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Off to Clerkenwell last night, for a Medecins Sans Frontieres benefit featuring the mighty Robyn Hitchcock and chums. They were playing Sergeant Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band in order, in it’s entirety. A great idea, and probably the first time this studio-bound piece had been attempted live.

They absolutely nailed it, down to the backward masking at the end. Sgt. Pepper’s not my favourite Beatles album, but this really kicked live. It was a joy from start to finish, impeccably played and enlivened by Robyn’s trademark surrealistic song intros. Props to Morris Windsor too, whose drums and vocals were the backbone of the whole endeavour.

It was made even better by the sheer intimacy of the venue in which the gig was held. The Three Kings is a tiny, boho place the colour of beer and fag smoke (interestingly, they’d enabled the smoking ban a day early, which suited me perfectly.) dominated by a stuffed rhino head on the back wall. It was filled to the rafters by the time Robyn hit the stage. And by stage I mean the bit of floor by the fireplace. There was no room for anything more fancy. My travelling companions for the evening, Mr and Mrs Jones, had made the point that it was worth getting there early to snag a decent view. It couldn’t really have been bettered, as I virtually had my head in the PA, and was close enough to be able to hand Robyn back his guitar lead after he knocked out of his Telecaster during “Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds.” Mr Jones is a seething ball of jealousy now. He’s the real Robyn fan. I only really pitched up on the offchance that Peter Buck might show (he didn’t.)

Mark Lamarr officiated over an auction of memorabilia, which at one point turned into a pitched battle between myself and Mrs Jones over a signed copy of Underwater Moonlight. She won, and was planning on giving it to Mr Jones as a birthday pressie. I also opened the bidding on a traffic cone signed by Robyn and R.E.M., that eventually went for £130. I know it’s for charity and all, but WTF.

So, boozed up and with ringing ears, we stepped out into the rain, and headed for home. A great gig, supporting a really good cause. I’m still a bit deaf. And I can’t get this darned grin off my face.

Abbey Road next year please, Robyn!

As Sicko hits American screens, and hopefully the conversation about the awful state of the American healthcare system begins to ramp up in volume, here’s some clips of Michael Moore in conversation at The American Pavillion, Cannes, May 2007.

And while we’re at it, here he is on The Daily Show, griping about being bumped from Larry King for Paris Hilton.

Like the priorities of the American media aren’t FUBARED enough already.

I urge you to go and see Sicko. It’s biased, emotional and flawed, but the story at it’s heart is enough to render you close to tears. I guarantee you, if your jaw isn’t on the floor in the first five minutes, there’s no hope for you. I will never complain about the NHS again.

Aspartame found to cause breast cancer, leukemia and lymphomas in latest animal experiments

I’ve been unable to drink most generic fizzy or soft drinks, diet or otherwise, since aspartame started appearing in the list of ingredients. It leaves a nasty, bitter, chemical tang at the back of my tongue that’s actively unpleasant. This latest news gives me a little shiver of hubris. Maybe my body was telling me I’m not supposed to be drinking this stuff.

No, I stick to good old-fashioned healthy beer these days. Much better for you.

Oh yeah. You want this.

From Sore Eyes, who knows what’s good for you.

Yet another fascinating article on the backstage workings at Glasto.
This one’s about the most important people on the field. A true bunch of heros.

One word you don’t need to read on a Monday morning, though: “splashback.” Ick.

…because rock stars are the tenderest morsels of all.
And because I’m in a grump because I still don’t have my film back so I can put “The Gourmand” on line for you Sick Puppy fans.
Because it’s a rainy Sunday arternoon, and I’ve got no mind to worry.
Because it rocks.

Sick. Sick. Sick.

Fascinating article on how 300 bands get cycled through their performances at Glastonbury.

I was not aware that “roadie” was now a perjorative term, though…

The consequences if you don’t are almost too hideous to contemplate…

…because remember kids, not knowing how to cook is like not knowing how to fu… you get the idea.

Gracias, Senor Rodruiguez, y tambien BoingBoing.