Sinister: cummings and goings

[Gordon]

Well hello there, well here. You too?

AH! What a LOVELY weekend! Flags waving for the jubilee and that wobbly
golden coach for the Queen of Britain and the other countries. Which
countries are in the Commonwealth these days anyway? Is Gibralta in it? Does
a colony count? Does a flea fly? Or just jump? What about the Falklands?
Tell me, Queen. I am your ignorant subject. Or maybe I'm a citizen. Can I be
both? Do I want to be? I'm right royally, loyally confused, maybe. Perhaps
I'm sure almost.

Isobel's going. You know what: we should all nominate a new member and
petition the band to instate the person getting the most of our votes.
Laetitia Sadier, ex-Stereolab, anyone? Hey, she can sing in French, after
all. Good luck Isobel. I always liked your bottom, not that I ever got
close. I didn't need to. He he. Aww. All power to the Gentle Waves.

I enjoyed a delightful afternoon yesterday amongst the ruins of Inchmahome
Priory, which is located on a verdant islet in on the Lake of Menteith,
Scotland's only lake. A blue motor boat takes you there from a stone jetty
on the mainland. 12 persons max. The lifejackets are stored in a plastic
tub. I was sitting next to the tub. This fact is of no interest. Yes. It was
sunny! All the colours were especially colourful on the island. Mowed grass,
that gluppy sound of water lapping into a confined space (I just love that
sound), scented vegetation, warm crumbly ancient stonework sprouting
wildflowers and an arch holding a perfect little vignette of a budding
sapling against the water's edge. Twee as a button.

This paragraph is about Friday, 31st May 2002. On Friday, I wandered along
to the Boywit Thomas's pubnic. 96 and Michael(?) and some others came and
went, including Gavin. Hullo Gavin. That was me in the red and white stripey
shirt. Lucy saved me the embarrassment of going into the ladies' lavatories
by mistake. Almost. Eek. I got a round of applause, however, from three men
drinking beer in a banqueted booth with stained-glass screening, all
traditional pub-like. The men by the lavatory door were more interested in
their fruit machine/quiz/trivial pursuit but noticed too, as did the
grinning bar-person.
Talking of Lucy, I think it is she who moderates this list:
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/glasgow-indie
All yous glasgae indi should join.
I hope to get along to National Pop League next time. And then there's
Breamsy's picnic on the horizon, plus new people coming to Glasgow, either
forever or for a bit. Yeay!
Hopefully I shall have a new job by then. I took a month off after the last
one, foolishly thinking my agency would come up with a nice shiny new one
straight away, but they are SO SLOW! I was in to talk to one of the guys at
the agency just before the pubnic and it transpired that I need a 'character
reference' along with my prof. ones. This, for some reason, launched me into
a chasm of gloom and self doubt. Who shall I ask? Do I have any friends who
will lie for me? Do I know any responsible grown ups? Why am I such a
disaster adult? What have I done with my life? And generally entered yet
another micro mid life crisisette. Ha! I have one now. No problem. To think
I was worried about it. Pah!

Brian Wilson mini thread.
I thought the guy looked unusually compos mentos. He should loose the
salmon-coloured tie, light grey suit and bouffant hair though, because he
looked like a Slightly Senile Senator. And yeah, when he started waving his
arms at the crowd in the manner of kiddie the toy orkestra konductor (I'm
making the allusion up, since someone else has already referred to
supermarionation)... And everybody at that concert sang pretty much out of
tune. It was pretty excruciating to listen to, as were
Mum
(sorry! it must be said) when I attended their concert last Monday in the
old 13th Note, new Barfly. I'm sure their recordings benefit from better
sound balance, allowing their true talent to emerge in all its
Icelandicness. Unfortunately on this occasion a combination of bass-hum and
drums drowned the delicacies out. It was a bizarre and fun experience
watching them though. One of the twins said hello to the audience in a
twinkly shy, sweet way and I was smitten for a bit. For those of you not in
the know, the Mum twins feature on the Fold Your Pheasant cover. The other
twin started off playing the cello, but not for long (I'll get round to
this) and had a white top on that beat even Senator Amedala's lycra number.
But watching these guys! It was like they were in a kitchen full of musical
instruments, cooking up a groovy musical fondue. Apart from their drummer,
who remained behind his kit, the other four wandered around picking up this
and that and tinkering, blowing, squeezing, fingering and occasionally
singing lilting 'la's and breathy 'ah's. They all took turns to play just
about everything each. It kinda worked. A couple of them even stopped to
chat or wander off stage for a while safe in the knowledge that the general
soundscape would meander on, like harmonious cheese melting rhythmically, in
their absence.
No. I'm not on acid. I'm trying to make this all sound interesting. I know I
may be failing.
The supporting act, James Yorkston & the Athletes, except there was only one
athlete, playing a harmonium and a pedal-operated tambourine, were superb,
in a novel folky way. Nice finger-pickin' guitar! They have a new record
coming out on Domino.

Summer's cummings! With a nod to ee fumblings, I found this summer haiku by
Edwin Morgan:

    Pool.
Pe opl
    e   plop!
    Cool.

Now all we need is for the rain to stop. At least, that is, in Scotland and,
I believe, In Chile. Of course, it's not nearly summer in the places where
it's nearly winter, but you get my drift, yes?
mmm, maybe.
ok
Good.

Gordon




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