John Vanderslice, at the Lexington.

It was a bitter afternoon. The stormy weather was followed by the discovery of my thoroughly-soaked-colourful jumper at the bottom of an elasticised carrier bag. I carried on as best as I could with the commute to London, well knowing the all-encompassing prospect of John Vanderslice at ‘The Lexington’. Out of spite, I and my friend pretended not to care about the glum weather that had destroyed various tourists’ day and swung into Tesco in an obnoxious flurry for cheaper food/alcohol to have before going inside.

It wasn’t vitally necessary to catch the support act, but we did. He opened with a litter of frequencies continually fighting in amongst themselves and after a few minutes resorted to infanticide; poppa bear’s terrific voice overtook the cubs and led the set. His high vocal-range was lovely, even when whimpering or ball-grabbing-power-paul, the man is a Swedish-Singer songwriter with a beard. I’d heard the name ‘Loney, Dear’ whilst nosing through the ‘Sub-pop’ roster – and was later told by a lightly-intoxicated-yank that he had been to shows of his in New York which were packed. Some heckler didn’t enjoy his ‘awkward’ quips about the Falklands - and she was a little-humourless. He stopped his last song halfway through because it ‘didn’t feel good’, it was nice too.

Now when I’d described the last Vanderslice show I went to so graphically to different people, it seemed that the recipient couldn’t believe he was as personable and amiable as my story had suggested. At any rate, the critical moment was approaching. John appeared piecing together his equipment and his equally humble drummer adjusted his own kit set-up; the two-piece had arrived. I was a little sad not to see the third member of the group reveal himself as I was so impressed with their interaction when I saw him in Bristol two years back, but heck to apprehension.

They crashed into a couple off of Pixel Revolt, and one off of the latest record ‘White Wilderness’; it was instantly terrific. 'Kookaburra' soon arrived. John frisked his guitar from side-to-side as an overwhelming drum performance came before our twinkling-eyes – that’s the true spirit comrade. Vanderslice’s powerful lyrics were coming across firmly and it was a testament to his first-class songwriting – a truly incomparable foundation for the interesting instrumental textural arrangements to transpire. The themes on the chorus’ of ‘Tablespoon of Codeine’ suddenly caught my intention as the unison guitar, synth and kit were carried out and the established-gutsy-drummer insisted himself even more so. I heard a mate in awe saying ‘Fuck’ to himself boundlessly as he was bashing out a syncopated-synth-idea with his left hand and performing further polyrhythms with his right. After the song finished John actually turned to the drummer at stage-right and was baffled by the intricacies, asking the audience and his colleague whether they could play one more chorus but instrumentally, so that he may fully appreciate what was before him. He watched with an air of having something important to witness and, after thanking us for our singing, noticed the special decree of amazement from the audience.
He was taken aback too.

The drummer sat out next as he pulled out his acoustic and sprayed out a few numbers which were, as always, beautifully delivered. They returned back to their set up for a couple more, including a track which hit the building like a wave – ‘Too Much Time’.

The two guys came down into the middle of the audience to play acoustically, performing two requests (Angela, White Dove) and then a last, ‘Time to go’. I suggested the track ‘Heated Pool & Bar’ and he insisted “sorry, but it’s so difficult to play, but if you come find me after, I’ll stumble through it on an acoustic for you”. A murmur of the lyrics went round the group as we gushed and gathered, his wilful eyes prompted us to continue with vigour. So Me, Tom, Sam, Moss and Chris sang our hearts out to Angela, a song he admits he hasn’t played in a very long time, and more-so the ever-beautiful ‘White Dove’.

The fear and despair we had felt earlier, whilst trying to find an appropriate mode of transport to commute with in our hectic day, had been drowned in enthrallment; these performances smashed like missiles of rectitude. In this experience our awe returned to us. I went over to John after fifteen minutes or so. He soon recognised me, not only from that night, but remembering an anecdote we’d told him about the guy who gets his cock out at the end of teenwolf when I last met him. We laughed and chatted casually as I asked him about his own material, playing with Sufjan Stevens & The Wrens whilst hearing a few stories about his tour.

As he whole-heartedly whacked me and all of my friends on the guestlist for the remaining UK dates, we soon spoke about My Grey Horse and he is excited to hear what we’ve got to give on our next EP…

Do not heed the cruel pellets of the stormy winter weather sweep over you like hail – whack the stereo on, boost the top-end and listen to one of his records.

Moonface 'Organ Music Not Vibraphone Like I'd Hoped'.

Hello, welcome to the dream-factory, pilgrims...

I have been taking a gander at Moonface's 'Organ Music Not Vibraphone Like I'd Hoped'. It's in-keeping with Krug's constant conceptually strong albums that are pretty self-serving and really enjoyable. The record is very strange to listen to as it's unmistakably in his vein of song-writing (impressive lyrically, thematically and forever developing) yet the sound of the whole thing is similar to that of Loke Wilson or early Nobuo Uematsu; barrel-chested-eighties-nostalgia.

Fast Peter is eight minutes long and intriguing. It feels like they went with it as something which is an ironic-vignette of the record, Wolf Parade & Sunset Rubdown fans were already sold when Spencer's big lovely face was promoting the thing, and it feels like an eight minute sample of the eventually amaranthine record is enough to capture the attention of music fans of this ilk. The lyrics are really great, simple and are a little different for him - "Won't you win the race?" being repeated a hell of a lot certainly isn't what you'd expect. The track's unrelenting pace and texture are a joy too.

There are special moments on this short record (Loose heart = Loose plan) and, although I expect a completely different type of record from him next, long may he keep it coming.

Some things I hate: People showing me photos of celebrities when they were younger and saying 'Don't they look different?', Soaking dishes, Adverts being hailed as 'clever', Factory foremen and what 'The Simpsons' has become.

Britain’s got Tarrant.

I’ve got some great news guys.

My meetings with ITV are going great; the new Saturday night television show I’m proposing is really turning some heads.

Mr. Tarrant reserves the right to veto any idea.

Ok.

Every week the British public sends emails with suggestions of what they’d like to see Chris Tarrant do. A team at ITV then fish through the lot and pick five different ideas. The next stage is a phone-in voting system (similar to that of popular shows like Davina’s House) and we then have Mr. Tarrant attempt the most popular idea.

His catchphrase is “I’ll give it a go”, which usually precedes him learning what he has to do this week. With 'lifelines' and 'ask the audience' finally out of the way, Chris can show us his Tarrant.
If Chris completes the challenge? 'Chris has got Tarrant.

It's May? I haven't even started on my biscuits.

Things that if we got rid of would improve humanity; 

Joe: Most of the loose women and Jasmine Garden Oriental Cuisine.

John: Jesters and charmless fat men.

Me: Excessive body moles, Michael McIntyre, people who act ‘crazy’ around certain mates.

Made both mine and John's lists.

Pete: Bear Grylls hydrating himself with the moisture out of poo.

Fat Mark (Tom): The stress of the gunpowder plot. Along with zombie apocalypses, Tom would rather commit suicide at the hint of them than be directly involved.

I’ve been hooked on Deerhunter’s ‘Rainwater Cassette Exchange’ again. If you compare it with 2008’s effort Microcastle; it’s very ‘what you see is what you get’. So on Monday night I got hold of the new exclusive B-Side to 'Memory Boy', my pupils were dilated by the impending birth of what is sure to be their only effort for a while. It's called ‘Nosebleed’ and after an hour or so, I put it on; diligence is always required when delving into something written by ole’ Anorexic Brad… (Bad experience with his explanations of Atlas Sound songs when I saw him at ATP.) 

It’s really good anyway. 

And again I’m impressed by how they have managed to deviate their sound so well with the most subtle changes. It’s probably something they can manage because the song writing is always so strong and the consistencies in their production have now become idiosyncrasies. 2:55 long and a sweet summer ditty.
Link to Deerhunter's 'Nosebleed':  http://www.pitchfork.com/reviews/tracks/12170-nosebleed/

Room One. Oh, one?

So amidst a flurry of celebration of a good week, I was surrounded by a few groups, one of which consisted of late-sixty-odd year olds (in their twenties in the sixties). The types of people that after a drink they start acting like an ugly Carry On film. I listened to them talk about a lot of things, here’s a few quotes: 

 

Key
Me.

Them.

“Everybody was always on about music when I was your age, but pop music has never been my thing, I’m more into my classical, always ‘ave been.”-“Oh right, interesting. What composers or era?”-“Well... All of them! Least they don’t sound so similar.”

“Who is this? This new stuff is just terrible!”-“It’s Neil Young?”

“I would have a dog, but, why would I spend my pension on that? I’ve already got six-million pets on the dole tapping my pocket! That’s all pets are; expenditure.”

Nothing quite like the swinging-ladies of the nineteen-sixties.

When I did ask about their generation, they shied away from the questions and just began talking about their parents’ war generation, which is fine, but it’s not relevant to them. Like me complaining about the aids and haircuts of the eighties. I understand it’s a sense of respect and grandeur, but they had no interest in my rhetorical questions or the future, and just seemed so pissed off at everything (teen-angst).

To top off the first meeting with this bunch, they invited me to a private St. Patrick’s doo they’re having, I was honoured but taken-a-back by the false Irish accent the woman had just put on. “You have Irish in you?”-“Green-blooded and proud.”

Proud.

Ok, I’ve got some Irish in me, but fucking hell! They shy away from their generation who had it all, and choose not to be proud of a skill or something they’ve earned but instead reserve some pride for something they haven’t achieved, a genetic coincidence. I’ve never understood national pride.

Room 101ers: St. Patrick’s Day, “Charmless fat men” I.e. Chris Moyles (John coined the figure of speech), blokes who are snobby about ales, Douglas Murray (goes on ‘Question Time’ a lot as the hard Conservative but makes obvious and middle-of-the-road arguments), Spurs fans, Jon Champion and Chris Waddle (as a football commentary double), double-barrelled names, people who trash-talk with dead eyes and a fake smile and Lee Evans.

Man, 49, Coined the phrase "Charmless fat man".

"Dear Duncan, the protagonist is me, cunt."

Who hasn’t seen our new video? Great. It’s of our Saltway track 'Johnny Edson' and you can find it here: http://vimeo.com/groups/75362/videos/20485242

Joe just... chillin'... in the video 

I received this email from a magazine editor.


Sent:28 February 2011 23:02:37
Dear Oobah,
Thank you for submitting your story "A Quiet No.". While we won't be publishing this one of your pieces, we appreciated the opportunity to read your work again! I took a shine to many of the characters involved in the plot, but struggled to empathize with your protagonist, who at times has convoluted motivations which may have made him a little too unlikeable for what is trying to be achieved. I would like to request that you give our March brief a shot, as I’ve been a fan of past material and it looks like your stuff is back on the up!
Regards,
Duncan,
Editor

Press Reference#: 312358

My retort...

Sent:01 March 2011 14:26:11
Dear Duncan,
Funnily enough, that's me in the story, cunt.

Oobah x.

I didn't really reply with the last bit...

So I'm going to recommend something that's been out for a while; Sufjan Stevens' Age of Adz album.  Age Of Adz requires a joint amount of effort from you and itself. You've got to be in the right state of mind for it to 'get' you. I personally gave it about fourteen listens in the first couple of days, which is a lot of time; yet I knew that it was something I'd really appreciate, and it's very rewarding. Review.

If you're a fan of his other material, whistle, but this is completely different. Musically, it has links with Year of the Rabbit. His songwriting is usually so impersonal, with subject matters of historical stories, figures or Jesus. But this is really honest, secluded writing about himself and it's really heartbreaking. He spends time here admitting his faults as a human being, talking about his apparent love lost, death and illnesses. It's all very dark, vulnerable, rotten and intimate. Yet this album is emotionally very three-dimensional (he's really pissed off in places too). Anyway, he talks a lot about his creative doubts and despicable traits on this record but I don't think Sufjan has to worry, it's a great album with a fantastic rhythm to it. My only criticism of his second best effort 'Illinois' is probably the feel of it's track listing, the form on Age Of Adz is all unbelievable (despite that most of it [other than 'Too much', 'Vesuvius' & 'Get Real Get Right'] passed me by on the first listen).

Anyway, give it a/(14) listen(s).

I just bought a ticket to Sufjan's Manchester Apollo show too.

My Grey Russian.

Having enjoyed a birthday last week, here’s a Russian-doll footnote.

I remember building a den around the dusty layers of the cricket club grounds in my home-village with a friend, in the trees. Whilst we were enjoying the poached eggs and satin branches we’d created, I spotted a disturbance over the loose weaves of our broad-leaf rugs. I scuttled down the wooden staircase to search and illuminate. Standing still in the middle of my bourgeois-hall, my tort neck wrung a one-hundred and ten degree angle to the ground. A brightly coloured snake slithered between my ankles. I was petrified into a stand-still and took a deep breath. I yelled, screamed and ultimately broke down the gates of the palace and ran out into the dull, morbid and wet village.

The next few nights I had vivid dreams of this gargantuan serpent chasing me and my friend. Past the old school house, out of the playing fields and through the ever-encroaching village high street.

So the dream was really clear in my mind; it stuck with me through childhood and adolescence. Enough so that, the other night, and I promise this, I had that same dream and it was as terrifying as ever. It’s odd (with dreams) when you know there’s something going on that’s powerful but you don’t know exactly why so (I have never had a fear for snakes, I think dreams are metaphors). I‘m presupposing that it’s something to do with the fact I’ve been getting ill too often, and I’m at an age where I want to philosophise about it.

So, it’s been the birthday months for My Grey Horse (other than Fat ‘Tom Mott’ Marcus), we’ve been coming of age; appreciating what we have. We have been doing some terrific shows and have been chatting to all sorts of industry people. Joe took his first steps, John has had his first toupee fitted and Pete has started spending his afternoons drinking ale in central Birmingham reading the Davely Mirrorband.

It’s been a while but the blog is back, and here’s a free track thing you can sign up to as a token of appreciation, but we’ll be playing the ‘Native Tongue’ venue club night in Epsom this Friday.

If we play Epsom again, it will be here.

(for the free track 'Clay Feet' follow)

http://mygreyhorse.zimbalam.com