A Yorkshireman of a certain age who likes most genres of music and most makes of old car. Travel is a joy, not least to escape the British winter. Travel by bicycle is bliss and if I’m not lost in music then I’m lost in a daydream about a hot day, tens of miles to cover and the promise of a great campsite and a beer. I like to think I’m always learning and becoming wiser. However, on the latter point evidence is in short supply.
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Firstly on the theme of feathered friends then I was painting the jetty earlier today and became very popular with the local wildlife. (No the jetty does not signify that I have a yacht tethered for trips around the Mediterranean but I do have a small part of a very muddy lake near York). I believe that I would have been even more popular had I been a loaf of bread. And before you ask I was wearing waders.
Our second eldest nephew visited from London and asked, whilst sat in the lounge, why we had such an old TV? As a man who prides himself on how hip and cool he is then I was taken aback but eventually regained my composure and said that it works perfectly and the picture, albeit not HD, seems adequate.
In fact one of the reasons for being in the 20th Century is the weary task of sorting out an updated satellite box for HD and buying the TV. As regards the latter then the choice is mind boggling. However, I hacked out time in a busy schedule to put this problem right. We checked out a few HD TV’s and went from no knowledge to a bit more than zero. Regrettably the selecting and organising the replacement digital box did seem like a project akin to scaling Everest. I gathered my rope and crampons and put my first foot onto the bottom of the mountain.
I called Sky and an Irish lad told me that I could get all this plus a new TV at a heavy discount. Apparently an ‘entry level’ (remember where I was born) box was no longer available but this new one that could do lots of things (I cared little about) and would be mine for a one off charge of £199 and then £12 extra per month until Leeds United got back into the Premiership. Well I wasn’t paying that after having been a customer for 19 years. So I went on ‘hold’ whilst he beetled off to talk to someone. In another lifetime he returned and chirpily advised that I was indeed a loyal customer and I could have this for a one off £20 charge. The total monthly subscription would remain broadly the same because whilst the new box attracted a new monthly charge he would reduce the cost of one of my subscription packages to offset. So we then went through the TV UHD deal (£249) and seemed to be making progress until we came across my new friends called ‘HDMI’. Did I have them? How would I know? I rang off to find someone 35 years younger to discuss it with.
Indeed I did have it! So ten days later I rang back. My first contact heard my story of my understanding of what was the offer and then said would I hold? Of course. He eventually returned to advise that as I was a loyal customer then there may be a better deal in the offing. Where had I heard this before? I was transferred to another department and a nice young lady tried to help me. I say tried because she was in ‘Technical’. Why I was sent here only the first chap knows. We went round the houses with her discussing the merits of buying an additional digital box for another room. I rejected this and talked about the suggestion that there would be no subscription charge changes. This was according to the first chap because he was going to replace one ‘package’ with another ‘package’ to offset. However, I would lose all the Kids channels (will my daughters ever come home again?) She knew nothing about this but because we were talking about deletions put me through to the ‘Cancellation’ department. Still following all this?
(Anna went to fetch alcohol for us at this stage).
Ewan put us on hold four times whilst he attempted to get me the digital box and the TV deal. As he was in ‘Cancellations’ his role in life was to give potentially departing subscribers discounts. I liked him instantly although I never sought a reduction. Anyway after 1 hour and 23 minutes I gave him £289 and he gave me a box and TV and reduced my monthly subscription from £91 to £75. Of course I will only believe all this when it all arrives and I see the first bill.
Also I’m not boasting as I expect someone out there has the Sky Q box, Sports package, Entertainment package, broadband and telephone for a lot less. I’m just hoping that this TV and digital box out live me.
You’ll see elsewhere my blog for a week cycling in France. This was a spin up from Toulouse to the Dordogne River and back. With old time pal Tony Franco we made it! Worryingly then despite the hills, heat and 360 miles I put on weight.
The present Mrs Ives has little affection for a ride in the Morgan but I lured her into the car and the coast when the Yorkshire branch of the Morgan Sports Car Club organised a lunch and a trip to the Bird Sanctuary at RSPB (Royal Society for the Protection of Birds) Bempton Cliffs on the Yorkshire coast. Sadly the mission of seeing puffins proved elusive although she said she saw one out of thousands of gannets, guillemots, kittiwakes and a lot of seagulls. I was surprised to see so many seagulls despite the absence of a nearby fish and chip shop!
I must rant about the BBC and the World Cup Football (soccer) coverage. If having several days of presenter Gary Lineker wasn’t an atrocity in its own right then they appear to have literally hundreds of TV and radio presenters over there along with the various engineers and production people. How many ex-footballers does the taxpayer need to fund? They just blather on with such vacuous insights as ‘he’s got a sweet left foot’? However the real unforgivable oversight by the BBC is the fact that Russia has invaded its neighbours, continues to suppress political opposition to Putin, stokes mass migration from Syria (and supports Assad) also has attempted and successfully assassinated in the UK. However this is all right for the BBC as it has won large media coverage rights. So we are really happy to be in Russia for the duration of the competition. Hopefully they will revert to portraying the Russian Government as the children of Satan when it finishes.
Saw the TV interview this morning with Mr Markle – the Duchess of Sussex’s father. Apparently Harry has never met him in person. It doesn’t seem unreasonable to meet your father-in-law in the flesh, not least as he was pencilled in to bring your future wife down the aisle. Apparently they did talk on the phone, which was nice of Hazza to find the time to call long distance.
So when Thomas tells them he’s off into hospital for heart surgery then maybe Meghan should have known about his health? Or if he was a bit suspect at ever showing up then maybe someone should have put in an appearance South of the Border to check him out. Good luck Meghan this is the remote and odd Clown Show you are joining.
Lastly, I like the look of my web site but the provider Wix are pants. The site is very slow to update or move around as regards editing and uploading. Maybe our appallingly slow broadband doesn’t help but this crowd are not people I’d use again if starting from scratch.
France is undoubtedly the best place in the world to cycle. It has warm weather, sparse traffic away from the cities, plentiful accommodation, delicious food and a beautiful terrain. I hadn’t had a French cycling holiday for sometime. So with the intrepid explorer, Tony Franco, we flew into Toulouse Blagnac Airport with easyJet. The plan was to cycle north east from the airport to the Dordogne where we’d then cycle west along the river and have a rest day. After this then it would be a return to Toulouse knowing that the last day was basically a flat run for home.
In fact we flew from ‘London-Luton’ Airport. It makes you wonder how strong the brand of London is that it necessitates ‘Luton’ having the prefix. London is 40 miles away. ‘London-Luton’ mainly handles budget airlines (used by UK residents) and so who are they fooling with this nonsense? I used ‘Meet & Greet’ for the car parking. This had a slightly worrying feel to it. I drove up to the third floor of a multi storey car park and a fairly scruffy bloke appeared, smiled in a friendly way and took my car keys, hopped into the Merc and then disappeared down the ramp. Manoeuvring two large bicycle boxes onto a trolley and repeatedly taking them off to enter narrow lifts was a chore. Eventually I found Tony and after lobbing his bike into the spare empty box (with loving care) we headed for the check in.
The plan was to re-assemble the bikes in Toulouse Airport and cycle ten miles north to a hotel before embarking on the tour the next day. I had travelled in my cycling kit however Tony hadn’t. Not a problem until he decided to change in the Arrivals Terminal with small children running around. I half expected to leave the airport to the accompaniment of police sirens searching for a British exhibitionist.
DAY 1 Toulouse Blagnac Airport to Bruguiéres – 14 miles
With my expert knowledge of France I had implored Tony to invest in some food to take with him to France. I opined that France would be ‘shut’ on Sunday evening as regards finding dining solutions. Dutifully we shopped at Luton for food. As we cycled away from Toulouse Airport then the landscape was heavily populated with open restaurants! This may have irritated Tony but as I had stupidly left my food under a seat on the aeroplane then this was a good discovery.
The fairly modern hotel in Bruguières, in the suburbs of Toulouse, was adequate although there was some type of depot nearby and with the window slightly ajar my sleep was interrupted by roaring diesels all night.
DAY 2 Bruguiéres to Villefranche-de-Rouergue – 74 miles/1,300m of climbing
The next day was Monday morning redolent with rush hour traffic. There were a number of stops and starts as we attempted to find our route to the North East. It was good to be underway and soon we were truly on the open road and aiming for Gaillac. The weather was now in the early 20º’s and no rain in prospect. The lunch stop was a delight with French cuisine (ribs) from a small restaurant in the town centre. The locals were quaffing wine and beer but with so many miles to complete and the potential for dehydration then water was the lubrication.
One striking aspect of riding at this time of the year are the fragrances as you ride along from the crops, trees and flowers. We were en route to Villefranche-de-Rouergue and we were high up and rolling mainly through arable farmland. After Gaillac we came across the beautiful tourist town of Cordes-sur-Ciel, which is an ancient fortified town high on a hill. I had stayed here on a previous 2007 cycling tour. Climbing into the town was done in heavy rain but it soon disappeared and the sun came out for the rest of the day. We stopped for a coffee break and Tony took a couple of business calls (whilst I helpfully added my enormous business acumen on European food trends to his sum of knowledge).
Leaving Cordes-sur-Ciel we saw a stop for shoe repairs after a mean little climb for a mile. Back on the road there would occasionally be a long descent, which was a relief and delight but the ‘invoice’ was soon presented with a climb immediately when you reached the bottom of the hill. One such arose in 32ºC heat as we bottomed out at Saint-Martin-Laguépie. As soon as we crossed the River Tarn there began a one hour climb. It was all about a 4 to 8% gradient and I ground up in the granny gears very slowly. As all tourers know then you are praying that this is the last hill before you hit the top. Inevitably you turn a corner to find that there is more to come. I often watch the cars coming and going past – what gear are they in and how fast are they going? This can all point to whether they have experienced an immediate climb or descent.
Throughout the week I always stayed in touch with Tony when out on the road. This was a brutal project where you attack the day and cover the terrain whatever the weather, mileage or elevation. Tony had received his initiation in Derbyshire, Lancashire and Yorkshire last year with lots of miles, climbing, late finishes and changing routes. Surprisingly, he signed up for a further larger dose of exertion.
As I’d cycled over 1,200 miles this year and spent sometime in the Yorkshire Wolds climbing I was in good shape. Tony had been out training when he could but it seems most of his recent cycling had been in gyms in Shanghai, Melbourne, Dublin or Bogota whilst instructing millennials to locally best market their beer. He gets about. So you can take the view that I was his guardian angel ensuring that he was never left behind or abandoned. I, personally, would take the view that I was a nagging pain in the butt, often short of humour if he’d switched off his phone so that I couldn’t contact him or taken a turning that wasn’t fully ‘authorised’. It was on this climb from Saint-Martin-Laguépie that I came to rest wondering how far I was now ahead? – was it 5 minutes or 20 minutes? Did he have any water left? So I was just finishing leaving him a text message when he hauled into view much to my delight. He ate some of my precious stock of midget gems, took half of my remaining water and we pedalled on. I knew at this point he should be able to get through the week (but maybe I should wait less if he was going to eat my sweets).
Another glorious four mile descent took us into Villefranche-de-Rouergue and we eventually found a B&B. The room only had a double bed and so the landlady told us to go and have dinner whilst she swapped the beds around. This was no problem other than two very sweaty and weary men arriving at your restaurant wasn’t necessarily attractive. As regards conspicuous then apart from lycra shorts then one was wearing the Croatia home football shirt (red and white checks) and the other was in the leader’s jersey from the Giro d’Italia (pink). A full stomach of pasta, a couple of beers and a shower ensured that sleep came easily!
DAY 3 Villefranche-de-Rouergue to Saint Céré – 55miles/1,400m
After finishing the evening before in sunshine we awoke to rain and a fairly gloomy prospect from the bedroom window.
We bonded so closely with the landlady and her husband that we couldn’t shake them off at the door as we packed the bikes to set off the next morning. I blame Tony who can speak French reasonably: I find my limited school boy French soon makes the natives disperse. The road out of town was wide albeit with trucks but well surfaced and the miles were eaten up. I often stop to take photos and on one particular bend I was told by a shouting Dutch lady that I shouldn’t stand there; I was summoned to join her.
Margit was 50 something and domiciled in a small village near Figeac. With her husband, Fran, they’d bought a house 19 years ago and since retirement life seemed to be about landscaping, building, fitting, general construction and moaning about how unsocial the other expat Brits were. When Tony joined us we were invited to their house for a coffee. Why not? I stayed behind to take my photograph. I then discovered that their house was not ‘just off the main road’ and pedalled around for a long time up and down hills trying to find them. Out of the Seven Dwarves then I possibly resembled Grumpy when I eventually came to rest with the smiling Margit suggesting I had no sense of direction.
So we had a coffee and listened to Margit who amongst much information sharing enquired as to my age? Being hilarious I offered her three guesses. By her second guess she had suggested that I was 70 years old. To be positive then the age gap was coming down with each guess but I eschewed the last insult and told her my correct age. She was very proud of her former career in Holland showing international customers around various projects on the disposal of human waste. Mischievously I felt that Tony should now step forward and talk about his world class knowledge on beer. He absorbed this ‘ambulance pass’, with good grace, and as he expanded on my introduction Fran then volunteered that he had drunk most of the brands Tony had come across!
With time flying and the thought of lunch in Figeac we thanked them for their hospitality and headed down the proverbial (and literal) road, over the River Lot, and then into town for another splendid outside lunch in a pedestrian precinct at a small restaurant.
From here came a very tough afternoon as we climbed up from the River Célé valley. I failed to find the most direct route to our next stop. Fortunately Tony never detected the error as we climbed and meandered along minor roads in heavy rain. It was scenic and the only chance of seeing another car was if it was as lost as we were. By way of deflection when we pulled up for a discussion, on the weather, conditions of our legs and how far to go, I proffered him a Mars Bar. Never have I seen such a happy human being.
With my bearings re-established we found Lacapelle-Marival where we dried out by stopping for a coffee before the last push. The weather dried up and the scenery was hilly and rural with odd settlements, however, progress seemed slow. With yesterday’s climbing in the legs and with this latest bout of mountaineering I will never forget the large village of Leyme. It had a long main street that just got steeper until ascension and departure was only possible with the negotiation of a tight steep hairpin. This joy was accompanied by the obligatory dog ‘going off’ like a burglar alarm at my passing a large house and garden.
All over the world dogs sit in their gardens barely raising their head at the passing of aircraft, trucks cars, cats or walkers but as soon as a cyclist pedals past making no noise at all then something makes them go ballistic. (There may be money in identifying the chromosome that leads to this canine madness).
However after passing Leyme there was a long descent into a damp Saint Céré where an adequate hotel had been reserved via Booking.com. The small town had its charm and the next morning it looked like a busy and interesting place to hang around in despite the heavy rain. However the Dordogne now beckoned.
DAY 4 Saint Céré to Sarlat-la-Canéda – 54 miles/ 600m
Quickly we were enjoying the flat roads and made our first ‘pit stop’ for a coffee at a café run by a couple of Brits in Carrenac on the banks of the river. From here on very minor roads we trundled along the river. These were probably the quietest roads we’d found and through the trees we had the Dordogne on our right.
It was the type of route where trucks were advised not to use as their Sat Nav would let them down by picking an impassable route. This came to pass in Floirac where a truck was nearly wedged between two buildings. Tony established this from a local who reported that it was quite routine.
From here the road rose up and fell and we ended up on a sublime piece of road. This led us beside a large rock cliff and gave us fabulous views of the river. Somehow it seemed like the tour had been aiming to reach this very road such were the delightful views. Keeping on we reached Creysse where an omelette and as many French fries as a cyclist can possibly eat in one sitting were consumed.
The route to Sarlat involved a climb and we cycled past one of many monuments you can find in France to fallen members of the Resistance from the Second World War. I like the fact that these young people are still commemorated and their sacrifice is unquestionable but I’ve always harboured a feeling that, at best, some French had a very mixed war.
Sarlat was reached and it was clear that this was ‘Tourist Central’. Beautiful stone buildings with foreign tourists from farther afield, than Tooting and Acaster Malbis, were evident on what I suspect was their whirlwind tour of France. The ambience and attractiveness of the centre was clear but this was maybe not the France I came to find.
Certainly the hotel was not what I came to find. An internet booking went wrong and the hotel were simply intransigent. On discovering the room we wanted was not available, at the price I booked it for, cancellation wasn’t allowed. Paying another €50 seemed the only solution. I argued the toss but made no progress and in fact was made to feel quite shoddy and a bit of a ‘chancer’ by the manager. Anyway the next morning we paid and left. The upshot was this testimonial I left on Trip Advisor. Booking.com gave me half the ‘overcharge’ back in compensation. Frankly I still don’t know what I really did wrong.
This unpleasantness meant that we decided not to have a rest day in Sarlat but moved onto Bergerac. However, the town did offer up the best breakfast of the tour – it was the usual bread, croissants, coffee and juice but this seemed more plentiful and fresh.
DAY 5 Sarlat-la-Canéda to Bergerac – 46 miles/500m
You might think that riding along the Dordogne would be flat but unfortunately that isn’t the way it works out. We kept to the main road, which wasn’t too busy. There were continuing delights to see including Beynac-et-Cazenac.
After a Croque Madame (cheese on toast with a fried egg on top) in Lalinde we sped into Bergerac. Earlier I’d been sat in a layby ringing a bike shop in York about my front wheel bearings when Tony sped past. I called to him yet such was his concentration and gusto he didn’t hear me. Later harnessing this graft I ‘sat on his wheel’ into Bergerac and marvelled at how he was getting into this touring lark with all the road cyclist deft moves that help you cope with traffic, hazards and still maximise speed.
I’d stayed at the Hotel de Bordeaux, in Bergerac in 2007 and 1997 and so it was familiar albeit much improved. It was spacious and a good place to come to rest after the hard miles.
Day 5 Rest Day
Yesterday’s Stage winner appeared in the room the next morning with a cup of coffee and orange juice for my consumption. It helped me get over the loss of the midget gems (a little bit). From here a lazy day ensued of bike cleaning, a trip to a bike shop to get my front wheel bearings checked over and a short ride to the edge of the town for Tony to increase his wardrobe at Decathlon. Another fabulous outdoor meal confirmed our satisfaction with Bergerac as a rest day stop.
Me and Cyrano – an uncanny resemblance?
Day 6 Bergerac to Valence d’Agen – 69 miles/ 900m
Thoughts were turning to home and the need to get south. To this end we made a beeline for Agen before heading from here east to Valence d’Agen. As it was Saturday the traffic was light and as the sun beat down (it touched 38ºC). This peak coincided with being directed off the main road onto a side road due to bicycles being prohibited. It was one of those tortuous minor roads that offered endless steep climbs.
If there are a couple of things about my time with Tony that I should report then it is that he gained an appreciation of McDonalds and had begun to swear like a navvy. Being from Italian stock and South London then fast food was a deplorable development until he worked out that whenever you stopped the place was air conditioned, had clean toilets, a safe place to lean your bike, low prices, efficient wi-fi, quick food and didn’t require a major deviation off route. (On a serious note though I am still amazed at all the packaging that comes along with a meal eaten in the restaurant. So much paper, tissue, plastic and wrappers – they really need to pick up their game). As for the swearing then I can safely say that I for one never uttered a profanity or expressed displeasure at drivers, hoteliers, oiks on noisy motorcycles, rain, hills or dogs. I’m not sure what set him off (cough).
Agen was busy and industrial but Valence came into view shortly afterwards. I cycled to the centre and booked a room in the only hotel in town. This was a super place with lots of space and a good price. After a hot day in the saddle the Leffe beer went down well as did the pizza at the only restaurant open on a Saturday night in the town?
Day 7 Valence d’Agen to Toulouse Blagnac Airport – 53 miles/ 170m
The manager re-appeared the next day to serve our breakfast. In the night there had been a dramatic thunder and lightning storm and she described the noise and light by the delicate phrase of “fuck”. Which is what Tony and I thought when this petite and attractive young lady suddenly uttered the word. It transpired her English lexicon had been expanded by a year in Beckenham as a chef!
The ride began on a canal tow path that was beyond exquisite as a start to the day. For much of the way it ran beside the River Garonne. Dodging the twigs scattered on the path after the storm we made steady but slow progress. Along the way were lots of middle aged ladies walking with hiking sticks and the odd fisherman enjoying the solace and hopefully biting fish. Locks came at regular intervals but seldom a moving boat. We discovered that this was because they were all moored up in Moissac. A morning market was drawing crowds as we passed through.
It wasn’t a difficult ride to the Airport but I thought that we were going too slowly. We needed to have insurance against problems on the road and have enough time at the airport for dismantling and packing the bikes. So we used the quiet roads to get to our destination.
I’m still surprised by how many shops are open on Sunday in France nowadays. In a boulangerie we bought some sustenance and came across this birthday cake. I hope the driver was gentle on the brakes and corners as they took it home!
Packing the bikes was always going to be a chore. First you have to repack your panniers because you can only take one in the cabin. Then you have to break the bike down, protect it and put it in a bag. This took an hour. At check in the airline then said that we could only put the bike in the bag and not a pannier and so we had to re-pack! I have to say easyJet were reasonable and we were allowed to take two cabin bags at no extra cost.
Eventually we got rid of the bikes and grabbed a bite to eat. The next challenge was going through Security with a bag full of tools, metal pedals and other chunky objects. We both got singled out for detailed bag inspection – my heart sank. My inspector pulled out my Swiss penknife and muttered ‘bicyclette’ under her breath to explain this stuff and put it back! Even I was expecting confiscation.
Due to those nice people in French Air Traffic Control we were late taking off and getting to Luton but it went without a hitch. Back in Blighty I helped Tony assemble his steed and then we parted – him for the train and me for the multi-storey car park.
There is a movement of angry souls who feel that the ‘Big Three’ record companies have hijacked Country music (and Nashville) and now clog US radio with ‘Bro-Country’. This sub-genre is where the money is and it is maddeningly narrow in terms of gender, type of tune, instrumentation or lyrical content.
As I step back and look at the artists – usually photogenic males between 25 to 35 years old – I temper my disappointment as not every chart success coming from Thomas Rhett, Sam Hunt and Brett Young is unacceptable. However like an invasive species of animal it has evicted artists who are certainly female and purvey anything approaching the historic legacy of Hank, Merle, Johnny or Dolly. That is, a three minute soap opera of a story, lashings of pedal steel or any deviation from sub-Rock n’ Roll.
Maybe in another place I should expand on the failure of traditional Country music to remain contemporary rather than blaming some fat cat record executive, on the 31st floor of a sky scraper, who has no appreciation of the heritage and is funding vacuous ditties about tight black dresses, cold beer and pick up trucks (on a Saturday night).
If keepers of the flame are in retreat then there still are signs of life. Chris Stapleton, Jason Isbell, Sturgill Simpson, Margot Price and Lee Ann Womack are shifting considerable units whilst self righteously declaiming Nashville. Some recent music from the above has been fabulous but I’m taken with the emergence of the songwriters getting in front of the microphone rather than their clients.
Brandy Clark is now well known and ploughing her own furrow whilst being accepted on her own terms. Exceptional music presented in a very understated way with few frills, rock riffs, photo shoots or sponsors selling fried chicken (Reba, what were you thinking?). Other interesting songwriter releases in 2017 came from Kendell Marvel, Travis Meadows and Radney Foster. However, Erin Enderlin’s wondrous 2017 USA release Whiskeytown Crier is a tonic for those losing their faith about the absence of exquisite talent writing and singing traditional Country music. In June 2018 it makes its UK debut.
Enderlin has already had some compositions picked up and made popular by Alan Jackson, Luke Bryan and Lee Ann Womack but it is timely for her to get some personal recognition.The simple arrangements and instrumentation takes us back to the 1990’s with just enough accompaniment to leave the vocals and sentiment as your focus. If you were looking for an album dripping with staggering Country melodies saturated with melodrama and heartbreak then surely this is it.
She’s been a Nashville resident for nearly 15 years and has called on some very illustrious friends to help her. Jamey Johnson has had a hand in the production and former flat mate Chris Stapleton lends his vocal talents to a couple of songs.
“Baby Sister” starts the album with that mischievous Brandy Clark “Stripes” vibe. Her sister has problems with her disappearing with her former beau:
“See, my sister Gina, she always was the pretty one Just like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s She coulda had any man so I thought he was just another one Till that no tell motel shotgun epiphany”
She turns up with a pistol to break up the tryst. An assertive vocal with a flat drum beat starts with her laying out the case for the defence whilst name checking Reba and setting the Country music landscape of motels, firearms, potential hospitalisation and the volatile nature of relatives. Add a killer chorus and you have a winner.
The single “Ain’t It Just Like A Cowboy” places us in a world of heartbreak and resignation as she expands on the reality of sharing her man. In four and a half minutes we get a whole Box Set of pain where the characters reveal themselves. Ultimately his fake affection is accepted with Enderlin reflecting that maybe the failure is hers. It is all beautifully told with her strong and expressive voice accompanied by an acoustic guitar. The chorus hails a tasteful pedal steel and harmonies. The pace and finger prints of Jamey Johnson seem to be all across the track.
“When Broken’s All You Know” picks up the threads of two lost and reckless souls in a relationship from the wrong side of the tracks. She leads us through the inevitability of fracture and the decision to give away her child so that it has the best chance of escaping the downward spiral their lives follow. On this slow paced acoustic classic she gives her most accomplished vocal performance; it’s incredible that she hasn’t found the charts herself. Stapleton shares the harmonies.
“His Memory Walks On Water” deliciously reveals her Southern accent. A lyric starts with a man’s death and the longing that his daughter has for a positive memory. This tragic yet distorted recollection of him has him “like John Wayne in a Cadillac” despite the reality that he was pretty useless and a drunk. It is Country music pathos played out with pedal steel and your heart strings.
I could keep describing each song, as they are all as captivating. She co-wrote them all barring the two covers. Those illustrate her references with Gram Parson’s “Hickory Wind” and “’Til I Can Make It On My Own” co-written and made popular by Tammy Wynette. On the latter she manages to bring that world weary yet resilient determination that the original had.
If you been waiting for the brilliant ladies of Country music to re-appear with gold then you’re patience has been rewarded. This would nestle comfortably alongside anything by Trisha Yearwood, Lee Ann Womack, Nanci Griffiths and the best of early Reba McEntire. Guess what’s at the top of my ‘end of year list’ at the moment!
With TV personalities Ben Turnbull and Stephen Fry going public on their battle with prostrate cancer it is something that crosses the mind of all men of a certain age. In fact a dear ex-brother in law has been dealing with this challenge for some time. Like most readers then I can think of at least 5 other friends with the condition. So when urinary issues arise and you feel should go to the doctor it is not the happiest event. I trooped in and despite reassurance that the tests for prostrate cancer and possible diabetes were precautions then I went through a difficult 10 days before I sat in front of him again to hear the results. The upshot was that I was fine as regards the big questions. Some things had changed and pills were prescribed. Frankly I’m not sure if I’ll take the pills as I’m just so damn glad that I’m as well as I am. As everyone says then you need to be vigilant and pro-active about these matters. You do.
I don’t have much affection for small animals (although I did enjoy my daughters when they were under three foot tall) yet I am grateful to puffins. The present Mrs Ives is very sniffy about a ride in the Morgan. The lure of the wind in her hair, a country pub and the admiring glances from all and sundry doesn’t overcome the cramped space, the nigh on yoga position to exit the car or the absence of suspension. However the Yorkshire chapter of the Morgan Sports Car Club circulated details on a trip to Bempton on the East Coast to have a spot of lunch and view various birdies: she was very enthusiastic. Heaven forbid there aren’t any there.
My Southern daughter has an expensive taste in champagne. Despite celebrating her birthday with Prosecco I was despatched by my first wife to Waitrose, with the Favourite Eldest Daughter (FED), to buy a ‘proper drink’. Bollinger was on offer. Unsurprisingly it was sold out by the time we reached the aisle and so we selected some Pol Roger at the discounted (!) price of £37.50. Of course you know that it was Winston Churchill’s favourite champagne. If it’s good enough fro Winnie then it was good enough for FED.
She does dip in her pocket on occasion and with her sister (FYD) she took her mother and I to afternoon tea at Claridges. It is a truly delightful setting with attentive service where seemingly nothing is too much trouble. There were endless sandwiches and cakes as well as a glass or two of champagne (again!). This was our second visit and it was as wonderful as before and I expect it won’t be our last trip either.
What’s the fuss over a Blue passport? Who doesn’t have one (or a cravate)?
Steve Jessney of Nothin’ But The Blues fame on Vixen 101 had a spare ticket for a gig in Hull and we went across for a splendid blues night with Ian Siegal. I was stood there thinking that I should be making notes on the artist and then submitting the copy to The Americana Music Show or Country Music People but I decided to have the night off. With his whiskey and cigarette voice he worked his way through a brilliant set with some fabulous guitar playing by his sideman, Dusty Ciggaar. He’s toured the UK many times and opined that the towns he had visited over the years had changed. Some of the rougher towns such as Liverpool, Belfast and Hull were now gentrified in their appearance. I think he was a little rueful and so was I.
Pick ups? As a man who likes the odd Country Music song then maybe I should be happy about the increasing number of pick ups trundling through our city centres? I’m just bemused at their UK popularity. They have minimal practicality and fuel efficiency. As regards having useful storage facility then they are limited and the space is exposed. (In North America, in the summer, when it rains then an hour later it’s dry and anything you put in the back isn’t damaged or stolen. In the UK this is hardly the case). The size is inappropriate for UK roads and parking bays. Yes, they are bright and shiny and go like hell but to think that there are some tax advantages for the tradesman who is showing off with a fast lorry for his weekend shopping is infuriating. At the moment the choice is limited but if every sparky or farmer buys one then the manufacturers will launch a wider choice, reduce prices and we’ll have more of these things. In the USA the most profitable vehicle Ford sell is their F-150 pick up. You’ve been warned.
So you roll into a bar and on stage is your dream band. They’re loud, irreverent, tight, menacing and probably on the wrong side of too many shots of whiskey. Welcome to Ben Bostick and his sublime band (Hellfire Boys) on his second album, Hellfire. However this isn’t just a bunch of good time journeymen troubadours; Bostick is the real deal.
Bostick put together this album after a residency at a bar in LA and it fits the forte of the band perfectly. John Would (Warren Zevon and Fiona Apple) co-produced the album and the ‘live’ feel is evident from the first song. This sound was achieved by the band arranging themselves in a circle in the studio and playing live, without headphones, using stage monitors to hear the vocals. I was transported to Memphis, Sun Studios, as the energy hits you in waves like a series of short jabs.
However, it was in California that this South Carolina raised tour de force recorded these eleven tracks. You get the full nine yards of Americana – Country, Rock, Rockabilly and probably other sub genres that I’m not sufficiently engaged in to drag out here. Bostick’s other talents lie in being able to pen a superb lyric. He’s an English graduate with credentials in creative writing. Don’t worry – he doesn’t get precious but has an ability to find a killer couplet and perfect description.
“No Show Blues”starts the album with an off key plaintive howl.
“I’m gonna go to the bank and cash out my account
Drive straight to the tavern and drink a disgusting amount
Spin my pistol and baby you better look out
Cuz wherever it points I’m coming to your town”
And welcome to the band – Kyle LaLoneon guitar shows his chops with a sizzling guitar solo as Luke Miller on a Nicky Hopkins-esque honky tonk piano adds flourishes in front of the driving rhythm of Cory Tramontelli’s bass and Perry Morris’ drumming.A wicked start.
If that was Americana then we’re headed for pure Johnny Cash Country with the title track, “Hellfire”. If you check the internet you’ll see a wonderful Bostick rendition of “Folsom PrisonBlues” and he brings a lot of that vocal and phrasing to this composition. The feel is just right not least with those thrashy and thumping drums. The lyrics are sublime with a 1960’s story of cold feet at the prospect of marriage and the dissolute solution of getting drunk in-between trips to church seeking redemption for his sinful ways! “Tornado” continues this style but this time he plays the hapless victim of a gal whose impact is this type of inclement weather.
“No Good Fool” is probably the most commercial song with his rich baritone tones warning his paramours that he’s good fun for the night but less reliable as a long term prospect. Maintaining that high energy the band cooks with Miller adding organ to the piano which continues to add texture and interest to the whole sonic picture.
“The Outsider” has angular guitar and deep resonating bass, which is more Iggy Pop than Music Row and pulls together the attitude of the album. This is how Bostick feels about himself and he’s said that in the confusion of what really constitutes Country music these days then maybe this is where his music falls. If you like your Country to have a slightly jagged edge with its feet definitely in contemporary Americana then pull up a seat; you will feast long and hard.
Some of the best Country tracks released in 2018 are to be found on this album by Nashville domiciled Texan, Ross Cooper. If you start with the fact that Cooper raised $21k via crowd funder website Kickstarter to get this album promoted then you obviously won’t find the fingerprints of a major record label across it. However it is only a matter of time before they come calling.
The twelve short tracks are a cross between mainstream Nashville Country and Americana Country Rock, although the PR threw up Alt-Western as the genre. That somehow seems to fit the atmospheric title track with its cinematic vista of horses, tumbleweed, rodeos and bars. Cooper had an earlier career as a bronco rider and writes with considerable experience of the lifestyle, travel and injuries. He relays this through the thoughts of a retired rider reflecting on the highs and lows but taking considerable satisfaction at the thrill of his tussle with unharnessed nature. Eric Masse produced the album and he’s been accumulating experience with some stellar artists. This included working on Miranda Lambert’s The Weight Of These Wings. Along with his talent on the dials he brings a fabulous selection of Nashville musicians. It’s here that we first hear the incendiary and heavy guitar of Jeremy Fetzer as he sets the track alight with a blistering solo toward the end.
Cooper slips easily between light and shade. “Another Mile” is a fast paced acoustic pop tune where a pleasing chorus is supported by being driven along by a band of guitar, keyboard, pedal steel and drums. However, the sweetest traditional Country outing is ‘Lady Of The Highway’. Cooper lays down his homage to travel on the road. Eddy Dunlap’s delightful pedal steel gives the song charm and personality. Take note this should be at the very top of the Country charts NOW.
“Strangers In The Bar” intimately clues you in on a routine pick up and sounds like Kip Moore over a throbbing beat. The words are succinct – ‘And you should come with a warning, you’ll be alone in the morning. Fishing for the first of many drinks, Hooking fools on the first of many winks.’ We feel that ‘busy life on the road vibe’ and its loneliness. Here two people find temporary solace in each other’s arms after a seemingly well rehearsed pas de deux.
A rolling rhythm against a backdrop of organ accompanies the final track “All She Wrote”. He recounts the terseness of his lover’s moving message of goodbye. Ironically he finds all this out as he reads her note (that he forgot to open half a day earlier) where she tells him that it ‘doesn’t feel like she’s leaving, cause you can’t leave a man already gone.’ Short, impactful and armed witha great hook.
His distinctive and attractive vocals are always able to sound rowdy but he can find that slower Country tender heartbreak tone. Each track is beautifully crafted and there is just so much damn catchiness about it all that you may have withdrawal symptoms.
Lastly, in a recent interview Cooper says about the music business “It changes every day, but I’d say for most artists like me there’s always a struggle with giving an audience a reason to care. It’s not enough being a good singer-songwriter anymore because there’s so much music out there that’s great. You have to be constantly working and constantly moving”. This is true, but, Ross, trust me they will care. You’ve absolutely nailed it here.
Abu Dhabi is part of the United Arab Emirates. It isn’t running out of money anytime soon with 9% of the world’s reserves of oil and 5% of its gas . However, it is a very small piece of desert with a coast line in a very hot place where a lot of concrete has now been poured. As part of the diversification (for the day when we heat our houses by solar panels or drive our electric cars) they have developed a tourism business.
Anna booked the Sofitel Corniche and it was very much 5 stars with wall to wall smiling, beautifully groomed and trained staff and luxurious and attractive facilities. We’d planned to find some winter sun. It could be argued that we were late in the season but the “Beast Of The East’ had made the preceding weeks icy in the UK and some genuine heat was in order.
It has to be said that there isn’t a lot to do other than lounge about beside a hotel pool. Granted there are shopping malls although they are around 20% more expensive than the UK. An offshoot of The Louvre was to be found. I understand that most of the exhibits of these large museums/galleries are kept in storage and so no doubt finding another outlet seems good business. Ferrari World wasn’t a gigantic car museum but a themed park with rides – at £60 a pop to enter and maybe a little too long in the tooth then we weren’t interested.
So first it was about getting into the swing of hotel living. The first bemusing thing is getting into the lift/elevator and riding 30 floors whilst avoiding eye contact and communication with all the other occupants. However, on exit you then turn to the people you’ve ignored and say ‘goodbye’. Other adjustments were alcohol. In the hotel a pint of lager clocked in at £9. We, later, had access to a free Happy Hour in a Lounge that overcame this potentially ruinous state of affairs.
Leaving the UK is not what it was with a blackout of news from home a couple of decades ago. The Internet and TV provide all the current affairs you can absorb. Sadly this coverage extended to sport and even the coverage of the Aston Villa versus Leeds game – is there no escape from a disastrous season? However some Premiership football and a Grand Prix were better entertainment. Communication with our progeny, Katrina and Sophie, was eventually resolved despite FaceTime and Skype being unusable. Apparently there are encryption disputes with the Government and Apple can’t be bothered to fix them. We used the call facility on WhatsApp. Some of the calls proved illuminating as Katrina explained that at her party she was playing ‘pass the parcel’. In between the layers of paper were sweets and a condom. The prize was unmentionable in pleasant company. I can’t tell you how much we spent on her education, where did it all go wrong?
Food was copious and delicious. We ate in the hotel and also out and about. Breakfast is always the big treat that you seldom fashion at home in the same way – fresh fruit (pineapple, melon, segments of grapefruit, segments of orange, kiwi fruit etc.) , followed by croissants or cereal with ground coffee before a leisurely stroll up to the counter (again) for an omelette or some pancakes. After this you need some exercise and via two pedestrian underpasses we were 200m from the front. Here was a large promenade with joggers, cyclists, some fishermen and a few children. We enjoyed feeling virtuous by walking a few kilometres. On a couple of occasions we took advantage of some ‘Boris bikes’. They enabled us to get further and not least find a café for some iced coffee. We learned to ensure that they didn’t add sugar! Abu Dhabi has a sweet tooth and cakes were everywhere and all the soft drinks seemed too sweet.
I should have known this, I’d been here before. Back in the day (early noughties) at Moores we did quite a lot of business with a contractor/studio in the town. These exports were several hundreds of £000’s per year and we were glad to have it. Our contact was Lebanese and he wasn’t beyond the odd unconventional arrangement. The first I recollect was that he overpaid for deliveries. This largesse was because after we took the correct amount from the transaction he requested that we placed the balance in a UK bank account – his! The second thing was that he had a Kitchen Designer in the office, who was an employee and wife of another colleague. He brought her to the UK for kitchen design training (along with her very young child) . If the ‘cat was out of the bag’ that they were more than colleagues it came to light when over dinner they were feeding each other dessert with their respective spoons and also retired very early!
In fact in the UAE 99% of the workforce are expat. The 1% of Arabs who work tend to be in the public sector and can be found in the Government departments, airports, police and no doubt counting their money as they manage the Indians, Filipinos, Pakistanis and Europeans who run the country. Out of a population of 9 million in the UAE then 60% are expats with no legal domicile rights or any chance to get citizenship. Remarkably there are 1.8m Indians, 1.2m Pakistanis, 0.6m Filipinos and 0.5m Bangladeshis in the Emirates.
You can’t overlook the fact that they are keeping their respective homelands afloat with all the money they send back. It seems many have been in Abu Dhabi for decades. Our porter from Bangladesh had been in the Emirates for 10 years, our Filipino hostess in the Lounge had been in the country three years; she was busy sending money back home to educate her siblings. Lastly, Richard out taxi driver was Ugandan. He calculated that he would earn a quarter of what he earned in Abu Dhabi back home as a teacher. This seems so sad to waste such talent. He had plans to buy a farm at home and he’d calculated that was where the money was.
Richard had brought us back from the Yas Mall. This is a cavernous construction near the F1 Grand Prix Track, Ferrari World and, not least, IKEA. (When it came to lunch my wife did suggest a quick trip into the furniture store but I could live without meatballs for a few days!) The Mall had all the major brands but, as I’ve said, the prices were uninteresting but it is an worthwhile visit.
Not nearly as interesting as The Grand Mosque. This is a sumptuous construction and despite the numbers of visitors had a great calm and coolness about it. Anna was made to dress appropriately: unfortunately there was no retail outlet for me to buy this outfit for her. In fact our Mosque guide explained the traditional dress (unconvincingly).
It goes something like – back in the day the men worked in the sun and needed white robes. With no money left then the women were stuck with cheaper black material. Nowadays they can wear white if they want, and I did see one woman at the airport dressed thus. However the reality is that they don’t. Similarly it was explained that women worshipped separately because the men had to touch shoulders in the Mosque and also prostrate themselves. This was inappropriate between the sexes – I had hoped for some dissent from the gathered emancipated Western ladies, unfortunately my eldest daughter was back in London (wrapping condoms).
The guide, for all the frailty of these explanations in the 21st Century, did have a sense of humour. He showed us a monumental 8 ton chandelier in the centre and after explaining the lighting and weight did comment that in his early days he’d taken his grandmother around the Mosque. She’d not asked a question about the grandeur, King Zayed who instructed and paid for its building, the types of marble from Italy, Macedonia and China or where the carpet had come (Iran) from but did ask how they cleaned this huge suspended chandelier!
Of all the things I found impressive after the splendour of this ‘palace’ was the explanation of Islam to us ‘infidels’. It was gently paced and informative. I am not a Christian but why don’t tourists get taken around (the magnificent) St Paul’s in London (for free) with an explanation of the faith it represents? Are we ashamed?
Taking taxis was the norm. It came as a shock to find women taxi drivers in this male dominated society. The cars were a mixture of high end European models and Japanese for everything else. I still scratch my head at what happened to the British motor industry in the 1970’s. We used to export all around the world and in what seems like months that all collapsed and the Japanese moved in. Forty or fifty years later they still saturate the market with cars, vans, buses, trucks and 4 x 4s.
So in between our daily trip out I spent time in the gym clocking up a few miles on a bike or groaning on the hamstring curl apparatus. I was even found in the hotel pool – I think this is the first time I’ve been in a pool on holiday for about 15 years (yes, ‘Tony’s most dull fact of the report’). I liked to stroll around the expats shops in the town (Anna less so!) and I could understand the mobile phone and computer shops – these folk needed to talk to home. I could see why you’d need laundry services but why so many stationery shops? I have never seen so many shops selling paper, ball point pens, pencil erasers or staplers – what is going on?
Children seem very welcome and with an absence of alcohol then it works better with them for eating out. There were plenty of facilities for playing and no one seemed put out by their presence (apart from me). Safety was guaranteed. Despite poor urban lighting and shady alleys then single women jogged in the gloom, people wore their finery and jewellery in public places and respect was shown for all. In fact I think this is where we were once upon a time in the UK. When I am amongst this calm and respect I want to live in places like this.
Not all went to plan. After breakfast I left my mobile/cell phone on the breakfast table. My minder (Anna) retrieved this and handed it to me as I was entering the Lift/Elevator. The closing door hit my hand and the phone fell miraculously into the gap between the lift and the lobby. So 43 floors or ⅓rd of a mile later the phone came to rest at the bottom of the shaft. You may be unsurprised to learn that it no longer worked! Anyway the hotel retrieved the pieces and I was left with the job of sorting out a replacement back in Blighty.
The flight was a scheduled 7 hours each way, which is more than enough flying in Economy in less than a week. On the return flight there were UK based Commonwealth athletes from the England, Northern Ireland and Isle of Man teams. Whilst waiting for the loo I ended up talking to a girl who was resplendent in the kit. “So did you compete?” “Basketball” “Oh, did you win a medal?” Silver”. At this point I felt a complete plonker.
My other flight victim was the passenger sat next to me. He was a lad who was brought up in Grimsby but was an Albanian Kosovan (some might say that wasn’t a lucky escape). He was fascinating and we discussed the Balkans war, language, relations with Serbia, local food and football – I suspect the flight might have been longer than 7 hours for him! Overall a splendid break.
I go quite a long way back with Whitby. We used to own a flat there and still the family has considerable affection for the little former fishing town on the Yorkshire coast. I know it on so many levels – restaurants, best bike rides, best pubs, mini golf, walks up to The Abbey and the type of folk who holiday there.
I was invited to go across and join an old friend and his pals. They turn up every year, stay at his apartment and partake of serious exercise and even more serious drinking! I joined on Stage 2 of this two day tour. It is about 50 miles away from our home and the weather was desperate. Snow, ice and unbelievably cold. In our British weather forecasts we now have a new description of hell, namely, ‘chill factor’.
The ‘old friend’, Peter, is a skinny and fit Wearsider who lives in Edinburgh but works in London. At the age of around 56 he’s made the decision to retire. He’s a little giddy about taking the yoke off in July and starting to get under his wife’s feet. In fact a wild guess as to why he decided to abandon the Ministry of Defence procurement effort was the probable insistence of Alison to do up and sell the 15 or so bicycles languishing in his garage. Another two wheeled project includes firing up a motorcycle that hasn’t been run for 5 years. Knowing Peter I expect the garage might have 20 bicycles in it by Christmas.
The second of the party is Mike. A taller and wider unit but, like Peter, a very keen cyclist and walker. He’s just retired in his late 50’s and has come back from a month in Vietnam. (Ideal warm weather training for a quick break in Yorkshire). Mike had a successful career in construction management and now seems to be in perpetual motion on holiday. I think I’d not be maligning Mike to say he likes to party.
Poor old William, the last of the Three Musketeers, is still working. However, this is a price you have to pay for being a lot younger than everyone else. Looking lean and fit he works in Finance. If this sounds onerous then when you add that he’s a Motherwell fan you can but marvel at how he copes.
I suppose I must add, as they will complain otherwise, that this gathering, which usually includes William’s brother Andrew, is called ‘FBA’. No I’m not going to explain other than ‘A’ stands for Association and Mike’s in charge of toilets.
Anyway I got there whilst the chaps were attempting an impersonation of Lawrence ‘Titus’ Oates on the famous Scott of the Antarctic expedition of 1910. You may recollect he made the ultimate sacrifice by venturing out of his tent intending that his colleagues could push on toward safety without him as a burden. Their trauma included a long walk in the North Yorkshire Moors that included horizontal wind blowing icy snow into their faces. On getting back to the car they had anxiety as it uncontrollably slipped down steep treacherous roads.
(Subsequent BBC News reported that on the same afternoon, nearby, an ultra marathon was abandoned with Mountain Rescue teams retrieving souls. There were 30 runners treated for hyperthermia. A spokesman for Cleveland Mountain Rescue said “The wind was blowing snow across and it was very cold, with the wind chill it could have been around -8°C”).
With cheery stories they eventually got back to Whitby ready to defrost and party. These Scots are hard.
Most groups would dress up for a night on the town but it would be fair to say that the FBA looked smarter after a day in sub zero temperatures on the moors than they did as they strode out into the frozen night. All our kids and wives would not have been impressed. Old blokes left to their own devices do not reach for their best clothes.
The first port of call was ‘The Endeavour’. For those who don’t know the history then Whitby’s most famous son, James Cook, sailed to Australasia in said ship. It was here that he discovered New Zealand and Western Australia. It was a long way to go in a ship that had a shallow draft. This was in order to land on beaches and had been designed to carry coal from Newcastle to London in the 18th century. Jimbo made it until his 50th birthday before being killed by natives on a Hawaiian beach.
The pub was buzzing as we claimed our seats and put £20 each into the kitty. William held this money. (He’d been allocated the job of Quartermaster and Bursar by the FBA. He was given a title which I forget. With this responsibility came a large plastic bag for holding the change). He was despatched to the bar as the elder members of the Association found a seat.
I shall never forget the delight that spread across their faces as I invited them to take a proffered biro. After this came my quiz sheets. At this unexpected development Peter’s face assumed the kind of confused contortion that a person has if you ask them to perform the mental arithmetic of dividing 16.69 by 5.275. However he brightened up when he saw that the first 10 questions were about the ways to ride a bicycle faster (according to the June 6 2013 Cycling Weekly magazine).
The other 10 questions were placing the multiple choice birthplaces to leading British politicians. It was bad news for Scottish Labour as none of the two Scots or the Englishman, domiciled up there, had heard of him! William smashed the quiz with 6 out of 20. He looked humbled by his prize of 5 Cadbury Creme Eggs. For these services, like in the New Years Honours awards, I was bestowed with the moniker of ‘Biro Meister’. (I never did establish Peter’s title but let’s say Managing Director as well as Hotelier, Chauffeur and Entertainments Secretary).
After this distraction there was a long haggle about who would go next door and buy the fish and chips. ‘The Endeavour’ allow patrons to bring their take away meals into the pub. I’d like to say Mike gave in gracefully but in reality he was harangued into it. Off he trudged with the kitty/plastic bag and the requirement for 3 haddock, one cod and two mushy peas.
Katy, on holiday, then made the fatal mistake of planting herself in Mike’s vacated spot and was relieved of her life story by Peter and myself. A charity worker from Leeds she was married to Stephen who worked for a biscuit company. She passed this section of the assessment and we were just progressing to the ‘best three things about your marriage?’ when Mike returned with the dinner and also got to know Katy (see the photo -answers on a postcard as to why he was dressed like that).
So after about 3 or 4 pints in (I was starting to blur) and with a bloke strumming The Killers back catalogue painfully in a corner I was separated from a useful supply of draft Brew Dog Punk IPA and led into the night. I was discovering that amongst this revelry was an annual routine and a plan where deviation was not an option. So trudging across the bridge that joins the north and south of Whitby across the mighty Esk we proceeded to ‘The Elsinore’. It was here that I made the acquaintance of Camerons Strongarm – the beer, not a person.
Mik was on microphone and sang with a taped backing track. And as if by magic Disco men appeared. Mike morphed into a younger Bruno Tonioli, albeit one who had spent his formulative years playing rugby league: large, agile and yet menacing. William worryingly looked and danced like the little bloke from Bronski Beat with the high pitched voice: energetic and frenetic. Peter became the ‘Love Machine’: irressistable to the fairer sex and it has to be said that as the night ended then he wouldn’t be sleeping alone (more later).
In the scheme of things then Mik played and sang good tunes but had a tendency to take a break when the dance floor was heaving and things were in full swing. He offered no reasons for his surprising departures but I suspect it may have been a matter of stamina or a desire to have a Woodbine and pint.
And yourself Herr Biro Meister? As for dancing then the comment I once read in Record Collector magazine comes to mind. The guitarist of a famous American band was asked, amongst several questions, ‘what would get him up and dancing at a wedding?’ he replied ‘a shotgun’. So I jigged about looking like my feet were stuck to floor with a bonding agent yet the top of my body was attempting to run to the door with a series of lunges and spasms.
Peter’s strategy paid off handsomely as Dave, a complete stranger, bought us all a drink (a little to our embarrassment). Dave was having a great time in our company and wanted to say thank you. Dave and Margaret, under earlier interrogation, revealed that after his wife’s death he’d been out and about with his sister when socialising. Her pal Margaret tagged along. Things progressed so that they became an item and now he was in ‘The Elsinore’ smiling as Peter entertained his wife. There are a number of photographs of Peter acting as a babe magnet:
Not all questioning was well received. One patron reacted badly to my enquiring as to what he did for a living and what was his favourite music? He complained that he felt he was being interviewed for a job. William, sensing tension, quickly intervened to smooth things over. I think the Russians would call this a ‘distraction strategy’.
I wisely kept quiet although I was tempted to add that “we thanked him for attending and that we’d be in touch next week to tell him if he was the candidate who most closely matched our needs”.
Finishing with some Bob Marley then Mik declared that he needed to stop (probably to facilitate a blood transfusion) and so we said our goodbyes and headed back to the flat. Mike was detailed to supervise the elderly on the short walk back. I’m afraid whilst he did help me up then he didn’t stop me slipping on a steep icy patch and I ended up on my backside. I think that alcohol may have added to the treacherous weather as a problem…
However after having self medicated, to remove pain, with Brew Dog and Camerons then it wasn’t until the next day when I discovered a pulled quadricep. My memory was now completely fading as William opened some red wine. Fortunately the flat beneath was empty as a Scottish chorus bellowed out Belter by Gerry Cinammon, being played loudly through the sound system, he is a young man who hails from Glasgow. Who says Scottish culture doesn’t travel?
At sometime after 1 am, the Duracell batteries had run flat for the FBA bunnies and things ground to a halt.
Peter’s double bed partner you ask? Err… me. Apparently I got the nod over Mike (which may explained why he was a little miffed). He wriggles too much in bed. I must remember to wriggle more next time so William gets promoted.
Next day a manly walk up the pier blew away the cob webs on what was another bitterly cold and windy morning. ‘The Marine’ served up a splendid breakfast. Two of the party were begrudging about eating a ‘Full English’. By way of retaliation, they enjoyed pointing out England’s loss to Ireland in the rugby the day before.
What a joy! James Scott Bullard has delivered a Southern Rock album par excellence and the title says it all – Full Tilt Boogie. “Lord Have Mercy” is an electrifying start with a soaring lead guitar with slide fills and Bullard’s Country vocal delivery. In the mix we get a bass line so deep it needs a mining permit and following we get the rumble of the Hammond organ as it introduces a perfectly drilled backing chorus.
This is a band you have to hear: together they fit like a glove. Can they boogie? Oh yes! Bullard on rhythm guitar, Jeff Springs on lead guitar and Kevin Singleton’s bass are a force to be reckoned with. This selection of hard-hitting rock songs is self penned and was recorded in South Carolina. Bullard’s gift or good fortune is working with Missy Davis Jones and Ken “Dakota” Jones. Through the quality of the song writing, arrangements, energy and high production values they’ve elevated this work to be a triumph.
“Wicked Ways” adds to the incendiary atmosphere. It sounds like the third song into a live set when the band really starts to cook. A distorted guitar plays rhythm and Justin Banks’ organ swirls and swoops. Before the smell of cordite clears “All To Pieces” keeps the groove. A lovelorn lyric follows – “I never counted on a love so true, no I never thought a man could be so blue”.
Lyrically then “Hey, Hey Mama” isn’t Shakespeare with instructions to “put your good dress on” and advice that he’s going to love her like ‘it’s against the law” (which, we can all agree is probably too much information). However, I’m nit picking as the song sparks while a walking bass line bounces beneath that exquisite organ.
It’s worth saying at this point that Bullard is a firearm-carrying, ex-addict, ordained minister. I’ve read a lot of Americana biographies and surprisingly, he’s not unique! If all this has contributed to the quality of Full Tilt Boogie then the journey hasn’t been in vain.
The album’s accompanying PR places Bullard in Country Rock and I suppose I can concede some Outlaw in the confection but only “Jesus, Jail or Texas” sits him comfortably in the genre – hell, even the title shouts Country! The guitar lead suggests Dickey Betts. Rest assured this is not a bad place to be and may find him a wider audience.
“Leavin’ On My Mind” sees Mike Knight drive this along on skins as Bullard takes us on a tour of Memphis, the Mississippi and Austin before moving through Louisiana to the Carolina Pines whilst the band boogies. “The Next Year” is a radio friendly tune which mixes Southern Rock and Tom Petty with an addictive ’60’s pop guitar motif and is the most commercial track on the album.
I thought I heard angels when the twin guitars introduced “Back To You” and we slip into that Allman Brothers’ “Ramblin’ Man/Jessica” vibe. Bullard hitches a ride on a Southbound train leaving his lover sleeping to free his spirit only to regret his departure as he visits every town in Dixie. Just sublime.
When I tried to figure out the many reasons why I really enjoyed Bindley Hardware Co’s first release, Ever Satisfactory, it wasn’t the fact the band were named after the lead singer forebears’ retail outlet, but the irreverent and entertaining lyrics. It also helped to have a great Country Rock sound with some fine tunes.
Jon Bindley has an independent mind. After falling out of love with Nashville he returned to his hometown, Pittsburgh, where he (unforgivably) coined the genre ‘Rust Belt Americana’. His disenchantment with Music City had him reporting, “it felt a little disingenuous. You know everyone’s wearing a Stetson hat and cool tattoos and loves Townes Van Zandt”. His back story suggests that he is a serious student of song writing and this album displays that it was time well spent.
With a superb selection of musicians Bindley has created an important 32 minutes. “Down The Run” warns of avoiding violence in Greenfield, a suburb of Pittsburgh, where a teenager might find himself on the wrong end of a knuckle sandwich. A steady rock groove showcases the sound of guitar – acoustic and electric, bass, keys and drummer.
“Alright, Already!” has a thumping beat. Bindley sings of rolling with the punches and playing it by ear as to what life throws up. Delightfully the band steps up: particularly Christopher Putt on guitar and Waylon Richmond on violin. Putt is a real asset; with his variety of sounds he lends the album a tremendous quality and breadth.
“Good Ones” places us in Country music’s preferred venue for rumination: the bar. Here our hero reflects on the trials of being left with a selection of women who have been picked over. Presumably in a state of inebriation he tells his lucky winner the words she’s been longing to hear “you’re not the girl of my dreams!” The traditional melody had me imagining Keith with a cigarette in the side of his mouth leading the Stones through “Faraway Eyes”.
“Queen Of The Upper Middle Class” is an acerbic tour de force. “She’s a product of the suburbs, real luxury type of gal” may be tongue in cheek but could be a little close to the truth. A hard-bitten spoilt woman falls under Bindley’s critical gaze as he surmises that her entitled and pampered lifestyle makes her repellent. Fiddle and banjo lead and we get a gentle bluegrass melody with harmonies, which border on a hoe-down that gives this a real pace to match the story.
I never thought I would write that the duet is the standout track but Bindley and Angela Mignanelli have proven me wrong on “Easy Game”! Bindley and home town girl, Mignanelli, swap their disagreeable idiosyncrasies on their way to arrangements over a future liaison – “I’m easy game but I can be tamed”. Their chemistry is palpable and the words delicious, especially in the flirtatious spoken exchange. Hot!
Well, what an unexpected delight. I hope the record gets some traction and more people get to hear it. A real find.
It’s been a long time since I’ve updated the Moores page, I know. I need some new things to post! Don’t be shy in passing photos or information to me.
At a public meeting held by our local MP (about our not having Superfast broadband) then Bob Redwood (Export Sales Manager) appeared! As you can see he’s looking well and a lot younger than he actually is. (I won’t name his age and spoil our new found friendship). Still residing locally he is enjoying retirement and is the Honorary Secretary of the Acomb & District Conservative Club, which if I remember the story correctly doesn’t automatically pay anything into the Tory coffers! He’s knocking about on Facebook and so look him up.
I still meet up with Mark Sutcliffe (Financial Accountant) and Jim Brady (Sales Administration, PS Sales & Installation) and we’ve been to see some Canadian Americana and Colorado Bluegrass. The latter in the banjo capital of Western Europe – Selby. Mark knows everything about vinyl records and probably more. If there’s something that you want to replace or get hold of then he is the man, I can put you in touch. Steve Jessney (Group Design Manager) invited me to his radio station (Vixen 101) in Market Weighton where I got a request played and I saw inside the workings of a studio.
I was reading a book I bought in Canada called The Chitlin’ Circuit And The Road To Rock ‘N’ Roll by Preston Lauterbach. For those who know little about the circuit then it was a selection of venues in the American South. The circuit was initially popular for large bands that played to dance goers in small and often lethal venues. The story is not only about the locations, African American culture and music but also the promoters. Predictably the promoters were less than lovely: prostitution, illegal gambling and money laundering came in tow. The venues were often dangerous. They had no fire safety and there is a horrific story about the loss of 244 lives in Natchez, Mississippi when one such venue caught fire. I cycled past the plaque in 2015 on my way to New Orleans. In this instance the event organisers had sought to keep out gate crashers by nailing the windows and doors shut.
Chitterlings were pig’s intestines and associated with an African American diet. The history says that their taste for such offal arose from what was left after their white employers took the choice cuts. So the venues were for African Americans and it was here that some of the most remarkable and legendary acts started their careers. When recorded music became popular the folk wanted to hear them play live. This co-incided with rising costs of putting large acts on the road. So the venues turned to recording artists who often performed alone but maybe backed by a pick up band. This worked perfectly with Blues and early Rock n’ Roll.
So anyway as I’m reading this book about this phenomena I came across Champion Jack Dupree as a ‘bouncer’ at the Naptown Nitery in Indianapolis in the 1940’s. He was already a barrelhouse pianist in demand after having playing live for many years and having recorded several sides for Okeh Records. The club in question was owned by Denver Ferguson the pre-eminent promoter on the Chitlin’ Circuit.
At this point I remembered my father’s record collection.
My father loved jazz. He played a four string rhythm acoustic guitar in the Royal Air Force (as well as repairing Halifax bombers) and collected records (which were passed to me). These were mainly Dixieland and his heroes were Louis Armstrong, Bix Beiderbecke, Kid Oliver, Jelly Roll Morton, Frankie Trumbauer, Wing Manone, Muggsy Spanier and other bands of the late 1920’s and 1930’s. When he passed I looked through my vinyl inheritance and there was this album, it seemed very out of place. It was like someone discovering a Kanye West record in my collection. (In case you’re interested then no I haven’t).
He liked the Blues if it was played on a cornet and had a funeral paced trombone pouring emotion behind. Granted, he had the obligatory Bessie Smith records but why Champion Jack Dupree? I’d love to have asked him.
In some idle emails with Steve Jessney of Nothin’ But The Blues radio fame on Vixen 101 William Thomas ‘Champion Jack’ Dupree came up and Steve forwarded some of his recording for me to absorb. This I did and I then reached for my Dad’s vinyl. Dupree is described as a barrelhouse piano-player and Blues singer. There is beauty and emotion in his soulful voice that is complemented by his rolling piano that fills the gaps or keeps the rhythm. In fact the sound is complete and the need for other instruments is often not necessary. This is early 20th Century Blues in the late 20th Century, which could only be played by a man of his heritage and background.
If I had to write about a fictional Blues musician I could never have dreamt up Champion Jack. My attempt would include some prodigious talent, a lot of racial prejudice, New Orleans as a birthplace, possible being orphaned and then some addictions before legendary status and reverence.
I would not included a father from the Belgian Congo and a half African American and Cherokee mother who were killed in their house by a fire started by the Klu Klux Klan. Credibility would be stretched by a career that involved 107 boxing bouts and the winning of the amateur title of ‘Golden Gloves (affording our hero the prefix of ‘Champion’). Now venturing into nonsense the pugilist would make ends meet by being a cook (mainly of New Orleans cuisine, of course). These were skills he’d use in the US Navy during the Second World War where he’d end up in a Japanese POW camp after his ship went down.
Subsequently he’d decide after a music career in the deeply prejudiced Deep South to move to Europe. He’d calculate that he was welcome and the competition for well paid gigs was less. Here he’d live in England, Denmark, Switzerland and Germany before dying in the early 1990’s. Along the way he’d be cited by white Blues megastars as an influence and also play with them.
Oh, yes and I wouldn’t have thrown in the three wives or the eleven kids.
Dupree spent his brief marriage to Shirley, a white waitress he met at a London club, in Ovenden. This is about 45 miles from my house in West Yorkshire. Ovenden’s entry in Wikipedia tells you that it boasts a population of just over 12,000. Its main claim to fame is being a former home of Dupree!
In fact the town is close to Halifax, a much larger town. Halifax is typical of many towns that have declined and or reinvented themselves after Britain’s industrial decline. The Calder Valley on which it sits historically was a centre of wool, carpet, confectionary and machine tool production. Today it’s best known for a bank that includes its name in its title.
Not all the locations that I have visited in the USA match the romance of the names. Without seeking to tarnish them then Muscle Shoals, Clarksdale, New Orleans, Highway 61 and the rest are important but not easy on the eye. I have to say that Ovenden wouldn’t have been in my improbable fictional Blues musician’s life. He must have loved her!
As regards the album then in 1982 Dupree was living in Hanover; this is his third album with guitarist Kenn Lending. Lending is Danish and he recorded and played with Dupree for the remainder of his life accumulating around 12 albums and over 1,000 concerts. The age difference was 45 years; it is unimaginable what Lending learned. Dupree was probably glad to have a younger and fitter companion for all the touring that they did to make a living!
The album still sounds contemporary with several songs that touch the edges of rock n’ roll with their boogie woogie rhythms. Lending plays a key roll often behind the piano in the mix but usually getting a turn at the melody as the young Dane picks on his Gibson delicately around the more robust stride piano of Dupree. Ten tracks are simply played and produced but it is a full sound.
When not singing he can regale us with a chat about Ray Charles’ in “Baby Please Don’t Go” or the evils of LSD in “You Better Kick The Habit”. “Rockin’ The Boogie’ is contemporary as it sounds and the telepathic electric guitar relationship comes to the fore. All bar one are self compositions. Roosevelt Sykes’ “I Hate To Be Alone” is the exception. Unusually this involves some unison vocals with Lending.
Lyrically throughout we get the full nine yards – women problems, humour, drugs, loneliness and a little bit of Christianity on the spiritual “Good Lord Born On Christmas.
Always in command and never straining you know he’s completely in control and probably only unleashing a small amount of this talent. The piano playing on “You Better Kick The Habit’ gives glimpses of the sophisticated jazzy patterns he could weave.
In between the vocal interjections redolent of old Bluesmen comes the humour. On the title track “I Had A Dream” he tells us about his mother in law. “She was crazy. I knew she was crazy… but not about me!”
I shall be rummaging through some jazz vinyl racks to see if I can lay my hands on more Dupree/Lending gems. If there is anything to remember from this ramble then don’t dispose of your Dad’s records as I came back to this 28 years after he’d gone.
Breaking down stereotypes is important. As a bloke of numerous years then my daughters will confirm that I have ‘baggage’. Step forward Lieutenant Colonel Lucy Giles. She is the first female college commander (?) at Sandhurst. In a week when we were celebrating British women getting the vote then the BBC were talking to prominent women who have broken through ‘glass ceilings’. All good.
She came across as very personable and has seen service around various conflict zones. Through talent and a re-calibration of the way the Armed Forces respects and nurtures female talent then she has ended up in this senior role. The interview on The One Show went according to plan and eventually the presenter called an end to it and thanked her. She graciously responded but asked one favour. Of course? Can I just say hello to my two children who are watching the programme…
Talking of TV then I am not a great watcher of ‘who dunnits’. So when Anna watches the next murder frenzy being poured over by energetic yet dysfunctional detectives, often driving classic old British cars, I glaze over. I see other things in the episode.
Endeavour had the young detective attending a scene in heavy rain. The rain was falling like stair rods from a powerful hosepipe. It wasn’t British rain and the light was wrong – the sky darkens with rain. Not here: I was expecting someone to appear in sunglasses behind the collected plod under umbrellas looking at a prostrate form with a bolt protruding from his ear.
Added to this was the problem with the 1960’s classic cars. ‘Working’ cars are often dirty and, especially with busy policemen, neglected. These particular cars had small rivulets of water standing on their gleaming paintwork. The rivulets arise from the fact that the owners spend most of their waking hours rubbing Autoglym polish into the paintwork. Anyway, surprisingly, my first wife did not appreciate my informed commentary and I was invited to leave the room.
Going bald means more trips to the hairdresser. This is because what you have left doesn’t sit well on your head and you start to look like an elderly Geography teacher unless you keep it trimmed. As a man who has a ‘lot off’ then talking to Clare, my hairdresser, is not difficult but I tend to ask questions that interest me! We got onto who owns the Salon and the how the owners treat her. I heard of unpaid leave for a funeral, crumbling infrastructure, excess hours and the like.
All these things were batted away by the owners who by all accounts were professionals who had other responsible jobs and worked in large well resourced organisations. Regrettably Clare’s only ever raised these issues when they were passing through and she was brandishing scissors over a mane. So we discussed how she should properly corner them and discuss these issues in a heartfelt, list structured, practised but non-threatening way. I think it was a useful consultation but the haircut price remained the same!
Got to admit Elon Musk is an impressive nutter. Lord knows it is spectacular amount of dosh to burn on a trip up around the planet. It helps to be worth $21 billion but I was impressed with the sports car image. Sadly it wasn’t a Morgan.
The weekend saw me out of my depth. I attended a University of York Lifelong Learning course called “A Writer’s Workout: Part Two”. I think I can put pen to paper but compared to the other course members I felt like I was not in their league. Regular writing exercises punctuated the day. The lecturer picked on people to read out their work. One involved writing a postcard to your mother or father (and there is an issue at home). There were no other instructions or advice.
I composed something brief, uninspired and poor and it was handed to another course member to write back. Their postcard, handed to me, read:
“Dear Arthur, The police were around again today. Keep your head below the parapet, son. If anyone asks why you aren’t in the army, tell them you’ve got a bad heart – it doesn’t show. This lot will be over by Christmas and then it won’t matter. All the best, son – Dad”
How brilliant and creative. Another exercise was where we threw a dice with pictures on them and from here you constructed a character. My die were a parachute, a smiley face and a bee. I wrote some rubbish about a conman on the run. One lady took her die and pictures then wrote about a Santa Claus in a Garden Centre! Again, remember she had 60 seconds to think up this situation.
At 4pm I crept out of the classroom feeling wiser but feeling that I’d got away, by a hair’s breadth, from being humiliated.
(The doing away with ‘Men’ and ‘Female’ specific toilets in the University to gender neutral was a surprising development. My Favourite Eldest corrected my exasperated recidivist tendencies and confirmed that this is a good thing).
I’m sure you’ll share my disappointment at failing to procure Britney Spears tickets for her gig in Scarborough. I could have bought some but at £137 each I was not tempted. We saw her Piece Of Me show in Las Vegas in 2016. It’s fabulous and I hope the weather behaves for the Yorkshire fans who’ll turn up.
Recycling is a very good idea. City of York Council’s advice is that only plastic bottles can be recycled and placed in your recycling containers. The rest can be taken to various recycling locations around the city. The following guide is for York. Of interest is the triangle and number stamped on the bottom of most plastic containers – this secret unlocks the mystery of what you can do with your waste:
You could forgive Lauren Stovall for saying how nice it was to be in the ‘village’ of Selby. She was a little wide of the mark: it has a population of over 15,000 (plus a McDonalds for heaven’s sake!) There again in the USA what we’d describe as a village they call a city.
The Railsplitters were approaching the last week of their UK tour after having been on the road since early January. They started in Australia and this was their third visit to our shores. They describe themselves as Bluegrass. However, a quote I stole, places them as more ‘Crosby, Stills & Grass’. I think in part that works fine.
As a local resident then how the delightful Selby Town Hall got a Colorado string acoustic quintet to play is still something of a surprise to me. Being sold out must be a joy for any visitors to discover. Judging by the audience’s lack of familiarity with any of the catalogue then I have to disclose that I expect most concert goers had bought tickets for a season of music, which included Boulder’s finest.
The band was slow to warm up, it wasn’t until their third song that they hit their stride and we got to hear Stovall’s fabulous and pure voice on “Lessons I’ve Learned” from their excellent third album, Jump In. The small, elderly and very wooden clad venue necessitated a minimum of amplification and the sound was very close to the albums. For the most part you could hear a pin drop as the 150 or so sat enrapt.
The accomplishment of the musicians and the seemingly democratic approach to how the band works was evident. The bass of Jean-Luc Davis held it together whilst the mandolin (Pete Sharpe), banjo (Dusty Rider) and violin (Joe D’Esposito) took various leads. Three of the 18 songs were instrumentals. The band covered all their three albums and threw in a couple of covers. On the latter Stovall asked “How many Dillard fans are in tonight?” As the tumbleweed rolled across the stage she gulped, recovered and said “oh well, there’s 5 on the stage!”
It was her voice and, on occasion, three part harmonies with Rider and Sharpe that enthralled. My particular highlight was “Everyone She Meets”. However, “Planted On The Ground”, “You” and “Where You Are” were memorable. The song structures are very melodic with the strings picking up the tune whilst Stovall’s guitar strummed rhythm. The interplay between banjo and mandolin was sensational and the amplified mandolin often mimicked an electric lead guitar.
Humour and bonhomie abounded on stage. It was pointed out that Jean-Luc had no French or Canadian connection and so why was he called this? The band volunteered ‘false’ facts between songs. The person who could identify which one it was could claim a free CD. I’m not sure which one it was but Joe D’Esposito claiming to be a Swansea City fan seemed as improbable as Pete Sharpe having been struck by lightning.
So after a couple of joyous sets they did the obligatory North American touring band put down of Donald Trump and launched into the traditional Bluegrass “Fly Around My Pretty Miss”. After this encore they were gone into the cold dark night and some other small town in the UK awaited.
(I have to be fair! Stovall, later in the second set, did work out that as they were playing at Selby Town Hall she’d been wrong about the ‘village’ and was gracious to concede and volunteer ‘Hey, I’m American!’ The audience loved her for that).
Colter Wall received a warm Yorkshire welcome as he strolled onto the stage at The Wardrobe in the centre of Leeds. If Colter wasn’t surprised, then I was, that well over 300 people turned up at this intimate venue to see this young Canadian strut his stuff. He’s currently doing a few UK gigs and has already been in Continental Europe.
With an amplified acoustic guitar Wall worked his way through his 2017 eponymous album and much of his 2015 Imaginary Appalachia EP. The crowd were familiar with his work and sang along in places. The bearded troubadour briefly introduced songs from beneath his Stetson and let his wry and panoramic lyrics speak for themselves as his distinctive slow paced baritone phrasing often engrossed. He sings of Canadian prairies, motorcycles, Highway 61, railroads and projects that he glimpses life, in North America, as a drifter.
The seventeen song set included a few covers (‘Wabash Cannonball’ and ‘Railroad Bill’). I really appreciated this nod to the past as it clearly illustrates that he’s steeped in American Roots music. All these songs fitted seamlessly into his catalogue. There were a few new songs and amongst the selection was ‘John Beyers’ – an excellent song that recounts friends firing bullets into their respective ’69 Chevrolet Camaro’s! However, it was the songs from the last release that brought the biggest reaction. ‘Kate McCannon’ went down a storm. I expect many had viewed the surprising YouTube low budget video, shot under grey skies. It depicts lives going nowhere, the expectations and necessary graft to create a life together and the treachery that eventually results in her fatal demise.
In fact it was on this song that the gift of Dave Cobb surfaced tonight. The album created the same intimacy that Rick Rubin captured with Johnny Cash on his America Recordings. On the record, in a classically stripped down setting, the voice commands with every inflexion, pause and deliberation. The timbre, depth and unique sound of Wall’s voice brought out the audience tonight. However, sometimes with the usual venue amplification and the wretched, unforgivable, babble from the bar crowd then some of that intimacy and impact was lost.
‘Codeine Dreams’, ‘Me and Big Dave’, ‘Motorcycle’ and the hilarious ‘Thirteen Silver Dollars’ were especially memorable. He opened the set with the latter and explained that this was a “true story about falling asleep in a snow bank” – we can all sympathise with such a predicament as who hasn’t at one time or another had this mishap!
I came away wondering if Wall will be an artist enjoying the same following on the next album? Cobb’s collaboration is the difference between interesting music and the propulsion to fame. He has the song writing talent and voice. I hope he gets the setting to produce more compelling releases. For all this then the crowd left happy and I for one hope that other visiting young and upcoming Americana entertainers can get them out in such numbers regularly.
(It was a pleasure to attend the concert with Mark Sutcliffe, who it’s be fair to say will recognise some of his observations in the above! Supporting Colter Wall was Ian Noe, a Kentucky folk singer).
Tony Ives’ Blog 