The Fierce Festival - London, June 2.
Aussie rock ain't dead and buried just yet, how about the platform of the Queens Golden Jubilee to show the Empire what the Commonwealth is good for.
A procession of quality rock and roll to put it all into perspective.
I've had so many misses with so many live gigs in recent times that I thought I was doomed to the CD dust heap forever.
Bring on the Oils, old stagers granted, but with so much pedigree in their back-catalogue, the only rock monarchs to sit on the headliners throne.
A London day goes about its schizophrenic way, the rain clouds duly parted by the declining sun, a sprinkle of rain to rest upon our brows as the current anthem is transplanted to our brains, the hearts on sleeves and the slightest of slight refrains as President Garrett sets a blistering set upon its way, Hirst on skins pounding away, Messer’s Rotsey and Moginie having their say and Gifford back again to have another day.
The sound so precariously bounced off the dial, sinking into our bones, bringing on a collective smile, if you needed to stage a republican revolution you could crush the monarchy with these familiar tones.
There's not a great deal more I can say, this has to be one of the finest moments in the musical lexicon of our blessed continent.
Even if you weren't there to be part of the crowd, rest assured that what they did there in the home of our colonial ancestry more than did us proud.
Milltown Malbay, County Clare, Ireland, 8 -13 July, 2002.
An idyllic setting on the Atlantic West Coast for Irelands premier traditional music festival just down the road from the old Cliffs of Moher and somewhere in the realm of the ancestors of Moy extraction on nannas grandmothers side.
Camped in a front yard no more than a hop from the action and a series of excursions around the rugged but aesthetically forgiving country-side, finally a taste of a charmed country with the heart upon its musical sleeve.
A week of mighty sessions in a string of pubs in the town where some fine musos come together to belt out the standards and improvise their asses off for the amusement of the assembled masses.
A gathering of the legacy and the future of Irish music, some crackin' old players and some kiddies with a bright light in front of them, the future of Irish music is assured as the quality of the craic smacks you in the face with fiddles and squeeze boxes and drums and whistles and flutes and other strings, a sentimental voice here and there to set the scene of musical history stretching back into the pain and the struggles of the dark ages and coming out with an intense but uncomplicated smile on every face and a pint filtering through pursed lips and day after day the streets are awash with the joy of the occasion and here Irishness seems to have no better expression than this.
Where else can Barry Moore (Christy's brother) a.k.a. Luka Bloom walk into the pub in front of you and get denied a seat to play 'cause they reckon he just might take up too much of their time, or John Prine (sure he's done a bit) wandering around looking for another drink, never could track 'em down anywhere, they say some of best gigs often happen in peoples kitchens over breakfast, just gotta be lucky I s'pose.
Crustys and business joes tucked up in town, a truly egalitarian musical road-train.
Iggy Pop: Olympia Theatre, Dublin, 15 july, 2002.
Welcome to a night out with Iggy's Rock ' n ' Roll nostalgia trip.
The Setting: one of Dublin's most beautiful old theatres, proscenium arch and ornate ceilings, a sort of compact Civic theatre.
The Support: a six-piece that sounded like early-Pink Floyd meets Kraftwerk versus Fuzzy distorted Who meets Oasis with the dial cranked up hard, had a few moments.
The Man: anticipation, addrenalin building with only half a cup of coffee in the system, a drawn out change-over and then down with the house and up with the crowds cheers to welcome his punkness, accompanied by a simple three-piece.
Enter MR POP, unshirted, levis rolled on and bursting at the seams, he holds a pose, an almost meditative stance, legs bolted upright to the floor, his torso bent over to perpendicular, head shot up to surmise the crowd, a prehistoric figure of some ravenous beast who barely manages to keep in his energetic rage, long strands of hair hanging down the face, the muscles cut in ripples, the flesh displays the scars of a self-abusive war.
Crank up the band, fuck-me if it's not a go-ahead rock'n'roll band, power riffs and bulging bass runs, the drummer pounds the skins and metal like he's crashing through a wall, and there's your man in the middle of it all, his words are flat and hard, consumed by the hardest, fattest sound the crowd could have heard in ages.
He's belting out a bunch of words, some familiar, some are new, he never seems released from the grip of this voluminous grind.
We came to see the man, half-knowing what we'd get, the energy's intact, the sweat, the performance was all there, but he's into reinvention so it seems, just a player with the band, he doesn't have to work as hard to fill our heads with wonder.
How the Fuck did he survive the years, it looks like Iggy's found some inner peace.
It's over before it began, I'm suitably impressed just to have sweated in the same room, my ears are ringing and my senses are on a high.
This man I've just seen knows how to put on a show wthout the burden that he's got anything to prove.
Put him in the Cambo and he'd really make you feel at home.
The Godfather has stood upon his pulpit and decreed, that he knows best so pick up your game all you pretenders to the crown, with baggy clothes, tats and shit in your face, keep it simple, go back to basics, that's where the truth lies.
MR POP, I salute your time spent digging in your Zen garden.
Take care one and all,
As ever take it easy,
Love,
The Wookiee.
