Anderson & Wakeman

anderson & wakeman

manchester opera house 30th october 2006

I feel a little underdressed considering the surroundings, as this is an opera house, Manchester Opera House to be precise. A certain decorum must be observed, a reverence dictated by the oppulent facade. Here there are boards that have been tread, whats that I hear, he's behind you, oh shit. Pantomimes and dodgy musicals are on the bill, fortunately, not tonight. Prog maestro's Jon Anderson & Rick Wakeman age going to tease us with acoustic renditions os classic Yes, interspaced with new offerings written by just the two of them.

Mr Andersons has wifely support from Mrs Anderson sitting inthe balcony to the side of the stage, so at moments of mutual secrecy, he would gaze up to her, blowing kisses, waving of arms, and generaly saying hello.

Mr Wakeman has no support apart from his piano stool upon which he sits. Moments of verbal amusement eminate from his section of the stage. A swapping of tales from duo to audience give rise to titters and guffaws, depending upon severity of incident being recanted. Usually of Mr wakemans alcoholic past.

Mr A accopanies Mr W on acoustic guitar, and yes surprisingly it is plugged in ans amplified to a decent level. Reworkings of familiarity are interspersed with smatterings of new stuff, written especially the duo-ic concept. Mr W tinkles ivories like an ivory tinkler tinkleing Yes tunes, which of itself is self evident, for that is what we expect to hear.

Halfway through, just after the intermission Mr A takes up the stool and begins his own tinkleing, much to the amazement of the seated audience. Mr W enters the stage, places are traded, and Mr W gives us reditions of familiar nursery rhymes in the stylings of classical composers, and ends his solo spot with a highly subjective yet recognisable version of Eleanor Rigby. Before Mr A returns to his familiar spot, Mr W tells a few jokes and the evenings entertainment is allowed to continue.

As before is what is after, remarkable renditions of remarkable renditions, expert performances, considering how long they must have been playing some of these songs, to know them backwards is an understatement, but sometimes as Mr W was to quip,

"I didn't play on that one"

Off The Wall - Blackburn KGH

off the wall

KGH blackburn 15th september 2006

My experiences with tribute bands have been mixed at best, for the whole idea leaves me feeling a little soiled, don't get me wrong, i have nothing against tribute bands, its just the fact that i just couldn't do it myself. That being said tonights tribute band attempt the emulate one of the greats, Pink Floyd.

Fortunately I have been informed that this band are up to the task, and have a light show to match. The venue is appropriately decked out, banked seating have been errected to provide an optimum viewing position.

Over the speakers it is announced that the performance will start in 5 minutes, of coures those needing a state of conciousness alteration pay no heed to what has just been said and stay in the bar. So when the first notes of Shine On You Crazy Diamond a frantic dash eminates from the bars and seats must be occupied.

Images of Syd Barret are projected on the circular screen at the rear of the stage, as without him, none of this could ever have existed. Along with a brief few images of Syd projected during Wish You Were Here, this is the only reference to this madcap genius. On previous occasions, the band had performed such classics as Arnold Layne and See Emily Play, but not tonight.

Classics are played and enjoyed, Welcome To The Machine and Have A Cigar, to Sheep and Learning To Fly, with most of Dark Side Of The Moon thrown in for good measure, even a track from Division Bell is let loose on a most appreciative audience. As this is going to be a long set, it has to be split into 2, this gives us time to replenish those parts that need it,

The intermission allows the audience to aquaint itself with itself and to see what cross section has ventured out tonight.From the middle aged die-hards to teen metal heads, all are here, even some pree teens, maybe it was cheaper to buy a ticket for their children than to get a babysitter for the evening, but it looked like they were enjoying the single occular device given to us. Its at events like these that brings out aquaintances that you only see at events like these, its always good to catch up like this. So on with the show.

Of course those in need of an altered state of conciousness slowly amble their way back to seats during the first song, but hey ho.


The second half, that being the one that follows the first is as stupendous as the first, sublime renditions of Floyd classics whip up the crowd, maybe substances have some bearing of the participation of audience based whooping. A couple of frommage based food product hand clapping incidents have the required cringe factor, but are soon forgotten when Off The Wall begin The Great Gig In The Sky.

Never before have so many open mouths been seen in King George Hall, the female guitarist has a voice, I really mean a voice. I personally have only heard this vocal sung as well once before, and that is the original. A collective raising of the hairs on the back of the neck with shivers down the spine marks the Van Der Graff Generator moment, and the crowd reciprocate with raptuous applause.

Throughout both sets projections illuminate and educate, visuals of both digital and actual beings flicker upon the circular screen. George Bush and Robert Mugabe are the idiots on the grass, Hitler makes a brief appearance, along with the Wizard Of Oz, all of which raises a smile, a nod and a wink. Quite some considerable time and effort have been spent producing such a superlative performance, but all things have an end, and this is it.

All the musicians have been given time the the proverbial light that spots, showing that time and effort pays off dividends, and being a Pink Floyd tribute band is a proud badge to wear. The show ends with a huge projection of a glittering disco ball, rotating to the last notes from Comfortably Numb, silouetted against this the saxaphone player tootles like a Lisa Simpson possessed, its time to go now, thank you and goodnight.

Frank Sidebottom - North Bar, Blackburn

frank sidebottom

north bar blackburn 31st august


Sometimes as you get older, things change, or you view things in a different way from how you did 10 years ago. This thought passed through my mind one night as I drank a pint of Guiness not too far from where I am right now. Pondering how I would react to witnessing the one, the only Frank Sidebottom later this evening. As a regular visitor to Blackburn in the past, Frank Sidebottoms Timperly Lectures were something to look forward to in the cold winter months of the mid 90's.

This is now 2006, we are older, but is Frank? A man who performs in a large papier mache head, pretending to be a superstar, speaking as though wearing a clothes peg on his nose (his real one, not the hand painted pretend one), and singing familiar songs but with reworked lyrics. An act full of in jokes and ridiculous routines, an act so strange it is almost impossible to explain, you have to see it to believe it.

That brings us to a wet Thursday evening on the last day of August, cramed into the North Bar Blackburn. In here there are some real die-hard fans, I do enjoy, or rather enjoyed Frank in the past, but how am I going to react tonight. The answer is really quite simple, one word, fantastic. Still the same old Frank, with Little Frank, and the silly in jokes still amuse and bemuse. His head is still large and made of papier mache, Little Frank is still of cardboard, and guess who's been on Match Of The Day, he has in his big shorts.

A constant factor with the sucess of Franks act in an interaction with the audience. You are expected to play along with and experience the strange world in which he inhabits, to become the 10 year old child again, living in a very special fantastic world, where cardboard figures take on strange personas and everything has a fantastic quality.

To the unintiated, this may seem like some strange ritual, grown men singing along gleefully to a man in a large head, women screaming at his as though he is a greek adonis sex symbol, but to those in the know, those of us who have followed this bizarre cult for many years, it is entertainment at its silly best.

Many costume changes punctuate the act, from his straight suit to Father Christmas, then later onto his classic football kit, and finishing the preceedings with the addition of the obligatory Freddy Mercury moustache. Is this the real life or is it just Timperly.

No pyrotechics, no digital effects, no smoke or mirrors, for what you see is what you get. A man in a suit with a rather large head, singing increasingly daft songs in a daft voice. Blimey, lets just hope his mum doesn't find out.

Big Green Gathering

big green gathering

august 2006

This year there was no Shambala Festival, but the desire to pitch tent and drink Chai was too strong to ignore so an alternative festival was required to sate our thirst. Many are on offer, but how do you select one from the many, unless you have a specific criteria. The choice was reduced somewhat by others wanting to attend at the same time, so co-ordinating time schedules became paramount. Two made the shortlist, but only one can be attended, and the winner was 'The Big Green Gathering'. I know people who have attended the northern version of this festival, and have had a great time, but to visit the big one would be different, for one thing, it would be down south.

This year transport would be relatively simple, as other northerners are to be attending, they who attended Shambala for the first time last year, and are wanting to repeat the experience. Also an offer of a lift has been made and accepted, so i will be travelling with Jill, Carl and Lily. Also attending would be friends from Cornwall, those being Pla, Kirsty, Freya & Willow, and travelling from Yorkshire would be Chris & Francis.

The journey down was quick and painless, and a rendezvous arranged at services to accertain a suitable route to the festival. After a short wandering down tight country lanes our goal was in sight. Large fields beckoned us with waiting carparks, in which we could secure a spot and unload our equipment. As with all festivals, camping is positioned away from our vehicles so all our goodies must be moved by hand, or by any available means. Here horse power has been laid on, and horse drawn carts transport our bits to camping areas, basic but effective, this is a green festival after all.

Finding a large enough spot to accomodate our tents provided a slight obstac le as many weary travellers had already made camp, and space was rather limited, but space was found and the pegging began. Soon our camp began to take shape and the rest of our belongings retrieved from the cars, transported on backs and bike powered rickshaw type arrangement. We are here and ready to begin.

Like Glastonbury, this festival is spread over many fields, themed to accomodate differing tastes and desires. The Campaign field had stalls dedicated to informing people of differing ideologies from conspiracy theories to nuclear disarmament, and solar powered showers to running your car on vegetable oil. The family field had a funfair at one end, a huge open area in the middle for daily events, and a pub at the other for their parents who need beverages of an organically intoxicating format. If arts & crafts float your coracle, then the craft field would be the obvious location in which to exercise your facination. Chipping away at a stone or making a batik painting to take home can while away many an hour if you so intend. Or try your hand at some felt craft even willow bending, its heaven for occupational therapy, and a good way of discovering new hobbies and interests.

Other fields are themed in other ways, some more mystical than others, alternative healing gives respite to those with ails to be cured, or just to chill out around the stone circle.You can aimlessly wander from field to field in whatever state of mind you bring with you or endevour to discover, even meet yourself travelling the other way if you try hard enough.

Joining all the differing fields together food stalls assault your nasal passages, all of which provide nourishment of a vegetarian persuasion, Jamaican stalls rub shoulders with Indonesian, mexican is sold next to indian and Chai tea is sold by the bucketload. All the food is as organic as possible, sometimes a little pricey, but generally its all worth it, especially if you discover a new vegetable you would like to take home with you. If clothing takes your fancy then a festival high street splits the main fields in two. Jackets, jumpers, and jerkins are always available, festival fashions festooned in a myriad of colours shapes and sizes are arranged on racks to peruse and pour over. Often we return after careful consideration to purchase such items, to be worn continuously, or until the festival ends.

What is a festival without music, a festival without music. But this festival had music, and lots of it, more than you could shake a whole basket full of sticks at, and again many genre's for many tastes. Arthur Brown without his crazy world, headlined Thursday night without his crazy headwear, but for a man of his years, his performance was full of fire, good humour and his classic fire. Strange industrial techno preceeded Saturdays fireshow, loops of noise grabbed some by the Bjorks, some loved it and some hated it, but it was different and compelling. Nik Turner was scheduled to play with Galacticos, and did so, but the previous night, without any prior warning played in a chai tent with Space Ritual, must to the dismay of Mr Pla (a long time Hawkwind/Nik Turner addict), as he missed it. To finish Sunday night, The Baghdaddies performed Ska with a middle eastern twist, no oil crazed illegal invasion here, just damn fine music to end a damn fine festival.

So what else was happening during the festival, well plenty of wanderings, a fair quantity of alcohol consumed both during the day and in the evening, two locals became frequented, one being the Bimble bar situated near the bottom of the family field, the second being a magnificent chai tent usually visited last thing at night for an evening tipple. Amongst the other sights were Terry Pratchet, well if it wasn't him he has an identical twin. At least one wedding was performed, a mobile confessional captured unexpecting sinners, several grumpy goblins saught out gobliny things and death and mrs bolster paid a visit.

Sorry Shambala, you have lost your crown for family festivals, five days of chilled out fun, with perfect camping weather thrown in for good measure. Even though there are probably 3-4 times as many people attending The Big Green Gathering than last years Shambala, it felt far less crowded, plus there is much more to see and do, just a shame there is no mass fancy dress, maybe that could be suggested for next year, as for next year, i would like to do it all over again.

Correfoc - Masquefa Barcelona

correfoc

masquefa barcelona may 2006


There is no way on earth that this festival could be performed in England, its a pity for it is such a great spectacle, it unifys the village and all around, just as long as you don't mind loud noise, and being chased throughthe streets by devils brandishing pitchforks carrying fireworks.

Brief description taken from internet:
The 'Correfoc' (running fire) comes from a medieval dance called 'ball de diables' (demons dance) that represented the victory of an angel over a group of demons and was represented on festivities. Later pyrotechnics were added, and now it lacks any religious background except thefact that they're disguides as demons, so its just an entertainment thing that's done on various festivities, mostly on summer. In addition every group of demons has a monster that spits fireworks and all of them have a group of drummers that keep playing while the correfoc lasts. People are free to get inside the correfoc and stay under the fireworks, althoughyou should be properly dressed with old cotton clothes and a hat so you don't get burned.

That said, you have to experience it, a sensory assault that resembles a riot, with adults and children alike in caps and scarves covering as much of the face as possible. The preceedings start from the square with a vitriolic attack on all organisations, from the church to the state, drummers pound out continuously in between statements of abuse.

The march meanders through the village stopping off outside the town hall to give a special bit of abuse, similar treatment is given to the church. A rather large dragon is festooned with fireworks and all are set ablaze to whoops and cheers from the ensembled followers. All the way through the village the 'demons' continuously move back and forth from the cart carrying the fireworks, load their pitchfork, have it ignited by those carrying flares, and run with fireworks blazing towards all those participating in the fun.

If you wanted to sleep tonight you would have no chance, as the festivities continued to the late hours of midnight, The whole village gets involved, from those dressed up as the 'demons', the many who run the gauntlet of fire and residents who hang out of windows to watch it all happen from the safety of their homes.


Of course this could never happen in England, for many reasons, spoilsports.

If you get the chance to see and experience the correfoc, then do so, but you may need earplugs as well.

Spanish Grand Prix

spanish grand prix

may 2006

Finally I have made it, after spending many many weekends glued to the television, watching those ridiculously tuned cars, teararsing around complicated circuits, I am here. This year I have managed to make it to Barcelona to both visit my friends there and also to break my duck, experiencing my first Grand Prix in the flesh. This has got to be the best €95 I have spent. Some say its a boring sport watching cars go round and round, but until you truely understand it for what it is you will be forever devoid of the pleasure. Like football fans all around the world, this has to be seen in the flesh, you have to hear it, smell it, comsume it, its a group experience like no other. It doesn't matter who you have come to support, there is no segregation, all fans alike mingle together sharing what is about to become a most memorable experience.

This is a 4 day event, with open days, free practice sessions, qualifying and of course the race. As Michelle is working over some of the events, myself and Gabi venture forth to visit the circuit on open day, to wander around the pits and stand on the track. Fortunately the circuit is not a great distance from Masquefa, but a good 45mins drive. Its a nice sunny day, and a relatively early start must be made. On arrival at the circuit I wander around the large overbearing fence to approach a viable entrance point. At the turnstile i encounter a slight problem, to enter what is entitled a 'free' entry day I am expected to produce my ticket, the ticket I remember leaving back at Michelle's. This is a problem. Is there a potential solution to this problem, is there a temporary entrance fee I can pay to allow me to gain entrance to this temple of motorsport delight. Unfortunately there is not, and upon asking at the ticket window I am not alone, as many people have arrived without tickets, as in previous years this has not been a problem, and free entry was given to all who required it. Bugger.

So all that could be done, is to leave unfullfilled, and venture home. Fortunately we decide to visit the beach in Barcelona, and upon reaching the roundabout there be a familiar sight, a Red Bull Formula 1 car is parked by the side of the roundabout. Quickly pulling over, I grab my camera and move post haste to see this most fantastic of beasts. Just as I arrive at the scene the car in question is being packed away, so a quick word with the guy in charge, and a quick photo opportunity has arrived. The guy turns out to be a Brit, so a quick conversation ensues, pleasantries are exchanged and off I go on my way.

Friday is free practice, as this only lasts for a couple of hours and there is no guarantee who will be on track, I have decided to venture back into Barcelona, and have a good wander around on my own. Whilst visiting the Sagrada Familia I pass something I had been pondering to purchase. That being a Renault t-shirt, and a haggle must commence. Whilst perusing the shirts in question, I am asked what I am after, of course I reply 'one of these' and ask how much, this prompts the reply €29, a short intake of breath must then follow from me, and am then asked to make an offer, I with some cheek reply 20, the response of course is negative. Eventually after a quick haggle we arrive at a mutual price of 23. Cheers mate.

Saturday is qualifying, but as Michelle has plans for the morning, we do not go. It must be watched on the TV, but as Spanish is not my native language, plus I know very little anyway, Michelle provides an interpretation. Alonso being the magnificent driver he is, puts it on pole, so we are very happy again, tomorrow is race day, and an early start must be had.

So now it begins, early to rise, and the drive to the circuit must come first. Stocking up on food and appropriate provisions, seats and sun cream, water and headwear. All must be packed, for all of this will be consumed during the day for the early start is a very early start, we set out at 6. On arrival the traffic is starting to build, and parking must be achieved. Tickets are ripped and foodstuffs carried inside, I am finally here. As Gabi had broken his ankle the previous year, it was still giving him some grief, so a suitable vantage point must be located. A great little shaded spot provides us with all we need, seats are erected, food stashed, Gabi seated, and me and Michelle go for a wander to see what delights can be found. Not far from where we left Gabi are all the displays, in which are this years cars on display. As I am becoming something of a fanatic these days, many photo's are taken of all the cars, pausing to drool over the current Maclaren, for its a beaut.

Now we must take our seats, for the racing is about to begin. First of all the screens display a superbikes race, this is not my thing, but it still provides a suitable respite while awaiting the main event. Secondly a GP2 race is scheduled, this is more like it, GP2 is similar to F1, but with less money, power and kudos. Over this season, I have been following the progress of this championship and am quite aware of an English driver by the name of Hamilton. This race provides a few spills and mishaps, but still it is not what we are here for, and Hamiltion only finishes 3rd. Of course everyone here cheers in all the right places, and encourages all that need encouragement. The final race before the final race is the Porsche. Again it provides all the right ingredients, with a few more spills and cheers and is soon overwith. Time for food.

Juan Carlos being a motor sport fan is given a lap of the circuit driven by Fernando Alonso, both of whom are given a most raptuously appreciative nod as they hurtled around the circuit. The next big cheer was for the drivers parade as they also travelled around the circuit but this time on a flat back lorry, waving eagerly to the anticipated crowd. All around the circuit flags are being waved, seats are being filled, all around is a sea of blue and yellow, those being the colours of Alonso, interspaced are representaives of other teams, but of all the 130,000 fans there, the majority must go to Renault, and Alonso. Blasting across the sky came the Spanish equivalent of the Red Arrows, displaying feats of aerial excellence, trailing coloured smoke in both the colours of Spain and Catalunya. Now the fun begins as the drivers do a final lap from the pit lane to the grid, last to emerge is Alonso and Fiscichella, all around the track his presence is preceeded by a roar, not from the cars but generated by all the fans. The cars form up on the grid, in readyness for the formation lap, again the cars move in formation around the track, and again the roar of the crowd almost obliterates to roar of the engines, almost. All eyes move to the large screens strategically around the track, the race is about the start.

The red lights go out on we are off, if thought any of the previous races, and formation laps were loud, that was nothing compared to what awaited us. In no time at all, the Formula 1 snake of cars was upon us, assaulting all our senses, flags are waved, horns blasted, voices scream and cheer to near breaking point. All of this pales to insignificance as the cars rip around the corner at which we are located, everything vibrates, even my eyelashes vibrate in sympathy to the V8's tuned to 18,000rpm. Of course Alonso is in the lead, followed by Fissi, and the Schumacher and Massa, this continues to the first set of pit stops. Renault blink first, but all goes smoothly, as the leading 4 cars are so far ahead of the rest of the pack, Alonso is able to slip back into the main pack in 4th place, Fissi comes in next, thus leaving the Ferarri's in 1st and second place. Shumacher puts the hammer down using what fuel he has left to try and eat into Alonso's lead, which was at 13 seconds after only a third of the race. Fortunately both the Ferarri's come in for tyres and fuel after only 5 laps, thus allowing Alonso to slip back into 1st place. The next third of the race proceeded without incident, apart from Montoya beaching his car, and putting him out of the race. Kimi tried to catch up to the leading pack, but his pace was lacking. At the second set of pit stops the Renault's came in 1st again, but as Alonso had rebuilt his lead, he had no problems, the same could not be said for Fissi, for he made a slight detour off the track which allowed Schumacher to slip past him into 2nd place after all the pit stops had finished. Kimi still could not catch up with the leaders, so 5th place would be his best for the day. The final 3rd of the race went without incident as Alonso maintained his lead over Schumacher.

All through the race I kept one eye on the race infront of me and the other via my binocculars on the screens to check on time splits, pit windows and other information i would normally have listened to from the commentary off the TV. But being there as Alonso started his final lap was like nothing I had experienced all day. From the start of his final lap, the horns came out again, not that they ever went away, but somehow someone had turned up the volume on everything, thunderous cheers swelled the crowd to its feet, pushing Alonso on to his first Spanish victory, and another 10 points. I had never expected to feel so connected to so many people, a mass collective experience unlike any other. A rush of emotion came over the crowd as Alonso flashed past the chequered flag to cement his victory over Schumacher, and started his celebrationary lap, all the marshalls came upto the trackside to flagwave Alonso round for one final time, his car had never moved to slow all day, but it was his moment, the little Spaniard had done it, he had won his home Grand Prix.

All that was left was for the presentation of his trophy, of course there could be only one person who could bestow that honour, King Juan Carlos, we could see from the giant screens that this was a special presentation for the king, and Alonso lapped it all up like the World Champion he is. Champagne is sprayed upon all who got too close, then it was off to the press conference. Again that was all in Spanish, i would have to wait until we got back home to Michelle's to watch all the race again, and have Michelle translate all the important bits. As it was a nice day, and we were in no hurry to get back, I went for another wander around the circuit, climbed up a few grandstands to see where i could get tickets for next year, and ate some more food while the bulk of the crowd made their way from the circuit. Eventually it was time to leave, and watch the race again, but this time on TV, but it pales in comparison to actually being there. Next year we shall return, get grandstand seats, and maybe even another race somewhere during the season.

Zappa Plays Zappa - Manchester Apollo

zappa plays zappa

manchester apollo 1st june 2006

It may be over 10 years since the unfortunate death of the genius that was Frank Zappa, but for tonight in Manchester, his music lives on, aided and abetted by his son Dweezil & many friends. One of whom strat abused his way through many Zappa albums & performances, the equally bizarrely monikered guitar hero, Mr Steve Vai. Another is minus his tiny horse, but will mime one it if requested, Napolean murphy Brock.

This night should have been another night, that night being an earlier night, but for unseen circumstances it became this night & not the other night. But if that night was the night then this night would have been an oedinary night with nothing of significant importance to write about. But as this night is the night & this night is about to begin, then the start is the place to be.

It begins at the bar, where else may be asked, but lubrication is required & the bar will provide. This location must be possessed of exqusite Britishness, as the institution of the queue is in effect. An orderly line has formed in parallel to the bar and patience dictates a serving order. All is not what it seems as premium prices are in effect, 1 can of beer & a soft drink emptied my wallet of nearly £5. Time to sit down & cherish these premiumly priced beverages. Of course we are not here fot the beer, for the beer is too dear, and we have no idea, when the band will appear, oh dear (Dr Seuss would be hating me for that).

Eventually seats are filled, techies ensure all is well, armed with their maglites, drum roll please, the show is imminent. A rather large projection screen is situated at the rear of the stage flickers into being, onto which is projected concert footage of the great man himself, despite the fact we are watching a screen there is certain, quite special feeling being generated by the seated Zappaphiles. Slowly the band drift onto stage just as the projected Zappa tunes his guitar, similarly as an awaiting orchestra twiddles with sound, the non-projected band do similarly, now its live. An apt seque.

Napolean Murphy Brock provides vocals for the evening, looking younger than he did over 20 years ago, performing the same strange dance and mine routines he did many a year ago, as a fully fledged Zappa band member of previous incarnations. When not exercising his vocals, his talents are explored via the flute, sax, and some Brian Jacks style dips between stacks of equipment. Why you may ask, who knows.

Dweezil leads the menagerie of talent from the front, Gibson SG around his neck, performing leads breaks as though channeling techniques from his late father. At one point he attempts some Zappa style conducting with the band. Having devised visual queues, hand signals and gestures, a combination of which inform the individual members to perform intended musical actions. Thus providing each member the ability to show off their respective talents, and boy can they play.

As this is to be a 3 hour gig, the set comes in 2 parts, over half way through the first part, gremlins enter the preceedings. Dweezils guitar rig decides it doesn't want to produce sound anymore, techies armed with obliatory maglites try to accertain the problem, leads are exchanged, pedals unplugged and effect units reset. Nothing cures this ailment, of course Dweezil apologises to the audience & the band strikes up tunes that would not normally be part of the set (Pound for a brown), hurrah for us. Somebody from the audience tells Dweezil to plug into Vai's amp, to which he replies, 'I can't do that, it would be like sleeping with his wife'. Normal service is evenually restored, apart from the fact that Dweezil has to plug straight into his amp, no effects.

The techical delay has interupted the set, so some songs have to be dropped, not that you would know, unless you had prior knowledge of what they would be playing tonight, or had been informed somehow. Eventually the fault is found, fixed and facilitates Dweezil to effect his guitar again.

A short intermission follows, and all is resumed from where we left off. A couple more songs are played & out steps Mr Vai, the room goes wild. No surprise there, as Spinal Tap's amps go up to 11 to give them 1 louder, with Vai around the skill level tonight steps up to 12. Playing the most amazing solos, effortly and pristine, this true showman knows how to put on a great show. Trading licks with Dweezil, a crossroadian duel, where we are the victors, if anyone had sold their soul tonight it had to be Vai, you have to wonder how many fingers he has on each hand, 7 would not be enough.

The rest of the evening continues to raise the bar higher and higher, complex songs are performed to an eager audience, old favorites of many colours wash over an expected audience, nothing dissapoints even when the screen desends for a second time. This time the band are to play along with the projection, Frank Zappa on screen, Dweezil Zappa on stage, this we are told is the first time this had been attempted, again a special occasion for us at Manchester. Frank Zappa solos his way across the screen, his son looks up at his father, again a special moment. Of course all this must end, it is decided not go go through the usual encore routine of going off stage, waiting, comming back on and so on. The Band go straight into what would have been played on returning to the stage without actually leaving it.

Yes, it does end, and we have to leave, there is no encore for us, just happy memories of a wonderful night. A one off performance from a group of seminal musicians, it was well worth the wait. The music of Zappa lives on, a new generation of fans continue the memory, long may it last.

Tim Smith - Liverpool Academy

tim smith

liverpool academy march 26th 2006

Cardiacs being lovable funsters, and lacking frequent live appearences, are allowing limited exposure in limited locations. Such an appearence wherever the location, is of prime interest to a pond dwelling, shark fearing fish. The location Liverpool, the incarnation for the evening is Mr Tim Smith playing a selection of Cardiacs tunes, accompanied by Mr Jon Poole (ex Cardiacs guitarist, now Wildhearts bassplayer) & Ginger (Wildhearts) and a big bass drum.

The evenings entertainment of primary concern is of a supporting kind, Ginger has collected together like minded individuals to be known as Ginger & The Sonic Circus. This will be the main act of the night, but for us fishies, it is of lesser importance. We want Tim. Cameras are primed, recorders are set to record, and time must pass before all that is about to happen.

Happily flapping about are a small school of fish, bestowed in monochromatic attire potraying appreciaton of all things Alphabetical and Business Concern. The last seconds make their long swing around the clock, time is apparent, its Timmy time.

Sitting at the front of the stage, guitar on his lap, not so big big bass drum infront of him, Tim beams at his welcoming audience. To either side of him are Jon and Ginger, unmoving, emotionless. Jon is sporting a rather sporting moustache and beard, both he and Ginger have dressed up for the evening, but still they make no sound. Regular fish in the pond greet Tim with love and admiration, vocalising such emotion, trying to elicit a response from Tim. Tim bespectacled for the evening uses his Quade-like grin, signals to his cohorts, time to begin.

Conducting all around him from behind his not so big big bass drum, his accoustic guitar manages to become more that it was built for, sequences appear from nowhere, swirl around us and dissapear as though they had never been. Punctuating at irregular intervals, the not so big big bass drum pounds out beats from under Tims flapping foot. Keeping some measure of time, not controling but guiding the processes eminating from the minds on stage, forcing fingers into fret based dancings best described as elusive.

New arrangements of familar Cardiacs tunes bemuse and amuse the welcoming crowd, newbies maintain a bemused expression, this is like nothing they have experienced before, even to the initiated, its refreshing and new. Somebody compares it to Tenacious D mixed with Fantomas, but comparisons aside all regard what they are experiencing as most enjoyable. In between peculiar renditions of 'Duck And Roger The Horse' and 'Anything I Can't Eat', Tim regales the shallow pond of eager fish with strange stories of tiny people, and often surreal oneway conversations.

During one such musical rendition, the song is paused until the fish make a selections as to who should perform a guitar solo to accompany and continue the song, Ginger is tonights chosen one, and expressing a slight flicker of emotion, plays said solo and returns to the stoic stance, both he and Jon have maintained throughout. More familiar tunes are given a fresh, yet stripped approach, ' To Go Off And Things' still has its manic stop start twitchiness about it, and 'Body's Bad' still drives its way epileptically to a final conclusion.

A final slowdown brings us to the eventual stop that had to arrive, unfortunalely there is no encore, but what we had was more than enough, its just a pity we dont get to experience this type of evenings cavalcade of musical stylings a little more often. Too much of a good thing if this sort of thing can never be bad, for it is never the same, no matter how many time to experience it. Its only spoiled by the fact that it is over, and who knows when we will see the likes of it again.

Next on the bill is 'Ginger And The Sonic Circus', so back on stage is Ginger and Jon, looking a little more relaxed than earlier. To say that this cup of tea is not my cup of tea, is more than adaquate for this musical styling, so a quick view is all that is needed, its time to go home, goodnight.

Cumbawamba - Hebden Bridge

chumbawamba

hebden bridge trades club february 23rd 2006

Good job I checked what was about to happen tonight, as I am not sure how I would have reacted to turning up at the Trades Club, finding out that Chumbawamba are going acoustic on this mini tour would have come as some of a shock. My friends from Cornwall are spending half term in Blackburn, and had found out that Chumbawamba are playing at the Trades Club in Hedben Bridge. In years gone by we had spend many evenings at this venue, enjoying the non turkish delights they had to offer, often lubricated with many pints of Beamish. So with those facts stated and entered here, a new visit would be on the cards.

Unfortunately a personal matter precluded other friends from making it tonight, so for the evening it would be a 'threesome'. That being the case, and meeting my Cornish friends at the venue, a train must be caught. Timetables being fluid and constantly without edge, an early arrival would be improbable, so food must be consumed before any drinking commences. A telephone box must be procured for a non super quick change, camera fully charged ready for recording the evenings events and video set, for my sad addiction to crap TV must be sated.

As usual the train is delayed, its only a 40minute journey to my destination, but if you add any delays its always a longer journey, but the best part of any journey is finally getting there. A quick wander down the main road and my destination is arrived at. Passing the band on the stairs, they have either just finished and I have missed it, or they are adjourning for a short respite before entertaining us with accapellic treatments of old classics. As this is a 'working mans' club of sorts, you must have membership qualities, this can be achieved by passing some small coinage to recieving hands and a quick scribble in a large officious book.

Cramming into a small reception bar I catch up with me mates, quickly exchanging news of recent happenings, fortunately this never ever takes long. A support act is going to warm up the proceedings, so the main doors are opened and we are herded into the main room. Tonight it will be an all seated affair, condusive to acoustic performances, not that standing is any different, it all adds to an air of refinement, all mixed up with socialist anticipation and some confusion. For my none attending friends a refund for unused tickets is procured from the woman with the money, time for the support to support.

Madeline Brooks takes to the stage, a little horse, also a little husky is with her, not that any animals are performing, just a sore throat. Not that you could tell when she started belting out original renditions that Tori Amos would be proud of. Her set is full of warmth and good humour, the seated audience remains seatbound throughout, bladders are held tight along with an almost hypnotic attention. No gimmicks, just one girl with a guitar, a few short tales punctuate the gaps between songs, home humourous some heartfelt, but all original. A great start to what is going to turn out to be a great evening.

A short break follows so more beer can be aquired, baldders emptied and the no-smoking policy reinforced by the commitee, this is no Wheeltapers and Shunters club, but some aspects of Phoenix Nights are in evidence, more tattooed socialism than garlic bread.

Tonight Chumbawamba are a 5 piece, no Danbert or Alice of old, but for tonights interpretation that aspect of Chumbawamba is not necessary, stripped down to its acoustic roots, harking back to English Rebel Songs. Straight away classics are delivered to raptuous applause. 'Stitch That', 'Homophobia' and 'Timebomb' have the audience singing in their seats, explanations preceed new songs, brief history lessons on the origins of old English folk tunes of insurrection against the established order. 'You Can' recounts the mass tresspass of ramblers back in the 1930's, a protest without violence can have a loud voice, but 5 unacompanied voices in harmony delivers a loud message often forgotten in these times of technological marvels.

An intermission gives chance to stretch legs, relubricate the parts other drinks fail to, and deposit wasted waters upon stainless troughs. Returning to the stage after a brief hiatus, Chumbawamba pick from where they left off, mixing old classics with classic old folk tunes, perfectly executed without backing tapes, just acoustic guitars, accordian and trumpet. Stripping songs down to a more basic form gives a greater impact to its lyrical and sometimes comical content. 'On EBay' has us all singing seperate parts from different sections of the audience, but all good things must come to and end. Leaving us with 'Enough Is Enough', all that is left is to wait for the obligatory encore for the payoff. Rounding off the evening with rousing reditions of 'The Last Nazi' and 'Her Majesty' is more than enough, for tonight has been quite a revelation. A tightly packed audience leave the Trades Club with the knowledge that tonights performance, along with all on this mini tour have been recorded for a future CD release, so at some time in the future we may be able to relive the moment we heard it live right in front of us.

So homeward bound we go, with a song in our hearts and beer in our belly, contented that an evenings entertainment was worthy of note, and that note was accapellic and came in many keys, all of which came without plugs.

Whole Lotta Led - King Georges Hall, Blackburn

whole lotta led

King Georges Hall - 10th feb 2006

To be honest I don't much care for tribute bands, reason being, tribute bands by their very nature owe their existence to another bands ability to write and perform original material. Performing covers in an original way as a non-tribute band has its place, as many bands do this paying tribute to another band they have been influenced by. Few exceptions exist for me, Australian Pink Floyd and The Muffin Men, to name but a few. These do exactly as prescribed, they are tribute bands, they don't pretend to be anything else, but have a certain special quality, that enables them to rise above the run of the mill tribute band. Enough about the merits of being or not being a tribute band, its time for the evenings entertainment.

Packed into the Windsor Suite on a cold February evening, passionate followers of probably the most classic of all classic rock bands, have collected together to witness a tribute band attempt to recreate the music of Led Zeppelin. This has to be a most monumental task, how can you emulate the originators of all that is 'rock'. This attempt could be such folly, and fall so flat that no glue soaked patchwork of vulcanised rubber could re-inflate, but any attempt must be viewed with an open mind. Even if clouded with a modicum of alcohol.

The concept for the evening, for this band works with Led Zeppelin based concepts, is to play the Knebworth 1979 set list in its entirity. In the past they have performed other classic concerts, including Earls Court 1975. This attention to detail does have its plus points, rather than just playing all the popular tunes, or a greatest hits, a snapshot of Led Zeppelin history at the end of its glorious reign.

The Song Remains The Same opens the set to a pensive audience. The band obviously do not look like Zep, and in no way attempt to dress like them, but musically they have it. Older members of the collected inquisitors look upon the band not sure how they should respond, some perplexed faces look around for re-inforcement, some nod heads with eyes closed re-capturing a lost youth. Younger members just enjoy what is being performed for what it is, rock music carved in marble, classic, timeless, influencing all that followed.

Classic after classic permiates the room, the band are working hard, unfortunately punching the air does nothing but add an air of fermented cows milk, cringeworthy, and not worth repeating, unless you are Spinal Tap. This band must really enjoy what they do, despite the air punching. Professionalism is obvious, no lightweight could play such bombastic songs with such ease. Each member has time in the spotlight, from playing the keyboard part from No Quarter on bass, to the compulsary skin pounding that is Moby Dick, even including a bit of Theremin play on Whole Lotta Love.

Vocally, on a good day he could probably pull rabbits out of hats, but tonight he sounded a little tired and ragged around the edges, more Bon Scott than Robert Plant, but there is only one Percy. Playing the Knebworth set is a mighty task, not just for its length, but for the variety of style, unfortunately the vocals let them down in the detail. That detail cannot be overlooked, to be Zep you have to have it all, or its nothing.

Tribute bands are, as tribute is, not the real thing. Emulation can work, but you have to make it your own. Dread Zeppelin did just that, mixing Zep with Elvis, playing it in a reggae style making it original. Tonight I saw a tribute band, nothing more nothing less. Enjoyable but not too memorable, personally I thought they were ok, glad I saw them, but not too sure if I would go again.