...only this time, he's mouthing off about gay marriage ceremonies, and his lack of enthusiasm for them. Nice of them to shave two years off my age, don't you think?

...except that I failed to find anything which would have promoted the task into the requisite category of Displacement Activity. My bad.

Instead, I chose to defend punk, at some length, in the comments box at Speaking As A Parent - as well as talking about the first five albums I ever bought on the I Love Music messageboard (and running into an old friend along the way).

There hasn't been very much of the "what I did today" stuff around here recently, has there? In which case, maybe it's time for a corrective remedy. I am therefore designating next week as Window Into My World: The Troubled Diva Pointlessly Detailed Journal Theme Week. If it happens, then you'll be hearing about it. Whether it's interesting or not. Woo! Old skool! Keepin' it real!

Right then; I'm off to have a haircut - and to roundly lambast my Stylist for slagging my hairdo off to K yesterday as "stuck in the 1980s". (Like he thought that wasn't going to get back to me?) After which, I shall settle down in front of the newly recorded Live365 Audio version of Naked Blog - a prospect which has me palpably quivering with giddy anticipation. A bientot, mes copains imaginaires...

I haven't got much to say today, so here are a few questions instead.

1. Does anyone still have active personal home pages, or are they completely extinct now? Because it must have been months since I last saw one.

2. If you ever had a personal home page, then score one point for each of the following:

• an animated horizontal rule, in rainbow colours.
• a yellow and black "under construction" image, showing a little digging man, indicating pages which you couldn't be arsed to put together.
• tiled background images (bonus point if the background image made the text unreadable)
• an alphabetised list of your CD collection.
• an amusing separate "home page" for your household pet(s). ("Hi! We're Snuggles and Snookum! Welcome to our very own web page!")
• a "helpful" hyperlink to Yahoo, Lycos or Alta Vista.
• a frame-based design, with your name running all along the top and the "menu" section running down the left hand side.
• A "blue ribbon" from the Electronic Freedom Foundation ("Stop censorship on the Net!").
• (gay men only) a picture of a rainbow flag; a link to Stonewall; a "Pride March photo gallery"; a "gay guide" to your home town; your Twink Code or Bear Code.

3. Did you ever use a .sig file to display a cute little quote at the end of all your e-mails? (Prefaced with two hyphens on the first line, of course.) They used to be de rigueur, but it must be several years since I've seen one.

4. Did anyone reading this ever subscribe to the uk-motss mailing list? (I was an enthusiastic participant from late 1995 to early 1999. They called me "Nice Mike", if you please. God, but it all seems like a lifetime ago now.)

5. If you used Usenet newsgroups, did you sit patiently watching your e-mail program downloading the names of all the new groups which had been created since your last session? And did you regularly scroll down that list, to see if anything interesting had popped up? ("Ooh, alt.fan.dubstar - I feel another surging sense of belonging.")

6. Is there anybody reading this posting who hasn't got a clue what I've been talking about?

...and, since they're all shoved together in one long post, here's a quick-n-easy index.

• Broadcast
• Scissor Sisters
• White Stripes
• Franz Ferdinand, The Von Bondies, The Rapture, Funeral For A Friend
• Scissor Sisters, Syntax, David Wrench
• Air
• Scissor Sisters + Phoenix
• Duran Duran + Goldfrapp
• Franz Ferdinand + The Fiery Furnaces

So, eventually, and in the fullness of time, and certainly not until after the next General Election, there's going to be a national referendum on whether or not we accept the forthcoming EU constitution.

Spot check for British readers. Without looking anything up, name me one item in the proposed constitution.

Too difficult? OK, name me one topic which the constitution will cover.

Well, precisely.

In a rare and sudden flush of Active Citizenship, I searched the BBC news site today for information on this seminal, life-changing document. Two clicks in, and I found what I was looking for.

Jeez, but it's dull; and this is only the summary. Call me shallow (and many have), but by the second paragraph (outlining the proposed role of the Union's foreign minister) I was already propping my eyelids open with matchsticks. I found myself agreeing with what Sarah had written:As Sarah goes on to suggest, the outcome of the referendum is likely to degenerate into a stand-off between Pro-Europeans and Anti-Europeans, based on largely emotive grounds:Let's just say that I'm not exactly expecting an elevated debate.

Coda: Well, quite. And I also like Steve Bell's prediction.

Amongst the numerous contradictions that have helped shape me into the fascinatingly complex individual that I am today, (and God, this ironic self-aggrandisement is going to have to stop some time soon, lest the wind should change direction and leave me stuck that way) my attitude to social cliques is a prime example. Rationally speaking, I retain a strong dislike for cliques: the insularity, the exclusivity, the unhealthily inward focus. Nevertheless, I am also the sort of person who has always been naturally drawn towards them, and into them. For there are aspects of cliquedom which attract as well as repel: the security, the dependability, the easy, instant support network - and, if I am honest, their essentially self-referential nature. I like the "insider knowledge" that membership of a clique confers - and I love the knowing, sharp banter which flows from that. Mine is a sense of humour which thrives on the delicious naughtiness of the in-joke; I delight in operating just within the boundaries of what constitutes good-natured teasing, safe in the knowledge that offence will not be caused.

Thus it is that over the years, I have found myself right at the heart of many a social clique. In my first year at University, our clique of maybe a dozen or so in residence hall was so flagrantly close-knit that we referred to ourselves quite openly as "The Clique", and were happy to be known as such by everyone else. I've been in school cliques, office cliques, gay cliques (of various hues), neighbourhood cliques, clubbing cliques, pub cliques, house-share cliques... the lot. And for a while, they're usually great places to be.

Until - inevitably - they start to disintegrate. A key member of the clique moves away - or changes job - or meets a new partner with a different set of friends, who doesn't quite "fit in". Or maybe they just bore of the repetition, and so start to move in wider circles. The pub changes hands; the club shuts down; the department is re-organised. Or, worse still, a feud breaks out between two or more of the clique members. Sides are drawn. Allies are recruited. This person and that person can no longer stand to be in the same room together. Suddenly, the illusion of permanence - that we will always be together, friends forever - is cracked, revealing the underlying, uncomfortable truth: that these arrangements are always temporary.

The ground is pulled from under your feet. You had come to rely on these people. Their constant presence had saved you from having to make conscious decisions about who you saw, where you went, and what you talked about. You feel uneasy, insecure - and, if you're not careful - resentful, wounded, jealous, spiteful. The open banter freezes into covert bitchiness. The aggrieved muttering and finger-pointing begins. It's all his fault, or her fault, or their fault. We thought you cared. You've spoilt everything. You were a false friend; you strung us along, and we never realised.

In these situations, closeness can turn to distance in an instant. Too late, you discover that with some people, it's all or nothing. From gossipy huddles three times a week down the pub, to strained smiles and awkward small talk three times a year; in the street, in the supermarket, at someone else's summer barbecue. It hurts. You can't quite understand how everything changed so rapidly. You replay events and conversations over and over again in your mind, trying to find an answer, wondering what you did wrong.

Shows like Friends perpetuate a myth; the myth of the permanently inseparable gang. Yes, individual friendships can and do last - for years, for decades - but without need of the supporting structure of a clique to keep them alive.

These days, I retain a careful wariness of cliques. I will happily hover at the edges - picking up some of the banter, joining in some of the activities - but I will stop well short of total immersion. And yes, that applies online as much as offline. What's more; I have discovered that I actively like the independence that this brings. More choices, more variety, more control. More interest. More scope.

"Darling! You're looking as fabulous as ever tonight! Mwah! Mwah! Big hug! Now tell me all the latest gossip!" Enjoy it for what it is. But don't be seduced by the illusion, however glittering and flattering it may be.

Labels: top25

A lesson for us all, I think.

Come stroll with me, why don't you?
(Includes exclusive Dry Stone Wallpaper.)

And in the lambing season, as well. For shame!

But you'll have to wait a while longer, while I laboriously review every gig I've been to since last December. Remember: my entire life is constructed around displacement activity.

7. Gigs. Lots of them. As ever.
Now fully updated.
(Click here to jump straight to the update.)

Broadcast (Rescue Rooms).

Glacial space-age-ice-maiden ba-ba-ba-ings, delivered fractionally off-key; think Stereolab, without the jazz-prog noodlings. Intense, in an understated way. Not so much of an all-enveloping performance as their previous Nottingham show, when I had loved them unreservedly. This time round, the band's reserve left me harbouring reservations. (Or was it the fault of the venue? There's something about the Rescue Rooms which has never quite worked for me.)

Before the band came on, I committed a gaffe of such bollock-clenchingly awful proportions that even thinking about it now causes a certain degree of scrotal tightening. On my previous visit to the Rescue Rooms, I had been approached by a total stranger, who proceeded to tell me how much they enjoyed reading this site. Never having experienced this before, I was rather tickled by the notion of being the sort of person that might get waylaid in public places by enthusiastic "fans" - and so found myself re-telling the tale to my mates on my next visit. Except that, for added comedic emphasis, I fear that I rather exaggerated my gushing, star-struck impersonation of the "fan" in question. ("Ohmigod, you're Troubled Deeeva! Your site is fantastic! I read you all the time!") Only to discover - right at the end of the anecdote, my mates' heads still tipped back in laughter - that this person was standing within a few feet of me, seemingly avoiding my gaze. Moral: never disrespect your audience. I learnt a salutary little lesson about micro-micro-celebrity that night.

Scissor Sisters (The Liars Club @ The Social).

"Look, I know irritating it is when people start evangelising about their new favourite acts, and I would never normally do this, but just this once, I'm going to make an exception. There's this band which I saw in London over the Summer, which you've just got to see. They're called the Scissor Sisters, and they're going to be huge, and you'll be able to say you saw them first..."

For the Scissor Sisters' debut appearance in Nottingham, I managed to rustle up quite a little gathering of the clans. What none of us had appreciated: as this was no ordinary gig at The Social, but a special "club night", the band wouldn't be taking the stage until after midnight. (On a school night! Oh, calamity!) Result: an exceedingly well-oiled crowd, who went completely bonkers from the moment that the Sisters took the stage, causing co-singer Ana Matronic to declare us the best audience that they had ever played to in the UK.

At the end of their set, the band simply stepped off the front of the stage and into the audience, for an extended meet-and-greet session. Quick as a flash, Buni (no stranger to stardom) was straight in there, chatting them all up and dragging me (a habitually reluctant celeb-schmoozer) into the conversation with his infectious brand of open charm. By the end of the night, I had conversed with all five members of the band - who, despite their larger-than-life aura of New York fashion-fabulousness, turned out to be the most friendly, grounded and unassuming characters you could hope to meet.

Thrillingly, all five of them had also read my live review from four months earlier. Only later did I remember the passages of openly lecherous drooling in the article (describing the guitarist as "heart-meltingly cute", for example) - in which case, the band had treated me with an uncommon degree of graciousness.

(Buni's review of the same evening can be found here.)

The White Stripes (Nottingham Arena).

All worries about how a two-piece band would fill out a stadium gig were blown away in the first few minutes, as Jack & Meg White delivered a stunningly powerful show. Central to its power was the extraordinary dynamic between the couple - nakedly symbiotic, yet disturbingly ambiguous. Were they siblings, spouses, or ex-lovers with a strong residual passion? Add this to the tightest trousers ever seen in rock and roll, and you have a Total Entertainment Package.

For middle-aged ex-punkers such as ourselves, the after-party at the Rescue Rooms was an utter joy, with the trendy London DJs (specially imported for the night) playing Hong Kong Garden, The Sound Of The Suburbs, King Rocker, Lust For Life, Rock Lobster and many other New Wave classics besides, as we gaily frugged alongside the Young People. (At a glance generational guide: spot which ones are mouthing all the lyrics, faultlessly word perfect every time.)

Franz Ferdinand, The Von Bondies, The Rapture, Funeral For A Friend (NME tour @ Rock City).

Look, the tickets clearly said seven-thirty p.m. Which, give or take five minutes or so, is when we got there. So why were Franz Ferdinand already on their penultimate number, and why was Rock City already packed to the rafters? And why weren't we told? Frustratingly, and as we were soon to discover, Franz Ferdinand also turned out to be the best band of the evening. I'm seeing them again in a few hours' time, supported by the Fiery Furnaces. They had better deliver what they promised: it takes a lot to drag me back to town on a Sunday evening, and isn't there a rather promising sounding costume drama starting on BBC1 tonight?

The Von Bondies were limp and underwhelming, like an aeroplane salad (and in the light of the past few months' experience, I choose my similes with feeling). Even their most recent single, the otherwise stirring C'mon C'mon, sagged and plopped, like a mistimed soufflé.

As for The Rapture, whose Echoes album had never quite convinced me (insufficient distance from its influences, and I already know what The Cure/Gang Of Four/A Certain Ratio sound like, thank you), I was expecting a full-on Damascene conversion - the received wisdom being that they were a Great Live Act, and that it would All Make Sense once I saw them on stage. However, all I witnessed was thin, forced, empty posturing from a band who were trying too hard to be liked by the predominantly rock-orientated crowd. Their best-known track, the "cult classic" House Of Jealous Lovers, should have been epiphanic - instead, it was merely adequate.

Which only leaves Funeral For A Friend, the nu-metal - sorry, the emo - band from Wales (must get those categories right, or else people will twig that I'm just a Fifty Quid Bloke trying to keep up). Before they even took to the stage, vast numbers of the sell-out crowd left the venue, presumably having no wish to taint themselves with such a deeply uncool act. Of the people who remained, a couple of hundred moshed gleefully down the front (under 21, black nail varnish, alopecia hairdos, those baggy bell-bottoms with all the straps dangling off them), while everybody else stood around smiling benevolently. This was my first, and almost certainly my last, experience of nu-metal-sorry-emo, and you know what? It was actually quite good. Intricate, complex rhythms; taut, razor-sharp musicianship; and an overriding sense of unpretentious bonhomie which was quite at odds with my "Nobody else can feel my pain! The world is f***ed up and so am I!" pre-conceptions. I might still stop some way short of actually buying their records - but, against all odds, Funeral For A Friend actually turned out to be the Band Of The Night.

Update (1).
The Scissor Sisters, Syntax, David Wrench (Leicester Charlotte).

I'll assume that David Wrench was the "local" turn of the night, as - given his almost laughable ineptitude as a songwriter, musician and performer - no other explanation seems feasible. Lifting his entire vocal style from Matt Johnson (The The), Wrench's greatest crime against music was a clumsy, lumbering, and truly wretched synth-pop cover of Radiohead's Creep. There's nothing wrong with radically re-worked cover versions per se, and no "classic" is ever too sacred to be messed around with - but really, my dears, this took the bloody biscuit.

All of which meant that - by comparison if nothing else - Syntax came across extremely strongly, with their doomy gothic electro which gradually turned dancier and trancier as the set progressed. (Think Depeche Mode, then think Dirty Vegas.) By their final couple of fist-pumping, tooth-grinding, anthemic stormers, we were putty in their hands. Unfortunately, as may mate Richard and I both later discovered, their recorded material turns out to be nothing special. I think they were just the right band in the right place at the right time.

Well, I say right place. In actual fact, the Leicester Charlotte turned out to be a sweaty, heaving hole (Hello Google!) of a venue, with the most appallingly un-ergonomic layout: long and narrow with a low stage, meaning that in order to stand a chance of seeing the band, you had to push your way as far as possible down the front, where there was barely any room to do so much as twitch. As an added stroke of cruelty, the toilets were also situated down the front, causing all manner of hellish human gridlock. Happily, I found a spare square centimetre of foot space on one of the steps leading up to the toilets, and so was able to suspend myself above the crowd - clinging onto the railings with one hand, leaving the other hand free for displays of Creative Rhythmic Expression.

The Scissor Sisters were great, of course - but then I guess you knew I was going to say that. (Isn't it a difficult name to say out loud in a hurry, though? "Szzushshsstzzh." Gets me every time.) My only criticism: they still weren't playing any of their slower, more reflective numbers (It Can't Come Quickly Enough, Mary, Return To Oz), preferring to stick with being a straight-up sleazy-disco-party band for the time being. On the other hand, there were two brand new songs to thrill us all: a throbbing disco stormer (and dead cert future hit) called Magnifique, and an unidentified reggae-tinged tune (a bit Ace Of Base in places, if truth be told, but nice enough).

There were also a surprising number of grizzly old hippies knocking around the venue, who had presumably come along on the strength of the band's Pink Floyd cover, Comfortably Numb. (I spotted plentiful sage head-nodding when this was played.) Why, one of them even spontaneously hugged me for wearing my luminous Camembert Electrique T-shirt. ("Mate! Mate! Gong T-shirt! Nice one! What the f**k are you wearing that in here for?" "Because it glows in the dark." "Oh. Fair enough.")

Air (Rock City).

All perfectly pleasant, and flawlessly executed, but somewhat lacking in visual appeal. OK - entirely lacking in visual appeal. The band simply stood stock still in subdued lighting, and knocked out note-perfect reproductions of their most recent (and superb) new album, Talkie Walkie. Which no doubt takes a certain skill - but really, what's the bloody point? If we wanted to listen to the new album, we could have stayed at home on the sofa with a nice bottle of wine; there seemed little point in making a special journey to hear it all over again in a large, crowded room, standing up, with a can of over-priced lager.

Last time Air played Rock City, they were touring to promote that dreary prog album that everyone bought and no-one played. Nevertheless, they put on a proper visual show; re-arranged, re-worked and generally messed around with their material to such a degree that the tracks actually became enjoyable; and triumphed against all the odds. This time round, they thwarted our expectations in quite the opposite direction. Give me inventive re-workings of a dud album over faithful reproductions of a great album, every time.

The Scissor Sisters + Phoenix (Rock City).

Each time that I've seen them (this being the fourth), the Szzushshsstzzh have steadily played larger gigs, at bigger venues, to crowds who are ever more familiar with their material. And each time, they have raised their game accordingly, while still remaining true to their original character and spirit. Never was this more in evidence than at Rock City, where they expanded both their set and their performance style to fit the venue, as if they had been playing the headliner circuit for months. Absolute naturals, in other words. And - oh joy, at last, at last! - the slower numbers finally got a look in, giving Jake Shears a chance to perform with a new sincerity that contrasted quite happily with his usual demented party-boy act.

Tracking the band's ascent over the past few months has been a lot of fun. Now, with their album at #5 in the UK charts and a stadium tour (supporting Duran Duran) underway, I think we can safely say that the Szzushshsstzzh have officially Made It, and Hurrah for that.

However, for the time being at least, the band are still not above wandering into the venue at the end of the gig for a meet-and-greet, and so Buni and I were able to renew our acquaintance with both Del and Ana. (Buni even tried to drag Del down to NG1 later on, and almost succeeded; you have to admire his tenacity.) It turns out that the Sisters had particularly fond memories of their December gig at The Social (see above) - indeed, they did an on-stage shout-out to anyone who had been there. (Oh, how we whooped.) This was because it marked the first time that a British crowd had given them such an enthusiatic reception; it was their first sign that major success in this country could be imminent.

I should also mention Phoenix, the French support act. Great debut album (kinda Steely Dan meets French disco; there's a song from it on the Lost In Translation soundtrack) - slightly patchier follow-up album - but a terrific live performance, which won over an intially indifferent crowd to a most pleasing degree.

Update (2).
Duran Duran + Goldfrapp (Nottingham Arena).

Having played my favourite gig of 2003, Goldfrapp were my main reason for coming back to Nottingham on an Easter Sunday; as far as I was concerned, the newly reformed original line-up of Duran Duran were merely the support act. Unfortunately - lost in a huge arena, in front of an overwhelmingly indifferent crowd - Goldfrapp turned out to be a more or less total wash-out. Ignoring their first album, they merely trotted out the bare minimum from Black Cherry - plus, in a vain bid for recognition, their electroclash cover of Yes Sir I Can Boogie (a cover which, it has to be said, doesn't bear up too well to repeated listening). After this failed to provoke so much as a flicker of reaction, Alison was reduced to rubbing her hand-held theremin around her nether regions - something which hadn't been deemed necessary in Paris last year. The tickets said 7:30; Goldfrapp had gone by 8:00. A desperate, perfunctory set, which left me feeling decidedly short-changed.

Having missed them at this year's Brits awards, various people had warned me that Duran Duran had put on a pathetic performance: strained, tuneless vocals; endless yowling rock guitar solos; empty, arrogant bombast. I wasn't expecting much. I certainly wasn't expecting the superb set which they proceeded to deliver. Spot-on vocals; only one guitar solo all night; a relaxed, assured stage presence; a complete professional understanding of how to stage an arena show; sheer enjoyment radiating out from every member of the band; and - the bit which I had completely overlooked - a absolutely cracking back catalogue of hits, sounding fresher than ever. (Even bloody Union Of The Snake sounded good, and I always hated that one.) Highlights: the rattling 80s dance rhythms of The Reflex, the gloriously self-conscious artiness of The Chauffeur, and a soaring, emotive Ordinary World. Having spent years dismissing them as a naff bunch of clueless posers with dodgy values and a few half-decent tunes, I found myself swiftly re-categorising Duran Duran as one of our national treasures: a classic pop band of the old school. Only the dourest of rock snobs could have failed to enjoy them.

(Compare and contrast with The Guardian's review of the same show.)

Franz Ferdinand + The Fiery Furnaces (Rock City).

Despite all the positive press which they've been receiving over the past few months from Those Who Know A Thing Or Two About Hot New Bands, I've never quite been able to get my head around The Fiery Furnaces; there's something about their music which eludes me every time. Indeed, in the pub beforehand, I found myself quite unable to describe what they sounded like.

After their extraordinary, arresting, but ultimately quite baffling forty-minute support set at Rock City, I felt barely the wiser. First and foremeost: they played the entire set as one solid suite of music, punctuated by not even the shortest of pauses between songs. Songs would fold and merge into each other; sometimes, fragments of them would re-appear again later in the set. As Stereoboard commented afterwards: "Most bands play their songs in series. The Fiery Furnaces decided to play them in parallel."

Sound-wise and genre-wise, the music seemed noticeably different from the album (which I have admittedly only listened to twice). A lot of it reminded me of late 1970s new-wave power-pop; indeed, I could easily picture the band recording for Beserkley or Stiff in 1978. (The Lene Lovich comparisons were flying about later on.) This was complemented by a low-fi Farfisa organ sound that was straight out of mid-1960s US garage rock (e.g. 96 Tears by ? & The Mysterians). Not that this was a retro sound in any way; everything was still filtered through a post-grunge sensibility.

(You know what? There are GROWN MEN out there who are paid REAL MONEY to write phrases like "filtered through a post-grunge sensibility", to people who TAKE THEM COMPLETELY SERIOUSLY. I'm the wrong game.)

All of this was delivered by a polite-yet-intense singer who looked like a cross between Karen Carpenter and a young Patti Smith (with pinches of Natalie Merchant and Alanis thrown into the stew), and two clean-cut preppy boys who both alternated between guitars and keyboards on either side of the stage. It was different. It got people's attention. It was pretty well received. Indeed, some people I know raved over it. As did others, on a different night.

As for Franz Ferdinand, they delivered a set that was so well turned, so finely tuned, so complete, so clean, so neat, so concise, so economic, so exemplary, so together, so unified, so representative of its own intentions, so In The Zone, so Just There, Ooh Yes, Don't Move, That's It, so By George They've Got It, so This Is Just What A Modern Mainstream Pop/Rock Band With Arty Leanings Should Sound Like, that it's difficult to know what else to say about it. Spot on, lads. Spot on.