Sounds of the year

Hey ho let’s go. Here, in no order of preference or alphabetical…ness… are the songs that most moved, inspired or cheered me during the last tumultuous twelvemonth. Complete with commentary, so I apologise for the length of this post. Just listen to the songs if you’d rather.

The Hold Steady: “Lord I’m Discouraged.”

“Stay Positive” is the most recent Hold Steady album, and an instant favourite. It was conspicuous by it’s absence on a lot of critics best of years lists – a criminal omission in my view. It’s an epic song cycle of Catholic mysticism, rock and roll hedonism and dirt poor street tribalism. A triumph, and on pretty constant replay here at X&HTowers. There are better tracks on the album (although the guitar solo is a thing of majestic beauty), but this is the one that gave this website it’s name, and it gets the nod for that.

AC/DC: “Rock and Roll Train”

Oh, yes, here’s the good stuff. “Black Ice” marked a return for one of my favourite bands after an eight year absence, and they did it in style by not changing a damn thing. Their irascible refusal to put the album on iTunes hacked me off a bit, but  the album gets plenty of routing into the regular playlist, so they are forgived. And I’ve bought tickets to see them at Wembley this June, which is gonna be a great day out. “Rock And Roll Train” is the chosen track. As solid a statement of intent to head up an album as any I’ve heard in a while.

Bruce Springsteen: “Radio Nowhere”

“Magic” is a fantastic album, and seeing Broooce at the Emirates last summer was one of the highlights of the year for me. The three-hour show he pulled was non-stop energy, fire and thrills. I’m a rabid fan, and he lived up to every expectation. Like “Rock And Roll Train” above, “Radio Nowhere” tells you exactly where Bruce is heading from the first 20 seconds of the record. A new album coming this January, and rumours of him headlining Glasto this year are going to make me a very happy fanboy.

Elbow: “Grounds For Divorce.”

About flippin’ time that everyone caught up with me. Winning the Mercury Music Prize was one of those moments when the world made sense, and one of the most genuinely innovative bands on the planet finally got the recognition they deserve. “The Seldom-Seen Kid” is a record in widescreen. Stirring, moving and endlessly rewarding. A true highpoint.

I’ve chosen this track because, let’s face it, why would I not choose a track that starts with the line “I’ve been working on a cocktail called Grounds For Divorce”?

Eddie Vedder: “Rise”

This is from the soundtrack to Sean Penn’s Into The Wild, a film of rare restraint and beauty. The same could be said of Eddie Vedder’s accompanying music. Acoustic textures and Eddie’s trademark croon makes this album a late night favourite. “Rise” is the perfect example of the pleasures that the soundtrack offers.

Fleet Foxes: “White Winter Hymnal”

I played this album on Christmas Day. After Bruce doing “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town,” of course, which has been a family ritual for as long as I can remember. The Fleet Foxes album, an evocative rendition of crisp, cold winter days could become an addition to that tradition. White Winter Hymnal gets the nod here as the absolute distillation of that “Beach boys fronted by Jim Jones from My Morning Jacket in a church” vibe that permeates the album. Chilling in all the right ways.

Freezepop: “Less Talk More Rokk”

A Boing Boing find, and one of those perfect pop moments that just digs under the skin and hides in the hindbrain. I love the balance of cool female vocals and deranged electronic riffage. This track also appears on Guitar Hero 2, and I can imagine it tying your fingers in knots. That intro is harsh.

The Gutter Twins: “Idle Hands”

Mark Lanegan and Greg Dulli, both artists I admire greatly, got together this year as The Gutter Twins, and came up with one of the albums of the year. Epic, taut, vicious and oozing a bruised romanticism all at once. “Idle Hands” is the theme to the best horror movie never made.

Martha Wainwright: “Tower Of Song”

Time to get meta on your asses. I had the distinct pleasure to see both Leonard Cohen and Martha Wainwright live this year. The Martha gig was especially memorable, as it was an intimate gig at the Borders in Oxford St for winners of an online competition. It was a thirty minute acoustic set, which showcased her brilliant album “I Know You’re Married But I’ve Got Feelings Too” (one of the titles of the year too!) That album contains a track called “Tower Song”. This, though, is a cover of my favourite Cohen track for a Mojo covermount.

The cross-contextuality makes my head spin.

“Dig, Lazurus, Dig!!!“: Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds

Three exclamation points in a song is always worthy of comment. A big, fat swagger of a track from a big fat swagger of an album. Nick Cave has never been afraid to deal with issues of faith and filth, and he’s utterly confident on both on this record. I find I drop into a strut whenever this comes up on the playlist. Don’t be afraid to do the same.

“5:05“: Paul Westerberg

This track appeared as a free download earlier in the year, as a taster for a new album that PW was going to release under a similar model as Radiohead’s “In Rainbows”. As yet, that album is yet to appear, but the ramshackle charm of “5:05” makes me eager to see if the album can live up to the promise of the single. The title? It’s the duration of the track, of course…

“The Rip“: Portishead

Soundtracky noir and I have always got along especially well, so it’s no surprise that I’m a Portishead fan. But 3, their long-awaited third album took all the preconceptions about what they were, gave them a noogie, a spitclean and a long hot kiss and sent them off to do great things. I love the single, Machine Gun, the best use of syndrums since New Order’s Blue Monday, but The Rip is a movie in miniature, a transforming monster of a track that gets better with every listen.

“The Great Gig In The Sky“: Pink Floyd

Richard Wright’s death finally ended all speculation of a Pink Floyd reunion. It was a deeply poignant event, as he had been playing live again with Dave Gilmour, and was beginning to be regarded as the quiet still point at the heart of the Floyd. I offer up his greatest moment, the song he wrote that is the highwater mark of their greatest album. I always found it especially moving, and even more so now.

“Consoler Of The Lonely“: The Raconteurs

This came out of nowhere. Released within a fortnight of it’s completion, “Consolers Of The Lonely” is a monster of an album, like “Music From Big Pink” as played by Led Zeppelin. Jack White has never been on better high-hollerin’ form. Love it to bits. The first track tells you exactly what to expect. Incidentally, the first verse describes the low points of my mental and physical state over this year pretty accurately. Another reason I relate so strongly to it, I guess…

“I’m Gonna DJ“: REM

2008 saw my Georgia boys finally step up and deliver the album they’d promised for the past decade. A tight, sharp, bright shot of sunshine, Accelerate included a live favourite that was part of the mythos to such an extent that lyrics from it had featured on official tour t-shirts. It’s great to see it finally on record, cos it’s a stomping beast. Music will provide the light. You cannot resist.

“Please Read The Letter” – Alison Krauss and Robert Plant

“Raising Sand” is a spare, intimate and subtle album that feels like an intrusion into a delicate, careful courtship. Planty calms the wailing loverman act, tempering his urgent heat in the face of Alison Krauss’ sweet ice-cream coolness. “Please Read The Letter” is the track that does it for me, a tale of yearning, loss and sacrifice that fills me with emotions that I cannot quite name.

“Inní Mér Syngur Vitleysingur“: Sigur Rós

One of my favourite bands and one that I was lucky enough to see live this year, at the Westminster Methodist Hall. At this point in their career, they have learned that melancholy can only get you so far. They lightened up, and started to sing and dance. With a track as infectious as this, you can only join in. Even if you don’t speak Icelandic.

Oh, and one of the weirdest points of the year – Sigur Ros interviewed on More4 News about the collapse of the Icelandic banking system. A true WTF moment.

“I Feel Alright“: Steve Earle

The final season of The Wire was the major TV event of the year for me, and the soundtrack to that show, “… And All The Pieces Matter” is a perfect counterpart. This Steve Earle track, that played over the end of the final episode of season 4, sums up the show for me. Bitter, beaten, yet eternally hopeful in the face of a cruel and arbitrary universe that seems to delight in punishing you for doing the right thing. And it’s said Americans don’t do irony…

“That’s Not My Name“: The Ting Tings

I heard this for the first time on Jonathon Ross’ show, and instantly had that spinal zap-chill that told me it would be a phenomenal hit. Feminist anthem, the 21st century’s own Clapping Song (a debt that Katie and Jules acknowledged by having a double dutch crew on stage with them at Reading), an earworm of the highest order. It’s a track that polarises people, but I bloody love it.

“Krimanchuli“: Orera

The random one. Not even sure where I heard this first, but this dose of Georgian jazz-pop gets my tag as Song Of The Year. Dating back to the late 60’s, it starts as a choral exercise of rare medieval power, before morphing into a finger-popping bounce groove that just grows and grows. It’s one of the reasons I love random surfing for music, and shuffle remains my playback mode of choice. Quite simply, I love it when music surprises me, and that’s something that every song I’ve featured here has done.

I hope you approve of my choices. Here’s to more of the same this year!

A Small Burst Of Music

I’ve just done a wee behind-the-hood upgrade on X&HT. Music and video will become more prevalent on posts as I can now do them directly from the laptop.

All this means that Rob’s Sounds of the Year will be a multimedia treat for the New Year for you, beloved Readership, but in the meantime, enjoy this little number from Henry Rollins as a belated X&HTmas present.

Ho and furthermore ho.

No Solace

 

Schocking.
Michael Gillette's brilliant covers for Penguin's new release of the Bond stories. Click on the pic for more...

Christmas party season is upon us, and mine was last Thursday. Not doing Friday, thanks, the potential for alcoholic disaster is waaay too high. The company I work for has been heavily involved in the Bond film this year, so of course the party was Bond themed. Kudos to the girl who dressed up as Blofeld’s cat. She must have been roasting in all that white fur.

 
There was a casino, a singer doing her best Shirley Bassey (very good, incidentally) and a fine time was had by all. Vodka martinis were conspicuous by their absence, but then things can get messy enough with the crowd I work with if you just feed them beer and wine, so probably best avoided.
This, with a clunk and a screech of thematic gears, leads me onto the real point of the post – the most recent Bond film. I’ve been a fan of Bond for as long as I can remember. I still remember going as a family to see The Spy Who Loved Me, and feeling strangely squirmy at the sight of Barbara Bach (I was 10) and every Bond since has been a big deal for me.
So to see all the invention and daring of Casino Royale wiped away in favour of a lumpen, dour Bourne rip off sticks in the craw for me. The direction was confused at best, being frenetically paced and yet painfully slow. The editing was done by a ten year old after four bags of Haribo Starmix. I didn’t have a problem with the characters. I always thought Daniel Craig was a brave and clever choice as Bond, my feelings for Judi Dench approach those I have for Helen Mirren, and I’ve been a fan of Matthieu Almaric for ages.

However, the two most interesting characters were badly wasted. Felix Leiter, caught in the jaws of his governments corrupt foreign policy, should have been the moral heart of the film. Jeffrey Wright could have nailed that. Instead, he was barely a B-plot.
The biggest crime was that committed on Gemma Artertons character, Agent Fields. Her Schoolmarm Gone Wild demeanour woke the film up and gave it a shake and a snog just when it was needed the most.
***SPOILER ALERT***

To see her killed off in the most cynical nod to Bond history I’ve ever seen, offscreen and utterly pointlessly,  left a very nasty taste. Even the mystery of her first name was only resolved in the credits. I can only assume that her role was cut down to trim the already short duration of the movie. It’s a real shame. She, and the audience, deserved better.
I felt a bit cheated, frankly. I’m certainly no stick-in-the-mud about what should and should not be part of the story (really, don’t get me started on the whole idea of canon) but at what point was it decided that Bond films couldn’t be fun any more?

I felt utterly deflated as I left the cinema, in the same way as I felt after walking out of the third Bourne movie. That was a good idea run into the ground. This was a pointless sweeping up and recycling of the remains. Bond films should be better than that, carving their own path, fantasies in their way, cruel but always with an ending that made you felt that the villain had been defeated, and there was one last rotten pun to come before the credits rolled.
I’ll be watching Goldfinger this Christmas Day. Now there’s a Bond movie.

On getting older, and no wiser

Funny old weekend really, as birthday weekends often are. I took a couple of days off around the day itself, just to sort out the looming monolith of giftage and panic that is the buildup to Xmas. And blow me if it hasn’t worked, and we’re pretty much sorted.

Admittedly, a lot of this is down to my insisting on Clare dropping some very unsubtle hints about what she wanted, as opposed to her usual ” oh I’ll leave it up to you, you always come up with such lovely presents.” Cue three weeks of fear and existential angst as I overspend in a panic that she’ll be disappointed. If she doesn’t like what she’s getting this year it’s her own darn fault.

So, the Friday was spent shopping and spending forty minutes getting out of a car park in central Reading. The main design flaw in town parking is the central corkscrew ramp used for access. Which is normally fine, but when everyone is trying to get out at the same time, that main artery gets clogged in a hurry. It comes to something when both driver and passenger end up checking their emails while waiting for the car in front to edge forward a couple of feet.

From that little adventure, we just had enough time to get changed before heading back into town and heading up to That London for to see the Mighty Boosh.

Funny story. Clare agreed to go with one of her Internet buddies yonks ago, one of those “one too many glasses of wine, ooh that sounds like fun” deelies. She thought nothing much more of it, especially as the friend in question has vanished from the forum she frequents, and she knows nothing of the Boosh anyway.
Her friend reappeared a few weeks back, complete with tickets, but full of apologies as she now couldn’t go. Did we still want to?

Well, it’s somefing different, innit?

It was very silly, a lot less in-jokey than I thought it was going to be, and very funny. It got a bit self-indulgent at the end, but then if you’re a comedy duo playing the Wembley Arena, I’d say you’ve got a licence to wig out a bit.

Saturday was the birthday. Lots of cards with money in, and the big gift, a Wii. I need to dedicate a full post to this marvel, but let’s just say I’m already addicted. If anyone fancies a head to head on Mario Kart let me know, and I’ll squirt you a Friend Code.

That evening could not be more different to Friday, as we whizzed to Chelsea for the tradition that is the Coro Christmas Concert. I’ve raved about Coro before, and will continue to do so until people start listening. They are on top of their game, and when they cut loose they can shake a church off it’s foundations. Add in the bonus of readings by the Gay Gandalf hisself, Ian Mckellen, wine and mince pies on the interval, and you have a warm and cosy and very English start to Christmas.

The thing about birthdays is that you don’t really feel any different, even though supposedly it’s a landmark day. Aging is a lot more sneaky than that. I will happily jump around on the Wii, or hammer a couple of chords on La Roja, my red electrical guitar, and I might as well be 16 again. But at the end of my traditional birthday haircut there was a lot of white hair in my lap mixed in with the brown. So who’s to say how old I really am. According to Wii Fitness, I’m 60. But then the day before I was 80, so it’s entirely possible I’ll be back on nappies at the end of the week.

Having a birthday this close to the end of the year does have the knock-on effect of causing one to muse on recent history, and the year just leaving in particular. In a week when Forrest Ackerman, Bettie Page and Oliver Postgate all left us for pastures new, it’s difficult not to feel reflective. It’s been an interesting 2008 to put it mildly, and I can’t think of anyone close to me that’s not been affected in some way. More on this later, I think, before Mrs Maudlin puts her hand in mine and gives it a squeeze.

In summation, then, as I’m aware that I’m starting to ramble a bit. I had a great birthday, and I’m planning on having a great Christmas. That’s all that matters right now.

Coming up – more on The Year Of Change, and my Tracks Of 08.

Saggy, and a bit loose at the seams.

I was saddened. but not really that surprised, to hear that Oliver Postgate has died. Along with his partner, Peter Fermin, he was the creator of some of the finest children’s programmes ever created. Bagpuss, The Clangers, Noggin The Nog and Ivor the Engine were gentle, hand-crafted and beautifully atmospheric. His work is the antethesis of the loud, bright kid’s shows of today (although I still detect some of his surreal influence in some of the shows for tinies like In The Night Garden). His voice was always incredibly evocative, a big warm sonic hug.  The animation was never the smoothest, but the charm of the storytelling pulled you past all that and into his world, a safe, nurturing place.

I was lucky enough to meet them both when I remastered the Smallfilms Archive for video release in the mid-90s, work of which I am still enormously proud. Oliver in particular was a little frail, but the perfect gentleman. And as I was screening the work I’d done on an episode of Bagpuss, he started doing the voices. I got chills, I tell you. Professor Yaffle, sitting right next to me.

As he gives a big yawn and settles down to sleep, I’ll leave you with a little clip that sums up everything I’ve always loved about Smallfilm.

 

*UPDATE*

A converstaion with a workmate led to the conclusion that not everyone feels the way that I do about Smallfilm. She hates Postgate’s stuff, specifically his voice, which she said “creeps me the fuck out.” 

Like I said, atmospheric.

On Beer

BA1374A0-D35C-423E-87D8-38B0568331B7.jpg To Mare Street in Hackney on Thursday, for the 25th Pigs Ear Beer Festival. I finally succumbed to the inevitable earlier in the year and invested in a CAMRA membership, and this was the first fest I’d been to since the big one at Earls Court in August. It was, as these things tend to be, fascinating in many different ways.

There are, of course, all the beers. At Pig’s Ear, a hundred different brews were available, ranging from simple British session beers (a particular favourite was Forest Bitter from Epping, a place deep in the heart of my youthful wanderings) to insanely strong Belgian Trappist brews – the sort of ale that could make you susceptible to religious visions, especially if that’s all you’re given to eat or drink all day. One big surprise was the range and inventiveness of the American microbrews on offer, giving a huge toot of the snoot to the idea that Yank brews are watery processed mouthwash. For example, Flying Dog’s Snakehead IPA was hoppy and complex, refreshing and deeply flavoursome all at the same time. There’s a real sense of play and invention here, reflected in the names of the ales. Appalling puns seem to be the order of the day – the prize has to go to Pitfield’s Night on Mare Street 3, at 13.8% ABV one to treat with respect if not an edge of fear and awe.

One of the joys of these festivals is the people-watching, of course. The usual bunch of hobgoblins, orcs and Creme Brulee rejects are there, of course, a bit wobbly on their feet after one too many lambics. But as the day draws on the demographic widens, and suits and girls begin to appear, all eager for a taste of something a bit different and more interesting than cheap lager and wine. The girls, in particular, seem to go for the darker, sweeter ales – Ossett’s Treacle Stout seemed to be a particular hit, although a lot of the Belgian fruit beers were going down very well too.

The beer encouraged long, looping skeins of conversation, mellow companionship and terrible jokes. There was good, solid food on offer to soak up some of the excess and tamp the roomspin down to an acceptable level. The experience was warm, relaxed and quietly joyful. In short, friends and neighbours, it was everything you’d expect from a decent night in a decent pub.

Which is a simple pleasure that’s under increasing risk. Pubs are closing at a horribly accelerated rate, and people are staying at home, encouraged to do so by the cheap slabs available at the supermarkets, the above-rate tax hikes on beer and wine that seem to be a part of every Budget and the perception that town centres at the weekend are hell holes of alcoholic debauchery and violence. Which they are, but that’s not the point. Town centre bars are not the places I’d frequent anyway (although I’ll make an exception for the fantastic Hobgoblin in Broad Street, Reading). There are plenty of great pubs that are worth a five-minute hike away from your usual routes and haunts.

It’s interesting to note then, in this air of gloom over the state of one of the pillars of British culture that a quote from a Frenchman of all people, Hilaire Belloc has begun to make the rounds of the op-ed columns. It’s disturbingly apposite.

“When you have lost your inns, you may drown your empty selves, for you will have lost the heart of England.”

With that in mind, then, a little propaganda. CAMRA have just launched a campaign to axe the tax, and I encourage all true-blooded, iron-livered Englishmen and Englishwomen to sign up to support it. I would hate to see my choice of boozer restricted to a generic beer barn, or chain pub. We’re better than that.

Sign yourselves up here, Readership.

Remember, your local might depend on it.

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Thank You, Thank You, Thank You

nano_08_winner_viking_120x238.jpg

Another year of NanoWrimo, and another victory. This time I’m over the 50,000 word boundary with a couple of days to spare, and didn’t feel like I had to push too hard. In other words, I think I’m getting the habit now, which was kind of the point to doing this in the first place. It takes a month to develop a habit, reports claim, and if that’s the case then I’m just about there. It certainly felt odd on the couple of days when I didn’t get any writing done this month.

So, I’m a “winner.” I have “won” a thick chunk of barely comprehensible stream of consciousness that will form the foundation for something that will eventually become a novel. The point to Nano is to get the donkey work of the first draft out of the way in a supportive and nurturing atmosphere. I roll with the Oxfordshire Nanos, who are word count maniacs. There are guys on the forums who will spit out 200,000 word first drafts in a month. That’s 4000 words a day, maths fans. I managed three and a half one Sunday, and then my hands broke. Between us we’ve written over two million words in November. No more than one per cent of these are swears.

The trick now is simply to keep writing. I’m about a third of the way through the story, and my main characters are on the South China Sea, being menaced by pirates. It would be ungentlemanly for me to leave them there.
However, I can ease back the pace a bit, which means more time to spend on X&HT with you, my Readership, and a chance to get you caught up on Satan’s Schoolgirls. Update Sunday will restart tomorrow, with some nastiness and gore. I know you’d expect nothing else from me.