Gregg hits from the heart

Maybe this album being a product of its time (1973) was going to be an easygoing template to the improv-jams of Southern Rock. And wasn’t Gregg Allman fatefully married to the Elf of pop Cher? What strange ju ju were the casualties of 60s pop/rock stardom on come 1977. It was more fumblings for directions in bad ideas than good ideas at all – and some unhealthy addictions.

So. Laid Back Sessions is what the album equates to be – and well before any of the shit hit the fan. The songs are crafted with a direction in mind, not only do they lend to a more song-based chorus arched focus, but guitars are dimmed and the soulful growl and almost pitch perfect arrangements are set by Gregg. These are songs – escuse the term – that are lived in. They’re songs played and arranged and weighed up for a common goal which is to hit the listener gently in the heart. Best served with a cold beer looking at the sun set on warm summers day.

The Allman Brothers‘ rapid rise into the rock ‘canon’ had already been visible when they started becoming credited with the stylings of Southern rock. Gregg had seen the death of brother, the lead guitarist Duane just 2 years previous and was honing a less guitar dependent sound on the Brothers and Sisters (1973). Laid Back was released just amidst and after recordings of Brothers.. and has that easygoing country led stylings. But this is also an album that demonstrates Gregg’s earthy voice and skill at arranging songs old or new and making them his. Soulful and restrained. Gregg Allman’s Laid Back illustrates a musician not just kicking back but honing what could be heard as a healing impulse to the music that survives. All My Friends: ‘It’s all gone, for the last time it seems
And it’s a shame, all the feelings were lost in our scheme’

Laid Back offsets Gregg’s ability at arranging songs that are contained to his soulful gospel charge and display the essences of R&B, Soul, Blues, Gospel, and Country Rock. This was the time when pop music was disposed to the freedoms of reinvention and, the much uttered Gram Parsons ideal of a ‘melting pot’ of music. It’s not surprise that Stephen Stills sprawling masterpiece Manassas was released the year previous. But Gregg takes it to the elements of the song as opposed to the sprawl of cross-country and culture borderlines. Interestingly, Clapton had Duane play on Layla, and though Gregg didn’t feature on the album, ‘Queen of Hearts’ illustrates the affinity that Clapton had for affecting the soul sounding voice of Gregg and the Allmans.

The opener is a cover of the Allmans’ ‘Midnight Rider’. A sound of things to come. Restrained in comparison to the original, other than axe for hire Tommy Talton, the guitar licks lack any prominence in the songs and support the sum-of-the parts. Gregg’s organ playing is a constant, perhaps even to the point being anodyne.

It’s no surprise that the album is peppered with a few covers, standards of R&B and Gospel (‘Will the Circle be Broken’), or the Scott Boyer ballad ‘All My Friends’. Gregg distils these songs and makes them his own, even the lyrical references sound his own. No more is this displayed than on the Jackson Browne‘s ‘These Days’. Perhaps this is a highlight, but the album never falters from this tone and tenderness.

Considerately forgotten when hidden behind the lumbers of the Allmans Brothers back catalogue, but without brother Duane Greggs album wouldn’t sound so moving. In the words of Gregg:

“My brother always felt, and I learned from him, that if you lay down a sound, if it’s a hit in your heart, then it’s a hit. I don’t care how many it sells or how many like it or whatever – play what you want to play and stick to your guns.”

Stick to your guns and listen to this album.

According to Spanish culinary folklore tapas were originally the slices of bread or meat, which sherry drinkers in Andalusian taverns used to cover their glasses between sips to prevent flies from hovering into them – ‘Tapa’ actually means lid.

So much so are tapas ingrained in Spanish culture it has it’s own verb ‘ir de tapeo’ = to go on a tapa crawl. As I experience, not only the food but also the backdrop of the city entices, and of course a glass of sherry or wine.

With a culture steeped in history, religion, and great food, Seville has grand plazas, monasteries, cathedrals and endless labyrinthine streets peppered with the finest tapas bars in the world. Where to start?

La Giralda. Where to start

The Giralda Tower looms magnificent in central Seville, and makes up part of the Catedral de Sevilla. This is where I begin. The warm scent of orange trees lining the streets fills the air and the prospect of a good night walking the streets hang expectantly.

I head up Calle Mateos Gago and I’m firmly in the old quarter of Santa Cruz. Bars dotted with people spilling back and forth from one to another. Las Columnas Bodega de Santa Cruz is a must. The bird-like barmen chalk down your orders on the oaken (settling ‘la cuenta’, the bill, is trustingly always done after the meal). Like all bars it serves a variety of ‘montaditos’ (a toasted sandwich) with fillings like the ubiquitous jamon or chorizo, or the recommended bacaloa (cod).

Enjoying La Terasa

Nearby I stroll into La Teresa, where you’ll see a defining sight of Seville – the legs of jamon Serrano (dry cured ham) hanging from every visible space on the ceiling and a rich tapestry of religious iconography and bull fighting memorabilia.  Again orders are chalked on the bar I’m recommended to try some fried fish: boquerones (fried anchovies), calmares (fried squid) or puntllitos (fried baby squid).  I walked further into Santa Cruz, finding cave-like bars and the surrounding walls of the former arab palace the Alcazar.

The history of Seville is compounded by every step you take. Once a city of the Arab kingdom and reclaimed again over centuries by Christians has left a unique mark on the architecture of Seville. The city centre has evolved into a startling mix of styles and influences from Moorish to Gothic and Renaissance. After all, this is the city where Columbus set sail for America and where his body is apparently buried.

Hidden round every conceivable corner are Seville’s numerous churches or convents. Unobtrusive by night the Convento de la Encarnacion sits solemnly beautiful bathing in the street lights opposite the Giralda, but by day it’s a place where you can buy some exquisite Roscos or Amarguillo  (almond) biscuits baked by the nuns. Amazingly, your order is done through a wooden hatch– the nuns are Carmelites and have no contact with the outside world.

Holy Almond biscuits

As the night ended, I was directed to El Rincocillo, Plaza Terceros, a tapas crawl wouldn’t be complete without visiting the oldest bar in Sevilla. The bar is strewn with sawdust and a healthy throng of locals talking into the night. Sherry barrels provide tables and the sheer quantity of cured meats and cheeses on offer is mouth-watering even after 3 hours of eating and drinking. Sipping some sherry and trying some of the Serrano ham and ‘manchego’ cheese is a great way of finishing the night. As I stand there a local offers me some ‘carrillada’, which I later find out is a stew made from pork cheek. It’s a great parting gesture to a night that hints at so many more hidden pleasures in Seville. When I checked my wallet later on, 30€ is the damage. What a feast!

El Rinconcillo's - Un Tapa de carillada finishes the night off nicely!

So Terriotorios music festival may not pull waves of foreigners to Seville or even be considered outside Andalusia, however there were enough willing festival-goers from the city to make the weekend swarm with drunken Brits, Americans and the odd local.

Set in the atmospheric grounds of the Monastario De Cartuja, this is site of the current Contemporary Art Museum set within the grounds are towering chimneys that used to mass-produce ceramics that adorn the city and typify the Andalusian town houses. It was a cosy affair. Four stages each varying in size set in different nooks and crannies of the grounds.

First night nerves quickly evaporated as The Fall took to the second stage (Cruzcampo Stage). As punters were forced get their head around the beer token system and lack of bars. Mark E. Smith and his stalwarts kicked off. His characteristic drawl and half intonated lyrics stumbled over the heads of everyone. The wide-eyed boy from Salford was on form. Submitting second language speakers of English to a masterclass in rambled lyricism – ever watched him recit ethe football results? Picking the strong parts from their last album: ‘Your Future Our Clutter’. The drawl and spit of ‘Bury pt 1 & 2′ set a standard that never dimmed – ‘one day a spanish king with a council of bad knaves tried to come to Bury’.

The band have been touring the album for over a year now and it showed. Live they were at full strength, microphones, sound effects and a stumbling Mark E. Smith looked certain to corrupt the sound if it appeared too varnished. The awkward squad was setting the limits. ‘Mexican Wax Solvent’, ‘Funnel of Love’ and ‘ Cowboy George’ were great examples why The Fall still make great music which kicks the guts out of any preening indie pups.

Also the first night saw: The Cordoban legendary guitarist Raimundo Amador pull a massive crowd with his flamenco/Hendrix stylings. Accomplished doesn’t begin to describe his polished sounds. Unfortunately he didn’t restrain himself to any of his previous collaborations with Howe Gelb on ‘Algerias’ album, nevertheless he set a glittering standard that the crowd lapped up.

Stock festivals favourites: Razhel, Asian Dub Foundation, and Too Many DJs played up to 6am. ADF had the whole main stage jumping to urban tunes – it was like I was back at Glastonbury 1997. Also, highlighting the night was Nach the answer to Spanish hip-hop showing off his posture and slick skills at the mike. Impressive, if only if I could understand what he was going on about.

So onto the second night. A call to arms for a rave. Orbital billed as the headliners on the main stage. With the Femi Kuti entourage kicking up the rhythms on the second stage. Before awaiting either of these bands. I sat through a benign and sometimes beautiful Russian Red a spanish singer-songwriter Lourdes Hernadez who sings in English, quite a feat for a country that is proud of its langauge and at times reluctance to adopt the English-speaking monopoly. She has the attributes of being gorgeous and talented. Reminscent of Feist or Joanna Newsom-like warble.

The night started with the urbane sarcasm of The Divine Comedy now aka Neil Hannon. Still on fine form after his release of ‘Absent Friends’ nearly 7 years ago. The whimsical pop set brought back memories of those Brit-Pop times when it was alright to write a slice of social commentary with some humour and a pop melody. He also played ‘songs of love’ from Father Ted and a stomping rendition of the nearly-eurovision classic ‘My Lovely Horse’. ‘…..where are you going with your fetlocks flowing…’. A strange highlight to the evening.

The Human League limped on and off as a strange parody of themselves, more wooden that electric 80s synth pop. It felt like all the crowd were waiting for was a classic not a ‘this is an anti-war song’ (yawn!!!!!!), more A-level than pop. They did finally get there act together but by then the crowd were pawing the ground and ready to leave. The encore consisted of: ‘Don’t You Want Me’ / ‘Love Action’. Perhaps too late though.

Time for the Klaxons who put on a decent live show a lot more energy and driven passion than the previous effort. Mosh-pits even formed in consequence.

The night faded to Orbital taking the stage at 4am and playing what they do best stomping, ambient dance tunes until the sun rises. Perhaps, Orbital lacked the stages of Glastonbury but there wasn’t a loose foot in the house, ‘oh is this the way they say the futures meant to feel or just 20,000 people standing in a field’.

A growing and popular festival seems capable of getting bigger if not better and better. Until next year at the Monastery.

Florence, Sophistication and Great Marble Willies.

Florence Splendour

Leaving Florence you got the feeling that there are so many things right about this place: The devotion to Architecture and Heritage of Renaissance and Neo-Classicism. The great selection of food and drink. The people themselves seemed pretty friendly considering it a well-trodden tourist haven. And people looked so suave and elegant – almost precious. I couldn’t help feeling sophisticated by day 4. ‘Espresso, grazzie’

Obviously this feeling was totally bogus. But wow! You can’t really get over the sheer scale and historical importance of Florence as the birthplace and heartland all things stereotypically Italian: Frescoes, Italian Renaissance and all persons connected to it (here’s a list that just proves the all-encompassing change and importance it held from the centre of Florence http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Renaissance_figures), Chianti wine, gelato, abundance of great food and the archetypal ‘renaissance man’ of science, religious scholar, art and architecture, and probably really good offspinner  – Leonardo da Vinci.

Man in perfect proportions: Leonardo da Vinci

The City Hall

The renaissance lasted roughly from 14th Century until the 17th Century, so things took a while to catch on as people were still basking in the murk and penitence of the middle-ages. The Renaissance is instantly typified by clarity  and clear lined proportions and symmetry in white marble and an instant love of Classicism typified through a ‘modern ideals’ of humanism. Questionable evaluations arise, but Florence seems to be the most important place to start for Renaissance.

Like all good movements one needs a place or person that can finance and interest the advances of other industries. That person was the Medici Family, possibly the richest and most important family save the Beckhams. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_medici_family. As a rich bankers and great investors in gold this dynasty had some sort of financial part to play in every piece of commissioned art work, building, scientific design, or social network – kind of Microsoft of the Renaissance era.

So, back to some sort of adventures. What I did was just walk around Florence going into gallery upon gallery and resting my eyes on more masterpieces and saintly views of the surrounding Tuscan hills. A lot of queueing for the private views of Botticelli’s ‘Birth of Venus’.

Places of wow:

The Uffizi Gallery – http://www.uffizi.com/. Which did consist of queueing for hours, so as all guide say get advance tickets.

Florence Cathedral and Giotto’s Tower – Great views of the hills and more precious frescoes and messy renaissance-graffiti on the walls.

Piazzale Michelangelo – for fantastic views of the city, grab a beer and look out yonder. Looming willies exist on this look out.

Florence Accademia – Get a glimpse the most famous nude. Michelangelo’s ‘David’ – great arse!

City Mayors: Palazzio Vecchio – Damien Hirst’s ‘For the Love of God’ is doing the rounds here, but if that bores just walk round the collections of the wealthy benefactors.

Boboli Gardens – Lots of nudes in stately grounds. More views and beautiful vistas.

Vivoli Gelataria – http://www.vivoli.it/ Great ice creams worth trying.

The San Lorenzo Food Market – walk around and sit down for lunch in one of the tratterias. Awesome paninos, salads and wine on offer!!

Wrestling Roman Style

So back to the willies. Why so many naked men in Renaissance Italy, or in Florence for that matter. Well, obviously there’s a strong sense of adoration for the Greek and Roman times here. But, also as technology advanced there was firmer sense of spirituality based in ones existence on the earth as opposed to solely the afterlife. Da Vinci: “The beautiful machine of the human body”. The sense of proportion and perfect symmetry confirmed the mastery and conception of higher powers, thus leading to perfectly symmetrical drawings, sculptures, paintings, archways and buildings. But why is anatomy of willies, well slightly lacking?

“….. [Art] is concerned with the “ideal,” or “what ought to be.” The “ideal,” in most classical writing, refers to the way things would be if the form, the principle, that is operating through them were carried out to its completion or logical fulfillment.

“[Art], says Aristotle, rests upon two instincts in man—the instinct for imitation, and the instinct for harmony.

“… And in addition to taking general truths and persisting forms as its model, as its subject matter, art also subdues and recast the imitation it is making into a new harmony—a harmonious treatment, this time, of the materials through which a given medium of art works—of line and colour in painting, of sounds in music, of words in poetry.” – (From the introduction to Prefaces to Criticism by Walter Jackson Bate)

So the easy and abridged answer to the question is that: The ideal of Classical (Greek/Roman) art was to produce the truth in art. That ideal in Renaissance art had all to do with proportions of the whole image – termed ‘Verism’ (truth). So, having smaller willies the sculptures where emphasizing the glorious beauty of the whole. Obsessions in proportions meant that anything that would take attention away from the whole image, look disproportionate would break with the ideal of truth and beauty in the proportioned art form. Big willies, no sir! That would be wholly distracting and disproportionate. Godly forms in art should echo the ideal of real symmetry and proportionate beauty = truth. Also, it would add that “oo aint that big” factor for the birth of ‘Italian Stallion’.

One thing of note in Florence. Try trippa alla fiorentina or lampredotto both basically tripe sandwiches which you have with either a green (parsley sauce) or chilli sauce. These tripes mainly the fourth stomach and honeycombed one of the cow, mixed with udders, and tongues and tendons, sound a medieval offering but the offal is cooked for up to eight hours with herbs and vegetables and produce varied tastes and tender flavours. My highlight of Florence. Seemingly office workers, builders and Florentines come to get some tripe on their lunch break. Easily brought from carts or specialist cafes’ selling these delicious offerings. So, had enough of willies, get some cow offal down you.

Good sandwich!

Whispering Sweet Nothing to Roy

5 days spent in Morocco with friends to celebrate the birth of me, myself and I. 30 years old was the magic number that persuaded me to book some cheap(ish) ryanairflights from Seville-Marrakesh. So, the itinerary was: 2.5 days spent perusing the stalls and market fare of Marrakesh then a 2 day hike up the nearby Atlas Mountains.

Atlas Mountains

My Western mindset had me considering thieves, knife point muggings, food poisoning, over zealous market sellers and of course any other badly developed Western suspicion of a culture that doesn’t consume alcohol…. Well. There were tea infusions with enough sugar to get your muscles twitching and prevent you blinking for up to 2 hours. Loopy stuff.

Market Fare

Firstly, Marrakesh provided us with enough room to get utterly lost and inspire all of us to use Spanish as the Lingua Franca as opposed to English or French. Thus getting us more confused about the point of the exchange and hard poised glances from locals to whether we were taking the piss or migrants from an antiquated feudal colony. Not the best start. But we soon figured out that English, as our native tongue, would get us further.

Getting Lost

The word that springs to mind when in a still thriving market-culture like Morocco is “barter”.  And yes you had to do this for more or less everything apart from the clothes on your back. Not a problem. But there are rules to the game, which are always open to change.

First: always have a fixed price you want to pay for the goods. Second: always ask for lower than what you want. Third: have the select amount you want to pay in hard cash, showing the seller the money you have usually adds weight to you’re asking price. Fourth: if you ask how much the goods cost knock-off 75% of the price and you should get the rough value of the goods. And Fifth: don’t do what I did on several occasions ask for a ridiculously low price for something worth 60 DRMS and say ‘I’ll give you 3DRMS’, basically as I found out it was highly offensive and got me thrown out of a few stalls: “EXIT!!”

Lampshades for Sale!

Some etymology to get your teeth into:

barter (v.) mid-15c., from O.Fr. barater “to barter, cheat, deceive, haggle” (also, “to have sexual intercourse”), 12c., of uncertain origin, perhaps from a Celtic language (cf. Ir. brath “treachery”). Connection between “trading” and “cheating” exists in several languages. The noun is first recorded 1590s.

SEXUAL INTERCOURSE!!!!! No sir! I hope not, an underlying theme of this wholly unnatural custom of buying to anyone from England outside used cars, is that you are always being cheated. Yes, you must cheat the cheater. Not to say this is a totally disingenuous form but like the sophisticated “buy one get free” or stick a .99 on the end of an asking price that usually gets one to handover our hard-earned cash in the UK. Morocco is a poor country but that certainly doesn’t mean sellers don’t know how to generate some capital. Usual fare in Morocco was anything leather, carpet-like, or jewellery aswell as any snack that had enough sugar to send you into a sugar low for several days – kind of like a depression without the circumstance, always colourful.

Which one: The really sugary one or the really really sugary one?

So dodging hawkers and buying right was what we did. The main square in Morocco is called Jemaa el-Fnaa and it’s a cacophony of noise, Berber music and dancers, psalmist, snake charmers and monkey handlers walking around trying to get you to take a photo and then pay. Obviously this is done in a typical style in this area, in demands. If you don’t pay your cursed in arabic. It’s a place which would drive you mental if you stayed there too long. With the sound of snake charmers and the onslaught of traffic horns – it feels chaotic and without the dull effect of alcohol, it would be like being stuck in a lift listening to a strange feedback of Cliff Richard hits played backwards to some Umpa Loompa music cut-in. Oh the hell! Not for the weak-hearted, however the streets around the medina got us lost several times over, never once did I genuinely feel in danger or particularly vulnerable. Maybe ignorance is bliss – it’s worth noting that 4 days after out departure a bomb exploded in a popular cafe we had frequented: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-africa-13226117

But that makes it sound like a dangerous country which statistically for tourists it isn’t!!

I'll Have The Hoof Please!

The main square is also the place for food. Moroccan food. Basically all the usual: ummmm tagines, cous cous varieties, snails or some sort of goat offal on offer, and the best foods to eat on the run are at the stalls. Hygiene is not important as you can wash it down with some hot sauces or plates of liver mushed into a paste that fills you up instantly and the ubiquitous fills of bread and olives. All for about 80 DRMs (5-6quid). Was good grub. Just difficult avoiding the plumes of smoke belched out from the stalls.

Leaving Marakesh we organised a 2 day trek into the Atlas mountains. This wasn’t done easily but essentially in good faith. Enter any internet cafe, print or phone shop, usually advertised outside are treks or tours. We opted for the trek and after some half-arsed bartering in broken English found out our trek was organised for the morning where we would walk into the mountains with a donkey or mule and sleep in a Berber village. Great idea! We paid the deposit and with receipt took that total leap of faith that the day after we would be on our way trekking the Toubkal and full of vigour to be in the company of GODS.

Taxi to the Atlas

Thankfully it all worked out. And our man greeted us resplendent in some fine gaudy linen threads and the confirmation that we didn’t need a receipt for 100euros we each handed over – “no problem” was his catch phrase. And so no problem it was. We were whisked up the Atlas via an 80s reg Mercedes Taxi with the Moroccan school of driving which existed without lanes, or simply just a middle lane.

So ease of reading. We taxied up to the base village whilst stopping off at a female run business for some mint tea and expensive soap and oil products made from argon oil. Pictures will do justice to the trek we had. As describing the scenery is like trying to dance to quantum physics.

Dancing to Quantum Physics

Our guide was Mohammed. Spritely chap who said he was 33 years old but looked closer to his early 40s. With a trusty mule who we named Roy. We were sorted to hike in the leisure of bags being carried by Roy and Moe’s insistence that a stone thrown at Roy’s arse or tuneful prompt would hurry her up. However, Roy got her own back and gave a few cursory kicks-backs.

Roy the stalwart

Feeling High

The trek consisted of walks up to see the snow-capped mountains and the main peak Toubkal and then down to the valley where a Berber village was point of rest and….. nothing to do but play cards with the boyish cheat that was Moe. A joyful old man who loved to prove his age wasn’t quite what it seemed. Great Berber tagines and mint tea that gave us an energy burst into hysterics for 30 minutes.

Too Much Tea!

I liked what i saw and experienced in Morocco and would happily go back to explore some more.

There was no problem with the lack of alcohol. As we found. There are places in the cities where you can buy booze. Just need to discover the real definition of mules and donkeys and how to barter and cheat and betray those western impulses to pay now and complain later. Onward.

There he goes...

Nothing revolutionary to report. GOD IS IN THE HOUSE. Yep, he still is lest you pretend that GOD does not exist in shape, form, idea or hard factual evidence to suggest someone is running with an idea many hundreds of years old…. well come to Seville this week. It’s Semana Santa here. A week long catholic carnival from Palm Sunday up to Easter Sunday (15th-24th April). Spain and all catholic countries are flaming at the gills to project observance and penetance for the BIG J. He’s quite a crowd puller!

Specific information can be superficially scanned from wiki http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Holy_Week_in_Seville

Obviously it’s more than that. It’s a party, it’s a time to show off how beautiful you look, intermittently show your belief in god and also to stand for hours and hours all day all week and watch men and women dressed in the odiously familiar Klu-Klux clan garb (thankfully no ritual hangings take place) who stroll in long processions through the city to The Seville Cathedral. Obviously this is done with the looming smell of incense, gaudily ornate ‘pasos’ carried by 10s of willing peneters and the steady chorus of the ‘drums of dread’. He died for our sins lest you bloody forget!

Touch thy holy hand minion

‘coming through mind your backs’

I’m all for it. Except…… Strange indoctrinationary techniques are welcome. Gift sweets, stairways to heaven and a firm belief in sin is the staple diet of all good religious traditions. But also a week long communal party. Two days is enough for me – a week is pure lunacy. Whether you have religious beliefs or a cynical worldview, you really need to be from Seville or Andalucia to be invovled. Or have some family curse that demands you trudge out every year to do the same old thing, perhaps even a rampant fear in the afterlife. This wouldn’t last in the transient beliefs of modern Britian. We’re much happier gauging ourselves on chocolate eggs and finding any excuse to buy something thus validating our own existence as living and soon to be dying individuals. Hey it’s just ideas don’t shoot the messenger.

I walked around today gazing at the knots and cues of exquisitely dressed famillies, who were making a day of eating and drinking their way through the tides of different procesions that filter into the city. The scale of the event and sheer frequency of all these different brotherhoods who creep into the city at various times and stages is impressive – in a ‘how the hell did this come to be’? kind of way.

Street drinking the sunday best

What do I think? Well who cares. People here seem to be really enjoying the excuse for holidays and I have no doubt some people are here for only a day or two. I didn’t hang around long enough to get a good whiff of that repulsive stench some people exude: sanctimony or self-righteousness. But yep religion in such a full-on unadulaterated way is alien to British culture now. It’s a given that austerity and guilt distingusihes Catholicism and Protestantism in some ways, but you really do feel you’re in a totally different culture/country. No matter where the scientific truths lie Religion does exist in some punative form or ritual. Take GOD out the equation and it’s entertainment to enforce mass action. People do enjoy it!

Next time I wish they could have some more dancers, maybe some lighting effects and some sort of human feat of intellect or physical capacity to catalogue the scriptures and saints in a tumultuous tide of words in 30 seconds. Also, Gaga’s dress designer’s were all out in force cherry picking the miscallaneous shock content of the processions and good for her I’m sure I heard a whimpered yelp as she was tried to fit into her Jesus suit, replendant with thorns and stigmatas.

Until next year. Morocco tomorrow and a feast of pleasures ahead….I hope.

Mark Kozelek – Wednesday 16^th, Seville, Teatro Central. 9pm-10.30pm

Intimately sincere

Suitably Mark Kozelek is armed with only his guitar and a dimly lit stage. As he lopes awkwardly out of the dark he humorously ‘thanks all 5 people for coming’. Fittingly, tonight Kozelek’s skill and sheer discipline as a performer steers the audience into the inevitable – of wanting more.

Kozelek is touring his 2010 album ‘Admiral Fell Promises’ which found him finding new inspirations in the classical guitar and the intensity of flamenco rhythms. Seville is an apt setting then for an album that is inflected with odes to love and loss and austere settings backed by intricate and generous flamenco tunings. Kozelek seems to have been practising; rarely flashy his slight and muted finger picking owes as much to the continuous slow rise of sweet melodies than to Kozelek’s rich and sombre voice.

Admiral Fell Promises is an album of ruminative dramas about people and places coupled with Kozeleks characteristic sparse arrangements.  With no instrumentation but a nylon stringed guitar, the intimacy of the album isn’t lost when translated on stage. ‘Third and Seneca’ one the albums peaks is beautifully interpreted on stage, interludes swell the songs incumbent meanings down ghosted highways meandering North American Motels and surf scared bays. Hearing ‘Half Moon’ live the predictable instrumental codas that cap the song punctuate the short verses with hidden depth and deft finger work. It’s even more apparent that Kozeleks delivery owes as much to his disciplined guitar arrangements as to the gravitas and directness of his voice.

The album has said to have polarised it’s listeners with its Spanish-styled guitar, the minimal interludes and the bereft crunch of electric guitars. But this is Mark Kozelek and when he plays ‘Alesund’ the nuanced riffs and fluttering fills makes perfect sense. With every listen there’s new territory to embrace from the familiar, one can’t but be absorbed in the internal narratives and the intensely perfected ambience rather than a downcast driving rhythm. With the exception of a delicate rendition of ‘Like the River’ all songs come courtesy of Admiral.

Perhaps lacking from the performance was the rapport and banter between the audience and performer. Kozelek always comes across as a witty guy and the relief of some humour between the concentrations of songs left Kozelek seemingly reproachful: ‘it’s like playing to a bunch of corpses’ was his quip. But responses from the audience don’t always belie the intention. As he finished the set with the beautiful instrumental passages of ‘Australian Winter’, the hushed silence was broken with the request of encores. Coerced into new stylings and hushed narratives I’m left feeling the ache of his regrets. Kozelek seems more than happy constrained to intimacy.