And the prize for the stickiest floor goes to...

The Pogues at Brixton Academy, 20th December 2005.

Hey there, so the Christmas gig-going frenzy is over and January looks likes a very dry month, but last night the one last fling mindset took me all the way down to southern climes (well, Brixton) in search of some fun and musical frolics. With Bulmersbabe and real ale boy in tow, we started off with cocktails at the Living bar in Coldharbour Lane (I reccomend the Sicilian Kiss) and then headed swiftly over to the Brixton Academy.

Luckily for us the pogues were on great form, with Shane McGowen looking very hearty indeed (beer belly included). The stunning two hour set started with Streams of Whiskey and ended with a roaring Fiesta, and included pretty much all of their mammoth back catalogue.

Needless to say, fun was had by all and sundry, despite the presence of the stickiest floor ever known to the gig-going public. Beyond just average stickiness, the floor was positively-gluelike to the tread. Urgh! However after the first few songs and some strategic menouvering, I managed to avoid the worst patches and enjoy the evening by adopting the 'don't look down under any circumstances' philosophy.

I DO really like the Brixton Academy- it's just SO much better than the Alexandra Palace. So so much.

Move to LA? Not likely with music like this around

Art Brut at the Barfly, 12th December 2005

If this is outsider art, then I’m all for it. Not completely mental, as with some of the abstract artists discovered by Jean Dubuffet, but certainly unique and ever-so slightly off the radar, lyrically and musically. When I first heard ‘Emily Kane’ my first reaction was ‘What the [expletive] is this?’; a common reaction I’m sure, but then I took the trouble to investigate further and discovered the less conventional (or less commonly expressed) sentiments of songs such as ‘Rusted guns of Milan’, ‘Formed a band’ and ‘My little brother’ more to my taste (I was never good with songs about falling in love, still being in love, la la la). The lyrics are funny and witty and at times esoteric, but without ever being pretentious, me thinks. In fact they are grittily down to earth and acessible to all; 'I saw her naked TWICE' he declares in 'Good weekend'. Well, good for you Eddie. Lucky girl.

In fact, Eddie Argos, the front man, obviously loves the crowd and on this occasion flops quite readily into the hungry arms of the assembled mob (don’t let the word mob mislead you, the fans are amiable enough) and makes it back to the stage still with shirt-buttons half-undone, the saucy chap. In fact he has a Cheshire cat grin on his face most of the time and creates an atmosphere of affectionate unity in the tiny venue- I want you all to go away and form your own band, this means a lot to me’; yes, yes, Eddie, I’ll do my best, I promise, honest; and for a moment I almost believe it.

An intelligent fantasist with a semi-political agenda and a sense of humour; well, stone me; it’s a rare occurrence in my experience. Oh, should say, Art Brut are definitely not for the stalwart Pete Docherty fans- ‘I’m sorry but that is a shit tattoo’ he declares- say it how it is now Eddie. I do like that man.

Take me anywhere but here

Franz Ferdinand at the Ally Pally, 2nd December 2005

I suppose it’s inevitable that all aspiring indie rock stars end up playing at the Alexandra Palace sooner or later; I guess it’s a measure of how much popularity they’ve achieved, but judging by my experience on Saturday, it’s a move that favours the band’s reputation whilst damaging the ordinary fan’s experience of the music and of attending gigs in general. If that had been my first gig, frankly, I would never have gone to another one. It’s not really the band’s fault I guess; the music itself was faultless and they played for well over an hour by my calculation, it’s just that the venue itself is so souless and clinical. The outside of the building is impressive enough; with its elegant Victorian architecture, and it’s panoramic views over North London, but the journey to the venue is depressing (inadequate buses, disorderly scrambles), and the hanger-like interior is totally lacking in atmosphere. The floor of the great hall is completely flat, and consequently, if you’re less than 6ft tall, you’re completely buggered as far as actually seeing the band you’ve paid nearly £30 to see is concerned. On Saturday even the presence of one of my fave bands The Cribs (as the main support) couldn’t save the day. They seemed to be suffering from the same air of detachment as the crowd and battled vainly to make contact in the echoing dome. At the end of the gig, Ryan Jarman made a final ditch attempt to reach the crowd, but was pulled back unceremoniously by the over anxious guards (we can’t have any of that touchy-feely stuff here, oh no).

Finally, on the crowded bus home, violent contra-temps took place between a young girl and an older man whose daughter had apparently been insulted by said girl (a friend of mine, real ale boy, observed later that he seemed to be dressed as Victor Meldrew, but to my mind he seemed to have more of a Phil Mitchell vibe to him). Harsh words were exchanged and threats in the manner of ‘I’ll get you later’ and ‘bothered’ were forcefully exchanged. I was slammed against the bus door several times and the driver seemed to be totally ignoring the incident.

I guess everyone should go to the Ally Pally once in a lifetime, but if would be nice if FF could please play the Brixton Academy (whose sloping arena is more sympathetic to the vertically challenged) next time? Cheers.

NB. I know the band were apparently named after a racehorse and not the archduke ferdinand, but I just like this photo so much I had to use it.

Eighties throwback carnival

Stellastarr* at the Metro club, Tottenham Court Road
29th November 2005

This one was definately a bit of a challenge- a challenge to get my head around as I really didn't know much about the band when I signed up for it. They were sold to me as 'what the Killers were aiming at' which sought of sounded ok, so I waded in, helped out by the fact that it was a smallish venue and in the right price bracket, at the right time.

But hey, it all worked out ok and it turned out I HAD been to the Metro years before; when I was still wearing my frumpy librarian garb, and feeling very self-conscious and out of place-y (we didn't go to see a band, just a club night, which I've never been very good at).

If you havn't been there before, the decor is amazingly womb-like; blood red walls with a cavernous, subterranean vibe. Agent Cooper would NOT be out of place here; indeed I half-expected the barman to start talking backwards, for the kitchen to start serving cherry pie, and for time to have stood perfectly still when we emerged after the evening's proceedings.

In fact time did not stand still, and the music was good to very good, in GSG's humble opinion.* I thought maybe there was an aspect of 'hey, we're too good for this dive really' about the band, but I could have been imagining that. They seemed likable enough, and well, quite pretty in the arty, mannered way which is par for the course these days (more eyeliner anyone?).

Still the band's sound references lots of eighties bands I used to like- most pleasingly The Cure, Joy Division and Blondie, and I particularly loved the final footstomping rendition of 'my coco-co' which got me jumping up and down ( with arms crossed however). I think they need to focus on what segment of the Indie market they really want to attract- are they Interpol or Hot Hot Heat? The Kaisers or The Editors? Moody and ponderous, or quirky and boistorous (because THEY are the choices). But overall, they are a band I'd like to see again. I wouldn't pay much more than a tenner for the privelage though. Sorry (to all diehard fans).

* All opinions in this blog should be considered suspect due to the author's predilection for gin