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Thrones/Zombi/Cleckhuddersfax - Barden's Boudoir, London, 29 July 2006

Barden's is hot and steamy. That's what happens when you cram loads of people into an unventilated basement on a hot day. I can almost suck the moisture from the air. Only, that wouldn't be good as it's everyone's sweat.

There is a danger that Cleckhuddersfax think I am their biggest fan. They see me at all their gigs. I don't like them though. It's just that they always seem to be playing support for bands I want to hear.

Zombi are next, due to the disappointing no-show of Trencher. Two piece. Keyboards and drums. They begin with a long undulating chord drone. Eventually the drums come in, but they don't ever seem to get going. They don't thrash it out. Maybe that's not their sound, but it's what I like so I guess Zombi are not for me. Sound-wise they're like one of Goblin's Argento soundtracks.

Joe Preston aka Thrones has an impressive CV. Earth, Sunn O, Melvins, other stuff. His previous suggests this is going to be no tinkly folk gig. Almighty riffs like molten lava, erupt from his devil horned bass guitar. Low rumblings like shifting tectonic plates. This is rock's dna. Primitive, primal, pure. Stripped down and reduced. Like boiling a pan dry and being enveloped in the acrid metallic stench as it slowly blackens.

US Maple/That Fucking Tank/Cleckhuddersfax/Man Aubergine - Barden's Boudoir, London, 26 July 2006

I'm usually pretty bad with band names. I rarely get the reference or play on words, so what to make of Man Aubergine. I have no flash of inspiration, so concentrate instead on their music. Churning rhythms, high pitched vox harmonising, and off-key blues riffs. It's a bit like bad Beefheart.

Cleckhuddersfax make a virtue of their bad reviews. This is fortunate as I find it hard to imagine them receiving a positive one. Is their name an amalgam of Cleckheaton, Huddersfield and Halifax? I don't know. I can best describe them as a bit proggy. Beyond that I find it difficult to describe their mess of sound.

I don't know what's behind That Fucking Tank's name either. Perhaps they struggled on the same bit of Metal Gear Solid I did? Anyway. They're a two piece. Guitar and drums. Driver and gunner. First there is a low rumble like a Sherman making clawing it's way up a steep incline. Then there are incendary guitar explosions. Maybe like a tank brewing up. Or maybe not. Maybe just more like Oxes.

Finally US Maple. And no, I don't know why they're called that. I vaguely remember them from John Peel or flicking past their albums a million times in record shops. They're a bit math. But not in a 2+2=4 way. More like a random number generator. They don't like the predictable. They'll build a riff, till it's about to explode and then they'll switch and start building another. They're not so much as tension and release, as tension and more tension. It's good, but I don't know if I like it. I'm going to have to check them out some more to make my mind up. Which, ultimately, is probably what they want.

Possibly the greatest film ever

Here's a trailer for Rocky VI. Yes, Rocky 6. Six. S-I-X.

It would be easy to get distracted by the plausibility of this film. Instead just enjoy the prospect of what could possibly the greatest film ever.

Mickey Spillane

I learned yesterday that crime writer Mickey Spillane had died. Spillane created Private Eye Mike Hammer who populated a series of best selling novels for over 50 years.

Spillane is not ranked highly in the crime writing cannon. For the most part his books were badly written, derivative, and filled with violence and sex. They also contain attitudes towards, women, race, and homosexuals, which can at best be described as 'of their time', and at their worst downright repugnant.

And yet it is the burning zeal of Spillane's prejudices which redeem his novels. It is the old testament, wrath of God, style retribution which make them compulsive. Spillane doesn't so much bring his villains to justice as have them summarily executed. Titles such as "I, the Jury" and "Vengeance is Mine" should leave no doubts as to the bloody finale at the climax of his novels.

They are also a fascinating window to the mind set of post-war America. A rabid anti-communism is prevalent in many novels. Spillane feels that America is under attack and that it's defence is being impeded by the spread of liberal values, which force America to 'play fair' against an enemy doesn't. In later novels Spillane's distaste for the women's and civil rights movement becomes apparent as does his disgust at Vietnam protestors and hippies.

Informing these views is an ideological certainty. Whereas most classic Private Eye's, such as Phillip Marlowe or Travis McGee, are vulnerable, reflective and prone to self doubt, Mike Hammer crashes his way through novels propelled by his own moral imperatives.

By the early 1970s fashion, taste and public opinion had moved on, leaving Spillane out of step with the prevailing social attitudes of the day. He only wrote a handful of books over the next 30 years.

I was lucky enough to meet Spillane about 5-6 years ago when he gave a talk on his work in London. I had the opportunity to tell him how much I enjoyed his books. Given the lack of critical acclaim for his work it somehow seemed important for me to tell him.

Rest in peace Mickey.

Nalle/The One Ensemble/unknown - Barden's Boudoir, London, 11 July 2006

Women determinedly flit about in bare feet as if in a summer's meadow. I wouldn't want them to compromise their folk principles but Barden's is not a place I'd walk around in without galoshes. Especially in the toilets.

I didn't make a point of finding out the name of the first act. This was stupid as he was great. It was something like Tom Scott James if you wish to seek him out. He played solo guitar. His dextrous picking conjuring fluid string ripples which cascade across the audience sitting in various levels of discomfort on the floor.

The One Ensemble is a four piece. Some sort of balalaika type thing, guitar, cello (I think), violin and occasional clarinet. I'm no musician so I can't tell you about the clever technical things that the band are doing. It sounds a little off, a little atonal, but underneath there are tunes, lots of them. They might attack their strings with two bows like they're intent on sawing their instruments in half, but someone is always playing some sort of melody. At times it sounds as if they're all doing their own thing, but through their alchemy it always works.

I notice that one of the punters has brought some pitta bread and humous with them. I guess roasted nuts just aren't good enough for some people.

A couple of The One Ensemble are back onstage for Nalle. They're slower, mournful and dominated by the Bjork style vocals. On another day I might be a bit more sympathetic to their sound, but I'm tired and it's late. These folkies couldn't be bothered coming onstage till gone 11 and I've got boring stuff like getting home and going to work to do.

Monade/The Speed of Sound/The Mount Cherries/The Ghosts - The Spitz, London, 10 July 2006

Killing time in the pub before the gig. Spot my friend's ex-boyfriend sitting by himself. Blank him. We've nothing to say to each other, why pretend.

Finish my drink, walk to The Spitz. The Ghosts is one man. His dull voice wails over electric guitar strum. Dire.

There is a crowd surge to the front of the stage for the next act. I appear to be the only person who doesn't know who The Mount Cherries are. There are so many of them onstage that I can't count them. The girls look like they have taken the their fashion inspiration from the mini-pops. The boys wear tank tops and bow-ties.

They all look like they're having a great time being in their band. Shame about the leaden guitar playing and pre-programmed disco rhythms. I have horrible flashbacks to a Gravy Train gig. You don't need talent or ability if you've got a good idea. The Mount Cherries don't have either.

The Speed of Sound have talent, but few ideas. There's a Pixies-ish twang on some of the guitar, but it's all a bit trad.

The night grinds on. Finally Monade appear. They are Laetitia from Stereolab's band. Their presence hangs heavy. There's the same locked motorik. The same breathy "oooh-ing". The same vintage keyboard chords. It's not that it's bad, just that it's like listening to a collection of Stereolab b-sides.

I used to....

...be here, but now I'm here.