K's Christmas present: greater love hath no man than this.
(Don't worry, he doesn't read this blog)

I heard some great (recent, first-hand) gossip about Jason Donovan last night – but I’m not going to repeat it (I’m not Popbitch, and he’d probably sue me or something, and that’s a fairly major clue as to what sort of gossip it was).

Can't believe that tonight's the last episode (for now) of Jack And Karen - God, I'll miss them.

I don't know why boring people always assume I'm such a good listener (probably because I'm a little too good at the whole smiling and nodding thing); half the time, I'm miles away.

Please, please, stop me from getting pissed up and dancing like a twat at tonight's office party; a little dignity would be nice...

This afternoon's soundtrack: Shuggie Otis (every bit as good as it's cracked up to be).

= ?

These are the guys we'll be staying with on Christmas day. This is also the first test of my dircon web space, which I've never bothered using before.

So, what are you up to this weekend?

The Prize Turnip: Spiked tells it like it is (thanks Buni).

Sometimes, Nurofen is not enough - ouch.

If you accidentally spill my beer all over me, then you should have the common decency to buy me another, rather than running off and hiding in a corner.

This morning's soundtrack: The Gotan Project.

As our new video player can cope with the US format, I can now place an order for Smashing Time, a film which I have longed to see again for the past 25 years or so; this is very exciting.

Due to my hideous hangover, I shall be restricting today's postings to single sentences.

So, further to today’s earlier posting, I did go out and buy one of the CDs concerned: Herbert's Bodily Functions. And stone me, I think we might have something of a masterpiece on our hands here!

I bought Matthew Herbert's previous album Around The House back in 1998, on the recommendation of Charles Webster (who, recording under the name of Presence, brought out the superb All Systems Gone album in 1999). I wasn't convinced by it - clever stuff, but for me a somewhat weedy, anaemic take on the “deep house” genre. Then last year, he brought out Mistakes, a scary, abrasive, mental technoid 12" with one mix (the Housey Housey version) which really stuck with me over a number of months.

Bodily Functions picks up where Around The House left off, but this time the sound is richer, more fully worked, and pulsating with humanity and warmth. His singer, Dani Siciliano, comes more into her own with these songs, with a smooth, elegant, restrained vocal delivery. The music itself is scintillating stuff. It’s less housey, and more jazzy, without ever descending into pointless tasteful noodling.

Matthew Herbert has constructed most of the tracks using a self-penned manifesto which he calls PCCOM. You have to admire his refusal to follow the usual short-cuts employed by most makers of “dance” music. The manifesto is on his website at www.magicandaccident.com, but I thought it worth reproducing here.

And, to conclude Dymbel's day as guest editor (and breaking my No Jokes rule in the process) :

More from today's guest content editor: Best-Selling Authors Are Richer Than Ever. So Why Is Prose From These Pros So Poor? An excoriation (this week's new word!) of the prevalent "No-Style" style of contemporary fiction. You guys have been rumbled, big time!

I might appoint Dymbel as my content editor for the rest of today. Thanks to him once again for this link to a great set of "best albums of the year" lists. Some of the attached commentaries have actually made me want to go out and buy the CDs concerned, and you can't say fairer than that.

Thanks to Dymbel (and Mir) for forwarding this Usenet posting. It's a bit specialist, but really jolly interesting if you're a vinyl afficianado.

I like this comment in particular.

Hey, this is a good new blog. Only been going a couple of weeks so far, but I like it a lot already. She is clearly une tres stylish fille.

Nice to stumble upon an interesting, well-written blog that isn't part of the Swish Cottage / Brainsluice / Blogadoon / Over Your Head pop quizzing cabal for once....!

Go on, turn it off!
Don't worry - it's just a full screen pop-up.

Are there any other Nottingham or East Midlands bloggers out there? Or are Buni and I the only ones? I'm just curious, that's all.

Hang on, let's make this search engine friendly. Sorry, this is going to be a bit boring.

Nottingham weblog Nottingham weblogs Nottingham blog Nottingham blogger Nottingham bloggers Nottingham blogging Nottingham blogspot. East Midlands weblog East Midlands weblogs East Midlands blog East Midlands blogger East Midlands bloggers East Midlands blogging East Midlands blogspot.

Anybody out there, leave a comment or an e-mail.

Only 12.5 out of 20 this week. Could do better.

Louis & The Hamiltons will be tonight’s video treat, as we ended up having something of an Ally McBeal Moment last night. One of Nottingham’s big law firms threw its Christmas party in a huge bar in a converted church, which they’d done up for the night – very effectively, with swathes of crimson and gold, and huge stars suspended over the nave. We had a gospel choir followed by an Elvis impersonator, both performing on a long walkway, perched way above the heads of the several hundred guests. It was all rather glamorous, actually. Well, we don’t get out as much as we used to…

I’m road testing the first draft of the “2001 – The Year In Song” CDs this morning. Not bad – especially the perfect beat-mix between Felix Da Housecat and Kylie – but that Röyksopp remix of Kings Of Convenience doesn’t belong between “Bootylicious” and Playgroup’s “Number One” – think I’ll stick it nearer the beginning with the other chill-out stuff. And is the Playgroup track really strong enough to be included? Maybe I’ll put back one of the cheesy pop tunes instead – there’s room for a touch more crass vulgarity, I think.

Decisions, decisions.

When Louis Met The Hamiltons.

At last! It's on tonight! I can scarcely contain my excitement. To keep you going until then, take a look here, here and here.

The Turnip Prize (*)

Oh, was I supposed to react?

A few years ago, I saw a show at the Whitechapel Gallery. One of the exhibits consisted simply of a couple of Post-It notes stuck to each other, hanging from the ceiling by a thread, a little bit below eye level. I think that some numbers might have been scribbled on the Post-It notes.

Very unusually for me (for when it comes to conceptual art, I am a tolerant soul), the work filled me with a sudden and intense annoyance, verging on anger. I had a strong urge to grab the Post-Its, scrunch them up and chuck them on the floor. Not that I did anything of the sort of course – my mother brought me up proper.

Several years later, this is the only exhibit from that day which I can still remember. The artist must surely have been this year’s Prize Turnip, Martin Creed.

I am very surprised that he won. Actually, I think Madonna looked quite surprised that he’d won. Come to think of it, Martin Creed looked quite surprised that he’d won. I don’t think he deserved to win, but then again, I didn’t think much of any of these year’s finalists.

OK, Richard Billingham’s stuff I quite like. Quite like. Those new landscapes look quite pretty, as well. Isaac Julien: I shall never be able to forgive him for that frightful, pretentious little film “Looking For Langston” that got screened on C4’s “Out On Tuesday” in the late 80s. Also, this is the man who gave us “Young Soul Rebels” in the early 90s – neat concept, great soundtrack, lame film. Sorry, haven’t really got anything to say about the fourth guy.

But…Martin Creed? It’s Peter Sellers in “Being There” all over again, innit.

(*) Thanks, Buni!

No, I've made up my mind now. It's a crap poem. Particularly that bit about the Apple Mac (why an Apple Mac?) still quoting the Dow Jones. A laboured image, and surely a technical impossibility under the circumstances?

Bloodless. That's the word I was looking for.

OK, so maybe I was being a little harsh. Simon Armitage's poem isn't that bad. But then again, it's not really that good, either.

Three months on.

As it’s now three months to the day since September 11, they had some poet on the radio this morning, reading some commemorative verses what he wrote specially, like. Apparently, his last big gig was a poem written in honour of the Millennium Dome, which maybe gives you a hint of the quality on offer this morning.

Midway through his dreary doggerel (EJ Thribb could have done a better job), I started making up my own lines to fit (“As I gaze up to the azure sky / I have but just one question: why?”). K and I got a bit giggly over it.

Then I opened the newspaper and found four pages of obituaries for some of those who perished in the World Trade Centre disaster. It turns out that the New York Times has been running these on a daily basis, and will continue to do so until they’ve covered everyone involved.

Not only did this wipe the smirk right off my face, but for some reason I found these short obituaries more moving than anything else I’ve seen or read about the disaster so far (even in the first few days, when the predominant emotion was shock). Maybe because it finally captured for me the true human dimension in all of this. Or maybe it’s just because I’m often at my most sentimental at breakfast time. Whatever.

Anyway, if you feel like committing an act of remembrance today: sod the bad poetry – read this instead. (You might have to register on the site first, but it’s a fairly painless exercise.)

I want one!
I want one!
I WANT ONE!

It’s funny how a series of similar events in a short space of time can shape your perception. Recently, several things have happened which have brought home to me just how badly gay men can behave with each another. There’s a particular brew of self-obsession (chasing the pleasure principle at all costs, under the guise of “personal freedom”) and an unthinking cruelty which seems to exist more in the gay world than anywhere else. Community? Community my arse!

It’s almost enough to warrant a splenetic, Burchill-esque diatribe against contemporary gay social mores - full of sweeping generalisations and gleeful scatter-shot vitriol. Which would be a lot of fun, I grant you, but I shall resist temptation (for now).

Instead, I shall direct you here instead. I found it rather poignant.

Good God. I've just had a look at my personal Amazon recommendations ("we think you'll like these items").

Geri Halliwell: It's Raining Men
Steps: Chain Reaction
An album by Modern Talking
The Wizard Of Oz - DVD
Delia's How To Cook Book 3

How little they know!

Jon Anderson: “I was interviewed one time by this Finnish lady who said to me (adopts accent) ‘I listened to your music all the way through the 70s and I never understood one word of what you were singing about!’ So I said to her: ‘Well, I didn’t understand a word of it either!’” (Gales of audience laughter)

I was prepared for all sorts of things, but I never expected Yes to show a sense of, you know, Fun. Yet all the people on stage at Nottingham’s Royal Concert Hall – band and orchestra alike – were clearly having a ball. Bassist Chris Squire - wearing a flouncy black smock over skin-tight lycra leggings tucked into Doc Marten boots – was having more of a ball than most. Every now and again (particularly during Starship Trooper and Ritual), he would start galumphing round the stage, legs akimbo, alternately pulling fearsome “I AM THOR, GOD OF THUNDER!” type poses and cracking into broad “Isn’t this just the best job in the world?” type grins. In a flash of awful clarity, you suddenly saw where New Order’s Hooky stole his best moves.

In stark contrast, at the opposite side of the stage, Steve Howe’s aura was one of professorial detachment and studious concentration (though occasionally he would forget himself and allow a broad toothy grin to spread over his face). With his once much-envied tresses now receding, showing a surprisingly high domed forehead, he seemed to be morphing into an unholy cross between Stephen Hawking and Sven-Goran Eriksson. Midway through the third song of the night, he was already onto his ninth guitar (K was counting). By the end of the show, he had got through thirteen of them. Sometimes, he would have one guitar still strapped to him, but would actually be playing a different guitar in front of that, set up on a stand. His guitar technician, an almost constant presence on stage throughout, must surely be the hardest working roadie in show business.

Meanwhile, Anderson skipped about the stage like the irrepressibly cheerful space pixie he always was, his singing as high and clear as ever. He was only flummoxed once. Yes fans being the obsessives that they are, the real diehards down the front already knew the order of the set. So they were well aware that on some nights, the band weren’t bothering to play Gates Of Delirium (from 1974’s Relayer album) – a complex and challenging work, even by Yes standards, which I find almost impossible to listen to, but which can reduce other grown men to tears (I’ll name no names here…) So, when the appointed time arrived, shouts of “GATES!” immediately started reverberating round the front stalls. One bunch even unfurled a huge black banner, with “GATES OF DELIRIUM” painted in huge letters. Unfortunately, this wasn’t a designated “Gates night”. The orchestra didn’t even have the sheet music with them, so we were told. Anderson had thought they could all get away with it. Big mistake! Howls of protest. One very uncomfortable looking space pixie wringing his hands and squirming with embarrassment, at a loss for words.

This aside, there was, as they say, a lot of love in the room. The audience were mostly men in their forties, reliving their adolescence with unselfconscious glee (and, latterly, gimpy dancing). Their partners were, to a woman, all bearing the same Brave Smile. It was very strange being in the company of people whose lips didn’t automatically curl into a sneer at the very mention of the band’s name. Strange, and curiously liberating. Why, it almost felt like Pride marches in the late eighties!

The band opened with the first song of theirs which I ever heard (aged 12) – Close To The Edge. The experience of actually hearing it being played live in front of me, 27 years after buying the album, was overwhelming. For all of its duration (and it’s a long piece – maybe 20 minutes or so), I was on the brink of tears. I later discovered that I wasn’t the only one. The band played it superbly. The orchestral backing, which seemed so restrictive on their current album (Magnification), worked magnificently well on stage – it was a balanced, integral part of the whole.

I was watching the members of the orchestra closely. Sometimes, when a rock act adopts an orchestra, you can see a very particular expression on their faces. It’s a sort of distant disdain. It says: “My God, the things I have to do to pay the rent...” But not with this orchestra. I honestly think they, uh, dug it. Respect!

Other highlights: And You And I (the orchestra worked beautifully well on this), Ritual (Nous Sommes Du Soleil), and a final, ecstatic Roundabout. In fact, even the new stuff sounded good. In fact, there weren’t really any boring moments at all. And I was completely prepared for boring moments. But this band know how to entertain – and by God, they can play their instruments. Technically, they were stunning. You remembered why you used to like “progressive” rock – because it was an exercise in stretching one’s capabilities to the very limits, and pushing back the boundaries of what a rock band was capable of producing. Is that really so very wrong?

And one other thing, which also struck me when I saw Gong last month. Somehow, the spirit of optimism was still intact and going strong. How the hell did that happen? I’d forgotten how important that sense of optimism was to the genre – of a simple faith in human progress and evolution. Hey, we weren’t to know what was just round the corner: punk, Thatcher, style fascism, the death of the socialist dream, all the rest of it (and if you really want to know what happened, read Jonathan Coe’s superb “The Rotters Club” – all will be explained). We might have been naïve then, but it felt so good to reconnect, just for one night, with something which meant so much at the time, and for which we have spent far too much time apologising.

In the pub after the show, eight of us sat round having the most animated conversation about prog acts we had loved. Gentle Giant! Greenslade! Camel! Focus! Gryphon! And if you must, Rush! (Though there was a major schism over that last one.) At the end of the night, as we were heading off home, someone said “God, we’re sad bastards, aren’t we?” To which I replied: no – it’s the people who shut themselves off to stuff just because it’s unfashionable who are the sad bastards. Not us!

Labels: top25

Let's Roll - Neil Young

If you're quick, you can probably still download it from here. Thanks to Dymbel for the link and for forwarding the following text.

So, Buni has started blogging. Welcome to the fold! Turnip Prize indeed. The boy has a future ahead of him, methinks.