“I think you’ll really miss being able to go to gigs every night of the week should the mood take you.”
That was the prediction of a few people when I told them that I was moving away from the hustle and bustle of Leicester city centre and heading to this remote Spanish villa. It’s true that the nearest small town is a three kilometre drive away and that karaoke and Michael Jackson tribute acts reign supreme but so far I’ve not missed the live gigging scene. To be fair though, I have been in the villa less than a week.
And, despite the lack of gigs, it’s not as if I’ve had a live music drought in the weeks I’ve been waiting for crazy dog woman to vacate the villa. Before heading up to Lisbon and Eurovision, I spent a lovely weekend in Murcia for the ‘Warm Up’ festival. Kasabian and Alt-J were the bands at the top of the poster but it was probably the Spanish alt-indie acts that got the biggest cheers from the partisan crowd. Next week, I’m heading up to Barcelona for Primavera Sound. I’ll be reviewing it for eFestivals and fully intend to dig deep beneath the surface. Tomorrow, there’s a spring festival in Alicante that I might explore after getting my beard trimmed by a trendy barber with blue hair.
Jonathan Bree travels from New Zealand to play his first ever UK dates in August. It’s an odd-looking three date mini-tour beginning at the Rough Trade store in Bristol and ending at the mightily-fine looking Visions one-dayer down in Hackney. Sandwiched in between these dates, Bree plays the Soundhouse in Leicester. As great a venue as the Soundhouse is, I still see this as quite a coup for the place. For Bree is brill and him and his band have an out-there image to boot – full white masked body suits and bowl haircut wigs. I let out a little yelp when I realised this was one show I wouldn’t get to see.
His genius is more than evident in the recently released video for ‘Boombox Serenade’. Like a warped Magnetic Fields (if such a thing is possible), Bree plays with all sorts of iconic images as he rides in on a horse to woo the woman of his dreams (with a Boombox). The music won’t be too everybody’s taste (for some it’ll sound like the batteries on your Boombox are fading fast) but I find the combination of baritone croon and changing tone delightfully woozy. The awkward romanticism is right up Sonic Breakfast’s street.
‘Boombox Serenade’ is the fourth track to be released from Bree’s forthcoming album, ‘Sleepwalking’. Each of the previous three singles showcase this man’s peculiar knack for skewed songwriting. From gallic glamour to more traditional electro-pop and all with the distinct voice, this is something to get excited about as summer settles.
I think that this terrace will be good for writing. That’ll be especially true in the mornings when the sun hasn’t quite moved around the villa to give the patio its afternoon heat.
It’s been a waiting game the past couple of days; today, I’m having some furniture delivered – a comfortable sofa that’ll be perfect for World Cup viewing and a dining room table and chairs. The fabulous handyman (who fixed the electric gate yesterday) returns to inspect the hot-tub that’s been out of action for years. And the pool man keeps an eye on his work in progress. The pool turns bluer by the day.
I spent much of yesterday trying to catch up on Sonic Breakfast E-mails. With 7,000 unread in the inbox this is quite a task. I barely made a dent in the unread number but did listen to some fabulous tunes that have been sent my way.
Ancestry by Afrikan Boy (featuring aJan) was one of the stand-outs. I’ll always be drawn to tunes with a message that are delivered with dollops of exasperated humour. Afrikan Boy ticks those boxes as he exposes the ridiculousness of the current ‘DNA’ fad, widely advertised on daytime TV. For an obscene amount of money, rogue scientists will analyse your blood, spit, sweat or faeces and tell you where your genes originate from. I guess that for some people this is the sort of thing that matters?
What I do (sort of) like about ancestry websites is how such tests can blow the most fervent of racists out of the water. The mischief-maker in me would love to be a fly on the wall when your average UKIP supporter gets the devastating news that they hail from Europe.
But these sites are pernicious. They’re selling a potential identity to people who aren’t comfortable with the one they have. I’ve got no such interest myself in knowing where my ancestors originate from.
And it would appear that I share this feeling with Afrikan Boy who playfully experiences all sorts of identity crises within his banger of a tune before ultimately concluding that it’s hogwash. The accompanying website (here) is worth having a scout around as well.
“I am not an Athenian or a Greek, I am a citizen of the world“, wrote Socrates many moons ago. And yet still that search for ancestry goes on.
Regular readers of Sonic Breakfast might care to know that I’ve now moved into the Spanish villa. A mere seven weeks after crazy dog woman’s leaving date, she has now finally departed. The strong whiff of dog will soon be gone as well.
I’m thinking about this post from the terrace of my villa. Whilst I write, a troop of Spanish people work on cleaning and sorting the accommodation. I feel immense guilt. I think I should be helping in some way, offering cups of tea, strumming tunes on my guitar or being generally convivial. Instead, I silently sit outside like a lord of the manor. Frankly, although I’ll be paying for their services, it’s an economic exchange that I feel uncomfortable with.
This morning, the pool was a dark and dingy green. Two big barrels of chlorine expertly administered by Pool man Ed, a Welsh carpet fitter who came here to retire but realised he needed something to do, appear to have done the trick. That and a fair bit of fiddling with the motor, a trick I suspect was used to confound me into thinking that the role of pool technician is not for every Tom, Dick and Harry.
I broke down in tears on this very terrace barely four days ago. Everything seemed so overwhelming and it has been a long couple of months. Yes, I’m prone to drama but I was absolutely moving into a shithole of a place. I blamed Sarah who could do nothing from England. I shouted at people who were only trying to help me. I looked around and could see no way forward. I could write words about how I felt. But, I couldn’t actually do anything practical. I had no way of turning the green pool blue. To clean the dog hair from this place would have taken me months of hard graft; to fit the new light bulbs or fill in the holes even more time. Some people are born practical and I envy them more and more each day.
Something beyond magical happened two nights ago, the first night I stayed in this remote space. When I turned the lights off, I was initially puzzled. Something was missing. A dog barked in the distance and then an insect fizzed. I could hear trees swishing in the slight wind. All was black save for a bit of starlight. It didn’t take long to dawn on me as I lay still, quiet and a little bit scared. This is no metropolis – there is no artificial street light, no constant hum from the late night taxis depositing the drinkers home from their last orders. This is like wild camping but under a roof with wifi. I pulled down the fly-guard, opened the window and took a big gulp of air.
This is my life for the next year. Let the writing of the novel begin.
I’ve had a lot of time to write on buses in this past week. But, a lot of time does not necessarily equate to a lot of output. Instead, I simply chilled and slept as I travelled from Murcia to Madrid and then onwards into Portugal and Eurovision.
I write this from a small terrace outside a tiny supermarket at the top of a hill in Lisbon. I’m drinking a can of Sagres, a treat having just walked up a monster of a mountain lugging my current life possessions as I go. Yes, it’s been over a month now that I’ve been living out of a suitcase. Mad-dog woman has yet to vacate the villa in Spain. It’s making me resilient but possibly a bit homesick.
This little terrace is great though. I’m sat with old men who are chatting amongst themselves. Their skins are all sun-weathered and they are all smoking the dregs of roll-ups. They’ve been puffing on the same butt for twenty minutes at least.
From across the road, I can hear a woman singing. The houses here are stunning, painted in beautiful pastel shades or artistically tiled. And I suspect this isn’t even a posh area. They all have ornate iron balconies and some sport flower baskets. Is this the famed Fado that the woman sings? It sounds sad enough; as if she mourns for a lost lover from her past. The men stamp their smokes out and clap as is customary when she finishes.
Tonight I head to the first Eurovision semi-final. Current betting suggests we might all be heading to Cyprus next year. Every now and then, a fan of the contest, draped in the flag of their country walks by. It feels odd – two strong cultures clashing and not entirely meeting. I’m sure that the city of Lisbon welcomes the extra fame and tourism that the contest will bring. Fans of Eurovision could do well to take a minute to sit and watch the world go by.
Today is a bank holiday in Spain; indeed, International Workers’ Day or Labour Day appears to be celebrated on the first of May around much of the world. At least my friends back home don’t have to wait too long for their own May Day, even if, with routine avoidance of the rules of engagement, the British bank holiday is held on a different day from the rest of Europe.
The result is the language school in Alicante is shut today and the city appears to be remarkably quiet. Knowing that things would largely grind to a halt, I went out and drank too many gin and tonics last night at the Jendrix Rock Bar. It’s quite a place; friendly, international and with the oddest mix of rock music I’ve ever heard. My smile was wry when ‘Under The Moon Of Love’ from Leicester’s finest, Showaddywaddy, was played without any sense of irony. More royalties for that man Bartram!
You meet characters in these bars. Characters who are travelling and escaping from their lives back home. Thomas is from Reykjavik. We’ll call him Thomas although that mightn’t be his name as I can’t quite hear him properly when he speaks. He has a sort of military swagger about him, a confidence that I suspect is partly put on to disguise his innate shyness. Thomas might well be quite high; his eyes are wide and his frequent trips to the bathroom see him returning with elevated glee. But it’s nice to chat to him about Alicante for a while. He loves the weather over here and the more regular day/night balance. He hardly sells Iceland to me though.
Daniel (and that is his name) is awkwardly sat at the bar. It’s fair to say that Daniel is quite likely on the autistic spectrum. A man in his late 40’s or early 50’s, he sports the most fabulous of bald pates; a monk cut with a tufty ring of hair sitting embarrassingly on top. Daniel tells me that his parents worry about him when he travels but that he likes to travel lots. He likes rock music and that’s why he’s in this bar wearing his ‘Hard Rock Cafe’ t-shirt. He once tried to write a biography about Freddie Mercury. He loves Queen and he loves the queen. From Downham Market in Norfolk, he tries to impress me with his heartfelt views about immigration and Brexit. I think he thinks that I want to hear his ‘leave’ rhetoric. I make it clear that I voted to remain and Daniel’s tune changes. I conclude that ultimately Daniel is decent and we head off for a game of pool.
But Thomas monopolises the table. His buzz and energy ensures that he’s made friends with two Spanish chaps who are challenging him in a game. Thomas swaggers around the pool table as if he’s a world champion. He’s clearly not. He misses easy pots and fouls when it would be easier not to. He’s oblivious to the slight sniggers from those who are half-watching whilst they dance. Thomas inevitably loses and I play a game.
And then I play another game.. And another.. It’s winner stays on and I’m in that zone where I’m making the most impossible of pots. I’m feeling invincible and I know that the gin is talking. I look across to the dancefloor and I can see Daniel’s glowing head, exuberantly bobbing up and down as he moves in stifled fashion. I realise it’s time to leave.
Today, on workers day, I’ve not been productive. I’ve had a monster headache.