Sunday 28 January 2018

The Inevitable Pinhole Burns

In which The Author is unwell
To kick January firmly into touch, Jac's Music Venue in Aberdare hosted possibly their best gig to date last night: three bands playing entirely original material. The headline act were an unknown quantity to me, in fairness. While we were chatting about the gig, ages ago, Barrie described them as ‘Folk Rock’. They certainly sounded intriguing enough – quirky songs about life in Wales and their experiences of travelling. (At the risk of public execution, dare I say it’s the sort of thing Kelly Jones used to write about before his creative juices dried up, around the third LP?)
Discount Columbo were on the poster, but when I got inside there was no sign of Connor and the others. Most bands won’t get far without a bass player. Mind you, it was his birthday on Friday. I’ll throw a nice word your way: crapulous. The Chambers Dictionary defines it as ‘sick through intemperance’. (Hung-over to buggery, in plain English.) There was still no sign of them when Heavy Flames took to the stage. I wondered if they were going to throw a collective sickie.
A six-piece band, Heavy Flames have been gigging steadily around South Wales for quite a few years. In spite of the fact that Dai Hill, their singer, and Lee Harvey, one of the guitarists, are old pals of mine, I hadn’t managed to catch them at all until last October. At the time I described them as having ‘a hard bluesy sound and great presence’. Last night they’d changed their approach entirely. With not one but two sit-down acoustic guitarists, a rock-solid rhythm section, a fine harp player (no, not the traditional Celtic instrument), and Dai doing his stuff in front of the stage, their sound was much easier on the ears than last time. It made a welcome change from the sledgehammer approach of too many bands these days. A couple of songs in, Dai assured the audience that they only play original material. That’s a good sign as well.
I spoke to Dai earlier on, and he was very pleased with their change of direction. I hope Heavy Flames decide to continue along those lines. It’s a classic sound without being derivative or cliched. (I know comparisons are lazy journalism, but early Nine Below Zero would be a decent benchmark.) I’ll definitely be popping into Red House Music in Aberdare Market this week to pick up their CD.
Heavy Flames had finished their set before Connor and the rest of Discount Columbo strolled in. He didn’t look especially crapulous, but he did decline my offer of a birthday pint so I think he was slightly unwell. The band are based in Bristol – they met at university – so we can probably ascribe their late arrival to the legendary Brynglas Tunnel Effect.
I’ve only seen Discount Columbo once before, too. That was a packed ‘end of the pub’ gig, and the nature of the venue didn’t do them any great favours. I was looking forward to seeing them on a proper stage and hearing them through a decent PA.
They describe themselves as a Britpop band, but (as with Folk Rock) that label covers a multitude of sins. I wasn’t a fan of the whole Britpop thing (apart from Pulp), but Discount Columbo bring something new to the table. They’ve got some great melodies and cool harmonies, and the acoustic guitars just accentuated this more laid-back aspect of their music. Matt, the drummer, had probably the most minimal set-up since Crass recorded their first demo tape. I had a bit of shock when Jake, their front man, introduced a song from their first EP which ‘came out two years ago’. It seems like only yesterday that Connor introduced himself to me on the train to Cardiff. He’ll be finishing university this summer. Doesn’t time fly?
Discount Columbo are constantly gigging around the country, and over Xmas they posted this summary of their 2017 activity on Facebook: 11 released songs, 2 EP launches, 14 cities, 42 gigs, 33 venues,1 new member, 6045 streams, 3 live videos, 25 new songs, 2 music degrees,1 new manager, 3 live sessions, 3 music videos,7 trips over severn bridge [sic], 10 radio stations,1 bow tie, 1 vehicle breakdown,1 new car, 3348 miles. And not a TV ‘talent’ show in sight. These lads (and lass) are certainly paying their dues, as we say in the biz.
A lot of student bands can be rather unimaginative and samey, in my opinion. Discount Columbo definitely manage to do something worthy of repeated listening. I bought the EP at the earlier gig, and it’s strong enough to merit closer examination.
I sometimes envy today’s youngsters, who get to study pop/rock/whatever music to degree level, learn about the mechanics of the business, and build a network of contacts that will set them in good stead for years to come. It’s a great way to develop your skills, and it’s little wonder that so many bands have come out of the university circuit in recent years. It used to be a sideline for arts students back in the day. Studying ‘Music’ was all about playing an instrument at Grade 8 and joining an orchestra. Not any more. If only I were thirty-five years younger … (And talented? – Ed.)
Which brings us to the headline band – the Blims. A quick note to readers outside the South Wales Valleys: you won’t find the word ‘blim’ in any of the dictionaries I use in my day job. I’m reliably informed that a blim is a small piece of burning cannabis resin which falls out of a joint and burns a little hole in your T-shirt, or whatever you’re wearing at the time. (My drug of choice has only ever come in a glass. It was about twenty years before I realised what Pink Floyd meant in the line ‘I’ve got the inevitable pinhole burns all down the front of my favourite satin shirt.’) But I digress …
The Blims are from Bridgend. There’s always been a lively scene over there, and it’s surprising that more people don’t make the journey between our respective towns. But I will admit to having misgivings from the outset. It was their name that put me off. It’s been many years since I last watched EastEnders (Phil Mitchell was still sober), but I can only remember two Welsh characters. One was a gobby, self-righteous and obnoxious Trotskyite. The other was a permanently stoned layabout, who could have been modelled on one of my friends. (In fact, my mate would have been ideal for the part.) As far as the good folk across Offa’s Dyke know, we’re all either plotting the overthrow of global capitalism, or zonked off our chops the whole time. Or playing rugby. Or dropping the F-bomb during a live broadcast of a music industry awards ceremony. Or doing unspeakable things with sheep.
I had an uneasy feeling that the Blims would basically reinforce this stereotype. But after my extended riff on the theme in ‘Cover Stories’, I had to put my money where my mouth is. And I am partial to a bit of Folk Rock, although I’m more Fairport Convention than the Saw Doctors, and IMHO the Levellers just ripped off the best bits from Blyth Power. (Who they? – Ed.) I was prepared to have my preconceptions challenged.
‘Demolished’ would be a better word. The Blims are older than I expected. You can reflect on your life experiences when you’ve lived a bit. Two songs in, I knew that Barrie’s enthusiastic plugging hadn’t been in vain. They have nice hooks, strong tunes and clever lyrics, with acoustic guitars at the forefront. They also have the sort of witty observations that characterised Billy Bragg’s early career. Naturally, there was a song about rugby, but ‘Sideburns and Sidesteps’ – written to celebrate the Welsh Grand Slam in 2012 – is a far cry from Max Boyce’s turgid stuff. And it’s a great title, too. Maybe EastEnders could portray the Queen Vic being plunged into misery after we beat the English. Just a thought.
The Blims demonstrated great songwriting abilities, and they were never in danger of being derivative or cliched. Even when they pastiched reggae and C&W styles, they did it with their tongues firmly in their cheeks. In fact, all three bands proved that you don’t need to turn everything up to 11 to get your point across. It’s nice to dial it back from time to time. The Blims very kindly endorsed the venue, too. We had a good chat afterwards, I bought their CDs, and I’m pretty sure they’ll be back in due course.
And finally …
If you didn’t come to our pre-rugby warm-up gig because ‘I haven’t heard of them’ – get with the bloody programme! Or even better, get with the program. That’s why Soundcloud and Bandcamp and Spotify and YouTube exist in the first place. They give you a chance to try before you buy, so to speak. If you weren’t here, you missed a real treat. Just over two decades ago you hadn’t heard of Stereophonics, Catatonia or the Manic Street Preachers. As Councillor Duxbury says in Billy Liar: ‘Think on, lad! Think on.’

Tuesday 16 January 2018

Do you Know Who I Am?

In which The Author (and his friends) are the victims of mistaken identity
Yesterday afternoon, to mark the successful completion of another book by Christian Cameron (the third historical novel of his which I've copy-edited), I popped into the Glosters for a pint. Wayne L., the guvnor, was behind the bar, and we were chatting when a young woman walked in. She said hello to us both, and I said hello back – even though I had no idea who the hell she was. I recognised her, certainly, but placing her was a different matter entirely.
Anyway, she and Wayne were talking just out of sight when I heard her mention 'Sensodyne' and 'bleach' and 'teeth', and the penny dropped. She's one of the nurses in the dental surgery next door to the pub.
The dental surgery I attend regularly.
As a rule I only see her when she's wearing her work uniform. Seeing her in jeans and a jacket over a black top meant that she was completely out of context.
After she'd gone, Wayne said, 'I felt a bit embarrassed then, because I couldn't remember her bloody name.'
I said, 'You're one up on me, mate. I didn't even recognise her with her clothes on.'
We went on to talk about similar experiences we've had over the years. I told Wayne about the time I was walking through Queen's Arcade in Cardiff, on a Saturday lunchtime a couple of weeks before Xmas. A chap in his fifties (probably), walking through the arcade with his family, said hello as we passed each other. I said hello back, and spent the rest of my day racking my brains to try and remember where I knew him from. Was he someone who called into the bookshop regularly? Or someone I knew from the pub? Or even a former teacher whom I hadn't seen since my A levels? Maybe he'd been in the Cynon Valley Quiz League, or some other social group I'd been involved with in my younger days.
The mystery was solved on the Monday morning, when I boarded the X7 to Cardiff and he was sitting behind the wheel. Trevor had taken us to Cardiff every weekday (barring holidays) for at least the previous year. Out of his Shamrock uniform and outside his cab, his face just didn't register in my mind. Odd, isn't it?
I was thinking about similar episodes last night. A couple of weeks ago, I was in Jac's Music Venue in Aberdare, chatting to Barrie and Amanda (the managers) over a pint. My phone beeped to signal the arrival of a text message. Since only about half a dozen people have my current number, I was a bit surprised to see only a number instead of a name in the 'Sender' field.
I was even more surprised when I opened the message. It said something like 'Hi Hayley, sorry but Josh won't be able to come to Molly's party tomorrow, he's a bit under the weather.'
I read it out to Barrie and Amanda, and then said, 'There literally is no answer to that.'
I expect this accidental mis-delivery has caused poor Josh to be friendzoned by an angry Molly. (Get used to it, mate. Bitches be crazy!)
I was having a pint in Kitty Flynn's in Cardiff, on a Saturday afternoon about halfway through my second first year at university. A chap I'd never seen before came over to me, told me how much he liked my guitar playing, and offered to buy the next drink. I thanked him and told him I was only killing time between trains (which was true). I couldn't accept a drink on false pretences, could I?
I don't know who this mysterious guitarist actually is, but I was walking through Aberdare a few months ago and someone came up to me out of the blue. He'd obviously had a few (or maybe something stronger and less legally available), but he started ranting on at me about a gig I'd played in Swansea where I'd apparently pissed him off. I told him I hadn't picked up a guitar in public for well over twenty years, but he wouldn't have it. Eventually, I think I said, 'Fuck off, you stupid wanker!' (or words to that effect) and walked away rather quickly.
One of the reps who used to call into the bookshop was a very nice guy called Julian Cooper. He and his partner Glynis lived in South Devon (Newton Abbot, if memory serves), and would come to Cardiff a couple of times a year. Between them they carried an eclectic set of lists, both books and stationery. Julian would visit the bookshops, Glynis would do the stationers', and between them they could do a city centre in a day's visit. We became great friends, and we'd always have a good chat before getting down to the serious business of buying books.
Julian was born in the very early 1950s, and was a bit of a hippy in his younger days. (I think he still was, at heart.) He'd always be very smartly dressed in a suit, but with an open-necked shirt. His wavy hair was greying, but still long enough to identify him as slightly bohemian. He's also about my height and build.
One of his visits was a couple of days after our annual stocktake. We'd always take on a large group of students to help out on the day (and night), and some would stay on for a few days afterwards. Two such were named Ruth and Rebecca, and they were helping to make the shop shipshape (try saying that after a few pints) when Julian walked up the stairs. I was behind the counter, so he strolled over, shook my hand, and we started chatting as usual. As we went to find a quiet corner, we noticed that the girls were whispering to each other and glancing over at us. We didn't think anything of it at the time.
After Julian had gone, Rebecca walked over to me and said, 'Was that your father you were talking to?'
I don't think the possible resemblance had ever crossed my mind (or Julian's) before, but now that she'd mentioned it, it wouldn't have been too hard to imagine.
That night, I rang Julian at home and told him what the girls had thought. He found it hilarious, and it became a running joke of ours ever after.
He'd walk into the shop and say, 'How are you, son?'
I'd reply, 'Hello, Dad, good to see you. How's stepmother?'
I'm sure at least one of the younger members of staff thought we were on the level, too.
This next case of mistaken identity also involves my father. (My real father, not the one from South Devon). As Dad got older, his eyesight started to seriously deteriorate, and he didn't make things any easier for himself by not wearing his glasses.
Phil (my brother) has worn glasses since school. He used to have fairly long hair, a bit of a beard, and wore faded denims in an old-school rock style. But at the time I'm talking about, that was quite a common look around the Valleys.
Dad called into the Cambrian for an afternoon pint one day. He knew most of our gang, and they knew him. Nobody was especially surprised when Dad approached Leighton L., who was reading the paper by the bar. Leighton was wearing faded denims, had long hair, and a bit of a beard. He was also wearing his reading glasses.
The way Leighton recounted the story, Dad apparently offered to stand him a pint (which Leighton declined). Dad then asked him about his work situation (hit and miss, the odd 'hobble' here and there), his love life (disastrous), his baby daughter (estranged because of the disastrous love life), and various other topics.
After five minutes or so, the penny dropped. Phil's life and Leighton's were running on exactly parallel lines, so every time Dad asked 'my brother' a question, Leighton was able to give an entirely appropriate answer. I don't know if Leighton ever told Dad that he wasn't actually talking to his younger son, or just decided to keep it until he'd seen us.
Years ago, I was in a pub – possibly the Cambrian, but it might have been the Glandover or the Mount Pleasant, when they still had a live music scene – when a chap I knew by sight came over to me. We chatted for a few minutes about the bands, work, girlfriends, people we both knew, life in general, blah blah blah …
'How's your brother doing these days?' he asked.
I told him Phil was doing OK, and then he completely flummoxed me.
'I like your brother. He's one of the best bass players I've ever seen around here. Tell him I was asking about him.'
And he said goodbye and walked away.
Now, I doubt if Phil knows one end of a bass guitar from the other, let alone how to play the damned thing. To this day, I have no idea who this guy thought I was, or who this very talented sibling is. Maybe Leighton is a closet bass player. Who knows? Maybe we should get him together with my guitarist lookalike and form an O'Gorman Brothers tribute act. Answers on a postcard, please …