I had an idea for a song a couple of days ago, while I was in the shower. It arrived fully formed as soon as the water hit me: the chorus was a bit Magnetic Fields, and I started singing it to myself. I got out, went to work, stared at some screens, and lost it forever. I’m going to mourn it later on, with a full ceremony featuring candles and a minute’s silence.
I wrote a review of the new MJ Hibbett album, which appeared in last Saturday’s Morning Star. I didn’t have enough words to fully explain how brilliant it is – I didn’t have space to mention Emma Pattison’s brilliant backing vocals, how the drums (THE DRUMS!) sound fantastic, the cold war paranoia-nostalgia of RED BLACK GOLD, or the live-for-today Hibbett manifesto of We Can Start Having Fun. The best thing I can say, I suppose, is that I can’t stop listening to it; the songs are my friends now – they can be yours too. Isn’t that lovely? Pass the sick bucket, Harold.
ALSO I went to see Chris T-T last week. He played at a charity gig for Shelter. I was brave and went on my own, but hung out with Tor, who I’d met at the all-dayer in Brighton in January, and her friend. We discussed having a Chris T-T conference, in which matters of great import would be discussed, and also we’d have to all wear fake Chris T-T beards. I talked to Chris himself later on, and he claimed he’s going to do a tour in the autumn called the “Chris T-T Acid Tour” – he’s going to do a bunch of LSD before each gig, then “just see what happens”. He’s also perhaps arranging a riverwalk, which would be brilliant. I am all about the riverwalking.
His set was excellent, anyway, with a couple of lovely, fragile sounding new songs. One of them was a catchy number about self-denial, I seem to remember.
The final strange thing was this: most of the fans there were teenagers, who had got in to Chris’ music via his work and support tours with Frank Turner (who also covered his song, Huntsmen). A couple of them danced enthusiastically during one particular heart-wrenching ballad; at the end, I turned to one of my companions, and said:
“Don’t they realise that this song is about domestic abuse?”
Tomorrow night I’m seeing two excellent pop purveyors: Nat Johnson, formerly of Monkey Swallows The Universe, and Allo, Darlin’. Allo, Darlin’ is the musical project of someone I didn’t go out with. While pretty much every musical project in history has been the work of someone I didn’t go out with, this one is by someone I specifically didn’t go out with. If you see what I mean. Irritatingly, none of the songs seem to be about me. I would hope, as I’m sure we all do, to inspire at least one great pop song. Or possibly novel. Or opera.
Or even a limerick.
