Glastonbury Festival of Contemporary Performing Arts 2010

They were damping the ground. Deliberately pouring water on it to stop the dust rising. This in the same fields that have hosted some of the great mudbaths of recent decades! A pinch yourself moment!!

I suspect that Glastonbury 2010 may be remembered as much for the scorching weather as the performances, which is not to say that there was a shortage of top quality entertainment. Over the last year a number of people have told me that Glastonbury is too expensive at £185. A ridiculous amount of money. Yes. Ridiculously low. To see as many bands of repute as I did, let alone as many as I could have done if I enjoyed exemplary fitness and stamina, in any other context, or more properly, variety of contexts, would have cost many times that amount. And that's despite the non-appearance of U2 whose top price tickets last year exceeded £250. Furthermore, the sound quality at every stage I visited at Glastonbury, from the Pyramid down to a tiny outside rostrum in Shangri-La, is exemplary. Not so for U2 at Cardiff last summer, despite their much hyped stage and paying a three figure sum to worship at their altar (albeit much less than the maximum referred to above).

A drawback this year was the last of Ingerland's group matches in the World Cup which fell on the Wednesday and meant that the majority of ticket holders were at Worthy Farm that morning. I had an unavoidable appointment that afternoon and in any case, more than four consecutive nights on a half inch mattress would not be compatible with me being able to stand upright for the next month! What this meant was that despite arriving at 7 a.m. on Thursday after a 5.30 a.m. start, I found myself struggling to find a space big enough to pitch even my one-man micro-tent. I did it, though, this time on the edge of a main thoroughfare. This meant too many people walking past during the night, but also that it was easy to find in the dark. Last year's pitch was in the middle of a sea of bigger tents and involved a nightly search to track my bed down! Anyway, with the aid of some foam earplugs I managed 5 hours sleep each night except for 3 on Sunday when I elected to leave at dawn,making it home for 7.30 a.m.

Although the festival "proper" doesn't start until Friday, there was far more to see and do on Thursday than last year. After a brief meet-up with my god-daughter and her mates, I tramped over to Shagri-La, a sort of Cyberpunk/Blade Runner dystopian slum, to watch Nik Turner, a founder member of Hawkwind, billed as the only survivor from 40 years ago performing in 2010. I'd seen him with Hawkwind a couple of times in the mid '70s and with his band Inner City Unit in the 80s. Apart from collecting a few more wrinkles he hadn't changed much and pleased a modest crowd with an encore of Hawkwind songs. The performance started an hour late, unusual for Glastonbury and blamed squarely on the previous act's "technical difficulties" aka crap equipment. Consequently it went on past 11p.m. and after a half hour walk back to my tent the pedometer I'd been wearing showed I'd done 38000 paces that day, which may explain why I was knackered!

Friday saw the Pyramid stage opened by the legend that is Rolf Harris. I dutifully waited on the front crush barrier from about 09.30 and was duly rewarded with the best place in the "house", at least once the press pack cleared off, having taken as many pictures of the crowd as of Rolf. I was particularly amused by the photographer with the pass reading "Czech Radio". Well, perhaps the Czechs have their own Radio Times.

Rolf was ailing a bit, having lost his voice earlier in the week, but you wouldn't have known. He lapped up the adulation and played most of his hits bar Jake The Peg, which may require too much balancing skill for an octogenarian. He fluffed the words on Two Little Boys but gave a reasonable explanation - about ten rows back were two people in full kangaroo costumes complete with spring blades so that they could jump several feet into the air. This put him off briefly, which was fair enough.

With Rolf wrapped up I struggled to get round to The Other Stage to meet an old school friend, TC, and  quaff some much needed cider. I drank five pints of cider that day and five litres of water, which seemed about right, although a gauge of how hot it was is that I paid only a couple of brief visits to the legendary festival loos, so that was a result in itself!

I hung round with TC to watch the Stranglers. I'd seen them supporting The Who at Wembley Stadium in 1979 when, stubbornly insisting on playing their disappointing Raven album, they had ignored the hits with the result that most of the crowd ignored them. Older and wiser, their first appearance at Glastonbury saw them play nothing but hits for an hour, which is exactly what a festival crowd seems to want and expect. Shortly afterwards TC and I went our separate ways intending to meet again, but thwarted in that by the temperament of my 'phone battery. Hoping to bump into someone in a crowd of 150,000+ just ain't going to happen.

Remaining at the Other Stage I saw most of Phoenix's set . They're French but sing in English and were a bit Kaiser Chiefs-ish. Pleasant but forgettable, I watched them on recommendation, and also because I hadn't the energy to go elsewhere and then come back for the next act, La Roux, who aren't French at all. I wanted to like them and they were entertaining as a one off, but I wouldn't bother again.The singer (Elly Jackson) has a very shrill and slightly abrasive voice, while much of the music owes too much to the synth-pop of the 80's to be taken seriously as ground-breaking. You can dance to it, of course, but I'm not sure why you would choose to when the world is full of  more exciting fare. Ms Jackson pointed out that her parents who had never attended a festival before, were sat at the mixing desk halfway back in the arena. Very proud they looked too, but I think their daughter might be better producing records for other people. Still, what do I know?

Next up were Florence & The Machine to whom I've already devoted a separate piece. Not just my highlight but I assume the two blokes I saw separately with tears in their eyes during the performance were quite impressed too!

The downside of a huge festival is that you can guarantee that there will be scheduling clashes between acts you want to see. Everyone had (rightly) recommended Florence, but that meant I missed Mumford & Sons in the John Peel tent (which would have been like taking a particularly malodorous sauna), and most of Dizzee Rascal, just making it back to the edge of the Pyramid arena to see him duet with Florence like he did at the BRIT awards. The crowd were certainly "up for" Dizzy.

Gorillaz (who had been recruited to cover for U2 after Bono hurt his back lifting his wallet) were a few minutes into their performance when it seemed clear to me that the tactic last used when Kylie Mynogue's illness prevented her appearance, of promoting the second name on the bill to headliner, might have worked better. Gorillaz put on an impressive show in that they have bespoke animations for most of their songs and had persuaded all the guests from their records, even Lou Reed, to perform live. Live but not spontaneously. The films set the speed of the performance as rigidly as a metronome, and having been at the front for Rolf I was now nearly at the back, where the sound was very clear, but no longer in synch with the visuals due to the distance. There didn't seem much to be gained from this situation over watching a recording (and the BBC coverage didn't make me feel I missed much), so I set off on another wander. From the top of the Pyramid field there is a fabulous view over towards Glastonbury Tor and also right across the festival site. In the far corner (had to be, didn't it?) I could see plumes of flame shooting up and I remembered that one thing I'd missed in 2009 was the fire show in Arcadia. By this time (10.30 p.m.) though, my feet and back were making themselves known, so I set out to find the "Bourbon Street" Jazz & Blues bar, a new feature for 2010. This I did, and flopped for half an hour in front of another pint of cider and a competent if unremarkable blues band who looked like they were still at school. Maybe they were.

Then I set off on the trek to Arcadia. This is a relatively small area of the site,but expanded from 2009, devoted (at least while I was there) to what I believe are known as "Bangin' Choons". Well, there was plenty of banging anyway, earsplitting volume and hardcore trance music which I have some affection for, although it gets a bit wearing if you're sober and disinclined to dance. The main DJ booth was situated in a tower several stories high, equipped with vents that shot plumes of flame outwards and upwards with varying strength in some sympathy with the music. Not sure how eco-friendly it is, unless Mr Eavis has been bottling his cattle's bi-products, but it was certainly memorable. Just as crowds were flooding from the more orthodox arenas into the nocturnal corners of the site, though, I recognised again the unmistakable feeling of fall-asleep-standing-up fatigue and plodded back to my tent.

Wish I could say I saw the full show illustrated in the video, but my lack of stamina let me down - I'd guess these pictures were taken at about 2 a.m.!

Saturday might normally be considered the "big" day of the festival, but I had been unimpressed by Muse as a choice of headliner. Despite my best efforts and the exhortations of two customers who are also fans, I've found myself unable to like them. All was not lost, though, as there are always plenty of alternatives available. Most obvious were the Pet Shop Boys who I've seen before and who certainly put on a show, but I've seen the DVD of their current tour and I (rightly) guessed that they would be performing a cut down version of that show. More tempting was George Clinton's Parliament & Funkadelic, but I'm getting ahead of myself. There was a whole day to fill first.

An unexpected discovery in 2009 was the Blazing Saddle stage in a corner of the theatre area. I came upon it completely by accident while attempting to find a toilet that didn't make me want to retch (which I successfully did. Hurrah!). Purely by chance, the stage was hosting Dance Wave, a samba band from Scotland. I thought they were wonderful, although my elation may have stemmed in part from my relief at discovering the alternative to Portaloo Hell! The band is comprised of students for the most part, so presumably has a rolling membership, although I certainly recognised several faces when I caught them again this year. Given the weather, a welcome aspect of this relatively minuscule stage is that it casts a very convenient shadow for much of the day, so I happily started Saturday reading the paper while waiting for Carnival Collective and then Dance Wave, both samba bands. By the time I'd enjoyed them both, wet my whistle and had a smackerel of something, Jackson Browne, third act of the day, was on the Pyramid stage. Californian easy listening in the blazing heat, an ideal combination and in fairness, much better than I'd have expected.

Next, though was Seasick Steve, for whom my initial expectations were higher, and happily they were well founded. I've liked what I've seen (mostly on Jools Holland) and heard (mostly interviews) of Seasick Steve and for all that he has achieved a kind of stardom in the U.K., he still seems quite bewildered by, if genuinely grateful for, the situation. Perhaps one day some hack will prove that he is a former Wall Street banker, but as things stand I was happy to accept his barely-more-than-a-hobo shtick at face value and enjoy the humour and skill in his performance of very basic blues.

"Basic" is a word that might also be applied to the next act, Jack White's "The Dead Weather", but in a less positive way. Easily the worst act I sat through, and down there with the worst I've seen any time anywhere. A true case of The Emperor's New Clothes. Mr White, aside from the White Stripes has also enjoyed success with The Raconteurs for whom I have some affection. Unfortunately he now seems to feel that any noise he chooses to make is worthy of release to a wider audience. The Dead Weather played song after song that were little more than shapeless rants, the tunes simple to the point of ignorability and the lyrical content heavily reliant upon the shouting of a meaningless phrase for the umpteenth time. Perhaps it was exciting and experimental. I just thought it was lazy and crap.

Happily Shakira was able to dispel the gloom thus generated with a bright and breezy if ultimately lightweight sequence of songs which roughly alternated between English and Spanish. She is one of the world's great wigglers but where other acts seem to recognise that there's something special about playing Glastonbury, she was slick, professional and fulfilling her contract.

Sing ho for The Scissor Sisters, who were all the things the Dead Weather were not. Tuneful, humorous, entertaining and, of course, very camp. Just as The Dead Weather had seemed to suck the lifeblood out of the arena, the Scissor Sisters established a party atmosphere within seconds and built upon it until the arrival of their special but not very secret guest, Kylie Mynogue. She came on and proved that she can do camp as well as anyone (and Jake Shears & Ana Matronic take some matching!). A slight drawback to the performance was my situation on the crush barrier that runs halfway between the stage and the sound tower. This plays host to some largely superfluous security guards who spend most of their time supplying cups of water to the overheated multitude, but also a cameraman. Hence, as my friend JT put it, my 15 seconds of fame courtesy of the BBC, who transmitted several shots of me waving my arms like a loon in synchronisation with those around me. Mildly embarrassing, but not a crime!

Which brings us back to the headliner dilemma. In the end I decided to make for West Holts and Funkadelic by way of the Bourbon Street bar. Parliament/Funkadelic sounded great for a while, although starting with a drawn out melancholy guitar solo in tribute to a recently deceased former member was probably not the finest piece of stagecraft I've witnessed. As is the way with Da Funk, though, it can become rather repetitive. At one point George Clinton was joined by his granddaughter who squealed an extended song of praise for weed ("Something smells like a skunk and I want some" went the chorus), and shortly thereafter I thought I'd go and try and catch the last couple of Pet Shop Boys songs. Got the timing wrong on that one though, as I reached the Other Stage just as they left it. At this point I realised that I hadn't really eaten anything since breakfast, so I went back to the celebrated Jerk Chicken stand where a team of men barbecue a constant stream of spiced fowl. Very nice it was too. So nice that I had some more the next evening!

Sunday dawned sunny. Again. This is a mixed blessing if you are under a single layer of  tent fabric as the first you know of it is when you realise that the condensation is running down the walls and that yesterday's socks are trying to run away on their own. I'd established a routine by now, involving extensive tending to the whims of my feet. Still managed to get some blisters, but nothing like as bad as last year.

Then time for breakfast, a bacon and sausage baguette and double espresso. I returned to the same vendor each morning on the basis that they hadn't poisoned me before so probably wouldn't this time. Nevertheless it was interesting to note that as the festival wore on and the staff became more exhausted by their twelve hour shifts, my breakfast was slung together with increasing abandon / economy of effort. Can't say I blame them - the ambient heat enhanced by the constant operation of industrial cookers made the working conditions very unpleasant to say the least. It was noticeable that, for all the sunshine, nerves were becoming increasingly frayed in some quarters. I heard barely a crossed word in 2009, but this time there were a few stand-up rows to eavesdrop on (like you could avoid hearing them), the most spectacular of which took up a large tract of the Other Stage arena while I was having Sunday breakfast. The couple were fifty yards from each other but bellowing enthusiastic abuse for all to enjoy .A few hours later I might have assumed it was street theatre, but not at 7.30 a.m.!

My first appointment of the day was The Yeovil Town Band on the Pyramid stage, cranking out jingoistic favourites like The Dambusters, Jerusalem and The Great Escape in anticipation of Ingerland's doomed second round match that afternoon.

Next the Blazing Saddle and another performance by Dance Wave. My enthusiasm for them stems partly from the fact that I'm a sucker for a bit of drumming but also that they look like they are having a great time. If they were somewhere more convenient than Scotland I'd be tempted to try and join up! Again, the shade during the late morning hours before the performance was a welcome relief.

I did watch a bit of Paloma Faith's performance on the Pyramid. She came on in a harness attached to two over-sized helium balloons and it went downhill from there. She'd like to sound like Amy Winehouse but doesn't quite manage it, not helped by being made to look ridiculous before she warbles a note. Sack your management, love!

I missed most of Norah Jones, but the last couple of songs were pretty enough, as was she. Not an ideal festival choice, though.

As  the crowd thinned slightly while the over-optimistic and inebriated left for the two fields showing the football, Slash came on to the Pyramid. The material was largely unfamiliar but sufficiently formulaic to be accessible at once. And loud. A man of few words, most of them beginning with "F", Mr Slash allowed most of the banter to be delivered by his hired-hand vocalist. He concluded his set with Sweet Child of Mine & Paradise City and that was as much as anyone wanted or expected. Nice mindless rock'n'roll. Full marks.

Slash bade his audience give some love to Ray Davies, erstwhile Kink and national treasure, and that they did. Starting off with just another guitarist at his side, he then introduced a conventional band before going all out with a full choir. Hit after hit came and went, an advantage of three minute songs being that you can fit an awful lot of them into an hour, although he did grumble that he wasn't allowed to perform his full set. Meanwhile England were being crushed by Germany in South Africa, but only blind faith would have told you otherwise.

The Ray Davies singalong was followed by Jack Johnson, my cue to take break before the evening's top acts. Nothing against Mr Johnson, but just not my cup of tea.

Penultimate Pyramid act was Faithless, who have been on my must-see list since they were announced, this enhanced by TC who had seen them at Glastonbury before and assured me that Maxi Jazz has great stage presence. Which, indeed, he has. Sister Bliss scowls at her keyboards throughout, but the front-man keeps smiling as they go through a catalogue of songs that you know without necessarily remembering the titles. Insomnia and God is a DJ are particularly memorable, but so too are songs from their latest album The Dance which I downloaded on my return. I wouldn't expect to "get" Faithless live, as I've never been much of a dance fan, but lyrically they can hold their own and there's no question that, while swollen in anticipation of Stevie Wonder's arrival, the crowd were very much impressed. I thought Maxi Jazz looked relatively old, so it's a relief to find that he is three years older than me rather than unwell.

Stevie Wonder is ten years older than me, but as with Bruce Springsteen last year, you wouldn't know it. I saw him at Birmingham's NIA a couple of years ago on a comeback from the break he'd taken on the death of his mother. At that time, while the show was professional and full of wonderful music, I was disappointed to find that he seemed somewhat subdued as if still brooding on his loss. If that was the case, he's recovered by now, as his entrance, playing a portable "keytar", testified and his sense of humour had recovered too.In the course of encouraging world peace and so forth he observed that "If I wasn't blind I'd be spending a lot of time kicking ass". You'd be forgiven for forgetting that he is blind but for a brief moment when he seemed to lose a button on his equipment and needed a roadie to sort it out for him. Another great singalong selection, concluding with a presentation to Farmer Eavis and a rendition of Happy Birthday which proved that he should stick to agriculture and organising festivals! And that was Glastonbury 2010 for those of us who couldn't face an even later night wringing the last penny of value from the Dance Village or Arcadia. For me, there was that rendezvous with the jerk chicken I'd promised myself, before three hours sleep and a weary tramp through fog-filled fields to the car and a swift blast up the M5 to my own kitchen.

The weather will almost certainly be less good next year, but if I can get a ticket, I'm there!

Going with the Flo

This is turning into more of a fanzine than a diary, but as I spend many of my waking hours listening to music, perhaps that's to be expected. Anyway, this is a shameless and belated plug for the very wonderful Florence and the Machine who I had the pleasure of seeing at Glastonbury about ten days ago.

I had owned the album "Lungs" for a few days before the festival, more out of curiosity than commitment. I saw Florence performing at the Brits with Dizzee Rascal, and must have heard the singles on the radio. My younger nephew had expressed enthusiasm, but I couldn't really say I was a fan. An hour in their presence sorted that out.

I am pretty jaded about new artists these days, and some old ones for that matter. I took great pleasure in ignoring Muse's headlining performance at Glastonbury because to my ears they are just recycling styles proved more successfully by various forbears, rather than producing anything genuinely new. Florence Welch, on the other hand, while she inevitably owes debts to other artists, struck me as a one-of-a-kind. Her relatively deep voice shares something with Siouxsie Sioux and as "The Scream" remains one of my favorite records after over thirty years, that's a good start.

The production on "Lungs" might be described as lush, with lots of layers, but I'd be tempted to call it over-produced. Live, the sound was simpler, despite the presence of a string section and small choir of backing singers. This duly gave Florence's voice greater prominence, while the immaculate sound engineering that is such a remarkable feature of Glastonbury made the lyrics clearly intelligible.

The set included two unreleased songs including one from the soundtrack of the new Twilight movie, and a cover of Fleetwood Mac's "The Chain" which the crowd clearly enjoyed even if Q magazine later felt bound to turn up its nose at it!

Anyway, the energy and enthusiasm that went into the performance, not to ignore the fact that Ms Welch is quite easy on the eye, made it the standout performance of Glastonbury 2010 for me. There is likely to be something of a hiatus now while a second album is recorded, and I fear I have blown my chance of seeing Florence and the Machine in an intimate venue, as their return seems likely to be in theatres or even arenas. Nevertheless I plan on being there when it occurs.

Take Me Out To The Ballgame....

I wish. 'Tis the beginning of the 2010 Major League Baseball season and I have as much chance of seeing a game "in the flesh" as I have of being elected to Parliament. (No, I'm not standing, the British People don't deserve me).
All is not lost, however, as for a hundred of their American dollars, our chums in the former colony will let me watch every game on my computer in glorious high-def. Well, slightly jerky high-def sometimes, but it does the job. But why would I want to? Especially given that I have never been remotely hooked on Soccer or any of our other sporting religions.

I first watched baseball in the bar of a Howard Johnsons in Flagstaff Arizona in May 1992. We were on a three week roadtrip, had just seen the Grand Canyon and were "enjoying" the heaviest rainstorm they had seen in those parts for years, if not decades. I remember that the San Francisco Giants were playing but not who against. I had only a rough idea of what was going on, but remember seeing a bat get broken (an increasingly frequent occurrence these days, it seems) and liking the generally gladiatorial relationship that develops between batter and pitcher.

Fast forward to August 2006 and I'm slumped on a bed in a barely-large-enough-for-four-people "family room" at the Toronto Sheraton. The other three are all fast asleep (photographic evidence exists!) and I'm watching the Toronto Blue Jays (the only non-American team eligible to play in the World Series) struggle in Cleveland against the Indians. I've already watched parts of a game in the hotel bar and been down to the Rogers Center (the Jays' ground) to visit the club shop and get a proper baseball cap. Can't pretend I understand everything, but I'm beginning to appreciate how much more than a game of rounders for grown men (the popular view in the U.K.) this is.

When I'm really hooked is in October of that year when I realise that Channel Five is broadcasting the World Series - a best of seven games competition between the winners of the American and National leagues - live, and while I'm not mad enough to watch live between midnight and 5 a.m., I record the lot.

Five's coverage of the World Series was exemplary. Whilst carrying the feed of gameplay and commentary from the U.S., the frequent commercial breaks for changes of innings and pitchers allows the presenters in a shoebox studio somewhere in London to explain exactly what's going on to the uninitiated, and to present packages of background material on the history of the game, the food on offer at different stadia and anything else that might make the viewer feel involved. All too quickly, though, the Detroit Tigers fall to the St Louis Cardinals and the presenters bid farewell until the next season begins in April 2007. It's a long wait.

In the meantime, however, we've booked a visit to Mickey and friends in Orlando, coincidentally at the same tiome as our friends, the legendary Lurchees of Longlevens. The names have been changed to protect the innocent. It becomes apparent that halfway through the fortnight, Major League Baseball will recommence and that aside from the Florida Marlins based in Miami (too far from Orlando), there's another MLB team based in Tampa Bay, the Devil Rays. The Rays stadium is an aging dome in St Petersburg, across a causeway from the City of Tampa, which means we can't get rained on, so NL and I agree to check it out, booking tickets for opening day before we leave home.

A week of the Mouse and his mates and I'm really looking forward to something different.I could do without the drive, but it's easy enough, just dull. As is the tradition, I get us there way too early, but that gives us a chance to soak up the pre-game atmosphere. In the ring that surrounds the auditorium there are the inevitable bars and foodstands and the club shop selling everything from full replica team gear and accessories to almost anything else that you could stick a Devil Rays logo on. I get some more caps! There's also a batting cage and a chance to have the speed of your pitch measured, but it's an opportunity we forego. Suffice to say, pitching is a lot harder than it looks!

Coincidentally, the opening game of the season is against the Toronto Blue Jays, but I haven't brought that cap with me - not sure it would be good idea to be seen to be foreign and supporting the away team. I needn't have worried. The crowd turns out to be more like those you'd find at a cricket match - there might be banter if there were a significant number of visiting fans (there aren't), but the atmosphere is almost entirely positive. It's an evening game which may limit the number of children present. With first pitch at around 7 p.m. the game may not be over until approaching 11 p.m. and, as I later realise, the game goes on past the basic nine innings until there's a result, if necessary, so we could have been there all night!

As it was, the Devil Rays managed to grab a win on the last pitch of the ninth inning, having trailed for much of the game. Talk in the restrooms on the way out is all about how maybe this year it will be different. A relatively new franchise created in 1998, the Rays have almost become an embarrasment to their fans, having never enjoyed a "winning season" in which victories outnumber losses and only once crept above bottom of their five-team division. They are underdogs and look set to remain so, what with being in a division that includes the New York Yankees and Boston Red Sox, two of the richest teams in baseball. They can buy their way out of trouble while the Devil Rays' payroll, a relative pittance though still counted in millions, renders such a tactic impossible. It's like being Portsmouth set against Manchester United and Chelsea in soccer.

Where there is some hope, it transpires, is that the way professional sport operates in the United States is designed to even things out over the long term. The teams that do badly will then get first picks in the following year's draft of potential players from colleges and even high schools across the nation. They then try and agree terms with those players to nurture them in a "farm" system of professional Minor League teams affiliated to the Major League flagship. Sometimes, often, this comes to nothing. The prospective player may be unwilling to sign for the money on offer and even if they do, the majority will flounder at some point on the way through the hierarchy of Minor Leagues, never making it to the "Big Leagues" as MLB is known. A consequence of this is that the Devil Rays farms are filling up with promising talent for the future, but much of it still just looks good on paper. Still,on the strength of what I've seen, I decide I'll follow the Devil Rays from now on. At the back of my mind is that there is a lot more to be said for a repeat visit to Florida, at least on a family holiday, than there is for Toronto, which while interesting for a few days, does suffer from an inferior climate too!

Call it beginners luck or whatever, but by the end of the 2008 season the Rays, having dropped the "Devil" at the end of 2007, are Division Winners, then League winners and then..... and then they lose the World Series to the Philadelphia Phillies. O.K., it was a disappointment and for a moment I know for the first time what it feels like to see your team "let you down". But realistically it was a fantastic achievement, a complete reversal of fortune bigger than any by any team in decades. So after a slightly disappointing follow up last year (I'm tempted to blame injuries like a proper sports fan does), this year see a flying start, with the Rays the "winningest" team in baseball. Yes, that is a real word, coined by our cousins in the former colonies to describe the most succesful team. And as they would also say, GO RAYS!

Sadly, as a postscript I have to add that Channel Five cancelled their baseball coverage at the end of 2008, making the MLB's online service the best way of watching the game here (there is limited coverage available via satellite, but you can bet they wont show the game you want to see).

Band of Brothers....and Sisters

I drove to East London and back on Saturday. Seven hours in all, much of that courtesy of the city's south circular, reserved for those who find the M25 too relaxing. What brought on the desire to spend that long at the wheel of a far-from-luxury little car was the prospect of a few hours in the company of people I don't see often enough, including one I hadn't seen for 30+ years!

It was the latest in the inevitable crop of 50th Birthday celebrations that began a couple of months ago, and will run well into next year, what with the Class of '78 hitting that milestone in a spectacular burst of nostalgia-wallowing and resolute dysfunctionality.

I'm not one for re-unions for re-unions sake, although I still would have gone to see Led Zep at the O2 a couple of years ago if I'd only had a ticket. I'm listed as missing on my former college's website and while registered as an "alumnus" of my school, I ticked as many boxes as possible to minimise contact. In both cases this is partly because the institutions concerned will send regular begging letters otherwise, but also because if blood isn't much thicker than water, neither is shared history. Conversely, though, you choose your friends where you can't choose your family, and my largest surviving group of friends, however dispersed and rarely seen,remains my contemporaries from secondary school.

I suppose I'm dwelling on this because the Christmas card season is upon us, and I shall send and receive cards to and from people I have made little effort to communicate with in any other way for over a decade. Ex-colleagues from John Lewis and former university friends. Not that I wouldn't welcome a chance to catch up in principle, but in practice there aren't enough weekends in a year, and most are sufficiently far-flung to need a weekend, especially if it involves dragging the family along, be it mine to them or visa versa.

On Saturday it was just me, at least as far as Chiswick, where I picked up a passenger unable to get there under her own steam, and the two hours to get there were then matched by a further two hours to Lewisham. All my anti-metropolitan prejudices nicely reinforced there, anyway! But it was worth the effort. The main difference with a "gang" who were once so close, even if it was really only for a couple of years before we all left Chester for different lives, is that the conversation almost picks up where it left off, however long ago. I don't know why this should be. Partly it's pressure of time,the choice between small-talk and serious discussion without the opportunity for both. Also a sense that more can be "taken as read" - you know who I am so I don't need to explain myself. A very pleasant and relatively unusual experience, if only it could be repeated more often and without the intervention of the road system.

Hate Crime

A venomous debate has begun to rage following the publication of an article in the Daily Mail, shortly before his funeral, concerning the death of Boyzone member Stephen Gately.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1220756/A-strange-lonely-troubling-death--.html


The article, written by "journalist" (or hate-filled bigot, as it appears) Jan Moir, basically implies that his death was not, as the coroner stated, from natural causes but was in some way associated with his lifestyle, most notably his gay sexuality. It has the dubious privilege of being one of the nastiest, most spiteful pieces of unadulterated garbage I have ever read. It also holds the record for stimulating the most ever complaints about an article to the Press Complaints Commission. There is a response from Guardian writer and all round champion of reason Charlie Brooker, which says it better than I ever could here:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2009/oct/16/stephen-gately-jan-moir

I am far from being a Boyzone fan. I am a self confessed Guardian reader and loathe the Daily Maul with a vengeance, so I can hardly claim to be objective, but it is hard not to resent the proliferation of this kind of prejudice in a national publication, widely read (2nd biggest circulation) by a lot of easily influenced, if well intentioned, folk. That includes my mother-in-law, who really should know better, and my mother, who probably wishes she'd written the piece.

Ironically, this coincides with a great deal of hand-wringing over the appearance of the BNP leader on this week's Question Time and Carter Ruck's attempt last week to prevent the publication of a Parliamentary question, happily ignored by Private Eye and numerous inhabitants of Twitterdom.

Normally I'm a big ole liberal and think "publish and be damned". In this case, though, I'm inclined to hope that the damnation will indeed occur and that Ms. Moir spends an eternity on a spit, being forced to listen to looped Boyzone. I'm very unhappy about the BNP appearance too, but just hope the other panellists are able to expose Mr Griffin for the loathsome creature he surely is.

Selection Vs Completion

I just got round to watching Season One of The Sopranos. Only taken nine years, but in my defence, it has been shown at quite ungodly and inconsistent times on terrestrial T.V., and it is the sort of programme that demands viewing in chronological order. Thus, having missed the beginning, I studiously avoided the following six seasons for fear of spoiling the whole series for myself.

On the strength of ten episodes the strategy was right, as I am already snared into a compulsive need-to-know what happens next. On the strength of hyperbolic reviews on Play.com and amazon.co.uk (I prefer the opinions of those who buy a product to those who are paid to have an opinion), I could buy the remaining six boxes of DVDs now, or even the complete series in one box and eBay the duplicate Season One. But I wont.

Firstly, this involves splashing out over £100 in one go, for a small saving if you buy the series. But second, I know myself well enough to wonder whether I will still be as interested by Season Four. The last time I was in a similar position was when, having won a copy of Six Feet Under Season One via (ironically) a BBC website, I bought the next two seasons. Still haven't quite made the end of season 3, so the last two seasons will be a long time coming. In the intervening years they've halved in price too. And I really like Six Feet Under!

Herein lies a problem. I'm a collector, in principle a completist. My wife would probably redefine that as an accumulator, but for someone who suffers the collecting "disease" (and I've exploited such folk for much of the last twenty years), the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. My own greatest weakness is music, and the racks contain several CDs that have barely left their cases but that have to be there "to complete the set". The same with books.

Consequently, those two "missing" seasons of Six Feet Under bug me, even though I know I wouldn't get round to watching them for months or years if ever. Part of this is conditioning as a good twenty first century consumer. We all buy crap that we don't need because we've been trained to think, believe even, that it will make life feel better. Be better. Not so, but we do it anyway.

Collecting takes this phenomenon a step further though, into the realms of a psychiatric disorder. On occasions, when I did my selling face-to-face in a real - rather than virtual - shop, I saw collectors on the brink of hysteria for fear of missing a "crucial" episode in the history of a pulp super-hero, or a variant of a model commercial vehicle ("Yes, I want both numberplate versions!"). This obsession is not terribly different to that found in some forms of autism and/or obsessive/compulsive disorders. The dispassionate observer might be tempted to say "But it's only a comic" and even add "so get a life" for good measure. That would be extremely ill advised.
Not least because the collector may react violently !

The adage that "less is more" conflicts head-on with collecting and with much of modern life in the "developed" world. Collectors want, need to have the lot, and more generally the preponderance of mediocrity in so many contexts may be proof that in demanding choice we end up with more stuff that is simply unremarkable.

In a previous post I referred to Peter Gabriel's quality control, which is reflected in the relative sparsity of his catalogue. The exception proving the more general rule that choice, far from being consumer led, is more often down to supply. The collector will buy their fifteenth Darth Vader action figure because this one has his head twisted to one side just so. He didn't know he wanted it until he saw it, because he didn't want it. Completeness now dictates that he must have it.

More generally, the joy of branding means that we'll buy more clothes than we need and all manner of domestic goods and services that we'll never use. This is not a new phenomenon, but it does seem to have run away from any level of rationality in the last twenty years or so. Gordon Gekko's "Greed Is Good" from Wall Street was embraced by many a child of Thatcherism and what we have now is a greater level of disatisfaction amongst ordinary folk with "how little" they can afford than I think had been the case even during periods of genuine austerity. Of course there are lots of people struggling, particularly since the latest generation of Gekkos managed to screw the financial system so thoroughly, but for most of us, we don't know we're born!

No, I don't have an answer. You might argue that just as advertising tobacco products has been banned to limit temptation, so we should stop advertising anything without qualitative merit. Not really going to happen is it? That way lies totalitarian state control and mediocrity of the worst kind (Soviet car, anyone?!).

Perhaps, ironically, the change will be made through choice. Just as the banking crisis and M.P.'s expenses have brought about changes in perception that cannot be undone, at some point we may begin to realize and believe that when we are told that items exist because of demand, we'll say "well, not from me" and refuse to buy. But I'm not holding my breath.

Now, I'm off to sell some stuff to people who didn't know they needed it!

PETER GABRIEL at WOMAD 2009

As mentioned below, the main draw for me to WOMAD 2009 was Peter Gabriel. I've seen him a few times and he has never disappointed. First time was promoting his first solo album at Liverpool Empire in late 1977. He had so little material that the set was padded with a cover of "I Heard It Through The Grapevine" and a couple of songs from Lamb Lies Down on Broadway, most memorably "Back in New York City" which closed the show as a leather-jacketed PG in "Rael"mode, leapt from the top of his grand piano. Another show at the Empire, Knebworth festival (head freshly shaved, giant panda on his back) supporting Frank Zappa, and a breathtaking performance at Birmingham Odeon (first time I heard "Biko") all wonderful and pre-dating the stardom and arena dates that the success of Sledgehammer and the So album eventually provided. The biggest and least successful show for my money was that one, at Earls Court, a venue so soulless only Pink Floyd have ever tamed it successfully. Then the 2008 "Human Rights Now!" tour in support of Amnesty International, with Springsteen, Sting (bleeaugh!), Tracy Chapman and Youssou N Dour. I missed the "Us" tour due to financial embarrassment (the Secret World DVD is a must, though), but caught up with him again at the NEC in 2003. By that time he'd given up dying his hair, sprouted a neat white beard and a comfy looking paunch. Not too far from yours truly, really! What sets us apart is his vision and talent!!

Taking years between album releases, his quality control is extraordinary. With the possible exception of his second record, rushed to capitalise on the success of the first, the proportion of Peter Gabriel songs that do not make the world a better place is tiny compared to most of his peers. They sound crafted (sometimes over-produced, perhaps, but live performance invariably remedies that) and while there are signature sounds, each has a distinct identity to set it apart from the rest. I wasn't that keen on his voice when I first heard it on a badly copied cassette of Genesis' Nursery Cryme, but as I recall, my objection was that he "sounded old", by which I probably meant mature beyond his years. Anyway, he's continued to grow into that voice and is now surrounded by a core of musicians who can replicate and expand upon his studio sound with apparent ease, and routinely appear to enjoy doing so.

Central to these is bass (or more usually "stick") player Tony Levin, who has been integral since the first solo record. The Chapman stick is a bizarre looking instrument, like an 8(?) string bass guitar which is played more like a double bass and plucked with both hands. The only other player I've seen is King Crimson's Trey Gunn, with whom Levin played in the Double Trio manifestation of KC (dig out the Deja Vrooom DVD if you can). Actually I've just found www.stick.com via google which tells you all about it. There are 10 and 12 string versions too. A snip at $2500 !

Other stalwarts are David Rhodes who started out supporting PG with his group Random Hold in the early 80s and Richard Evans (keyboards).There are usually at least a couple of other musicians and latterly PG's daughter Melanie, who does backing vocals and occasional shared lead on duets,including Downside Up, played at WOMAD.

So what about the performance? Well, it's a small stage by festival or even theatrical standards, but they still manged to open supplemented by a string section, drafted in for the debut of a couple of songs from the upcoming (this year?, next year??, next century???) Scratch My Back project, which involves PG covering other musicians' songs in exchange for their covers of his songs. On the strength of his version of Paul Simon's "The Boy In The Bubble" it should be interesting listen (tune and tempo completely refashioned) although not a substitute for "real" new material.
This over-crowded the stage, but once the guests moved on PG, at least, was able to wander about a bit and interact with musicians and crowd. The set was deliberately different to the one played at WOMAD in 2007 (only 3 songs in common, we were told), but there were few questionable choices. Games Without Frontiers sounded re-arranged (again), Solsbury Hill was fun as usual, but in keeping with the professed purpose of the show, namely the promotion of Witness.org (go on, check it out!), the finale was Biko, which I hadn't heard live for over 20 years. Hairs on back of neck, all that stuff. I've never liked the way it's presented (crowd encouraged to give black-power type clenched fist salute with their lily-white liberal manicured paws), but the power of the song is undeniable.

You Can Blow Out A Candle
But You Can't Blow Out A Fire
Once The Flame Begins To Catch
The Wind Will Blow It Higher
And The Eyes of The World Are Watching Now.....

Unfortunately, the world has been watching for quite some time now, and while the problems in South Africa may be no worse (though not as much better as we might like to believe), there are plenty of others queuing up. As Alexei Sayle once pointed out (re. "Ebony and Ivory") "as far as race relations go, piano keyboards aren't gonna solve nuttin' " and however moved I am by hearing "Biko", the world is the same the next day.