Punch up at the Ballet

Every year I pick an event for us to go to as a family in the hope of generating a bit of Christmas spirit. This year it was the turn of The Nutcracker. I was working from home on the day of the event so it was literally shut the laptop, shower, change into glam-rags and it’s Christmaaaas!

We were initially very happy to see that there was an offer on bottles of prosecco at the theatre bar, and that we were allowed to take our drinks in to the auditorium but it turned it to be a double-edged sword – however I mustn’t get ahead of myself.

The ballet was the full russian monty – our seats were close enough to the orchestra pit to see that the sheet music was printed in russian so the touring Siberian State Ballet had obviously brought their own musicians (oooh – they got a band!). The orchestra was so familiar with the score that the percussionist seemed to be pointedly relaxing right up to the instant that his services were required, sitting slightly removed from his instruments until the last possible moment then stepping over in a twinkling to give a few tings on his triangle with a studied nonchalance.

So while it can be said that there was the feeling that they were more than acquainted with the score, it never felt like they were simply going through the motions. With Tchaikovsky‘s extraordinary music, a cast of characters that includes dancing snowflakes, toy dolls coming to life, a mouse king with his army battling a Nutcracker Prince and some fantastically athletic dancing, the event was definitely having the desired jollyfying effect. It was beginning to feel a lot like Christmas.

Then partway through the first act the evening’s alternative entertainment started when a young blonde lady, glass of wine in hand, staggered in and joined what we later discovered to be her mother and grandmother who were sat front and center, best seats in the house. After twenty minutes or so she wobbled back up the aisle only to reappear a few minutes later, wine replenished. Same again at the interval.

Shortly into the second act the shushing started. The blonde was talking quite loudly, modulating neither the volume nor content, there was a live show happening and there were families sat around her with young children. Not surprisingly one gentleman was particularly vociferous in asking her to be quiet and she did not take kindly to that one little bit. Gimlet-eyed she turned around on her seat and in a jiffy was kneeling up, jabbing a finger at him, effing and jeffing vociferously. All the while the dancers continued gallantly, surreptitiously craning their necks to find out what on earth was going on in the not-so-cheap seats.

The shusher understandably didn’t take to kindly to being scolded in this way by the shushee and departed to return shortly with theatre staff who asked the blonde to leave. But not on your nelly. She was having none of it, turned her steely glare on the theatre staff and refused point blank to budge. After some futile coaxing the staff decided discretion was the better part of valour and left her to it until the end of the show.

The show continued to it’s wonderful conclusion and after many well-earned rounds of hand-numbing applause the curtains closed for the last time and the cast retreated presumably to the safety of their dressing rooms wondering what on earth had been going on – had the theatre critic of the Western Mail taken against them maybe or had a discussion on the correct choreography of the Dance of the Sugar-Plum Fairy got out of hand?

But our evening’s entertainment wasn’t quite over. Next up what appeared to be the mangeress of the theatre arrived with reinforcements to have it out with the blonde who was still having none of it and had now climbed over the back of her seat to get at her erstwhile gentleman critic. This created the comedy moment of the night when she tried to go for him not realising her gran had a tight grip on the hem of her overcoat, the effect being that her little legs were running on the spot Loony-Tunes cartoon style. If only the nonchalant percussionist had still been there to add a drum-roll.

After some minutes of discussion one of her companions stood and announced to the manageress “I’m her mother and this is her gran. I work for HMRC and I’m above you”. The manageress continued to press her case as to why the blonde had cause to be embarrassed and should have left when asked but the mother, apparently confused at the lack of deference persisted, “No” she said in her best Violet Bucket voice “you don’t understand. I’m higher than you”

It was at this point that the blonde turned toward us (we were goggle-eyed at the spectacle) with what I thought to be panda-eyed confusion but my wife assured me was a look of one hundred per cent vanadium steel defiance and started arms-raised zombie style toward us. Luckily granny still had a tight grip on the hem of her coat so we were able to make a hasty retreat. 

As we departed into the foyer a last over-the-shoulder glance showed the blonde to be sobbing in her grans arms and the mother laughing saying “Oh I can’t take them anywhere”.  Sanity it seemed was slowly returning. The theatre staff it had to be said, handled the entire incident immaculately and we left the theatre with a skip and a smile, bemused at the behavior of the group but none the worse for it. It certainly hadn’t spoiled the show. 

Having said that I can’t wait to see what happens at the opera next week.

Public Enemy – Tramshed

You’re sat on your comfy couch on a Sunday night and it’s absolutely lashing it down outside. You’re halfway through a good boxset on Netflix and your Sunday lunch is settling like the Titanic at the bottom of the North Atlantic. You’re thinking “why in the name of all that’s holy have I booked tickets to see a hip hop gig?”

Then when your alarm wakes you up at 5am for work the next morning and you’re so tired you turn the radio on instead of turning the alarm off and every inch of you aches because you’ve been bouncing around and you didn’t get enough sleep BUT you still have a stupid grin on your face and a Public Enemy shaped ear-worm ringing in your head – then you’ll have your answer and you’ll know you’ve been at a great gig the night before.

Sunday night was our first visit to the new Cardiff venue The Tramshed

I think it may just what The ‘ Diff needed in terms of music venue. Just the right size between the smaller Globe and Clwb Ifor, and the horrible ginormous aircraft hanger that is the Motorpoint.

Fully equipped with a cloakroom, viewing balcony, bars up and downstairs and a cracking sound system is a little gem. The only issue I can see is parking – and then only when it’s raining. Like it was on Sunday. Boy did it rain. Il pleut comme une vache qui pisse. On a corregated roof.

So as the steam rose off us like a Pontypool scrummage on a wet Friday night we waited for the band and hoped they could raise our spirits from the near dead.

Take a moment and think what you might get from a live hip hop gig?

Did you think of a hooded dreadlocked Flava Flav doing circuits of the stage on a hover board?

Did you imagine marines guarding the stage

and getting down to do press ups

Or of rock hard rastas leaping into the audience (followed reluctantly by the security staff) to eject beer throwing morons (for that is indeed what happened)

Of Chuck D’ belting it out

Of fist-bumps and high-fives

Of hip-hop congas around Hendrix style guitar moves

Of audience participation and a bouncing mosh-pit

Of the best scratching DJ you’ve ever seen

And of a venue so damn hot in every sense that Flava Flav started to dish out water

Well – I can tell you that we got all that and more. This was more than a gig – it was a show.

If anyone ever says hip hop is boring just point them in the direction of Public Enemy. These boys know how to party.

A fantastic set by a brilliant band – do catch them if you get a chance.  Highly recommended

Il Pastificio

Wow! What a meal. Sorry for the spoiler but there you have it. Another amazing Italian restaurant shock. Not sure what is going on with Cardiff at the moment but it seems to have an explosion of tremendous indie restaurants. Fresh on the heels of an excellent Italian meal at Anatoni’s we stumbled into another gem of a place, this time it was Il Pastificio on Wellfield Road in Roath.

The restaurant itself is a little corner unit – previously home to KL Canalog (which was another of our favorites), close enough to Chaiholics that the chefs could and did wave and gesture to each other through the large windows.

As well as pointing out and telling us how good the neighbouring competition was the head-chef also explained the menu and daily specials to us with typical theatrical Italian hand gestures and when I mentioned my seafood allergy told us not to worry, we could basically have any combination of the ingredients we preferred – now that’s what I cooking.

We ordered a bottle of red – Amanti Primitivo to get us started. Damsen and sour cherry indeed. Delicious.

Starters were a sharing platter – well it was a birthday meal and sharing platters are always a good barometer of what’s to come:

The forecast from this one was fine, buttery artichoke hearts with a hint of vinegar, green grassy olive oil with sweet balsamic and warm crusty bread for dipping, smooth ripe olives and slices of Italian sausages cut through with spices, big blobs of delicious lardy fat and nuggets of pepper and pistachios. The future looked good.

The mains were spectacular. Don’t you love it when the chef is so proud of what they’re cooking that they bring the uncooked produce out to show it off? The fish, fresh from Cardiff Market looked excellent so it was tuna for me and king prawn for the missus. We’d previously been told how good the fresh hand-made pasta was so D2 went for that.

My tuna steak was just-cooked, pink-in-the-middle perfection topped with courgette spirals, excellent black ink tagliatelle and a gorgeous chilli and garlic sauce.

The spinach and ricotta stuffed panzerotti came in a sage and butter sauce. I got a taste of this and it was my favourite dish of the evening.

The sweet pepper risotto with king prawn was irresistibly dramatic with a grilled colossal crustacean sat atop a mound of saffron yellow rice cooked to a barely soft-enough bite.

Now, as a family, less is usually more, so we invariably go for just mains or at most two courses. But this was so good we had to do dessert and coffee as well:

The missus went for a wonderful tremulous panna cotta topped with sweet sharp strawberries.

D2 had the mango cheesecake, as recommended by the waitress and it was velvety with just the right level of mouth-puckering sharpness.

My tiramisu was big enough for a small assault force and packed enough calories for a march to the south pole. It didn’t touch the sides – delectable.

A fantastic meal and another big recommendation.

The Chapel

Oh Chapel – it could have been the start of such a beautiful friendship but now I’m afraid we can never be together.

This Saturday was a big night for us and we wanted to go somewhere special. We had a double birthday celebration, visiting family and it was my daughters last night at home before going back to university so we pushed the boat out and went to The Chapel on Churchill Way.
The evening started out with what appeared to be a minor cock up.
We had originally booked for four people at six-thirty then rang back to ask if we could make it six. We had meant six people, they took it to mean six o’clock. So when we arrived it slowly dawned on us all that they had expected us half an hour earlier and had given our table away. Hilarious eh?

So we were offered a table in the bar but could choose from the restaurant menu and, as we were looking forward to it so much (and there was no offerto refund our deposit) we accepted. In hindsight this was a mistake.

The place is very ambitious, a night club in the cellar, a ground floor bar and fine dining amongst glittering chandeliers upstairs (I knew because I sneaked up to take a peak – we were never invited up at any point)

First, cards on the table, the food (my meal at least – the others weren’t quite as good) was outstanding. My starter of scallops was fabulous – melt in mouth good on a delicious cauliflower puree with puy lentils and bacon.

One of the mains we ordered was Dover Sole and that was expertly filleted at table. My main of sea-bass on a Jerusalem artichoke risotto was just outstanding. Perfectly cooked and seasoned, just the right amount of blue-cheese in the unctuous risotto. I dream of making one as good at home:

The side dish of cabbage and chorizo was also fine.
The other mains of chicken and lamb were OK but not at the same level, the bubble and squeak accompanying the chicken was a little bland and heavy on the potato and the lamb shank was some what under-seasoned. But on the whole the food was very good.
I struck lucky again with the desserts, the flourless blood-orange cake was most and delicious with a hint of caramelized crunch. The pannacotta with rhubarb was subtle and smooth.

So – what is my problem?
Well,  after being seated it became clear that the banquet diner-style booth was not ideal for serving a group of six diners, every dish having to be shuffled down from the outside edge. We were surrounded in every line of sight by television showing Sky Sport. The bar got fuller more and more raucous until we were the only diners sitting amongst a mass of youngsters getting their Saturday night drunk on.

And then the music started.
A full-on DJ set.
We were basically sat reading an expensive meal in a disco to the point where we had to shout to make any conversation. It was a disaster. The lie point was when a couple of strangers decided to join us in the both and sat at the end of our bench seats.
The fine dining experience we’d expected it was not.

To make it worse the waitresses had no idea of the situation and had no knowledge of the restaurant menu so every question had to be referred upstairs.
And, after we had made the compromise of sitting in the bar we never again saw the manager nor front of house staff. No check to see if we were OK, no concession on service charge, God forbid we should have been offered a bottle of wine.

I searched out the manager at the end of the meal to express our distress at the easy we felt we had been treated – I got no change from him at all – he refused stubbornly to see our point of view. He even had the hubris to say he hoped to give us a better experience the next time we came.

Like a Bisto kid with my nose pressed against the glass I couldn’t resist taking
a peep upstairs to see how the other half were doing – it looked very nice. And it was quiet. No TV Sport. And no strangers seating themselves at the diners tables. Bliss.

So the result was, food good, experience awful. We won’t rush back
Not recommended.

Dim Sŵn

So Saturday evening we all jumped into the old jalopy and headed into town for the latest incarnation of the Sŵn festival – Cardiff’s own city-centre music festival (imagine Barcelona’s PrimaVera with less tapas and more Clarke’s Pies). Actually this was Dim Sŵn, the smaller but perfectly formed little sister of Sŵn – a one-day event with forty bands playing across seven venues.
We intended to base our evening around Cardiff’s hipster central area of Womanby Street, ping-ponging between Clwb Ifor Bach and The Moon Club.

Rozi Plain
First up for us was the wonderfully idiosyncratic Rozi Plain. I hadn’t realised beforehand that Rozi is also a member of “This is the Kit” , a band we loved when we saw them at The Glee Club in Mermaid Quay last year so it was a joy to catch her again tonight.
From the off it was obvious that the band were enjoying themselves with smiles all around. The bassist later told us they were afraid it might be a heavy-rock fest so maybe it was a sign of relief on their part.
Rozi plays (on what appears to be a home-crafted guitar) an almost uncategorisable brand of shoe-gazy pop with nods to Fleetwood Mac’s Albatross-era ambiance. I particularly loved the swooping, swirling keyboard playing of Yoshino Shigihara.
Rozi and the band have a new album “Friends” out next week which I can’t wait to catch on Spotify

Denim Snakes
Next we crossed the alley to catch the set by Denim Snakes – a name so bad that the lead singer apologised for it.
These guys are so loveably naff that my wife asked if they were Australian. Where Rozi Plain’s music was difficult to categorise Denim Snake’s positively rattled with a closet full of musical skeletons. I caught whiffs of The Ramones, Pistols, Clash, Stiff Little Fingers…. you get the point.
They play high-energy garage rock with some great story telling lyrics and typical foot-on-the-monitor rock stylings. I’d hate to live next door to their practice room but I’d definitely book them for a party.
Derivative then but loud and fun – the antithesis of cool, I watched with a big grin on my face.

East India Youth
We crossed back once again to Clwb Ifor Bach for one of the festival headliners – East India Youth. One of those acts which sounds like a band but is actually a single person, in this case the wonder-kid William Doyle.
At first glance, as he set up his stage rig, with his booted, suited, buttoned-down style he reminded me of a Michael Fassbender lookalike auditioning for a Kraftwerk biopic

With enough buttons and dials to look like the control panel for CERN this modern one-man-band generates a massive sound with a low register bass-thrum that rumbles thorough the nether regions. The tone of his music reminds me of Berlin-Era Bowie crossed with Eno and Kraftwerk. His strong voice was as clear as a bell above the electronica in the fashion of Vienna-era Ultravox. He gives good drum-machine and wigs out fantastically whilst paying his bass guitar

But for all the electronica he also plays some wonderfully melodic songs such as “Carousel” and “Heaven, How Long”

And don’t get the idea this is static, boring stuff – Doyle is a ball of fizzing energy and by the end he was stood in the corner, drenched in sweat with a towel round his neck like a prize-fighter. We went all twelve rounds with him and enjoyed every minute of it.

Keys
And so we crossed back once again to the Moon Club for our last set of the night from Keys. With impressive beardage and full-on Welsh accents I was instantly taken with them.

Driven on by the percussion of the ubiquitous Dave Newington, these twin Gretch-toting psych-rockers have their musical influences plainly on display.

A bit of blues, some psycho-billy, plenty of Nick Cave and lots of Americana, as we arrived they were already blasting through a Doorsy gospel-tinged belter and they didn’t let up the pace until there was steam rising from the audience. At the close, to cries from the crowd of “One more song!” it was “Right you fuckers!” and they launched into an impromptu encore and blasted through one last tune.
Easily my favorite band of the night.

The festival played on into the early hours but, satisfied with what we’d had, we staggered out, ears happily abuzz, past the young lad playing ragtime sax to dancing refugees from “10 Feet Tall”, to make our way home

Another great Sŵn event then – roll-on the full fest later in the year.

The Grazing Shed

The Grazing Shed is a relatively new burger joint on the corner of the recently revamped Barracks Lane.

We’ve eaten there a number of times, even (I’m ashamed to say) stopping in there before the recent Morrissey gig (please don’t tell him).
It’s the kind of place where you know you’ll get a great burger, good friendly service, value for money, endless mayo, ketchup etc, bottomless soft drinks and a selection of decent cider and beer (from Brew Dog):

The atmosphere is chatty and buzzy and the pace is always busy but rarely to the point where you can’t grab a seat:

The kitchens are open so you can see all the food being prepared and cooked:

On our many visits we have tried various beef and chicken options – I particularly like the El Toro (with honeyed goats cheese and chorizo) and the John Wayne (with cheddar and smoked bacon) but not so keen on the Yokozuna (teriyaki) – great chicken fillets but the flavour combo didn’t work for me.
Last night we had the Super-Tidy Beef meal (great burger with generous portion of chips and sides) and Frisky Chicken (chicken with bacon and avocado mash – delish).

I ordered the Philly burger (double Teifi cheese, Smoked and Caerphilly):

Unfortunately I made the mistake of going for the veggie option. Generous portions and (with a little salt) the flavours were all there. And the huge chunks of Teifi cheese were great. But for me the burger was totally forgettable. Stodgy and claggy – everything veggie food has struggled to move it’s rep away from. Truth in advertising and all that, I have to say I wish I’d gone for the chicken option (I blame Morrissey)

So I’ll definitely be going back to The Grazing Shed for my regular burger fix but next time I’ll avoid the veggie option.

Marika Hackman

When I saw that Marika Hackman was playing Cardiff, having heard and loved some of her stuff on Six Radio I decided to get tickets.  But – confession time here – when I subsequently read that she was a school-friend of and ex-band-member with Cara Delevingne and was herself formerly a model for (amongst others) Burberry then my chippy valley-boy hackles were up. Where are the working-class acts etc etc (yawn). Anyway that’s my problem not hers so I set my prejudices to one side and went along and was so glad I did.

The gig was hosted in a most unusual venue, the church of St John the Evangelist in Canton. We walked in after the support acts had started and felt a little awkward as the venue was all seated, the lights were down and the proverbial pin could be heard dropping as the seated audience turned as one to look at as (or so it felt).
However the church volunteers rushed to welcome us and to provide folding chairs and they were offering wine by the plastic cup and jars of homemade jam (all priced by donation so whatever was felt appropriate) and all was well with the world. The perception was what a wonderfully quirky “Ealing-comedy British” setup – a welcome change from our usual Saturday night grunge.

Unfortunately we missed the first act  Toby Hay as I’ve been reliably informed he is excellent. We did manage to catch the second support set from Sophie Jameson though. A lone self-accompanied singer (as was Marika Hackman later) Sophie had a tiny, painfully shy sounding speaking voice which belied her great singing voice and striking guitar playing. One tune had a wonderful slack-strung droning bass sound and was followed by another with a guitar sound reminiscent of the echoing of a mournful tolling bell – which was appropriate given the setting. I thought it was a wonderful brave performance for a lone singer in front of a silent, seated, motionless crowd – by the end of the set we were hanging on every note.

A quick break followed to allow us to take advantage of the wine and jam and then Marika was on with no fanfare at all. She just stepped out, took up her acoustic and started up playing. The acoustics of the church enhanced her voice to great effect and (aided by a touch of reverb) added an almost choral edge.
Excuse my guitar-geekery here for a second but the next few songs were played on a beautiful duck-egg blue Fender Mustang guitar (drool) from which Marika produced a lovely warm sound. With the nave behind being cosily lit with slow changing coloured backlights and the spotlights bouncing off the body of her guitar causing flickering shapes in the aisle the effect was quite mesmerising.

“Animal Fear”, popularised by many plays on “6 Music” received the loudest response of the night from the hypnotised audience and that was followed by the beautiful lullaby “Claude’s Girl”.
Many of the songs such as “The Plan” had a mournful bent and included some pleasingly gory lyrics, tales of blood and guts and ribs torn asunder, all in the best traditions of English folk and all feeling somewhat inappropriate for a church setting whilst simultaneously being utterly perfect. Most pleasing of all was when Hackman allowed her lovely voice to soar dreamily up into the rafters.

The last song “Cinnamon” with its descending coda and wandering lyrics has a semi-permanent place on my current playlist and for some strange reason reminds me of early Genesis a-la “Supper’s Ready” – I love it.

A great night then in a lovely new small venue – I look forward to more events there and to seeing what the excellent Marika Hackman does next.

Sunday in the (Cathay’s) park without George

Me, the wifeness and daughter no 2 spent a lovely Sunday afternoon in Cardiff National Museum.

We had a bite of lunch in the Oriel cafe where they really seem to be making an effort to make good food sourced locally – I can recommend the bhaji burger, the quiche and salad and the fish-finger sandwich.

The we resisted the draw of the dusty but almost irresistible animatronic woolly mammoth and instead spent a few hours wandering around the astonishing collection of art.

We did however first make a brief stop to check out the one truly priceless exhibit. The moon rock.
No that’s not it – that a fabulous meteor.

The moon rock is the much smaller unassuming chunk of grey stone alongside it, not much bigger than an apple core.

Widely ignored now, when it was first placed in the museum it had a huge police escort and people queued for hours to look at it. When you think three men strapped themselves to a liquid fuel bomb a third of the height of the Eiffel Tower and had themselves blasted into outer space in order to retrieve it then it must be the must remarkable piece on view.

The arty bit…
Did you know that Cardiff Museum has
a number of paintings by Turner? Or that it has an outstanding painting of Six Bells at Abertillery by LS Lowry?
It also has an extensive collection of pre-Raphaelite art including works by Ford Madox Brown,  Dante Gabriel Rossetti and John Everett Millais.
It has sculpture by Degas and by Rodin including a huge version of The Kiss and a bust of Augustus John who’s works are also represented – as are done of those by his sister Gwen.

It has more outstanding works of sculpture by modern giants such as Barbara Hepworth and Jacob Epstein.

There are some stunning large scale works by John  Singer Sargent and Stanley Spencer.

The ever popular Impressionist Movement is strongly represented with works by, amongst others Monet, Manet, Degas, Cezanne, Van Gogh and Renoir. In fact name a famous artist and you’ll probably find a piece by them in the museum –  Rene Magritte? Check. Max Ernst? Present. El Greco? Botticelli? Frans Hals? Rubens? Canaletto? All present and correct.

Which is why it was all the more disappointing that I couldn’t find anything by George Seurat to make the title of my blog entry work…..

After that explosion of culture we staggered out onto the coffeeopolis that Queen Street has become for refreshment – there seem to be new cafes opening every other building. We sat and chatted amongst the noticeable numbers of Spanish, French and Italians that we had also seen in the museum and shopping centre – presumably as a result of cheap flights to and from Cardiff Airport. And very cosmopolitan it all felt too.
All in all a very enjoyable Sunday afternoon.

But no George

Hip Hop, Animals and an Iconic Iconoclast

The second week of March was a bit of a corker for us music-wise with three very different events at three very different venues.
Glass Animals
First off was a night at our favorite Cardiff music venue The Globe  to see Glass  Animals :

We first saw Glass Animals last year at Buffalo Bar in front of about twenty people but this night they were playing to a full audience of several hundred – the place was pretty packed with mostly youngsters and students. If they continue at this rate they’ll be filling Wembley in no time. The band play a groove-heavy indy-funk with lyrics that successfully walk a tightrope of suggesting something totally dark and somewhat filthy whilst simultaneously making no sense whatsoever – or maybe that’s just my dirty mind – whatever. They played most of their irresistible Zaba album and even threw in a cover Love Lockdown by Kanye West which saw lead-singer Dave Bayley disappear into the adoring crowd. We met Dave very briefly after the Buffalo gig:

and he and the rest of the band seem a lovely bunch who are obviously enjoying every minute of it all so I’m really pleased to see them move up to bigger venues and hope they continue to go from strength to strength.
Hip Hop at Gwdihw:
Next up for us was an impromptu gig at the tiny but perfectly formed and totally wonderful Gwdihw bar just off Churchill Way. We’d been kicked out by daughter 2 so that she could have some friends around without the parents hanging around like a bad stink so we decided to kill a few hours in town. We started off with a couple of drinks in Cosy Club which as always lived up to it’s name – we even managed to get a candle-lit window seat overlooking The Hayes which was a first for us. This was the day Wales beat Ireland in the Six Nations so the scenes below us were absolute carnage whilst being pretty amusing to watch – thankfully it all looked to be good humoured fun.
Next we grabbed quick Mexican bite at Wahaca, the highlight of which for us were Margaritas sat in the upstairs window-seats – again watching all the fun of battlefield-Cardiff as it unfolded below us. Then we headed off to Gwdihw where a hip-hop band were already in full flow when we arrived. We missed the start of the gig so sadly I have no idea what the band were called. I’m not a huge fan of the hip-hop genre but these guys were giving it everything including the kitchen sink – two rappers, great funking rhythm section, Stevie Wonder-esqe keyboards and a full brass section.

It was great infectious fun and when they threw in a cover of Jungle Boogie – well, I was buying whatever they were selling.  That we happened to wander in of the street to catch their set was one of those fabulous happy accidents that can make a night special.

Morrissey is meaty:
The third gig of the week was to see the godlike-genius that is Mozza. Yes – Morrissey was in town and we had booked our spots at the front for the main event. The list of acts that can get me to pay to go to the Motorpoint Arena, an aircraft hangar of a venue with the audio characteristics of… well an aircraft hangar is a short one but Morrissey near the top. The evening started on a high when I found out that my brother had secretly bought a ticket and was joining us Ffion the merger-regions of Cheltenham for the pilgrimage – what a dude. We headed into The Motorpoint with some trepidation – after all it’s not unknown for Moz to cancel at the last moment. Our fears were somewhat allayed when we saw the signage announcing that the venue was meat free for the evening and sure enough it became clear that Mozza was in the house.
Buffy Saint Marie proved game if slightly incongruous support for the evening and was followed by a video montage presumably of some of Morrissey’s favorite clips including the New York Dolls and a nicely judged tribute to the recently passed Steve Strange – him being a valley’s boy after all.
And then – the lights were down, Mozza was there and everything was at peace in the world. Looking well if slightly chunkier than the svelt lad I first saw live waving gladioli back in the Smith’s heyday he turned up in every sense. Kicking off under a backdrop of images mocking the Royals he was in great voice as he tore into The Queen is Dead and on through a full set which included a few of his Smiths numbers alongside songs from throughout his solo career.
As stagily aloof as ever Morrissey gave the sly air of being above the entire hero worship nonsense of the crowd whilst thoroughly enjoying every minute – even dryly demanding “a full explanation” for boos at the sight of an Everton Jersey in his stage backdrop.

Being Mozza there had to be an element of in-your-face finger-wagging and that was fully provided by the “Meat is Murder” section which was accompanied by a traumatic eye-opening video showing the treatment of animals in the factory food system. A show-stopper in every sense of the phrase, I’m not convinced how justifiable it was in the context of a live sure but it certainly had made me reconsidering my food priorities.
He managed to raise the crowd again with a rendition of Every Day is Like Sunday and by the time he closed the set with a killer version of The First Of The Gang To Die we were all back at top pitch.

Further evidence that he was loving it as much as we were came when he tore off his shirt and threw it into the crowd, departing the stage bare-chested.
His closing comment of “remember, whatever happens I love you all” was a melancholy reminder of his recent cancer scare but that aside it was a real high-note of a concert and a fab evening.

Intro

This is an occasional blog from sunny Welsh Cardiff from someone who loves the city, it’s food, film and especially it’s live music scene and sometimes feels the urge to wax lyrical about it all.
On top of which I might rattle on about tech, keeping fit, crap guitar playing or anything else that takes my fancy. But hey! It’s my blog and I’ll write what I want to.