Tuesday 20th May 2008 - MGMT

Well, much overdue as usual, is my write-up of my attendance at the relatively recent MGMT gig at Manchester Academy 2.

I'm frankly running out of superlatives to describe the music I watch and listen to. I have good taste, I know that. My gig sheet reads like a who's-who of left-field indie nobility. From MGMT to Mercury Rev, from The Doors to Neil Young, from The Arcade Fire to The Shins.

MGMT quite easily have hussled their way into the bracket of great indie outfits. They have the 3 minute usual songs, joyous, explosive, tintillating even, with guitar riffs to make the ears buckle under the pressure of them. But MGMT also have those odd amazing 14-minute rambling spectacular rock odyssey to rely on, so when you think you have them figured out, you don't. They just delight in messing with your head a little.

I guess that's my problem. Music is the primary device via which I allow the world to mess with my head. And last Tuesday, with nothing else outside of music having messed with my head for a long time, I felt almost bored by the pleasure, having felt it all too often, all too often, all too fucking often. There I was, living in this perfect little indie bubble, with my gloriously original music to listen to, my gloriously original TV to watch on my PC, my gloriously original movies to watch, again on the PC and my glorious supportive friends to rely on to be around and experience some little elements of my little world. And I was pretty fucking frustrated, despite everything appearing peachy.

Then a wonderful thing happened to me shortly afterward. When life is going so well that you're bored, you'd better prey somebody rattles your bird cage for you, because if they don't, you will. And if you're anything like me, you'll rattle it so hard, that the door will flip open and the budgie that is your sanity will go flying away, and you'll really fuck your life up. Strained metaphor admittedly, but I think you get what I mean.

Anyway, as a result of the fucked up apple cart/bird cage/end of tranquility, I'm beginning to feel less frustrated, less hemmed in by the happiness. I have a little desire again, to get a fucking move on, to stop arsing around, sniffing the flowers, exclaming the joy of my so-called existence, celebrating the fact that those holding the levers of power are dropping their precious gifts my way, to start actually enjoying great things, like MGMT, like Daniel Johnston to come in July, Neil Young, fuck me The Sugars, Jenny Owen Youngs, The Shins, The Doors, and all the rest of the psychadelic fruitloop musicians I love and adore.

Try canning this experience and you'll only fuck it up. If I'd known this previously, I'd have fucked around with my life way sooner.

Apologies if you're a first time reader, you don't know me, and you don't have a clue what I'm talking about. Any intelligent person only needs his cage rattling once. Rattle it twice and fuck knows what mess will come flying out...lol

Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty, free at last. Martin was right.

Sunday 11th May 2008 - Kimya Dawson

Kimya Dawson. Ah, I get nostalgic at the mere mention of this folk-songstress' name. Seven years ago, yep, count 'em and weep, seven years ago, Kimya was one half of the stunning nutball odyssey that was The Moldy Peaches. They toured with The Strokes in the summer of 2001, my generation's no-bullshit version of the summer of love. The before time (i.e., before 9/11 - when we weren't scared to get out of bed in case Osama bin Laden was hiding underneath it). I remember watching The Moldy Peaches play Manchester's Academy 3, with just 250 people in a hot, sweaty room with The Strokes on the headlines and The Peaches serving as a wonderful appetiser. I remember those times in idealised terms, some people say. But I remember talking to Adam and Kimya after they'd played (they were flogging Strokes merchandise on the landing outside), and there was such peace, such freedom of mind, such freedom of choice in those halcyon days, that nothing was gonna get in the way of our Mancunian/New York youth and beauty (and stunning musical talent of course!).

And that sweet illusion continued into the Leeds festival of that year. By that time, The Strokes had been moved onto the main stage of that event, because 60,000 people were going to try and get into a sub-main-stage tent with a capacity for only 2,000 fans. The police had told the organisers, either get 'em on the main stage, or they'd pull the safety certificate for the whole festival. And it was great. And me and my buddies were sat drinking a beer, watching The Strokes when Kimya Dawson wandered over to borrow a beer. Being sat on the grass next to a grown woman dressed as a cat, while tripping on LSD and amphetamine really summed up the surreality and sheer fun of my life at that point in time - aged 21, a soon-to-be philosophy graduate; my lot was a happy happy one.

Of course, challenges lay ahead. Watching my friends, one by one, become older, more boring, less involved and more concerned with the housing market than the music scene has certainly been a stress. Going bankrupt didn't help me keep the wrinkles at bay either (but keep them at bay I have - god knows how, 'cos I don't use any of those pathetic face creams that that silly cow Andie McDowell or that inane figure of sub-standard acting, yes, Salma Hayek recommend). I've seen the optimism of those around me turn to dust in these last seven years, replaced by cynicism, fear, close-mindedness, selfishness, cruelty and duplicity. But I held on, sometimes alone in my life, sometimes with just one or two folks willing to hold up with me the idea that hope springs eternal, and being loving is worth feeling pain for.

And it's funny. This year, after clearing some of the crap from my life, the hope has started to return not just to me, but to those around me. Those in my community, those who share my little world. In spite of the fear of it all about to go belly-up, whether it's the economy, the war, the abolition of liberalism writ large. Maybe my little group of happy thinkers are doing our best impression of Nietzsche-described pre-empire-collapse naivéty, but we're feeling hopeful, hell, even happy right now. I got a new job starting later in the year where I'm going to be paid to go to University and get a second degree, an M.A. in Social Theory. I have another great Euro-Road-Trip planned and I have gigs coming out of my asshole at the moment, including Neil Young at the Hop Farm Festival in July. And almost to confirm that the goodness of 2001 can rise again, like a phoenix from the flames in this foul year of our Lord, 2008, back comes Kimya Dawson to a Manchester stage, exactly a month after Adam Green kindly did the same.

The Moldy Peaches have returned, one peach at a time. And the second peach was as tasty as the first. Kimya's gotten older, just like me, but she still attracts gig-goers aged 12 to 112, all there for the sweet, tender, fragile tones of her voice, alongside the gentle strings of her humble acoustic guitar. This Kimya, whilst being a mother now, is still singing from the same songsheet of quiet but rebellious youth. It was wonderful to hear, and reassuring to see.

It was also great to see her bring her daughter Panda on the road with her. It takes gumption to work so hard, bringing a child with you on tour, travelling day and night in undersized cars the length and breadth of the country, and the continent of Europe. So it was fitting that whilst Kimya sang a great song about being a mother on the road, that her daughter, with perfect timing between verses, from the backstage, shouted at the top of her lungs "I WANT MY MOMMY!!! I WANT MY MOMMY! WHERE'S MY MOMMY?!" A truly classic Night & Day moment, when we each realise we're in a room with people, all of whom if we met individually someplace else, we'd find that we really like each other. That's the great thing about an artist like Kimya; she brings together people who like one another instinctually, who are at comfort, not in some 'isn't it nice we've got our own home, three cars and a nanny paid for' kind of way, but more in a 'we've got nothing but our love, optimism and kindness' kind of a way.

Panda, at that point when you needed your mommy, we all needed her too, just like you did. She was kind enough to show up, a little older, a little wiser, heck even a little better, and play the oh-so-appropriate role of young single mom to our young, single, but growing indie-folk community.

Come back soon Kimya, we all miss our musical mommy!