we stayed out later than planned at the Pirates’ Den with friends old and new – Katrina had the Drive-By Truckers on the jukebox and David fed us fiery butterscotch shots. I had to call somebody’s voicemail and leave a greeting in my “sweet” accent, which I hope he liked even if I screwed up the pronunciation of his name.

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Earlier this year I pronounced the Gaslight Anthem my “band of 2009″. Back in January, with my trip not even booked, I couldn’t have known how right I would be. For my first “proper” American show, chance couldn’t have made us a better choice. Sure the singer thinks he’s Springsteen and the bassist James Dean; and the drummer really, really shouldn’t take his shirt off; and their white tees and sleeve tattoos scream of faux-rebellion; but I couldn’t have screamed and thrashed along to anything more fitting. From the moment they opened with my trip’s unofficial theme song, and Whitney and I grinned at each other, we knew the night was going to be perfect despite our already-aching feet. And they played the line that always makes me think of you and I began to cry a little because it was finally real, I was only hours from home and young boys just ain’t supposed to die on a Saturday night or any other night or afternoon either.

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And we met The Sunday Idiom, or at least one third of it, who told us that we had to check out the support band Murder by Death. And we didn’t love them, but they had a tiny, blonde cellist and a tall singer with some sorta ill-advised facial hair who you wouldn’t expect to snarl like some kind of primal, country Elvis when he opened his mouth. A fantastic, acoustic Nancy Sinatra was a particular highlight.

And then we got back to the truck, past the hipsters and the tattoo parlours, to find a handwritten letter from Almighty God tucked under the wiper. Which just isn’t something that would happen in Glasgow.

* * *

When the plane left Philadelphia it was raining. Not the thick, epic drops that so briefly battered the truck’s cracked windscreen in Kentucky; but the grey, drizzly non-event I took off from Glasgow in.

Home.

exerpts from a travel journal: nashville skyline;

Published on September 15, 2009 in travellin'. 1 Comment Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .

It’s probably fair to decree this US Week around these parts, as I have the better part of 300 photos and twenty pages of journal to share. I’ve had a fantastic week away, and one I hope you don’t mind me taking some time to relive. More photographs, as ever, on Flickr.

5th September 2009
Nashville, TN

The first time I saw Broadway it caught me unawares. I was in the middle of telling Whitney some dreadful story or other when I looked up, and gasped at it spread out in front of me in all its gaudy glory. Bars and barbecues; souvenir shops over which life-sized plastic Elvises stood guardsman; boot shops offering one pair, two free.

nashville skyline

elvis!

For our first night in Nashville we went to The Big Bang, where we drank gin and requested the Proclaimers from the duelling pianists. They didn’t play it before we left but there were plenty of laughs to be had regardless – including four impossibly young brides to be raucously performing the Hokey Cokey. I cheekily asked for and obtained a bumper sticker from the bouncer for my scrapbook, with the aid of a great rack and a cute accent.

I feel as if Broadway’s the sort of street where it’s always a summer evening, although I suppose you can’t really call Labo(u)r Day a typical Monday afternoon from which to judge. I ate pulled pork looking out onto the street, our free dinner plans foiled by a sunny day crowd at the local record store. Outside, homeless veterans playing guitar on the corners competed for ears with the cover bands in the honky-tonks. They all seemed to be performing their own take on “Wagon Wheel” by Old Crow Medicine Show.

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I’d blown beyond my allowance on a pretty summer dress I’ll struggle to wear in Glasgow now, and two albums I was looking for in Grimey’s New and Pre-Loved. The Fruit Bats were performing a holiday set, and we squeezed among the cases to listen while I played “beer bitch” for some kids who couldn’t get to the cooler (don’t worry, they had ID). This was the all-American record shop of my most High Fidelity-esque dreams and yes, I appreciate the irony but Nick Hornby himself says they don’t make ‘em like this back home anymore. They were having a cookout in the yard, but since somebody before us snatched the last hotdog roll we sought better pickings elsewhere.

250. New Labo(u)r Day

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I told Whitney I wanted a cowboy hat for the place ride home (how else to hit Glasgow at 6am on a Friday?) but despite the dazzling display on show I soon realised I’d rather steal one than buy one. In Tootsie’s I lined up my target, but I think he misinterpreted my coy sideways glances as coveting something other than his headgear. Mindful of what they say about Southern gentlemen we scurried off. Pickings were rich for the family in the gift shops – from the Elvis memorabilia too tacky for Graceland to golf balls emblazoned with the Confederate flag, via the charming bumper stickers the likes of which we’d glimpsed on the highway to Memphis: DON’T BE A GIRLY MAN – VOTE REPUBLICAN. Us “girly girls” still overtook him though.

One place on my to-do list I did pass up the chance to visit, however, was the Country Music Hall of Fame – I think, by that stage, I was completely exhibit-ed out!

nobody sees the show, not til my heart says so;

Published on May 10, 2009 in music. 5 Comments Tags: , , , , , .

About half an hour before heading to Sarah’s to primp and eat pizza and prepare for Girls Aloud it hit me that, at nigh on 27 years of age, I was about to experience my first pop concert*. About thirty seconds after that, I cursed that I hadn’t pitched the experience for my Never Seen Star Wars project – if it’s raining as hard as it has been next Saturday, my trip to Arran’s going to be a pretty miserable one!

Right from the off it was obvious that the night was going to be special and Smidge, Sarah and myself couldn’t resist putting in a little more of an effort than we usually would for live music. In Sarah’s case that even involved the application of eyelashes from the new official Girls Aloud range – Cheryl being the obvious choice.

Any worry that our high heels would be too dressy as well as impractical dissipated as we exited our taxi into what looked like Saturday night on Sauchiehall Street. The contrast between my last visit to the SECC for Bob Dylan just a few days ago this one couldn’t have been more marked, right down to the squealing and adverts for spot treatments that played on the massive screens by the side of the stage as we waited for the Girls to arrive.

When they did it was to pyrotechnics, a giant light show and the instantly recognisable opening strains of Brit Award winning “The Promise”. The atmosphere was instantly electric and, as the hits kept coming and the choreography got more impressive, the energy in the room never slackened.

It’s tempting to dismiss pop music as a manufactured, throwaway art form; unworthy of the adoration we lavish on the lyrical outpourings of Ben Gibbard or whoever. I confess that I used to be that indie snob, but like most Serious Music Fans I’ve always had a soft spot for Girls Aloud. In my case it’s personal, as I accompanied my sister to the auditions for the reality television show which would eventually decide the band lineup, but production powerhouse Xenomania consistently turn out hook-filled pop classics you’d have to be a robot not to want to dance to. The Girls themselves look and sound great, and I can’t help but find them pretty damn likable.

I didn’t bother taking my camera along so I’d have room in my handbag for spare shoes, and I figured we’d be so far from the stage that photography would be pointless. We didn’t notice the small platform just below the tiered seating we occupied until about halfway through, when a male dancer in a shiny blue cape thrashed at our feet accompanied by a witchy backdrop on the giant screens at the back of the stage and as the group sailed slowly towards us on a lit floating platform we felt as if we’d stumbled into the best seats in the house. On tiptoes, dancing to “Sexy (No No No)” with the five of them not twenty feet away I was glad I had already taken off my shoes!

A few songs later and it was back to the main stage, for a fantastic cover of Britney Spears’ “Womaniser” and first single “Sound of the Underground” complete with fireworks and flame effects. Although there was plenty of stuff I didn’t know from the new album obviously on show, an encore medley made up of the hits that didn’t make the full setlist and a last chorus of “The Promise” took care of that. It’s not fair to compare the two even if I spent fifty quid to see Bob Dylan sulk in the same hall so very recently, but there was only one show I left with a massive grin on my face.

*I suppose I wouldn’t have gotten away with it anyway as that description isn’t strictly accurate, but the pyrotechnics of Girls Aloud’s arena tour seem a world removed from the me of twelve years old’s first ever live music experience in this same venue. Oh, PJ and Duncan – I loved you in your own time, but you could never have rocked short skirts and feathers as well as Cheryl Cole et al..!

we built this city on rock and roll;

Published on May 2, 2009 in a little more personal and music. 7 Comments Tags: , , , , , , , , , .

micachu
Micachu, or at least one of “the Shapes”, hits the vodka at Glasgow’s inaugural Hinterland festival

Good bands, better friends, glitter eyeliner and free sandwiches. Thursday was one of those nights I remember just what it is I love about Glasgow. Mainly, it’s you guys.

As I grab a few minutes to check in with my oft-neglected blog, I see my TwitterFox feed pop up with the Glasgow crowd’s highlights of Thursday and Friday’s inaugural Hinterland festival. Intended to be Glasgow’s answer to the famous Camden Crawl, or perhaps a mini SXSW, a Hinterland wristband granted the holder access to over a hundred live acts spread out across fifteen city centre venues. It should have worked better than it did, because as a city full of music fans with so many fantastic venues we’re ideally placed for something like this, but I don’t think many tickets sold since they seemed to be handing out freebies to anybody who asked. The next level of internet integration has taken instantaneous mass communication to the next level, and you just can’t keep a secret anymore.

That being said, I had a fantastic time the one night I was able to make it along, and hopefully the organisers won’t be so disheartened it puts them off drawing up a better framework for next year. More big draws, less geographical spread and less reliance on word of mouth, perhaps. We shall see.

Here are my highlights: Orphans and Vandals‘ dark, disturbing blues and running into Peter Beerjacket, Heidi, Neil and Evi almost immediately so I didn’t have to hang about on my own. A mouthful of beer and dashing between the Classic Grand, MacSorleys and Stereo full of the giggles. The Wave Pictures auditioning for my new favourite band and cheekily passing with flying colours, even if they couldn’t sell me anything with a copy of the song I adored (I’m half tempted to email them and tell them I’m a superstar blogger). Staying out for Micachu on Kate’s recommendation – it was like trying to dance to a Picasso painting, all bright colours and staccato percussion and flying elbows, and pretty damn fantastic.

One of my oldest friends got married yesterday, and I’m seeing Bob Dylan tonight, so I’m trying to shake off the cold as I create a busy wee bank holiday weekend for myself. And the results are in: this month I have to watch Twin Peaks, read The Grapes of Wrath, listen to Miles Davis and find the time and money to take a trip to Arran. Thanks so much to everybody who voted!

21/06/09 Switching comments off due to masses of spam trackbacks this weekend. sorry.

i went out to try and make a history of being brave;

Published on March 8, 2009 in a little more personal and music. 13 Comments Tags: , , , , , , .

After D and I dropped Miss Smidge off at Queen Street for the last train back to Edinburgh, we ended up in Burger King for cheeseburgers. Only I demanded a double “because,” I said – with all the ill-founded self-confidence of the Friday night drunkard – “I am awesome.”

“You are awesome said the guy in front of us, turning around, but he was smiling at D because the general rule is that on any given night out even the remotely normal guys will always choose to chat to my pals while I, in my silly little dresses and lipstick, am a magnet for the creepy eyes and the lone drunkard propping up the bar as I’m trying to order and can’t back away. It’s like being back in the cigarette kiosk I worked in through university every time I’m out on the town and, secretly, I actually rather like it.

D forgave me for trying to upstage her in my choice of late-night munchies, incidentally, when I slipped the Kopparberg glass she was eyeing up in our final bar of the night into my handbag.

* * *

Last night found me soaked to the skin, running halfway across Edinburgh in the middle of a hailstorm of biblical proportions so I’d make my bus back to Glasgow. It came out of nowhere but I was laughing as I ran, and the people I was running by must have thought I was crazy, but the truth is I was feeling more like myself than I have done in weeks and I just didn’t care.

The last two weekends have been really good ones, leading me to wonder if I’ve rediscovered the knack of living for them after all. The trick, I’ve found, is to cram as much as you can into your Friday night and Saturday as you can, leaving Sunday for lying in and laundry, shaving your legs and all the things you’ve bookmarked on the Internet in the past week. After the hospital on Friday afternoon I left Sarah’s too late, leaving me with about ten minutes to slough off my work clothes and pop in some contact lenses. Ultimately I made it to our Girlbloggers Gone Wild in Glasgow rendezvous point with minutes to spare. I suppose I’ve done this so many times now but it certainly didn’t feel as if we were meeting Miss Smidge for the first time, and we had plenty of gaps between posts to chat about as I introduced the girls to one bar I hadn’t yet reclaimed from a former life after another. At one point they decided that I had to try Glayva, and I’d already had enough gin and flavoured vodkas to accept this as a good idea. And I remember being shocked when D told me bathroom attendants only made tips, which was why it made perfect sense to pay £3 for a lollipop even though the attendant was talking on her phone at the time and not actually, y’know, attending.

With Stringer off home this weekend, I woke up to an empty house in just enough time to blearily navigate the discarded pils of clothing, grab a bottle of Irn Bru and stumble downstairs for my bimonthly cut and colour. Hangovers being the great leveller, I didn’t struggle with small talk. I had to get to Edinburgh, and was able to escape too much teasing of my locks by warning my stylist I was only going to shove a hat on top of the lot as soon as I stepped outside anyway. It’s now back to a healthy, even black-brown, with a flash of red when the light catches it just so.

Jules and I had more cheeseburgers, because I am a creature of habit, wandered the shops at Ocean Terminal and treated my headache with Neurofen Express. I tried on the dress of my dreams in the Coast outlet, but not being able to predict what size I’ll be by her wedding (nor, I suppose, to spare the necessary £150), I had to mournfully hand it back. One day I’ll have a wardrobe full of fifties-style prom dresses with sticky-out net skirts, and I’ll wear a different one every night and sit in front of the telly and eat pizza. See if I won’t!

A quick disco nap, and I headed into the cit to meet Fi at Cabaret Voltaire. She’d only texted me the night before to say that Sam Isaac was playing a free show and if I was in town I should pop along – quite the coincidence, as I’d been discussing Isaac only the other day on Flickr. I slipped into the venue towards the end of the support slot – a gorgeous girl with wild, curly hair and a mesmerising voice reminiscent of Julia Stone’s, thrashing her keyboard and giggling out cute lyrics that would make Kate Nash weep with envy. Fi whispered that she was actually the keyboard player in Isaac’s band, and a name I didn’t quite catch. I pulled out my phone and typed “Jose Vardez?” Fi took it off me and gently corrected me: Jose Vanders. I love her. The “7″ key on my phone, coupled with predictive text, brings up “s”, “r” or “springsteen”.

I might have cried during Sam Isaac’s set. I’m not sure. The band were young, fun and their singer-songwritery fare sort of leaped to life with their adorable lyrics and summery arrangements. Isaac dedicated one track to his blackened fingernail, damaged by a fallen speaker stack, “because it might be the last time you see it”. They could have been my friends up there, to say nothing of the friends who were surrounding me on the floor, and I could feel my heart as if it was trying to escape through my chest. “Sideways” speaks to that feeling anyway, of hope and summer and possibility, and it was as if a little voice that only I could hear was whispering it’s going to be alright – you’re going to be alright as I did the usual shuffly gig half-dance.

Which takes us up to the running, and the hail, and a bus journey back to Glasgow spent wet and shivering and sucking on a £3 lollipop that was worth every penny as I stared through the windows while not really minding. I think an Impulse body spray my mum bought me because it was named after my favourite place has leaked in my bag, and now everything I own smells like teenagers. It seems strangely appropriate.

M4A: Sam Isaac – Sideways [YSI]

gonna have dinner with the coolest girl;

Published on February 14, 2009 in a little more personal, film and music. 6 Comments Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .

I can’t say that I have much of an interest in Valentine’s Day, but I have to confess to feeling a little disappointed that, for the first time, I haven’t had a card and a little poem from my dad. I suspect he’s actually away right now, and last year’s was late, but still. This morning Stringer gave me a little cake and a card that said happy 5th birthday, and I glued the ticket confirmation for his birthday present inside his. I’ve told a few people already because I’m so excited I couldn’t keep my mouth shut, but now I can happily and officially announce that we are going to Dublin in July to see none other than Bruce Springsteen. Excited!

I woke up this morning with a migraine, which I suspect was the same one I couldn’t get rid of last night. We ended up in some dreadful chain old-man pub for Bobby’s birthday, where a DJ played karaoke “classics” and a contemporary double-header of that awful Killers song that laughs in the face of grammar and the Kings of Leon one which I’m sure must have been about herpes. I forgot to have dinner, and didn’t have much to drink (alcoholic or otherwise), and then Jay and I ended up at the cinema too late to get anything to eat before our film. I could feel my head start to hurt, although that might have been as much to do with all the angst on display on screen as anything else (we saw Vicky Cristina Barcelona because everything else was sold out and also, secretly, because it had been my choice before we even got there. Stringer hadn’t realised that Woody Allen had a new film out, and I almost wish I hadn’t told him as we’d waited because I’m sure he could have worked that out for himself by about ten minutes in).

Today I have mostly slept, grumbled and streamed the first episode of Joss Whedon’s Dollhouse, which I feel pretty terrible about. The sleeping and grumbling more than the show, although my beloved Eliza Dushku has lost most of the curves that made her so attractive in the first place. I feel incredibly guilty about wasting weekends, because I don’t have enough free time as it is. And it means that tomorrow will be a busy one, which will at least distract me from an Old Firm derby…

Been buying a few too many CDs recently, so I should probably get around to reviewing some of those soon. And I also wanted to share Save the Words, an Oxford University Press-sponsored project which looks for volunteers to “adopt” words in danger of falling into desuetude (itself one of my favourite words I’ve never really heard outside of law school lectures) and so preserve them for future generations [via Save the Assistants].

MP3: Fresh Cherries From Yakima – Ashes (Valentines) [via Fresh Cherries Dot Com]
MP3: Hello Saferide – Valentine’s Day [YSI]

exerpts from a travel journal 3: not so manic now;

Published on February 10, 2009 in travellin'. 1 Comment Tags: , , , , , , .

[Via Heather, appropriate as it was she who turned me onto the band - who have featured on a few mixes gone by I suspect - The Damnwells have released a free album through PASTE magazine!]

bonus nommage

5th February 2009: TRAIN: Bath/London Paddington
After yesterday’s brattiness, it was almost to be expected that a visit to the Roman Baths would force me to eat my words. Although again rather expensive (my cousin told me later that local university students are spared the £11 entrance fee), for the amount of time we spent there it was worth the money. And fascinating too, to see intricate stonework thousands of years in the making stand up to the test of time. Science may provide an explanation for the naturally hot spring which is more prosaic than the will of the Goddess Minerva, but in the cold air the heat from the water didn’t feel any less miraculous.

But I suppose it was when we stopped staring at bits of rock, switched off our audio guides and joined Robin, our delightful camp old tour guide, for half an hour’s insight into the Romans’ bathing routine that history was really brought to life. Mischievously, he told us of the slaves who had to oil up their masters before they headed for the heat of the “caldarium”, and to scrape that oil and sweat off afterwards. It seems that the sticky byproduct would then be purchased by Roman matrons if it belonged to a famous athlete or gladiator, because they believed that the sweat when applied as a moisturiser would keep their skin oung – proving categorically that the lunacy of celebrity worship is no modern phenomenon.

Petty theft, too, was just as much a problem in Roman times, and one part of the exhibits I found particularly fascinating was the tiny curses, still legible, carved in pewter and tossed into the sacred spring so that the Goddess – if she had time – would hunt down whoever stole a towel or toga and exact her own particular brand of vengeance. As for me, I offered up a shiny ten pence from my best friend’s purse, and closed my eyes, and wished…

Later on, we had a wander by the town’s traditional sweet shop, and I spent my holiday “treating myself” unofficial budget on a plaid minidress and purple hat. We ate delicious Italian ice cream despite the weather, still as perverse as we were at seventeen, and I shared a cocktail with my cousin before we wolfed down tapas and jumped a train to Bristol.

Despite the score (we spent the night in some student hole so Lola could watch her beloved Liverpool unceremoniously dumped out the FA Cup by an extra time goal ITV decided it had better things to do than show as it happened) it was a fantastic evening, and it was great to meet Nat and see Katie again. Snowflakes spinning on the windshield of Katie’s car, Mates of State on the stereo and toffee apple cider warm in my belly, we weren’t to know that a delayed last train and a complete prick of a taxi driver who’d rather have seen two girls in an unfamiliar town walk up the hill to their hotel in a snowstorm than do a ten-minute run were waiting for us. Not that the ending spoiled our trip: we were so keen not to leave it took the cleaner chapping the door this morning to remind us we should have checked out an hour ago.

the other side of the lens (or dictaphone);

Published on January 11, 2009 in a little more personal, blogging & pixlet, books & literature and music. 13 Comments Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .

So far in Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs, my beloved has slagged off The X-Files, alternative country and that which Americans so condescendingly refer to as “soccer” because they use the word “football” to describe some silly game where big babies run around in crash helmets and enough padding to secure a play park. He’s also threatened to kill a kitten. I still would though.

As most of you will be aware by now, this week saw the sad death of Stooges’ guitarist Ron Asheton. My friend Lilit, who writes for Jewish culture site Jewcy.com, asked me to share this short poem that Jonathan Richman submitted to the site, which is pretty special (actually, the whole site is worthy of further exploration and really deserved to be linked to before now…)

Elsewhere, Ryan Adams and Neal Casal perform “Sinking Ship” for the Black Cab Sessions. From the site: Ryan gets car sick. Ryan’s manager warned us of this and asked that, as much as possible, we drive in a straight line. It’s definitely one of the stranger requests that Jason’s ever had, but he did his best while in the back Ryan manfully rose above the nausea to sing his heart out.

And so to business, of a sort. Last week, wee-h of wee-travellings posted a meme offering to interview her readers, and since it’s magazine time and I’m sick of the sound of my own voice on tape I thought it might be interesting to reverse the roles a little!

1. It’s time to overcome that “self depreciating streak” – what do you think people like about you the best?
Well, I’d like to think it’s my killer rack and sparkling banter… just kidding. I’m a good listener, and although I have a tendency to take too much on and then freak out at how busy I am I think most of my friends know that I’m happy to drop everything if somebody I care about needs me to. Overcoming the self-deprecating streak is so hard!

2. If you could run your own mini festival or gig line up who would you book, where would it be?
Before you even get started, a great festival needs great headliners. Picking a headliner is a tougher task than the lineups of most of the major festivals would have you believe – the act must be a household name with mass appeal, perfect for a mass singalong as the sun goes down. And the act has to have earned the honour: while the summer of the Killers and Snow Patrol didn’t kill off the headliner, it did tarnish its image slightly. Both are great bands in a mass-market setting, but they’re not legends. The kids might have loved it, but their dads probably wouldn’t even have known who was on. My picks? Bruce Springsteen (who I’ve never seen but oh, if those rumours are to be believed…) and REM (who I’ve seen as festival headliners twice, and who were spectacular both times).

The rest of the line-up should be a good selection of good fun and best-kept secrets, bands you might not get the chance to see anywhere else and bands you’ve never even heard of. I’d run the risk of staying up too late on a Sunday to draw up a proper three-page timetable with timings and everything, but I’d like to see the National, the Hold Steady, Lily Allen (who I know doesn’t fit with the rest ;) and the Gaslight Anthem, of course.

Venue-wise, I thought Glasgow’s Indian Summer was in the perfect spot although the Victoria Park site would be too small for the bands I have in mind. Various health problems mean camping’s out for me now, particularly now the world is missing the only person who ever made the rain and mud bearable, so in the city on a sensible bus route and with the ability to sleep in my own bed at night would be perfect. Some decent weather (not too sunny, but at least dry), lots of cheap, wholesome food and free drinking water on tap would complete the weekend.

3. If you could interview someone famous who would it be and why?
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from Jon Snow’s marvellous autobiography it’s that you really don’t want to interview your idols: either they’ll disappoint, or you’ll make a fool of yourself. Besides, I’ve already answered one of these questions with “Springsteen”, haven’t I? ;) I have to say I love interviewing ordinary people for the magazine as much as I’ve ever loved interviewing celebrities, particularly the ones who are a bit nervous or who don’t realise they have something interesting to say until you start to unravel it through careful questioning, but Jesse Malin wasn’t bad either ;) Ahh… okay, here’s my fantasy interview list: Bruce Springsteen, Elish Angiolini, Johnny Depp, Gordon Strachan, David Simon, Erin Brockovich, Barack Obama. Only two of those are work-related, but I bet I could squeeze the rest of them in there somewhere.

4. Describe your perfect night out in Glasgow.
Again, this is a difficult one because the best nights out are the ones you can’t plan for. I suck at this, don’t I? But here are a few things that tend to feature prominently: good food, great music, better company. Maybe a cheap meal somewhere and a good film before putting the world to rights over a couple of ciders in Sleazys, or a gig at Tut’s with a band you’ve just discovered but had a sneaking suspicion you’d fall in love with as soon as you saw live… your heart races and the cute bass player catches your eye and you dance yourself to exhaustion and stumble out of the venue into the cool night air in perfect time for a seat on a night bus home. Or a meal out with friends, lots of chat and silliness – something adventurous and some great cocktails; Kublai Khan last night for Xan’s birthday was fantastic in this respect, although I was much less adventurous at the barbecue than Jay with his crocodile. And sometimes the best nights don’t end after all – it’s 6am and you’re still awake at somebody’s flat, singing along to badly-tuned guitar.

5. If you could re-live any point in your life just to experience it again what would it be?
I wish I’d done Edinburgh differently; I wish I’d taken the time to discover the city’s secrets and charms rather than spend every weekend rushing home to Glasgow. Every time I visit now, I feel as if I’ve let the city down.

But other than that, again, I struggle. I tell myself I wish I’d written more before I had a job and didn’t have the time; I wish I’d learned to drive or traveled more before the day-to-day robbed me of my time. But even if I was reliving those times again, I’d probably still be clinically depressed – would I be reliving those months and years as I was then, or as I am now? I’m making up for the latter now at least, and I might even start on the former this year!

Thanks K, and my apologies for going off-piste with, well, all of my answers. Er. Now I have to ask: If you want to be interviewed by me, leave me a comment saying “interview me!” with your email address.

I will respond by emailing you five questions, to be posted in your own blog with an offer to interview someone else. I get to pick the questions, and they won’t be easy. But please, be patient as I am on deadline!

there are some mornings when the sky looks like a road;

Published on November 30, 2008 in a little more personal and travellin'. 6 Comments Tags: , , , , , .

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View from Jonic’s window. I haven’t officially posted pictures yet because I don’t have time to tag.

Saturday morning: up early, and so tired after a long and draining week; a few gins to the wind last night and a Starbucks under my belt before I even reach the train.

Winter has come to these fields without question and a light, icing-sugar dusting of groundfront hides the earthy tones of hibernation from the passing train. The East Coast Mainline is my favourite stretch of railway; particularly the point just before Dunbar when, mind wandering as you gaze out of the window, you realise that what you thought was the sky behind interchangeable fields is actually sea. I tend to catch this view in the summer, on the way to London or to Berwick for mine and K’s joint birthday celebrations, but it’s in the winter that the landscape really comes into its own: bare branches, the grey of the ocean and a slate sky tinged with pink go some way to sate the wanderlust in my heart. I decide against digging out my camera, because I don’t want to miss a second.

Sunday morning: walking back into York from Jonic’s mate Dave’s house, where we had crashed out for the night after a few more gins and despite the entertaining presence of Paul Anthony Kealey, the most awesome cat in the northern hemisphere. We could see our breath in the air and smell the chocolate from the nearby Nestle factory, and I remember saying something to Jonic like “you get to live here all the time!” and grinning. It’s strange that all of the things I found irritating about the city on my last visit, some two and a half years ago, utterly beguiled me this time around: the ramshackle, narrow buildings with the staircases I was terrified I’d plummet down, and the streets with names like Shambles and Nether Hornpot Lane. It couldn’t have taken me any longer than about an hour to fall halfway in love with the place, although the volume of alcohol consumed over the course of this weekend puts that last disgraceful weekend to shame.

It was not, however, supposed to be thus. While this weekend was always planned more as a long-overdue reunion with my dear Web Hedgehog than a traipse down the tourist trail, I had planned at least to have a wander around the markets and take a couple of pretty photos. While I managed the latter, the sheer volume of people in the city in the run-up to Christmas made the former as good as impossible – which was a shame, as I would have loved the chance to observe the art of crepe-artistry first-hand. “Fuck this,” said Jonic, as I stood on tiptoes for a better view of some of the most spectacularly tacky lavender-based gifts I had ever seen, “pub?”

There were actually several pubs, each with its own set of charms. There was The Snickleway, overcrowded even for a Saturday afternoon with its talkative punters and walls covered in plaques and comedy signs and mementos. I can’t remember what Jonic and I were talking about when this barfly leaned over and started ranting about getting ripped off on eBay because something he’d bought hadn’t arrived yet. “Where’s Port Talbot?” he shouted over to his mate when I tried to establish where the seller lived. “Is that a pub?” came the reply. I loved it, and I loved the Biltmore where there were posh cocktails and I kept falling off my barstool and the kid behind the bar, who couldn’t have been any more than about nineteen, said I could have an extra raspberry even though he thought Jonic was my boyfriend. I loved Buzz, even if the rest of the customers could have done without us discussing a certain notorious shock-porn site over dinner of noodles and warm sake, and where I pocketed a Bombay Sapphire-branded cocktail stirrer when the barman wasn’t looking even though Jonic said they wouldn’t care since they probably threw them out after one use anyway.

But best of all I loved The Habit, where we ended up that night and which was like all good pubs should be: cosy, crowded and stocked with Kopparberg (and gin); full of good people and good music and with just enough space to dance. We watched Dave Keegan and, was it Simon something, play the entire contents of my iPod with wit and skill including a jaw-droppingly awesome version of “Shot in the Arm” which gave way to “I Wanna Be Your Dog” and which was one of the greatest things I’ve ever seen, even better than Jeff Tweedy himself. And there were all of these amazing people there because Jonic seems to know like every single person in York and they’re all either fantastically talented musicians or just amazingly cool people, and called either Rob or Dave (including Dave McLean, with his fantastic beard, who we’d seen busking earlier and who stopped for long enough to tell us about this chip shop in Drumtocher and its Italian proprietress who supplied the salt and vineeegarrr). And I danced with these lovely girls who asked about my tattoo, and they seemed genuinely interested so I didn’t mind telling them, and I thought about how long it had been since I’d had a genuinely great, spontaneous night (or as spontaneous as it gets when it cost you three and a half hours and seventy quid to get there), and how much more sense singing and dancing and drinking and laughing and talking makes compared to the craziness of Monday mornings and power-dressing I can’t quite get the hang of, and how I really didn’t want it to end.

And there were other things too; but I hate when people write blog posts consisting of private jokes and stuff that will only make sense to one other person but there’s enough of that to keep Jonic and I in stupid laughs until at least he comes up to Glasgow where you can at least buy Irn Bru inna can for your hangover at less than £1.29 per 500ml. I got to see Kieran briefly too, and talk albums of the year, and meet Rachel properly rather than just as another face at a party I didn’t know anybody else at either, which was an added bonus. Right now I’m going to throw something at this headache and try to get a decent night’s sleep before the week’s bloody treadmill kicks off again.

put some soul in yer hole;

Published on November 6, 2008 in music. 5 Comments Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , .

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So back to normality then, or at least what passes for normality around these parts – wittering on about music. So say a friend calls you up, or sends you an email, to say they’re in a covers band and they’re playing in a pub soon and do you fancy coming along – what would you think? You’d imagine that you’d probably get a good night out of it, but you wouldn’t necessarily assume the entertainment would set your world alight.

Soulussion, my mate Cazz’s Edinburgh-based covers band, are not that entertainment. Sure, they delivered plenty of “pub standards”, albeit exceptionally well – with a side order of extra Stevie Wonder for good measure – but their set was anything but predictable. The band overall were tight and professional, but Cazz’s rich, soulful voice pushed them to the next level; particularly during a slowed-down and heartbreaking “Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door”.

Which made it doubly frustrating that the crowd just didn’t seem to get it. Halloween must be one of the toughest nights to play for a band who take themselves even remotely seriously, and in the end Soulussion’s audience consisted of the Blonde and myself, their own friends and a motley crew of “naughty nurses” and “pervy polis”. We had a good night though, the Blonde and I – the Sourz Towerz (two feet of sheer alcoholic joy) saw to that.

Elsewhere in what nobody really likes to call “the blogosphere”, I don’t know if you’ve been following the apparent Stalinesque tendencies of one of the two major free blogging platforms (you know, the one owned by that search engine that prides itself on not being “evil”). It would seem that mp3 bloggers, including some of the ones I follow, have noticed posts disappear in the night without warning or confirmation from those in authority. And the worst part – to use the story of Boyhowdy of the fantastic folk covers blog Cover Lay Down as a not atypical example? Many of the “offending” posts don’t even breach copyright, featuring as they do tracks posted with the express permission of the artist or label representatives.

Now I may not be an “mp3 blogger” as such, but regular readers will of course remember the day that the Web Sheriff came to Last Year’s Town and sparked/contributed to a fantastic debate on promotion, fandom and the nature of copyright. The difference there was that, whatever my motives, I was in the wrong and so I acted immediately to rectify the situation – and this wouldn’t be a blog if I didn’t voice my frustrations. Not only are many of the bloggers affected by Blogger’s actions not even in the wrong, by not even giving them the chance to put their cases across Blogger is acting contrary to fair practice. You can say what you like about the Web Sheriff: at least there’s a real person behind the copy-and-paste message (don’t believe me? Check my linked post) who can distinguish between restricted tracks and live or approved ones. At least there’s accountability, and allowances made for human error. At least nobody’s losing hours of work (for music blogs, and the ones I read particularly, are rarely wham-bam-slam-a-track-up-there, but more often beautifully written labours of love by true fans of both music in general, and individual artists).

What to do? I would urge anybody affected not to lose heart, because your wonderful analysis is a better resource and promotional tool than most record labels would care to admit. I know it’s not always practical, but I would urge bloggers who are serious about what they do to keep away from free services (particularly the loathesome Blogger) and self-host a platform like WordPress as I do here. At least that way you’ll have control over your own content, and while hosting providers aren’t keen on copyright breaches on their watch either you’re at least entitled to some warning before they pull the plug.

For visitors: keep visiting, and keep buying music. As Boyhowdy says:

Keeping bloggers’ hearts in it makes it worth digging into our own pocketbooks when we have to, and keeps us happy about the stress of time and effort spent posting, if we know you’re listening.

We’re our own worst enemy at times, and I’m just as guilty of snagging tracks aggregated on The Hype Machine as you are. But that sort of thing costs bloggers bandwidth, and makes their status as free account holders not worth the trouble to hosts like Blogger. Yes, we post for the love of it – but it’s nice to know that people are listening and appreciating.

Hell, doesn’t it feel like we’ve been having this same discussion since the beginning of time, but that nothing ever changes?