FOLK MODERN 9
This gig started whilst I was buttering a piece of toast. Well, at least the anticipation and the thoughts behind it. I was back at my Mum’s middle-class flat in London, eagerly waiting to step out into another cold night in search of the live music buzz.
Before stepping out into the brisk North European (yes, we are actually in Europe you fuckwits) winter air, I was thinking about the title of the gig: Folk Modern 9. Kind of strange, but enticing. I am neither a so called folk ‘purist’ or a nu-folk lover; I was brought up on acoustic, singer-songwriter music and I love playing it and watching others do the same. So, a little about the venue, the vibe and the artists…
As usual, I couldn’t find the venue The Servant Jazz Quarters for beans. Even with the help of my good friend Magic John McGinley’s smart phone, we were wandering around a small patch of Dalston for several minutes before I resorted to the age old tradition of ASKING FOR DIRECTIONS. Funny isn’t it, how all of a sudden that feels like a weird thing to do? Anyways, the venue was ‘left then left round the corner next to Costcutters.’ Marvellous. We headed in, ordered a couple of locally brewed ales that tasted like Tottenham itself - sharp and tangy, with a mostly bitter taste. They got me pretty pissed plus the tins of Carlsberg I sneaked in and poured into my empty pint glass in the toilets. Pikey, moi? Super duper smashed already, the music began, so in no particular order…
First up for was Paul Cook. Good solid performer, simple tunes with a good clear voice. I felt that Paul’s songs would’ve sounded great with a rock band line up behind him, and hope he pursues that direction. The songs had a slight pop edge to them which I liked, so I reckon they’d sound just that little bit better with kit and bass behind them.
Another performer (there were many!) that stood out for me was Genevieve K, an American performance poet from New Jersey. What I liked about her performance was the straight forward love and passion that she clearly has for London, which came through in abundance in her poems about travelling around the UK. I thought she had a lot of energy and a great afro which always ads to the experience! I have a real soft spot for American English poetry, because it has that simultaneous sensation of being semantically familiar but phonologically different (same words, sounds different).
The other artist who surprised me with genuine lyrical dexterity was Paul Goodwin. Again, I thought he’s tunes would’ve sounded that bit better had he been backed up by a band, and the fact that he played with his guitar around his ankles (slight exaggeration) certainly adhered to the rock aesthetic. One lyric about ‘artlessness’ in particular stood in my mind…just really like the word I guess, effortlessly woven into the song.
There were other good performances but I’m gonna finish off with Black Jack Davy and Ali Warren. BJD has one of the strangest voices I’ve ever heard, live or recorded, with an eccentricity reminiscent of Devendra Banhart, delivered with a quiet self confidence I wasn’t expecting from the man. The highlight of the evening for me was watching Ali Warren who I’ve seen play several times and seems to be going from strength to strength. There was less of the showman in this performance and more focus on the songs which was just to my taste. Ali’s new songs are musically diverse (great new song call ‘What We Say’ in 5/4 where he manages to make that disjointed time signature sit easy on the ear with a super duper catchy chorus ‘No matter what we say/matter what we say/matter what we say’) and have a strong narrative element. I listened to some new recordings the other week and recommend everyone to keep an ear out for them.
All in all a good night’s entertainment for free (whoop!) and great to see all the performers just getting out there and doing it. Hats off also to Steven Thompson for putting on the night, and my apologies if I embarrassed my brothers for shouting out ever so slightly unsuitable comments. I just love getting into it!!!
p.s. The person who nicked the sign in the men’s toilets saying drug users will be prosecuted was me. It is now in my bro’s house, where drugs are thankfully not forbidden.
p.p.s. What words can you make out of the bar’s initials SJQ? Can you beat ‘Sexy Jizz Quiz?’ Mery Xmas, love from Jamothy xxx
Friday, December 23, 2011
Monday, December 12, 2011
In the Cat's Alley
Where and when does a gig begin? This one began in the rain. We zipped up our coats and headed out into the cold December night in search of live music and rock and roll. We’d intended to buy tickets in advance but didn’t get round to it. As I walked over the wet cobbled stones of Seville, I felt the same anticipation I get before going to watch a live football match. I’d been looking forward to it all day, and could feel my heart tick just that little bit harder as we twisted and turned corners, heading for the Sala Malandar next to the River Guadalquivir.
It was shut. No music. No sign on the door with any info. No hot dog man outside, preparing to serve mashed up pig’s bollocks for drunken punters at 4 a.m. ‘Shit!’ we thought. Fortunately enough, I had Dani’s number in my phone book and my Dad had credit; we made a quick phone call to find out the new venue, somewhere in the ‘Fifth Cunt’ of Seville. That means a long way away. Our coats zipped up that little bit tighter, we turned round and facing the rain marched towards El Polígono Calonge, an industrial estate on the outskirts of north Seville.
We got about half way and counted out our money between us; we calculated we could afford at least one taxi ride. We were soon huddled in the warm vehicle, and chatted with the driver who was as intrigued as we were to find this unusual venue. After peering out into the dark rainy night for several minutes, we found the right street. Nothing there. A hotel chain lay behind us, a tyre repair warehouse and a few strip clubs but no music bar. We turned the corner again which led down a narrow street flanked by large garages; at the end we could see a tall bloke who seemed to be hanging around. We’d found it.
You could smell the spit, salt and beer well before we entered the garage door. Fucking fantastic. A large beaten up caravan was parked outside, presumably belonging to the band or a friend of theirs which had been used to transport the gear. Small groups of people were huddling around, smoking cigarettes and talking privately. We smoked a pre-rolled joint and headed in.
Five Euros later and we were inside a large converted warehouse or garage, equipped with a little bar and a small but well organised stage. The amps and instruments lay in waiting, their red ‘on’ lights burnt clearly through the dark, guitars and violin placed carefully on their stands. We got a drink and waited. A couple of people we knew passed by, said ‘Hello,’ everyone just glad to get out of the rain and finally make it to the gig. We were standing towards the back of the room, meandering through the sounds of the PA and the gathering throng of people.
Crack. HMMMM. Yes! The band were on stage, first chords, first cymbals, first keys, first strings struck with human flesh. The huddled crowd grew in anticipation, and gave out a loud loud cheer when Dani Mata came up onto the stage. Ever so slightly out of the spotlight, he took to the microphone and began to sing. The band, who were as tight as a nun’s arsehole, responded in magnificent fashion, and the stage was set for a brilliant night of music.
I won’t tell you everything about what I heard and saw that night. All I can tell you is that the gig was unforgettable, every note a soulful scream, a cry and shout to the gods of rock and roll to say that, ‘Yes!!!! We are here!!!! And we are alive!!!!!!!!’ Even now I can feel my arms tingle with the memory, that electricity of the band, the front man, the spit, the sweat, the songs, the joy, the pain turned into creativity and let free to run and cry as it pleases. I shall never ever forget dancing to one song, my feet lost in the rhythm, utterly unconscious of anything in the world, the universe, nothing but the rhythm and the guitar and the voices calling ‘Don’t cry BAH BAH BAH!!!’, and I remember turning and spinning and laughing and crying and moving through space with and within everything.
That moment, and that moment only, is all you need to know about to love music.
We walked home in the rain.
It was shut. No music. No sign on the door with any info. No hot dog man outside, preparing to serve mashed up pig’s bollocks for drunken punters at 4 a.m. ‘Shit!’ we thought. Fortunately enough, I had Dani’s number in my phone book and my Dad had credit; we made a quick phone call to find out the new venue, somewhere in the ‘Fifth Cunt’ of Seville. That means a long way away. Our coats zipped up that little bit tighter, we turned round and facing the rain marched towards El Polígono Calonge, an industrial estate on the outskirts of north Seville.
We got about half way and counted out our money between us; we calculated we could afford at least one taxi ride. We were soon huddled in the warm vehicle, and chatted with the driver who was as intrigued as we were to find this unusual venue. After peering out into the dark rainy night for several minutes, we found the right street. Nothing there. A hotel chain lay behind us, a tyre repair warehouse and a few strip clubs but no music bar. We turned the corner again which led down a narrow street flanked by large garages; at the end we could see a tall bloke who seemed to be hanging around. We’d found it.
You could smell the spit, salt and beer well before we entered the garage door. Fucking fantastic. A large beaten up caravan was parked outside, presumably belonging to the band or a friend of theirs which had been used to transport the gear. Small groups of people were huddling around, smoking cigarettes and talking privately. We smoked a pre-rolled joint and headed in.
Five Euros later and we were inside a large converted warehouse or garage, equipped with a little bar and a small but well organised stage. The amps and instruments lay in waiting, their red ‘on’ lights burnt clearly through the dark, guitars and violin placed carefully on their stands. We got a drink and waited. A couple of people we knew passed by, said ‘Hello,’ everyone just glad to get out of the rain and finally make it to the gig. We were standing towards the back of the room, meandering through the sounds of the PA and the gathering throng of people.
Crack. HMMMM. Yes! The band were on stage, first chords, first cymbals, first keys, first strings struck with human flesh. The huddled crowd grew in anticipation, and gave out a loud loud cheer when Dani Mata came up onto the stage. Ever so slightly out of the spotlight, he took to the microphone and began to sing. The band, who were as tight as a nun’s arsehole, responded in magnificent fashion, and the stage was set for a brilliant night of music.
I won’t tell you everything about what I heard and saw that night. All I can tell you is that the gig was unforgettable, every note a soulful scream, a cry and shout to the gods of rock and roll to say that, ‘Yes!!!! We are here!!!! And we are alive!!!!!!!!’ Even now I can feel my arms tingle with the memory, that electricity of the band, the front man, the spit, the sweat, the songs, the joy, the pain turned into creativity and let free to run and cry as it pleases. I shall never ever forget dancing to one song, my feet lost in the rhythm, utterly unconscious of anything in the world, the universe, nothing but the rhythm and the guitar and the voices calling ‘Don’t cry BAH BAH BAH!!!’, and I remember turning and spinning and laughing and crying and moving through space with and within everything.
That moment, and that moment only, is all you need to know about to love music.
We walked home in the rain.
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