Listening to: Foo Fighters - Band on the Run

Yesterday morning I was contentedly driving along in the newly washed and waxed Sonic Chariot. Decided to take a welcome break from my fevered inner thoughts so I switched the radio on. Tuned in halfway through some kind of interview with Paul McCartney - can't say I took too much notice at the time - after which Band on the Run got an airing.
For younger readers, this is the title track from the album of the same name, by Macca and his post-Beatles back-to-basics outfit, Alan Partridge favourites, Wings. Released in 1973, way before your mummies and daddies had even met, it was one of those vaguely annoying records that everyone in the world seemed to own, including it seemed to me, people who were otherwise not-too-arsed about music that much at all.

So there I am thinking I should be changing stations when I simultaneously start thinking that this song is sounding somehow better, in fact, a fair bit better, than it used to.
The rationalising part of my brain suggested that it was probably a 'Live' version from somewhere or other, which would explain it's harder, more don't stop a-rockin' sound. By the time we'd reached the 'Well the rain exploded with a mighty crash...' part I was at my destination, but felt compelled to stay in the car 'til it ended, because now I was a complete Wings-Revisionist, and of course, very, very worried about myself.

It transpired dear reader, as you will no doubt know by now, that this was/is the cover-version of said song by the Foo Fighters. Inspired choice I have to say. Dave Grohl actually sounds like Paul McCartney too. Yes, really.
If Wings had sounded like this way back, their trajectory through Pop Culture's airspace of the 1970's might have been very different.
And I might have become a Wings completist.

It's that time again my friends.
Time for us all to sleep-walk in formation unto that long, dark, dismal subterranean corridor known as Autumn.
Dust off those Joy Division CDs pop-kids, because now's the time to play 'em. A very busy period for squirrels everywhere.
Now I think of it, they've got the right idea ... the squirrels I mean; Sleep through the whole thing and wake up when it's time to wear shorts again.
That pic up there, by artist Jeff Soto sums up this time of year perfectly for me. Apparently one of four paintings inspired by the seasons, this one being Autumn. Not exactly the popular romantic view of the Brown Season, but somehow more descriptive of it than most depictions I've personally come across. Kind of reaches right in there and says it all in 2 beautifully rendered syllables.
Once, many moons ago, I attempted to live deep in the woods, neo-survivalist style. After a couple of weeks, I felt that I was on the verge of being accepted by the squirrels, when I reached some kind of breaking-point and reluctantly had to scurry back to humankind.
Survivalism - Lesson 1: Creature-Comforts always win out with us city-slickers.
Apart from the intense cold and aching loneliness, I really missed Seinfeld.
Anyhoo, Onward™....

Greetings Music-Lovers. Just back from my Funky Purple Adventure down South, and am pleased to report that a fine time was had by all. Also transpired that what I had thought were ultra-distant balcony seats were actually in a great spot, presenting an almost dead-centre view of the stage. Security at the O2 was very tight indeed, especially as regards taking photos. I risked certain death just snapping these pics on my phone.
Others weren't so lucky; On a quick trip to the Gents during the set, I witnessed three hapless amateur photographers being crudely but swiftly beheaded by security staff, their remains bundled into heavy-duty bin-bags, no doubt for health & safety reasons. Seriously. I have thus reinforced all door-locks in Chéz Sonique and placed extra manpower on the outer perimeter gates. You never know when they might come.


Anyhoo, nicely structured show all in all, which included a solo at-the-piano section during which Little Red Corvette and Raspberry Beret became torch-songs. Kinda liked that. A selection of cover-versions throughout the night included a brief but storming rendition of El Zep's Whole Lotta Love and Gnarls Barkley's Crazy. Some great R&B playing during the end section of The Beatles' Come Together too. Reminded me just how great His Purpleness is as a guitarist. Some class Blues playing elsewhere in the set but I can't remember which track it was in. Dammit, I should've made notes. I think it might have also been in Come Together. It was that kind of a night. What else...oh yeah, Kylie's Can't Get You Outta My Head and Chic's Le Freak.
Aside from these, he ticked a loose selection of boxes from his 30 year back-cat to keep the capacity crowd happy. In fact, there was a distinct nonchalant tone to the entire show I thought, no doubt the result of having 150 or so songs rehearsed and ready to go at random on any given night.


A second encore at the end would've been nice though. The crowd were well up for it, (and the house-lights stayed down for ages), but the little purple fella wasn't, apparently. Still, the show clocked in at 2 hours-ish, so it's not like he and the band hadn't worked for their money.
This was actually the first proper (seated) stadium show I've ever been to, and it took a little while to adjust. Sounds odd, but it's also the first time I've watched live music in a seat with a drinks holder. Very handy, mind. Come to that, I can't recall the last time I watched live music in a seat.
One thing about the O2 I liked was the fast-service-no-queue situation at the numerous bars. Eradicated that thing of dreading buying a drink because of a 4-deep queue. Seemed like anywhere there was a space, they'd bung a beer vendor. That's my kind of interior design, Pop-Kids.
In fact, my entire night was sponsored by Stella Artois, or at least it felt that way this morning.
BTW, for all you Purple People out there, this is a place you should visit.

Listening to: Prince - Electric Chair

What up homies?
As I type, sheets of rain driven by howling Castle Dracula-style winds bear down upon the roof of Chéz Sonique in a most unforgiving fashion.
The wind is speaking, nay, mocking me my virtual friends. It says quite clearly: 'Put away those shorts and urban-sandals loser, this is it now for the next 6 months'. Then there's a kind of maniacal crazy-person type laugh. It's so loud I can barely hear myself moan about the weather.

In truth, the Summer of Sonic never really got going did it? Tell you what though, I'm pretty sure that we're in for a proper Sonic Winter. Never any problems with that one in Cruel Britannia. You want drizzle and darkness for months on end, you'll sure as heckfire get it.
Anyhoo, this matters less than usual at the moment, because tomorrow morning, Yours Truly puts his undies and a toothbrush in a kit-bag and takes the high road to our nation's Capital, Dick Whittington style.
Yessir, I'm off to see Prince's penultimate show at the O2 Arena in glorious Greenwich.
Have to say, I'm not in possession of the greatest seat in the house, but nothing a top-of-the-range infra-red telescope won't fix. Still, it's the taking part that matters, right?
Will report back at the weekend.

Greetings Blog Citizens.
It's been a particularly trying week for Yours Truly. Up every morning at 5.00am to earn an honest crust, six days running. So what do I then decide to do with my Sunday morning? Play Squash (U.S. readers: Racquet-ball) is what. I've taken to doing this recently. I figure it gets me past that 'I'm up and dressed - what more do you want?' stage.
Most weeks this activity has been a positive addition to my day of rest ... even last week I got a few games in before the onset of the Arsequake. (See previous post).
Today however, I maybe should have reverted to the vegging-on-the-settee-with-the-papers option of old. I floundered around that court like Cartman on tranquilisers. For much of the time it was all I could do to hold the racquet.
Remember that CBGB's t-shirt I mentioned a couple of posts back? In the changing-room before playing, I was dismayed to find that I'd accidentally packed that particular garment instead of my Sonic Power-Vest, a secret sartorial aid to intense power-play. (Both items are black and I packed in a hurry, alright?).
Suffice it to say, anyone who can recall Philip Seymour Hoffman's sexually confused boom-operator in Boogie Nights will have an idea of how I looked in there today.
The wierdest part is that I actually won two games out of three.
Anyhoo, back at Chez Sonique now. Defaulting to Veg-Option...

As regular readers will by now be aware, it's perpetually Summer in my fevered and occasionally delusional mind.
So, despite the drizzle that, even as I type, is ushering in the saddest of all months, I decided that sunshine on a plate would be a good idea for Sunday lunch. Hence, Tapas. Or something like.
Not that I was mad-hungry to be honest, but a little bit of the Mediterranean slooshed down with something Mediterranean in a bottle seemed like a good idea a few hours back.
My precise order was: Goat's cheese, Falafel (and no, I know it's not Spanish but the establishment I was in pretended it was) and good ol' chunky frites (ditto). Vinegar for les Frites please.
Wine of choice: Pino Grigio.
Life was good there for a while, pop-kids. However, just prior to paying the bill I noticed the odd... twinge or two, down below. Thought not too much of it at that stage.
It was only in the car on the way home that this seismic activity began to move further up the Richter scale, and inform me that something truly worth worrying about was taking shape in the darker recesses of my Anal Staircase.

A hasty decision had to be made, and I decided that a detour to a local Morrison's supermarket in search of sanctuary was in order. Luckily, it was one with public toilets, though the Gents only just managed to qualify as such. Toilet-seats are apparently optional in this particular outlet, but it was preferable to a bottle-bank in the car-park. (I'll leave you to wrestle with that particularly disturbing image).
When I crashed through the door moaning and groaning, I found the sole cubicle to be occupied. Only by accessing a higher state of consciousness, Ninja-style, could I avert a sani-sonic disaster that would've seen me banned from Morrison's supermarkets for life.
I must now, dear reader, draw a veil over the ensuing 10 minutes or so. It was not pretty, quiet, dignified or holy.
Whatever the case, the day was saved, and I staggered out into the sunshine, tearfully thanking the God of all things... toilety.
Amen.