1,124 THE SKIDS, Borrowed Time, Gloucester Guildhall Arts Centre, Saturday 23 February 2019

The Skids 40^th Anniversary “live” odyssey continues, but also shows signs of winding down… Having seemingly been “on the road” ever since their June 2017 sole-intended 40^th Anniversary London Roundhouse date turned into a tour, and then another tour, then another (!), my early teenhood anthemic punk rock faves announced a further clutch of gigs to welcome in 2019, albeit with the accompanying warning that these may be the last electric band dates for the foreseeable future. So, following the cancellation of their January Swindon MECA gig, I thought I’d better grab “One Last Chance” to high-kick, Jobbo style, until my knees cried “enough”, and sing these cherished choruses loudly and lustily. Gloucester Guildhall was the closest, so I relished the chance to bounce to The Skids on one of the springiest dancefloors I’d ever been on!

Strapped my knees up (still sore after Thursday’s Brand New Friend gig!) and hit the road at 7.15, with some road closures in Gloucester throwing some diversions into my planned route, nonetheless not keeping me from my usual Gloucester car park (free after 6. Yay!). Noise was already emanating from the upstairs hall as I entered; I’d got the timings all wrong, with doors at 7 not 8, and support Borrowed Time already halfway done. I chatted to friendly merch guy Gordon, set up by the hall doors, discovering from him that the Swindon cancellation wasn’t at The Skids’ request, they were just told about it. Hmmm… Popped in for the last couple of Borrowed Time’s set, a couple of buzzsaw formulaic leather and studs numbers to round off what seemed a crowd-pleasing set from this gang of local punks. Not my cup of Pasti-Chron-Partizan Discharge though…

Had a chat with some fellow punters, before getting a tap on my shoulder just before The Skids were due on… “are you David Rose?” I sure am, I replied, as I happily – and finally! – met up with Simon, a Gloucester native who for a few years had been commenting on my blog under the (surely Aardvark-inspired!) name of Cerebus 660. Great to meet him at last! We were front and centre for The Skids’ entry onstage at 9, as usual to the backwards loop of “Peaceful Times” and a roar from the full and enthusiastic crowd. Gloucester were representing in style, no messing… The low rumble of “Animation” segued in perfectly to open proceedings,  moshpit breaking out, forcing me and my dodgy knees back to its’ periphery. Vocalist Richard Jobson, as ever, was in fine, voluble fettle, remarking, “Gloucester! It’s been 38 years! You’ve aged well… I can see more hair, so you’re either younger or you’re all wearing wigs!”, then, after another preamble about The Forest Of Dean (“my brother moved there 35 years ago and I’ve not heard from him since!”), he introduced the staccato riffery of “Charade” with, “let’s raise the roof! Really.. we want to nick the lead, as we’re thieving Scots!”

Once again this was a superb rock performance by a practised and finely-honed band in absolute top form, and loving every moment. The perma-grin across the shadow-boxing, wise-cracking Jobbo’s face, the solid base of bassist Bill Simpson and drummer Mike Baillie, and the deft, synchronised interplay of the excellent duelling guitar duo of Bruce Watson and son Jamie. What a band. In the last 2 years “live”, they’ve had few peers and no superiors. “Yankee Dollar”, more so pointedly relevant now than ever, “Woman In Winter” both mournful and triumphant at the same time, “Circus Games” racy and rambunctious, and the classic “Into The Valley”, causing the old dancefloor to take on trampoline proportions as the mosh bounced along. “Out Of Town” closed out a set which seemed barely minutes long, but the encores were utterly magnificent; “Albert Tatlock” (which saw Jobbo wave a laminated pic of the man, handed up from the crowd!), a rampant run-through “Pretty Vacant” then “What Do I Get” in homage to Pete Shelley, a brilliantly snaking, sinister and creepy “Scared To Dance” to mark the 40^th Anniversary of their debut album’s release (today!), then an unexpected and reverential reading of Bowie’s “Heroes” (“something we’ve never done before!” quoth Jobbo), before a rampaging “Of One Skin” reprise took us right up to the curfew, and a huge ovation to close the night.

Waited outside awhile, catching my breath and reflecting on the gig before a swift drive back topped with a Penhill layby kebab (!) for a (very) late supper. As I’d remarked to Gordon on the way out, if this is The Skids winding down “live” shows, they’re going out on fire. And honestly, it’s been one of the greatest pleasures of my gigging days to accompany them on this odyssey. Songs I’ve cherished for 40 years, songs which until 2 years ago I never thought I’d hear “live”. And for that, boys, you have my sincere and heartfelt thanks.

1,123 SEAN MCGOWAN, BRAND NEW FRIEND, Nerve Endings, Swindon Level 3, Thursday 21 February 2019

It’s supposed to be the other way around, this; go see a great headliner and be won over by the support act… but then, I am, I guess, me…! I’d picked up on Northern Ireland’s Brand New Friend last year, one of an impressive clutch of new young 2018 bands I’d discovered thanks to the pages of the excellent “Louder Than War” magazine, along with the likes of Basement Revolver, Liines and Teenage Wrist. Their debut, “Seatbelts For Aeroplanes” made an immediate impression, bursting out of the blocks with some effervescent, upbeat indie-powerpop in a similar vein to Happy Accidents, Martha et al, but with some big beefy choral hooklines, and in “Why Are You So Tired”, a bona fide, first ballot, nailed-on dead cert for my “Best of 2018” CD. Been keeping an eye out for any “live” BNF gigs since then, just never dreamed they’d actually come to my hometown and play my 80’s-90’s “spiritual home”, Level 3! The fact they were support was of no consequence, I booked tix pretty much immediately… headliner and Extra Mile Records labelmate Sean McGowan was a largely unfamiliar name to me; I’d caught part of a set supporting Gaz Brookfield once but didn’t recall much from it. So, here for the support, open mind on the headline act…

Hit the venue about 8.15, after an early evening watching my daughter’s Street Dance class, to find it deserted… apparently the previous night’s soundman had pissed off with the keys, so things were late getting started! By 8.30, only a small smattering of folk were in situ for openers Nerve Endings. Only their 5^th gig, this, they ploughed a furrow between driving riff-heavy grungy rock and more QOTSA-like slow, sludgy stoner blues, in both cases proficiently but oddly politely and understated. The beefy vocalist was an entertaining sort, though, and a lower-key set closer “Chin Up” showed more promise, so you never know… By now I’d been joined by Rich Carter and his mates, and a few more punters had trickled in for Brand New Friend, on just after 9. And after a spritely if unfamiliar opener, “Karma”, there was an immediate example of what top chaps they are; I’d expressed disappointment before the set to vocalist Taylor Johnson, tuning up, that “Why Are You So Tired” seemed absent from the set-list, and second number in, he announced, “we weren’t going to play this one, but this is for that guy down there [on the dancefloor]”, immediately bursting into an ebullient rendition of my favourite BNF track, the keyboard-led speeded-up Senseless Things’ “Too Much Kissing” underpinning riff ceding to its’ soaring chorus. Tremendous stuff, and they had me after that, as I threw myself into as many shapes as my knackered knees would allow. “I Was An Astronaut” was preceded by a sincere reference from Taylor to the “shit time” Swindon is currently experiencing, and praising tonight’s attendance with, “this is a victory for music!”, and “Girl” was tongue-in-cheek dedicated to Joni Mitchell (“who’s here tonight on the balcony!” Yeah, right…), this knockabout track proving particularly excellent “live”, the dual call-and-response vocals of Taylor and keyboardist sister Lauren a feature. All too soon, newie “Carparks” ended a set replete with fresh, buoyant indiepop with towering hooks and melody. That was the real victory for music, right there!

Grabbed a list and some compliments from a breathless Taylor, before taking more of a watching brief for Sean McGowan’s set. And, as hoped, it didn’t taking him too long to win me over; with quite the broadest Cockney accent since Danny Dyer, which understandably bled (no, make that haemorrhaged…) into his singing voice, the rock was firmly and splendidly in Turner/Bragg tubthumping protest folk/punk territory, hooky, barbed and pointedly acid-tongued, holding up a mirror to the fucked-up world we currently find ourselves in, and the often lengthy but entertaining banter veered between achingly sincere (viz. his lengthy tributes to his support acts tonight) and comic (lamenting his usual bandmate who’d apparently entered a crown green bowls competition in Bolton instead of coming on tour!). A mid-set solo break (“it’s all going to get a bit emo”) to play a heartfelt tribute to his best friend and his sadly-lost mum was powerful and poignant, but my highlights came later, with an excellent “Autopilot” documenting his efforts to “wind my neck in” and reduce the booze, and a superb, euphoric and inclusive closer “No Show”, by which time the BNF guys were chanting a very Glasvegas-like, “here we fucking go!” from the balcony and waving their shirts around with glee. Leaving us with a positive and inclusive message, Sean’s set was as entertaining for us as it was evidently cathartic for him. Excellent!

Handshakes, selfies and compliments with the performers afterwards at the merch stand, before I took Rich and friends home, then home to grab some kip before my 6.15 a.m. alarm call (yikes!). So, Brand New Friend were as spunky, spritely and splendid as I’d hoped, and Sean McGowan won me over. A great double-header!

1,122 JOHN GRANT, Southampton O2 Guildhall, Friday 8 February 2019

This’ll teach me to book gig tickets in advance of listening to new albums, I thought as soon as I copped a listen to John Grant's new album "Love Is Magic". I'd latterly properly picked up on this veteran US alt-rock soloist following a track on a "Best Of 2015" magazine compilation, subsequently investigating his 3-album solo oeuvre and particularly falling hard for 2010 solo debut "Queen Of Denmark", a pristine collection of dark, lyrically honest and confessional yet lush and sweeping ballads, sung with the kind of rich, mahogany voice that could frankly stop birds in flight. The subsequent 2 had similar high moments, whilst unfortunately also increasingly indulging Grant's predilection for quirky dance-inflected electronica which seemed quite jarring against the beautifully sung, Scott Walker-esque soaring balladry. A 2016 gig (no. 973, ironically at tonight's venue!), despite walking a precarious tightrope between these 2 radically different styles, was nonetheless an enjoyable affair, hence my promptness at getting a ticket for this one. However, I then heard the new album... with a notable swing more towards the self-indulgent synthy stuff, and a considerable downturn in the quality of the material, this for me was at best patchy, at worst utterly pants. Oops.

So, it was with no small amount of trepidation that I set off for a sodden drive down the South Coast, looking forward to the old stuff and hoping that the new material made more sense "live". Like, waaaaaaaay more sense... Parked up in my usual spot and got in just after 8.15, just in time to see the roadies packing up after the opening act, which, as it was apparently a soloist from backwoodsmen Grandaddy wannabees turned hoary hippy bores Midlake, was no great loss! (And yeah, I know Grant credits Midlake with dragging him out of his post-Czars doldrums and prompting him to make music again – a point he continually made tonight – but that still doesn’t mean I have to like them, right?) Took an easy wander down the front – only about half full, this ornate old hall, tonight; maybe a lot of old school Grant fans had heard the new record before buying tix and had voted with their feet, I thought, cynically… still, open mind, open mind…

The lights dimmed at 8.45 and the band entered, (once again featuring punk legend Budgie on drums, this time restored to Banshee-era straw-blond hair) followed by Grant himself, bedecked in black trucker chic apart from Chicory Tip-style glitter glam make-up around his eyes, partly obscured by the farmer’s baseball cap. Giving the crowd an affable double-handed wave, he immediately seemed to set about winning us over with opener “Tempest”, his wonderfully deep, sonorous vocal towering over some early Human League-like synth backwash. Things seemed very promising then, right up to an early “Jesus Hates Faggots”, (“an old traditional folk song from my country,” quipped Grant), his stately, commanding voice conveying the caustic lyrics perfectly. However, thereafter was when the synths kicked in…

“Smug Cunt” saw Grant stomping around the stage in time to the plodding synth riff, but at this point the monotonous dirge-like sheet metal keyboard riffery started smothering Grant’s own vocals, and after a few numbers like that (including newie “Metamorphosis”, which was just plain awful and headache-inducing, Grant delivering a sneering and unpleasant vocal performance too), I was seriously considering going home… “TC and Honeybear” was however beautifully rendered, touching and tender, throwing a welcome “thank fuck for that!” moment into the proceedings, and newie “Touch And Go” was better too, with the synths embellishing rather than overwhelming the nuances of the song. However, the throwaway disco stomp of “He’s Got His Mother’s Hips” then funnelled us back to the synth-dominated material, so I high-tailed it to the loo to give my ears a break, thereafter watching the rest of proceedings from the back.

 
The man however saved the best for last, as I knew he would (thank fuck for “setlist.fm”, otherwise without prior knowledge I might well have gone home midway through!). Set closer “Queen Of Denmark” was utterly majestic, the plaintive, piano-led Nilsson-like verse contrasting with the thrilling white noise of the crashing hook (that’s how to blend these two styles, right there!), and all the encores were superb too, a stately “Sigourney Weaver” and “GMF” the highlights. Worth enduring the frankly painful noise just to get to these songs, I concluded as I left promptly, mixing desk list in hand, and drove home in inky blackness. I do worry, however, as this feels that Grant is no longer walking that tightrope between these two styles anymore; I fear he may well have tipped right over into the wrong territory, and that’s really not the John Grant I want to see.

1,121 FRANK TURNER AND THE SLEEPING SOULS, JIMMY EAT WORLD, Grace Petrie, Cardiff Motorpoint Arena, Saturday 2 February 2019

Now the 2019 gigging year can really get under way, thanks to this potentially corking double-header... Following Frank Turner's stellar performances last year during his sold-out Academy gigs in support of excellent - and timely - new album "Be More Kind" (gigs which promoted this honest, lyrically incisive punk-folk troubadour, in my eyes, to the ranks of the Very Special Indeed), there was no way I was passing up on more Frank. So I booked tix pretty promptly for the subsequent inevitable arena tour for myself and fellow Frank fan Matt, securing a return to the Motorpoint, scene of my first Frank gig! However, when US alt-rock emo veterans Jimmy Eat World were added as support, we were sure of some company - my dear lady wife and Jimmy uber-fan Rachel jumped in immediately, and, after putting "Bleed American" on constant rotation in the car for awhile, so did my little man Logan!

 

A huge dump of snow Thursday night and Friday threatened to put the kibosh on travelling; however I'd dug the car out and cleared the drive Friday night, and the main roads were clear, so we hatched a plan and tiptoed out of our slippery and compacted drive to drop Kasey off at grandma's for a sleepover. Hit the road at 4, therefore, an easy drive to a clear M5 Gordano Services seeing us meet Matt there for the onward journey to the 'diff. Roads clear there too - did it just snow in Swindon, or what? - so we were easily in the queue for 6.30 doors, grabbing a bit of barrier, house right, for Logan, next to Sarah, a lady who'd travelled from Paris just for this gig! In place therefore in good time for opener Grace Petrie, on at 7. She was great - a self-confessed "masculine" lesbian protest singer ("I've been doing this for 9 years, trying to make the world a better place with my songs... so I've been doing a pretty fucking terrible job so far!") with a wide, almost "Wild Ones" brief ("what are you protesting against?" "What have you got?") and an impassioned, Bragg/Guthrie style delivery, sprinkled with no little humour. So both the parlous state of current world politics and Kasabian ("who the fuck cares about Kasabian," being a lyric couplet from her touching "Ivy") fell victim to the Petrie broadside; however it wasn't all left-wing tubthumping, with the aforementioned "Ivy" a song for her young niece, and closer "Northbound" recalling Gaz' "Let The East Winds Blow" in it's subject matter. A fine start from a talent with plenty to say; I'd certainly pay to hear her say it again!

It got busy but remained friendly down the front, Logan keeping his spot comfortably for Jimmy Eat World's entrance at 7.45; good thing too as from note one they absolutely smashed it, a jagged, breathless "Pain" heralding a huge, anthemic "Futures" opening triple-salvo. Early oldie "Blister" was a seething delight, vocalist Jim Adkins remarking at its conclusion, "we've got some old school fans in! Here's another..." before a splendid if slightly understated "Lucky Denver Mint". Adkins then teased the crowd with, "the Welsh are renowned singers, right? Now's your chance..." before the towering, heart-rending ballad "Hear You Me", then a dark, growling "Cheating Gets It Faster" (thrown in unplanned, instead of "A Praise Chorus"... shame, but it was still great) led a "Bleed American" closing triad, the incredible title track preceding a buoyant, singalong "The Middle" to round off an utterly superb 45 minutes. Having seen them in other prestigious support slots (Green Day, Foo Fighters) we were expecting that; not stupid, these boys, they know what's expected in such circumstances, and delivered in spades. A brilliant support set of utter bangers, at the end of which drummer Zach Lind handed Logan a set of sticks. Nice!

The plan was then to head to the back for Frank, but the front remained remarkably hospitable, Logan was happy there, so there we stayed! Frank and the Sleeping Souls bounded onstage dead at 9, and, as if raising their game to match their exemplary support, they pretty much smashed it from note one too! "Loosen your seatbelts, let's rock'n'roll!" announced Frank as they ploughed into the frantic Irish reel of opener "Out Of Breath", the pyrotechnics spitting out plumes of fire at its conclusion. "Welcome to show 2,308! This is a punk rock show, but there are two rules; one, don't be an asshole, and two, if you know the words, sing!"

Much singing therefore then ensued, from our party down the front (including Logan, hollering along to the likes of "Photosynthesis" and "If Ever I Stray", both early and rousing singalongs) and from the packed and enthusiastic crowd in general. Frank complimented both supports, quipping about 25-year veterans Jimmy Eat World, "I like to have a spot to give a new band a chance!" "Brave Face" saw a charming animated backdrop film illustrating the lyrics in the style of the "Be More Kind" cover, as Frank teasingly berated the audience for a lukewarm singalong ("7 out of 10!"), but then curried favour with this partisan Cardiff crowd by bringing on a roadie to hold "phonetic" lyrics for him to sing "Eulogy" - in Welsh!

"I Am Disappeared" - as ever, a poignant, personal highlight - preceded a solo interlude from Frank, an almost rockabilly obscure oldie "This Town Ain't Big Enough For The One Of Me" (so obscure, Frank had to Google the lyrics beforehand!) the highlight. The rousing singalongs then kept pouring down, none more so than closer "I Still Believe", which rounded off another brilliant, inclusive Frank Turner set, appropriately shaking this 8,000-capacity arena to its foundations. Woah.

At the conclusion of 3rd encore, the ragged, fist-punching "Get Better" ("let's see what you've got left," remarked an equally ragged Frank, who as ever had given his all), we headed toward the back, watching the crunching punk rock of "Four Simple Words" plus the accompanying fireworks and confetti explosion from there, conscious of plummeting temperatures which might make the homeward journey tricky. In truth, after a quick getaway, bidding farewell to Matt at Gordano again, and a careful drive up the M4, the last 10 feet of the journey were the trickiest, seeing me stall then wheelspin getting onto the drive. D'oh! But no such slip-ups from Frank tonight; another stunning show from a true performer now totally at ease in front of such a huge crowd, and backed up ably not only by his stellar and tight band, but also 2 very fine supports. The 2019 gig year is now under way, good and proper!

1,120 DEATH CAB FOR CUTIE, The Beths, Bristol O2 Academy, Wednesday 30th January 2019

So this is the New Year (to quote tonight’s hosts)...! After a false start due to the annoying cancellation of the Skids' Swindon MECA gig, my 2019 Spring Dance Card finally gets underway. Although for a time this one, a return by cerebral and understated US alt-rock veterans Death Cab For Cutie, doing the rounds in support of their fine, plangent 2018 album "Thank You For Today", seemed in doubt due to the threat of snow. Thankfully, that never came about, it's just chuffing freezing instead!

So a chilly drive down pitched me up at the venue at 7.30, queueing up to get in then realising I can use the O2 priority lane instead! Yay! However, I then had to hike up to the balcony, then back down again, and eventually to the outside of everything, where the gents portaloos were situated, as the normal bogs were being refurbished. Bah! Still, grabbed my usual house-left spot well in time for openers, The Beths, prompt at 8. A New Zealand quartet, they immediately impressed with some sturdy and effervescent female-fronted and 80's tinged indie pop, recalling the likes of The Popguns or The Katydids, certainly getting the seal of approval from Big Jeff, bopping and singing along down the front! Some lovely overlaid harmonies backing up the pure, Mary Lorson-like inflections of petite (and slightly nervous) vocalist Elizabeth Stokes augmented their high-tempo and quickfire melodic little numbers very well indeed. Fourth number "Running Away" was a superb amphetamine rush of a song with a splendid ascending guitar outro, after which Stokes burbled excitedly about the headliners; "this band Death Cab For Cutie are great and they're playing here tonight! They've been really nice to us, they don't have to be, they could be real jerks..." A double-header finale featuring a melodic call-and-response chorus, followed by an almost garage rock thrash, rounded off a mighty impressive support slot.

Another circuitous loo trip was punctuated by a chat with FB friend and photo king Martin Thompson, lurking outside for a smoke, then I somehow regained my spot on the by-now rammed floor in time for Death Cab's arrival at 9 to the background rumble of jungle drums. Surprisingly, they positively tore through their initial clutch of numbers with unexpected power and punch, seeming determined at this early stage to deliver a right proper "rock show". This approach initially seemed odd and a little gauche, but I came to appreciate the extra dynamism it offered, as opposed to their previous attempts at rocking out, which I used to find clumsy and unsuiting to the material. And there were times that I found myself doing a double take and wondering if I'd turned up one gig early, as, with his short-sleeved black shirt, floppy fringe and general stance and demeanour, DCFC mainman Ben Gibbard looked for all the world like Jimmy Eat World vocalist Jim Adkins! Certainly he was a man in a hurry, both scurrying around onstage and ripping through the songs without seeming drawing breath.

After an almost punk rock "Long Division", oldie "Title And Registration" provided some small respite, before the hazy Summery vibe of new single "Gold Rush". "No Sunlight" was great, a couple of false endings being teased by a playful Ben. A false start then followed, Ben's keyboard temporarily malfunctioning before righting itself for a poignant, affecting and frankly beautiful "What Sarah Said", tonight’s highlight. Whilst the set thereafter may have drifted slightly for me, there were still highlights aplenty; "Black Sun" was moody and melancholy, "Doors Unlocked And Open" a fluid road trip of a song, and set closer "The Sound Of Settling" buoyant, upbeat and singalong. Before that we heard Ben's evolving manifesto for DCFC live shows; no shorts (!), no inserting the host city into the lyric of a song ("too corny"), and never introduce a song with its title ("not a problem," remarked Ben, "just something I choose not to do... so here's a song that I'm not going to tell you the name of it!"). Contrary bugger!

 

Another fun moment, when Ben took the stage solo for the encore, noticing Big Jeff sketching him down the front and dedicating an acoustic "I Will Follow You Into The Dark" to him! A shout out from Ben for the "delightful" city of Bristol before the sprawling, epic "Transatlanticism" ended the night, building to a layered and looped crescendo to top tonight’s 2 hours performance.

Out via a set-list, a merch stop for the Beths CD and brief chats with Jeff, Devizes gig buddy Alfie and Make A Wish puppet Walter's "dad"(!), before a chilly blast past Swindon as Junction 16 was shut, necessitating a trip to J15, a double-back and a post-midnight arrival home. Bah! Overall though, despite a couple of slightly drifty moments, this was a fine, unexpectedly rocking opener to gig year 2019, thanks to Death Cab For Cutie. So this is indeed The New Year!