Saturday is Bax-ter Day

Now, if you’ve already read my article about New Order at Ally Pally on Friday night, you’re probably thinking that was as good as my weekend got.

You’d pretty much be right, but I gave my Saturday a bloody good go anyway.

I’d booked tickets for Jo and I to go and see Baxter Dury months ago, in April in fact. However, as I’ve already addressed here, chances to see New Order live don’t come around very often, so I was prepared to put my well being on the line for a weekend of banging tunes and sweaty men.

I’d been up for a couple of hours on Saturday, no Parkrun for me this weekend, when my mate Baxi offered me the opportunity to join him at QPR’s match against Brentford that afternoon. Like New Order, these opportunities don’t come around very often and the atmosphere at Rangers is always fun; more so, perhaps, when local rivals are in town.

Two thirty five, I leave White City tube station, complementing myself on my right on time arrival, and then I get a call from Baxi. He’s stuck in traffic. In Brentford. Even as someone who doesn’t drive, I know enough about West London geography (I should do, after all I grew up there) to know this is not good.

I say I’ll wait, but reasoning that he won’t make it till half time, Baxi tells me to go to the box office and tell them I’m him and that my friend has my season ticket but is stuck in traffic. A half truth I’m not entirely comfortable with, especially as I wasn’t born in 1962.

The onset of rain makes my decision for me, I head to the box office and tell them the truth. I am rewarded for my honesty with a freshly printed ticket, make my way through the turnstiles and head upstairs to Baxi’s seats just as the game kicks off. And, of course, all his mates want to know where he is, “He hasn’t fallen over again, has he?” asks the guy behind me.

Within minutes, Brentford’s former Gunner, Nico Yennaris is declaimed as he wanders over for a Brentford corner, “Wanker! Wanker! Wanker!” by the massed ranks of the P&Q blocks. I smile to myself, I’d forgotten how loud it could be here.

Rangers start brightly, but a well worked Brentford move sees the Bees take the lead midway through the first half. Brentford see out the half in reasonable comfort, the highlight comes when Baxi arrives about a minute into injury time.

“We’ll be alright now I’m here!” he tells everyone.

And within minutes, he is proved absolutely right. By the time the game has hit the hour mark, Rangers are 3-1 up and the game is on its head. Pigbag blaring out, Loftus Road is rocking and Baxi has some guy in the front row on his feet making “We’re not worthy” gestures at him.  The third goal by Nakhi Wells even sees me punching the sky.

“3-1 on your big day out!” sing the ecstatic Rangers fans. Bearing in mind the fact that the Bees have visited the mighty Arsenal’s Emirates stadium this season, I thought that one was a bit harsh.

Even a late Brentford goal can’t spoil the party and, knowing what Baxi has been through to get to this point, I’m delighted for him.

We head down the Uxbridge Road, being soaked by heavy rain but in good spirits, with his mate Irish – and then Baxi narrowly avoids being run over by a Dominos pizza guy. We manage to make it to the Defector’s Weld intact, dry off a little, and await Jo’s arrival for part two of our gig double header.

It’s just me and Jo now. We’ve waved Baxi home (only took him an hour), refueled in Wagamama’s and await Baxter Dury’s arrival on stage at the Shepherd’s Bush Empire. In our position stage left, we were quite comfortable but we’re now being surrounded by lots of men who aren’t just taller than Jo, they’re taller than me and they don’t really care, as men tend not to at gigs, that they’re invading your space and blocking your view. You’ve made the decision not to buy a seat, so it’s your own fault – you don’t own that space!

And, usually, I wouldn’t be that irritated, but I’m tired and the arsehole quota seems higher than usual, lots of men in hats. Hmmm, how can this have happened?

Of course! Baxter supported Noel Gallagher on a recent tour. Yes, it all makes sense now.

I should say at this point, I am very, very tired too and, perhaps spoiled by the overwhelmingly positive atmosphere at last night’s New Order gig.

Baxter takes the stage resplendent in white suit coat, flanked by two, similarly attired, backing singers/ keyboardists – one of whom is Madelaine Hart. The guitarist, bassman and drummer are in contrasting blacks and set slightly further back from the stage.

Opening with Isabel, from Happy Soup (my entry level Baxter Dury), Baxter’s vocals are much louder & harsher than I was expecting. It takes a while to adjust to, perhaps until the track Happy Soup, where I realise that Baxter has recast these tracks, formerly midnight confessionals, into the ravings of a seriously damaged, deranged man. It’s a performance and he makes this clear between songs by blowing repeated kisses down his microphone.

Trellic, with its jaunty, “All I know is we’re together now/ together now” refrain is welcome and then the arrival of Rose Elinor Dougall for a great rendition of Porcelain, all crawling bass, staccato guitar riffs and deadpan vocals, sees all the laaaaaads get their phones out to capture the singer moment.

At some point, Baxter pauses proceedings to reveal that his drummer ,”Always wait for me”, has just come out of prison, “No… don’t cheer” and that he was born “In a puddle of shit, just over there. True”, but also, “unnecessary”

Letter Bomb increases the shouty nature of the gig exponentially, but it’s all good fun. Then Oi and, the Madelaine Hart led, Wanna lend the whole evening a more reflective air. Even if, as on Oi, Baxter reflects on an old mate, hoping he didn’t turn into a “total cunt”. Meanwhile, Wanna sees Hart sighing, “I wanna say something nice to you/ but I don’t think I know how”. I know she feels (about all these people around me).

White Coats (see what they did there?), from his new collaboration with Etienne De Crecy and Delilah Holliday, and Pleasure up the tempo again. I haven’t listened to Pleasure that much, nor, come to think of it, White Coats, but the rising keys were pleasing enough to my ears.

Really, by then, though we were just holding on for Miami, Baxter Dury’s magnus opus and would be soundtrack to Nick Cave’s book The Death Of Bunny Munro. I say “would be” because, obviously, Nick’s already done a soundtrack for the audiobook. As it happened, by the time Miami arrived, both Jo and I were more than a little done in and the rolling bassline just seemed a fraction slower than on the record. Though it was great to watch Baxter scream “I’M MORGAN FUCKIN FREEMAN!” as the song approached climax, we’d seen enough.

The band left the stage to deserved applause and we headed towards the back of the Empire and waited for Baxter’s return.

He did, but by the time he did, Jo had made a decision, “Do you want to go?”

I looked at her, “Do you?”

One look from her is enough and, to be honest, I know I’ve had enough for one night. We head out, tell the doorman, no, we’re not smoking, we’re leaving and head out into a very damp west London night to do battle with a very argumentative London transport system.

Once we finally made it home, we slept well.

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New Order Live at Ally Pally 091118

I saw New Order at Alexandra Palace on Friday night.

I saw New Order at Alexandra Palace on Friday night and, thrillingly, unexpectedly, they played one of my all time favourite New Order songs. More of which, later.

It’s difficult to know where to start with this gig. Despite the band not really being mentioned within this blog, I have, at times in my life, been absolutely obsessed with them. However, until relatively recently, they’ve not really been a constant. Indeed there have been times when they’ve almost been an afterthought when faced with the sheer majesty of Joy Division. I’m not going to explain that link, if you’re reading, you already know.

My latest New Order phase began with the release of 2015’s Music Complete. It’s obvious to me now that whilst it contains some “absolute bangers” – ©Ads, more of whom later, the album as whole is a little baggy. Nonetheless, it reignited a love affair which had begun just over two Decades previously with the ’94 release of the mysterious, melancholic, True Faith. What was the deal with everyone slapping each other silly? Anyone?

Three years later, having missed out at Brixton and then at Albert Hall, I still hadn’t found my way out of this phase – can a phase last three years? I don’t know – and what felt like one, final, chance to see the band before the Music Complete era was packed up into a box and put in the attic presented itself.

Despite it being Ally Pally, Jo was in – never one to pass up the chance to me cry, this one. And, so after a little, “Imagine me telling you how great Bizarre Love Triangle live was”, arm twisting, was Ads.

I’d made the mistake of listening to Peter Hook & The Light’s powerful performance of Power, Corruption & Lies (I’m not explaining this either – you know) on Spotify a couple of weeks back. How could New Order sound like New Order in the absence of the man who, for most people, defined their sound? It seemed impossible. I’d also seen the Chemical Brothers at Ally Pally last month, it seemed equally impossible that New Order could top that. No pressure then.

On arrival in the Great Hall on Friday night, we found ourselves a nice little spot just stage left and close enough to the stage without feeling too close. The DJ dropped Donna Summer’s I Feel Love and Ads decided to take one last loo break. Neatly, the Chemical Brothers Ally Pally opener, Go followed, but was then cut, the strains of Das Rheingold – Vorspiel by Richard Wagner filling the hall along with anticipation. Now this was my first New Order gig, but I’ve got their Brixton live album, NOMC15 so I knew they were imminent. The film on the screens would have clued anyone else who hadn’t already figured it out.

Then my phone rang. It was Ads, obviously lost. Shit. Luckily, no sooner had I answered, then we spotted each other. He was back with us in time to ask what I thought the first track would be, “Singularity!” I confidently answered. Singularity it was. A fitting opening, prowling bassline turns dance floor monster, opening track.

I take no credit for that guess, by the way. Like I said, I’ve got the live album.
What I definitely didn’t expect was Regret and, by the sound of the crowd reaction, nobody else expected it either, it seemed like the whole place was straight up into the “I would like a place I could call my own/ have a conversation on the telephone!” refrain. A confident opening, reinforced the crack of drums which opens Love Vigilantes, the irony of thousands of people bellowing the lines “I was a brave man but I was dead” in sheer abandonment and joy was lost on me till a little later on- like, yesterday.*

The word Ultraviolence moved across the screen behind the band and instantly changed the atmosphere. A sweat song which sort of reminds me of Violator era Depeche Mode with its electronic pulse; it teed up the first of a few “What the fuck?” moments as the bassline of Disorder then slammed into the crowd, “What’s happening Paul?” Ads implored me in happy disbelief.

One thing which had worried me about this gig was my long held belief, based on several viewings of New Order live on TV, was that Barney couldn’t really sing live. This sounds ridiculous, bearing in mind how long New Order have been around. It was ridiculous and Disorder proved it, Barney Sumner is a fine live vocalist. Sorry for doubting.

As we recovered from that one, I cried out, “Cryyyyystal!”, were the band listening? Maybe! The opening keyboard line, is, to me, one of the more recognisable, iconic, moments in a catalogue full of them and then it gives way to those drums, that guitar and, yes, a great bassline. In the absence of female backing singers, Ads and I were happy to fill in the “Oooohhh! Yeahhhh!” vocals for the band. I’m sure they were grateful.
Some opening salvo from our heroes, then, time for a little breather, but one which included possibly the loveliest song ever, all keyboard washes and gentle vocals, to tell someone to “Piss off” – Your Silent Face.

“Sub-culture!” exclaimed the friendly fella stood next to me in a Joy Division. I’m still not sure if he was telling me (I knew), or just happy to hear it, but things were revving up again and then… then the moment Ads had been waiting for, Bizarre Love Triangle. I have to say it passed by in a bit of a blur because, even as a question for Ads formed in my mind, the moment I had been waiting for, without realising it, came. The band segued out of Bizarre Love Triangle and straight into Vanishing Point.

Now, I have loved Vanishing Point ever since discovering it on 1994’s (the best of) New Order, but I hadn’t even considered that it might get an airing here. I had a little moment, I sang along, “Life is short, but love is strong”. Is that almost the perfect New Order lyric? Possibly. It’s certainly the perfect distillation of the melancholic euphoria that pervades this song.

“Price of Love?!” Ads implored the band, but they weren’t listening to him.

The soothing techno burble of Waiting For The Siren’s Call next preceded Music Complete’s “absolute banger” par excellence, Plastic – dropped to a confusingly muted crowd reaction. New Order, now, were going for the throat; The Perfect Kiss kicking off a dance for home which saw the perfect True Faith come closest so far to taking the roof off, then Blue Monday and finally, Temptation, “Ooooh you’ve got green eyes, oooh you’ve got grey eyes”, ooooh, this is turning into the best night of my life.

On that note of pure pop perfection, the band took their leave and I turned to Ads to ask him the question I had thought of earlier,

“Would you have forgiven me if they hadn’t played Bizarre Love Triangle?”

The grin on his face told me all I need to know.

The band returned, pretty quickly to be fair and as Barney took to the front of stage, he spoke to us for what felt like the first time, “Any Joy Division fans in?”

“Price of Love?”

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A wonderful Atmosphere followed, with Anton Corbijn’s video paying tribute to Ian Curtis filling the giant screen and then the song which has been stuck in my head in the days following the gig, Decades. New Order rediscovered this song in the process of building a setlist for their recent wall of synthesisers project and it felt more than welcome here. Its lyrics taking on ever more poignancy bearing in mind Hooky’s estrangement from the band.

“Here are the young men, well where have they been?”

Me, Ads and Jo all have our own different relationships with the music of Joy Division and New Order, but we all agreed that that was a moment. How could you not?

Forever Joy Division, indeed.

There was only way, of course, to follow Decades and the hall erupted to the song which will continue to echo through the years, Love Will Tear Us Apart. Just typing this gives me a little moment. It’s funny that this song, about the death of a relationship, has turned into a celebration – for both New Order, Hooky and the fans – of the life and work of the man who wrote it.

But I don’t want to get into that here.

All I want you to know really is that, finally, I saw New Order on Friday night and it was the night of my life.

*Jo told me after I wrote this that, actually, it was just me singing along to this, but I’m not sure I believe her, so I’m leaving it in.


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Some thoughts on Halloween

I think I vaguely recall Jamie Lee Curtis tweeting a picture, around a year ago – on the 31st October most likely – telling the world that a new Halloween movie was on the way. If this blog post was a movie, there’d now be a sequence of dates being ripped from a calendar by an anonymous hand. As it is, you’ll just have to cope with me making the observation that a year flies by pretty fast these days and that on Friday night, me, Jo and her dad took our seats in the Brixton Ritzy in a state of high excitement.

You see, there’s something about John Carpenter’s original 1978 movie that gets the juices flowing, even after repeated viewings, in a way that no other film, except maybe – maybe – Jaws can touch. Despite the numerous, mostly bad, sequels. You see, I still remember watching Halloween twenty years ago, not for the first time, with my mum and stepdad and being left on my own downstairs. Within ten minutes of being left, I had convinced myself that Michael Myers – “the boogeyman” was stood outside our front door. Paralysed by fear, it took me some minutes to work out that The Shape at the front door had been created by a combination of papers hanging from the noticeboard and the way the kitchen light was shining on them.

I was 21 at the time.

My very first exposure to Halloween had come some years before that, getting back to a friend’s house from somewhere and turning on the TV, literally (spoiler alert) as Donald Pleasance’s Sam Loomis shot Michael from the balcony, only to then discover that Myers had survived the gunshots (and the fall) and made it off into the night, but still somehow – Carpenter’s closing shots seemed to suggest – in the house. Cue John Carpenter’s iconic score. “OH MY GOD! WHAT WAS THAT?”

Suffice to say, when I did get around to seeing it, it more than lived up to expectations. It still does.

So what, then, of David Gordon Green’s Halloween in 2018?

Well, it had me at the opening title sequence, the familiar pumpkin inflating, rising from the ashes, as an updated version of that music played.

Opening with two, annoying, true crime podcasters travelling to Smith’s Grove Sanitorium in an attempt to interview Michael Myers as the 40th anniversary of the “babysitter murders” (nice nod to the original film’s planned title there) approaches. Failing in their attempt to get a response to their entreaties, podcaster Aaron, reminiscent of Die Hard’s awful TV reporter, tries to goad Michael into a response by brandishing the famous mask. Whilst the mask sends everyone in the sanitorium courtyard a bit mad, Michael is apparently unmoved. The podcaster’s don’t get too much more out of a subsequent visit to Laurie Strode although they do leave her house $3k lighter.

But, it won’t be giving much away to say that an attempt to transfer the prisoner goes wrong in a sequence that is a creepy callback, one of several, to the original film. Naturally, it’s not long before Michael is reunited with his mask and on his way back to Haddonfield just in time for Halloween.

The boogeyman is coming!

And what of Laurie? Well, she is isolated from her family. So traumatised by the events of 1978 that she has spent her life preparing for the final confrontation she knows is coming – to the point where her daughter, Karen, was taken by social services as a kid. Their relationship isn’t so good, not to say almost non existent, although Laurie IS trying to build bridges with her granddaughter, Allyson.

Jamie Lee Curtis as Laurie Strode as Sarah Connor

Clear nods to Terminator 2 here, with the traumatised mother, taken for a paranoid whack job by those around her even donning Sarah Connoresque green vest at one point in the film. I didn’t mind these as I’ve always felt that the purposeful stalk of The Terminator owed more than a little to Halloween anyway.

Of course, Laurie – like Sarah Connor – is correct to be worries, just a little, and as Halloween night begins, things start to get nasty, particularly for Allyson and her friends, all leading up to a final, the hunter becomes the hunted, confrontation (but is it really final?) chez Strode.

Let’s be clear, here. John Carpenter’s original film, – still! – has the feeling of a noose being inexorably tightened around the neck of both the film’s protagonists and its audience. It also, in several sequences sets up its serial killer as, well, a bit of a tease; a practical joker. jamie lee curtis horror GIFThere’s not much of that here, despite nods to the ghost train gone terribly, terribly wrong vibe of the original’s climax. Although the John Carpenter’s panaglide tracking shots following Myers are recreated beautifully here, Myers becomes the blunt instrument he chooses to destroy one poor victim.

I also felt that the film’s teenagers, though they are given some pretty sharp dialogue, weren’t quite as fleshed out as Annie, Linda and, well, Laurie were in the original film. It’s the way you got to know these girls during the course of a day and night in Haddonfield which made their fates sting all the more.

But these are minor quibbles. There have been times during the Halloween franchise when the film makers have been content to trade off the mask and John Carpenter’s music and not bother with much else (though I do think the H20 movie was excellent). This is so much more than that, it’s funny, it’s knowing, it’s made by a group of people who clearly love the original – if you’re reading this, you’ll probably know that John Carpenter has returned as an executive producer alongside Jamie Lee Curtis. And, boy, does Jamie Lee bring it, first simmering with indignation, before engaging her own stalking mode. For his part, alongside his son Cody Carpenter and Daniel Davies, Carpenter senior has created a wonderful, slightly scuzzy, industrial update to his original score.

The result of which is a blood pumping climax, and film, which I totally engaged with. Halloween in 2018 may lack the visceral thrills of its garlanded predecessor, or even a film like Jordan Peele’s Get Out, but I left the cinema, eventually, having had a great time. And what more could anyone ask than that?

*Just a note to anyone reading this who went to the 7pm showing in Brixton on Friday night, I’m sorry about the mask, really, but it had to be done. It’s what Michael would have wanted.

Brixton madman


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All My Friends

This is an attempt to try and get back into a more regular rhythm of writing..

It occurred to me, as I ripped through a 1,000 words in an attempt not to describe the Chemical Brothers Ally Pally show so much as how it felt, that I’d missed sharing these experiences. Selfishly, I guess, I missed committing them to memory. Yeah, I don’t write for you, I write for me and, if you’re reading, hopefully you get some pleasure out of what is essentially a brain dump.

A year on, then, the memories of LCD Soundsystem at Ally Pally and Depeche Mode at the O2 have faded, the strobing lights of both evenings have taken on a sepia tone. My main memory of the Depeche Mode gig is wondering how the excellent Spirit album Depeche Mode were ostensibly promoting was reduced to just three of the twenty odd tracks played that night (and Depeche were still brilliant, perhaps the best I’ve ever seen). The LCD Soundsystem gig? Bopping away, for various reasons, on my own as James Murphy spat out the wonderful, and ever more appropriate (for me and him), Losing My Edge.

My other memory from that night is how Jo, my lovely Jo had done two things for me. First, she’d purchased the tickets as a 40th birthday present- yeah, I’m a big boy now. She also did something that I will remember for the rest of my life, unless I end up old, senile, dribbling piss down my trousers and unable to remember my own name. She had arranged for three very good friends, brothers in music you might call them, to join us as a surprise.

You’ll think I’m making this up, but I would never tell lies, not here in my space. I was literally just saying to another friend, Sam the Aussie from Adelaide, how friends can just walk into your life when Jo asked me to turn around. And some friends had just walked into my life. Absolutely literally. Baxi I’ve known since I was 4 and he was at university with my mum, his mate Ray (with whom I share a real love for electronica) and Ads.

To tell the truth, Ray aside, I’d always felt a little like I was inflicting LCD Soundsystem on the rest of the boys at the music nights we hold on a sort of regular basis. So to be greeted by them in the pub just adjacent to Ally Pally was a hell of a shock. Jo tells me my face was an absolute picture and, just writing about it now, I can feel the face I was making and I sort of wish I could have seen it myself.

I recovered from the shock and we went off to join the queue, ending up halfway back round the other side of the building. Over a year later, it would be pointless to tell you about the gig and this isn’t really about that anyway. This is about the sort of friends, and life partner, I have and the pleasure they took in giving me a proper surprise, this is about how music can bond people of all ages. As I mentioned, Baxi was at uni with my mum, so both him and Ray are in a slightly different demographic to me, and Ads is in yet another demographic to me. It doesn’t matter when you have a night like this one, when you have the music.

One thing about that night, whilst we’re here. The gig finished and I remember Baxi being very taken with Losing My Edge, obviously. I also remember him telling us all about Yeah. Yeah, if you don’t know it, basically consists of James Murphy screaming “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!” over and over again. I had played it (the live at Madison Square Garden version) at one of our music nights and… well, it cleared the room.


Now, I was listening to Baxi telling me how great this song was. Indignant, I was, but as my friend Luke always says, “Music comes to when it comes to you”. I suppose I should just be glad that, belatedly, it did.

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The Chemical Brothers live at Ally Pally 051018

I very nearly wasn’t there, you know.

Wayne, one of my Leeds mates, had offered me a ticket about six months ago, or whenever they went on sale. I demurred initially, I had listened to a Chemical Brothers record in earnest since We Are The Night, whenever that came out. On its release, I’d given Born in the Echoes a couple of goes, but nothing had really stuck. The Chemicals, to me, seemed a long way away from the duo that had so thrilled with 1995’s Exit Planet Dust and then followed that with what some may regard as their defining album, Dig Your Own Hole.

Wayne gave it a few months and then asked again. I was still dubious and then common sense took hold, it was a night out with a good mate, what was the worst that could happen? “I’m in, thanks for waiting for me!”

So, we met in Finsbury Park’s magnificent Twelve Pins after work on Friday. A few beers there, then up on the train to Ally Pally. A while since I’ve done that walk up the hill, it hasn’t become any less tedious. A queue, a laugh at the drugs amnesty box parked at the entrance. Chicken and chips, another beer, the toilets and then in, stage left (or right, depending on your perspective).

The warm up DJ was on, he spun for another ten minutes or so before disappearing. Fair play to the Chemical boys (as a work colleague had called them earlier in the day), they didn’t keep their expectant crowd waiting too long.

As the predatory synth line of Q-Tip collaboration, Go, filled the great hall, a colossal animated man, not the last incredible projection animated or otherwise of the evening, reached floor to ceiling behind the Brothers. This London crowd needed no invitation to, um, go and there was no turning back. Not for me and Wayne anyway, as we pushed away from the musclebound and immobile breezeblocks we had been standing next to, further in and further forward into the crowd,.

I found myself grateful to, well, myself but also Spotify. I’d been listening to a Chemical Brothers playlist whilst at work, so had managed to update myself on a lot of what I had missed over the last two decades of music. So, when the new song Free Yourself dropped, all bleeps, sirens and exhortations to “Free yourself/ Free me/ Dance”, I was ready to lose myself in the shattering rhythms of this megatune.  The motorik of EML Ritual would have found me wondering how I’d missed it when listening to Born In The Echoes a couple of years back – had I not been bouncing around north London like a beach ball, losing my mind.

Of which, more later…

As it was, EML Ritual gave way to my first real “OHHHHH!” moment. I say “OHHHHH!”, it was more “OH!” “OH!” “OH!”. Or was it more “UH!” “UH!” “UH!”? Yes, Chemical Beats, from Exit Panet Dust went off like a firecracker. As did Star Guitar, helped along by being introduced by a sample of New Order’s Temptation, “Oh you’ve got green eyes” etc… Obviously, there were no complaints from me, although I did find myself thinking about how Star Guitar’s release, with its diet Balearic vibe, was the point at which I began to part ways from the Chemicals all those years ago.

There wasn’t much time to dwell on that, because soon enough, the throbbing Hey Boy Hey Girl saw arms aloft all over the joint and at some point glitter had cascaded from the ceiling as we danced and jumped and this was pure and utter exhiliration, The Chemicals were killing us all. And they were doing it without, for me, a large bedrock of familiarity to lay back on.

It all got a bit blurry after a bit. Elektrobank kicked off a helter skelter through various Chemical classics, kaleidoscoping past at lightspeed, I caught Music Response and Under The Influence amongst other less familiar tracks and all I could think was “This is so much fun fun fun!” But that thought process might have been helped by the huge beach balls which appeared from nowhere, ping ponged around the hall and then disappeared almost as swiftly as they had arrived.

There was a brief pause at some point. Wayne thought they might have technical problems, I thought I was having, the best gig ever, night of my life.

The pace couldn’t quite be sustained thereafter. in particular, I could have done without Galvanize, but the towering, timeless, Block Rocking Beats brought the main set to a rather emphatic close- and the crowd to near delirium.

The encore seemed quite low key, in comparison to what had gone before at least. However, the final track was one guaranteed to send this London crowd home happy, The Private Psychedelic Reel. I didn’t know that the gig would end on this note, but instinctively I think I did know it. I mean, what else could such a wonderful night have finished on? A soothing, psychedelic blast to end two hours of pure euphoria. Yes, yes and, furthermore, yes.

As we left the main hall, feeling slightly changed somehow- well, I did anyway- I felt a tap on the shoulder. Someone else I used to work with (nearly as long ago as Wayne and I used to work together) was at the gig and had recognised me. We exchanged brief pleasantries before splitting up into small groups. Wayne and I had a train to catch.

Before we made it back down the hill, though, Wayne observed the tradition we instituted at our last gig together (Leftfield, Leeds T&C, April 2000) and bought himself a t-shirt to replace his sodden Fred Perry shirt. I would have bought one, but, well, your man wasn’t selling any XLs.

Two men looking in the wrong direction. Alexandra Palace, October 5, 2018

As the train rolled south back to Finsbury Park, we talked of the joy we had experienced during the evening and we made plans to get to another gig soon. I don’t think we’ll be waiting another eighteen years, that’s for sure..

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In memory of my Granddad

As some of you may know, my granddad Ronnie died earlier this year after a short illness. On what would have been his 97th birthday, the text below forms my half of the eulogy read by my Mum and myself. I wanted to share this with you, exactly as it was written.


grandad 96

Thanks Mum.

It’s a little ironic that I’m standing up here on behalf of my sisters and cousins today, talking to you about our, granddad. After all, I first stood up here as a 7 seven year old, to deliver a reading at my auntie Susan’s wedding 30 years ago. And this was something that granddad never tired in reminding people of- particularly me.

At St Mary’s Avenue, there is a photo of Susan and I together at the wedding reception. Granddad would ask me whenever I visited, “Do you remember performing the reading at your aunt’s wedding?”

The truth is that I don’t, not really. Though I remain dimly aware of not being all that nervous on the day, I think the occasion went over my head a bit.

To be so lucky today.

How to sum up, for me, nearly 40 years of my granddad? I ask that question and know that my sisters, Helen and Maria; my cousins, James, Anya and Josh will have different experiences and memories of our granddad. For example, it may only be myself and James who were repeatedly exhorted to “Kick with your left!” as we bashed footballs around in nan and Granddad’s back garden. I’ll leave it to you to work out who listened.

It may be that it was only Maria and myself who were repeatedly told to stand in the corner as we struggled with the idea that we had to go to sleep whilst it was still daylight on those Saturday nights nan and granddad would provide us care whilst mum was out partying.

In fact, I understand that Ria spent a night with nan and granddad whilst Helen was at university and ended up texting Helen from a daylit bedroom having been sent up by granddad.

I remember watching the first Rocky film with granddad until such a point that he felt it was my bedtime- granddad always placed such store in a good night’s sleep. I never understood why, but as I get older I think I understand more. Anyway, on this night, the Rocky night, imagine my surprise when granddad – a huge boxing enthusiast- but also a massive disciplinarian, came upstairs to bring me down to watch the climactic tussle.

I think that if you asked Maria and I to sum up our early experience of granddad, we would probably tell you about tea in bed, lots of prayers, early morning exercise and three games of golf a week. That granddad was still playing golf in the week leading up to his 91st birthday, the oldest playing member over at West Mid, tells you everything about him.

Speaking of golf, I’ve never managed to engage with the game on anything other than a basic level. However, I still remember the day I carried his golf clubs around the West Middlesex golf club as he he played a round with Steven and Jo. I only did this once. Granddad marked this once in a lifetime event with one of his own- a hole in one.

Sport was such a massive part of granddad’s life, his passion for it has run down through his children to us and grandchildren. It is how I bonded with granddad.
Not for nothing has my partner Jo frequently commented with varying degrees of exasperation that, given a chance, I’d watch anything involving a ball. Particularly football; especially the Arsenal.

The last game we all watched together was the 2014 FA Cup Final.

Having grown up watching football with both Stevie and granddad, distance and the general misery involved had limited these gatherings. But with Arsenal facing a final they couldn’t possibly lose, against Hull City, we made arrangements to watch the game together and..

By the time granddad took his seat, Arsenal were 1-0 down. Then, in the blink of an eye, it was two. “Here we go again, why did we bother?” We all wondered. And we blamed Granddad because he was always a bit of a Jonah.

Luckily, Santi Cazorla and Aaron Ramsey made sure that our story that day had a happy ending, the cup was won. We’d had a proper family, proper Arsenal experience.

My sisters and cousins have all done, and are doing, amazing things with their lives. In their careers and education, I know how proud Granddad was of my sisters, how proud he was of James who is now studying at Cambridge. He only ever wanted us all to believe in ourselves and be the best we could be. I think that, at times, my relaxed attitude to life frustrated a man who believed nothing was ever worth doing if you didn’t do it 100%, whether it was the gardening, exercise, your job, or polishing the silverware.

So, it seems particularly apposite that the day after we lost Granddad, I finally stuck my head above the parapet and, for once, absolutely nailed a job interview, securing a long sought after promotion. I will never be able to have a conversation with Granddad about this, but I know he’d have been so proud of me. Mum suspects I might have been channeling him. If I was, then, Granddad, I thank you.

What this doesn’t tell you is that the following things happened at Granddad’s burial service:

My Mum’s graveside sobbing prompted a hissed admonishment from my Nan, “For God’s sake, Desirée, get a hold of yourself!”, to the general amusement of those of us close enough to hear it.

Roses were bought for the family to throw onto the casket. As they descended, my Auntie Susan wryly, and loudly, observed that, perhaps, golf balls would have been more appropriate.

As the service ended and we prepared to head to the golf club one last time, Great Uncle Tony, asked everyone to join him in a song. He then launched into a chorus of “Oh My Darling Clementine”, one of Granddad’s favourite songs. We all joined in on this most perfect of endings to a bittersweet morning.


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Depeche Mode: Live at London Stadium

I doubted Depeche Mode in my last outing here. Just call me Thomas. Yeah yeah, I know..

Their comeback single, ‘Where’s The Revolution?’ was topical, pointed, angry even. To my ears it was, and remains, a fairly middling piece of work. Not terrible by any means, but nothing to get excited about either. It’s only fair then, to apologise to the Basildon three (yes, even you, Fletch); on Saturday night Depeche Mode, again, made me a believer.

The truth is, I shouldn’t even be writing this review. I had decided that I wasn’t going to bother with Depeche Mode’s latest tour. Despite loving their O2 Delta Machine show, there were too many reasons not go this time.

Until the album reviews started coming in… Was I going to regret not coughing up for my favourite band on the planet, no matter where they were playing and how much it was going to cost? I decided to listen to the album before making a decision.

As we’re both here now, you know what the result of that was. Standing tickets were purchased within 24 hours of a couple of listens to album #14, Spirit.

It was about 7pm by the time we made our way out onto the vast arena floor. By the time we found a spot, about half way up the pitch I guess, the Horrors were just about to take the stage. Honestly though, aside from 2 or 3 tracks, they weren’t worth lingering on.

I had predicted an onstage time for Depeche of 20:15. I was spot on.

Greeted by a battery of mobile phones airborne to capture this moment, Martin’s dirty guitar signalled the first moment of the concert, Spirit’s opening track, the bluesy strut of ‘Going Backwards’. “We are not there yet, where we need to be”, Dave Gahan, 55 years young, is not going backwards at all. His voice filled the London Stadium, incredibly smooth and clear.  What wasn’t clear, at least for the group next to us, was why the screens weren’t working. It was almost like they’d never been to a Depeche gig before.

I could only just about make out the band onstage, it took me a minute to work out that Martin was standing directly below the “supplementary musician”, Peter Gordeno.

The screens came to life for second track, ‘So Much Love’. The screens flanking the stage showing the live performance in front of us, with the main screen displaying filmed footage of the band “performing” the track. So far, so arch.

If ‘So Much Love’, with its insistent keyboards and obvious singalong potential, had woken the crowd up, then ‘Barrel Of A Gun’ started the party in earnest. This song has always had a special place in my heart for reintroducing me to the Mode twenty years ago. I greatly enjoyed Dave’s performance here, as he whirled, twirled and gurned about the stage as if transported back to the bad old days in which this song was written. As the song came to its end, Dave threw in a bit of “Don’t push me cos I’m close to the edge…” prompting me to wonder what might have happened had he pursued a rap career instead.


‘A Pain That I’m Used To’ followed, Martin on guitar and Gordeno joining him on bass, pushing Depeche ever further away from being the electro pioneers they once were. Just in case we’d forgotten though, a storming, brilliant version of ‘World In My Eyes’ followed, at times, it felt like the entire stadium was singing “Let me show you the world in my eyes!” Dave got so into it that he fell over, twice, and lost his microphone, leaving Martin and an adoring audience to finish the song.

Cover Me is one of the highlights on Spirit, so I was very much looking forward to hearing it in a stadium setting. It didn’t disappoint here. Anton’s, Dave as spaceman, visuals an almost too perfect match for Dave’s yearning tale and the melancholic, yet euphoric beats I disappeared into.

Dave G

This was the time for Dave to go and rest his, no doubt bruised, bottom and let Martin take centre stage. In a show full of higlights, Martin bagged two of them here. ‘A Question of Lust’ will never be my favourite song, but its naked vulnerability here was a winner. Likewise, ‘Home’ is a song that I’ve always thought people who don’t like Depeche Mode can say they like; my least favourite of the four singles from Ultra. But the full band version here proved me an idiot. I’ve been through a tough time this year and I think my relationship with Jo has suffered as a result. However, as I bellowed along with 66,000 others,

“And I thank you for bringing me here/ For showing me home/ For singing these tears/ Finally I’ve found/ That I belong here”,

I felt something in me heal. I hope, now, for better times ahead. Thank you, Martin; love you, Jo.

Just like that, Dave returned, allowing the crowd to sing itself out, before saluting us, “You are the best!”


The pleasing skank of ‘Poison Heart’ followed, then ‘Where’s The Revolution?’ (the crowd definitely enjoyed this one more than me) before an extremely extended intro to ‘Wrong’. There were many things wrong with 2009’s Sounds of the Universe, Wrong may well have been the only thing right. Its wrong man, wrong time, wrong place, wrong life theme certainly something I could relate to. Things were picking up now as the night descended around us, ‘Everything Counts’ had everyone singing along to its “The grabbing hands grab all they can/ All for themselves after all” refrain.

Deep into singalong territory now, along came ‘Stripped’. The rain that came down seemed to underline and augment the heady, steamy atmosphere of this song. I could quite happily be stood in the London Stadium now chanting, “Let me see you stripped down to the bone”. On my own. In an empty stadium.

‘Enjoy The Silence’ next. If there had been a roof above us, it would surely have blown. Singing “All I ever wanted, all I ever needed is here in my arms” as I held onto Jo, just felt right. We were primed, now, for an almost punky, savage reading of ‘Never Let Me Down’ Again. I don’t know if Dave simply can’t sing this like he used to be able to (although his performance of ‘Corrupt’ earlier in the evening would suggest otherwise) but I enjoyed the staccato manner in which he delivered the song. And  he demanded to see our hands, of course he did. And we all showed them to him. Even Jo. I looked around me and tried to work out if everyone was waving, but it was impossible to do so. Presumably because everyone was waving.

And then, with a “Goodnight, thank you!” they were gone.


Martin returned a few minutes later with Peter Gordeno and by the time they had finished a beautiful rendition of ‘Somebody’, I had a tear in my eye. Dave returned and the band ripped through ‘Walking In My Shoes’ and then, an oddity in the Depeche Mode live performance, a cover version. Any serious Depeche Mode fan knows the importance of David Bowie’s, ‘Heroes‘ in the band’s history. Wanting the set to be a surprise, I’d not paid much attention to setlists follwing the tour’s opening night. As a result, I’d sort of forgotten that they’d been playing it.


What a lovely surprise! The great cover versions, I think, don’t slavishly copy the original, they make the song something else (any Clash cover version of anything, for example). Depeche have certainly found their way around ‘Heroes’, turning it into a twinkly, slowburning ballad. Speaking just for me, I was delighted to hear my favorite band taking on a classic from one of the greatest artists to walk the earth. And, let’s face it, if there’s any band on the planet who could take on this one…

‘I Feel You’ saw Martin and Dave rocking out together in front of Christian Eigner’s drum kit. I found myself wondering to Jo whether Martin ever wants Christian to. Stop. Ruining. The. Songs. I don’t know, I get that ‘I Feel You’ has its place, but that place just seems to exist so Dave can be a rock star and he is so much more than that.

Anyway, that’s my one, curmudgeonly, complaint. I had no such comment to make about the closing track, the mighty ‘Personal Jesus’. Like everyone around me, I could have reached out to “touch faith” forever and ever. Amen. It had to stop, of course it did. Depeche Mode had given us their best for 130 minutes, how Dave was still standing at the end of all that, I have no idea. I knew I was looking forward to sitting down and I had just been watching for the last two hours.

They were tiny figures under the stage lights at the end. It seemed obvious though, watching their reaction on the large screens that they considered this to be a job well done. It was equally obvious that all around me agreed. The way they lingered onstage before departing for the final time told me that they were moved by such a display of mass approbation from a historically tricky hometown crowd.

They deserved every little bit of acclaim they received. Just writing this up makes me wish I was in Cologne to see them again tonight. They were, and are, magic.

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Where’s The Revolution?

“Where’s The Revolution?”

This is the question posed by Depeche Mode on their new single, ahead of album #14, Spirit.

In truth, having heard this track, it’s also the question long time Devotees might be asking the band. New producer, new single, new album, same old Depeche Mode?

After three albums working, with varying degrees of success, with Ben Hillier, the Mode have turned to James Ford, producer of both Simian Mobile Disco and Arctic Monkeys, The effect on their sound, on the evidence of this track, has been negligible.

Whilst Dave Gahan sounds, as usual, in great form, Where’s the Revolution’s vocal is melodically similar to Corrupt, from 2009’s Sounds of the Universe. In truth, the song sounds like it could have been taken from any of the last three albums, although I’m not sure it would have passed quality control on Playing The Angel. Lyrically, the “Where’s the revolution/come on people you’re letting me down” chorus is either a sly dig at the band’s critics or just asking for it.


I applaud Martin Gore’s attempt to write beyond the biblical themes of love, sin, redemption which have so occupied the last 30 years, but it all feels a bit on the nose here. And, bearing in what is going on in the world at the moment, a little misjudged.

I could forgive Depeche all this were the music, despite a promising opening, not so uninteresting. A lyrical call to arms, to “get on board”, stymied by music to lull you into a stupor. A friend of mine commented to me earlier today that perhaps the sense of disappointment here is rooted in the easy access to so much great music now. And I think there may be something in that. Spotify has revolutionised my listening habits in just a few weeks. It has also allowed me to think, heretically, that I don’t have to buy the new Depeche Mode album on the 17th March just because they’ve released it. God knows, the boys have had enough of my money over the years…

Relax! Of course I’m going to buy it, but I’m looking forward to it just a little bit less than I was this last week.

Perhaps the time has come to accept that the guys, in their mid 50’s now, know what works for them and the days of releasing killer singles ahead of an album are gone. Historically, the band has usually always released an absolute barnstormer of a track to announce to the world, “Hey, we’re back!”, like Personal Jesus or the brilliant Barrel Of A Gun. I say, usually, because… well, Heaven from Delta Machine. Perhaps that track points the way to a more, “Oh, hi, we’re back…” future.

I suppose it doesn’t necessarily mean that the band are finished being the band that I love. Despite that slightly stodgy lead off single and three tracks too many on the album, Delta Machine had enough on it to keep me happy. So, I’m certainly not going to write Spirit off just yet, but I am mentally preparing myself for… well, a bit of a let down.

Come on Depeche people, prove me wrong.

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PJ Harvey live at the Brixton Academy 30/10/16

PJ Harvey’s performance at the Brixton Academy last night cemented my belief that she is England’s greatest living musician.


In fact, calling her a musician barely seems to do her justice. At times last night, she appeared to be a rabble rouser, a magician, a ghost at her own feast.  This is the fourth time I have seen her and whilst each time before has been brilliant, something else happened last night. It’s difficult to explain it. All I can tell you is that during her mid set rendition of The Devil, from 2007’s White Chalk, her keening voice seemed to be summoning all sorts of mystical forces into the Academy. It was genuinely spine tingling.

There was no warm up last night, no music playing to keep us occupied as we waited for PJ Harvey and her band to arrive. I think this was because there was no point, nothing could really prepare us for what was about to unfold. And so Jo and I stood and chatted and listened to the rising voices filling the auditorium.

And then, at around 8:45, the lights went down. And then a drum beat. Nothing could have prepared us for how powerful that drum, those drums, would sound. PJ’s ten piece band drummed their way onto stage and into Chain Of Keys. Saxophones joining the drums to create a wall of sound. PJ alternated between her perfect voice and that saxophone in her hand as she spun her tale of tragedy.

Guitars and drums launched into The Ministry of Defence as one. The staccato guitar riffs and backing vocals echoing Depeche Mode’s Personal Jesus driving the song home. In another setting, with another artist,  The Community of Hope might have generated a singalong with its “They’re gonna put a Wal Mart here” refrain. However, nobody in the crowd had come to hear themselves sing.

After five tracks from The Hope Six Demolition Project, we got four from Let England Shake, all were rapturously received. The Kraftwerkian rhythm of The Glorious Land just speaks to my soul; the combination between Jean Marc-Butty and Kenrick Rowe on their respective drum kits only highlights this. On The Words That Maketh Murder, PJ wheeled around the stage crying “What if I take my problem to the United Nations?” as if looking for anyone who would listen to her. Spoiler: we were all listening.

It’s a tribute to Harvey’s enduring magnificence that, despite possessing such a formidable back catalogue, she was able to hold us in the palm of her hand whilst concentrating on her last two albums. Just as I was thinking that, things took a slight left turn with the haunting To Talk To You, from White Chalk. PJ really took centre stage here, the lighting arranged so that she was spotlit as the band melted into the background; her voice soaring above the circular guitar riff.

It was saxophones to the fore on the four to the floor, balls out rocker, The Wheel. The band converging around Harvey as it delivered a clattering cacophany of sound. With any other artist, I think this would have been my, nailed on, set highlight. The saxophones here sounded dirty and immense.

As they did on The Ministry Of Social Affairs. This song is PJ Harvey really back where I found her. I’m certain this song would have fit in very well on 1995’s To Bring You My Love. It opens and closes with a refrain of “That’s what they want, oh yeah/ Money honey”, this eventually gives way to those saxophones. It’s as the song comes to its climax that Terry Edwards comes into his own closing out the song with a beautiful, discordant, solo.

The punk blues of 50 Foot Queenie totally changes the temperature in the room. Yes, Polly Harvey, you almost certainly are “the king of the world” and we do hear your song.

And then, and then and then, the song that tethered PJ Harvey to my heart (or did it tether my heart to PJ Harvey? I’m not sure) 21 years ago; Down By The Water. The 10 piece band version of this tale of water bound infanticide felt definitive.

Next came To Bring You My Love. PJ wandering over to stand on John Parish’s shoulder as he teased out the blues riff that introduces this song sticks in the mind. And that voice, oh my God, her voice as she sings “I’ve lain with the devil, cursed God above/ forsaken heaven to bring you my love/ TO BRING YOU MY LOVE!” . The restrained power of these desert blues transported me far beyond the confines of the Brixton Academy and into a trance.

That trance like state was only enhanced by River Anacostia. Another demonstration of power held back, PJ’s voice, repeatedly calling out “What will become/ what will become of us?”  with crystal clarity, rose over the keyboard and drums. But, really, this one’s about the spectral “Wade in the water/ God’s gonna trouble the water” chant which closes the song out. Everyone except John Parish, back on the drum, as he had been at the very start, downing their instruments to close the main set out.

I almost didn’t want an encore after that perfect ending, but we got one anyway. Highway ’61 continuing the bluesy vibe before the title track from 1998’s Is This Desire? provided a relatively quiet full stop to the evening. Despite the crowd clamouring for more, and the fact that the lights didn’t instantly go up, I knew instinctively that she wasn’t coming back. All that was left was to fight our way back up the Brixton slope and, a little breathless and stunned, back into the night air.

Polly Harvey had spoken only to introduce the band, and to say thank you at the end and nobody cared. I mentioned earlier about her crystal clear voice. Let me tell you, backed by her ridiculously tight band, she was note perfect all night. I took no photos, there was no talking around me; this, truly, had been an unforgettable, magical night.

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I went to see Paddington with Jo on Monday night. Paddington and I go way back; back to my childhood, back to stories of an accident prone bear who once tried to make a Baked Alaska… in the oven. Of course he did, where else would you expect to make one? It’s funny but it’s only since the announcement of the film that I remember Michael Bond’s books played just as big a part in my formative years as the ones Roald Dahl wrote.

So, it’s been with a sense of, first, trepidation and then mounting emotion that I awaited the release of this film. When I first saw a poster of the bear, I thought: he doesn’t look right. Of course he didn’t, how could the film version of Paddington match up to the one I, just about, remember from the books? Then, as the reviews began to come in, the look of the bear ceased to matter so much, or I got used to it, and I found myself getting weirdly emotional as I read more and more about this film.

It may seem like I was predisposed to liking this film, but I don’t think you can just like something, you have to be given reasons to like it. And, luckily for me, for everyone, The Mighty Boosh director Paul King has created a film which gives its audience several reasons to not just like it, but to love it. It’s a film for the ages, for all ages.

Any worries I had about this film had entirely dissipated by the time the prologue, in darkes Peru- obvs- had ended with an explorer from the Geographic Guild and his invitation to two bears to come and visit London at some point in the future. To say why would be spoiling a good joke. Now, these two don’t get around to taking the explorer up on his invite. However, they do end up dispatching their nephew, a “very rare bear” indeed, to London in the hope of tracking him down. They do so in the belief that Londoners know how to look after visitors to the city. At this point, I should say, I had come close to tears about three times already- we were barely twenty minutes in.

The initial euphoria of Paddington’s arrival in London quickly gives way to a feeling familiar to anyone alone in a strange land. Having gone to Bilbao as a student in 1998, and having arrived at my destination not knowing anyone and unsure how to proceed, I could well identify with Paddington’s predicament. It doesn’t seem that long ago that I stood, almost literally, in the dark in the kind of gothic hallway which has now been immortalised in several Spanish horror films waiting to be rescued by someone, anyone. Luckily, I came across someone named Mari Paz and she did indeed rescue me. Paddington’s version of Mari Paz is the Brown family or, more accurately, Mrs Brown- wonderfully brought to life by the delightful, and delighted, Sally Hawkins.

Sally Hawkins as Mrs Brown with Paddington

Despite the protests of the risk analyst, Mr Brown- played by Hugh Bonneville- and the reservations of her daughter Judy, Mrs Brown brings Paddington home in a taxi driven by Arsenal mad Matt Lucas. You have been in Paddington’s company about twenty minutes and already, you’re rooting for him. I think Ben Wishaw’s voice gives Paddington a kind of quiet dignity. So, when he asks for things from the Browns, you want him to get them. Even when he produces a “hard stare”. I don’t know what I was expecting him to sound like, but from the minute Paddington opens his mouth, he sounds… perfect.

Incidentally, Colin Firth was originally supposed to be the voice of Paddington, but I think he made the right decision to bail out. He would have sounded ridiculous voicing the bear alongside Hugh Bonneville.

So, Paddington arrives in west London with the idea of tracking down this explorer. In the meantime… well, Paddington wouldn’t be Paddington without getting himself into some, best intention type, bizarre situations. In fact, he gets into one almost immediately on his arrival in the Brown home. It isn’t long, though, before danger looms in the form of a deliciously evil taxidermist, played by Nicole Kidman, aided by Peter Capaldi’s Mr Currie- all red eyes and cockney inflections.

Paddington down in the tube station

Will Paddington find his explorer? What does the taxidermist want? Will she get it? Will Mr Brown open his heart to the “wild animal” in his midst? Obviously, I’m not going to tell you here, nor do I particularly want to ruin any of the surprises the film has in store for you. But I can tell you the film is an absolute riot, a sheer delight from the first to the very last minute. Jim Broadbent puts in a twinkly cameo as Mrs Brown’s antique dealing friend, Mr Gruber. Julie Walters, as the Brown’s housekeeper Mrs Bird, steals practically any scene that she appears in, often without having to say very much. The film itself has a lot to say, without moralising, about the nature of family, how an outsider becomes part of that family and how we make outsiders feel welcome. In increasingly cynical times, it’s something of a treat to have seen something so warm hearted. And, as a proud Londoner, it’s really lovely to see my city celebrated in such a fashion.

I left the cinema thinking that I absolutely can’t wait to see this film again and, a couple of days later, I still feel like that. For me, this is a film that easily stands up alongside the likes of E.T., Toy Story and The Jungle Book. Go and see Paddington, you will not regret it.

Film of the year- definitely.



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