...and she don't do postcards, neither. (Sorry: house rules.) We'll be here if you need us. Speak to you in a week or so.

(An edited version of this review originally appeared in the Nottingham Evening Post.)

At the risk of sounding like a miserable old codger – but hey, know thyself – sold out nights at Rock City often work best when the venue is full of Nice People, who don’t quite like to venture onto the main floor because it might be A Bit Scary. The happy consequence is that – for those of us who wouldn’t contemplate standing anywhere else – there is room to breathe without getting suffocated, space to dance without getting squashed, and the opportunity to see more than the tops of the performers’ heads.

Rock City was full of Nice People last night – and as such, they were the perfect match for the smartly dressed, clean-cut boys on stage, and their brand of breezy, catchy, radio-friendly pop-rock. Much has been made of the The Feeling’s influences, particularly with reference to that most un-rock-and-roll of genres: 1970s MOR pop, of the Supertramp/ELO school. However, once stripped of the glossy production of their recorded versions, the songs are revealed simply as classic feel-good music, with a timeless, instantly familiar quality. Frankly, the band sound all the better for it.

Lead singer Dan Gillespie-Sells, with his floppy fringe, winning grin, skin-tight clothing and effortlessly flirtatious manner, radiated a kind of wholesome sexiness. The screams might have been absent, but the rapt expressions dotted around the room told their own story.

Highlights included a massed singalong to Never Be Lonely (with formation bouncing), a massed singalong to Sewn (with formation swaying), and a massed singalong to Video Killed The Radio Star (are you getting the picture yet?).

“We hope you go home with smiles on your faces”, said Dan, introducing the last number. A nice guy, fronting a likeable band, playing cheerful music to happy people. No shame in that. Sometimes, Nice is all you need.

Labels: eveningpost, gigs, popmusic

...especially for the readers of Troubled Diva.

♥♥♥ PHWOOOOARRR!!! ♥♥♥

...because sometimes, shallow is all you need.

(Alternatively, check the comments for a more considered view.)

I feel whacked out.

A couple of weeks ago, I took a couple of sick days, with what I took to be a viral infection. Constant fatigue, aching limbs - but no other symptoms. It passed, and I returned to work.

In the last few days, the fatigue has returned - but in a more subtle way, that I can't really attribute to a virus. I go to bed at a sensible time, sleep for 8 or 9 hours - and wake up feeling as tired as when I went to bed.

During the day, everything feels like an effort - even the most straightforward of everyday tasks, even getting up from my desk to make a cup of tea. Give you an example: even when busting for a pee, I'll stay at my desk until I'm absolutely desperate - because I can't even be bothered to go upstairs to the loo.

And it's not only fatigue. My piles have flared up; a couple of days ago, I was in severe pain just walking home from work. I'm back on the bum bullets and the prescription gel. They're under control now, but I'm having to be careful.

The eczema on both ankles has also flared up. I've treated the affected areas with hydrocortisone cream, every day for two weeks. It brings the eczema under control, but not to the point where it actually vanishes.

I went to the dentist today. The "nasty" area around my bottom left cavity has been giving me grief. The dentist says it's the early stages of gum disease, to be treated with a high-powered mouthwash to stop it spreading and doing damage.

Work has been tough for the past few months. I'm been out of my comfort zone all year. Every new task involves areas which are largely new to me, and the information which I need isn't readily available. The work is difficult, but not unsurmountably so. It's just taking a lot of will power to apply myself.

I started the year in China. Shortly after returning, I started commuting to London. For five months, I lived out of a suitcase. Keeping on top of things at home was another struggle, when all I wanted to do was flop out. In the middle of it all, K lost his sister. He has needed a lot of support, and so has his family.

Outside of work, I have taken on a considerable amount of freelance music journalism work. I've reviewed nearly thirty gigs, over a dozen albums, several dozen singles, and the Eurovision Song Contest in Athens. Most weeks during the Autumn, I've been doing two gigs a week, sometimes three.

So the physical problems that I'm experiencing: as K gently pointed out this evening, they have to be stress-related. I may not be climbing the walls with stress, but that doesn't mean that it's not taking a steady toll.

Mercifully - and I have last year's cognitive behavioural therapy course to thank for this - none of this has led the sort of depressive relapse which plagued me in the last half of 2004. I'm proud of this fact. Sure, there has been the odd wobble - but nothing which I haven't been able to challenge and rationalise.

Next week, we'll be on holiday, in gentle, tranquil, relaxing... Marrakech. Hahahahaha! But hey, a change is as good as a rest. I can't wait, and neither can he.

---

In amongst all the helpful comments which people have left me (see next post down), these two (from Boz) have particularly struck me.

"Expect to get lost - but don't mind if you do. Going with the flow is part of the fun."

"All the traders will be out for your money, but actually, it's part of the craic. Pretend you're Indiana Jones."

Excellent and much needed advice - because, by default, both situations could all too easily stress us out. I shall bear them in mind, Boz.

---

And finally, and just before I retire for the night: in amongst all the madness, we've still found time to cultivate a garden which looked like this, just before the village gardens open day in June. (It's a professionally taken photograph, which may be appearing in a garden design book some time next year. I'll tell you when I know more.)


I'm proud of this, as well.

In fact, I'm proud of the way that I've handled a lot of situations this year.

But oh my darlings, I'm whacked.

Labels: confessional, cottage, health, journal, myself, pdmg

OK, it's time to reverse the information flow. Hands up, who's been to Marrakech? If you have, then please tell me about it. What to see, what to avoid, where to eat, how to handle the street hassle... anything which comes to mind, of whatever degree of perceived significance. We're flying out there on Sunday, and I need to start gathering information. (The Time Out guide is sitting next to me; I'm going to scan it over lunch.)

Thanking you in advance, nice people.

(An edited version of this review originally appeared in the Nottingham Evening Post.)

Three years ago, when the Scissor Sisters first played Nottingham, they were an achingly hip bunch of New York clubbers – loved by fashionistas with “directional” haircuts, but unknown to the rest of us. Nowadays, you can buy their albums in Sainsburys and hear them on Radio 2. Your mum probably likes them. Indeed, judging by the show of hands in the Arena last night (yes, they asked), their audience now contains equal numbers of mums and gays. As Ana Matronic wryly observed, this must be evidence of the band’s “all round appeal”.

When your pet band makes it big, it can sometimes hurt to share your secret. “They were so much better in the old days”, you’ll sigh, eager to let people know that You Saw Them First. It’s a classic trap.

And yet, painful as it is to criticise such a talented, popular and enjoyable act, something of the original spirit has been lost. The shared sense of fun which worked so well in a sweaty club has been diluted by the sheer size of the venues which the band now fills. Simply put, they’re not a natural arena act. Jake Shears is an able performer – and a sexy little mover to boot, especially in the tight gold shorts he wore for the encore – but he can’t quite extend his reach, and form a personal connection with his audience. The band give it everything they’ve got – but they still look a little swamped by the vast stage.

Of course, none of this mattered during favourites such as “Comfortably Numb”, and the future wedding disco standard “I Don’t Feel Like Dancing” – and Jake and Ana’s banter is as outrageous as ever, dedicating “Laura” to their president’s wife. (“May she rest in pieces!”) Nevertheless, a little less mega-success would suit them well.

Labels: eveningpost, gigs, popmusic

Visual impairment; clubbing flashbacks; journalistic endeavours; when your pet band goes mega; my internal dialogue with the FLASA.

(FLASA is an acronym of our own invention: it stands for Face Like A Slapped Arse. Do pass it on.)

Sorry about the length. You caught me in one of my chattier moods...

Labels: vidcasts

(An edited version of this review originally appeared in the Nottingham Evening Post.)

Refreshingly for a major female pop artist, and unlike the Britneys and Christinas of this world, Pink has always refused to market herself as a sex symbol. Although her music belongs to the mainstream, she has consistently questioned and challenged mainstream values. As Saturday night’s audience demonstrated, this has earned her a hugely loyal, overwhelmingly female fanbase.

Exploding onto the stage in a flurry of giant pink feathers, Pink is a commanding presence from the off, her platinum quiff calling to mind a younger Brigitte Nielsen. Before long, she is strutting down the lengthy runway which stretches into the crowd. This is used to maximum effect for Stupid Girls, in which Pink and her dancers impersonate a clutch of blinged-up airheads, and for the spirited flamenco routines which accompany There You Go.

There are many shifts in mood. One moment, Pink is doing the splits inside a suspended net, stripped to a bikini. Moments later, she is belting out a classy, impassioned Family Portrait, in a full-length silver skirt. A particular highlight is the intimate, back-to-basics “campfire” section, in which Pink, two singers and a lone guitarist mesmerise us with the bluesy The One That Got Away, before raising cheers for the scathing Dear Mr President.

The best tricks are saved for last. As Get The Party Started morphs into the Eurythmics’ Sweet Dreams, Pink soars above us on a high-wire, and launches into a dazzling gymnastic display. Even while spinning at high speed, upside down, legs splayed, without a safety harness, she still delivers a note-perfect performance.

Few other pop performers could pull off the same mixture of toughness and charm, vocal talent and fearless athleticism, in-your-face attitude and old-fashioned showbiz values. If Pink’s recorded material has always underwhelmed you, then her live show could convert you on the spot.

Labels: eveningpost, gigs, popmusic