A Quiet Night Out

Had a call from my pal Dominic on Thursday. This was textbook synchronicity, as I ‘d just been thinking I’d not seen him for a couple of weeks. He’d been on holiday, which explained the drop off the radar, but he had an offer for me.
Passes to the secret Foo Fighters show that night in Camden. Did I fancy it?
Do I fancy Scarlett Johannsen? Do I fancy a cold Heineken and a cheeseburger?
It took me about fifteen nanoseconds to make my mind up.
I spent the rest of the day doing impatient squeees.
I hooked up with lovely Dom and our mutual pal Tony after work and we tubed to Camden. The gig was being held at Dingwall’s, which I used to visit regularly for comedy nights. The last time I was there was for a Bob Mould gig at least three years ago. It’s a cosy, intimate space, holding about 500 people. No such thing as a backstage area. The dressing room is by the girl’s loo. It’s perfect for a sweaty, loud fan-club gig.
The gig is also a warm-up for the Foo’s 20 minutes at Wembley on Saturday for Live Earth. All I can say is, on the evidence of what I saw on Thursday, every other act on the bill had better be on top form, because they blew the hairpiece off the joint. A two-hour greatest-hits romp, I bounced, bellowed and whooped along with Dave, Chris, Nate and Taylor. Just one new track, which kept the momentum of the night up at full-throttle level. They’ve just finished recording the new album and still wore the beards they’d been growing in the studio to boot. Dave looked like Jesus. Exquisitely conditioned hair. At one point he took a vote on whether he should keep the hair or not for Saturday.
So, Live Earth viewers, that hairyness on stage at around 9:20 is partially my fault.

A great night. On a scale of 1-10, I rate it awesome.

Here’s a more detailed review of the gig from Edmund on the Foo Fighters Forum.

And some pics from Emily, who was clearly jammed into Dave’s effects board.

The Accidental Roadie

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!

Michael Moore in conversation at AmPav, Cannes, 2007

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.

FODDERBLOG: The Bitter Taste Of Aspartame

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.