Breakfast In Bed: Rowan Stanfield's Brighton Blog

Looking Back with New Eyes

2009-07-11T20:10:00.004+01:00

It’s been a curiously nostalgic and reflective week, thanks to a string of out of the blue, blast from the past encounters.

The first was a random Facebook chat with an old High School friend - someone with whom I’d had a passing but happy acquaintance before changing schools in the second year. Our bonding at the time may have had more to do with a sense of solidarity over the fact that we both had unusual names than anything else, but this is as good a reason as any to be friends when you’re 12.

Looking back at those days tends to make me feel slightly uncomfortable. I always considered myself an outsider, never having the right clothes or attitudes to be one of the gang, but also never wanting to compromise my convictions to fit in. That in mind, it was touching and somewhat heartening to be told by someone who knew me then that they’d always remembered me for not having followed the crowd, and now respected my then alien opinions.

Apparently I once told her (though I don’t remember this) that it was far better to be proud of getting a bargain than to show off about how much you paid for something. In the materialistic climate of the 1980s, this was revolutionary thinking indeed; these days it doesn’t seem so radical.

The very next night, another chat window popped up from one of my old theatre cronies - someone I’ve known for going on two decades. We shared many a crazy night back in the day, but were never really what you’d call bosom buddies. I was a few years younger than most of the crew at the time, and always felt that they tolerated my presence rather than embraced it. So it was nice to hear that he apparently thought my youthful pontificating and feminist views endearing.

How strange that the lingering insecurities of youth can be so easily dispelled by such spontaneous and unexpected conversations.

The nostalgia trip continued when on Thursday night I was in my local, getting ready for pub quiz, and in walked a face I haven’t seen since Sixth Form. We exchanged the usual ‘how’ve you been?’ ‘what are you doing now?’ formalities, then quite unprompted, he uttered the three magic words: “you’ve aged well”. I could have kissed him right there. As if that delicious little ego-boost wasn’t more than enough to make my night, Ant and I rather embarrassingly went and won the quiz with our team of two. And we hadn’t even done any research.

That night I slept marvellously and dreamed that I bumped into a friend from university with whom I have sadly lost touch. That is one era from which I don’t have any particular hang-ups in need of resolving, but it would be nice to see her again all the same. Sandra Borra, if you’re reading this, come out from hiding and join me on my trip down memory lane; it’s turning out to be really rather enlightening.

A Special Weekend in Sunny Sussex

2009-07-06T18:43:00.012+01:00

The Annual Secret Beach Picnic

The only thing better than a picnic is a picnic on a sandy beach in the sunshine with good friends.

Last year I wrote about my long-overdue pilgrimage to a secret beach in Sussex on which I'd played and picnicked as a child. Together with a small gang of special friends, I'd rediscovered this magical spot, and we'd spent a happy day of munching, bantering and kite-flying. It was so lovely that I decided to make it an annual event, and this year I took a few more people, just as much food, and enough games and activities to keep even the most restless among us occupied for an afternoon. Once again we were blessed with beautiful weather, though there was not enough wind for kites (which was shame as we had brought three). Instead we played badminton, frisbee, Nerf ball and tennis; some of us even swam - though the water was a little like seaweed soup.

My freckles went crazy and a few of the boys turned pink, despite the suncream being forcefully dished out by yours truly. I think most people even enjoyed the mile and a half hike along the cliff edge to get there. The route along the rocky beach - accidentally taken by certain others who shall remain nameless - was perhaps less enjoyable, but worthwhile all the same. During the course of the six hours we stayed, there were moments of frantic sociable activity, and moments of quiet contemplative calm. After a manic few months of almost non-stop work (hence the lack of blog posts lately), it was the first chance I'd had to sit and really unwind since America. It was quiet and still and beautiful, and I felt truly blessed to be sharing it with such a lovely bunch. One small voice of mild hysteria emerged as the tide started to come in, but we all made it out alive - and if anything, improved by the day's experiences.

Hanover Day, 5th July 2009

The next morning Ant complained of aches and pains from our various exertions, but I felt fine and raring to get out into the still-blazing sunshine. It was Hanover Day here in Brighton - a mini festival in what is perhaps the steepest neighbourhood in town. Southover Street was closed to traffic and several stages had been erected about the place. Along the side streets, locals pedalled their bric-a-brac to eager kids with pocket money to burn. We bimbled about, bumping into familiar faces at every turn, and eventually settling down in the courtyard of the Hanover Community Centre - where my ex-yoga teacher's band, Gin Club, were playing.

After Gin Club's foot-stomping dirty blues spectacular, Kate's Kitchen Band took to the stage for a Ceilidh and poor Ant's heart sank at the site of accordions. But he gracefully agreed to partner me for a dance, and was soon Do-si-do-ing along with glee - even doing it with a four year old on his shoulders the second time around. I haven't done country dancing since my school days, and had forgotten what a riot it was. Unfortunately the combination of sweat-inducing hoedown and dry dusty courtyard made for some very grubby legs - but who cares if you look like an urchin, it's Hanover Day! As we strolled back up the hill past clusters of rosy-cheeked revellers lolling around on street corners, it became clear that most people were too cider-fuelled to notice anyway.

I had managed to make it through a triumphantly active and sun-soaked weekend without a hint of hangover, injury or sunburn. I even look a little less pale than I did before - and feel a good deal more relaxed. Weekends don't come much better than that.

"Rowstock" Summer Mix Tape

2009-06-13T15:54:00.015+01:00

This was going to be one of those scathing posts about yet another disappointing cabaret that I went to see last week. The cabaret in question was undeniably shambolic, but I had a hilarious evening anyway, and it seemed a shame to tarnish the memory with a disparaging tirade. So I decided for a change to let the offending performers off the hook and write something positive instead.

So in a more upbeat spirit, and in the absence of anything else to write about this week, I offer you my Summer playlist - a video 'mix tape' of music that I've been listening to repeatedly these past few weeks as the sun has been gracing us with its presense. It's a fantasy festival line-up of spirit-warming tunes, all of which go extremely well with a glass of Pimm's and a cucumber sandwich.

The highlight, and my top Summer listening for 2009, is the first track, from Tim and Sam's Tim and the Sam Band with Tim and Sam, whose invigoratingly euphoric post-folk lights up the room and everyone in it. Whenever I have played the 'Put Your Slippers On' EP in the company of friends, they have invariably asked "what's this? It's lovely." without any prompting. I hope you'll feel the same. I'm also particularly fond of track two - Charlie Darwin by The Low Anthem - which is so hauntingly harmonious it makes me cry (but in a good way).

I could easily go on, because they are all lovely - but the proof is in the pudding as they say. So tune in, kick back, grab that Pimm's and enjoy...

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Antony & the Johnsons and other Bristol Adventures

2009-06-08T21:32:00.010+01:00

After our fleeting but fun-filled trip to Hay-on-Wye, the bank holiday adventures continued with a visit to Bristol and yet more cultural exploits. The last time we'd visited Bristol was to catch up with a friend who was working in the Revolution bar, and we spent most of our time hanging out there with her. I don't think we saw the best of the city from that perspective, so it was nice to go back and get the tour from some other friends who recently moved there (though are thankfully not working in bars).

Our very picturesque and sunny drive took us down through the Welsh mountains, and we arrived with our hosts mid afternoon. After the obligatory cup-of-tea-and-catch-up, we wandered down to the waterfront for a drink and some people-watching. By early evening it was still scorching hot, and the world and his wife were lining the streets and bar terraces.

Apart from catching up with friends, the other main purpose of the Bristol visit was to see Antony & the Johnsons live at Colston Hall. Tickets for the Brighton show had sold out before I’d heard about it, and Bristol was the next nearest - so I’d suggested it to Shaun and Morwenna and they’d been game.

I’m not used to sit-down gigs, and this was in a proper theatre, with proper seats. We had an excellent view from one of the side galleries, which when I tell you about the support act, you will realise was both a blessing and a curse. Rather than get an up-and-coming band to warm up for him, Antony had chosen instead to employ the talents - and I use that word derisively - of a ‘contemporary dancer’.

This ‘dancer’ appeared on stage in a disturbing mutated animal costume and proceeded to flap her arms around to grinding industrial music. There was no ‘dancing’ of any sort, and this bizarre and entirely unmoving spectacle went on for what seemed like hours. It was in reality about 15 minutes. Which is actually a long time to sit and watch someone flapping their arms. Ant whispered to me that he was going to his ‘happy place’ while I continued to gape open-mouthed, recoiling in horror when the rest of the audience actually applauded, presumably out of relief rather than appreciation.

Finally the band appeared on stage, at least we presumed it was them - the lack of lighting meant we couldn’t be sure. But when that unmistakable voice soared out of the darkness, we knew it was Antony’s, and the horror of the travesty to which we had just been subjected began to melt away. By the end of the first song, darkness still prevailed. Someone wailed from the audience “when do we get to see you?”, to which a shy voice replied “just a minute”. Gradually the lights did come up a bit, but it still felt more like a dingy basement than a 2000 seater concert hall. Presumably this was intentional, and it certainly didn’t detract from the power of the performance.

I think I must have been the only person in the audience to have actually listened to the new album (it’s good), because everyone else seemed totally fixated on the material from the (ahem, Mercury winning) I Am a Bird Now, clapping at the start of songs whose opening chords they recognised. I found this odd, and rather rude behaviour. It’s like saying “I don’t care about your new material, I only want the ones that were on TV”. But a forbearing Antony took it on the chin, gracefully indulging their mainstream appetites.

Occasionally he would talk between songs, revealing a little of the man behind the voice. A quirky, droll and somewhat sheepish individual, he is clearly more comfortable singing or spinning fanciful stories than engaging in the sort of idle banter employed by most musicians. I found this trait utterly endearing and it made the music even more affecting. The singing voice itself - at once tender and powerful - is a strange and beautiful thing which I have grown to love dearly over the years. To hear it full-blast and up-close was truly magical - and I think all four of us were unexpectedly moved by the occasion.

The next day we went for a hearty breakfast at The Boston Tea Party, followed by the grand tour of the city - including a boat trip and a walk along the famous Clifton Suspension Bridge. Still buzzing from the gig, and enjoying the good company of friends, it was the perfect end to a lovely anniversary weekend.

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Photo: Banksy street-art in Bristol by Heatheronhertravels on Flickr

Jane Birkin at Hay Festival (and a Yurt!)

2009-06-01T21:12:00.009+01:00

Ever since my days of PR-ing at the Edinburgh Book Festival, I've been pining after a yurt. These magnificent Mongolian tents were then used (possibly still are) as the green room area for authors and their entourage in the pretty setting of Charlotte Square gardens. I remember most fondly lounging back on the cushions and rugs, chatting away to all manner of verbose and vivacious scribes, and enjoying the free Glenmorangie and Danish pastries. Certain local authors, who weren't even appearing (you know who you are), would pop in to avail themselves on a regular basis; and who can blame them, because it was a really funky and irresistible little sanctuary.

So when I saw that boutique camping company Tangerine Fields was setting up at Hay Festival this year, I quickly booked a mini-yurt for me and Mr M. It's impossible to get a hotel in Hay unless you book months ahead, and we'd only decided to go when we discovered quite recently that Jane Birkin was appearing, so the yurt was the perfect solution. It was also suitably romantic to fit the bill for our fifth wedding anniversary.

I hadn't been to Hay Festival since 2004 (the year we got married), and never purely as a punter - so it was a totally different experience this time around, with no authors to look after. Also, the site had moved from the school in the centre of town to a field a mile or so down the road, which meant less time mooching around secondhand bookshops and more time people-watching on the grass between talks. After checking into our splendid little yurt - which was carpeted and everything - we hopped on the shuttle bus down to the site just in time for Jane Birkin's packed-out talk. Sometime squeeze of the late French pop legend (and hero of mine) Serge Gainsbourg, Birkin is perhaps most famous (or should that be 'infamous') for her contribution to the risque late 60s classic 'Je T'aime... Moi Non Plus'. She's also appeared in a number ofcult films
and is these days a tireless activist for various causes.

For an OAP with a genuinely Rock 'n Roll history, Jane Birkin is in amazingly good shape, and still sparkles with childlike wonderment when recounting her mis-spent youth. Philippe Sands acted as interviewer, but in reality little prompting was needed to get Birkin to open up, and even if you weren't remotely interested in French music or the Swinging Sixties, you couldn't help but be charmed by her stories.

With a twinkle in her eye, she told of the night she first went out with Gainsbourg - how he took her to all sorts of wacky Parisian clubs and eventually back to his hotel. Fearing she had been too quick to accept his advances, she stalled for time in the bathroom and was relieved upon re-emerging to discover Gainsbourg passed out on the bed. He was so drunk that he didn't hear her sneak out of the room and back in again with a 7" single of 'Yummy Yummy Yummy I've Got Love in My Tummy' - which she tucked between his toes before creeping out again, virtue and dignity in tact. This was apparently the first of many such romantic gestures between the two as love blossomed into a 13 year relationship and creative partnership that also produced a daughter - the acclaimed French actress Charlotte Gainsbourg.

Later the same evening, after a pub dinner at the Three Tuns, we returned to the festival site to see Jane Birkin perform. Although she has written and recorded a significant catalogue of her own music over the last forty-odd years, this particular show was largely dedicated to former lover Serge - who clearly still holds a special place in her heart. The same ingenuous allure shone from the ever-smiling starlet as she lent her own distinct husky charm to many a Gainsbourg classic. The set also had its more serious moments - with a movingly heartfelt call to action over the Burma situation, in particular the imprisonment of Aung San Suu Kyi, against which Birkin is a high-profile campaigner. This earnest outpouring only made the audience love her more, and even though we all knew we'd miss the last bus back to town, an encore was demanded. There followed a chilly, starry walk back to Tangerine Fields and the yurt, where some of the neighbouring Tipis were quietly buzzing with young literary buffs discussing the day's offerings.

As a special anniversary treat for Ant, the next morning I'd booked us tickets to a lecture by the Astronomer Royal, Martin Rees, which I actually enjoyed a great deal too. He talked in a most accessible and often humorous way about the possibility of life on other planets, and answered some of the more painfully nerdy questions with surprising grace. I had wanted to ask him who or what had first prompted his interest in the stars, but the microphone never came my way. After a picnic lunch from the festival foodhall, and a final round of people-watching, we said goodbye to Hay and our lovely yurt (which sadly was too big to sneak into the boot) and took the scenic route down to Bristol. But if you want to know what happened in Bristol, you'll have to come back another day because I'm saving that adventure for its own post...

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Not Just for Hipsters: Great Escape Festival 2009

2009-05-26T17:36:00.024+01:00

If you've never been to The Great Escape, you'd be forgiven for dismissing it as a purely 'young and trendy' festival, full of the sort of bands loved by hipsters in skinny jeans and Wayfarers. You may also be aware that it's a music industry festival, organised as a showcase for new and emerging artists and attended by hundreds of journalists and music 'people'. Personally I think it's pitched as a hipster festival because they are perceived as having the most clout in the rise or fall of pop music. But beneath those layers of industry spin and round-the-corner queues for the Maccabees, there is almost a separate festival going on, if only you know where to look.

My Great Escape motto this year was "If they wouldn't play it on Freakzone, I'm not going", and I pretty much managed to stick by this philosophy throughout. There were a few more mainstream bands on the agenda, but even those were at the alternative end of the spectrum, and more likely to be played by Radcliffe & Maconie than Jo Whiley. I also have a strict policy against queuing at the Great Escape. I can't see the point in standing in line for ages to possibly see the last ten minutes of a set when there's so much else on offer. If I really really want to see a particular band, I'll book tickets to one of their tour dates rather than hold out for them at a festival.

For me, Great Escape is all about expanding my music collection, not worshipping bands that I already love. Apart from Thomas Truax, who I had seen only recently (and wanted to introduce to Ant, who hadn't), all the bands that we saw this year were totally new to us. About half of them were good enough for me to want to go out and buy their CD, some were sufficiently amusing to stay and watch for a couple of songs, and one or two made us run for the hills. But all in all, it was a good festival, and we hardly had to negotiate any hipsters (although I did laugh at plenty in the street) along the way.

The first band we saw on Thursday night was Gablé, whose billing as a 'lo-fi avante-garde experimental trio from Paris', seemed to fit nicely with the Freakzone-ish prerequisite and also appealed to my Francophile leanings. Feeling terribly self conscious as the only ones waiting outside the venue, we almost didn't go in, but I'm so glad we did - I cannot tell you how much I loved this band. Their strange and sometimes unnerving tales - told with amusing relish and furnished with all manner of lo-fi accompaniments - revealed a deep appreciation of the weirder side of life, and made us laugh out loud.

A few more stragglers turned up during the set and eventually there were enough of us to make some well-deserved appreciative noises between songs. Despite the poor turnout, the band members - two guys and a girl - all continued to smile in a strangely contented manner that seemed to suggest they were in possession of a delicious secret. I went away feeling as though I had acquired a brilliant secret of my own in having discovered them, and thinking that it would be hard for any other band at the festival to live up to their bonkers brilliance.

After Gablé, we stayed on at the Unitarian church to watch Soap& Skin, who I'd listened to and liked during my pre-festival Spotify/Last.fm/MySpace research. I'd been intrigued by the sweeping piano arrangements and melancholic Sigur Ros style vocals, and was hoping for a tingly, intimate experience in this atmospheric little venue. What actually happened was an unfortunately discordant conflict between grand piano, laptop and unsteady vocals - and a swift exit by us. After this less than pleasing experience, we hopped across the road to the Pavilion to see The Acorn - a much more agreeable Canadian alt-country band with a touch of the Paul Simon about them. I had a little dance around, my first and last bop of the festival.

It has become something of a Great Escape tradition to end the day in a civilised fashion at the Duke of York's, which is where we discovered the next big delight of this year's festival, The Miserable Rich - a Brighton band who had somehow escaped my notice until now. Essentially a string quintet with a singer, these five hugely talented blokes bring a touch of classical elegance to their affectingly contemplative folky repertoire. So swept away was I by their performance, that I have failed to remember anything much about the band that followed - Teitur - although I think I enjoyed it.

Friday began at the Prince Albert with a disappointing set from Hanne Hukkelberg - who, Like Soap&Skin, had sounded promising on Spotify, but failed to pass the live performance test. After that we heard about five muffled minutes of Obijou from behind a huge pillar at the Arc, and decided that although they sounded interesting, the venue was just too crap to endure. Unlike in previous years, there didn't seem to be much of anything going on in the daytime, so after accidentally wandering into a (distinctly underwhelming) Charlatans rehearsal, we acted our age and went home for a quick disco nap.

The Naive New Beaters shook us well and truly awake again with their giddily ironic French hip-hop, but we were distinctly unimpressed with Django Django, who came on next at Above Audio. A quick skip down to the end of the pier to catch the end of an intense set by Norwegian rockers Harrys Gym was worth the windswept trip, then it was back into town for The Phantom Band at the Pavilion. But the day's real revelations didn't commence until we went entirely on spec to see Elizabeth at the Basement. Both venue and band were brand new to us, and both were equally impressive. The Basement is a cosy underground spot in the North Laine, with unusual stepped sides, where you can lay back on cushions to watch the band, and the perfect place to enjoy the eerie offerings of electro-opera-marvel Elizabeth.

Once again, we concluded our evening with tea and cake and a comfy seat (yes, we are old) at the Duke of York's, where Friday night was Nordic night. Jolly Icelandic band Hjaltalin kept us awake with bassoons and violins and some kooky between-songs banter, then Norwegian Thomas Dybdahl soothed us off to sleep (almost) with his surprisingly authentic-sounding alt-country Americana.

On Saturday we were joined by my 18 year old cousin Barnaby, and I was a little nervous that he might not be into the more alternative stuff on mine and Ant's gig wishlist. But thankfully he's not a typical teenager, and was quite open-mindedly up for some more esoteric musical exploration. After a couple of lame daytime gigs that do not even warrant a mention, we decided to abandon the Great Escape for a couple of hours and do some Open Houses instead. Things rebooted in the evening with Mechanical Bride at the Sallis Benney where the combination of a refreshingly decent PA and the band's tight, experimental Celtic-tinged folk was a good kick-off. But nothing could have prepared us for what came next.

In the less than salubrious setting of the dingy Ocean Rooms basement, I lost my heart, soul and all sense of reality to The Low Anthem. Even the usual clique of chatty bints behind me were swiftly silenced when singer Ben Miller opened his mouth; such a haunting and utterly disarming voice I have never heard. My legs turned to jelly as I stood breathless and in awe throughout their mind-blowing set. The other two band members, Jeff Prystowsky and Jocie Adams, proved just as jaw-droppingly skillful, switching with ease between all kinds of instruments and providing spine-tingling vocal harmonies. Just as you found yourself bestilled and bewitched by a delicately sorrowful ballad, they'd shake things up with a rugged, whisky-swigging country rock-out. It was all totally unexpected and beautifully accomplished, knocking spots off anything else we'd heard so far.

It would have been difficult for even the finest of acts to match such a deeply affecting performance, but I doubt whether Mothlite would have impressed me in any context. Now I'm all for noodling electro post-rock, but this was the most humourless, self-indulgent tosh I have heard in a long time. It was like watching four guys having their own personal bedroom stoner sessions, oblivious to each other and their audience. Ant seemed to be enjoying it though, so we stayed to the end, trying to see the funny side. Things picked up back at the Albert, with Woodpigeon, who sounded nice - but the room was so hot that we had to leave after one song. Kate Rogers Band at the more temperate Unitarian church was pleasant enough, but felt so pedestrian after The Low Anthem, so we left that and hung out until the grand finale of the festival, Thomas Truax.

I wrote about Thomas earlier this year, after I saw him live at the Freebutt. Since then I've reviewed his latest album, Songs from the Films of David Lynch, and was keen to see the new stuff performed live. Apart from the fact that his set was curfewed after only a few songs, it was a stonking gig and a good lively turn-out. I could tell by the appreciative grins on both Ant and Barnaby's faces that they were as swept up in the madcap world of Truax as I had been the first time, and it was the perfect end to another Great Escape.

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A Classic Example of Kitsch Entertainment

2009-05-21T17:46:00.015+01:00

Last night some friends and I went to see The Interstella Circus at the Spiegeltent, my only festival outing this year - apart from some Open Houses and of course the Great Escape last week (which I shall write about shortly). I suppose the mis-spelling of the word 'interstellar' should have been a clue as to the dodgy nature of the outfit, but it was my only free night, tickets were still available, and it was in one of my all-time favourite venues.

I've seen quite a few of these nu-circus type shows before - including the Caesar Twins, Le Grande Cirque, various acts at Lost Vagueness and other such nights, and the best of all by far, La Clique. Watching the incredible things acrobats and contortionists can do with their bodies never ceases to amaze and excite me, and I love the whole feel of a well executed sideshow cabaret. La Clique gets it so right with a wonderful mix of risque humour, seamless flow of acts and a great variety of talents. Unfortunately The Interstella Circus is nowhere near a well executed sideshow cabaret, nor did it posses any of these qualities.

From the moment the seedy compere came on stage reciting bad poetry not very well, it was clear that we were in for an evening of less than classy entertainment. To be fair to the individual acts, there were some impressive stunts and a few 'ooh' and 'ahh' moments, but where the show really fell down was during the links between acts. The re-rigging took much too long, without any adequate fill-in, leaving the audience shuffling uncomfortably in our seats.

Partly thanks to the beer consumed beforehand, and partly due to our collective appreciation of the more tawdry things in life, my friends and I were able to see the funny side. And to me personally it felt almost nostalgic, reminiscent of my summer season days in Eastbourne; an end-of-the pier nudge-nudge-wink-wink type show with more sequins than substance.

There is something strangely pleasing about this distinctly British variety of shabby entertainment, and I wouldn't have missed it for the world. We laughed, perhaps not for the right reasons, but still. We almost cried in memory of Judy when the singer (although I am not sure she really qualifies for that title) started to growl her way through the finale number, Get Happy. We swooned at the token eye-candy's rippling biceps, though were disappointed when only his T-Shirt was removed. We loved every cheap and tacky moment of it.

La Clique it most certainly isn't, but if you're in the market for some seedy seaside frolics, you could do worse than to down a few pints and 'roll-up roll-up' to the Interstella Circus. But don't blame me if you are appalled; because that is really the point.

San Francisco, You Stole My Heart

2009-05-17T16:56:00.080+01:00

"San Francisco has only one drawback. 'Tis hard to leave." - Rudyard Kipling

It is our first day in the city, and already I am falling in love. After the peace and quiet of Marin County, San Francisco feels loud and bustling, especially here in Chinatown. The silly hire car has been returned, and we're now exploring on foot. It's around that time of day when refreshment is required, but we're struggling to find a salubrious looking cafe. We sit down in the first half-decent looking place, only to discover that we have accidentally parachuted into the middle of a militant tea brewing lesson, hosted by a couple of hilariously camp Chinese tea-aficionados. Far too British to get up and leave, we sit tight and tacitly agree to run with it. Several tiny thimbles of weird and wacky teas and a fair few tea anecdotes later, our caffeine levels are nearly restored, and we politely buy a $12 packet of Lychee Black Tea, (good for the digestion, apparently) and scuttle off.

Back at the apartment over in Noe Valley, we're getting to know to our hosts, Tania and Philip - and feeling wonderfully welcomed already in their fabulous home. They recommend a local pasta joint, Emmy's, as a good place to eat nearby, and we head out for our first taste of San Francisco cuisine. Emmy's is packed, but we're happy to sit with a bottle of wine and wait for a table. When the food arrives it is hearty and plentiful, and well worth the wait. Thanks to an amusingly stoned waiter, we've had more than our share of wine, and are feeling rosy-cheeked and replete.

Thursday is designated shopping day, and I'm dragging Ant around the thrift stores of Mission, in search of vintage frocks. It's 11am and nothing is open (what time do people get up around here?), so we go and have cake and decide to head across to Castro. Apart from Cliff's Variety store - an amazing emporium of stationery and wigs - there is little in the way of shopping for me here, so we hop on a bus to Haight. I am in shopping nirvana; even Ant buys a couple of things. The day is going well. Then we reach Amoeba Records and all other plans are abandoned for the foreseeable future.

We're on our way out to dinner, walking down Valencia. Staggering across our path with an unwieldy shopping trolley, a wild-eyed woman stops suddenly to inspect the contents of an overturned wheelie bin. "What's with all these lemons?" she exclaims in an overly exaggerated Brooklyn accent, glaring accusingly at the huge pile of squeezed orange skins that are strewn across the road. Just managing to contain my laughter until we're out of earshot, I proceed to annoy Ant all evening (and for the rest of the holiday) with my new catchphrase.

Friday night. I'm standing outside the famous Mitchell's ice cream parlour, fortifying myself for an evening of partying ahead, and I start talking to this guy Ron - a friend of a friend of Philip and Tania. We cover the usual 'getting to know you' banter - where are you from? (San Francisco), what do you do for a living? (graphic designer), what else apart from ice cream is good in the neighbourhood? (parks, shopping, Margaritas). We're getting along famously, and I'm thinking he's probably the kind of guy who'd like the same sort of stuff as me, so I ask if he knows of any cool happenings in the city this weekend. He mentions a couple of exhibitions, then drops in casually "there's always the Masturbate-a-thon". I nearly choke on a piece of Oreo; half delighted, half appalled by the idea. Somebody else chips in, confirming the sordid truth: "yeah, it's a sponsored charity event - but you can pay fifteen dollars if you just want to watch." Only in San Francisco - or possibly Brighton - I think to myself . The conversation moves swiftly on, we finish our ice creams and head uptown.

Later that same night, after a cocktail of two at the Elbo Room, we’re standing on the mezzanine floor of the PWNDepot - a converted warehouse in the Mission - mingling with the San Francisco Geek Elite. This madcap place, advertised on AirBnB as ‘4600 Square Foot of Rad’, was where Ant stayed the night before I arrived, and we’re here on the invitation of its residents - his new found friends Brendan, Preston, Steve, Lisa, Laura, Michael, Bill, Jason, Sarah and Jed. Ant is being plied with some sort of stronger-than-you-think pink punch while I struggle not to gawp at the bare arse of the person wearing only a thong to my left. The conversation inevitably turns to our accents and I’m not sure how to react when one of the guys admits “I’d like to have a beer with him, but I want you to be my schoolteacher.”

It’s Saturday afternoon, the last full day of the holiday. The thin bedroom curtains are doing nothing to protect our jaded souls from the daylight and we are reduced to throwing t-shirts over our poor delicate eyes. The misery of the hangover is compounded by self-loathing and regret at the loss of the passing day and our pathetic inability to seize it. A voice inside of me keeps saying "if you get up and have breakfast, you'll feel better"; finally, I obey, shaking the lifeless body beside me until it also submits. We stumble out into the street in search of carbohydrates and undeserved redemption. Catching last orders at the Boogaloo cafe, our prayers are answered with a tear-jerkingly good 'morning after' breakfast that gradually begins to repair us.

Breakfast was amazing, but I am now stupidly full and in need of a lie down. Dolores Park is just around the corner, so we head over in the hope of finding a shady spot under a tree. I wonder if I am actually still at home in bed dreaming when we find ourselves plunged into the middle of a Mexican festival - Cinco de Mayo - complete with Mariachi band and Tequila-fuelled leathery old men doing Mexican dad-dancing (a lot like English dad-dancing, but with marching and saluting). Perhaps not top of most people's list of hangover-cures, this bizarre and unexpected cultural cocktail actually goes a long way to lifting our spirits, and it turns out that Mariachi bands are a lot more soothing than you might think - especially when accompanied by a copy of The Onion and a patch of soft cool grass.

By some miracle we are recovered enough to make it to our dinner booking - an end of holiday romantic meal at the famous Green's. The food is superb, but by the end I am flagging and in no fit state to negotiate public transport. Our taxi driver turns out to be the best local eccentric yet - an ageing hippy complete with white ponytail and tales of sixties counter culture rebellions. His anecdotes wash over me as I watch the city at night go by outside the window, thinking about all the things I never got to do here.

Just one last breakfast, better make it a good one: St Francis Fountain, a Nebulous Potato Thing, a Sherbert Shake and a handful of retro candy. The adventure is nearly over, but somehow it feels like only the first goodbye of a love affair that will last a lifetime. San Francisco, you stole my heart, and I will be back to claim it.

Windswept and Wild: Adventures in Marin County

2009-05-07T23:11:00.027+01:00

Three intense and sweltering days (not to mention the accompanying crazy nights) in New York left me feeling frazzled to say the least, and ready for some chill out time in my next stop - the more temperate climate and rural terrain of Northern California. The no-frills flight across with American Airlines wasn't the most comfortable ever, but I did have the luxury of a companionable (and camp as chips) neighbour whose arch conversation and flamboyant anecdotes made the journey infinitely more bearable.

Ant met me at SFO airport in a fancy sports car - which he *apparently* bagged for peanuts in a special deal with the hire company - and we hit the road to Marin County. A brief stop for dinner in San Francisco gave us our first taste of the city's eclectic culinary offerings - with some surprisingly satisfying East German cuisine at the Mission District's Walzwerk restaurant.

Crossing the Golden Gate bridge after dark, we bombed up Route 101 into Marin, then off down a series of B roads to our destination, Point Reyes Station and Knob Hill Cottage. At the end of a pitch black country lane, we tiptoed down the path to our little cabin, to be welcomed by a giant moth and a note to say the door was open. Whether or not the two were connected, it was a brilliantly bizarre and somehow strangely comforting start to our stay. After all the hustle and bustle and constant traffic noises of The Big Apple, this remote sleepy place felt eerily quiet, and blissfully conducive to sleep.

The days that followed now merge in my memory as a dreamy montage of wild sandy beaches, soaring skyscapes and a staggering abundance of breath-taking flora and fauna - including wild irises, Black-Tailed Deer, Turkey Vultures, Pelicans, Egrets, Elephant Seals, huge ancient Redwood trees and a whole host of other un-identified natural-world showstoppers. We had hoped to catch sight of some migrating Gray Whales - which can sometimes be spotted from the Point Reyes lighthouse - but none appeared on the morning of our visit there, and being the windiest spot on the Pacific Coast, it was really just too blustery to hang about.

Apart from the magnificent wildlife and mind-blowing scenery, the other most notable thing about Marin and Sonoma was the cuisine. For a tiny little town in the middle of nowhere, the (almost entirely local and organic) foodie possibilities of Point Reyes Station were impressive. We ate breakfast everyday in the local all-American cafe, the Pine Cone Diner, whose hearty pancakes and wholesome granola topped anything similar I've had here in Brighton.

Several interesting delis along the highstreet displayed a mouth-watering selection of colourful produce, and the marvellous Palace Market was perfect for picking up picnic supplies. The food at the Station House Cafe (the main restaurant in town) was less consistently inspiring, especially for vegetarians - although their salads were excellent. Beyond Point Reyes itself, the gastronomic delights of Marin and Sonoma continued to abound; even the seemingly hicksville roadside pitstops, such as the Dry Creek General Store, turned out to be veritable foodie havens.

Though we went to Marin armed with a guidebook and list of possible activities, in the end we just tended to roll from place to place, picking up recommendations from locals along the way, and stopping wherever fate took us. The windy coastal roads made for some interesting driving experiences, and a few missed signposts, but then, as Chet Baker once so elegantly suggested, getting lost is half the fun.

One sunny afternoon for example, we'd failed to notice the turning for Stinson Beach - where we'd hoped to find hot springs - and were contemplating where to go instead. Tangled Up in Blue was playing on the car stereo and I suddenly saw a sign for Dillon Beach. Despite the different spelling, it felt serendipitous enough for us to make a detour, and at the end of another long meandering road, we found ourselves on a windswept waterfront, utterly deserted apart from a gaggle of frisky seabirds. Huge tangled trunks of kelp and other curious seaweeds bestrewed the sparkling sandy beach, and the whole idyllic scene made us forget about the hot springs entirely.

Though perhaps a little more dramatic than the South Downs, I was amazed at how familiar much of the landscape in Marin and neighbouring Sonoma felt; the cliff-scape at Drake's Bay was strikingly similar to the Seven Sisters in Sussex, and many other parts of the coast could have been straight out of Pembrokeshire or the Gower peninsula in Wales. It was a welcome reminder to appreciate the scenic wonders that are on our own doorstep - though of course there can't be many places in the UK where you can see all of the aforementioned wildlife, hang out with eccentric arriviste hippes, have a sunny sandy beach all to yourself, stand in awe under a 300ft tree AND eat your own bodyweight in fine organic cuisine...can there?

We only had a few days in and around Marin before heading back into San Francisco - and I feel like our trip only scratched the surface of everything the area has to offer - but it was if nothing else a fabulous taster for future adventures. If you are planning a trip out that way yourself, you might like to check out this Google map of my recommended places - or if you have been before, please feel free to suggest highlights that we may have missed for next time. Because there will be a next time, of that I am certain.

Coming soon: Part three of my US adventures - San Francisco.

Being a Part of It (New York, New York)

2009-04-26T15:38:00.015+01:00

I didn't come to New York to do the tourist thing, but I suppose it was inevitable that one or two 'attractions' would wangle their way into my itinerary. It's hard not to feel a certain sense of alien wonderment when you are confronted by iconic buildings and legendary road names at every corner; and then there's Central Park, slap bang in the middle of Manhattan and impossible to ignore.

I arrived during a heatwave that everyone was calling the start of summer, a noticeable seasonal spring in everyone's step. Strolling through Central Park yesterday, I felt as though I'd stepped into a parallel universe in which jogging, cycling or blading was the natural way of getting about, and I was unusual for merely walking. Passing the Metropolitan Museum, I thought about going in, but deterred by the huge noisy crowds, carried on South to the ferry port and did the only vaguely intentionally touristy thing on this visit - a boat trip to Staton Island. I'd been told this was a free way to get a seaward view of the Statue of Liberty and Manhattan skyline, and the idea of a sea breeze appealed on what was a meltingly hot day. The boat was absolutely rammed full of people, all craning to get exactly the same photo of that legendary green goddess. Why not just buy a postcard?

Apart from this one excursion, the rest of my (short) time in New York was spent just people-watching, eating and hanging out with friends. The blissfully air-conditioned subway trains are a million miles from the London Tube, and a great place to witness the melting pot of people that reside here. We went to a couple of bars, had a classically hearty American brunch, sat in a secret cherry blossom grove eating almonds and laughing at people with ridiculous dogs, celebrated the 1st anniversary of Harlem's only yoga studio with its adorably cute gay owners and their sausage dog, and generally just appreciated the clement weather and its affirmative effect on everyone.

My favourite New York moment of all though was last night, sitting on the roof of Erika's apartment block with her lovely flatmates - sipping beer, eating tacos, playing guitar and singing Woody Guthrie and Cat Stevens songs. To me, this was much more 'being a part of it' than any number of Statue of Liberty snapshots for the holiday album.

Photo of Central Park (c) Rowan Stanfield - more pictures from my NY trip at: www.flickr.com/photos/rowstar/sets/72157617698561432

When the Twit Hits the Fan

2009-04-23T12:00:00.000+01:00

If you follow me on Twitter you may have been party to an unfortunate 'twincident' recently in which I had to apologise to a neighbour who'd taken offence at a couple of my tweets complaining about his sound polluting activities. Admittedly, my comments were on the scathing side, but if he had ever bothered to get to know me, my neighbour would have realised that the barbed humour on which he found himself at the receiving end is not generally to be taken seriously. Even my closest, dearest friends are accustomed to being insulted on a regular basis - it is just the nature of my humour. In fact the language to which he took particular offence was a quote from a TV programme we were watching at the time - which just goes to show that you should never jump to infer an insult from a statement without knowing its full context.

I'll make no secret of the fact we don't get on with 'them upstairs' - things started out cordially, but far from warm, and lately we've been lucky if we're acknowledged in passing with as much as a grunt. We tried to make the effort in the early days, but our social invitations were never even acknowledged and attempts to be friendly, unrequited. And it's not the first time we've come to blows over noise levels - sometimes it's like living inside a drum, and every now and then they properly drop the bomb. Our attempts to deal with these incidents in a rational, friendly manner have always incurred the most defensive and indignant responses. They have made it quite clear - stated it to our faces, and in company so loudly we could hear it downstairs - that they have no respect or consideration for us.

It was particularly unfortunate that on this occasion they had caught us during an already stressful weekend; for deeply personal reasons which I shall not go into here, we were both feeling extremely on edge. So when the music started thumping out, accompanied by loud stamping around on the ineffectually insulated floor/ceiling that divides us, we threw out a couple of frustrated but hardly serious tweets. Why? Because we know from bitter experience that an hour can very easily lead to eight, neither of us could face another confrontation, and we both needed a decent night's sleep.

In hindsight I admit that my Twitter outburst may have seemed OTT, but was it really any worse than the insults we've often over heard them throwing our way during previous domestic disputes, just because it was published online? If they'd been nicer and more considerate neighbours to begin with, it would never have come to this. Based on our previous interactions, I'm sure they won't see it that way, and of course there's a good chance they'll be reading this and fuming.

It is not my intention in writing this to further aggravate the situation, but I would like them to see it from our point of view. Not content with blitzing our domestic peace on a regular basis, they're out there, reading this and every other online utterance we make, anonymously stalking our every move - when they can't even bring themselves to talk civilly to us in person. We find this disturbing. There's not a lot we can do about it, but I only hope that when and if they read this, they'll realise how completely unreasonable they have been, and we can begin to get back on cordial terms. Once, we had hoped to build friendships, as we have with many other neighbours here and elsewhere over the years. Now we just want a bit of peace and quiet, and not to feel threatened in our own home.

***

With huge thanks to Ant for his contributions to this post, and for the ongoing moral support without which everyday life would be much more of a trial.

Remembering Paula

2009-04-14T20:48:00.007+01:00

It hardly seems possible that ten whole years have passed since my dear childhood friend Paula lost her fight with cancer, just months after giving birth to miracle baby, David. Today is the 10th anniversary of her death, and I have been honouring her memory in my own way - thinking about times we shared, playing music we liked and talking to other people who knew and loved her. Last night, reading my sad diary entries from that terrible time in 1999, all the grief and heartache came flooding back. Even up to the very end, she was such a forceful presence; sometimes I still can't really believe that she's gone.

Today I have been trying to focus on happy memories, as I know she would have wanted. Some of my fondest childhood recollections are of being with Paula and Natalie - at Guides and in St Philip's church choir together, running around playing games of (and swooning over) Robin Hood (Michael Praed* era of course), making up stupid stories, giggling in the cinema and generally perpetuating The Madness. One time I particularly remember was when Paula and I camped out in her back garden and were terrified by rustling noises outside the tent in the middle of the night. Taking various kitchen implements as weapons for self defence on the second night, we later disovered that our tormentors were nothing more than a couple of inquisitive hedgehogs. It became a longstanding joke between us ever after.

In what was otherwise a retrospective and somewhat melancholy day, I was delighted to receive from baby David's father some recent photos of his and Paula's now strapping 10 year old boy this evening. Seeing her unique spark twinkling on in his eyes brings immense comfort - she would have been so proud to have seen how wonderfully her little boy turned out, against all the odds.

*The copy on this website is genius

A Sussex Country Pub Rediscovered (and Other Culinary Adventures)

2009-04-07T20:20:00.008+01:00

It's not unusual for my weekends to revolve entirely around food - i.e. the shopping, planning, cooking and eating of it - but this last one was a particularly gloriously gastronomic few days that warrants a special mention. It all started on Friday evening with a homemade Bill's-inspired salad supper - basically lots of little taster salads piled onto a plate like a chaotic leafy mezze. The different salads I conjured up included: carrot, ginger and sultana; baby spinach, pesto and feta; mini roast potatoes & mayo; blanched cauliflower in a mustard dressing and a handful of stuffed olives. This went down very well with Him Indoors in spite of its healthy nature (he has a Homer Simpson approach to food) and set the tone for the rest of the weekend.

On Saturday, after a visit to Hove Museum, we had lunch at our old favourite the Sanctuary, where I indulged in the marginally less virtuous but arguably still quite healthy nutburger and potato wedges, while Ant was very restrained and had the soup (Sweet Potato I think). Then in the evening, we met up with Steph and Russ, who'd booked us into Bodega for a Tapas dinner. This was somewhere new for us, and made a change from the excellent but always manically busy Casa Don Carlos. The size of a postage stamp and decorated with kitsch bunches of grapes and Spanish memorabilia, this very authentic feeling rustic joint offers equally bona fide homely fayre from which I chose pisto manchego, artichoke salad and olives. It was all very delicious and amazingly good value, especially the house red wine which went down a treat.

After Saturday's free-flowing Rioja and the ensuing cocktails at In Vino Veritas, we were both in need of some hangover-busting sustenance on Sunday. Pub roast called, and the sun was shining, so we ventured out into the country to make the most of both. Our first stop - the famously epicurean Ram at Firle - was absolutely heaving with not a parking space in sight, so we swung across the other side of the A27 to the Lamb at Ripe. The last time we'd been there was for a family birthday celebration five or more years ago, and at the time we were less than impressed. Though I can't remember exactly why it was bad, I seem to recall there being an incident involving Ant and a disappointing fish pie - never a good combination. Well clearly the place is either in new hands these days, or has cleaned up its act, as it turned out to be one of the best Sunday lunches I've had in ages.

The Lamb is a in a lovely spot - right in the middle of the tiny twee village of Ripe and far enough away from the A27 for it to be nice and tranquil in the spacious beer garden out back. Inside it's also pretty roomy, and was amazingly quiet compared to other nearby hostelries like The Ram or the Cricketers, which are invariably packed out at weekends. There was no veggie roast on the board, but the very accommodating and friendly staff were only too happy to knock one up for me - combining the stuffed mushroom starter with the veggies from the roast (carrots, potatoes, swede and red cabbage) - all beautifully presented, and cooked to perfection. Ant had the homemade burger which was apparently also top notch - I can certainly vouch for the accompanying chips. I don't know how long we've been missing out on this now excellent establishment, but I shall certainly be making a point of going back there again soon, and would encourage anyone in the market for a country pub lunch in Sussex to give it a whirl. There's even a nice easy circular walk out the back of the village, ideal for working off the generous portions.

Our weekend culinary spectacular concluded at home with one of my thrown-together pasta dishes (sun dried tomatoes, feta, spinach, broad beans), which I am told was the pièce de ré·sis·tance; I couldn't possibly comment of course.

Links
Google map of my favourite places to eat in Sussex
Country Pub Rant - another pub-related post by me
Sussex Pub Links

Start Spreading the News...I'm Leaving in 25 Days

2009-03-29T11:56:00.014+01:00

In just under a month's time, I shall be going on holiday to New York and San Francisco - my first ever visit to the States and a much-needed break after what's been a hugely enjoyable but knackering first few months in the new job. I'm stopping off in New York first to visit my friend Erika, who's a native Californian, but is currently studying midwifery at Columbia. It'll be almost exactly two years since I last saw her here in Brighton, so there's going to be a lot of catching up, and undoubtedly a fair few cocktails, on the cards. Meanwhile, Ant will be over in Vegas, wearing his BBC hat at the NAB conference by day, and no doubt living out the Rat Pack/Gangster movie fantasy after dark. We'll meet up in San Francisco for the proper holiday bit - starting out in Marin County for a quiet few days of walking and whale watching (hopefully) before heading down into the city to wear flowers in our hair (metaphorically speaking of course).

Ever in pursuit of the perfect place to stay, we faffed and procrastinated over accommodation until it was getting worryingly late in the day. We've often stayed in hostels on European city breaks, but even those with private rooms generally lack the intimacy one desires on an extended 'romantic' break, and hotels in SF are - with current exchange rates especially - prohibitively expensive. We looked on Craigslist for self-catering apartments, but even those were on the steep side. I quite fancied the idea of bombing around the Bay Area in a retro campervan but soon discovered we'd have difficulty finding somewhere legal to park it in town. Then I came across a really cool website, AirBnB.com, which matches people's spare rooms with travellers looking for lodgings - and sounded like the perfect solution to our problem. Briefly tempted by one apartment listed as '4600 Square Foot of Rad', we eventually went for a more sensible sounding room offered by a couple of a similar age in a desirable area between Mission and Noe Valley. It not only saves us money, but will hopefully be a much more personal and enlightening experience than any hotel or B&B could offer.

Now that the flights, accommodation and car hire are sorted (phew), all that remains is to plan some adventures for the trip. Ant is already mapping out all the recommended coffee bars in the city (he spends most holidays high as a kite on caffeine), while I am highlighting vintage clothes shops and record stores. We're unlikely to do any of the famous touristy attractions (read my post about Venice if you need to know why not) but are definitely open to suggestions from those with local knowledge; preferably for activities of either the edible or photogenic variety (or both).

Photograph of American Flag cupcakes by Ginnerobot on Flickr (Creative Commons Licence).

Joe Gideon and the Shark, Ice Black Birds - Freebutt, Brighton

2009-03-20T18:38:00.024Z

Isn't it nice to see a brother and sister getting along? It's especially touching to witness a creative collaboration between siblings that doesn't descend into the realms of the gimmicky or twee. The hotly-tipped brother-sister act Joe Gideon and the Shark played an electric set at Brighton's Freebutt last Wednesday night (apparently their first ever headline gig), proving that it is possible for a band to be talented, hip and related. A definite familial chemistry crackled off the pair as they rocked out the intimate dive venue with their haunting anecdotal country-tinged post-rock epics.

Blessed with the sonorous vocal chords of Johnny Cash and the wistful delivery of Leonard Cohen, Joe's half-sung, half-uttered renditions are toe-curlingly cool. Younger sister Viva, aka "The Shark" (pictured) excels on both percussion and keys (sometimes both at the same time), whilst also twiddling various looping/fx trickery knobs and providing backing vocals. Plying their talents with equal parts precision and abandon, the dramatic duo held the small but appreciative Brighton audience in thrall throughout the set.

A youthfully enthusiastic support band, Ice Black Birds, had got us going with some Jon Spencer Blues Explosion-inspired high-energy blues-rock. Good value photographically, their exuberant stage moves reminded me of that other (excellent) arseless boyish ensemble, Foals. Natural successors to the Brel/Beefheart/Cave tradition of brooding cabaret art-rock, Joe Gideon and the Shark's darker, subtler offering proved the perfect contrast, though no less energetic in its own way. Comparisons with The White Stripes are inevitable, and not entirely unfounded; both bands exude a certain kindred cliqueyness that shines through in their music, both use lo-fi techniques to make big brash rock 'n roll noises. The stand-out track of the night for me was Kathy Ray, the (allegedly) true story of an ageing backing singer, dripping with the sultry deep-South sentiments of Tony Joe White's High Sheriff Of Calhoun Parrishor Bobbie Gentry's Fancy, but with an unexpected psychedelic twist. Spangly, stirring, inspirational stuff.

Joe Gideon and The Shark's Debut Album, Harum Scarumis just released. They'll be back in Brighton for the Great Escape Festival in May - don't miss it!

Links

Joe Gideon & the Shark upcoming tour dates

DOL (Daughter of a Loony) video (directed by Archie Bronson Outfit) on YouTube

Joe Gideon & the Shark CDs and downloads on Amazon

Joe Gideon & the Shark on MySpace

I Saw Nick Cave Smile (Maybe)

Some Music that I Like

Musings on Latitude Festival 2008

Amazon.co.uk Widgets

Balkaneasca: A Club Night at Komedia, Brighton

2009-03-18T12:00:00.010Z

A new addition to Brighton's ever-growing alternative nightlife scene is Balkaneasca, a gypsy-flavoured night launched at Komedia last Friday. Also the home of several other groovy club nights including Vive La Fip, Born Bad and Dynamite Boogaloo, Komedia is an ideal venue for those of us who cringe at the prospect of the seafront club strip. Having had mixed experiences at Brighton's other 'world music' club night, Carnivalesque, I was eager to see if the Balkan Beats guys could pull off a better version in this preferable setting.

After a rum-fuelled pub crawl that took in the Thomas Kemp, St James Tavern, the Colonnade and the Basketmakers, Angell and I rolled (not literally) around the corner to Komedia, eager for a dance, and not expecting to be faced with a lengthy queue. Usually I would turn my nose up at this eventuality ( I LOATHE queuing), but in the absence of a decent alternative, we decided to wait in line with the others, and thankfully it wasn't for long. Downstairs in the airless basement, things were already getting wild and sweaty, as frantic Klezmer beats blared out, accompanied by live-jamming musicians.

Apart from the inevitable ageing nutjobs- who always show up at anything vaguely 'alternative' - the general demographic was younger than expected, and with a significant Polish/Eastern European contingent. Unlike Carnivalesque, there wasn't really a dressing up element, in fact I felt (pleasantly) overdressed in my sparkly frock. As we danced our socks off to an endless stream of energetic Eastern-European dance beats, I was reminded of the wedding scene in Black Cat, White Cat - and kept expecting to see a pig devouring a Trabant in the corner. The sweat was literally pouring off the ceiling and it was essential to take frequent breaks outside with the smokers, which was also pretty much the only opportunity for conversation during the evening. As is the tradition, we attempted to engage our fellow revellers with random questions, which were greeted with surprisingly confessional answers.

Back downstairs in the mosh pit, the music was taking a turn for the worse - cool Klezmer being replaced with dodgy (vaguely gypsy) Drum 'n Bass. Angell found himself being forcibly flung around by a crazy woman (I think she thought they were having a romantic dance), while I was fighting off advances from my very own weirdo, and having the classic chat up line: "excuse me, but I find you attractive" growled into my unwilling ear. Usually it's us doing the perturbing, and we're not accustomed to being out-freaked by even bigger oddballs than we are. The tables had turned and there was only one thing to do: scarper.

It had certainly been an interesting evening, but I'd like to have seen more flamboyant dressing and ideally some proper live music, rather than just a few musicians jamming along. Also, if it's that toasty in the Komedia basement in March, I hate to think what it's going to get like come the summer.

Photo of Balkaneasca DJ taken from the Balkaneasca myspace album: www.myspace.com/balkaneasca

Beautiful People, Half Decent Photos

Frocks, Freaks & Fabulous Friends

Witches of Eastwick, Congress Theatre Eastbourne

2009-03-16T19:54:00.001Z

When I saw that Witches of Eastwick the musical starring Marti Pellow was coming to Eastbourne, I knew I must organise an excursion, and it didn't take much persuasion to muster a gang from amongst my more theatrically-minded friends. Seven of us - three gay guys and four girls, rocked up at the Congress last Wednesday night, all strangely giddy in anticipation. All apart from my mum, everyone was of an age to recall Pellow's superstar peak as lead singer of Wet Wet Wet, and though none of us were even particularly big fans at the time, they were one of the biggest home-grown groups of our impressionable childhood years.

Despite being familiar with its star, I didn't know the show at all, and can't remember having seen the 80s film version, though I feel I must have done at some point. The plot didn't exactly hold any big surprises, but it was an entertaining couple of hours nonetheless. After a spirited and colourfully-costumed opening chorus number, the three leading ladies drew us into a magical mood with the spookily wishful 'Make Him Mine'. Conjured by the trio's accidental summoning, Pellow appeared soon after as the self-assured sleazemeister Darryl Van Horne - a character that clearly comes easily to him. Compared to the three 'witches', all of whom were excellent, Pellow's performance seemed conspicuously stiff, and his dialogue often gabbled. But songs such as 'Dance with the Devil' proved that the boy can still belt a tune, and he bounced around the stage with an admirable amount of energy. He certainly got the seal of approval from the gay contingent of our party, as they mock-fanned themselves, mouthing "I would" to each other; even one of the girls (and no, it wasn't me) professed to having developed a crush by the end. Though he doesn't really do it for me, I have to admit he's in pretty good shape for a middle-aged ex-junkie.

I wouldn't put Witches of Eastwick up there with my all-time favourite musicals (e.g. Sweeney Todd, Wicked, Hedwig), but it was a good fun night out, and nice to be back on home turf with some of my all-time favourite people. Let's do it again soon, Ladies.

Amazon.co.uk Widgets

Emiliana Torrini Live at St George's Church, Kemp Town

2009-03-15T13:36:00.013Z

"I always shit myself at hometown gigs" confessed a cheeky Emiliana Torrini to a packed out audience at last night's Kemp Town live show - part of an epic worldwide tour to promote the new album, Me and Armini. The Icelandic singer-songwriter has lived in Brighton for the last five years and judging by the reaction of the crowd, has endeared herself greatly to the locals in that time. It seemed half of those present were either her personal friends or (as in my case) friends of friends - making for an affectionately generous atmosphere to which she rose with equal warmth and gratitude.

I first discovered Emiliana from reading a review of her 2005 album, Fisherman's Woman, which became one of my most listened to of that year. Since then I've delved eagerly back into her career to Love in the Time of Science, Crouçie d'Où La and Merman, as well as other rarities from her early days in Iceland, but this was the first time I'd seen her play live. It was a treat to do so in the familiar surrounds of my favourite Brighton venue, St George's, inside whose walls I have seen such luminaries as Low, Iron and Wine and Lambchop perform, as well as belting my own lungs out there at Midnight Mass for the past few Christmases. It was the perfect choice for Torrini's raw-silk vocals and poetically intimate lyrics to shine, and shine she most certainly did.

Despite fighting a nasty chest infection, which could occasionally be detected in her speaking voice, Emiliana's hauntingly honeyed vocals remained on top form. A tight backing band propelled her through a compelling hour or so of mostly more recent material from the last two albums, moving easily between an eclectic mix of influences and styles. From the ska-inspired title track of the new album to the more trademark folky ballads like Sunny Road - each song was delivered with polish and conviction. The sweetly bashful between-songs banter revealed an approachable, refreshingly un-starry personality, which was further observed during an uproarious karaoke session at the after show party later that night.

Having been gently unravelled throughout the evening's offerings, I was eventually reduced to sobs by the parting number, Beggar's Prayer - a melancholy ballad which ends: "Mamma said, lift your head from the sieve of your hands. Mamma said eventually this hurting will end." I can distinctly recall my own mother offering such comforting words in times of heartache, and from the number of sleeves being used as tissues on the way out of the venue, it seems I wasn't the only one with whom the song struck a chord.

The next leg of Emiliana Torrini's tour takes her to North America then Scandinavia, but she'll be back in the UK for the summer festival season and a few more dates around the country later in the year.

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My Favourite Room

2009-03-10T21:54:00.004Z

My bedroom as a teenager was a proper hippy den - an attic room, customised for occupation in true Stanfield set-building bodgit-and-scarper style by me and my dad and decorated in wacky colours (complete with oh so classy handprints) by me. Batik throws and an assortment of hangings and mobiles adorned the sloping ceiling, while one wall was completely covered in photographs of me and my friends in various states of inebriation. Incense would invariably be burning whenever I was in residence, as if the overwhelming smell of Body Shop White Musk perfume (at least it wasn't Mango) wasn't enough. I adored this small but cosy space, in which large chunks of my adolescence were dawdled away - listening to the Cure, Sinead O'Connor or one of many compilation tapes made in those days, writing my diary, reading trashy novels, daydreaming, or shooting the breeze via the now vaguely retro seeming medium of the land line telephone. Not much has changed in the bed half of the loft at my mum's house, and I always sleep up there whenever I visit. The photowall has been dismantled - with the intention of putting all those classic shots into an album someday - but many of the trinkets and decor remain. Even my old tabby cat still makes the hike up the ladder to sleep there with me.

I've never moved on much in terms of style since this formative period, and have always aspired to re-create the ultimate shabby-chic daydream den in the front room of mine and Ant's Brighton pad. I can't be doing with uber-designed living spaces that tell you nothing about the person who lives there; houses without books especially creep me out, because, honestly, how are you supposed to get the measure of someone without having a decent nose through their library and preferably stealing a book or two?

Ant is by nature a hoarder and clutter-freak, so our tastes have happily convened over the years to create a naturally evolved space that says a lot about us as individuals and as a couple. It's full of stuff we've picked up on our travels, inherited heirlooms and treasured gifts, as well as a decent combined library that is fast overflowing into other rooms. Other than the yellow paint on the walls (which we had leftover from our previous flat) we've never made any conscious design decisions about the space, and yet visitors often comment on how soothing they find it. Almost everything has a story behind it - from the box of percussion instruments to the two wooden cats - and it gives me great pleasure to recall the histories of all our bits and pieces - whether for the benefit of others or my own sentimental indulgence.

Every now and then, I get an evening at home alone in which to recapture my contemplative teenage years, and will sit and enjoy the comforting sanctuary that we have created. This evening I was doing just that when it struck me to compile an anecdotal itinerary of the room, to photograph it for posterity, as I wish I had done with my bedroom in Eastbourne before moving out. In the interests of authenticity, I didn't change or tidy anything, just picked up the camera (which is always handy) and started shooting. If you look closely, you will see that I have even caught one of the cats unawares and in a rather undignified pose.

So there you have it: the museum of me, the anatomy of a lounge, the entirely self-indulgent story of us as told by our front room. A bigger version of the above collage can be seen on Flickr; the stories, however, are kept in my head, ready to be served on demand along with tea and cake to our honoured guests.

A Fond Farewell: Hettie Miller, RIP

2009-03-01T17:44:00.027Z

Growing up is something I've mostly been trying to defer, but sometimes life just catches you by surprise and suddenly it can't be helped. Last week was one of those times, when we said goodbye to Ant's beloved Grandmother Hettie, aka Gaggy, who passed away peacefully at the ripe old age of 95. Having lost the last of my own grandparents some years ago, I'd adopted Ant's Gran (the last of his) as my own and had grown to love her as such over the last decade. The presence of grandparents always made childhood feel somehow more accessible, and the acceptance of adulthood now seems increasingly inevitable without them.

Final farewells are never easy, but unlike so many of the funerals I've been to - which mourned young lives cut short - Hettie's was a celebration of a full life well-lived. Of course it was still a sad occasion, but our tears were purely selfish; we felt sad because we'll miss her, not because her death was unfair. In this case, death came as a welcome relief from a life that had quite simply run out of steam. A mercifully short decline had given way to the kind of dignified departure to which most of us would aspire: surrounded by loved ones at home, ready and willing to go.

I'll always remember Gaggy as a gentle and inspiringly stoical lady, holding court at family occasions and never missing an opportunity to offer a wry opinion or crack a witty quip. Truly the grand matriarch, she was eternally proud and supportive of her three kids, eight grandchildren, and three great-grandchildren. I was touched to witness two of my contemporary in-laws, both expecting in June, comparing bumps at the wake afterwards. Soon there will be another two little lives added to Hettie's generous legacy: one generation making way for the next as the circle of life continues. Dauntingly, this also means that our parents are now the oldest generation and we have moved up one branch on the family tree ourselves. It certainly feels like the end of an era, but quite what the new one holds in store, I have yet to determine.

Being Human, Heroes, Lost... TV's All Gone to Sh*t

2009-02-24T11:14:00.037Z

Once in a while, when I'm not off cavorting at gigs, skulking around seedy cabaret clubs or entertaining the unsuspecting streets of Kemp Town with impromptu showtunes outbursts, I sometimes quite like to stay home and watch TV. Ever hopeful for something new and exciting on the box, a few months back we downloaded and watched the pilot episode of Being Human, a new BBC3 drama about a vampire, a werewolf and a ghost sharing a house in Bristol. It sounded fun, and the pilot was excellent - a bit This Life, a bit Buffy, a bit ER (the werewolf and the vampire both work in a hospital) - in other words everything I could possibly want in a the way of televisual entertainment. At last, I thought, a decent fix of intelligent dark-humoured fantasy drama and with eye candy to boot.

To my immense disappointment, when the actual series finally launched some time later and the two strongest main characters had been replaced with new actors - including a distinctly less edgy and not at all sexy vampire - it just didn't do it for me any more. It wasn't just the actors though, the whole thing just felt cheaper and lacking in the essential cool factor which the pilot had delivered in spades. Somehow they had managed to break what I hoped would be my new TV addiction. I don't watch a lot of telly, but I do love to have something absorbing and distracting on the go and there hasn't been anything that ticked all the boxes since Joss Whedon's ill-fated Firefly.

Last night I half-heartedly started watching the new series of Heroes, knowing full well that just like the previous ones, it would be certain to disappoint. When Heroes first came on our screens it had all the makings of being exactly my kind of show, but then just kept going round and round in tedious circles, ever dangling the promise of something better over our hopeful little heads. It so should be good, but in reality it never quite hits the spot. Nevertheless, I keep watching and hoping until something better comes along, sucker that I am. And judging from the largely dissatisfied Twittering going on during last night's episode, I am not the only one trapped in this endless cycle of disillusionment.

On the DVD-front, we just finished season seven of Smallville (big 'meh') and are currently watching series one of The Sarah Connor Chronicles (whose duo of boot-clad leading ladies keep Ant happy) as well as season four of Lost. Despite having jumped the shark some time ago, Lost at least keeps the heart pumping with non-stop action-packed adventure, and plenty of bare-chested male totty action (yes I am that shallow), and I am intrigued to see where they will take it from this confusingly convoluted point. Next up on our LoveFilm rental list we have (in no particular order): Mad Men, Six Feet Under, more Dexter, True Blood, Wonderfalls, Dollhouse and Veronica Mars - all recommended by friends with SkyPlus who get to watch all these things as they come out and go on about them until I am worn into submission. And let's hope I'm not being led astray, because if there's nothing decent in amongst that lot, I may have to throw the TV out of the window and take up cross-stitch instead.

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In Which I Finally Get Frocked Up and Go Dancing

2009-02-15T13:56:00.018Z

You wait five months for a big night out, then two come along at once... I may occasionally possibly have mentioned once or twice lately my frustrations about not having been out dancing since my birthday back in September. It was a sorry state of affairs, which I am relieved to report has now been rectified with a double whammy of social festivities.

Brighton Twestival, 12th Feb

On Thursday Ant and I joined the Brighton Twitterati for Brightwest at the Black Lion, part of the global Twestival fundraiser, which I've already written about for the C&M blog. It was a fun evening of putting real faces to avatars and shooting the breeze with like minded, passionate and interesting people. Unlike the majority of attendees - whose morning-after hangover Tweets provided much amusement - I stayed sober for the duration, which was just as well because Friday night brought an altogether more epic and energetic adventure...

Last Tuesday Society Ball, 13th Feb

One of London's many 'alternative' nightlife purveyors, The Last Tuesday Society has been putting on weird and wacky events since 2006. The latest (and reportedly final) event was an anti-Valentine's affair entitled 'Loss' which took place, appropriately, on Friday 13th. I was there with the lovely Angell, whose acquaintance I made almost exactly two years ago at another alternative night - from the currently dormant Lost Vagueness. After fuelling up with vintage rum and hearty pasta on board Angell's cosy houseboat, we made our way to Notting Hill, where a queue was building up outside the Tabernacle. Most had made a decent effort with their attire (the theme being 'Decaying Beauty'), but as always there were one or two conspicuously under dressed punters, who were frankly just begging to be mocked.

Inside, peacock feathers were being handed out in a half-hearted attempt to furnish those without costumes, but unfortunately there was no dressing up area like at Lost Vagueness, leaving the towny element at the mercy of our ongoing contempt. Embarking on the obligatory exploration of the venue, with which neither of us was familiar, we discovered an atmospheric central room with a stage and dancefloor, and a surrounding mezzanine - perfect for people-watching. The rest of the space was a warren of less theatrical flourescently-lit side rooms and corridors, where various activities such as onion chopping (to make you cry) and a life drawing class had been laid on. It was in such areas that our more colourful encounters occurred, though the dancefloor did afford some quite sociable dancing episodes.

The highlight of my night - apart from Angell's charming company of course - was a storytelling session in a tiny side room, for which we demanded that the annoyingly intrusive lights be switched off. Six or seven of us huddled in a broom cupboard in the dark were just able to make out the flowing ginger hair and emphatic expressions of our rakish raconteur, who treated us to a spellbinding Arthurian tale, told faultlessly from memory. The gloriously sonorous storyteller was Giles Abbott, a true stalwart luvvie (in the best possible way) if ever there was one.

Both the live bands we saw were good fun, particularly The Guillotines, whose Saxophonist I'm sure I recognised from Brighton. I particularly relished flagellating the singer (upon his request, I might add) with a large stuffed tiger which had been pulled from one of the many bundles of cuddly toys hanging from the ceiling. An 'avant-garde' (i.e. wanky) drag mime act died on its feet and spelled the beginning of the end when punters began to boo and throw things at the stage. It didn't help that the bar had run out of spirits by 1am (note to self: conceal hip flask in stockings in future), and people were getting increasingly tetchy about it. But despite these slight hiccups, the atmosphere was a friendly one, and we had an excellent night of random conversations and wanton mischief.

Back at the boat, Angell and I polished off the best part of a bottle of rum and stayed up chatting til sunrise. I can't remember the last time I did that, and it was especially magical to do so from inside a houseboat on the Thames, which provided a most stunningly dramatic view. The following day was spent watching the world go by on the river whilst listening to an eclectic selection of tunes and reminiscing about our exploits the night before. I finally dragged myself back to Brighton in the early evening, feeling far less wretched that I ought to have done considering, and with my dancefloor cravings firmly sated.

More photos from the Last Tuesday Society Ball at: www.flickr.com/photos/rowstar

Thomas Truax, Birdeatsbaby and The Veloes at the Freebutt

2009-02-11T17:52:00.013Z

Remember when you were a kid and you used to think that your body was powered by lots of little people inside you, pulling levers to activate your brain or make you move your leg? OK, so maybe that was just me and my strange imagination. But I sometimes still indulge this notion, if only to explain the perpetual soundtrack accompanying my every thought and dream. I'm convinced that there's a tiny band playing inside my head, responding to my day to day actions and emotions like a well punctuated film score.

If ever a real life band came close to recreating the imaginary sound of my psyche, it's Birdeatsbaby, who I discovered at the Freebutt last night supporting Thomas Truax. A gloriously OTT ensemble, the twisted Brighton troubadours describe themselves as a 'dark cabaret band' but that doesn't quite cut it. Imagine a young Kate Bush, instead of signing to EMI and becoming a pop superstar, falls in with a bunch of gypsies and runs away to the circus where her true murderous nature is revealed... and you will be along the right lines.

Despite struggling against a shoddy sound system which clearly didn't do justice to her vocals, the lead singer threw herself wholeheartedly into the Moulin Rouge-meets-Hammer Horror material, while I stood entranced. There was an element of student fancy dress party contrived madness about the whole set up, but that only made it all the more appealing. The previous support act, The Veloes, had played a pleasing but not particularly original mix of jangly indie and 90s Britpop style numbers with the occasional departure into reggae-infused prog, so when Birdeatsbaby appeared in all their bonkers burlesque glory, it was a surprising and welcome contrast and a good warm up for the properly eccentric madness that ensued when Thomas himself took to the stage.

We'd all been speculating as to the nature of a curious contraption (pictured above) which had been lurking at the back throughout the support bands, and appeared to be constructed from several bicycle wheels and an assortment of bric-a-brac. The thing was introduced by Thomas as ' Mother Superior' and turned out to be a rather impressive steam punk drum machine, just one of many Heath Robinson-esque home made instruments to materialise during the set. Using these, a guitar, his voice and a live looping machine, Truax embarked on a surreal and brilliantly baffling voyage of weirdness, which ended with the entire audience howling at the moon. Looking around the venue at a mixture of delighted and bemused faces, it was clear that one needed to posses a certain sense of humour to appreciate this unusual man's equally strange offerings. Having been raised on the absurdist humour of the Bonzos and other such musical comedy acts, I was perfectly in tune, and went home feeling thoroughly tickled.

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A Snowy Day in Brighton

2009-02-05T13:58:00.005Z

Sunday night's impressive snowfall meant an impromptu day off on Monday for many people, and a day of working from home for those of us with laptops and internet access. Despite my excitement about the snow, I did actually manage to get on with quite a bit of work whilst watching a string of giddy kids walking past the window in wellies, carrying makeshift sledges and accompanied by equally ecstatic parents.

They were all heading for Queen's Park, our local haven of greenery, or on this occasion, whitery. The sloping dog-walkers' field is just about steep enough to slide down, though perhaps not as exciting as the slopes of Paradise Drive down which I remember careering wildly as a child.

Not wanting to be left out of the fun completely, Ant and I organised a meet-up with our other snowed-in friends, most of whom are teachers whose schools had been closed. It was supposed to be a lunch date, but the local cafe had run out of supplies with which to cook, so we had to make do with tea, cheesecake and a single portion of chips between us.

The walk home afterwards inevitably descended into a snowball fight, with handfuls of snow being shoved down the backs of necks and other such mean and dirty tactics. It was the best lunch break I'd had in ages. Later on, Ant ventured into the garden to build this excellent snowman, accessorised by me.

Emmy the Great gig at Komedia

In the evening we wrapped up and braved the icy streets to see Emmy the Great at Komedia. I'd half expected the gig to be cancelled, but the fact that it went ahead in spite of the extreme weather conditions made for a convivial festival atmosphere among the welly and walking boot-clad crowd.

With the launch of a debut albumimminent, the band was evidently excited to be playing to their ideal audience of skinny-jeaned students and Brighton trendsters. A prim middle class alternative to Kate Nash, Emma-Lee Moss's earnest autobiographical ditties have been earning her a fair bit of praise and regular airplay on alternative stations such as 6Music, which is where she first came to my attention.

Such touchingly confessional songs as 'First Love' and 'We Almost Had A Baby' are refreshingly ingenuous when heard as one-offs over the radio, but when heard one after the other, Moss's clever lyrics get lost in repetitive melodies and start to sound tiresomely twee.

To be fair to Emmy, my overall appreciation of the gig was impaired by a drunker-than-she-realised punter who insisted on loudly goading her mates into dance along to even the most sedate numbers, undeterred by my politer-than-I-could-have-been objections. I'm thinking of getting some 'Did you realise that there is a special circle of hell for people who talk in theatres/shout through gigs/are nine feet tall and stand in front of me?' cards printed for such occasions; I doubt it would help much, though it would make me feel better.

Emmy the Great's debut album 'First Love' is out on Close Harbour on 9th February.

Photo of me and Angell walking in Abbots Wood on Sunday taken by meeware.

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Into the Woods at the Gatehouse

2009-02-01T18:06:00.011Z

One of my all-time favourite musicals, Into the Woods first came to my attention back in the early 90s, when the Broadway production starring Bernadette Peterswas televised. I've watched that version many times over, and know the London cast recordingoff by heart, but had only ever seen a bad amateur production live on stage. As is often the way with Sondheim, the combination of subtle dark humour and a complex score makes Into the Woods a challenging prospect for even the most talented professional company, and when I heard it was to be revived on the London Fringe, it was with a certain degree of trepidation that I booked tickets.

Last night was the penultimate performance of the 2008/9 revival, and we trekked all the way up to Highgate (via the British Museum) to see it. The main reason we went was to support my good friend Dominic Brewer (pictured here on the left), whose performance as the Baker has earned rave reviews. Dom and I worked at Waterstone's together in 1998/99, and bonded over our mutual propensity to burst into song at any opportunity, particularly during booze-fuelled Christmas shopping evenings. He's been a jobbing actor for a few years now, but I hadn't seen him in a lead role since he went professional. The Baker and his wife are the central characters in this clever ensemble piece, crossing paths with other fairy tale characters in the woods during their desperate quest to reverse a family curse placed upon them by a malevolent witch.

The Gatehouse production breathed new life into an established musical, resisting the temptation to emulate previous interpretations (which is exactly what made the aforementioned amateur one so painful). I was so overjoyed to hear beautiful diction all round and not a trace of that Americanised singing which so often infuriates me in West End shows these days. Very wisely, they had stripped out some of the weaker songs, and kept the dialogue zipping along so that it never dragged. I'm not just saying this because he's a mate, but Dominic gave a storming performance alongside his opposite, played by Rachel Bingham. The on-stage chemistry between them was electric, and despite knowing the score so well, I was regularly moved by their very individual and fresh delivery. Even Ant, who had been initially reluctant to see the show again, came away genuinely impressed and enthused; it had been a brilliant and memorable evening's entertainment.

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