I’ve taken a few days away from Sonic Breakfast posts. It’s been a necessary thing to do. The morning routine has been taking longer when I’ve had to do it with a limp. Things that you take for granted like putting your socks on suddenly become an epic battle of mind over matter. I’m feeling better now though with more mobility – ready to fire on all cylinders again.
I needed a banger of a tune to get me through the weekend; that’s what we get in Palo G’s latest, Memorias. Spirited and strident, this mix of Latin rhythm, flamenco guitar and nailed-on message won’t fail to turn your head. In the pre-chorus, Palo recalls the years from eleven to sixteen and first becoming aware of the damaging impact of gender identity problems and sexual assault trauma. “y yo le dije que no, y tu seguistes, y en el infierno my alma pusistes“, is sung as the memories build, a stark line and one that can’t fail to elicit outrage from any right-minded listener.
At its heart though, Memorias is a triumphant battle against adversity. Palo is resurgent and railing against the things that once weighed heavy on the mind. This is an anthem of strength, a courageous note on the power of self-worth that manages to remain playful whilst offering up a serious message. I exchange E-mails with Palo, now living in Berlin after growing up in Marbella, and find her in an optimistic mood.
“I like the opportunities Berlin offers and of course the open mentality.“, she says. “It’s not better than Spain, it’s different… weather definitely is not a pro but summers here are wonderful and full of life. First thing I will do when the restrictions lift up is go for dinner with my girlfriend to this awesome zero waste restaurant called Frea, she gave it to me for my birthday and since then we haven’t been able to use it. Can’t wait to enjoy gastronomy to the fullest again.”
The mail continues. “2021 has been a year of full realisation on how the world works, dismantling capitalism and the patriarch and understanding complex world problems. It has also been a year of self awareness. Memorias was an important step in my life, I am very content with the positive response especially to the message of the song.”
Personal issues with my knee suddenly seem so remarkably insignificant – and rightly so. Have wonderful Sunday’s one and all.
“All this luminous colour… seems… that it enters the eye like a glass of wine running into your gullet and it makes you drunk straight away“. – Cezanne about Tangier
When I lived in Spain, we sometimes talked about nipping down to Malaga or Gibraltar and then heading out to Africa. A six hour ferry ride to Tangier makes it more than possible to travel with a backpack and to arrive on another continent by daylight. Having barely left Europe in my life, the excitement gained from even thinking about such adventure was palpable.
You mention Tangier to some and they might think of the danger; the scooters that can zip past the unsuspecting tourist and steal their unprotected possessions. And I’m not saying that such crime (and worse) doesn’t exist. But, I’m drawn to the city with its rich cultural history. This is the city in which William Burroughs wrote and imagined ‘The Naked Lunch’. Surely, the hippie influence from years gone by, the influence of the visits from Brian Jones and the other Rolling Stones, can’t have been completely stamped out with the recent regeneration of the beachfront and the creation of new, modern bars and clubs?
It’s not clear if Skymachine have ever been to Tangier either. The band from New Zealand are suitably influenced by its reputation though to release a single in honour of the place. For Skymachine, Tangier is simply representative of a feeling. “I have always loved the idea of just packing a suitcase and jumping on a plane with a one-way ticket.“, says Brydon, the head honcho from the outfit. “If you met someone you wanted to spend the rest of your life with, could you leave everything behind to be with them? Tangier is that feeling.”
Music-wise, this is a track that will make lovers of 80’s pop romanticism squeal with delight. It’s got the glamour, the shiny suits and the synth beats in abundance. There’s an overwhelming sense of longing within this pop nostalgia; radiating in romance, we’re all encouraged to experience our own Tangier moment as we throw caution to the wind and escape to a new continent.
When I’m living somewhere for any period of time, I try to immerse myself in the local music scene. I read Internet forums and regional newspapers to find out about what’s going on and I make an effort to check out interesting venues that are near to me. It’s only by being curious about the musical culture of an area that I can truly get under the skin of a place. And aside from that – it offers a fantastic way to meet people and to begin to feel part of something.
Maybe it’s because I’m far from fluent in the Spanish language and certainly the fact that we’ve been living through a pandemic has not helped but I get a sense that I’ve only ever scratched the surface of any local ‘scene’ here in Catral. Perhaps things don’t really extend much beyond the tribute acts and karaoke specialists who relentlessly tour the ex-pat bars (when they’re able to open). I’m not sure I believe this. There must be bands from Catral, Alicante, Elche or Murcia producing new music that would delight regular readers of Sonic Breakfast. I’ll continue to explore (virtually) over my final few days here.
Cine Nuria, a duo from Catalonia, come from slightly further afield but I couldn’t help not to be drawn to their recent single ‘Lo Bonito’. It’s a dreamy shimmer of a song; a chilled airy vocal runs over the top of an electro-pop thumper to entice you in. My Spanish is not strong enough to pick out all of the lyrical meaning within but we’ve definitely got meteorites, black holes and illuminations making an appearance here. “The song represents the rollercoaster of emotions, the different states that two people go through when they are immersed in an emotional relationship.“, I’m told by the press release to help fill the gaps.
I ask how things are up in Catalonia right now. “We are fine, but we have a municipal confinement. That is, we cannot move from our town / city. It’s very heavy.“, I’m told. “We are preparing a new 4 song EP for March.”
We’re left with little option now other than to make our beautiful discoveries online. We all look forward to a future when we can again go to local music venues to spot new, up and coming talent. We can only hope that those venues will still exist when the time comes.
I decided to make the most of a few days away from work to head to Valencia. I’ve never been here before but I can now see why friends rate it so highly. Despite being visibly impacted by the pandemic, there’s still an urgent sexiness, a thrilling throb in the air. Like a virgin, I can’t wait to give in to the full experience.
My legs are tired though from all of the tourism-walking that I’ve been doing. Eagerly, I look at the health app on my phone to realise with disappointment that I’m simply covering the same steps that I did in a normal London day pre-pandemic. I’m out of practice.
Then, after work, I was invariably rushing across the city to spot the new and the up and coming. I still keep an eye out for what those acts are now doing. Bristol’s anti-pop band, gürll, were one that most impressed.
I saw them twice in 2019, both times as the support act for Gazel. The first time I saw them (review here) at Paper Dress Vintage, they delighted with a powerful, sexual machismo, their vibrant desire-fuelled soul bouncing off the vintage garments in the clothes shop.
Last month, gürl released a new single and video for a song, Surrender, that perfectly sums up the mood they create. As lead singer, Joshua Dalton observes, “Surrender tells a story of desperate submission; giving yourself to someone fully and them giving themselves to you. A dangerous kind of love, filled with the shallow base yearning of smoky eyes, tipsy confidence, and hands running up your back, through to an endless, cosmic devotion. Surrendering to someone, totally.”
You can’t say fairer than that.
I didn’t want to write about Surrender in 2020 to get lost amidst the Christmas buzz; I wanted to feature this as my Happy New Year song. 2021 is surely going to be better and we won’t be able to surrender to those sexual urges any longer.
Valencia – I’m about to see what your Saturday offers.
We need to talk about Brexit. I’m not going to mince my words here so if you have any sympathy for the clusterfuck that is the UK’s leaving of the European Union, you’d best stop reading now. Yes, that’s it, bounce off on your trotters. You are not welcome here.
(Oh, that felt good).
Insanely, you still bump into some supporters of Brexit here in Spain. There is just over a month to go until the transition period is over and we have left. Blind as bats, these advocates still drive cars with British number plates. They tell me that it’s not going to be so bad when it all comes into force. “the Spanish can’t live without me”, says the Brit at the bar who seems to have no discernible purpose at all.
Can you tell that I’m angry? Just in case you can’t I’ll reinforce it by saying that I’m fucking angry. Over and over again until it hurts. Brexit messes up my ability to be here in Spain for any real length of time. It messes up my son’s ability to work here for any real length of time. For fucks sake, the basic foods are going to be in short supply, of shit quality and more expensive back home. “Ah, you’re just scaremongering – no pain, no gain”, says the man at the bar, proud of his invention in making up a little rhyme to emphasise his fuckwittery.
Nobody has ever been able to give me one good reason for Brexit.I feel that I have much more in common with the people here than I do with the arduous oiks back home who grunt at me monosyllabically when I suggest this is going to be a disaster of the highest order.
And today’s tune from Bladderwrack is on my side. It’s a perfect accompaniment to letting off steam. This two piece from Penge have delivered a gnarly piece of punk taking aim at the ‘Gammon’ across the British Isles. In a press release that made me laugh out loud, they mention that the notion of ‘Gammon’ has been around since the time of Dickens before calling on the Urban Dictionary for a definition.
“A term used to describe a particular type of Brexit-supporting, Europhobic voter whose meat-faced complexion suggests they are perilously close to a stroke”, they say and you can’t say fairer than that.
Yes, it’s not placatory; it’s not unifying and it would probably help if we all just sat around a giant table and ironed out our differences. But, for now let me delight in a song that opens with the line –
I am on holiday, The Costa Del Sol, It used to be nice here, Until the Spanish took control.
I’ve been in Spain for a couple of days now. Yesterday morning, I briefly watched the television as the spectacle of the Christmas lottery unfolded before my eyes. ‘El Gordo’, the fat one, is a tradition, an event that runs back hundreds of years. And the presentation of it all is weird. Schoolchildren sing with tuneful innocence as numbered balls get dispatched from a giant sphere that sometimes turns. They get gleefully teary should they get to announce one of the big prizes. And whole villages cheer when their numbers get drawn as winners.
It’s appropriate (in some ways) that number ten in the Sonic Breakfast 2019 top ten is The Lottery Winners and Depression Baby’s gig at the Sebright Arms from back in February. I recall that this was one of my first times at the Sebright and both bands excelled on the night by really putting on a show to behold. Here’s my review of it. (Click, click).
I would have been keen to see both bands again during 2019 but, alas, it was not to be. And now I’ll have to wait until 2020 for the pleasure. In the case of The Lottery Winners, I notice that they’ve got a Spring tour coming up and one of their stops will be The Lexington, the fine venue just around the corner from my property guardianship. They’ve had quite a year of it with festival appearances and a support slot with Tom Jones to contend with. Their debut album gets released next year and it shows early signs of being a cracker.
Depression, Baby have now played London headline sets – and a festival in Norwich. They’re avid supporters of new and interesting music with their Spotify playlist always making for an interesting listen. I wish that I’d seen their show at The Old Blue Last earlier this year. Video footage suggests they stormed it.
I wrote this review a couple of weeks back but never got around to publishing it. Better late than never I guess…
I’m about to head back to Spain for Easter. I’ll miss London; the enjoyable challenge of the day-job followed by evenings out catching one of the many gigs in this fine and vibrant city.
Before I have my two weeks of spring sun, there’s a chance to take in one last gig. I head to the Sebright Arms again. Across a number of gigs in recent months, I’ve never felt let down by the venue. A fine range of beer and a sound quality that’s precise, it’s helped introduce me to a range of acts I simply would not have heard of otherwise.
Tonight, I’ve come to see another Norwegian act. This’ll be my fourth (I think) this year. Otha is described in blurb as a lo-fi downtempo Robyn. It’s a comparison that you can certainly see in the two singles, I’m On Top and One Of The Girls, that she’s so far released.
But to pigeonhole her in such a way does miss the point a bit. My guess is that for most of the considerable crowd gathered tonight the bulk of the songs that Otha takes us through are new. Deliciously catchy bedroom electronica with breathy vocals, these are tunes that lodge in your head and won’t let go.
Across many of the numbers, Otha does this thing where she’ll introduce a couple of lines of poetry and then repeat, amending the melody slightly and adding an extra plink here, an additional plonk there. “Put your clothes back on, we drink, we dance”, she utters across one particularly memorable verse. “You don’t give a shit about me so please stop acting like you do”, she speak-sings in another.
With a sharp, straight fringe and long reddish hair, she’s strikingly sweet; the stage set-up is minimal. Sometimes Otha plays notes on her keyboard but mostly she leaves the music to the other musician on stage with her whilst she smiles and dances in a patchwork dress of many bright colours. There are technical hitches – for a period of time, the click-track can’t be heard on stage but our enjoyment down in the crowd is not hindered.
She seems genuinely delighted to be here and happy that a crowd has shown. “Last night in Liege, the computer crashed on the floor”, she tells us. Frankly, by this point, Otha could tell us anything, so invested are we in her.
“Look at me, look at me, I’ll put you in a heavy trance. It doesn’t matter what you look like. Just Dance“, she beams towards the end and the hypnosis is complete.
Singing and performing like Sarah Cracknell in her prime, I’m glad I’ve made the effort to ‘tarka’ a look at Otha.
Friends tell me that the fabulous Shambala festival has once again been a riotous success over in Market Harborough. It’s always been one of my favourite festivals – and one that leaves me exceptionally sad when packing up the tent to head home on August Bank Holiday Monday.
In years gone by, it’s marked the end of Summer for me. Often, but not always, it’s been my last festival of the year. The days can’t help but get shorter and colder; it’s not long before the central heating has to kick into action again; that’s if it hasn’t already done so. Schoolteacher friends have to head back to jobs they hate. There’s little bonus to look forward to in Autumn and Winter when Christmas rarely floats your boat.
This year feels different. July and August have frankly been too hot in this part of Spain but I’m told that September and October are much better months to experience. Far from being dejected, I’m excited by the new things I’m likely to discover. This is a year that’ll keep on giving.
Progress on the novel has been slow and I’ve hardly been churning blog posts out with dedicated profligacy.
Profligacy – there’s a word I really should avoid using in the future.
It has been a wonderful summer though. If I was truly able to live in the moment, I’d probably say it’s been one of my best ever; it’s certainly one that I’ll look back on fondly in years from now. Not having to worry about a day job has given me all sorts of freedoms I otherwise wouldn’t have.
I slept under canvas when back in England for three weeks; the weather helped but what a glorious thing to be able to do. Looking out from the dewy tent over perfect panoramas of the Dorset coast; poring over newspapers and magazines and being truly able to appreciate the columnists’ craft without having ‘something’ else to do; not beating myself up for not rushing around madly; finding my own pace. These have been my favourite experiences.
British festivals ensured that my need for the chaotic was still achieved; from the wet and cosy Lunar (review here) through to the simply extraordinary, out of the world Boomtown (review here) via the sizzling Bestival (review here), they’ve all provided summer memories to cherish.
Just last week after a day exploring the Ricote Valley here in Spain (highly recommended when it’s less hot), Sarah and I stumbled upon the thermal baths and day spa at Archena. Full of water jets and forceful showers, plunge pools and wave trails, here you could massage and pummel your achy joints and muscles whilst looking out to the mountains north of Murcia. I’ll go there again.
Fine food, simple sea swimming and surprises beyond every T-junction that are waiting to be explored.
It’s the end of Summer but it’s not the end of this crazy adventure.
I’m berating myself but I’ve not been writing much recently; a kind of lethargic sludge has accompanied my every move. I blame the heat.
The summer in the south of Spain, slower to emerge than in previous years by all accounts, has now appeared with sweltering intent. I can just about get through the days but it’s at night when things get most unpleasant. This villa has no air conditioning and the temperature isn’t dropping much beneath 25 degrees. Should I be lucky enough to get to sleep, it’s very rare that it’ll be unbroken. The noises of nature at night are both eerie and exciting. 4 AM is always interesting out in the sticks.
News rumbles through from the UK that the heatwave there shows no sign of abating. I’m coming home in a few weeks to cover a couple of festivals and I’m sure that the rain Gods are waiting for that to make a reappearance.
Amidst the heat and the lethargy, I have been having fun as well. This has been a pretty special World Cup so far. I feel very lucky that I’ve been able to watch pretty much every game I’ve wanted to with beer or wine in hand. I’ve enjoyed/endured much of it alone in this villa but have ventured out once or twice. I found sports bars in Alicante that I liked when I lived there back in April and they’ve really come alive during this competition.
Take Saturday afternoon as an example; an hour before kick off in the Red Corner, there was a mass of yellow shirted Swedes sat around most of the tables. The English were outnumbered but it was of no consequence because there was little of the hysterical nationalism that often rears its head back home. Everyone was up for a party, keen to cheer on their countries but happy to shake hands with the opposition. The Swedish masked their disappointment at the end of the game well and were magnanimous in defeat. It was the same when Japan played Senegal in the group stages. Countries coming together to watch football – it’s what it’s all about yeah?
I’ve discovered a love for swimming in the sea. I had no idea how liberating it can be. The San Juan fiesta in Alicante was a colourful pageant; a crazy mix of bonfires, giant wooden structures, excitement and water. Somewhat drunken, I had no sense of the potential danger I was putting myself in when I nipped out into the sea to bounce over the waves at midnight. I lay on my back and looked out to the moon, not quite full but shining brightly. Some youngsters had bought guitars to the beach and I could just pick out their strummings as I lay there, head half submerged in the salty sea. ‘This is an experience to bottle’, I thought to myself, learning to live in the moment.
Since that revelation in Alicante, I’ve swam in the sea as much as I can. I’ve found a beach near here that you get to by walking along a boardwalk. The smell of the pine and the gentle breeze from the sea air heightens the sense of anticipation as you approach. I spend no more than a couple of hours there. I’ve got little interest in bronzing my white torso. It’s just the saltwater that I’m addicted to.
Last weekend I went on something of a road trip. From the moment that I saw the line-up of Vida festival, I earmarked it as one not to miss. Any festival that can find space in its schedule for Of Montreal, They Might Be Giants, Franz Ferdinand, St Vincent and Calexico deserves credit. In addition to the stellar line-up, I was drawn to the ’boutique’ nature of Vida. Primavera, Sonar, Benicassim and Mad Cool all subscribe to the ‘big is beautiful’ motto whereas Vida is happy to cap numbers. It achieves on pretty much every level. This is a man who has been to a lot of festivals over the last years and very few have left me feeling as satisfied as Vida.
The location helps. La Masia d’en Cabanyes is a neo-classical house on the edge of Vilanova. Beautifully treed, exquisitely lit, you can’t help but feel pretty privileged when walking around these grounds. Small stages appear in hidden woodland alcoves; food vans emerge from behind lines of trees. Vines line the fields and our vista towards the mountains in the distance. This is a great place to watch the sun go down.
I bought myself a wild side ticket. The website promised free beer, wine and cava tasting and that was too much for this Brit to resist. It was worth every penny. On arrival, I was directed to a separate entrance and led into a walled garden by the side of the house. Beautiful people sat on straw bales drinking cava and wine out of glass. I couldn’t help but think what carnage there might be if ‘free’ alcohol was on offer at a British festival. But this was Catalonia, a place where restraint and pacing yourself comes naturally; where binge drinking plays little or no part in proceedings.
I’ll return to Vida in future blog posts. I’ve deliberately not written about the daytime activities that took place at the beach club; astonishing live music whilst drinking Aperol Spritz and looking out across Vilanova’s impressive bay. Suffice to say, I’ve already bought a Wild Side ticket for next year’s Vida. I’ve also bought a ‘Rat Pack’ ticket for a new event that’s being launched in December. Secret Vida looks like it’ll hold equal amounts of joy.
On my first night in Vilanova, I took off all of my clothes and ran out to the sea to skinny-dip (undoubtedly a misnomer in my case with fat-dipping being a better description).
This was all about throwing caution to the wind and losing inhibition. In lots of ways that’s what the last months have been about; stripping away the complex layers and allowing the naked feelings to surface. Long may that continue in this fascinating country.
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.
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