... or comic marvel. You decide.

Hitch and I were alerted to this amazing bit of footage during one of the Saint Etienne Turntable Cafe events at London's South Bank Centre. Turntable Cafe is consistently one of the greatest nights out in the capital and updates on when they are happening can usually be found here. Any 'club' that has a jazz band playing a live soundtrack to the Charlie Brown Christmas TV special, Saint Etienne covering Cliff Richard's latest Christmas single live, screens William Klein's incredible film Qui Etes Vous Polly Maggoo? while playing Sheila B. Devotion and Stereolab and interviews the creators of the BBC kids' series Fingerbobs is okay by me and then some.

... it's my Birthday too, yeah.
The adorable Boadwee has pointed out that his blog is celebrating its second birthday. It was pure coincidence (synchronicity? fate?) that he and I started our sites on almost exactly the same day without knowing the other had done so.
Of course he actually manages to post a lot more often than me. Still, I'm taking a little time out to celebrate both of our special dates and will no doubt have a drink or two to toast the occasion at tonight's secret Sondre Lerche gig.

To the Scala last night for the overdue live return of the wonderful Clinic. Four Scousers in silly hats and surgical masks playing thrash garage rock with melodicas. What's not to love about that?


Anyhow, I've blogged about Clinic before (and the continued indifference towards them by most otherwise sensible music lovers and music publications) so instead I'm going to mention their first support act, the apparently hotly-tipped Wild Beasts.
The Mac/Hitch jury is out on the Beasts at the moment - Andy thinking them at best okay, and myself thinking there could be something great there if only the singer didn't do that funny jerking thing with his neck, the bassist didn't wear a vest and have terrible hair, and if an arranged marriage between Talking Heads and the back catalogue of Glasgow's Postcard record label hadn't already resulted in Clap Your Hands Say Yeah.
But there was one song ... one of those songs that has an insistent hook that gets under the skin on even the first hearing and won't go away. And I discovered today that it was their previous single Brave Bulging Bouncing Clairvoyants. Good title.

Good video.
But didn't that pesky Franz Ferdinand get there first on this one?
Keith Boadwee - over to you ...

Labels: Clairvoyants, Genius, Pop Music, Surgical Masks

One of the curses of gig-going in London is talkers. I've mentioned it before, and I always hope it's going to get better, but if anything it gets worse. It's night on impossible to go to a non-seated show and not have to root around to find a spot where the nearby crowd is as quiet and into watching the band as I am.
I'm not unreasonable but there have been occasions where my evening has been near ruined by having to tell someone to be quiet. This usually elicits a response of befuddlement - as in, "Oh but I'm out with my friends at a socia event and we just had to catch up on our tremendously exciting lives and I didn't think I was doing anything wrong." At a Knife gig late last year the young couple near me were so loud with their constant inane chatter (and the girl's voice so high pitched that most of the dog population of Kilburn probably relieved itself en masse) that I had to ask (quite abruptly) if they could stop it. His response: "Look, just because we're talking doesn't mean we're not enjoying the gig, man."
Really.
Anyhow, one of the many great things about the Luminaire is their absolute distaste for these idiots. In the past they've made it clear on their website that the venue is for listening to bands and not ruining other people's evening by yakking, and even their bar staff are trained to be as quiet as possible during performances, but obviously the message still needs to get through. So they've provided a little assistance with some polite notices by the bar and the stage area (above).
Luminaire we salute you.
(Incidentally, the Jazz Cafe has the phrase STFU painted large just above the stage. I'll leave it to readers to work out for themselves what it stands for...)

I'm wondering how Marfa would feel if forced to wear this shocking garment? And moreover - where can I get a "Trust Me: My Owner Is A Kraftwerk Fan" variant?
More Barry hilarity here

I was lying in bed listening to the late night news bulletin on Sunday night (technically Monday morning), when I heard that Sol LeWitt had died. Although like around 95% of contemporary artists his work did tend towards the formulaic and a bit uninspiring in the later years, his pieces of the 60s and 70s were among my favourites.
In the past I sort of 'collected' the Minimalists, a bit like collecting baseball cards. As previously reported on this site, I spent a rather bizarre but unforgettable day with Dan Flavin. An afternoon with the amazingly gentle Carl Andre. And of course I've worshipped at the altar of Donald Judd for years now, though (probably thankfully) never got the chance to meet him. And I once spoke to Michael Heizer on the phone, even though he kept on insisting he wasn't actually Heizer between asking me how I'd got hold of the number. Very strange.
I had the chance to meet LeWitt a few years back. I wanted to interview him for a documentary, but (rather like Andre) he didn't want his image to be seen on the media. He said a sound only interview would be the best idea and invited me out to his studio. In the end, we chose not to go because it was a long way to go and I assumed that we'd end up cutting it from the film. Now I feel bad that I never got to meet him. He certainly hid away - there was only one portrait picture of him on Google Images when I looked today, and it must have been all of at least 40 years old.
There's a fabulous room of four wall drawings on show at the Tate Modern right now - white on black. I hope they keep it there for a while and I can go and pay my respects. And I hope art history is kind to Sol - I for one think he deserves it.

In the dim and distant days when Channel 4 began, there was a series called Minipops in which young kids performed hit songs of the day. This was a hilariously misguided programme that pre-empted, in the words of the great Chris Morris, Paedogeddon - with ridiculously over made-up young girls singing lyrics like "he's not a man, he's a lovin' machine".
Anyhow - excited by the prospect of the impending Devo reunion, I happened across this yesterday. Disney-produced kids singing a song supposedly about masturbation.

The genius of Devo is not dead yet.
(But I do worry what the future has in store for those kids...)