Alice in Wonderland goes all rock chick again...Lewis Carroll turns in grave

Tapes n Tapes at Dingwalls, Camden, 30th August 2006

I guess it's the last tryst of summer, the final attempt to spread merriment in the home camp; make hay whilst the British summer wanes and dies its sordid little death (the death of the invalid long out of sorts). Anyways, Tapes n Tapes, the Minnesota boys, will help us out.

French horns, cowbells, an itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny, drummer, tons of ear-thumping school of rock guitar action (apologies for the amateurishness of my description, I wish I could be more technical but I can't). Great music, great band, great venue ('the steps, the steps, all I see are steps, I think I've been transported to Russia in the twenties'). The band are a bit more grungy- less flamboyently mannered than other favourites, but the honesty of the music shines through, and at points, shreds your worldly exterior to the point of solitary madness (in a good way).

I've been going for novelty turns like Gogal Bodello recently (although obviously authentic in his own way), together with a dose of eighties-tinged ska revivalists like Larrikin Love (love the boy). So this is entirely different. I saw The Walkman back in May, and didn't like them at all, thinking them far too muscular and aggressive (I was actually cowering in a corner of the Barfly at one point), but the Tapes seem a bit more complex- less frightening to the unitiated. With the Tapes you get something more approachable- a little bit country, a little bit Spitalfields/a little bit all their own.

Get tough, play rough (but don't hit the fat kid), get Tapes n Tapes. GSG.

Wedding shenanigans in in the isle of the Celts

My friend Bulmerbabe's wedding to the legendary real ale boy in Cork/Kinsale on 19th August 2006

Ok so I may not have come across as the soppy, romantic, frills and flounces type of girl in my previous writings, but oh boy, am I a sucker (in the best possible way) when it comes to traditional Irish weddings with all the trimmings, or so I've discovered this weekend. I'm totally besotted with the whole business. Oh yes. And I'm a lucky bunny to be invited to be bridesmaid with my advancing years (is their an age limit, because I might just be approaching it). Every aspect of the preparations, including trips to dressmakers, florists, drycleaners, churches and the like, was highly enjoyable. Visits to the primping, scraping and sun-tun applying establishments was particularly enlightening...

At 30+ I had actually never had a fake tan before, thinking erroneously that bronzed skin was simply 'not for the likes of (pasty-faced) me'. However, I was wrong. I admit it. I was both suprised and stunned to see that the end result was actually quite flattering in a 'she's had the full works' kind of way. I don't want to be too superficial but I absolutely loved being 'worked on' like a Joan Crawford/Barbara Stanwyck/Bette Davis stand-in in the forties- 'Just lay it on with a trowel and don't forget to make me look glam' was the order of the day. My eyebrows were even held in place with a gel-like substance of rather dubious, but sticky, origin. How wonderful to be fussed over; 'more eyes darling, yes, more, more, more. I want them to jump out at everyone present, I want to be the belle of the ball'. Fabulous.

As for the non-primping activities, they was equally fabulous, obviously in a different, more sombre, level-headed way. Brought up as a Catholic, but seperated from the flock a long time ago by mutual agreement, for the first time in a decade, I felt moved to receive the holy eucharist. I'm not sure why but I was moved somehow. Maybe it was just because I was in Ireland, where everyone is so friendly and inclusive, or maybe it was just because I was feeling vunerable after seeing my best friends merging together like amorous jellyfish in the gelatinous state of marriage, but I was definately 'feeling the moment' and thinking of my own lost loved ones...I went all soft and woosy inside so I did.

Oh and Kinsale was fun too. It's a lovely little fishing 'hamlet' with multi-coloured houses and lots of seafood-serving eateries (if you don't like fish, don't bother could be its motto). Vodkaslut and myself took a grand tour of the gifty-folky shops (abandoning more energetic pursuits) and spent our Euros on leather goods, painted-glass angels and shot glasses to remind us of our visit. Hey-ho. Fun in the, ah, slightly windy/rainy/blowy weather. Btw, GSG did commit one major no-no on this trip in that she accidentally complimented the father of the bride for looking like 'a peer of the realm'. Oops. References to lords and ladies and the like are definately not to be proffered to Catholic Irishman 'of a certain age' and lineage it seems. I think they all forgave me though in the excitement of the proceedings. I meant it as a compliment, really!

Three’s a crowd (pleasing combo)

Peter, Bjorn and John at the Spitz, 5th August 2006

Recipe for a good night out- Take Rod, Jane and Freddy (seventies kids TV icons); add a sprinkling of Abba-esque harmonizing, a pinch of Concretes style Nordic modernism; plus a good dash of Buzzcocks impetuousness, and what do you get? Peter, Bjorn and John!

Tonight is a sixties nostalgia fest with bells on. Literally! The polo-shirted, espadrille-bedecked frontman (Peter I presume, they weren’t wearing nametags) with his harmonica, maracas, and versatile vocal chords, is like a modern-day Davy Jones in waiting (waiting for a makeover my nefarious alter-ego whispers in my ear). And I haven’t even touched on the fantabulousa whistling chorus which the current single ‘Young folks’ requires. Bring back One Man and His Dog that’s what I say. (With pipes like that he could shepherd for Sweden. Here boy!).

The whole thing leaves a vestigial smile on my face for the rest of the evening. It’s my idea of fun. There’s nothing like a twee Scandinavian in espadrilles to silence your inner demons and change your mood. Like orange squash and honey; Kiora for the mind. Yes, I’m happy as the proverbial Larry at the Peter, Bjorn and John gig. With my Magners, my mates, and my newly-acquired pretty, girlie fan, which vodkaslut purchased for me on her Spanish hols and just everyone in the sweaty, intemperate nightclub wants, nay, covets (one day I’ll go to foreign climes and find my Shangri-la, oh yes). Fair to say, I'm loving it, 'to The Max.'

One thing though- what was that creepy/quaint Owl mask that was sitting on the drums? And what was the weird, fat-Pete-imitating photographer doing STANDING ON THE STAGE? Get out the way and let the young-uns and the older, wiser, ‘last chance to have fun’ types, enjoy the evening. There’s publicity and then there’s living in the moment. I know which I think is more important and the band needs to sort out their priorities too. Fans or paparazzi? It should be an easy choice. GSG.