I’ve just been reading Re-Make/Re-Model, Michael Bracewell’s new book on the formative years of Roxy Music and was particularly struck by an early passage in which Bryan Ferry – thankfully not talking about fox-hunting or the Third Reich – waxes nostalgically about a music shop in Newcastle called Windows, where as a teenager he spent many astonished hours browsing through racks of records he couldn’t always afford, but liked anyway just to spend time poring over.
Around the turn of the decade, I used to go and see a Brooklyn band called Les Savy Fav every time they played London. They were a fantastic night out. The singer, Tim Harrington, occasionally behaved like a cross between Iggy Pop, Salvador Dali and Captain Birdseye.
I could be mistaken about this, but there's a point in this really fine Six Organs Of Admittance show when Ben Chasny and his new foil, Elisa Ambrogio, appear to be whispering sweet nothings to each other. Then the hushed, gentle duet becomes clearer. "They may even eat the horse that you're riding," they're singing.
Tomorrow, I'm off to the Edinburgh Film Festival. I've got loads of fond memories of previous years -- many of them, I have to admit, caught up in Scotland's marvellous, forward-thinking policy towards pub opening times -- but this year's festival promises a bundle of fine films.
As I've mentioned before here, the marketing department next door aren't too fond of the primordial swamp jams that come out of the New Weird America, and for the past couple of weeks they've been particularly aggravated by the new album by Sunburned Hand Of The Man.
This week's new festival is, in the words of promoter Tom Baker (no, not that one), a "psychedelic Summer fete".
So, we're promised welly golf, hog roasts, a jumble sale along side some Acid Folk in the shape of Vetiver and Bat For Lashes, plus a strong mix of cutting-edge names including Battles, the Aliens and Four Tet.
Sad news of course this weekend, with the passing of Tony Wilson. I can't add much to Stephen Dalton's excellent obit. But I thought it'd be a useful tribute to put online the full Factory Catalogue that we compiled for Uncut's recent Book Of Revelations.
I must admit, I never thought I'd end up at the Cross Kings pub in King's Cross, North London. It used to be a place called The Backpackers, and every time I drove past it there appeared to be 200 Australians in a heap outside. Very macho, very rugby. Not really for me.
The first time I heard Devendra Banhart, I remember thinking that there was something ineffably creepy about him. I loved "Oh Me Oh My. . .", but it felt an eerie, almost malign record, and the impression was compounded at his first London show, supporting Michael Gira. Banhart didn't seem dangerous, exactly, but his otherness was somehow disturbing, as well as compelling.