I haven’t had people boo my set for quite a while now. How delightfully quaint. How gentile. In America, they’d be throwing stuff. Not at the Hanbury Ballroom, Kemptown though. Instead, they prefer to add the sound of their own voices - no rhythm, no harmony, not much imagination either - to that of mine, after Danya and I had been invited up as guest of Scout, at the end of her poignant, fun, rousing set: clashing drums and cheerleading without pom poms, the song about Linus dropped but, in its stead, a handful of Bigmuff-fuelled welters, an Irma Thomas cover, an astrological charm, a thimble full of new abrasive outings. The crowd were unusually attentive, the room hushed.

And I guess they were for the most part for The Legend!’s brief intrusion - ‘Death Is The Name…’, ‘Vincent Gallo’, a rant about coming home at three in the morning and sending an email to everyone you know telling them to FUCK OFF, and an entirely improvised number with Danya and Scout providing rhythm and soul, Danya sweet harmony, myself stuck and stuttering on three or four lines that weren’t my own anyway. Heh. People cheered. People clapped. Andre from Herman Dune asked if maybe I could play with them next time they pass through London - that would be an honour, sir, and a real delight. Jack Lewis (Jefferey’s bro’) gave me a band ‘time sheet’ to sign, embarrassed and sweet. (He reminded me of a younger Stevie Chick, in his fanzine days, actually.)

The entire evening was wonderful, magic.

I DJ-ed with William Shatner (a storming version of ‘Common People’ w/Joe Jackson in his best vocal for decades), Robert Wyatt (’Shipbuilding’), Les Surfs’ ‘Je Te Pardonne’ (a Spanish version of ‘Baby I Love You’), four plays of M Ward (his starkly beautiful rendition of Daniel Johnston’s ‘Story Of An Artist’), TV Personalities (’Posing At The Roundhouse’), The Pastels, Beat Happening, The Concretes, Detroit Cobras (someone release their version of ‘Last Night’ as a single, please), Joe Jackson, Maher Shalal Hash Baz, Misty’s Big Adventure, Maureen Tucker, Nina Simone, Comet Gain, Girls At Our Best, Judy Nylon, Dexys of course…

Magic, ace.
Jack Lewis started off a cappella, before sounding a litle like my new fave band (The Diskettes, an ensemble from Toronto who mix doo-wop in with oddly resonant Calvin J vocals in with gorgeous cute melodies worthy of The Groceries, Clive Pig and Ed’s Redeeming Qualities, apologies if I’m going obscure on anyone’s ass but those three bands are all wonderful to me). Which wasn’t bad. At all. And then he got better: funny-sad, hopeful, plangent, Andre adding vocals. (”How does he manage to smoke, sing AND play guitar - which he’s holding without a strap - at the same time,” my wife asked, awed.) There was a drummer too, adding exactly the right amount of clatter and zero bluster…
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A brief break here, while - at eight in the morning - Jack and Scout turn up at my house for coffee, froth, The Diskettes and laughter.
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Andre himself - backing up a female vocalist - was as charming/sexy/laidback/heroic as before. He still reminds me of Steve Gullick. He still plays on songs that have deceptive simple grace and chugging rhythms, like a toytown train forever pushing its way uphill. The girl sang with a slight accent that recalled Katrina from the Pastels (not such a bad recollection!) and afterwards kindly pressed a CD into my hand, Freschard - write to them now - that I’m playing right now. It has poise, melancholy beauty.

Yes. You read me right. FOUR plays for the M Ward song.