Not sure if anyone else has linked this, but I found this an interesting read, and you might too.
Not sure if anyone else has linked this, but I found this an interesting read, and you might too.
Well done, South Yorkshire, how much did that cost, you divs?
Every time I walk past my @pencilsqueezer my heart gives a little song of joy. Here’s a little in return.
I could do with north of 100 grand, so a) you’ll have to come round to Foxy Towers and lamp me as well, and b) you’ll have to be a well-heeled TV presenter and journalist who was employed by a broadcasting corporation that can chip in to fund the settlement when I sue you for assault and racial discrimination.
Once the swelling’s gone down it’s easy money I reckon.
*drives off sharpish in fast car*
Nerr, nerr-nerr-nerrnuh, nerr, nerr-nerr-nerrnuh! The eighth of May! The eighth of May!
Lest we forget, let’s hear it one more time for the elemental Mr. K.
St George’s, Bristol.
Outstanding vocal dexterity, fine clear voices, rhythmic invention and world class stage presence combined to give a great night’s entertainment. These guys are truly impressive; six voices, six different timbres and tones, the most amazing beat-boxing and bass you have ever heard a human voice produce, and sweet, sweet harmonies that are really world class. They mix wonderful technical skill with a strong streak of mischievous humour, and a self-deprecating charm that won the audience over within the first 30 seconds.
The exposure they enjoyed while winning the “Naked Choir” competition last November obviously helped, pre-charging the audience with expectation and setting a very high bar. The TV show, edited to deliver a narrative in a short space of time, had given a clue about what to expect, and anyone who saw it will have already seen a few of the numbers they performed last night, but nothing compares to seeing them do their thing live; their delivery of “Wuthering Heights”, for example, was a genuine show-stopper thrill.
The two forty-five minute sets they delivered flashed past far too quickly. The finely rehearsed choreographed set pieces are a polished delight, and » Continue Reading.
Heads up, VanFans; I’ve just noticed that the dodgers are now taking pre-orders. Four discs worth of Vansome Splendiferousness. Delivery on June 10th apparently. £55 quid at the mo’, which is pretty steep, but then I’m a sucker for this one, so the dogs are going hungry to pay for it.
Oh look, the creationist nut-job has fallen by the wayside, but the Trump kid’s still on his feet, God help us. The Abrahamic religions are busily annihilating each other over in the Middle East, and on the global front the accountancy Mafia are still quietly running everything. Up on the big screen, centre stage chez-nous, charmer George and moon-faced Dave are gleefully running our gaff into the offshore ground while dozy old Jeremy’s apparently asleep at the wheel. Ho-ho! There are elections tomorrow in the UK but nobody seems to give a flying one any more. The environment is a toxic disaster area, the oceans are warming and we are one El Nino away from agricultural Armageddon. But fear not, never mind, cheer up everyone, it won’t be long until the next series of Strictly starts, and in the meantime we can all argue about the merits of the EU. What joy we have brought to the twenty-first century, what with our Enlightenment, our Renaissance, our Quantum Physics and all that sort of stuff. How clever we are. Personally, I’ve had ENOUGH of all this crap and I’m mad as hell.
This is an official AC-12 Line Of Duty whinge. On the table is the evidence: Season 3 Episode 6.
SPOILER ALERT – look away now, step away from this posting if you still haven’t seen the finale.
I’ve enjoyed a lot of Line Of Duty. It’s been top flight stuff, and the character development in this latest “season” had produced a great villain, brilliantly played.
Oh, but what had they been sniffing when the plot development meeting and script conference for the dénouement took place? A line of something perhaps, but it didn’t feel like they’d done their duty to the series.
I watched the feature length ending with utter disbelief. Had I been fooled into expecting something much better? Did you see this ham-fisted nonsense approaching in a black Volvo emerging from a cloud of tyre smoke with the blues & twos on full chat? Was I asleep and dreamed it all?
Am I the only one to feel let down by the series?
Colston Hall, Bristol
A mini-mingle of Afterworders assembled in the atrium, and then made the trek to the top floor bar. As usual, the Colston Hall had a goodish selection of beers, and a pint of Bath Ale’s yummy Dark Side porter went down well, while my colleagues stuck to lighter fare. I was only having the one, so I made it a good ‘un. We dispersed to our seats in time for the off from the main band, having shamefully failed to summon enough grit to take on the support as well. Apologies therefore to the They Promised Us Jetpacks team, whom we gently shunned.
At this point I’ll divest myself of the trauma I experienced next, which was caused by the person occupying the seat to my left, or more accurately, occupying the seat to my left and a third of the two seats on either side as well. Not only did their blubbersome girth extend alarmingly sideways, but their acrid honk permeated my clothes as they sweated into me for the duration of the performance, causing me to cram everything I was wearing into the washing machine within seconds of reaching home » Continue Reading.
I know there are some EITS fans on here, in fact I know some are going to be at the Bristol gig on Saturday. Needless to say, I’ll be there too. What’s buggin’ me is the fact that I ordered a copy of their new one, “Wilderness”, around a month ago, from the dodgers, but it still hasn’t arrived. Every day I get the “sorry, it’s been delayed” email, and nothing EITS-shaped drops into the mail box. Has anyone here received their copy from the same source? What gives? Should I cancel and re-order, or, as seems most likely now, accept that I’ll hear most of the new ones for the first time when they play them live on Saturday? Pick up the album from the merch table instead, maybe.
Gosh, these first-world problems really test one.
PS there’s a spare ticket going free for any Afterworder who can bear to sit next to me, my gig-buddy has bailed.
Just watched Tom’s fifties reminiscence on the Beeb. Outstanding telly. Hope he is coping this week. That is all.
I’ve got a couple of tickets for the Colston Hall gig – and it looks like one of those might be looking for a new owner if anyone’s interested, as my intended gig-buddy has decided to f*ck off to Vienna that weekend – are there any other Afterworders who would like the spare, and indeed are there any others going to the gig who fancy a pint beforehand?
I’m not sure who to vote for, so I’m hoping my local council will send everyone a leaflet telling me who to support.
Isn’t democracy wonderful?
What’s that you say? Dogs? It’s just for dogs. Oh bugger.
Parent of tantrum-throwing infant complains that nearby shoppers can’t stand the sound of her screeching brat.
Meanwhile, in Syria…..
St Georges Bristol
I bought the album last year, and having fallen under its spell, I bought two prime tickets for the gig on the day the tour was announced. My companion for the evening had never heard the album, or anything from it. It was my treat this time; he was the innocent victim, with no preconceived ideas at all about what he was about to see and hear.
The album in question is Primrose Green, and the artists we were about to experience are Ryley Walker and Danny Thompson. That’s Danny F*cking Thompson, as Ryley puts it.
I’d listened to the album again yesterday in the car, and hoped that what I would hear that evening would be more than a recreation of the work, fine though it is as it stands. For listeners of a certain age and persuasion, it inevitably evokes echoes of influence as Ryley channels Jansch, Martyn and Buckley in his own unique style. What I had hoped to hear in the evening was a development from that, a blooming, an exploration, a progression if you will; something new yet rooted in the exciting possibilities revealed by the album. » Continue Reading.
Now I love ol’ Dave Jones as much as the next man, but while trying to recover from the blow of his artful departure, I’ve been burying myself in the work of another musician who’s also just cashed in his chips: the awesome Dan Hicks.
There must be love for him here – there’s no-one more Afterword, especially now he’s gorn an’ gone. We can all claim we have yards of shelving full of Dan Hicks bootlegs and a special shelf full of signed memorabilia gifted to us in obscure Texan bars by the man himself as we spent a happy evening trying unsuccessfully to gain intimate pleasures with a Lickette. Or two.
This chap is (was) the smirking alter-ego of JJ Cale crossed with the poker-faced subversion of the best Mike Nesmith songs – the ones he never played for those other jokers in the Monkees. He’s the Phil Harris Baloo to John Prine’s Bagheera.
Let’s hear it for your favourite Dan Hicks song. Someone? Surely it’s not just me that’s mournin’ the Dan?
In the (continuing and annoying) absence of the reissue of Diamond Jack & The Queen Of Pain, here’s a blast from around the same time: Kevin Ayers and assorted mates having a lazy blast on a Spanish TV rock show.
Anyone else still hoping that the album will eventually appear? Anyone shed any light on why the HECK it hasn’t appeared? Yeah, yeah I know there’s a lot of discussion and speculation on’t web, even on the KA pages, but there’s no real FACTs out there. Whisky. Tango. Foxtrot.
The plot was hatched on Friday nights in a pub in Islington and nearby café.
Afterworders, cynical as you may be about online petitions and the level of attention they are paid by our bloated capitalist overlords, consider signing this one won’t you?
Here’s a conundrum that Google doesn’t seem to be able to solve for me. Perhaps the famous hive-mind of the Afterword Massive can come to my rescue.
At the top of Bingo’s post about Friday night listening choices is a Guns’n’Roses video. There’s a bit in there where the ludicrous and apparently unselfconscious Slash (bless) strolls fag-dangling and shirt-open from a tiny little wooden prairie church (which is apparently blessed with Tardis “bigger on the inside” magic) only to pause outside the picket fence and launch into a screaming hip-slung guitar solo.
This is obviously the inspiration for the moment when Dawn French, dressed in leather and extravagant hair, emerges from the little granite church of St. Michael de Rupe atop Brent Tor on the western edge of Dartmoor, and is filmed in a circling helicopter zoom shot pouting out an 8-gauge string bending solo coaxed from, if memory serves, a Les Paul exactly a la Slash.
Now I loved that moment the first time I saw it, and hooted with delight. Brent Tor was a favourite place of mine as a child, and seeing Dawn dressed as Slash standing legs akimbo on the top belting out a metal » Continue Reading.
If I go to Scotland now, will I be threatened with 5 years in chokey?
Anyone fallen foul of ludicrous laws whilst working or wasting time in Johnny Foreignerland?
Listened to the first album the other night after having listened to several others. Thought it was a bit bloody marvellous. Any other fans here?