Pilgrim's Progress

Happy Birthday to me. If anyone fancies splashing out on a late present, here's what I want. A new amp. But not just any old amp. I want one of the above. I want a Fucking Fucker.

Brilliant.

This week, I've been catching up on some bloggage; musical theories and rants about the nature of art, cultural significance... all that stuff. It's very interesting, and some of it may even be right, but it seemed like an awful lot of words devoted to the one thing that requires none to chug in 4/4 on my heartstrings.

As I get older, the one... no... the only thing that matters to me is whether or not it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up; whether or not it makes me wince with joy, like it did as I listened over and over to - say - the chorus of REM's 'Shaking Through' as a very young man.

Like it does now, when I listen to this, by American composer Randall Thompson.

Randall Thompson - 'Choose Something Like a Star'

Buy Randall Thompson

Paglia... Marcus... I read them, and it's fascinating.

I listen to this and there's magic.

While I realise that the time for this sort of thing has come and gone, I've been compiling this in my head for weeks now without the time to actually set it down, thus. They're not all from 2007, but that's when I discovered them, so... ner. The first ten albums are probably in some kind of order of preference, the rest are pretty random, but buy any of them and your life will be a better place. Promise.

• Field Music - Tones of Town. One of the greatest pop records I've ever heard... That's ever...
• My Brightest Diamond - Bring me the Workhorse. Haven't felt like this about a singer since Jeff Buckley...
• El-P - I'll Sleep When You're Dead. An emotional Hip Hop album ? Angry. Bleak. Poetic. Astonishing.
• Deerhoof - Friend Opportunity. Quirky and joyful.
• Feist - The Reminder. Along with Field Music, brought me back to pop songs again.
• The National - Boxer. Darlings of the mp3 Blogosphere, and rightfully so.
• PJ Harvey - White Chalk. Piano and falsetto led atmos-fest.
• Claudia Quintet - For. A free jazz accordion solo ? That's fun ? Oh yeah.
• Cadence Weapon - Breaking Kayfabe. Dizzying verbal technique from Canadian rapper, and in 'Sharks,' the best use of squelchy bass noise since Bootsy strapped on a star-shaped guitar.
• Botch - We Are Romans (reissue). Metalcore pioneers ritually abuse various time signatures with the precision of brain surgeons.

• Tunng - Good Arrows
• Greg Haines - Slumber Tides
• Sunn O))) - Black One
• Marnie Stern - In Advance of the Broken Arm
• St. Vincent - Marry Me
• Dillinger Escape Plan - Ire Works
• Bright Eyes - Cassadaga
• Amiina - Kurr
• Roisin Murphy - Ruby Blue
• Colleen - Les Ondes Silencieuses

Here are a few of my favourite songs from the above. More to follow.

My Brightest Diamond - 'Disappear'

The Claudia Quintet - 'I'm So Fickin' Cool'

Over the years, as music lovers, we’ve seen the Devil sympathised with, sought after by many a Delta blues man, killed in-the-name-of by Norwegian black metal bands, and (most terrifyingly of all) treated – via His woman - with a strange ambivalence by Cliff Richard. Less literally, and sadly too late for many of those blues guys, it’s often said that he’s to be found in the details, and it’s there that I think he often serves a better purpose than possessing children or, indeed, indirectly giving Cliff a hard-on.

See, in much of the music I love, there’s a wealth of it (detail that is - not Cliff’s old chap), and I have to admit that it’s where I tend to lose myself when recording my own songs. I like it when a piece of music seems to grow from a number of points, with no one sound becoming the focus necessarily; everything carefully feeding the texture and the atmosphere. That way, when something does leap out of the mix – like a voice, say – the impact is all the greater.

It’s pretty hard to get right. And it’s even harder when you actually employ the twin disciplines of restraint and economy; two words I rarely have much to do with, as the kitchen sink (metaphorically) and a dishwasher (literally) elbow their way into another SBP song.

Mark Edwards seems to be pretty familiar with those verbs however (along with a few others as well; he's a excellent music journalist too), if his album ‘Balance’ is anything to go by anyway. It’s certainly an apt title, because, despite limiting his palette to a few very carefully chosen sounds – an arpeggiated guitar here, a distorted loop there – he employs them with such taste and... erm... democracy that he creates something infinitely greater than the sum of its parts, as his songs quietly unfold.

That he does so playing real instruments (and one drum machine) in real time makes it all the more impressive, but, as he says, “I don’t like working with computers, I can’t work with Pro-Tools, sampling or sequencing, because once I go down that road all I ever do is add things, and nothing gets finished.”

I know that feeling.

So what does it sound like ? There are obvious reference points like Eno and post-rocking guitar whiz David Pajo, but I can also hear echoes of Robin Guthrie’s spectral picking, Vini Reilly’s Durutti Column in their more ethereal moments, and the instrumental sides of David Sylvian’s ‘Gone to Earth.’ Regardless of his inspirations though, ‘Balance’s shimmering little universe is quite unlike any other, and for about 45 minutes or so, it’s a truly lovely place to be.

As Mark says, “This is friendly music. It wants to talk to you.” I’m very happy to listen.

Mark Edwards - When the Space Unfolds

Buy 'Balance'

Mark Edwards' Myspace Page

It's becoming something of a protracted labour, but it would seem that SBP are at least a couple of centimetres dilated with their sophomore effort, hence the lack of updates. And eating. And sleeping. And human contact. Tasteless cervical metaphors aside, I reckon that all that musical cell division is finally recognisable - dare I say it - as something like a record. I think I may even have come up with a name, which is one of the trickiest decisions for any new parent.

We shall be posting a new track or two up on our Myspace page shortly, though please do note that they are still rough mixes, and they've not been mastered.

So, apologies for the lack of contact, but I haven't been able to move too far from the fridge in case I start craving yoghurt and sausage sandwiches.

So what else has been going on ? Well, I contributed lyrics and a tune to Steve Jansen's record, 'Slope,' which I think is one of the best things Steve's ever been involved with. Steve says,

"With this album I approached composition attempting to avoid chord and song structures and the usual familiar building blocks. Instead I wanted to piece together unrelated sounds, music samples, rhythms and events in an attempt to deviate from my own trappings as a musician."

...which kind of neglects to mention that all the experimentation is built on excellent songs, all bent into new and exciting shapes by Steve's sonic sorcery, which rather disappointingly negates all drummer jokes with one sweep of a touchpad finger. Other contributors include David Sylvian, Thomas Feiner (once of the excellent Anywhen), Anja Garbarek, Joan as Policewoman and Nina Kinert, and I must say that I feel very lucky to have been involved in the whole enterprise, especially appearing - as I am very lucky to - amongst such amazing artists.

In other news, our debut, 'We Just Did What Happened and No One Came' is finally to be made available digitally on iTunes, Napster, eMusic, Real Music, Rhapsody and Sony Connect via our friend Steve Adey's Grand Harmonium records, on the 3rd of December. See how we slip effortlessly into the 21st century !

And, as if that wasn't enough, we now have a page on Facebook, should anyone wish to poke, superpoke or turn us into werewolves.

There is some other rather exciting news arising from our recent jaunt to Norway's Punkt Festival, but I don't want to jump the gun and spoil it all. Suffice to say, that some interesting ideas for collaborations seem to be presenting themselves, and I'm very excited by all of them.

Finally, we're to be featured on the lovely Fiona Talkington's 'Late Junction' on Radio 3 at some point in the week before Christmas, and Fiona will be featuring one of the songs from the new album as one of her tracks of the year ! I can't tell you how nice it is to feel a little bit championed, and - having finally met Fiona at the Punkt Festival - by someone with such a genuine passion for music.

Most exciting of all though, is the news that Pilgrim Alistair and his lovely wife Justine have brought a beautiful little drummer boy into the world. A huge welcome to Isaac and congratulations to them both. Now, Isaac... I'll just go through it again - then it's your turn... don't hold the sticks too tightly now... Right, left, right, right - left, right, left, left... Come on, concentrate ! No... A paradiddle is not what you've just left in your nappy... Again... Right, left, right, right - left, right, left, left...

In his honour, I'd like to dedicate this song - in keeping with the Nordic theme of recent posts - by Norwegians Ungdomskulen, to Isaac. It's called 'Ordinary Son,' which may sound a bit tactless, but the chorus actually says, 'I'm not an ordinary son,' which I'm sure the happy parents already know...

Ungdomskulen are a three piece powerhouse band with that amazing ability to change direction like a spooked flock of birds. Great songs, great playing and strangely funky... Can't ask for more than that.

Ungdomskulen - 'Ordinary Son'

Buy Ungdomskulen

So you want me to remix the guys opening the festival ? Yeah, no problem... Yep, just send me the individual instrumental tracks and give me seven or eight weeks to painstakingly construct my sonic cathedrals... Sorry ? What ?.. Make a start now ? Well, I could I suppose, but there seem to be people filing into the room, sitting down expectantly and stroking their well-groomed Nordic beards..? No... not the girls, obviously... Sure... just find me a quiet corner to work in. Oh... I see...[tense pause] Right now ? For half an hour ? [nervous laughter] While they [gulps] all watch... [pause] Am I alright to leave my suitcase here ?

View from my hotel room

And that (give or take a bit of artistic license) was how the Punkt Festival, in Kristiansand, Norway began for SBP. With some pedal steel guitar hijacked from Huntsville's set as they played upstairs, fed into one of my looping pedals and woven - via further pedals - into a sort-of song, while an alarmingly attentive audience, fresh from the show itself, watched. Accompanying the loopiness was some frantically handpumped harmonium (which must be the title of a minority interest porn film somewhere on the internet), some improvised lyrics here and there, and if I could've squeezed two small cymbals into my suitcase for subsequent deployment on my knees, they'd have probably made an appearance too.

Now, the most I generally have to improvise is a reason why I have no time to speak to the Jehovah's Witnesses grinning at me blankly from my front doorstep, so this was a little out of my comfort zone.

Like participating in a rodeo, say; far away from my usual metaphorical belt, braces, helium-filled balloons on strings, safety harness, bunjee rope and inflatable rubber ring combination.

But it actually went OK, and here's a very nice review that would seem to concur. Got to meet the lovely Fiona Talkington afterwards too, who's played us a few times on 'Late Junction,' her show on BBC Radio 3.

Pilgrim Anthony joined me for this jaunt, and we'd flown on the Thursday from Heathrow to Oslo, and then onto Kristiansand; Anthony's luggage consisting of little more than some pants and a banjo; mine of some pants, about a hundred effects pedals and an anonymous shower cap that seems to follow me everywhere. So we certainly weren't short of pants. Just sleep. Up at three am with freshly sandpapered eyeballs for the flight, we finally arrived at the venue twelve hours later, to be warmly greeted by festival organisers Eric Honoré and Jan Bang, and a crack team of assault technicians armed with laptops and cable adaptors.

Nerves jangling, Anthony and I spent Friday trying not to dwell too much on the prospect of our show that evening. Failing miserably, after soundcheck we wandered the streets of Kristiansand, trying to look cool and unconcerned, but probably more closely resembling two very tense fathers-to-be in a hospital waiting room. Later that afternoon we caught Solveig Sletterjhell's set, which was so stunning I almost ran screaming from the theatre at the prospect of following it.

The songs she played were sort of traditionally jazzy in shape, mainly thanks to her rich alto, but the arrangements introduced all kinds of skittering unrest via Morten Qvenild's beautifully fractured piano shapes and the amazing (often strummed) double bass playing of Jo Berger Myhre. Then she played Tom Waits' 'Take it With Me' as an encore, and Anthony and I started checking to see whether our return flights were transferable at extremely short notice.

Here we are about two minutes before we went on stage. Note Anthony's pre-show warm up. I'm doing mine too, but it involves less upper body movement and more lower body... ahem... clenching.

It was the most confusing gig I've ever done. Never has so much gone wrong and yet felt so right. Due to the high cost of shipping, I'd arranged to borrow a guitar and an amp for the show. The amp was great. At the risk of sounding ungrateful, however, the guitar was troubled. It had a banjo tuning peg for the top E string, and stayed in tune for about as long as Britney's pants stay on when there's some paparazzi around and a limo to get out of.

I had grand plans of segueing from one song to another; of weaving a seamless tapestry of looped wonder as the audience gasped and reeled... The reality initially felt like more of a worn doormat of looped blunder, but as soon as I explained our predicament to the audience, the show suddenly came alive. I've never felt so... rooted-for, and I walked off simultaneously elated and a bit numb with horror. Can't really explain it any better than that, but here's another review that might make more sense of it.

Afterwards, we installed ourselves at the Punkt endorsed bar at the end of the street, and there we remained until about four in the morning, engulfed in cloud of warm wishes and whiskey, until I finally conceded to sleep with a big smile on my face...

...which abruptly vanished next morning as Nosferatu stared balefully back at me from the bathroom mirror. As luck would have it though, Punkt artists and press had been invited on a bracing boat trip along the Kristiansand estuary; an unexpected bonus considering the already outrageous degree of hospitality we'd been exposed to; and so it was that I sat with a mercifully strong breeze in my face, marvelling at the little holiday homes people had built on the tiny islands scattered across the water. Most could only be reached by rowing boat, and radiated a chunky-knit, chapped-handed warmth through their immaculately painted walls.

We stopped at one of the larger islands for a spot of lunch, and as I enjoyed my food, I fought the urge to go and ask Robin Guthrie of the Cocteau Twins if Liz Frazer really sings 'Oh lover please understand about my marble behind,' on their incomparable 'Aikea Guinea' single.

That night, trumpeter Arve Henriksen took to the Punkt stage with the Kristiansand Symphony Orchestra and Jan Bang to perform “Crossing Images” for ensemble and improvisers, by composer Peter Tornquist. Anthony and I watched, slack-jawed, as Arve coaxed some astonishing noises from his horn, even removing the mouthpiece once or twice to further drift from the noises a trumpet might normally make. At one point, he sang through it, which made me smile... Yeah, you can set fire to a guitar, but only a true iconoclast would sing through a trumpet.

Equally impressive was festival co-organiser Jan Bang's contribution to the piece, via his live sampling set-up; a bravura display of lightning quick reflexes and some inspired risk-taking. Our jaws now located somewhere around our knees, we watched him sample sections of Arve's trumpet and the orchestra and then seamlessly spin them back into the mix, creating strange shadows that became a kind of instantaneous commentary on the piece itself. Amazing.

As we made our way back to the hotel, and a final drink in the bar before bed, I reflected on what a great little festival Punkt is. So often, lots of musicians getting together in one place will inevitably end up in a who's-got-the-biggest-one competition (and I include the girls in this), but here everyone seemed to leave egos locked in suitcases and got on with the business of creating something, often collaboratively, and with the most open of minds.

And as I re-introduced that whiskey into my system, I felt a surge of hope that there are still pockets of resistance to artistic conformity and conservatism; that there are people still thrilled by the possibilities of it all; that music really can change things...

...and then the guy at the piano in the hotel bar launched into Oasis' "She's Electric", and I thought 'Bollocks...' [finishes drink] '...time for bed'.

• Good = Tim is offered a show supporting the lovely Steve Adey at the Bush Hall in London on September the 27th, along with the equally lovely - and slightly redder of barnet - Catherine Anne Davies. Tickets available here.

• Bad = Painting a wall by a urinal in Rickmansworth for a daily wage recently, Tim experiences one of those I'm-worth-more-than-this moments as he kneels in another man's urinary sprinklings, his face mere inches away from a single gingery pube sliding across the porcelain like a skinny Mick Hucknall on ice.

• Good = Another two songs finished for the record, tentative titles being 'Joy Maker Machinery' and 'Future Perfect Tense.'

• Bad = Moving house. Or more specifically, moving shed. Years of musical junk moved into a new, smaller shed; then moved out while Tim carpets and lines it. Then moved back in to make space in the house. Then back out while Tim sticks egg boxes to the wall. Then in again, following an injury involving a keyboard stand and a pair of flip-flops. Then out, so there's space to put all the cables in place. Then in. Out for the finishing touches, and then in. And then Tim does the Hokey Cokey, turns around, gets a bit dizzy and has to have a sit down.

• Good = A man offers to move Tim's precious piano for a very reasonable sum.

• Bad = Said man proceeds to scrape Tim's precious piano against every doorframe / fencepost / combine harvester / angry bison we can find en route, and then offers his services as a piano tuner, which - if you were a piano - would roughly equate to getting Fred West over to help with the new patio.

• Good = Tim finally gets round to watching The New World, directed by Terrence Malick; a stunning retelling of the story of Pocahontas, which moves with all the grace and elemental beauty of its protagonist. Breath duly taken away. Ditto Little Miss Sunshine, which moved him to girly tears.

• Bad = Tim finally gets round to watching Hostel, and wishes that the director / writer Eli Roth had tortured everyone involved, before setting about himself with a pair of nailclippers. It always helps to care about the characters before you have them worked over with powertools and blowtorches, as the excellent Wolf Creek stands testament. All too often Tim found himself wanting to lend the bad guys an orbital sander from his van to badly chafe a couple of the lead characters. That'd show 'em.

• Good = Tim finally finds the time for a blog entry.

• Bad = Unfortunately, throughout said entry Tim talks about himself in the third person, which is a bit odd. So now he'll stop.

• Good = Beautiful six year old Ruby breaks away from a persuant parent / guardian to come and tell me she's enjoyed watching the little set I've just performed at the Bramfield Festival, a few weeks back. I played the acoustic tent to a huddle of bemused stares as - through pouring rain - I loaded in my two pedal boards, an extremely un-acoustic electric guitar, a big Vox amp, and a harmonium onto their wee stage. When I threatened to play the harmonica I thought I heard an exclamation of panic from the front row, but I think that the gentleman concerned may have just dropped his pipe.

  I must admit, there were moments when I thought that the audience might have been waiting for me to produce a lovely Victoria sponge from inside my harmonium for them to judge, rather than the wayward droning it normally generates, such was the fête-like atmosphere of the event, but everyone was jolly nice. Especially Ruby.

• Bad = Losing my car keys at the same festival.

• Good = Having them returned to me by a chap with forearms as thick as my waist and tattoos occasionally broken-up with small areas of skin.

• Bad = Genesis reforming without Peter Gabriel.

• Badder = The Police reforming with Sting.

• Good = The closing title music of the aforementioned Wolf Creek which manages to be both profoundly unsettling and unspeakably sad, rather like the film itself.

Anyway, that's it; the good, the bad and straggly. Back in a bit.

Wolf Creek - Main Title

Buy Wolf Creek OST

I know it seems like it's all been a bit quiet on the Western Front, but there have been skirmishes aplenty, some nasty gas attacks, a game of football in No Man's Land on Christmas Day and some steady advances here and there. Chief amongst these is a Sweet Billy Pilgrim remix of 'Mississippi' by the rather amazing Steve Adey, which becomes available today on iTunes.

I can hear the click of rifle bolts, so I'll make this brief, but if you have ever harboured affectionate feelings for the music of The Blue Nile or Will Oldham then you may well find what Steve does pretty intriguing. The Sunday Times certainly did when they voted his version of 'Shelter from the Storm,' one of their songs of the year (along with my very own 'Stars Spill Out of Cups, of course).

Oh, and he's a lovely chap.

The EP features further remixes by indie legend Kramer (Bongwater, B.A.L.L., Shimmydisc), and A Marble Calm, and is available right now for download. That's right NOW.

You still here ?

(If you do fancy a listen then please do make your way over to my producer's page, where you can stream my effort.)

Back in a bit with some tunes...

Repetition is dangerous territory for a musician. Thing is, if you're going to flit around one or two bright ideas like some drunken moth, then they'd better be pretty good ones, or you could find yourself arrested for crimes against humanity a few months down the line. Anyone who's listened to Philip Glass' four hour, sung-in-binary, arpeggio-fest opera 'Einstein on the Beach' at least once will know what I'm talking about. [Anyone who's listened to that record more than once will probably no longer have much concept of what words are - let alone talking - and may well be enjoying their burgers via a drinking straw these days]

But Pattern is Movement know all about a good idea. They grab it, effortlessly locating the core and twisting everything around that into remarkable new shapes as instrumental parts slip in and out of each of each other like watch cogs. It's precise and poetic, fearless in its clashing notes and joyful in its chiming ones, and there's evidently been much time well spent coaxing the pretty ones down from the trees to land in all the right places.

It's very difficult to make your band live up to its name. 4 Non Blondes went for the bluntly factual, as have Shitdisco; Rage Against the Machine wisely decided to put their years as a string quartet behind them; The Band couldn't really help but live up to theirs, and Slayer... well let's just say that country music is a better place without them. Pattern is Movement have gone for opaquely appropriate, because where my TV offers chaos and then inertia, my headphones overflow with order and purpose at the moment.

Anyway, it's back to 'Einstein on the Beach: Collector's Edition,' my third glass of wine and CD 7 of the rehearsal outtakes. That's the good shit, right there.

Pattern is Movement - Maple

Buy Pattern is Movement

"Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion. I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward."

So Kurt shuffles off into Mother Night; no more crouching in a cold meat locker; no more cigarettes; no more writing.

No more bands appropriating his work because they have no ideas of their own ?

Unlikely.

This one is for Kurt because in amongst all the satire and irony was a heart as big as America. What will they do without him ?

And I still held out hopes for 'Slaughterhouse Six.' So it goes.

Dusing Singers - Sacred Love

Buy 'Slaughterhouse Five' by Kurt Vonnegut. Please.

I'd managed to force myself out from between the two aeroplane seats I'd been wedged between for the last two hours; I'd hiked several miles through an interminable terminal building to get to my suitcase, and the first words I heard from Ignacio as I limped out of Arrivals were, "Do you have any stiffness ?" I wrestled with my right eyebrow as it crept up my forehead. Oh well - probably best to be European about it; Sid James probably doesn't mean much out here.

I'd arrived in Madrid to play at the Inter Parla festival with Steve (Jansen) and Italian experimental electronic musician, Claudio Chianura,

...the idea being that the three of us would improvise a soundtrack to Dziga Vertov's 1929 landmark silent film 'Kinoapparatum' (aka. 'The Man with the Movie Camera'), live as the audience watched.

Unfortunately, in the meantime, Steve had managed to contract a very nasty hybrid of bird 'flu and the ebola virus, and it was looking distinctly unlikely that he'd make it over for the show. So there I was, alone in Spain, one rehearsal away from performing a largely improvised show, soundtracking a film I hadn't seen, with an Italian man I hadn't met. I certainly didn't have any stiffness by this point.

As it turned out, I needn't have worried.

Claudio was a gentleman of the first order, as were the promoters, Andreas and Ignacio, and rehearsals went smoothly, despite our collectively mourning the loss of Mr Jansen. The film also turned out to be beautiful, and incredibly well suited to our purpose, being a largely plotless and impressionistic look at the birth and life and death that fills a city on a daily basis.

There was also time for a little sightseeing in Madrid; a city which changes from Croyden on a rainy Sunday on the outskirts, to the vibrant and historical centre I'd always imagined, in a matter of a mile or so. Some photos, anyway.

Tim was especially keen to visit the Museum of Ham

"...nah thanks - I'm fine..."

That night we dined with composer (and Eno, Bjork, Peter Gabriel collaborator) Hector Zazou, having just witnessed his newly composed soundtrack for Dreyer's silent 'La Passion de Jeanne d'Arc;' composed, as it was, completely from electronically manipulated birdsong. Yep... sounded like an unusual idea to me too, but it was a very moving experience; poor Joan battling her conscience, duplicitous monks and the threat of a terrible death, while the soundtrack swooped and shrieked around her.

The next night, our show went pretty well, all things considered. Before we went on, I met Isabel, who'd travelled for four hours to see Steve play, but who was in remarkably good humour despite the disappointment. She even let me sign a copy of the SBP record to massage my own fragile ego, bless her...

So I stared at the screen...

with thanks to Isabel for the photo

...and I think, managed to hit the right balance between atmosphere (or 'whale noises' as Pilgrim Alistair would have it), and melody. I sort of disappeared into the music and the images for the duration of the film, anyway, and that's usually a good sign. As long as no one has to wake me up at the end.

Tonight's music was passed on to me by Ignacio, after I asked him what he was playing in the van on the way to the show. It's by two of Spain's premier experimental musicians working as Trash of Dreams, and is a truly lovely blend of earthy guitars and glistening electronics. All yours.

Trash of Dreams - Lazos

Buy Trash of Dreams

There are always naysayers. And I'm not talking about Kenneth Williams or Champion the Wonderhorse.

No, I mean the people who say things like, 'I used to love music, but there's just nothing that grabs me these days.' Perhaps I'll nod sympathetically, or (more likely) offer to make them a CD, but somewhere inside my head, I'm spraying a mouthful of hot coffee into their earnest face before pinning them to the wall and spluttering righteously,

"If you can fall out of love with music, THEN YOU NEVER LOVED IT IN THE FIRST PLACE ! [panicked nodding] Look out of your window ! When the Four Horsemen are tethering their steeds to your garden fence, that fucking Snow Patrol album no longer counts as a lifestyle choice ! ["Please - you're ripping my turtleneck..."] You bought Dinosaur Jr's 'Freak Scene' on 7" ! You danced badly to 'Debaser' at the indie disco ! [sobs] What the fuck happened ?!

I'm exaggerating of course. I don't know anyone who owns a turtleneck.

My point is that now is the best time ever for finding amazing new music. When people complain of ungrabbedness, or the lack of anything good about, it just means that they haven't looked hard enough. I can understand that; we all lead busy lives, and there is an awful lot of rubbish to wade through thanks to the democratising effect of the internet, affordable home recording equipment and everyone thinking that they're a unique snowflake etc. I'm also prepared to entertain the notion that not everyone feels as strongly as I do.

But beautiful things abound, and not only will they grab you, they'll pat your bottom, hoist you onto broad shoulders, carry you to the nearest pub and buy you drinks all night. There might even be easy sex. And - trite as it sounds - sometimes I feel that as long as there is beauty, there is hope. (and - for some - as long as there is hope, there may be easy sex ?)

OK. I'll prove it.

Field Music have restored my faith in pop music. Complex and literate, but never at the cost of a good hook; as one reviewer noted, the record finishes and you want to leap up from your seat and applaud. But for me there was no time to clap, caught up as I was in the rush to press play and listen to it all again. It's got sharp corners like early XTC, the easy precision of Steely Dan, and the joyous musicality of the first few Yes albums, and it makes me feel like a giddy teenager, but without the moodswings and endless masturbating. You must buy it, immediately.

Field Music - Give It, Lose It, Take It

Buy Field Music

Some Japanese joy from my friend Shoko in Tokyo... This is happiness encoded as MPEG-1 Audio Layer-3...

Nika Soup and Saya Sauce - Ipiyan Singalong

...and Swirlies, as recommended to me by Jonas from Mew, who knows about great bands, being in one himself. I think they may have a My Bloody Valentine album somewhere in their record collection, but it's wonderful to hear guitars being so casually abused. Download the album "They Spent Their Wild Youthful Days in the Glittering World of the Salon" for FREE from their website.

Swirlies - San Cristobal de las Casas

The defense rests, your honour.

Christmas is going back into boxes all around me as I write, the fridge is almost empty, we've finally run out of mulled wine, and there is almost room on my lap for a computer instead of a great big belly, so I thought the time had come for a quick update, as there are some things worthy of reporting... Things that might even be deemed... progress.

In the Sunday Times a couple of weeks ago, our very own 'Stars Spill Out of Cups,' was included as one of their 40 or so Songs of the Year, alongside the likes of The Killers, The Raconteurs, Gnarls Barkley, Cat Power and The Guillemots, with the caption;

Slow, delicate yet somehow frisky pop from a band who should appeal to fans of The Blue Nile, Talk Talk and David Sylvian.

OK - so it's not...

Slow, delicate pop from banjo-wielding folk warriors out to change the world, and the lives of anyone privileged enough to encounter their plucking genius

...and I'm not sure we've ever been 'frisky' (at least not in the same room, at the same time), but I was thrilled to have been included.

Now, also featured on the list was a chap called Steve Adey, whose beautiful 'All Things Real' album of last year received a massive critical thumbs up from everyone, and whose track 'Mississippi' I've just finished remixing for release in February on iTunes. I'll be back with more information about that a bit closer to the time, but in terms of how it sounds, you need only know I have now cut a piano into smaller pieces than one of Elton John's exes, in a foul temper and armed with an extremely sharp axe.

In mid-February, I shall be travelling to Madrid with another Steve, Mr Jansen - with whom I recently visited Japan - to play a one off show for a film festival there, improvising a soundtrack to the renowned Dziga Vertov film 'Kinoapparatom' ('Man with a Movie Camera') . I shall be the one manning the electric guitar via a battery of FX pedals and shouting, "Blues in A then ! Watch me for the changes !" or something like that. I shall also be the one who's planned his exit from the stage before the show.

Oh, and we're on the brink of completing the deal for the Japanese release of the album. Just giving some thought to the possibility of an additional track, and what that might be, and whether or not additional tracks are actually a good idea anyway. I tend to think that artists choose the songs for their albums, and then decide in what order those songs should appear for a reason, but - never say never.

And now, my favourite albums of the 2006 - in no particular order, and based on whether or not I discovered them last year, rather than whether or not they were actually released then - were the following:

• Johann Johannsson - IBM1401
• Down I Go - This is Disastercore
• Mastadon - Blood Mountain
• Joanna Newsom - Ys
• Keren Ann - Nolita
• Mr Lif - Mo' Mega
• Nerina Pallot - Fires
• Midlake - Trials of Van Occupanther
• Beirut - Gulag Orkestar
• Anathallo - Floating World
• Sufjan Stevens - The Avalanche
• John Jacob Niles - My Precarious Life in the Public Domain
• Charming Hostess - Punch
• This Heat - Out of Cold Storage (boxed set)
• Will Oldham - The Letting Go
• Captain Beefheart - Doc at the Radar Station
• Espers - Espers II
• Nic Jones - Penguin Eggs
• Thom Yorke - The Eraser
• Trygve Seim - Sangam

My current favourite from amongst the above are the incomparable (literally) Down I Go. I heard them on the Radio One Rock Show whilst driving back from work at some obscene hour of the night, and was saved from sleep - and therefore certain death - by their unique madness. They are a metal band, but with none of that po-faced, deadly seriousness that generally makes it so hard for anyone but angry young men to love them.

They've written a whole album about disasters (The Titanic, the Hindenberg, the Great Fire of London, the Space Shuttle) that manages to be funny, sick and strangely touching, often in the space of one three minute song. This one (about the Bubonic Plague, of course) includes a coughing solo, in amongst spiralling riffs, abrupt time-changes, a rather beautiful coda; further proof that there's some amazing music out there if you just look hard enough.

Down I Go - Stay at Home and Die

Buy Down I Go

A crocodile's cock. Recently.

It must be the the season of goodwill.

What other explanation could there be for my faith in human nature being (at least partially) restored by the sight of a man voluntarily eating a crocodile's penis on the TV.

For those of you outside of the UK, once a year we are treated to "I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here !"; one of those lowest common denominator 'reality' shows, in which a number of C-list celebs are dumped into the Australian jungle and ritually humiliated until things descend into the usual rounds of petty sniping (sadly rarely involving high-powered rifles), furtive fumbling and - worst of all - journeys of self-discovery.

Then, one by one, they're voted off the show by us - the Great British Public (or GBP), who cheerfully phone premium rate lines because we haven't wasted enough money on Lottery tickets, James Blunt CDs or one of the other reality shows, until the last person is crowned King of the Jungle and spends the rest of their professional life appearing on daytime quiz shows and doing voice-overs for feminine hygiene products.

Yep. I'm pretty cynical about it all. Because that's what reasonably intelligent, liberal Brits do. And then watch the fuckers anyway.

But this year something weird happened. Apart from me watching it. Those same celebrities started forming friendships, looking out for each other, generally avoiding unpleasantness and seemingly having quite a laugh, despite the insects, the lack of food and Matt from Busted having to eat a crocodile's cock. Things got positively unnerving when we (the voting GBP) quickly dispensed with the less savoury characters, instead of keeping them in to stir up lots of conflict and confrontation in order to massage our pitiful attention spans into reluctant, twitching life. Whatever fucking happened to tradition !?

I'd like to think that we simply enjoyed the warmth. Maybe - things being what they are - there's enough ugliness to be getting on with, without inflicting it unnecessarily - though that in no way excuses Il Divo. I guess I was reassured that if even publicity hungry, vain people don't always see the worst in each other, then there's hope for neurotic misanthropes like me. Whatever... It made me feel a bit better at a time of year when I see a lot of darkness (mainly because of my unsociable working hours), as another bonnier Billy once almost said.

In the spirit of all that goodwill, I've prepared a little Christmas Podcast / Mix for everyone. Forty minutes of sort-of seasonal fodder that's all good, and guaranteed Cliff free. Now all I have to do is persuade ITV to drop him into a jungle, closely followed by a sizeable batch of napalm, before he releases the entire Old Testament set to the tune of 'Club Tropicana.' Fucker.

Alternativity ! - A Vaguely Festive Selection from Sweet Billy Pilgrim

Tracklisting:

1. Choir - In the Bleak Midwinter (excerpt)
2. Ed Harcourt - In the Bleak Midwinter
3. Harry Connick Jnr - Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious
4. The Watersons - Come Sound Your Instruments of Joy ! (excerpt)
5. Jethro Tull - Ring Out Solstice Bells
6. Boney M - Mary's Boy Child (excerpt)
7. Choir - Away in a Manger
8. Mew - She Came Home for Christmas
9. Morten Lauridsen - O Magnum Mysterium
10. Handsome Family - There's Only So Much Wine
11. Tori Amos - Little Drummer Boy
12. Rufus Wainwright - Hallelujah

Happy Christmas all, and god bless us every one. Except those pesky orphans, obviously.

Spent some time in the studio with Mr Jansen again last week, working on the vocals for the second of our collaborative efforts, 'Sleepyard,' and I have the feeling that it's going to work really well. I finally managed to come up with a better idea for a part of the melody that made me wince whenever I'd have to sing it at one of the recent Japanese shows. Every time I got to that bit, I'd promise myself that I'd change it before the next one, then come off stage (assuming I could find my way...), drink some sake and promptly forget all about it.

Anyway, some photos from the session:

Then, on the way back to Steve's house, I completely missed a red light and - incredibly luckily - also just missed a woman pushing a pram over the pedestrian crossing. If I think about the implications of that split second of inattention for too long, I'll never get in a car again. And why did I have to do it in a fucking Volvo !? Estate ?! Perhaps I should have stopped to apologise, but I suspect if I had, that I'd have been (justifiably) forced to eat my own glasses.

Some random thoughts:

The new five-bladed (six, if you include the 'precision' trimmer !) Gillette Fusion... I know it's probably a 'revolution' in male grooming (it always is), and that they create each individual razor with huge colliding laser blasts, overseen by white coat-clad, lantern-jawed men carrying clipboards and nodding at each other smugly... Well, they can nod all they want, but really all they've done is add another fucking blade, right ?

Once every couple of years they do it, but surely time is running out ? If they're not careful, their razors will eventually look like a set of venetian blinds on a stick, at which point we'll all start to proudly sport proper beards.

Before

"The Gillette Clusterfuck: 42 Blades...

After

...for a closer shave"

The last two Robbie singles... Genius. No, really. Genius. Does 'Rudebox' remind anyone else of Ian Dury ? Or am I in for a kicking ?

Other iPod related joys;

Nerina Pallot - Fires: Had it for months and never really got round to it, and then I inadvertently listened to it back to front, thanks to my wife's iPod shuffle, and suddenly it made sense ! I've heard the Tori / Fiona -lite accusations, but there are some really beautiful songs; superbly crafted and sung. And she does have a rather lovely nose.

Max Richter - Songs from Before: Ambiently classical. Or vice-versa. And featuring readings of Haruki Murakami by Robert Wyatt over Richter's shimmering strings. Will post something soon.

...and the following, by Johann Johannsson. The concept, as such, behind the music is explained here, so I won't go on, but if you're a sucker for string-laden heartbreak, and perhaps found yourself strangely moved (that's moved, not aroused) by the film Short Circuit, then this record may well be for you.

Until next time...

Johann Johannsson - Part 1: IBM 1401 Processing Unit

Buy Johann Johannsson

Thanks to Emma for the review.

And he cried mightily with a strong voice, saying,

On Thursday night, Sweet Billy Pilgrim (or, if you're an Entsweb reader, Sweet Billy Prince) played at The Fly, New Oxford Street, London. In case you happen to be thinking "What? Why didn't anyone tell me they were playing?", I would like to make the following points:

• I tried to, but Tim and this sometimes accursed site wouldn't let me; because...
• Tim didn't want a large crowd as he wasn't feeling too confident about the arrangements; and...
• he was relying on his broken time machine to make it all right by you.

So, until said time machine is fixed and you can be there in person, I shall endeavour to tell you all about it (but if you don't want any spoilers, you should look away now!).

Sweet Billy Pilgrim were first on the bill, supporting their old bandmate Martin Grech. Sandwiched between the two, like a slice of perfectly matured cheddar, was Foy Vance, but I shall leave Tim to expound his virtues.

Tim was joined on stage by banjo-playing band mate, Anthony. I entered the venue during soundcheck (see picture) to hear Tim relaying a constant stream of orders to Mr Soundman, while Anthony sat beside him, patiently agreeing, but I suspect dreaming of warm beaches and hula girls. Patience is not a virtue but a necessity around Tim when he's in 'performance' mode...

Photo by "Pants Pictures"

I had in fact called Tim the night before to ask how the rehearsals and preparation were coming along, and the story I was told (and which was later relayed to the audience as an unnecessary pity-plea) went thus [polite version]:

We spent three hours swearing at an uncooperative laptop, before giving up on the whole idea, leaving us half an hour to come up with an acoustic set.

As always, despite Tim's apparent lack of confidence, it made no difference whatsoever. It sounded wonderful on the night, and it was lovely to hear the two of them playing and singing together again. The set list was:

(the beautiful) Stars Spill Out of Cups

Atlantis (the new 'Prince' version, incorporating the line "Mmmun Purple Bag" in the second verse, which Tim claimed was actually Hebrew for what the line should have been had he remembered it. New Power Generation Hebrew dialect, I believe...)

God in the Details (a solo by Tim)

and then two new songs:

Truth Only Smiles and

Kalypso

I always wonder how on earth the band will interpret Tim's "laptop scratchings" ["Laptop scratchings" ? I spend hours refining all those little details, and she makes them sound like some weird snack for pissed-up robots... Ed.] for live performances, but these new arrangements were as beautiful and perfectly worked as ever. The truth is, they only need the half-hour's rehearsal. Well, that and the three run throughs of the entire set they did at soundcheck...

So it was an excellent gig, and one you should all look forward to!

The Fly is a cosy venue with a very welcoming crowd. The Pilgrims were well received, even if I did hear one audience member referring to them as being "...Prince Something-or-other..." when asked by a latecomer who the first act had been. On my correcting this unfortunate mistake, the asker replied: "Sweet Billy Pilgrim? Damn, that's annoying - I was really hoping to see them!"

Well, as Princess Kylie was once heard to say: "When you can't find the music to get down and boogie, all you can do is step back in time." Wise words, cobber. And I leave you as Tim spends three hours swearing at a time machine he can't fix, then takes half an hour creating an interspatial vortex instead...

Amen.

[sings] "...but we won't do that" (photo by Saff)

Finally unwrapped my brain from all that jetlag, and I'm more fired up than I have been in a while. We're talking to lovely people in Japan, Portugal and Scandanavia about releasing the album, and in the meantime there's been lots more nice things written about it.

There's this from Heckler Spray, and this too, from [the-mag], for example...

And meanwhile, work on the new record continues apace, and I have the feeling that it might turn out to be my version of a great big shiny pop record; my 'Bat Out of Hell' if you will. Of course, it'll be more of an 'Otter Out of Hull,' with banjos instead of frilly sleeves, but I am gleefully allowing my imagination to run riot, without allowing tact or taste to get in the way. Too much, anyway...

Talking of imagination, I found this on a free compilation from a little mail order record company, RER Megacorp, who specialise in the more esoteric end of progressive music; more Beefheart than Barclay James Harvest, shall we say...

My iTunes entered an 'unclassifiable' in the genre column. I've since amended it to a more accurate 'what the fuck.' Arabic scales, Bulgarian folk close-harmonies, Zappa-esque complexity, and all over in one minute and forty-two seconds.

Like a really weird teenager losing his virginity...

Charming Hostess - MS Lot

Buy Charming Hostess

PS. Don't forget, you can still download our Brugada EP for free from SVC Records, and not only that, but there's a 20 min. mix featuring music from Codeine, This Heat, Anathallo and others available here (tracklisting here, at the bottom of the post).

STEVE JANSEN TOUR DIARY

September the 30th - Show @ Shyowa Women's University Hitomi Memorial Hall, Tokyo

Not so much back to earth with a bump, as with the kind of bang that might leave, say, sizeable areas of North Korea a bit flatter than they previously were. The last show of the tour mere hours behind me, I stood next to my toolbox and through the faintly narcotic fug of jetlag tried to remember what exactly it was that I usually did for a living. I knew that if I looked at that floor and all those cables for long enough, I'd eventually work out what I was supposed to be doing with them, but at that moment the readjustment was all too much for my addled brain. My sake withdrawal wasn't helping much either. So I stared some more.

I slipped back to Tokyo, where the day before we'd played the final show of the tour at the grandest of venues; the 1400 seater Shyowa Women's University Hitomi Memorial Hall. I have to admit that upon spotting it on the tour itinery, I had drifted into some vague St. Trinian's themed reverie, but in truth I'd always suspected that there'd be at least some gentlemen in the audience. Someone then told us that there were lots of men in the audience, but I think - as the photo below will testify - that we took the news pretty well.

Photo by Shoko Ise

The show was a good one, I thought. I found my way on and off the stage without mishap (see previous post), and I had a nice time up there. The singing wasn't too bad either, which generally helps in this line of work...

My in-ear monitors, however, steadfastly refused to conform to their job description and wriggled uncooperatively from my ears every time I twitched so much as an eyebrow, to pump a crystal clear stereo mix out to two very indifferent knees. My only option was to spend a large portion of the show holding the buggers in place, which had the unfortunate effect of making me look like one of the participants in USA for Africa, taking the delivery of their line that little bit too seriously...

[voice of reason] Hang on... That was all of them...

When we got back to the dressing room, Steve and I slapped backs, high-fived, rubbed the tops of each other's heads with clenched fists, and then he said five words that - had I heard them before we played - might have caused me to get lost on the way to the stage this time;

So David Sylvian was there ? Watching me sing what he sings on the record ?

Laugh ?

I nearly did.

Photo by Shoko Ise

Following an aftershow gathering, a final nosh-up for everyone at a local eaterie including speeches and a very interesting chat with Kevin Westenberg, one of my favourite photographers and a very tall man (even by my standards), I wobbled my way back to the hotel to pack my case and grab a few hours sleep before catching the plane home.

October the 1st

Awake ! But not really. There was aching, starting with my head and ending with the soles of my shoes, but somehow I got myself into the car at seven am. and to the airport with the help of the lovely Sari, Steve's manager in Japan. There was queueing, then there was an excess charge on my case, which I found particularly galling as I watched subsequent passengers holding up the queue, emptying their luggage of innumerable shopping bags and taking them into the cabin with them despite official policy.

As I walked out of the check-in enclosure, nose bleeding from the financial mugging I'd just endured, I saw a face I recognised. It was Andy, Razorlight drummer and ex- bandmate of Pilgrim Anthony, and so I wandered over to say hello. "I know you," I started, and it was immediately obvious that not only did he not know me, but he was mentally preparing for a particularly annoying fan to ask him to sign his buttocks or some such. I quickly explained the Anthony connection (Anthony and Alistair are supporting Razorlight as part of the The Boy Least Likely To this month for a UK tour), and thankfully he remembered who I was, and we stood and yarned for a bit.

Buttocks duly signed, I made my way to the embarkation gate, and said my farewells to Sari. We embraced and the earth moved for both of us. No. Really. The earth literally moved beneath our feet. A small tremor; no more than a gentle vibration really, made its way up my legs and suddenly Japan was telling me to get lost in no uncertain terms. I took the hint and climbed aboard the plane for what was to be an eighteen (instead of eleven) hour flight involving an abortive landing in Heathrow due to bad weather, a diversion to Stansted to re-fuel, back to Heathrow to disembark in time for the breakdown of baggage handling equipment, and then finally... home.

I looked up from the pile of carpet tiles, and tried once again to come back to the world. No luck. Connection down. Time for a smoke.

Some more photos here (and also on Steve's website, here):

Photo by Steve (thanks for that one)

"This one's called 'Touch Me, I'm Sick." Sari rocks...

Toky-Over and out.

STEVE JANSEN TOUR DIARY

September the 28th / 29th

Back on the Shinkansen for the return trip, and Steve was ambushed at the station by a slightly twitchy fan who wanted his LP autographed. The same guy then followed us to the platform to see if he could get Yukihiro's too, and there was some uncomfortable shuffling as his needs met our schedule and the two things tussled with Japanese politeness and their unwillingness to offend.

Fell asleep on the train, unlike poor Steve who was busily composing for some shows he's involved in next week at a Tokyo museum. You see him here, trying desperately to look like he knows what he's doing with Digital Performer, before flipping back to the Solitaire screen to finish the game.

The rest of the day was spent on a mission to find the Pokemon shop for two boys who will have not seen their daddy for two weeks by the time he gets back, and who will require a reasonable sized bribe to allow him back into their fickle hearts. I'm joking, of course, but it did make me yearn for home as I queued amongst parents waving metaphorical white flags at their demanding offspring, and pre-teens clutching their new cards with that mixture of excitement and uncomprehending embarrassment. Anyway, it took a bit of finding, but here it is.

The mouth of Hell

I then went for a stroll with the camera in the garden of neon delights...

...and eventually found this

On my return, it was back to our favourite restaurant for Steve and I. We found this place near the hotel which serves traditional Japanese country (ie. cheap) food, which is less ornate in presentation and delicate in flavour, but a bit more filling and tasty. Over yet more Sake, yakitori chicken, grilled shiitake mushrooms, deep fried prawns and the like we talked about the career opportunities for an band like SBP over here, and what might be involved in making that happen. It's all quite exciting, in a vague sort of a way, but it is going to be hard to adjust back into my dayjob after this, much as I actually like it sometimes.

Today I met with P-Vine Records to talk about the possibility of releasing the album over here. Ando and Matsuoka treated me to coffee and apple pie, and once again reinforced my view that there are people in the music industry who actually like, and still get excited about, music. It does happen ! They seem very nice, and I suspect that P-Vine would be an eminently suitable home for SBP in Japan.

This evening found Steve's lovely manager Sari, her boyfriend, Steve and I at a soba restaurant in Shinjuku's 'gaytown.' Shinjuku roughly equates to London's Soho, but is a hundred times more overwhelming, plus a bit more, and all that after some bad drugs. The lights are brighter here, the people louder and more fearless; drunker and less inhibited; gayer, straighter and generally more colourful. It seems too, that even Japan has its equivalent to the 'geezer.'

After the meal, as we wandered around, a huge black man put a tree-trunk of an arm around my shoulders and whispered to me that 'life is too short' to miss out on the opportunity to have a drink in his strip bar. I tried to explain that life is not as short as my wallet is empty, made my excuses and left him to corner his next tourist, wondering to myself if he'd have been quite so gentle when he'd have thrown me out thirty seconds later for not having enough money to pay.

Nearby is the Golden Gai, a labyrinth of tiny streets lined with shacks that - on closer inspection - are bars, seemingly fashioned from people's front rooms, with a small counter running the length of the room and perhaps space for 5-6 stools in front of it. We must have walked past hundreds of these, many of them themed, and all of them filled with the chatter and smoke of Japan's business men enjoying the cheap drinks and the good company.

Then onto a local jazz bar for some dim lighting and relative peace before the taxi ride home. Tomorrow is the last day here, and the last gig at the biggest venue. I'm going to need my wits about me, and probably a map to help find my way off stage, so I'll turn in now, just so I have a fighting chance.

STEVE JANSEN TOUR DIARY

September the 27th - Show @ Namba Hatch, Osaka

Got told off over the tannoy for getting too close to the track to take this photo, but I was so excited that I didn't care. It's not a bloody red London bus, after all. Or a black cab. Neither of those modes of transport could be mistaken for a plane (though I've known the odd London cabbie drive like they're airborne). Neither take you across Japan at 200 mph, for that matter. With stewardesses whose perma-grins - I suspect - would remain even if you set fire to their shoes, it really is the way to travel, especially if you have a mental age of six whenever trains are involved.

And it was nice to see some Japanese countryside, even if it was often a slightly blurred Japanese countryside. The Tokyo neon overload can leave you with eyes that look as though they've been poked with sharp sticks, so a bit of rural calm and a snow-wreathed Mount Fuji in the distance allowed the meter needles to dip out of the red for an hour or two.

Sarf of the river ? At this time ? Sorry Guv'nor - no can do

As we drove into Osaka, I immediately sensed the difference in pace; a much more laid-back, provincial feel where cars and buildings and people seem to make room for each other, rather than clambering in and over and across one another for a bit of space. I would have liked to have explored a bit, but it was straight to business at the venue, a large characterless building that feels as if they haven't quite it finished yet. Steve and I were to soundcheck first, so we climbed the stairs to the stage (studiously avoiding the lift, so that Steve wouldn't start blubbing like a girl) to be confronted with this:

Bloody Pink Floyd at Earl's Court... As I stood there, singing for the sound guy to get his levels, I stared upward, hopeful that I might catch sight of a huge inflatable pig floating there. Or maybe even a Bullet Train.

Soundcheck complete, there was eating, a game of chess (Steve won), some sleeping and some gadding about with 'Comic Life', a Mac application that provides templates for you to build your own comic books and photo strips. Steve and I - being men of depth, gravity and rare sensitivity - decided to have a fight, cartoon-strip style, gleefully adding 'Bafs,' 'Kapows,' and 'Blams' to our gurning mugs.

I know... we're bonkers... all our friends say so.

The gig itself was a strange one. Where the audience at the Liquid Room had been restrained and polite in their reactions, the audience here were seated and practically catatonic. At least previously we could see that people were enjoying themselves. Here, everyone looked as if they'd come expecting an Advanced Popular Accounting seminar, and to their horror, found a bunch of unshaven musicians on the stage, playing guitars and singing and stuff. It all seemed fine technically, but I suspect there would have been more atmosphere on one of Jupiter's remoter moons.

Now, while I say that the music went pretty well, the moments directly following it could have been a bit better. So the music stops, we bow and wave and turn stage right to walk off in the darkness. So far, so good. Then it all starts to go wrong. In slow motion, and helpless to do anything about it, I watch Steve confidently negotiate the area behind the speaker stack, and round to the safety of the wings, as I sail past the front of the same speaker towards an inky blackness.

It might be a door, right ? It might be another way backstage, right ?

No. It's a solid wall. As 400 people look on, I stop like a confused lab rat, pause briefly (as if an opening might just appear if I give it a few seconds), then turn around and walk back around the speaker and off, amidst howls of laughter from the crew and my own embarrassed giggles. It was so bad that no one even bothered saying "Don't worry - I'm sure no one noticed."

Then came dinner, courtesy of the promoter. I managed to find my way out of cabs, and into buildings without further mishap, though a few warm Sakes later it all started to get tricky again. It really is true what they say about that stuff making you drunk from the feet up. I also tried raw squid for the first time, and we all agreed that here was a creature that even in death, refuses to surrender.

Finally, a hotel room with space enough, perhaps, to swing a small rodent, but in all honesty I was unable to truly appreciate the luxury for long as it span me gently into sleep.

STEVE JANSEN TOUR DIARY

September the 26th

Day off today. I planned to go to the Meiji Shrine. The weather had other ideas however, sending me the rainy end of a recent typhoon. Being the adaptable fellow I am, I decided instead on a visit to the art gallery on the 53rd floor of the massive MORI tower in Roppongi, as that would involve less moisture and more air conditioning.

Managed to navigate the railway and tube without too much difficulty...

...but when I got to Rippongi Station and checked their wall-mounted street map, the exit they suggested seemed not to exist. At all. Figuring that a bloody great skyscraper wouldn't be too hard to spot, I arbitrarily chose an exit and launched myself into the rain. I was right. This is what it looks like (photo not by me btw).

The gallery is quite small, but they have a great collection of impressionist and post-impressionist paintings and sculptures by Cezanne, Rodin, Van Gogh, Max Ernst. Can't help it, but whenever I see a Van Gogh, I really want to reach out and touch it. The paint is so thickly daubed onto the canvas that his pictures have an amazing, almost 3D quality. Probably good that I didn't though; the gallery employee sat opposite me had a very dangerous glint in her eye. Oh, and a gun.

Not really.

There was also this by Manet...

...that I think depicts the most perfect nose in modern art. If you like that sort of thing.

After the gallery, there's the observation deck which was a slight disappointment today, thanks to the somewhat uncooperative weather. It's still quite a striking structure from the inside, so I got to make some impressed noises to myself as I wandered around anyway.

Then back on the underground in the rush hour. Not the most sensible thing I've ever done, but at least I can say that I've done it and lived. Just. There are now innocent members of the Tokyo public more intimately acquainted with my armpits than they ever dreamed possible...

Tomorrow, a show in Osaka, which means we'll all be travelling on the Shinkansen (Bullet Train). I get to be a small boy again, which hopefully won't mean throwing up into the lap of the person sitting next to me, but - instead - that giddy feeling of excitement when you get to go on something really fast.