I awake. It's Whitsun Monday. A national holiday in Germany but not here. The fact that it's a national holiday in Germany means I have no online lessons because the two I generally teach are cancelled. German people always seem to be either on holiday, about to embark on one or just back and beginning to dream about the next one. It's an enviable state of affairs. Perhaps other states could take note and make an investment in general happiness. It might just bear fruit for all concerned.
Nevertheless I'm up with the larks. The light always wakes me. We're enjoying an excellent spell of weather in Newcastle where I live. I get up. Listen to some of the records on ascending and descending lists which I document on here to keep me busy. Then I'm off to the gym shortly after eight.
I prefer to get to the gym early. I've found that if I turn up later I sometimes have to suffer loud mouths in the dressing room. Telling me of how much they care for the likes of Trump and Putin. I don't care for loud mouths. Particularly ones who turn the air blue to show off to one another or force their ignorant and laughable right wing opinions on people they share the dressing room with. I'm aware I'm getting old. I'm actually pleased I am. I don't care for Putin. Or Trump for that matter. I don't want to hear about them when I've only come to go to the sauna and plunge pool and to have a chat about amenable matters with others I know and don't know.
I get a couple of good chats with good people this morning. A woman in the sauna who is in Newcaste to pick up her daughter from university and drive her back to Sussex. Chris the train driver who's here before his London run. A bearded tourist from Toronto in the changing room in a Beastie Boys t shirt who's on his way to Whutby this morning and onwards to the Yorkshire Moors.
I was planning to go to a Record Fair at a hotel on the quayside at ten. When I get home I realise it's not until next Monday. My life is like this these days. I shrug. Something for me to do next week after my lessons.
.
I have a funny morning. I'm in a funny space. A transition phase. Going to the fitness centre much more regularly than I used to. Pushing it hard in the sauna and the plunge pool. On top of that I pop quite a few pills these days. For diabetes and high blood pressure. I'm in my late fifties. I don't imagine I'm that unusual. But they make me drowsy. Today I try to have a nap midday because I think it will do me good. Then can't sleep because I've got too much in my mind.
Anyway. Emily calls. As she's agreed to. Last time we met. Emily is my diabetes nurse.She's about thirty years younger than me But frankly she's hot. I'm sure she wouldn't mind. Anyway we talk through the odd way my changes in medication, lifestyle and exrercise regime are affecting me. After a brief chat she advises me to stop taking the Dapagliflozin. After a rustle through my prescription bag I'm relieved to tell her I haven't been taking them anyway. OK. All's OK. She reminds me that I've got a blood test at the clinic on Wednesday to check my blood sugar levels. We say our goodbyes.
I decide to watch a bit of Dazed & Confused while I'm heating up a quiche. Dazed & Confused is one of my go to films. If you haven't seen it I think you should. It explores certain essential truths. Set on the last day of school at a High School in Texas in the mid Seventies it's a wonderful exploration of what makes us tick. How we need to conform to where we are within a social hierarchy How we find our place and discover what's important to us. How we generally find our way in life despite everything we're beset with. .
I kid myself that I'm just going to watch it until I've eaten my quiche but of course I watch the whole thing. You can't stop a film like Dazed & Confused in full flow. Show some respect. Then I'm off. Down the slope past the castle and down to the Quayside. A bottle of non alcoholic beer in the Crown Posada while I read a prize possession NME I've just bought from 1985. The first time Michael Stipe and R.E.M. made the cover in 1985. They were my band back then and I still think of them as my band. They're central to my life journey like no other. Like the first girl you fall in love with who really falls in love with you too.
Manc Mick is slumped at the bar in his cups. His beard is out of control. Needs a trim. Every bar needs a wind up wastrel like Manc Mick proppping up its bar. I greet him as I buy my beer. Then say my farewells as I leave. You don't always have to sit down and talk to the likes of Manc Mick every time you see them. It won't be that long before you see them again.
I stroll down the Quayside. It's a glorious day. .The sun's in the heavens and it's hot but not oppressive. The best day of the year I'd say and highly promising in terms of suggesting a few months of plain sailing weather wise. Serene is a word which comes to mind.
I have a bottle of sweet cider in The Tyne and read my Mojo this time. The current issue with Paul Weller on the front looking like a slightly geriatric Mod Dracula. I'm one of those that prefers to stay inside even on sunny days when the Beer Gardens are awash with revellers. I'm a poseur I guess. Or a Velvet Underground fan. Whichever you prefer.
Now I'm at the end of The Quayside. Up into the hills to see if Billy,Chris or Steph are in The Free Trade. They're not so I make my way down the shallow dale to the Ousebourne Valley and then up the stone, mossy stairwell to the doors of The Cumberland Arms.
This place is becoming my spiritual home. I'm here virtually once a week these days. To see a gig or on some other pretence. It's always a pleasure to get here.
Especially as the gig is kicking off. It's a Wandering Oak night, set up by Walter Allison who's pretty much Indie daddy and benefactor in Newcastle and its local vicinity. He's an events organiser. I have no idea whether there's an income or subsidy for this or he just sees it as a public service duty servicing the needs of the indie community like some Francis of Assisi type who happens to like Pavement. I'm just glad that he does what he does and my radar pricks up whenever I see an event he's setting up. They're good value for money and attract the friendliest crowds in Newcastle.
An Attendant Ana are sat at a table in the back room. I saw them play last year at the same venue on the night when Newcastle clobbered Paris Saint Germaine 4-1 in the Champions League. They were fabulous and it was a fabulous gig and night. So I'm back.
I approach their table and gabble my appreciation of them. I tend to gabble enthusiastically when I'm in the company of people I admire. I imagiine I would embarrass my young siter but what are older brothers there for except to embarrass their younger sisters.
Anyhow I tell them I think they're great. I like what they do and appreciate how they do it without being sure how it is that they do what they do. They beam at my happiness and praise and I don't bother them further. Upstairs the indie people are gathering. A substantial crowd 40 or 50 I'd say. without being a sell out gig.
I take my beer to a stool at the back of the room and sit through the first act. Sarah Johnsone. She''s a talented musician with a range of well written, emotive songs that don't enthuse me sufficiently to get on my feet and shake my wobbling bits.
The secind act Being Dead are quite a different matter. A whacky Austin Texan threepiece, their album from last year When Horses Would Run was the kind of record that would have Melody Maker journalists frothing at the mouth when I was just a lad. Back in the days when R.E.M. swept everything before them between 1983 and 1985 and brought no end of whacky rootin and tootin alternative and vaguely C&W independent bands in their wake.
I'm talking Rank & File, Jason & The Scorchers, Camper Van Beethoven, Let's Active, Method Actors and the like. Being Dead appreciate their zany spirit and are here to reignite the flame. They play a brilliant, earthy, improvised and inspired set. They understand the thrill of B52s harmonised vocals and can do variations of them at the drop of a stetson. I go to the stage to offer them my appreciation at the end of their set. If they ever play near you, be there,. Or be content to be eternally square.
I almost buy a t shirt after their set. But buying stuff is quite a complicated matter for us old folk these days so in the end don't bother. There's another short break in proceedings before the five members of En Attendant Ana gather and are out of their traps and up and running on stage.
I saw them just last year but I'm instantly enchanted again,. I don't generally go and see bands that I've seen recently except if we're talking Jazz Jam suspects but in An Attendant Ana's case as long as they continue putting out such singular product and playing such exceptional sets, I'll carry on shelling out hard earned for the honour of seeing them. They're something else.
They're brilliant. I'm a bit tired so spend a fair bit of time on my stool at my table. But just because I'm not pogoing and screaming my appreciation in poor CSE French doesn't mean I'm not enjoying myself as much as anybody else in the room.
It's magnifique. Pure and simple they take much of what always made Stereolab so enchanting and magical. Stir it up with everything you've always loved about leftfield Gallic Pop and you enjoyed about solving tricky maths equations at school and you've got En Attendant Ana. The girls are sweet and the guys are smart and they make the most melodic captivating sound.
They seem to have lost the stocky guitar dynamo that I thought was a major part of their live appeal ast year but it doesn't seem to have made a bit of difference. They're still powering through the heats and looking fit for a medal when it comes to finals day.
They do a lovely French version of Something Stupid. The number that I always found slighty disconcerting growing up as it was a deeply sexy duet sung by father and daughter Frank and Nancy Sinatra. They throw a few new numbers into the set which auger well for the next album. They're cooking with gas and no mistake and I expect I'll keep blowing my blog trumpet for them as long as they keep being so wonderful.
They even make Walter Allison dance at one point. At least I think he was dancing. he certainly seemed happy. I'm not surprised, so was I. I made my way down the stairs and off into the night for my night bus. Happy as Louis.
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