Oscar the dog came and stayed with me for a couple of days last week and he was kind enough to send me a few extracts from his memoirs regarding the trip (see below).
Monday PM
Man, daytime napping is great. I love napping so much that when I’m asleep I’ve actually started dreaming about napping. Mmmm, might just roll over to get some circulation back in this side; ach 10 more minutes won’t hurt. Aw crap, that sounds like a car coming up the drive. Must get up and defend the territory, must get up…just 5 more minutes? No, up! Up! Who is it? No way, it’s Telfer! Partytime! Must go get him a present, ehm, slipper, slipper! Nah, too clichéd. Towel? Hmmm, not perfect. I know! Knickers! They’ll go down a treat! Crap, can’t find any. Towel will have to do. Must get back to door.
Hey Telfer man! How’s it going?! What’s going down?! How’s it going?! You like this towel eh? Whoopsie, mind your feet on that bit of floor, no idea of how that got there; Allison must have been watering the plants before she left. What’s that? We’re going to Glasgow in the car?! To stay there for 2 nights?! Man alive!
(Later) Monday PM
We get to Telfer’s place. Wow dude, this is one sweet pad. You mind if I? Mmmm, this is a good couch, I could do some quality napping here…what’s that? Walkies? Holy to the moly let’s go! Going walkies, must get out first must get out first. Hold on, wait, that’s a cupboard door. Shut up. It’ll take me few days to get my bearings here.
We wander down Woodlands Rd and I take in the sights. Man the city is a busy place. I thought the housing estate across the road that I take solo visits to on a semi-regular basis was the epitome of bustling hubbub but it’s got nothing on this place. I make friends with a group of ladies that we walk past; Telfer seems inordinately pleased with me for this and claps me lots. Encouraged, I try and repeat the trick with a man who walks past me next but I don’t get much reaction from Telfer at all. Bit of consistency’s all I ask for, know? Man, humans are weird.
We get to Kelvingrove Park. Man a-live. What a place. I don’t think I’ve ever peed against so many park benches in my life. I do my “aw-look-at-me-and-my-big-brown-eyes-I-am-so-good-why-don’t-you-let-me off-I-will-be-good” look at Telfer. He looks back at me askance but then proceeds to tentatively remove my collar.
Two minutes later
Back on lead. Aw come on. Just because I stole a bit of twix from a nearby child, knocked him over then proceeded to try and commence some sexy-time with his dog I get put back on?! Some people.
Totally worth it though.
Tuesday AM
Back to the park for my morning walk. A bit wet but what can you do. Oops, soory about that Telfer, nature calls eh? Yeah, I know, it doesn’t matter how many layers of plastic bag you use, you never feel totally clean until you’ve had a chance to wash your hands a few times. God, it’s a while since I was walked this much, the old bones are beginning to ache a bit. Really should start getting back into shape, maybe sign up for a Pilates class or something.
Back to the flat to catch up on some much needed rest in preparation for…
Tuesday PM
Party night. As I’m getting brushed down in preparation Telfer tells me that there are a couple of girls coming who are scared of dogs and that I’ve not to embarrass him by being a pest because there at least one of them is hott.
It’s my time to shine. You see, what Telfer needs to realise is that I’m a bit of a rebel who just don’t always play by the rules, but by god I do get results.
People come in and start eating. I work the table for titbits and get a solid supplementary meal despite Telfer’s best efforts. My body is a temple man! A temple to crisps and leftovers maybe, but a temple nonetheless. After dinner, I put my game plan into action. I left them be over dinner and until they’d had a few drinks before I make my move (a technique used successfully by males since the beginning of time. High 5?). I work my way up to the scared girls. Safe distance now, gentle, gentle. Work them with the eyes a bit, yeah that’s the way. Who’s-a-good-boy-den? They’re coming round. Move forward a bit and lay head on one of their laps, careful to get a bit of drool on her skirt that she won’t notice until later.
Five minute later
I’m lying on my back on the couch with the two scared of dogs girls either side of me both rubbing my belly. I came. I saw. I conquered. It never ceases to amaze me how easy it is to train humans. Bet if I asked for a bit of that shortbread she’d get it for me. Oh, why not, everyone’s got to let their hair down at some point. Man that tastes good.
Wednesday AM
On the drive home I take a few moments to reflect on the past couple of days. It’s been some holiday. I’ve been to some exotic places, made some crazy new friends (must look them up on facebook when I get back) and had a taste of the high life. Crazy times. But as we pull up the drive and open the door into my own place I do feel good and happy to be back. There are a lot of naps to catch up on after all. I guess it’s all very well to go flying; but you’ve got to make sure you don’t wander too close to the sun.
The End.
Monday, 2 February 2009
Tuesday, 13 January 2009
Testing times in practically Woodlands
“Bugger it, I’m going home early today” I declare to the office at large, which in fact is rather vacant due to the majority of its normal occupants having already decided to go home early. It was a Friday after all, I justified (this time in my head in case anyone walked in), and I had had a vaguely productive week so a 4 o’clock finish wasn’t completely undeserved.
Walking home it seemed as if the whole of the city, including the miserable weather that had infected the skies for the past few days, had also decided to bunk off for an early finish. The sun was high and everyone on the streets was cheery and friendly, as if tripping on an unexpected November day’s photosynthesis; even Cambridge St had lost its background radiation of barely hidden menace. As I neared my flat there were kids playing football on the street, pausing to run to the side of the road every time some traffic came along. It was like I’d been transported back to a simpler, possibly even imaginary, time.
My cheery mood and I headed inside to get some food. I had a couple of hours to kill before I was due to meet some friends for that evening’s entertainment, and I had been loaned the film Magnolia recently so I figured that I’d make a start on watching that.
I settled in on the couch and in no time was engrossed in the film’s idiosyncratic storyline. I’d reached the part where the policeman has been called out to a disturbance at a black woman’s house (the woman not the house, it’s not racist to say that is it?). In case you haven’t seen it: the woman gets very agitated and is adamant that there is no-one else in the house, but then abruptly there is a loud noise from the back room. All tense and alert the policeman works his way round doorways and down corridors with his gun at the ready, very much in the manner much that the policemen always perform such an exercise in films (possibly even real life as well, who knows?). It’s well edited though, so I was, if not quite on the edge of my seat, at least leaning halfway forward as I waited to find out what was there.
Then all of a sudden, I hear this massive crash from my living room window and the room is rapidly filled with flying glass! After the initial shock that must have taken years off my life, I completely froze for what seemed like minutes but in fact was probably only a few seconds. During this time it was as if there were 2 people arguing in my head. There was irrational me, made extra hyper by the tension in the film, and was screaming “Hit the deck! Hit the deck! You’re being shot at!” Then there was a more sensible side which was more like “Hold on, it’s highly unlikely that anyone is shooting at you. I really don’t think you have a high enough profile in academia to warrant a hired assassin, or at least not a fee large enough to cover the cost of their ammunition” “This is no time for logic! Hit the deck! Get a hat on a stick to draw their fire!”
As a compromise, and once my limbs would move, I crept slowly along the couch until I was within range of the very bottom corner of the window. Now I’ll admit that there was a bit of a quiver in my legs when finally I worked up the courage to peek out, only to see the group of kids that had been playing outside high tailing it down the road and round the corner, football in hand.
Little bastards. I damn near shat myself when the glass started flying.
Walking home it seemed as if the whole of the city, including the miserable weather that had infected the skies for the past few days, had also decided to bunk off for an early finish. The sun was high and everyone on the streets was cheery and friendly, as if tripping on an unexpected November day’s photosynthesis; even Cambridge St had lost its background radiation of barely hidden menace. As I neared my flat there were kids playing football on the street, pausing to run to the side of the road every time some traffic came along. It was like I’d been transported back to a simpler, possibly even imaginary, time.
My cheery mood and I headed inside to get some food. I had a couple of hours to kill before I was due to meet some friends for that evening’s entertainment, and I had been loaned the film Magnolia recently so I figured that I’d make a start on watching that.
I settled in on the couch and in no time was engrossed in the film’s idiosyncratic storyline. I’d reached the part where the policeman has been called out to a disturbance at a black woman’s house (the woman not the house, it’s not racist to say that is it?). In case you haven’t seen it: the woman gets very agitated and is adamant that there is no-one else in the house, but then abruptly there is a loud noise from the back room. All tense and alert the policeman works his way round doorways and down corridors with his gun at the ready, very much in the manner much that the policemen always perform such an exercise in films (possibly even real life as well, who knows?). It’s well edited though, so I was, if not quite on the edge of my seat, at least leaning halfway forward as I waited to find out what was there.
Then all of a sudden, I hear this massive crash from my living room window and the room is rapidly filled with flying glass! After the initial shock that must have taken years off my life, I completely froze for what seemed like minutes but in fact was probably only a few seconds. During this time it was as if there were 2 people arguing in my head. There was irrational me, made extra hyper by the tension in the film, and was screaming “Hit the deck! Hit the deck! You’re being shot at!” Then there was a more sensible side which was more like “Hold on, it’s highly unlikely that anyone is shooting at you. I really don’t think you have a high enough profile in academia to warrant a hired assassin, or at least not a fee large enough to cover the cost of their ammunition” “This is no time for logic! Hit the deck! Get a hat on a stick to draw their fire!”
As a compromise, and once my limbs would move, I crept slowly along the couch until I was within range of the very bottom corner of the window. Now I’ll admit that there was a bit of a quiver in my legs when finally I worked up the courage to peek out, only to see the group of kids that had been playing outside high tailing it down the road and round the corner, football in hand.
Little bastards. I damn near shat myself when the glass started flying.
Tuesday, 6 January 2009
Hell Freezing Over
I have a mantra that I try and say to myself a few times every morning. In fact I have a few of them, but most are for trivial things like reminding me to put deodorant on. This particular one however, is important, and it goes as follows-
“Don’t buy anymore French cars”.
I was thinking about its importance at around 4pm a few days ago, as I stood - freezing my extremities off – outside of a corrugated shack on an industrial estate somewhere near East Kilbride, a position and a discomfort I’d been maintaining since around 10 that morning.
The reason for this suffering ultimately belonged to a dodgy alternator on my oh-so-predictably Citroën Saxo (with all of its 30,000 miles on the clock), which had started playing up the previous evening. Initial costings to get the part replaced suggested £250(!) of my hard earned pounds would be required, but by putting my highly developed research skills to work (read: ability to type something into Google) I found a place that would do the job for less than a third of that price. Winner!
(Aside: When the car first broke down, and after I had exhausted my admittedly limited knowledge of the its workings (the fan belt looked ok), a rather helpful AA man came out to diagnose the problem and while there he showed me that by using a tire key to whack the alternator, I could make it work for 20 minutes or so before it conked out again. A genuine mechanical miracle! Unfortunately though, I had no plans to take any young ladies for a drive last night; but just think how cool I would have looked as I demonstrated my acute level of mechanical mastery! An opportunity lost I fear.)
Upon reaching the location however, it became clear that this was no Kwik-Fit. I had imagined that I would have to spend an hour or so in a cosy little waiting room, all three bar fires and old copies of Top Gear magazine, perhaps even a well used but serviceable coffee machine! Not so much. I should have maybe taken the hint when I first looked at the line of shivering customers ahead of me in the queue, all standing outside what looked like a dodgy garden shed. Cars were being worked on in the middle of the road, another missed hint.
The day passed by, along with any semblance of feeling that remained in my toes and fingers. The cost-benefit analysis that I’d been carrying out in my head had already shown that by 1pm I’d have gladly paid the extra £150 to avoid this hell; all that was keeping me here was a raw and burning stubbornness that the car wouldn’t beat me again. And the fact that the buggers had taken out the broken alternator at lunchtime so that they could recondition it and put it back in (so that’s how the can do it so cheap!). As the light faded, I wondered if this would how it all ended for me, squaring up to the naked might of nature, cursing the poor insulating properties of Converse trainers. Some six hours after my turning up, the methodical mechanic in his big woolly hat and overcoat wandered over to my car, re-connected the newly cleaned up alternator (a job which, infuriatingly, turned out to only take five minutes) and nodded breezily at me.
I handed over my £70 with barely functioning fingers. “Sorry about the wait mate” the methodical mechanic chuckled cheerfully. “No worries! Thanks very much!” I replied, my chapped and blue lips cracking painfully as I returned his smile.
Don’t buy anymore French cars.
“Don’t buy anymore French cars”.
I was thinking about its importance at around 4pm a few days ago, as I stood - freezing my extremities off – outside of a corrugated shack on an industrial estate somewhere near East Kilbride, a position and a discomfort I’d been maintaining since around 10 that morning.
The reason for this suffering ultimately belonged to a dodgy alternator on my oh-so-predictably Citroën Saxo (with all of its 30,000 miles on the clock), which had started playing up the previous evening. Initial costings to get the part replaced suggested £250(!) of my hard earned pounds would be required, but by putting my highly developed research skills to work (read: ability to type something into Google) I found a place that would do the job for less than a third of that price. Winner!
(Aside: When the car first broke down, and after I had exhausted my admittedly limited knowledge of the its workings (the fan belt looked ok), a rather helpful AA man came out to diagnose the problem and while there he showed me that by using a tire key to whack the alternator, I could make it work for 20 minutes or so before it conked out again. A genuine mechanical miracle! Unfortunately though, I had no plans to take any young ladies for a drive last night; but just think how cool I would have looked as I demonstrated my acute level of mechanical mastery! An opportunity lost I fear.)
Upon reaching the location however, it became clear that this was no Kwik-Fit. I had imagined that I would have to spend an hour or so in a cosy little waiting room, all three bar fires and old copies of Top Gear magazine, perhaps even a well used but serviceable coffee machine! Not so much. I should have maybe taken the hint when I first looked at the line of shivering customers ahead of me in the queue, all standing outside what looked like a dodgy garden shed. Cars were being worked on in the middle of the road, another missed hint.
The day passed by, along with any semblance of feeling that remained in my toes and fingers. The cost-benefit analysis that I’d been carrying out in my head had already shown that by 1pm I’d have gladly paid the extra £150 to avoid this hell; all that was keeping me here was a raw and burning stubbornness that the car wouldn’t beat me again. And the fact that the buggers had taken out the broken alternator at lunchtime so that they could recondition it and put it back in (so that’s how the can do it so cheap!). As the light faded, I wondered if this would how it all ended for me, squaring up to the naked might of nature, cursing the poor insulating properties of Converse trainers. Some six hours after my turning up, the methodical mechanic in his big woolly hat and overcoat wandered over to my car, re-connected the newly cleaned up alternator (a job which, infuriatingly, turned out to only take five minutes) and nodded breezily at me.
I handed over my £70 with barely functioning fingers. “Sorry about the wait mate” the methodical mechanic chuckled cheerfully. “No worries! Thanks very much!” I replied, my chapped and blue lips cracking painfully as I returned his smile.
Don’t buy anymore French cars.
Saturday, 6 December 2008
The Gaslight Anthem (live)
An edited version originally appeared at http://www.godisinthetvzine.co.uk/. I think this version is better, but then I would wouldn't I?
The Gaslight Anthem
Glasgow Garage
3/12/08
4.5 Stars
Reviewed by: Scott Telfer
Nostalgia just ain’t what it used to be, eh? New Jersey’s THE GASLIGHT ANTHEM are a perfect example, coming along with their Springsteen influences proudly on their sleeve and playing the same loud and anthemic 4/4 rock that has been eking out a living in dingy southern bars for the past five decades. Two guitars, bass and drums? Check. High quantities of ink impregnated into skin? Check. Songs about girls and cars? Check. They even called their latest album “The ’59 Sound” for goodness sake. Even worse, they quote a line from the Counting Crows in one of their songs. Bloody hell. At best this band and their songs should be considered a vaguely soothing chicken soup to be fed to people looking to take some kind of retro trip.
And yet.
Against all odds, somehow their music manages to capture an incredible magical quality that you’re always being told can be found on all those old records from the middle of the last century, even though you’ve never managed to find it, no matter how many times you listen. There’s no way I can deny it; there’s just something in these songs that keeps drawing me back time and time again. I don’t want to be writing this review just now, because even just thinking about their music makes me want to go and listen to something by them, then maybe even go buy myself a leather jacket and an old motorcycle then ride off into the distance with my old high school sweetheart…
And that’s probably the crux of their appeal right there. The sheer escapism that is captured in songs like Old White Lincoln somehow manages to flick a switch inside you, a switch that is normally covered by the protective layers of cynicism and sarcasm that this modern world demands. Combine this with singer and lyricist Brian Fallon’s rare knack for delivering concise but descriptive imagery in his throaty drawl and the result is a heady and potent mix. Songs like Here’s Looking at You, Kid gently but unstoppably drag a lump up the unsuspecting throat as they surrender lines like “But boys will be boys/and girls have those eyes/ that’ll cut you to ribbons sometimes” and it’s difficult not to get caught up in the moment.
Even before tonight’s show there was an air of excitement and anticipation that hasn’t been seen in the cheap booze stained pseudo-venue for a long, long time. With proceedings being kicked off with Great Expectations you can tell that there’s definitely no irony in the choice. Playing an even mix of tracks from “The ’59 Sound” and their debut, “Sink or Swim”, the near capacity crowd are unanimous in their appreciation, and it’s refreshing to see a band seemingly so genuinely humbled by their reception. An abundance of singing and clapping along opportunities present themselves throughout the show, meaning both crowd and band are rarely given a chance to catch their breath.
And what the hell, I’ll admit it: I secretly quite like the first couple of Counting Crows albums. In fact, I think that referencing a lyric from Round Here on High Lonesome is really cool. And when they go and throw in a bit of “Stand by Me” to preface the Joe Strummer tribute I’da Called You Woody, Joe? I think that’s pretty cool too.
I’m too old to be getting this giddy over a band. It’s really quite pathetic I know, and with them having been pushed by a few big magazines and even receiving some airplay on Radio 1, all of my carefully horded indie credentials are flying sneering out of the window as I write. And yet, it seems that I just couldn’t care less. This review is nearly finished and in a second I’m going to go and put some music on.
The Gaslight Anthem
Glasgow Garage
3/12/08
4.5 Stars
Reviewed by: Scott Telfer
Nostalgia just ain’t what it used to be, eh? New Jersey’s THE GASLIGHT ANTHEM are a perfect example, coming along with their Springsteen influences proudly on their sleeve and playing the same loud and anthemic 4/4 rock that has been eking out a living in dingy southern bars for the past five decades. Two guitars, bass and drums? Check. High quantities of ink impregnated into skin? Check. Songs about girls and cars? Check. They even called their latest album “The ’59 Sound” for goodness sake. Even worse, they quote a line from the Counting Crows in one of their songs. Bloody hell. At best this band and their songs should be considered a vaguely soothing chicken soup to be fed to people looking to take some kind of retro trip.
And yet.
Against all odds, somehow their music manages to capture an incredible magical quality that you’re always being told can be found on all those old records from the middle of the last century, even though you’ve never managed to find it, no matter how many times you listen. There’s no way I can deny it; there’s just something in these songs that keeps drawing me back time and time again. I don’t want to be writing this review just now, because even just thinking about their music makes me want to go and listen to something by them, then maybe even go buy myself a leather jacket and an old motorcycle then ride off into the distance with my old high school sweetheart…
And that’s probably the crux of their appeal right there. The sheer escapism that is captured in songs like Old White Lincoln somehow manages to flick a switch inside you, a switch that is normally covered by the protective layers of cynicism and sarcasm that this modern world demands. Combine this with singer and lyricist Brian Fallon’s rare knack for delivering concise but descriptive imagery in his throaty drawl and the result is a heady and potent mix. Songs like Here’s Looking at You, Kid gently but unstoppably drag a lump up the unsuspecting throat as they surrender lines like “But boys will be boys/and girls have those eyes/ that’ll cut you to ribbons sometimes” and it’s difficult not to get caught up in the moment.
Even before tonight’s show there was an air of excitement and anticipation that hasn’t been seen in the cheap booze stained pseudo-venue for a long, long time. With proceedings being kicked off with Great Expectations you can tell that there’s definitely no irony in the choice. Playing an even mix of tracks from “The ’59 Sound” and their debut, “Sink or Swim”, the near capacity crowd are unanimous in their appreciation, and it’s refreshing to see a band seemingly so genuinely humbled by their reception. An abundance of singing and clapping along opportunities present themselves throughout the show, meaning both crowd and band are rarely given a chance to catch their breath.
And what the hell, I’ll admit it: I secretly quite like the first couple of Counting Crows albums. In fact, I think that referencing a lyric from Round Here on High Lonesome is really cool. And when they go and throw in a bit of “Stand by Me” to preface the Joe Strummer tribute I’da Called You Woody, Joe? I think that’s pretty cool too.
I’m too old to be getting this giddy over a band. It’s really quite pathetic I know, and with them having been pushed by a few big magazines and even receiving some airplay on Radio 1, all of my carefully horded indie credentials are flying sneering out of the window as I write. And yet, it seems that I just couldn’t care less. This review is nearly finished and in a second I’m going to go and put some music on.
Monday, 1 December 2008
The Lucksmiths
An opportunity to tell a Daniel Kitson story with an album review tagged on at the end. Originally published by the kind people at www.godisinthetvzine.co.uk.
The Lucksmiths
First Frost
Fortuna Pop!
4 Stars
Reviewed by: Scott Telfer
Like what I imagine makes up quite a significant proportion of their UK fanbase, I first came to hear about The Lucksmiths through the comedian Daniel Kitson. To quickly tell the story: Kitson was playing a run of shows at the Melbourne Comedy Festival a few years ago, but shortly before going on stage one night, he received a phone call from his girlfriend back home to say that she was breaking up with him. The understandably distraught Kitson, rather than cancel the night’s gig or simply take refuge in the show’s well worn script, went out and produced what many present described as one of the most achingly memorable evenings that they would ever bear witness to, with Kitson at times rolling on his back crying his eyes out. Marty Donald from The Lucksmiths was in the audience that evening and was so inspired by what he had seen, he wrote the song A Hiccup in Your Happiness (first line “the start is the hardest part/to step inside and announce a newly broken heart”) about it. Kitson loved the song and went on to write the linear notes for its EP release and would occasionally mention how much he liked the band during his shows. What with him being the type of comedian who inspires far more than laughter from his fans, many, including myself, would go out and investigate the band.
Sorry. That went on a bit didn’t it? But I think it was a story worth telling. I’ll get on to the review proper now.
The Lucksmiths are unapologetically twee, but not in the same deliberate way as, say, Los Campesinos! (despite what you may think of song titles like The National Mitten Registry). Leaning more to the Belle and Sebastian end of the scale (I can’t believe there’s actually a need for a scale of twee-ness now) they excel at writing songs that you can take as being as throwaway or as serious as the mood takes you. Deciding to take a slightly different approach to recording of this, their 9th album, they decamped to a secluded cabin in the middle of Tasmania with producer Chris Townsend.
The result is hardly a radical departure, the gentle hooks and lilting guitars are all still present, but “First Frost” does live up to its name in terms of the overall vibe: it’s a colder, more difficult album to get into than most of its predecessors, and it takes several listens before it fully reveals its gentle charms. This is the first time that all four band members have contributed songs to an album, and on this evidence it’s hard to think of another band, with the exception of Teenage Fanclub perhaps, where all members have such an ear for melody, and it’s testament to the amount of time that they’ve been playing together that this album holds together so well.
The immediate stand-out here is A Sobering Thought (Just When One Was Needed), which is a lesson is storytelling through song, a simple tale of catching up with an old friend and ending up going for a sneaky swim in a private pool that will stick in your head for a long time. California in Popular Song is another highlight, its gentle but driven backdrop and melancholy lyrics (“But I think it’s only fair to warn you/all those songs about California lied”) make it as good as anything in their extensive back catalogue. Lyrically the record is as twistingly humorous as we’ve come to expect form the band, “But it feels good for goodness’ sake/to have owned up to all my mistakes/and be looking for new ones to make” from Up with the Sun is a perfect example.
In all honesty First Frost doesn’t quite match up to “Naturaliste” or “Warmer Corners”, both of which are fantastic albums. Some slightly stricter editing could have resulted in a couple of the poorer songs from the second half of the album being lost (the average Song of the Undersea perhaps?), thus raising the overall standard and reducing its lengthy running time. But it’s still a pretty good album, and only serves to confirm this band’s status as an antipodean gem that far too many people are missing out on.
The Lucksmiths
First Frost
Fortuna Pop!
4 Stars
Reviewed by: Scott Telfer
Like what I imagine makes up quite a significant proportion of their UK fanbase, I first came to hear about The Lucksmiths through the comedian Daniel Kitson. To quickly tell the story: Kitson was playing a run of shows at the Melbourne Comedy Festival a few years ago, but shortly before going on stage one night, he received a phone call from his girlfriend back home to say that she was breaking up with him. The understandably distraught Kitson, rather than cancel the night’s gig or simply take refuge in the show’s well worn script, went out and produced what many present described as one of the most achingly memorable evenings that they would ever bear witness to, with Kitson at times rolling on his back crying his eyes out. Marty Donald from The Lucksmiths was in the audience that evening and was so inspired by what he had seen, he wrote the song A Hiccup in Your Happiness (first line “the start is the hardest part/to step inside and announce a newly broken heart”) about it. Kitson loved the song and went on to write the linear notes for its EP release and would occasionally mention how much he liked the band during his shows. What with him being the type of comedian who inspires far more than laughter from his fans, many, including myself, would go out and investigate the band.
Sorry. That went on a bit didn’t it? But I think it was a story worth telling. I’ll get on to the review proper now.
The Lucksmiths are unapologetically twee, but not in the same deliberate way as, say, Los Campesinos! (despite what you may think of song titles like The National Mitten Registry). Leaning more to the Belle and Sebastian end of the scale (I can’t believe there’s actually a need for a scale of twee-ness now) they excel at writing songs that you can take as being as throwaway or as serious as the mood takes you. Deciding to take a slightly different approach to recording of this, their 9th album, they decamped to a secluded cabin in the middle of Tasmania with producer Chris Townsend.
The result is hardly a radical departure, the gentle hooks and lilting guitars are all still present, but “First Frost” does live up to its name in terms of the overall vibe: it’s a colder, more difficult album to get into than most of its predecessors, and it takes several listens before it fully reveals its gentle charms. This is the first time that all four band members have contributed songs to an album, and on this evidence it’s hard to think of another band, with the exception of Teenage Fanclub perhaps, where all members have such an ear for melody, and it’s testament to the amount of time that they’ve been playing together that this album holds together so well.
The immediate stand-out here is A Sobering Thought (Just When One Was Needed), which is a lesson is storytelling through song, a simple tale of catching up with an old friend and ending up going for a sneaky swim in a private pool that will stick in your head for a long time. California in Popular Song is another highlight, its gentle but driven backdrop and melancholy lyrics (“But I think it’s only fair to warn you/all those songs about California lied”) make it as good as anything in their extensive back catalogue. Lyrically the record is as twistingly humorous as we’ve come to expect form the band, “But it feels good for goodness’ sake/to have owned up to all my mistakes/and be looking for new ones to make” from Up with the Sun is a perfect example.
In all honesty First Frost doesn’t quite match up to “Naturaliste” or “Warmer Corners”, both of which are fantastic albums. Some slightly stricter editing could have resulted in a couple of the poorer songs from the second half of the album being lost (the average Song of the Undersea perhaps?), thus raising the overall standard and reducing its lengthy running time. But it’s still a pretty good album, and only serves to confirm this band’s status as an antipodean gem that far too many people are missing out on.
Wednesday, 26 November 2008
My New Jacket
This is a tale of the bad things that happen to me when I have spare time at the weekend. Bear with me, it may go on a bit.
On Saturday morning I set out on a mission. The objective: to get a new jacket; the reason: my current winter wear consisted mainly of a bright red waterproof cagoule which, although minimising my involvement in traffic accidents, was rather past its best on the waterproofing front and frankly, smelt considerably like a wet dog. We join the story on the return leg of my journey after several potential sources of jacket have failed to deliver.
As I fought my way through the swelling pre-Christmas crowds I’ll admit I was becoming a little disheartened. I’d been wandering about various retailers for over an hour now with no joy. Tisso: too expensive, TKmax: just rubbish, Millets: didn’t let me in as I wasn’t really their type of person, hardy har. But then, with failure weighing heavily on my shoulders and a mere 5 minutes from home, I remembered an outdoor centre named, imaginatively enough, “Outdoor World” not 2 minutes form where I was. I set course for this fresh opportunity with renewed vigour.
Initially my browsing in the centre also came to nothing; all that was left to do was wander home, both cold and wet. Then suddenly, out of the corner of my eye I spied a rack of jackets I had failed to notice before. ‘My my, I thought, those look rather dapper’. Moving closer only confirmed my suspicions, and at a bargain price too!
I went ahead and tried one on, and indeed, its dapperness did transfer itself well to my frame, and you know, I’d never felt a fit quite like it before. Awash with a giddy excitement, I took off the jacket and gave it to the helpful salesgirl who was offering smiled assistance. She dealt with the sale at the till and we made jovial banter as it was processed, my rapier wit on the subject of the weather amusing her immensely. Sale complete, I headed home with my new jacket.
However, upon arriving home and having a further try on of the jacket (as you do), I came to realise that it might be just a tad short for sleeve length, which I hadn’t noticed before. ‘No biggie’, I thought to myself, ‘I’ll run back across and change it for a size up this afternoon’.
So after lunch, jacket and receipt in hand I returned to the store. The same girl was there and came to my aid immediately, taking the too small version away and returning shortly with a larger one.
I tried this on there and then to ensure it was the correct size and indeed it was a perfect fit. I even commented to the salesgirl “No danger of getting cold hands with this one!” to which she laughed heartily (‘gosh’, I think, very pleased with myself, ‘I’m totally getting the hang of this being charming and flirtatious thing, maybe I should come back another time and ask for her phone number?’). I left the shop nodding happily to the other smiling salespeople who watched me leave.
Returning home I inspected my purchase once more. It was the type of jacket that has a removable fleece zipped into it for extra warmth, so I removed this from the main body of the jacket to check how it looked.
It looked fine.
However, when I attempted to return the fleece to its parent jacket I discovered that I couldn’t get it to zip back up. A moment’s inspection revealed the problem; a seemingly misshapen part of the mechanism was preventing the sides of the zip from linking together properly. Having 7 year’s worth of university level engineering training under my belt, I thought, ‘I can fix this’. So after some 20 minutes of filing and shaping, I found I had a working, if somewhat stiff, zip mechanism. It was at this point that I noticed that the zip on the other side didn’t look the same as the one I’d been working on.
With a sinking heart and no little force I undid my “repaired” zip only to find a second set of teeth underneath the first, the set that should have been used to attach the fleece. “Damn it!” I exclaimed, “This is so like something I would do”. Now the main zip was so mutilated that it would no longer zip up, and it jammed permanently a quarter of the way from the bottom.
At this point my eyes wandered over to the label on the inside of the jacket. “Emily/Size 14” it read. ‘What the deuce?’ I thought.
“Emily/Size 14”. Next line- “Woman’s Outdoor Equipment”. Oh no. Check receipts and other labels. Oh no no. I’d gone and bought a girl’s jacket, in the process trying it on in front of sales staff not once, but twice (I can only imagine the hilarity my mistake must have caused them), and to top it all off, I’d mutilated it to the extent that I can’t return it. Bad times.
On Saturday morning I set out on a mission. The objective: to get a new jacket; the reason: my current winter wear consisted mainly of a bright red waterproof cagoule which, although minimising my involvement in traffic accidents, was rather past its best on the waterproofing front and frankly, smelt considerably like a wet dog. We join the story on the return leg of my journey after several potential sources of jacket have failed to deliver.
As I fought my way through the swelling pre-Christmas crowds I’ll admit I was becoming a little disheartened. I’d been wandering about various retailers for over an hour now with no joy. Tisso: too expensive, TKmax: just rubbish, Millets: didn’t let me in as I wasn’t really their type of person, hardy har. But then, with failure weighing heavily on my shoulders and a mere 5 minutes from home, I remembered an outdoor centre named, imaginatively enough, “Outdoor World” not 2 minutes form where I was. I set course for this fresh opportunity with renewed vigour.
Initially my browsing in the centre also came to nothing; all that was left to do was wander home, both cold and wet. Then suddenly, out of the corner of my eye I spied a rack of jackets I had failed to notice before. ‘My my, I thought, those look rather dapper’. Moving closer only confirmed my suspicions, and at a bargain price too!
I went ahead and tried one on, and indeed, its dapperness did transfer itself well to my frame, and you know, I’d never felt a fit quite like it before. Awash with a giddy excitement, I took off the jacket and gave it to the helpful salesgirl who was offering smiled assistance. She dealt with the sale at the till and we made jovial banter as it was processed, my rapier wit on the subject of the weather amusing her immensely. Sale complete, I headed home with my new jacket.
However, upon arriving home and having a further try on of the jacket (as you do), I came to realise that it might be just a tad short for sleeve length, which I hadn’t noticed before. ‘No biggie’, I thought to myself, ‘I’ll run back across and change it for a size up this afternoon’.
So after lunch, jacket and receipt in hand I returned to the store. The same girl was there and came to my aid immediately, taking the too small version away and returning shortly with a larger one.
I tried this on there and then to ensure it was the correct size and indeed it was a perfect fit. I even commented to the salesgirl “No danger of getting cold hands with this one!” to which she laughed heartily (‘gosh’, I think, very pleased with myself, ‘I’m totally getting the hang of this being charming and flirtatious thing, maybe I should come back another time and ask for her phone number?’). I left the shop nodding happily to the other smiling salespeople who watched me leave.
Returning home I inspected my purchase once more. It was the type of jacket that has a removable fleece zipped into it for extra warmth, so I removed this from the main body of the jacket to check how it looked.
It looked fine.
However, when I attempted to return the fleece to its parent jacket I discovered that I couldn’t get it to zip back up. A moment’s inspection revealed the problem; a seemingly misshapen part of the mechanism was preventing the sides of the zip from linking together properly. Having 7 year’s worth of university level engineering training under my belt, I thought, ‘I can fix this’. So after some 20 minutes of filing and shaping, I found I had a working, if somewhat stiff, zip mechanism. It was at this point that I noticed that the zip on the other side didn’t look the same as the one I’d been working on.
With a sinking heart and no little force I undid my “repaired” zip only to find a second set of teeth underneath the first, the set that should have been used to attach the fleece. “Damn it!” I exclaimed, “This is so like something I would do”. Now the main zip was so mutilated that it would no longer zip up, and it jammed permanently a quarter of the way from the bottom.
At this point my eyes wandered over to the label on the inside of the jacket. “Emily/Size 14” it read. ‘What the deuce?’ I thought.
“Emily/Size 14”. Next line- “Woman’s Outdoor Equipment”. Oh no. Check receipts and other labels. Oh no no. I’d gone and bought a girl’s jacket, in the process trying it on in front of sales staff not once, but twice (I can only imagine the hilarity my mistake must have caused them), and to top it all off, I’d mutilated it to the extent that I can’t return it. Bad times.
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