Breakfast in Bed is the everyday adventures of Rowan, aka @Rowstar, writing about adoptive parenthood, outdoor adventures, food, live music and other favourite pursuits.
It's almost time for the Great Escape Festival - my annual fix of musical discovery and quintessential Brighton jollity. This year I have completely failed to do any prep and find out what bands I might want to see (despite having access to Digby's handy Spotify playlist), which almost makes it more exciting, and means I have absolutely no preconceptions.
It also means I can't offer you my hot tips for which bands are a must-see. But as a seasoned Great-Escaper, I can offer any first-timers some hints for getting the most out of the festival experience.
Don't ever queue. However much you want to see a band, there's always something else great going on elsewhere and queuing wastes valuable gig time. Even if it is a band you have wanted to see for ages, they will no doubt be touring again soon anyway, and queuing is not cool.
Enjoy the rest of the Brighton Festival. If you suffer from gig fatigue at any point, pop into some Open Houses to cleanse the cultural palate.
Use the free text update service. This hasn't been heavily promoted in recent years, but is a great way to find out about schedule changes and secret gigs, as well as helping you avoid gigs where there are queues. Apparently there's a smartphone app this year, too.
Always go to secret gigs - they can be the best kind of atmospheric happening and you might get to see some really exciting bands on their way up. We saw Foals in 2007 at a packed out, high-energy performance at the end of the pier and it was one of the best gigs of my life.
Don't forget to eat. Sometimes it feels like there's so much on offer that to spend an hour eating out is wasteful, but you must fuel up for moshing and trekking from venue to venue. I recommend Moshi Moshi and Pho as great, quick-but-not-fast-food central pit stops.
Take a notebook - because you will see a lot of bands and you won't remember who they were otherwise.
Don't be put off by the venue. There are some real dives on the Great Escape circuit, but if the band is good enough, it will be a great gig. I saw Low Anthem in 2010 at the seedy Ocean Rooms, and they blew the walls off.
Enjoy hipster-spotting. Every year, all the hipsters in the world (or at least from East London) descend on Brighton for the Great Escape, with their resplendent ironic hairdos and over-sized retro specs. It is a feast for the eyes and an inspiration. If you want to join in and be one of the gang, visit Beyond Retro to stock up on vintage clobber
Don't shout stuff to your friend during a quiet folky gig (or any other gig for that matter), or I will punch you in the face.
That is all. Have fun. Say hi. Tell me how you got on.
Ever since I was a surly teenager in Doc Martens, I have loved Sinéad O'Connor. Unlike many other, image conscious, pop stars, the striking singer has never been afraid to speak her mind, stick two fingers up to the world, or wear her heart on her sleeve - and has always been a great inspiration to me. Her first album, The Lion and the Cobra, came out in 1987, when I was 13. Back then her songs of angst and heartache spoke to my hormonal psyche, and I was drawn to her rebellious, free-spirited persona. I have bought every album since, and each has resonated with me at different stages of my life.
I went to see Sinéad live about 10 years ago, at the Apollo in Hammersmith. It was a memorable, if not very intimate show. Since then she has rarely been on the touring circuit, and her musical output has been sporadic. So when I saw on Melting Vinyl's listings that they had bagged her for a gig at St George's in Kemp Town, I was giddy with excitement. I've seen many gigs at St George's, mostly folky/acoustic acts that suited the serene surroundings. But this was the first time I'd seen a full on rock gig there, and it turned out to be a truly sensational experience.
After a mellow support act, Sinéad stepped onto the stage, rocking a leather corset that showed off her many tattoos. Still completely shorn, a sprinkling of grey was visible in the skinhead stubble that poked out from under her headscarf. As soon as she let loose that dazzling smile of hers, the room lit up with the promise of a special night. Her voice was on fine form as she sang a string of classics from the back catalogue, including No Man's Woman, The Emperor's New Clothes, This is the Last Day of Our Acquaintance, Jackie, and of course, her most famous hit, Nothing Compares 2 U. These were interspersed with songs from the new album, How About I Be Me (and You Be You), which came out earlier this month - her first release in five years. I particularly enjoyed 4th and Vine - a song about getting married that was introduced with a cheeky anecdote about altering the colour of the eyes in the song to match her changing boyfriends - and her fervent cover of John Grant's Queen of Denmark (which is on the new album).
The audience was rapt when Sinéad despatched the band and sang I Am Stretched on Your Grave unaccompanied, revealing the true soul drenching power of her voice. At once fierce and fragile, she sings with eyes shut tight, entirely consumed by the words she is delivering. From this intense state, she relaxed easily into the inter-song banter, chatting and making jokes - keeping the audience engaged throughout. Usually I begrudge going through the motions of an obligatory encore, but in this case the riotous demand was justified. Having given a standing ovation to the final song of the set, the whole crowd remained upright for a bonus four songs - and loving every moment.
Practically the whole audience (including me and Ant) piled into the Barley Mow afterwards, collectively raving about the gig as they knocked back celebratory nightcaps. Especially touching were the overheard words of those who had gone along with fairly low expectations and been happily blown away. It was one of those nights where everyone felt united by a shared happening of something rare and momentous. For me personally, it re-affirmed 25 years of admiration and, most importantly of all, put me back in touch with that boot-wearing adolescent who has been sadly dormant of late. Thank you, Sinéad, for reminding me who I am again.
March is nearly over and I find have completely failed to write about any of the recent cultural, culinary and societal diversions that have been pleasantly propelling me out of hibernation and into spring. So before another month goes by without a post, here is a whistle stop tour of the past month's activities.
Elaine Paige at the Congress Theatre, Eastbourne
This was always going to be more about comedy value than highbrow entertainment, but none of us were quite prepared for the pathos of EP's latest tour. As Natalie, Kim, Damien and I giggled, exchanging arched-eyebrowed glances, Ant sunk further into his seat as the diminutive diva insisted on flashing her stocking tops in a far too tight and far from flattering frock, whilst virtually dry humping her (much younger) male backing singer. I could have forgiven the inappropriate dress and lecherous granny behaviour if her singing had been on form, but unfortunately it was not. Apart from a couple of punchier tracks - one from Chess and 'I'm Still Here' from Follies - the vocals were disappointing. Sad, because EP could really belt it back in the day. Probably time to call it day and stick to Sunday afternoon radio instead.
Club Tokyo at the Towner Gallery, Eastbourne
At last, a club night for people like me - in Eastbourne. Brighton music promoters Melting Vinyl paired up with the Towner to put on a Japanese themed night, in honour of the Tomoaki Suzuki exhibition that was on at the time. It sounded like a promising collaboration, so Ant and I threw together what vaguely Japanese garb we could muster and went down to see what it was all about.We found an enthusiastic and friendly gathering of Eastbourne's alternative crowd - waifs and strays who presumably have nowhere else to go on a Saturday night and would normally be at dinner parties or over in Brighton. I was disappointed in the lack of interesting music on offer, but it was a very pleasant evening nonetheless. I hope to see more of the same coming up in the near future.
The Decemberists at the De La Warr Pavilion, Bexhill
The night that Crabsinthe* was invented. But before that legendary moment was an equally legendary gig. See for yourself:
Kent Mini Break
A break from the 9-5 grind was needed, so we drove up to the Kent coast for a few days to explore bits we've never explored before, including Deal, Broadstairs, Sandwich, Ramsgate and Margate. The weather was miserably overcast the whole time, so we spent most of it seeking out places to stuff ourselves full of cake and other delectable treats. Foodie highlights included The Black Douglas and 81 Beach Street in Deal, Boho in Canterbury and the Winchelsea Farm Kitchen (in Sussex, not Kent). But the highlight of the trip was discovering the most unexpectedly alternative pub, The Blue Pigeons, in the tiny village of Worth where we were staying. Having popped in there for a pint while waiting for our B&B to open, we ended up going back for dinner and staying til closing, getting drunk with the locals - amongst whom was Sophie Parkin. If you're ever down that way, be sure to pay the place a visit - and tell the very glamorous rockabilly landlady that we said hello.
The Impellers at Coalition, Brighton
My big Brighton night out. Not my usual taste in music but a fun evening of drinking and bopping to funky tunes with a gang of my lovely colleagues.
The Unthanks at the De La Warr Pavilion, Bexhill
And in a complete change of pace, the next night Ant and I went to see The Unthanks, though we very nearly didn't make it. Ant had been at a stag party the night before and could barely function, but he dragged himself along and was glad he did. It was a really sensational gig, that reduced an already fragile Ant to a gibbering, overawed wreck. This was the song that really did for him, though it's taken from a TV performance as no cameras were allowed at the De La Warr:
Twestival at the Smugglers Loft, Brighton
Somehow I managed to get myself involved in the last few weeks of organising this Twitter fundraising event, which despite a few technical hitches, went off brilliantly and made £3.5k for local charity, The Crew Club. If you don't already know what a Twestival is, or want to find out what happened at ours, my colleague Ben did a write up on our company blog. I also took a few photos, which should give you a flavour:
Spamalot at the Congress Theatre, Eastbourne
Twestival hangover in tow, I pootled down to meet Damien, Olly, Mum, Dad, Pete and Ali at the Buccaneer for a pre-theatre drink. The show was very appropriate hangover entertainment - not in the least bit challenging, just gently amusing. It's unashamedly cashing in on the Python legacy, but if you go in knowing that, you'll probably have a good time. As ever, Mum and I found ourselves laughing at bits that noone else did and as ever, I found myself turning round to tell someone off behind me. This time it was an annoying nerd who was quoting (and indeed misquoting) all the punchlines about 30 seconds before they were said on stage. I asked him if he knew the meaning of internal dialogue and that seemed to shut him up. My favourite bit of the show was the original songs, such as "This is the Song that Goes Like This" and "Whatever Happened to my Part?", both of which are particularly funny to those of us who have trundled our way though many a summer season and bad amdram production.
So that was just about as much excitement as I can handle in one month. I think I'll have a quiet night in tonight.
*Crabsinthe = a cocktail made from Crabbies alcoholic ginger beer and absinthe. Highly recommended, utterly dangerous.
In 1997, so the story goes, Ant had tickets to see The Penguin Cafe Orchestra in Manchester, but his hopes of seeing them live were dashed when founder Simon Jeffes died suddenly of a brain tumour. A couple of years later, when Ant and I started dating in Brighton, Penguin Cafe Orchestra's Concert Program was one of only a handful of CDs he owned and I quickly became a fan. Their unique folk/classical fusion has brought comfort and inspiration throughout the last decade or so of our life together and remains an oft chosen soundtrack to many an activity in our house.
The loss of Simon Jeffes and the demise of his wonderful orchestra was clearly more upsetting than any personal disgruntlement over the unusable concert tickets, but Ant has always expressed regret at never having seen Penguin Cafe Orchestra perform during their many touring years. Last weekend we were able to assuage that regret a little by going to see a new lineup assembled by Jeffes' son Arthur, now touring under the name Penguin Cafe. Continuing his father's musical legacy into the 21st Century with fresh arrangements and new compositions, Jeffes Jnr's output is very much in the spirit of the original and clearly a heartfelt tribute.
Supporting Penguin Cafe at Brighton Dome on Friday night were Portico Quartet, a modern jazz ensemble that lived up to its promise of modern jazz with admirable immoderation. But by the time Penguin Cafe had started their set in the second half, I was so swept up that I had all but forgotten the noodling jazz. Playing a mixture of crowd-pleasing old favourites and his own material, interspersed with touching anecdotes about his father, Jeffes had the audience (including me) in raptures.
Folding classical structures around folk, bluegrass and other World Music influences, the Penguin Cafe's music has always had the ability to unravel me and was the perfect Friday night tonic after a busy week. Essentially an augmented string quartet (violin, viola, cello, double bass) accompanied by ukeleles, guitars, piano, harmonium and percussion, the new pared down lineup nevertheless managed to capture the essence of the original (which featured oboe, trombone, fluegelhorn and accordion among other instruments). The difference was only really tangible on a couple of pieces that felt rather flat without brass. Other than that, it was a thoroughly enjoyable gig and we both came away feeling soothed and restored.
The current Penguin Cafe tour is now over, but you can catch them live at various festivals in the UK this summer. And I strongly recommend that you do.
Brightonians don't exactly take much persuading to dress up and stay out all night at the best of times, but for the last few years White Night has given us an offical excuse to celebrate the art of noctural recreation. A free festival that takes place across the city, White Night marks the clocks going back and celebrates the extra hour we get, by encouraging people to stay up and participate in all sorts of activities throughout the night.
I've been away for White Night the last few years and so this year's was my first one. The city was buzzing anyway with Halloween antics, and the massive Beach of the Dead walk that also happens every year got everyone into the spirit early in the day. By nightfall there was an amusing mix of ordinary punters, gruesome zombies and other ghoulish Halloweenites lining the streets. My first glimpse of White Night activity was as I turned into the North Laine to spy an opera singer belting out from the balcony above the betting shop on the corner of Bond Street. Unfortunately I missed a later performance in that same spot, reported by SessionLeopard on Twitter: "Brighton... where else can you watch a black drag queen dressed as a cloud singing barbara streisand above a betting shop?". Shame, but there was so much else to do.
My first proper stop-off was at the Brighton museum, which involved wending my way through the Pavilion Gardens, where little pockets of action were afoot all over the place. Inside the museum it was pretty much business as usual, apart from a few crafty making sessions and the presence of some willowy ladies in period clothing draped about the place. It did make me giggle to see zombies wandering about soaking up culture, but I drew the line at a man dressed as a spiderman clown and escaped to go and meet Steve and Linda at the Pavilion garden gates.
From there we decided to head for the Sealife centre, where I was utterly enchanted by the huge turtles and tiny seashorses. Not so endearing were the drunken youths flagrantly ignoring the 'please don't touch the fish' signs and whose behaviour was later reported to have started a riot. Things were altogether more civilised at the Library and though outside on Jubilee Square was heaving, the live spray paint artists there were well worth a stop. Inside, we had a play on a big dance mat that was wired up to a percussion loop programme, and enjoyed the relative calm before heading back out into the throng.
Kensington Street was another hive of activity, with both the Lighthouse and the Basement open for business and a multimedia installation called the Epiphany Dome outside. After a heavy dose of art, we were ready for some music, but not before swinging by Infinity cafe to re-fuel with soup hearty soup in a roll. At the Corn Exchange, a French music showcase was in full swing, but surprisingly there were no queues for the venue. Amiens in France also has a White Night (or Nuit Blanche as they call it) and our towns do a musical exchange for the night. When we arrived, a band called Oregone were playing. I had a little dance around and then spotted Ewan (aka Euzie) at the bar. It transpired that he and Linda both grew up in Wolverhampton and used to hang out in the same pub. Much disbelief and delighted cries of "you know so-and-so? No way!" ensued.
Next door in the Dome there was nothing much happening other than some pumping dance music and a couple of interactive installations. The night was flying by already and by the time we got down to the beach, the Bandstand happenings were dying down, with only a few half marathon runners straggling about. Walking back along the prom, we gained another cohort in the shape of Rob, who accompanied us up through the Lanes and eventually up to the Phoenix Gallery, which was one of the only places still going. By then the clocks had officially gone back, we'd gained our extra hour and I had completely lost track of what time it actually was.
A quick hot chocolate at the buzzy Cafe Moksha - where live music was still going on - made a very civilised end to the evening (or should I say, morning). My first White Night had been a riot (though thankfully not in the Sealife centre sense), but it was time for bed.
I go to a lot of gigs, mostly in seedy pub function rooms or muddy fields at festivals and that's the way I like it. The last time I went to a genuine pop concert was back in 2008, when Neel persuaded me to go and see Kylie at the O2. It was certainly an experience and a brilliant night out with one of my favourite people, but I can't imagine ever wanting to go back to that particular venue. I do really like a fix of uncomplicated, energetic electro-pop, though, so when I saw that Swedish popstrel Robyn was coming to the Concorde 2 (and not the awful Brighton Centre), I was quick to snap up tickets.
I've heard Robyn described as Sweden's answer to Britney before now, presumably because she too was a child star. Certainly both share a history of catchy pop tunes and a massive gay following, but somehow Robyn's Swedishness makes her quirkier and more interesting by default. In the flesh she is less kooky and more unabashedly Euro-pop than you might expect, which endeared her to us even more. It made a pleasant change to be at the Concorde amongst a bouncy crowd of excitable gaylords and giggly girls, as opposed to the usual hipster chin-stroking contingent - although interestingly there were a few of those around too.
There's nothing surprising or challenging about Robyn's material, but it is bloody good pop music. I like to think of it as a cleansing of the musical palette - a sort of sorbet gig, if you will. And she puts on a great show: energetic, enthusiastic and emotive. I couldn't help but dance. Lots. Particular highlights were 'Dancing on my Own' (my favourite track from Body Talk Pt.1) and 'Hang with Me', a more stripped back almost-ballad which showed off her true vocal abilities. The best thing was being so up close and personal with such a big personality and an even bigger sound in an intimate venue. It could only have been better if dear Neel had been here to enjoy it with me instead of thousands of miles away in Melbourne.
We've been going to Brighton's own Great Escape festival ever since it started back in 2006. It's been a brilliant way to keep up with all the latest breakthrough bands and pack in a load of gigs early on in the year without having to rough it in a tent. Not that I mind roughing it in a tent one bit, but the prospect of sleeping in his own bed means that Ant will join me a lot more willingly. Some of the excellent bands that we first discovered at previous Great Escapes include Foals,GaBLé, zZz, The Low Anthem (wow, that was an amazing gig), John & Jehn, Black Mountain and Benni Hemm Hemm to name but a few.
This year's Great Escape festival was, I am sad to report, something of a disappointment. Our overall enjoyment was somewhat hindered by Ant's unfortunately timed man-flu attack, but regardless of that, I felt it was a less than inspiring line-up. After an excellent start with so-French-it-hurts electro-cheese-meisters Chateau Marmont, we seemed to wander from gig to gig, struggling to tell the difference between a string of identikit babyfaced Sixth Form Indie bands with only a single melody between them. It wasn't until Saturday that things started to improve and the festival really redeemed itself for me.
Braving the seedy environs of the Freebutt to see The Bewitched Hands on the Top of Our Heads on Saturday afternoon, I finally felt like I was onto something a bit different. Jangly psychedelic retro-pop with the occasional touch of Arcade Fire urgency, it was a breath of fresh air after all the bland Indie crap. Later that evening in the atmospheric setting of the Basement, we swayed along appreciatively to the pleasing Bolly-prog sounds of Kiwi newbies An Emerald City; I must give a special mention to the bassist whose multipurpose cape-come-guitar-strap was a visual highlight of the festival. These were followed on stage by the equally esoteric but slightly less versatile antipodeans Bridezilla, who took a while to get going but really rocked out towards the end when the free-jazz style fiddle and sax element really came into its own.
From the Basement we strolled over to the Pavilion Theatre (why is it always so hot in there?) to catch the excellent Trembling Bells (who I first discovered on Freakzone) and couldn't help but smile at the conspicuous absence of hipsters in attendance - a most unusual situation for the UK's most skinny-jeaned, wayfarered festival. Presumably it's not cool to like Folk music and Trembling Bells are undeniably Folk, carrying on the tradition of bands like Fairport Convention and The Incredible String Band, but with an intriguing 21st Century flourish. It felt somehow fitting to finish the festival in the more familiar company of middle aged men and floaty hippy chicks, so we called it a night after that and left the clubbing and after-parties to the young-uns.
Although I shan't be living in Brighton come next May (more on that later), I expect I'll still come over for Great Escape 2011. 2010's offerings may not have been the best compared to previous years, but at £35 for the three days (with the early-bird ticket price), getting even four or five decent gigs out of it seems like a bargain. And it'll be an excuse to stay in a groovy Brighton B&B, which is not something I've ever done. If you were at the Great Escape this year and had a better experience, let me know - what brilliant bands did I miss? where was all the action? And most importantly, who had the pointiest shoes?
Most of the bands I really liked at the Great Escape Festival don't have commercial recordings available as yet, so you'll have to explore their MySpace pages to get a listen. I've made a little playlist here.
Ever since I discovered him at a Freebutt gig around this time last year, I've been raving about Thomas Truax, the eccentric one-man band with a penchant for weird homemade instruments. If you read my Great Escape 2009 write up or a recent post on the zombie music video shoot, you might be forgiven for thinking I was stalking him. You might even be right. He's one of those performers who taps right into my own personal madness and throws something even stranger back. Here's a little taster:
One of the nicest things about living in Brighton is that there's never a shortage of happenings, even on a Monday night. Admittedly it's rare that I make the most of Mondays, being content to crawl under a blanket on the sofa and watch a DVD after a hard day at work. But this week I broke the mold and accepted an invitation (thanks Steve) to see Tunng do an acoustic set at Resident Records in honour of their latest album release, And Then We Saw Land.
If you've never been to Resident, picture a small shop with a big shelving unit right down the middle and space at either side filled with Brighton hipsters, music lovers and middle class culture junkies (I won't tell you which cliche I consider myself to be). A pared down version of the band, minus drummer and usual array of percussive accoutrements, shuffles into the narrow space in front of the till and warns the excited crowd: "this might be a bit quiet". In fact it is the perfect volume - thanks to the fact that it's one of those polite occasions where people refrain from talking during the set; if only the same could be said for all Brighton gigs.
Having seen the full Tunng line-up live at Green Man Festival in 2007, I wondered how they'd come across without the trademark twiddly electro tinges, but actually the softer folkier sound of an unplugged performance suited them. I found myself swaying along and drifting away as they played mostly songs from the new album. Even the little tiny baby next to me (who, I should point out, was accompanied by its mother) seemed rapt throughout and hardly even squeaked. It was a jolly lovely start to the week and a pleasant change from the usual Monday night torpor. I must remember to make the most of Mondays more often.
Despite the torrential weather, hoardes of revellers showed up to support this great cause and dance the night away to some of Brighton's grooviest bands. The performers, who all donated their time for free, included Manouchska, The Fat 45, Pollito Boogaloo, Kalakuta Millionaires, Fanfara and Nhasitafara.
There was a real festival atmosphere in the air as the packed venue buzzed with frantic dancing and feelgood factor from 8pm til 2am (and on a school night, too). When bands weren't playing, there were DJs in every room, spinning everything from the Star Wars cantina theme to swinging Rock n Roll. I was in my element, capturing the action both on stage and on the dancefloor and throwing a few moves of my own at the same time. You can see the results of my efforts here in this slideshow, which is also available on Flickr.
As well as snapping away all night, I was also playing the part of intrepid reporter, interviewing unsuspecting punters, promoters and artists for the official video of the night (currently being edited together by filmmaker, Scott Lawson). All in all it was a super night, which raised nearly £3,000 for the Disasters Emergency Committee Haiti Appeal. A big slap on the back to all the performers and organisers who made it happen, not to mention the punters who dug deep and partied hard to make it go off with a bang.
If you couldn't make it along last Thursday, but would like to do your bit for Haiti, you can donate online here.
After the cultural and social wilderness that was January, it was a pleasant shock to the system to kick-start February with not one but four nights out in a row. This tetralogy of delights began on Wednesday evening with a few pints at the Barley Mow in Kemp Town, followed by a ride in Jen's girl-racer vintage sports car and coffee back at ours accompanied by the excellent new Charlotte Gainsbourg album, Irm, which I'd just bought that day.
On Thursday Ant and I made a last minute decision to go and see Jesca Hoop at the Latest Music Bar, our first gig of the year - and what a show. I'd heard and liked Jesca Hoop on 6Music and via Last.fm, which is why she'd popped up on my recommended gigs feed. In the flesh she was spirited, accomplished and utterly transporting, affecting me in the way that only a select few (mostly female) artists have ever done before. I'm thinking particularly of such memorable gigs as My Brightest Diamond, Camille and Carina Round, who all possessed, and indeed still posses, a certain sensual jenesequoi that oozes out through their performance.
With its gorgeous three-part harmonies, foot-tapping rhythms and perfectly enunciated lyrics,Jesca Hoop's music is infused with all manner of influences - from folk to blues, gypsy to bluegrass - but her style is very much her own. It felt like a real privilege to see her in an intimate venue at what feels like a tipping point in her career. I was far too swept away to remember to get my camera out during the gig, so the above video is from Jesca Hoop's acoustic set at Resident Records earlier that day. Gigs in Bristol, Leeds, Middlesbrough, Glasgow, Aberdeen, Edinburgh, Manchester, Dublin, Galway and Belfast are coming up in the next couple of weeks - I strongly recommend you get yourself along. For more details of the tour, visit Jesca Hoop's MySpace page.
I've learned to expect the unexpected on a night out with Angell, but If you'd told me in advance that I'd be peeing behind a curtain in the basement of a disused fabric shop in Dalston during his birthday celebrations on Friday, I may have raised an eyebrow. It all felt a bit Hernando's Hideaway tapping on the door, uttering a password and having 'c**t' stamped on our hands before being allowed into what was clearly not the most legitimate of club nights. Despite the basic facilities and smoky conditions (people smoking inside, how retro), it was a good night. We drank copious amounts of rum and danced to all manner of cheese, including the classic You Got the Love (the Candi Staton/Source version) to which I have a vague embarrassing memory of throwing shapes. Oh dear.
Saturday's jollifications were a little more sedate but no less entertaining. Damien's birthday drinks in the Park Crescent rolled on into the early hours back at his and Olly's place, where we were treated to Olly's magnificent Squidgy Chocolate Log. I can't think of many better ways to round off a Saturday night, can you?
Last week Ant and I went one of our rare midweek semi-spontaneous date nights, to go and see Kings of Convenience at the De La Warr Pavilion in Bexhill. Unless you have seen the De La Warr, you may wonder why on earth any band would choose to perform in Bexhill of all places, but even before you step inside this striking Art Deco building, you start to appreciate the draw. Ever since its refurbishment in the early noughties, the De La Warr has been attracting illustrious artists from Goldfrapp to the Penguin Cafe Orchestra and is well worth the 45 minunte trip from Brighton.
Kings of Convenience may not be the most challenging of bands, but they win the prize in my eyes as the most soothing; their dulcet harmonies and expert intricate guitar playing are the musical equivalent of morphine. Way back when Ant and I were first living in Brighton we would often kick back with a glass of red and wind down from the trials of London commuting to their 2001 debut album, Quiet is the New Loud. It's up there with Ben & Jason's Emoticons (just available on Spotify by the way) as a sentimental classic of our 'early years' together.
It felt very special to finally see Kings of Convenience live and in such an atmospheric - and acoustically blessed - venue. The band were in good spirits all evening, playfully bantering between songs and telling us tales of their early days and first ever gig in East Sussex. With their permission I captured the above video snippet which - even though it is only recorded on a basic point and shoot - reveals something of their musical artistry. For the full experience, you will have to go and see them for yourselves.
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...
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.
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!
"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.
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.
, the (allegedly) true story of an ageing backing singer, dripping with the sultry deep-South sentiments of Tony Joe White's 
or Bobbie Gentry's 
, but with an unexpected psychedelic twist. Spangly, stirring, inspirational stuff.
is just released. They'll be back in Brighton for the 
. 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.
, which became one of my most listened to of that year. Since then I've delved eagerly back into her career to 
, 
