Sigh No More, No More: Mumford & Sons gig 2

More recordings from the gig:

Little Lion Man


Roll Away Your Stone

Sigh No More, No More: Mumford & Sons gig

"Man is a giddy thing, oh man is a giddy thing;

Love: it will not betray you, dismay or enslave you; it will set you free, more like the man you were made to be ."

Mumford & Sons, Sigh No More, Oct 2009, HMV Forum, Kentish Town.

I've been obsessing over this album since it's release; it's a soaring, epic country tinged album with heartfelt angsty choruses and lyrics that can be taken with a pinch of darkness. Mumford & Sons are from the London country/folk rock stable of The Maccabees, Noah & the Whale and Laura Marling. No wonder I love them so much.

The build up to this gig made me a bit nervous. I've listened to, and loved the album so vehemently (it makes me well up on the bus into work on a daily basis, in a good way) that I worried the gig might be a let down. I didn't know anyone who'd already seen them. The background of my thoughts is continuous low-level disappointment most of the time, so I was scared I'd built it up too much.

I need not have worried. Firstly; a perfect little venue. The HMV Forum: small enough to be very intimate, and you have to love a venue where you can stand at the bar and still be within spitting distance of the act playing. It feels like an old ballroom and reminded me very much of the Folkestone Leas Cliff Hall (but without the magnificent smoking balcony overlooking, well, France.)

Secondly, a band whose instruments consist of an accordian, keyboard, banjo, guitar, drums and a double bass is unlikely to be a let down. There are not enough bands with double basses. What a beautiful instrument, it gave such solid reverberating warmth to the whole set.

One thing that did puzzle me about the gig was the amount of really young fans the band have - I was surrounded by 12 year olds in homemade M&S T-shirts. It drew me to the conclusion that if you're not old enough to smoke; you shouldn't be allowed into such a good gig. I don't appreciate a rucksack in my face/drink/chest throughout the set, or being jumped on continually. Perhaps they should be admired for having such excellent musical taste so young. Ok I've changed my mind: let them in, but just in some sort of teenager pen right at the back where they can jump and spill their Fanta and raging hormones on each other. Just not near me.

Me: "If that kid's fucking rucksack knocks my drink one more time...."

No'rn Ir'on: "It's ok, when the lights go down it will be dark enough so no one will see you kick him."

I actually contemplated the penalty for assaulting a teenager in public and weighed up the pros and cons.

The band announced that this was their first London show since the release of the album so it felt like a "we've made it" homecoming gig. They are wonderful on stage, telling stories and performing every tune with pure gusto and passionate energy, knocking the crap out of their instruments. I've never seen someone rock out a double bass before. It's pretty impressive.

The set kicked off with Sigh No More, starting with acoustic and harmonies, and building up to a massive chorus with banjo riffs that had the crowd jumping around. There was a definite stomping hoedown vibe to the set which gels surprisingly well with profound, swelling climaxes of drums, bass and Marcus Mumford's powerful voice.

Straight into Little Lion Man which everyone went mad for, a stand out track on the album that Zane Lowe himself proclaimed to be 'Hottest Record In The World Right Now' when it first came out. He was pretty spot on. A few hundred people singing their hearts out to

"It was not your fault, but mine - and it was your heart on the line. I really fucked it up this time, didn't I my dear?"

was great fun and very rousing.

They played their way through most of the album, and ended on a new song called Whispers in the Dark (I think). We were lucky enough to be about six feet from the stage for the whole performance. It was pretty cool to meet the bands eye and see them smiling as they watch you film them.

They got a whooping, hollering reception upon ending their set but it was disappointing that the set line up (Mr Hudson followed by headliner Paloma Faith) didn't allow them to do an encore. Who wants to see Mr Hudson any way? We watched a bit by the bar, I know Kanye West loves him, but he didn't perform anything that was on a par with his excellent old single Too Late. No'rn Ir'on commented:

"Here, doesn't this remind you of Maroon 5?"

Me: "Yes. Ergo, shite."


We left before Paloma Faith came on, by that point I was elated, sweaty and really wanted a cigarette so No'rn Ir'on and I headed out into the dark Camden night. We were just gathering our thoughts and discussing how bloody amazing the gig was, when suddenly we spotted Country Winston (Winston Marshall, banjo and vocals) outside The Forum. As he strolled past we stopped him to say thanks for such a wonderful performance and to ask when they'd be performing in London again (he didn't know). He was very charming and didn't mind being accosted by two tipsy and exciteable girls. How can you express how much a band move you to a band member without sounding like a groupie idiot? I don't think you can.


One bad thing about this gig is that I am now more in love with Marcus Mumford than ever. I've gone to see him as an avid fan, and come back bearing the adolescent pain of forever unrequited love. Damnit. Any man that can write, sing and perform like that is astounding. Plus he's fit and rocks an old-fashioned 'tache that not that many men could get away with. *sigh* I think I'll spend today staring wistfully out of a window into the middle distance.

Still though, the heavy-hearted burden of a one-way infatuation is a small price to pay for a concert that definitely rates as one of my all time top five. Simply lovely.

(Sorry for the rubbish sound quality on the video clips: they don't do the band justice.)

Another week in London, another week of randomness

Another week, another series of weird and wonderful happenings. The above photo is the sight that greeted me and a work mate after a meeting in the East End. We were strolling along chattering away, then suddenly - a German Shepherd in shades sat smack bang in the middle of the pavement. Sure, why not?

We looked at each other with a 'did those clients put something in our water in that meeting?' kind of glance. Obviously, the first instinct of both of us was to pull out camera phones and capture this undeniably cool dog. He belonged to a homeless man who was very charming and let us pat his friendly companion, so we gave him some cash for his trouble and went on our merry way, texting pictures of Cool Dog to our friends.

One night after work this week, a bunch of us had gone back to do the final clear out of the old office. It was a bit nostalgic but rather fun. We found: a crown, a Margaret Thatcher mask, a lot of paperwork, some old photos of the ghosts of colleagues past, a bottle of lethal-looking Absinthe and I was overjoyed to find a bottle of Jo Malone Pomegranate Noir perfume that I'd forgotten I had. After clearing the office in record time, we had a drink 'for old time's sake' in our old stomping ground.

Randomly discussing shit chat up lines we'd either used/ had used on us; I went to get a round on my own. I reeled off the order to the barmaid, when a voice chirped up,

"And a JD and Coke for me! *hic*"

A very, very drunk Brazilian man was stood next to me.

"I am Piedro! I am from Brzail. Sorry for being cheeky then. It's my birthday." Like that made it ok.

We shook hands and got the formalities out of the way. I asked why he was alone at the bar on his birthday. He maintained he was waiting for his friends to join him. Ok.

Me: "So how is your birthday evening going? You seem... er... merry?"

Piedro: "It is so much better for seeing you!" Seeing as he was gently swaying whilst delivering this classic line, I could pretty guarantee he could see two of me and probably thought he was addressing twins.

He double whammied me with the follow up,

"It would be even better if I could have your mobile number yes?"

While I fought every fibre of my being's impulse to look deep into his eyes, stroke his leather-jacketed arm, and implore him to take me to Brazil forever; I managed to restrain myself.

"Um, no, I don't think so. But you can have a birthday shot."

Fully confirming how incompatible we were, (aside from the fact he was wasted, not very attractive and the fact that I never trust men who approach girls at bars) he ordered a B52. No one needs to drink Sambuca and Baileys. Together. Or even separately really.

I think this may have been the tipping point for his drunkenness, as when I walked past him later in the evening; his swaying was more dramatic, and he was frantically texting his still non-existent friends.

"Hollaaaaaa gorgeousch!". Crossed eyes are normally not a good sign.

On an unrelated note, another random London happening this week: seeing Jon Snow saunter past me in Paternoster Square in his cycling flouros. He's very tall. I really wanted to ask him about the snazzy socks he always sports on Channel 4 News, but I didn't.

I also once shared a lift with Sir Trevor McDonald in the ITN building. Legend. Very gentlemanly, opened a door for me. Very shiny too.

Perhaps I have some sort of affinity with newsreaders. I wonder who I'll meet this weekend?

City through a Fish Eye 2

Some more fish eye shots of the City.... think I'm getting the hang of it now... need to expand my subject matter

A Grey Day on Southbank

I was disappointed, after hoping for some sharp autumnal light this weekend, London gave me a grey nondescript day with funny overcast light and a bleak outlook.

Undeterred, I took my cameras down to Southbank anyway, just for the hell of it. And the pleasure of sitting outside the Tate Modern having a coffee in the wintery chill.

Also took some shots on the fish eye camera, evidence to follow...




The Globe through the bridge

London through a Fish Eye

So the first photos have come back from the Lumo Fish Eye camera; I've fallen in love with that little bit of neon orange plastic. I know what I am doing all weekend.

It's Good for the Soul

A perfect weekend planned after a long, busy, demanding week at work.

I'd not seen The Drummer for maybe a year, as he lived away, so a weekend planned with him of talking, coffee, people watching and culture had me excited like a little kid at Christmas.

We kicked off the weekend with dinner at too-cool-for-school Zigfrid in Hoxton Square, with the beautiful people of East London. Decent Pinot, decent food and a prime spot for people watching. Strangely, aside from the uniform of skinny jeans/leggings/vintage dresses and faux fur coats topped off with a slick of scarlet lippy, we spotted an unlikely looking hen party.

The Drummer, teasing: "Are you wanting to join them?"

Me, turning around: *cringe* "No. I've told my girl mates, even if I EVER get married (which I probably won't as I intend to become a cat lady); if they even think about throwing me a bash involving veils, L-plates and sparkly glittery things, none of them will ever get spoken to again."

The Drummer: "No I didn't think you'd go for something like that."

Thank God! Someone who knows me. And my hatred of tacky awful crap. (OK, I like some tacky awful crap, but only in an ironic way, obviously. Honest. See below)

Sunday we planned to go to the Spirit of Jazz exhibition, with amazing B&W photographs of jazz legends. The Drummer loves photography as much as me, and jazz a lot more. But it's interesting. We excitedly made our way in the Soho drizzle to the gallery - only to find it didn't open on Sundays. Bum.

With a couple of hours to kill before The Drummer's tattoo touch-up appointment, we wandered, contemplating how many coffees was too many coffees, trying to resist the temptation to just sit in a coffee shop and talk, as we did back in the Cathedral City days. (Not as in the cheese - as in a proper city. With a massive, important church in the centre.)

Back then, The Drummer had told me about The Photographer's Gallery and being the lazy cow that I am, I'd not managed to get myself there. Before now. Joy of joys, we accidentally stumbled across the new premises. Hallelujah.

The industrial gallery was in the midst of an exhibition hang so we couldn't see much of it, (apart from an exquisite glimpse of the next exhibition, gained by bunny hopping beside the paper barrier to peep over) but I didn't care since I lost myself in the glorious haven of the bookshop. Oh, the bookshop. Proclaimed to be the best photography bookshop in Europe - good enough for me. I actually found myself considering what I could do without this month (food, etc) to invest in the glorious Helmut Newton tome of some of the most beautiful, subversive and sexy photographs I've ever seen. Luckily I got a grip of my senses and didn't blow the rest of my salary on it.

I DID however, find myself handing over my credit card at the till for a sweet Lomo Fisheye Camera - yes it's a plasticky, gimmicky little thing, but I could not resist the distortive lens. Plus it's neon orange. The idea of going back to the sweet painful wait for the film to be developed was an agonising yet exciting prospect, an alternative to greedy disposable digital.

It got road tested this evening with some shots in the Autumnal dusk and sunset around St Paul's, the Millennium Bridge and the Tate Modern. I am hoping they turn out and don't turn out to be duff shots of perplexed tourists or blinkered City people.

Give me a couple of days and I'll let you know. The waiting is killing me. In a good way.

Sunshine

Winter sunshine in the City

Daily Photo

St Paul's at night. Magical.

Hotel Babylon

Saturday. 'Lunch' turns into afternoon drinking; turns into crashing a party. You know how it goes.

The Blonde and The Geordie bloke were due down for a friend's 30th party in Farringdon, so we decided to meet up for a brief, civilised lunch before they went off to the do.

It started off well, when they got separated on the Tube. Having met Geordie bloke at Farringdon station, where he looked bemused to be without The Blonde, we decided to do the natural thing and go to the nearest pub for a drink to wait. With a flurry of messages involving the words "tit" and "unsupervised" and a vocal greeting of "d*ckhead!" when she finally arrived, I knew it was going to be a fun afternoon. Mainly revolving around who's fault it was that they got separated.

We had the excellent idea of checking them into the hotel before we strolled to Smith's of Smithfields for a late lunch so we sauntered up to the gorgeous Charterhouse Sq to Malmaison. Now, The Blonde and I had been here before for corporate stuff, and noted the slightly-too-dark interior which makes you feel a bit like you're hanging out in the day in a place where the ladies come on a menu. It is tres chic, but definitely leaning towards the dungeon-in-the-basement vibe. As The Blonde sensibly checked in, Geordie and I clocked a massive painting hanging opposite reception.... Of a man and woman locked in a clinch, explicity showing him with his hand down her pants.

We looked at each other. Having done an MA thesis on perversion in Postmodern art, I'm no stranger to the transgressive artwork. But not in public places.

Me, quietly: "Bit risque for a hotel foyer?"

Geordie, louder: "Aye, a bit rapey?"

I was not expecting this reaction and of course snorted with laughter, very mature. We got berated by The Blonde for being like "children" and "we couldn't be taken anywhere". We pretty much agreed. The situation wasn't made better when all three of us went across reception and up to the room to dump their bags. Plus I was wearing leather riding boots and a trench coat, goodness knows what reception thought.

We trooped back down, and made our way to Smith's. Officially my new favourite place. Downstairs is casual and relaxed, full of obligatory media types and self conscious haircuts, with a stripped-back industrial interior. I was slightly excited and allowed myself to hope that Masterchef's John Torode would be around somewhere in his restaurant, but alas, no sight. I'll forgive his absence though, since our waiter was hot.

We had some excellent Sauvignon Blanc, The Blonde had a posh sausage sandwich, I had the homemade burger and Geordie enjoyed steak and eggs. I say enjoyed, I mean muttered "f*ck off my eggs!" as The Blonde ruined both his yolks with deliberate stabs of a chip. I had drink envy when Geordie ordered us G&Ts, while he had a delicious orange vodka. Worth going back for alone.

By this point, The Blonde had wangled me an invite to the party, and since I don't see her nearly enough, I of course was delighted to accept. So we went back to the hotel to get ready. Perpetuating how odd this looked, three of us dandering through reception, clearly a bit tipsy, we started to get a bit embarrassed.

But no, there was worse to come. Unthinking, we ordered a round of drinks to enjoy while I hung out and they got ready for the party. At this point, Geordie's in the shower, singing very happily. The Blonde has underwear out on the bed, and the both of us are doing our make up. I'd chucked a ten pound note on the bed to cover my drink on their room tab. The the door goes and it's a waiter with our drinks.

Cash on the bed. A man singing loudly in the shower. Underwear out. Two girls doing their faces. It wasn't even worth saying "It's not what it looks like." Whoops.

All this before we'd even arrived at the party. Luckily, I didn't go back to the room with them afterwards. Then reception would have had something to talk about.

Suffice to say the party was excellent, cool place, nice people and plenty of vodka tonics. I blame The Blonde for the tequila shots, and today I am very glad we declined the Gaschamber sambuca shooter.

I'm pretty sure The Blonde is dreaming about getting into her beloved JLS hoodie today, and ordering some Dominos.

Daily Photo

Edgar Wright's excellent blog has inspired me to try and post a daily photo.

Chandelier from a recent party. I was trying to work out a way I could remove it and sneak out with it, but even my handbag wasn't big enough.