It ends, pretty much, with fireworks and Sinatra, somewhat appropriate, you would think, for a film series that privileges Vegas cool over substance like the Oceans movies do.
To Cargo in East London last night, for the long-awaited UK debut (by me, at least) of Oakley Hall. If you've not come across them before, Oakley Hall are a six-piece from Brooklyn who play a kind of driving, euphoric country psych. The two albums they released last year indicated that they were probably a pretty roistering live band.
Over the weekend, I watched the new BBC documentary series, Seven Ages Of Rock, which on Saturday night was dedicated to punk. A lot of it seemed inevitably familiar, but I perked up as I always do with the footage of The Sex Pistols' Jubilee boat trip, which I was on, standing about four feet in front of Johnny Rotten as a heaving crowd went hysterical and police launches surrounded us as the Pistols hammered out a defiant "Anarchy In The UK" as we cruised past the Houses Of Parliament.
What seems like several months since I heard The White Stripes' "Icky Thump", I finally had a few more listens to it over the weekend. Reassuringly, my usual hysterical over-excitement seems to have been pretty justified.
In these heady days of New Rave and such, it was heartening to be reminded this morning of the last time British bands tried to pull off that trick. "Warming Up The Brain Farm: The Best Of The Lo-Fidelity All Stars" turned up in the post. And amazingly, ten years on, it sounds great.
Another Thursday morning just behind the Tate Modern, but today we are riding our goblin ship guided by a mermaid. Yes, the new issue of Uncut has arrived and the free CD is on our fancy new stereo. It's called "Fill Your Head With Prog", and it's just about good enough to convince you that punk was nothing more than a minor local disturbance. In 1978, surely, the only place to be was the Deeply Vale Festival with a flagon of Owsley's Peculier, watching Steve Hillage play "Hurdy Gurdy Man" for the best part of a month?
I recently wrote in Uncut about seeing Pink Floyd in March 1969 at a place called The Kee Club in Bridgend, a small town about half way to Cardiff from where I grew up in the even smaller town of Port Talbot.
Should we believe the rumours tonight, this is the last gig Comets Of Fire will ever play in the UK. If that's true, they've found an enterprising way to make us remember, by searing an echo of the gig on onto our eardrums forever.
