My dad always talked about music that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up but I never knew what he meant until the first time I heard Jeff Buckley’s version of “Hallelujah”. From the opening sigh to the final silvery guitar notes, I couldn’t move. The instant it finished, I had to play it again. Every time since then, I’ve been unable to listen to it just once and rarely with entirely dry eyes.

Last night, that song produced a different sort of tears – tears of sheer, bloody frustration. The latest product of Simon Cowell’s Pop Factory has released a cover version. The sort of identikit, soulless, artless cover version that doesn’t even register as song, just a collection of musical kit parts arranged in the least challenging order. I have no idea who the artiste is, she isn’t worth the google. From the 30 seconds I could bear, she’s evidently the sort of singer who sees “emotion” as a box to tick by clenching a fist, closing her eyes and putting more notes in. Nothing but nothing gets my goat more than the unthinking diva who uses Every Bloody Line as a chance to swoop around their vocal range like a vulture at mountain-side plane crash.

Nobody cares how many notes you can sing. Nobody.

Just find that one, perfect note. The note that sounds like your heart is being wrenched apart so that one note can get out and unload every last speck of pain or joy or despair or love that you’ve ever felt to any ear prepared to listen because you had no choice but to set it loose.

Buckley, for the record, had a massive three to four octave vocal range. None of his songs contain the sort of vain histrionics, compulsorily for today’s career diva. He used his notes – picked them with care and love. He used tone and timing and volume. He treated his range as a vast set of colours from which to pick exactly the right shade. He didn’t paint rainbows on every inch of the page.

There’s more to being an artist than learning technique. You have to learn what to do with it.

There’s a campaign to download the Buckley version enough times to stop the travesty being Xmas number one. It might seem petty but it might just make you feel better, just for a moment.

No autographs.

YouTube is chock full of UOGB (as we afficianados call them) clips. I recommend “Fly Me Off The Handel” and the “You don’t bring me flowers”. Now, I wonder how much a ukulele is … ?

The eight-hours-of-train-travel-on-the-first-bloody-day notwithstanding.

Still it’s a definite improvement. Lots of busy and nerdy and Linux.

Been to loads of gigs lately and I’ve started trying to review them (see up there where is says ‘reviews’) but it’s making me respect, y’know, PROPER reviewers mostly. Might take them down again. Any opinions gratefully ignored.

more soon. honest

The last such wrangle was over the meaning of a Cat Empire song. While not wishing to go over the details of it, in short I was completely correct and she was very, very wrong.

This week, it got heated fairly late on after 3 bottles of wine. I don’t remember the fine details but Beloved suggested I am “a crap musician” for reasons involving Paul Simon, Josef Mengele and the Bhundu boys.

I am ashamed to admit I had no answer to that.

Drove up to Dumfries on the Friday afternoon with the traditional stop at Tebay services, now featuring a snazzy and posh Deli/Organic/GorgeousStuff counter. Drove on with the traditional “wooohooooo we’re in Scotland!” when passing the Iron Bridge.

Maw and Paw chuffed to see us, of course. Spent a cheery Friday night nattering to them and being fed to within an inch of our lives.

Shona arrived on Saturday so more nattering before Sophie and I went for a mooch round Dumfries. There was some sort of street theatre going on which was probably very entertaining but I got distracted by the woman in a ringmaster’s outfit and stripy tights “training” another woman in a Lion suit which appeared to be slightly too big for the pert bottom she ended up virtually baring in the High Street. Hence my distraction …

The centre of Dumfries is a bit of a sorry sight. So many boarded up shop fronts and what’s left is mostly charities and cheap tat. I remember it being a lot busier and the shops being more varied. Whether this is a trick of my memory or a sad symptom of the growth in out-of-town shops, I don’t know. There was a market behind the steeple which was quite cool but I did leave town feeling a bit sad.

Saturday night and it’s off to the pub with Tracy and her new man, Jack who turned out to be a semi-pro musician and a top bloke all round. We spent the night discussing guitars, music, songs and generally boring the arse off of the womenfolk. Smoking is banned in Scottish pubs now so as I was with 3 chain smokers, I spent more time than I care to outside in the freezing cold – and I don’t even smoke.

Once we’d out-stayed our welcome in every pub we could find, we headed back to Tracy’s flat where I strategically passed out on the floor. We somehow managed to get lost between her flat and the main road which is quite an impressive feat, but eventually found the taxi and made it back to my parents’ house.

Sunday, as you may imagine, was quiet.

Monday morning, and we said all our goodbyes before heading north. We decided to take the coast road which, to Sophie’s relief, only referred to the part around Largs and not going via Stranraer. On reaching the road approaching Ardrossan, my excitable driver spotted something:-

“OOOOO, LOOOK SEA!!! SEE??? SEA!!!”

“ROAD!!! CARS!!! RRROOOOAADDDDDD, WOMAN!!!”

“what? oh yes, those…SEAGULLS!! I CAN HEAR SEAGULLS!!”

“WILL YOU CONCENTRATE ON YOUR DRIVING?? WATCH!!! CARAVAN!!”

“WOOOWWW!!! Proper ROCKS!!! I’ve never SEEN a ROCK POOL, d’you think there’ll be a rock pool? maybe i can get a bit closer … “

“hailmarymotherofgodprayforussinnersnowandatthehour…”

“you’re not even Catholic, smart arse”

“…ofourdeath – i don’t care, it’s worth a try – LORRY! LORRYYYYYYYY!”

” I saw it, I saw it. Calm down. Honestly, what a wendy”

“you mean Jessie. No, wait …”

200 miles and Four of my Nine Lives later, we approached Greenock. Or Gourock. One of the two. I get them confused. Just as we were coming in, my phone goes.

It’s the police.

in Holyhead.

in Wales.

… to be continued

“scuseus can ijustsqueezethroughthere”

Wax Planet were suprpisingly good. Despite their combined ages coming to about the same as my waist measurement, they managed well developed songs, with 3 part harmonies and actual tunes. On their MySpace page, there’s a description of them as “like the Beach Boys if they’d listened to Magazine” which is spot on. One to watch.

“awrightman justletusinthere”

Revolution is not an ideal concert venue. The layout meant that wherever we stood, we were in the way of the people going to the bar and the ones going to the loo. And oh, how they go.

Every

thirty

seconds

Just as one went past, another bloody twat would “scuseme” and then “sorrymate” then dash off in fear of my terrifying glare. Eventually, Damon dragged me behind a sofa for the safety of all concerned. Then someone beside him “needed” to get out. If you find my will to live, I’d like it back.

Cards on the table – Revolution in Deansgate Locks is not my sort of place. At all. I wouldn’t normally go in unless I was being threatened. I don’t fit, I don’t like it, I can’t hear myself, the clientele are too busy checking their cool, they’re too young and the booze is crap. And since when did lads watching a band start drinking glasses of white wine?

It’s also the sort of gig venue where the regulars see the band as background music. At the sign of a quiet song, the volume of chatter goes UP as it’s a chance to hear your conversation, not down in order to hear the song.

Despite that. the mighty Kloot stroll on and start with a big smile from John Bramwell, whose shaggy hairstyle is making him look like a Tommy-era Roger Daltrey. Starting with a new song which i didn’t catch the name of but which went down well. Announcing that as this was going out on the radio, there was to be no swearing “except for the second line of this next song” which turned out to be “Twist”.

Bramwell is a star, the smallest “colossus” to stride the stage but a captivating performer. Pete the Bass spends the whole gig (every gig) sitting on a chair with his legs crossed and a fag going but somehow still seems to be dancing along. How often in a band is the stoic, sensible one at the back?
3 or four new songs, as well as “To You”, “Life in a Day”, “Storm Warning” …erm…loads I’ll remember later when someone reminds me? The new stuff seems to be more rock than usual but without losing the Kloot-ness.
The minute the last chords rang out and the Kloot waved, we three en masse said “Knott bar?” and headed straight off for a couple of proper pints before bed. Pointedly shoving past everyone.

and not saying sorry.

He seemed on top form, especially on Saturday night. I still don’t get Kristeen Young, though. Incredible voice and for the first five minutes she seems exciting but after 45 minutes, i’m willing her off the stage.

Morrissey’s latest thing seems to be 60′s/70′s euro-crooners judging by the videos before he came on. Sacha Distel, Brigitte Bardot, Tommy Korberg, Gigliola Cinquetti as well as Vince Taylor and a James Dean screen test (some things are constant) which I enjoyed way more than i’d have expected.

The lad ‘imself still knocks me out. I can’t think of a single, current pop star with half his wit or charm or style.

And hearing “the songs that saved your life” being sung by the man in person never gets old.