David Bowie, Supertramp, Mott the Hoople, Queen and Quo music connections

Classic Albums Live - Crime of the Century

 

In 1975, as an awestruck 18 year old, I saw Supertramp at Bournemouth Winter Gardens. For the last half century they have remained one of my timeless favourite bands and tonight, 49 years later, I went to The Confederation Centre of the Arts to see the tribute band, Classic Albums Live, who played Supertramp’s ground-breaking progressive rock album, Crime of the Century, from front to back.

I parked a three minute brisk walk from the theatre and was in my seat by 7:10. Unusually for the Confed Centre filming and photography were permitted so I dimmed the screen on my phone and switched off the flash in readiness. The house lights were lowered promptly at 7:30 and the familiar haunting harmonica wailed the intro to ‘School’. I was transported back five decades to one of my earliest rock concerts; quite a spine-tingling moment. The compositions on this classic album require no introduction from me. Suffice it to say that tonight’s line-up of musicians, nine in all, played the album scrupulously faithful to the studio cut, even down to fade-outs and the faint ‘cuckoo’ in the silence at the end of ‘Asylum’. It was a stunning performance. The ‘musique concrète’ elements such as the train sounds, platform announcements and busking violinist on ‘Rudy’ were reproduced by digital file, making this a deeply authentic experience.

At the close of the final album track, Crime of the Century the band spokesman called for a twenty minute break after which he promised several more Supertramp numbers. I took the opportunity to leave my allotted seat with the giant human sitting typically in front of me and found an uninterrupted view from some empty rows further back and to the side. From there I enjoyed seven more songs from three other Supertramp albums. A nice bonus was that the excerpt from Winston Churchill’s WW2 speech in ‘Fool’s Overture’ was voiced admirably and suitably gruffly by one of the guitarists!

Musicianship was of the highest order with two keyboards, two guitarists, bass, drums, extra percussionist, and woodwind of sax, clarinet, flute and cornet. Lead vocals were shared by one guitarist and a solo singer. Lighting was simple but effective. That the band needed nine players on stage is a testament to Supertramp’s ability to play their music live with only their original five-piece.

 Set list:

1 School

2 Bloody Well Right

3 Hide in Your Shell

4 Asylum

5 Dreamer

6 Rudy

7 If Everyone Was Listening

8 Crime of the Century

 Intermission

 9 Take the Long Way Home

10 The Logical Song

11 Goodbye Stranger

12 Even in the Quietest Moments

13 Child of Vision

14 Fool’s Overture

Monoprice Glass Speaker Stands Unboxing and Review

PIGS (Pink Floyd Tribute) at the Harbourfront

Saturday night we went to see a Canadian Pink Floyd tribute band called PIGS at the Harbourfront Theatre. Ever eager to add spice to the mix, Susan decided to drive us to Summerside in a school bus; yes, drive a school bus. In truth, her job called for someone to collect a batch of college students from Charlottetown airport and she owned up to having the appropriate Class 2 driver’s licence.

 

  

She duly appeared in the big yellow bus and without further ado we clambered aboard. This was an elderly vehicle and it laboured up hills but Susan drove impeccably, safely negotiating wide turns and giving the steed loose reins on long fast descents. With the students delivered to their accommodation in Slemon Park, we parked the bus outside the Training Academy where Susan works and transferred to her car.

A short drive into Summerside and we parked by the exit of the as yet empty Harbourfront parking lot and strolled across Water Street to Subway. The tickets and meal were all part of my birthday present from last month, lucky me!

After working our way through footlong subs and sodas we headed to the theatre and were soon in our seats. The band is billed as Canada’s best PF tribute and their musicianship is faultless, and the laser light show and Floydian circular video screen authentic. For two and a half hours they played seventeen tracks from seven different Floyd albums and one Roger Waters solo album, resting midway for a short intermission. An admirably broad set list but it is fair to say that the less committed fan might have preferred fewer lengthy obscure album tracks with long instrumental passages. I was interested to hear Echoes in all its twenty three minute entirety but I can’t remember the last time I was moved to listen to it at home. Nonetheless I appreciated the inclusion of rare songs from the albums Animals and The Final Cut.

We had been lucky enough to see The Pink Floyd Experience (a Californian tribute) earlier this year and we could not help but compare and contrast the two. We both agreed our Californian evening had been the better of the two, and by some margin. PIGS didn’t interact with the audience at all; we left not knowing any of their names or personalities. In March the PFE had spoken freely between tracks, interjecting anecdotes about the music and their vintage instruments. They were close and personal whereas PIGS, I felt, while having an undeniably excellent sound, were distant and could have been playing to themselves in a rehearsal room.

All that said, we had a great evening!

Setlist:

Shine on You Crazy Diamond Pts 1-5

Another Brick in the Wall

Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun

Wish You Were Here

Pigs

Pigs on the Wing

(Intermission)

Shine On You Crazy Diamond Pts 6-9

Your Possible Pasts

Time

The Great Gig in the Sky

Deja Vu (Waters)

Coming Back to Life

Money

Echoes

(Encore)

Run Like Hell

Comfortably Numb

The Pink Floyd Experience - Harbourfront Theatre

The lights dim and the deep throbs of that long familiar heartbeat pound through the sound system. The snatches of voice, cash registers and ominously ticking clocks of ‘Speak to Me’ herald the start of the show. Susan leans into me and mouths, “Oh gosh I’ve got goose bumps!”

 

We are in Summerside at the Harbourfront Theatre for The Pink Floyd Experience, a respected tribute act from California. The opening track, the overture to 1973’s classic release, Dark Side of the Moon, reaches its howling crescendo and gives way to David Gilmour’s sublime slide guitar intro to ‘Breathe’. We are just two songs in and already it’s clear the band is as close to the real thing as anyone is likely to get; musicianship of the very highest standard with guitar tones, keyboards and vocals perfectly faithful to the original.

 

I spy the soft glow of a phone screen and mere seconds later the ‘camera police’ come marching down the aisle to advise the shooter he must desist. A tad harsh, I think. (It doesn't deter me from taking pics myself later.) After the cacophony of chimes explodes at the start of ‘Time’, those huge power chords slam in. The music is loud yet clear. Gilmour’s layered guitar parts are fully covered by two guitarists and that famous searing solo is note-perfect.

 

‘The Great Gig in the Sky’, starting with a quiet progression of chords over which we hear the immortal words, “I am not frightened of dying, any time will do”, sees the female backing singer step forward to deliver a breathtaking rendition of this expression of death, capturing the raw emotion, the terrifying intensity and harrowing sadness.

The album builds to its thunderous climax and every detail is rendered exquisitely, from the rich breathy tones of tenor saxophone to the studio sound effects.

Bowing graciously as the closing heartbeat pounds out, the rhythm guitarist announces a short intermission. The house lights go up and we pause for breath and take stock of our surroundings. The hall is just over half full and I note that the average age is, as to be expected, on the high side. There are faded, vintage tour t-shirts, more than a few bald heads and one rat-like thin, braided ponytail! Our position just seven rows back and slightly right of centre is perfect. Susan to my right has no one sitting in front of her and has an unobstructed view. I have an asshole on my left who chooses to shout at a friend mere inches from my ear and leaves his seat to squeeze past me three separate times during the performance. Needless to say, I gave him the stink eye!

Part two is a selection of greatest hits from the Echoes compilation, all performed with style and devotion by a band deeply steeped in the Pink Floyd back catalogue. ‘Wish You Were Here’ brings out a few swaying cigarette lighters but these are swiftly extinguished by the ‘lighter police’ who swoop on offenders without mercy.

Gus Beaudoin, close to seventy, strides around the stage in a long black trench coat and launches into the hammering bass solo in ‘One of These Days’ drawing rapturous applause. We are all on our feet for the show closer, ‘Another Brick in the Wall’, and the band links arms and bows to a tumult of applause.

Set list:
The Dark Side of the Moon (cover to cover)
- Speak to Me
- Breathe
- On the Run
- Time
- The Great Gig in the Sky
- Money
- Us and Them
- Any Colour You Like
- Brain Damage
- Eclipse

*Intermission*

Shine on You Crazy Diamond
Learning to Fly
Echoes
Have a Cigar
Wish You Were Here
One of These Days
Comfortably Numb
Run Like Hell
Another Brick in the Wall

We scurry out into the cold and jump into my car, smartly stationed in advance by the exit to the parking lot while we had eaten our Subway dinner an hour before the concert. Finally, we have a sweet fifty minute drive home during which we recall the highlights of a fantastic evening. I’m thrilled Susan was able to enjoy her first rock concert in some twenty years!



 

Phildelphia (City of Brotherly Love) - We Are Augustines

The self-effacing trio We Are Augustines have been making music and friends, quietly and largely unnoticed except by we lucky few. They peviously served a long and bruising apprenticeship as Pela, and more recently reverted to simply Augustines, after resolving a name dispute. This music grips me. Not just a gentle tug but a vice-like clamp; a feeling my very being has been wrenched into the songwriter's world, at once strange and scary yet hauntingly familiar.

 

Debut album Rise Ye Sunken Ships hardly made a splash in these days of autotune, brash vulgarity and manufactured style, yet for the discerning listener it is a stunning creation. Hard on the heels of his brother's tragic suicide and that of his mother years earlier, singer Billy McCarthy poured out his own despair and intensely personal emotions into twelve tracks, a powerful testament combining poetry and gentle minor key melody. The album is never an easy listen. Every song is achingly sad, yet there is an undercurrent of triumphant resolution which draws me to listen to it again and again.

 

The song Philadelphia. better known by its subtitle and translation, City of Brotherly Love, is a shining example of a timeless brotherly tribute. The studio version rocks hard and the official video splices cuts from the band's numerous passionate and freewheeling gigs. Yet tucked away on YouTube are a couple of live performances where this song is performed as a ballad with sparse piano accompaniment. This is the best I have found:

Just when you thought the most poignant songs in history had long ago been written and performed, along comes this. Even if you don't know Billy McCarthy's history, nor are familiar with the heavier version there can be no mistaking the savage grief and desperation in his cracked voice.

 

The video is beautifully shot in high definition sepia tones. The audience is hushed and respectful as Billy delivers a spell-binding performance, ragged and on the edge of tears. I defy anyone not to be moved. This is definitively, my kind of music.

Dirty Pretty Things, Soton Uni 5 May 2006

Southampton University Students Union gets some pretty good rock bands in the grand scheme of things. Last night I experienced the new phenomenon that is Dirty Pretty Things and I mean lived it, up close and personal. Before the gig a restless crowd of about 300 was jostling and maneuvering for best views of the tiny stage but when the band came on the sudden surge of movement left everyone yards from their carefully elbowed spot…

 

... this is little short of a riot. Dozens swell back and forth carrying unwitting passengers whose feet are off the ground. My mate Steve chooses to edge backwards, I let myself be carried forward on the tidal wave. Within a couple of minutes I am pressed to the stage front with the weight of hot sweaty students pressing hard all around. The music is loud and raucous. Punk rock that ex-Libertine Pete Doherty can only dream of now, while his former band mate Carl Barat swaggers and strides the stage with boyish good looks and black leather charm, singing chidingly, “Bang bang, you're dead, always so easily led.”

 

This is frightening and exhilarating. Youngsters all around are driven to a frenzy of excitement and this ageing rocker is squeezed in with them. Several crowd surfers pass over my head kicking me in the neck and back. Twice I am swamped to the floor by the tide of humanity. Once a girl lands on top of me, her plump white folds pounding the breath out of my lungs. We find our feet but the long laces of my trainers are hopelessly undone. Another surge and I am practically lifted off my feet. The heat is like a powerful furnace. All around people are wilting under the pressure. Pushing and shoving, hanging on to friends for grim death. My tee shirt is stuck to me like a wet rag. I go down again this time with a group of about ten. Hands and arms reach from the stifling blackness and help us upright then the crowds press in again hot and hard.

 

The material is all untried apart from the current single but is so reminiscent of the late lamented Libertines that it is immediately accessible. The handful of original Libertines tracks bring deafening roars and waves of further frenzy from the crowd.

By the time the final number comes I am completely overheating, dehydrated and close to fainting. I have been swept from one side of the stage to the other, been at the front then pushed backwards. The body heat is now unbearable and my eyes sting from my biting, salty sweat. Just as I am about to be overwhelmed a passage opens to my left and I stumble blindly into a brief gap. I lean against the side wall and put my head in my hands. Slowly I regain my breath as sweat streams down my face and neck. My ribs hurt like hell and I know they are bruised, if not cracked.

The band returns for an encore but I am beaten. I continue my slow recovery stage left and I am thinking when people ask in years to come, “Where were you when Dirty Pretty Things played their debut tour?” I’ll say, “I was there mate, soaked and filthy and stinking.” Maybe they will just say, “Dirty who…?"

The cold night air brings sweet relief and I meet Steve outside. “You were at the front?” he quizzes, “that’s bloody rock and roll!”

When you are too old to feel the noise like this you really are too old for life. Oh and the music? Yes, punk rock with style and attitude.

The Wall live in Berlin 1990 – Roger Waters

I’ve owned this DVD for a long time but only got around to watching it last night. I have the entire Pink Floyd catalogue, many CD bootlegs of concerts from the ‘70s, DVDs of Waters’ ‘In the Flesh’ and Gilmour’s ‘Pulse’ so you could say may expectations for Waters' 1990 concert were high.

Shame, because it’s a letdown. But why? It’s all there: the fabulous setting in no-man’s land by the Brandenburg Gate, site just the previous year of the former Berlin Wall; superb musicianship; a stage show of gargantuan proportions including the gradual assembly of the vast wall in front of the performers (only to be dutifully demolished after the Trial Sequence); and a cast of international musical superstars to help Roger out.

Perhaps it’s like trying to paint a better version of the Mona Lisa. You can’t improve on perfection. Instead what you get is something different and it’s not as good. Ten years after the original album’s release, musical tastes were already shifting away from the grand and pompous and although the show attracted a huge crowd there is no life, no soul.

It suffers from ‘too many cooks’ syndrome. Van Morrison is so out of place on Comfortably Numb, Cyndi Lauper is a crazy long-haired and hilariously overacting kid on ‘Another Brick in the Wall’, Joni Mitchell appears bewildered on ‘Goodbye Blue Sky’ and Jerry Hall’s spoken part is just cringe-worthy. Research tells me the crowd was subdued on the night so every lull in the music was filled in the studio with a crescendo of multi-layered cheering and roaring. Some tracks suffered equipment failure and mistakes resulting in rehearsal performances from previous days making it onto the disc.

 

Waters is a renowned perfectionist. Perhaps that’s why so many performers are caught out lip-synching to backing tracks when their moment in the limelight comes. Bryan Adams is miming his guitar parts as are The Scorpions. Even Waters himself is nowhere near a mic for the start of one of his spoken parts.

 

On my surround sound system the DTS 5.1 soundtrack is loud and detailed. The video predates high definition and looks average. The whole thing is trying so hard to be Pink Floyd but it isn’t. It can’t be. 4/10

queen

In 1973, as an impressionable sixteen-year-old, I saw Mott the Hoople in concert at the Bournemouth Winter Gardens. Needless to say it was a riotous occasion with the band riding high on the successes of “All the Way From Memphis” and the Bowie-penned anthem “All the Young Dudes”. The supporting act that night was an obscure British band by the name of Queen.

Queen’s eponymous first album had failed to make a serious mark but the new single “Seven Seas of Rhye”, taken from their upcoming second album, was causing a stir. In those days bands didn’t headline a tour until they were fully established but after the second leg of the ‘73/’74 tour with Mott the Hoople in North America, Queen would never again play second fiddle.

In 1971 legend has it that Freddie Mercury sang with his back to the audience, such was his lack of confidence. Well, how things would change! By the time of Queen II Freddie had evolved into a dazzling showman, strutting and preening in a way no one before him had. His was a unique and towering stage presence who demanded attention. And the songs themselves did too, for Freddie was the band’s primary songwriter and a highly accomplished pianist.

I left the theatre that night a convert to the Queen cause. The next album “Sheer Heart Attack” marched further into pop territory while retaining Brian May’s metallic guitar riffs and set Queen on the launching pad for stardom. In 1975, just as the short-lived glam-rock era began to wane, and the dogs of punk were sniffing at the door, Queen released their magnum opus, the genre-bending “A Night at the Opera”. With nods to hard rock, music hall, progressive rock, shiny pop and rock opera, the disc was a showcase for Freddie’s lyrical and vocal prowess and Brian May’s scorching guitar.

Reputedly the most expensive record at the time ever to emerge from a recording studio, it propelled Queen into the stratosphere, became their best-selling album, and for many including the band themselves, it was their defining work. It produced the epic single Bohemian Rhapsody, which went on to become the third-best selling single in the history of the British pop charts (behind Elton John’s Candle in the Wind and Band Aid’s Do They Know it’s Christmas – both specific ‘period pieces’). Love it or hate it, many of us can still sing along to the poetic lyrics.

“Opera” set in motion a train of four albums that set Queen apart from all other artists of the time. Straddling the genres of arena rock, ballads, hard rock and vaudeville, they were without equal in terms of intellect, musicianship, stagecraft and public image. From 1974 until 1980 they could do no wrong and both the British and American music press were filled with stories of their wild excesses both on and off stage.

But at the end of the decade it was like a switch had been thrown and the eighties ushered in a new era. Guitars were out of favour, ice-cold synths ruled the scene. Queen maintained a dedicated following but their day was done. Several huge radio-friendly singles kept their name in view but by the time of Freddie’s untimely death in 1991 the band was a shadow of its former self.

Incredible how a style of music can surge and roar then reach a wild crescendo and ebb away as fast as it arrived. Fortunately we are left with several concert videos from the late seventies and early eighties so can relive Freddie Mercury’s powerful and melodic voice; see the way he held an audience of seventy-thousand in the palm of his hand and lose ourselves in the astonishing spectacle which was, simply Queen.

the geese

We were invited to a small private gig arranged by Brian Metzger on Saturday night at the Farm Centre on University Avenue. The Geese, a collective of musicians now based in Vancouver, were in the midst of a lengthy Trans-Canada tour promoting their debut album and kindly agreed to play privately for us in Charlottetown in return for donations to our local food bank.

The venue was a meeting room, perhaps three times the size of a large living room, with about fifty seats arranged theatre style. On arrival Michelle made her way to the front row in four strides and plonked down in the centre. Oh well, up close and personal it is then! I wasn’t sure what to expect, having sampled just a couple of clips on YouTube but hey, this is live music and up stepped four men with beards and a girl with goose wings!

Brief introductions over, they launched into their opening track. We were almost indecently close and could easily have tripped over a beard or two but proximity quickly felt natural and we were soon engrossed in an evening of fascinating entertainment from five accomplished songwriters, musicians and singers.

I like to categorise music (well, truthfully that extends to most things) and pigeonhole bands in a specific genre. I have entries in categories from ‘Americana’ to ‘Roots Rock’ via ‘Britpop’ Blues Rock’, ‘Prog Rock’, ‘Hot Rod Revival’ and a smattering of ‘Cowpunk’! It has been gnawing away at me for some time that the Canadian arm of my collection has been shamefully lacking in ‘West Coast Danger Folk’ so during the rather civilised intermission, I put that right and picked up the band's eponymous, self-released debut album.

Stylishly the Geese swapped instruments, slipping effortlessly from guitar to drums to bass and back as they performed their eclectic repertoire. Country-tinged rock gave way to folk and quirky indie rock with each band member quite at ease stepping up to explain the stories behind their songs, laughing at a broken guitar string and inquiring if the sound needed tweaking at all. They seemed like a group of friends we’d invited round for a knees-up yet their professionalism shone through.

In true rock ‘n roll style with much clapping and foot stamping we persuaded them to stay for an encore, the rousing tribute to their former home Province, ‘New Brunswickers’. I even had the chance to thank them in person when I chatted to a couple of the band afterwards, friendly, relaxed people who had put heart and soul into their performance for our small gathering.

Alphabetical order by band is the only valid way to sort a collection but it often throws up curious juxtapositions. The Geese are now nestling on my shelves somewhat uneasily between Gay Dad and Geldof, Bob!

Ian Hunter - Strings Attached

I bought this Concert DVD on its release in 2004 but have only recently acquired a surround sound set up to fully appreciate it.

Most people have heard of seventies glam rock act Mott the Hoople, if only for the single “All the Young Dudes” and long term fans from the 1960s and 1970s have followed lead singer Ian Hunter’s solo career with a mixture of frustration and admiration. This very English (and criminally under-rated) singer songwriter has released more than a dozen studio albums in a somewhat spotty solo career but the highlights are high indeed. Until now there has been scarcely any worthwhile footage of Ian Hunter performing live so the long-awaited DVD, "Strings Attached" was always going to be required viewing.

Universal released the set with only basic monochrome artwork and no liner notes, clearly aiming it at existing fans. Video and sound though are top quality, as of course they should be these days. Seventeen songs that lend themselves to arrangement with strings have made the set list but this is not just a typical Ian Hunter set with accompanying strings. No, all the songs have been rearranged (some fairly heavily) for a seventeen-piece string ensemble called the Trondheim Soloists. This is IH’s show and he rightly takes centre stage, playing acoustic guitar or singing with hand-held mic. Long time guitarist Andy York plays acoustic and occasionally electric, while there are Scandinavian guitar, keys and drums lurking well into the shadows backstage. Songs like Boy, Waterlow, Irene Wilde and Michael Picasso sound stunning and Ships will surely bring a lump even to the hardest throat.

I am uneasy about 23A Swan Hill and Once Bitten Twice Shy though, which have lost their power and bite and Memphis is barely recognisable. However by the time we reach the rousing finale of Saturday Gigs, it has become quite apparent that IH is taking this opportunity to present the songs to us afresh. His voice is simply superb and I really believe I have never heard him singing better. The violinists and cellists look full of respect for him and are clearly enjoying themselves.

The star of the Bonus Features is a fascinating thirty minute interview. A Norwegian interviewer asks the obvious questions but allows IH the opportunity to say as much or as little as he fancies. It doesn't come across as over-rehearsed and offers a rare first-hand insight into the man's thoughts. There is also a six minute film of behind-the-scenes clips where we hear from Joe Elliott, Campbell Devine, son Jesse Hunter and daughter Tracie Hunter (so very like her old man!) Additionally there are complete Mott the Hoople and IH discographies and a short biography from Campbell Devine.

I enjoyed the DVD for several reasons but on a purely personal level I prefer the hard-rocking electric sets he plays live. Who knows perhaps one day we may be treated to a DVD of one of the Astoria gigs I attended.

Isle of Wight Festival 2006

There are dozens more pictures of how I spent my rock and roll weekend and here they are.

England’s “Woodstock” was a beautiful dream from 1968 to 1970 until a scarcely believable one million hippies took over the Island, forcing action at government level. In 1970 the ‘Isle of Wight Act’ was passed by Parliament to ban all future festivals. The Act was repealed in 2002…

2006 sold out months ago but I came across a single last minute ticket (the vendor knows how grateful I am.) The one hundred and sixty square-mile island is barely separated from the mainland by a narrow strait but has the feel of a bygone era. A crucial local newspaper, scores of cousins and low mileage vintage cars demonstrate the efficiency of water as a boundary.

A note-by-note account of the music would have you yawning and reaching for the remote so I’ll stick to highlights and atmosphere but here’s a quick scan of the 3-day line-up:

The Prodigy
Placebo
Goldfrapp
The Rakes
Morning Runner

Foo Fighters
Primal Scream
Editors
Dirty Pretty Things
The Kooks
The Proclaimers
The Upper Room
Suzanne Vega
747s
The On Offs

Coldplay
Richard Ashcroft
Lou Reed
Maximo Park
Kubb
Procol Harum
Delays
CatHead
The Windows
Skyline Heroes

Thank you to Steve and his daughter for introducing me to island life.

I like it at the front, bouncing, up close and personal but in a giant seething crowd of fifty-five thousand that was impractical and downright fucking dangerous. I held a variety of positions over the weekend, sometimes within twenty yards of the stage at others two hundred yards away. At times the only way from A to B was to get your head down and push people hard to create a path where no gaps exist.

It rains too much in England but I was treated to three hot blue summer days in a row. I borrowed a girly blue hat to shade my sensitive forehead and slapped on SPF thirty-five. Wrap-around Oakleys saved my sore eyes. Late morning there was plenty of grassy meadow to sit on but by 11pm it was ‘sardines’ in a field. Stand in your garden for twelve hours a day and you’ll know how my feet, legs and back feel! Make sure you find a spot with not a speck of shade and choose a cloudless weekend. Yes, physical and emotional exhaustion are very real.

Teenage girls in halter-tops passed around spliffs as thick as your finger and scampered on dirty bare feet. Forty-something guys took off their T-shirts to sport taut white beer bellies. Bronzed fifty plus women bent to reveal seductive lower back tattoos and young boys with beer mugs staggered in the sun, their eyes reduced to unseeing slits. Oh, and there was me in my borrowed blue hat.

Fifty-five thousand souls make a lot of noise, they drop litter ankle-deep and they produce a vast amount of “waste” – please don’t invite me to discuss the toilet arrangements… The whole world and his wife thumbed texts in their mobile phones or shrieked into them, jumping and waving wildly to an unseen friend a hundred yards away. The air was thick with alphabet soup, text messages became constipated in the hot dusty air taking an hour to travel ten paces and thousands of digital cameras recorded every scene for posterity.

If the music failed to move you there were fairground rides three hundred feet tall to scare the pants off you. Another field of stalls sold ridiculous hats, shawls, beads and a myriad of hippie trinkets. Beyond that lay thousand upon thousand tiny tents for the hardy festival campers and after that acres of cars, their windscreens glittering in the dazzling June sun.

Back to the stage - huge beach balls bounced over our heads and imaginative souls held aloft inflatable alligators, waved flags on twelve foot masts and swayed to the summery sounds. Bands I thought might be wild were somewhat restrained and bands I had no expectations for blew me away. The variety was spine-tingling, from angular modern punk to sweeping anthems, from thrashing rock to mellow melodies, it was all here over three days. The sound was huge. This equipment aficionado studied the gigantic towers of PA speakers, the python-thick cabling and the million-knob mixing desks – wow I want one of those!

Procol Harum (Whiter Shade of Pale) were way down the order on day two and I expected nothing. So why did I become so very emotional and choke up completely at their set? Thirty six years ago they played at the final original I.o.W. Festival when I was a teenage schoolboy with my whole life ahead of me. I was yet to make the crazy fucking mistakes and do the reckless things that would forever change the course of my life. The humility and dignity of these men was beautifully understated yet emotionally charged. They will die doing the thing they love and their own mistakes are just part of a rich life. Music has extraordinary power.

Richard Ashcroft stabbed the mic at his bare chest offering his soul to the masses. Wearing his tormented heart on a ragged sleeve he introduced songs of love and death, depression and suicide - including "Bitter Sweet Symphony" and "Lucky Man." The band left the stage leaving him to deliver "The Drugs Don't Work" with just his acoustic guitar. An emotional roller-coaster.

Dirty Pretty Things were as skinny as sharpened pencils, kings of cool in spray-on black denim with backs to the crowd. Swigging sherry from the neck of a bottle at twenty six you know they are approaching the essential age for rock and roll suicide.

Memories of grass hot but damp, cigarette lighters held aloft, searing green lasers that pierce the black night, ten vast video screens so those at the back of the island don’t see the players as ants, throbbing pounding bass that shakes my spleen, picking my way through piles of half eaten burgers and noodles, the setting sun, a death-defying electrician climbing the lighting gantry like a monkey, burning skin, azure skies, green eyes, sentimental fucking emotions, summer memories and still a teenager at forty eight…

Carl Barat

Just before midnight yesterday I lost 5 pounds in sweated weight and was crushed on the ground. I saw Dirty Pretty Things and wrote about it on Music to Grow Old.

Music to grow old to

A certain cocaine jesus invited me to contribute to his handsome music review site "music to grow old to." Never one to miss a musical opportunity I gladly accepted and began by remembering the classic Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars.

The Subways

An unbelievably young band with the world at their feet. Tonight Portsmouth Pyramids is heaving with eight hundred sweaty youngsters and me as we witnessed a truly electric performance from this fearless new trio.

The act is held together by baby-faced Billy Lunn who plays rock guitar with a punk edge and sings in a raw anxt-ridden yell that belies his young age. Charlotte Cooper's bass is nearly as big as her and a bare-chested drummer goes ape on the skins.

They crash through an extended version of "I Wanna Hear What You've Got to Say" and Billy climbs a PA tower to lead the hand-clapping from a precarious height then slithers down and does the same on the far side of the stage. Cameras pop everywhere and he dashes back centre stage to catch the Gibson SG flung deftly by his guitar tech. Next Is "With You" and hairs stand on the back of my neck to hear the line 'My best days are with you, they are so easy!" (I think I'm sixteen again...)

Keeping up an amazing pace these twenty-year-old rising stars of modern pop-punk run through the whole of their debut album "Young for Eternity" from which several charting singles have been lifted. To close they give us a blistering rendition of "Rock and Roll Queen" during which Billy dives headlong into the crowd and surfs like a rock legend! He emerges minus T-shirt and resumes the stage for the final chorus. No encore, so a frenzied Portsmouth crowd is left breathless and wanting more.

"Another day is here and I am still alive."
The Subways - I Want to Hear what You've Got to Say.

The Editors

What a difference a week makes. The latest band occupying the minds of the British music press is The Editors. But this time the hype is entirely justified. Hailing from the unlikely rock ‘n’ roll hotbed of East Anglia, nevertheless these are smart, intelligent and good-looking boys with a distinctly new sound. Think of the chiming angular guitars of Interpol and cross them with the strident baritone vocals of The Killers. Add sharp lyrics and strong melodies and you have The Editors.

I saw them on Tuesday, the final night of a sell-out tour. Three heads from the front, I had a good view of the stage. My favourite Wedgewood Rooms was packed to groaning point with hot sweaty flesh, stirred to fever pitch by New York City bands The Cloud Room and We are Scientists. These are new wave guitar outfits with echoes of The Strokes and The Stills. There was a whiff of money about this debut tour, the light show came from eight of those fancy programmable pods revolving on universal joints. The Editors wore black shirts and trousers and sported matching black Rickenbacker guitars.

New album, The Back Room, provided just enough material to fill a fifty minute set and these infuriatingly young and charming lads engaged in friendly disarming banter with the notoriously demanding Portsmouth crowd. Sweat poured from their heads and their neat black shirts were drenched to the skin. I got the impression ‘this is us and this is what we do’ but not in any arrogant way. Songs of modern life and love delivered with passion and energy.

I headed into the cool night with my T-shirt stuck to me thinking, “yeah that was all right!”

(There's a couple more pics here.)

The Paddingtons

Hype upon hype has raised these twenty-something Hull-based popsters to cult status before anyone in the real world has heard more than a note. I risked a tickets at Southsea’s Wedgewood Rooms for 2nd October and took up position somewhat conspicuously among three hundred college teens.

Support from “Deville” and “Dustin's Bar Mitzvah” set the scene with their untidy, pouting punk. A distinct shortage of finesse was just about balanced by the fake snarling attitude of ‘Jimmy White’s on Crack Again.’ Fashionably late, “The Paddingtons” swaggered on at 10:15pm and ran through a weak set of “Libertines” by numbers rip-offs. Hard to work out why teeny punkers are taken in by these fake rough diamonds, even harder to fathom how adult music journalists are equally hoodwinked. A late replacement guitarist can't have helped but this was poor.

I may be approaching fifty but I know the real deal and this wasn’t it. Eventually the hype-meisters may learn that one catchy single maketh not a classic band. In the meantime guys like these will continue to be pushed forward into an arena they are just not (and perhaps never will be) ready for. Don’t take my word, ask the folk who were sauntering out after half an hour. I lasted forty minutes before joining the stream of early leavers.

Pretend tough boys can’t fool me. Bring back the fucking Libertines and let’s see and hear true passionate Brit Pop, hard and angry.

Sound and vision

Intermission time. Let's take a break from the intensity. Here are my latest Internet deliveries:

The Lost Highway - directed by David Lynch.
In the opening scene the central character listens to a message through his house entry phone. In the closing scene he is outside speaking the same message into the entry system. We are shown a series of incidents that seem to be related yet probably are not. Video footage is shot by an unseen intruder from an impossibly high vantage point which adds to the feeling of unreality.

The film’s success lies in its creation of a dreamlike atmosphere. The characters talk in very basic dialogue as if sleep-walking and the action is sometimes in slow-motion at others high speed. Ultimately this fascinating piece of cinema, shot in the style of a ‘film noir,’ defies strict interpretation. It explores schizophrenia and identity. We might be learning about a couple who smash a snuff video ring or it might just be a dream about paranoia.

Weezer - Make Believe
If you are expecting more songs like the current single Beverly Hills you’ll be disappointed. Instead the punk pop four-piece from LA deliver a convincing collection second only to the Green Album. Lyrics developed with the wisdom of age, melodies to lift the heart and lush, layered vocals over dirty power chords. Minor key choruses give that all important dash of melancholy. I’m forty seven going on seventeen!

Oasis – Don’t Believe the Truth
At last an Oasis album that can seriously claim to hold a candle to the great (Whats the Story) Morning Glory? Most noticeable is Liam’s voice, which has recovered from the gravelly dirge of recent years to the youthful energy and range of those early days. Song-writing duties are shared among the new band and the variety shines through. But Noel’s efforts are just too good to be overshadowed, a writer of such simple yet effective songs.

Turin Brakes – Jackinabox
The Optimist might just have been the only good set of songs these guys had in them. I feared they would sink without trace along with their pale imitation second album. Jackinabox is a rebirth with genuinely fresh material but all the quiet easy charm of old. Trademark harmonies soar over slide acoustic guitar and deft sticks. Saw these guys supporting Stereophonics at Southampton Guildhall four years ago, now they headline Brixton Academy.

(Where have bands like Smashing Pumpkins gone?)

"Today is the greatest day I've ever known
Can't live for tomorrow, tomorrow's much too long."
Smashing Pumpkins – Today