Tales from the Hood (aka more stories about asshats, hooters, tailfeathers, animal sex, laptops and some great rock 'n' roll for good measure)
So this Easter weekend I visited Nottingham for the first time in my life, a strange thing really as it's not that far away from where I live. Engineering on various rail lines meant a two-hour journey expanded to three but aside from that everything went fairly straightforward with the re-scheduled trains turning up on time. Let's also gloss over the fact that the asshat taxi driver took me to the wrong Moat House hotel despite explicit instructions, eh?
The outskirts of Nottingham city centre reminded me very much of Brum but the city centre has more of a cosmopolitan feel as well as giving the appearance of retaining more of its cultural and historical heritage. The various ongoing construction work didn't do much for the ambience, mind.
In the afternoon I went in search of Ye Olde Trip To Jerusalem which is reputedly the oldest pub still serving in Britain. Any excuse for a quick pint to steady my nerves while West Ham were busy losing their Premiership status against Bolton some miles further up north. Despite the fact that the pub was full of American tourists swapping travelling anecdotes it was kind of spooky in a nice kind of way supping ale in such a fine and cavernous building. Nothing olde worlde about the beer prices though I'm afraid - two quid and five pence for a pint: the spirit of Robin Hood truly lives on.
Still, rubbing shoulders with all those transatlantic cousins had me hankering for a taste of US cuisine - well, that's my excuse for having a grilled chicken salad at Hooters and I'm sticking to it. My waitress for the evening was Traci who had a kind, freckled face and a backside a little wider than her colleagues, looking all the better for it, imho. When she didn't have any fetching and carrying to do she wiggled her bum (or should that be ass?) to the music, and I wondered if that was what she was told to do, or whether it was her little improvisation.
Nevertheless, she earned her tip for not laughing too loud when I attempted to sprinkle vinegar on my curly fries only to find no sprinkler in the top and the bottle's entire contents swooshing onto the table. She also highlighted her name on the bill with a loveheart and I'm absolutely convinced (and won't be persuaded otherwise) that she never does this for anyone else.
On then to the Rescue Rooms, a newish venue in Nottingham just round the corner from Rock City. First band on were Plan B, a duo from Seattle comprising a guy dinking on his Apple laptop and another bloke with an upright string instrument (cello? viola? I never really paid attention to my music classes, sorry Mr McGeoch). Maybe I'm a Luddite but I'm not sure about the Apple laptop business. Yes I know it's probably the most convenient way to store and transport electronic data but it seems like another small step towards the day bands just turn up slip on their latest CD and mime along to it, if you ask me.
Hey (maybe!) the singer from Plan B is reading my thoughts because later in the show, he suddenly drops into the public area and bodypops along to one of his choons for the purposes of a bit of live! interactive! entertainment. You've got to admire his balls, or his drugs, or possibly both. Despite some reservations, Plan B were actually quite effective at what they did - they'll make good soundtracks for car adverts in the future, mark my words.
Next up - Outhud! First impressions: the guy with the weird frizzy hair stage left has to be the most arrogant looking fuck I've ever clapped eyes on. I kinda liked him though actually. But over in Blighty he's been having problems with the birds. It appears an owl's hoots have been giving him disturbed thoughts in the morning. 'That fucking bird' he insists 'was fucking' and goes on to give his best Arthur Edwards impression of the dirty creature in question.
With two scary-looking girl lead singers and a vibrant physical energy in their stagecraft Outhud reminded me of some of the 2-Tone bands in their pomp. They had a good attitude and good tunes too, and their half-hour set seemed all too short. The drummer from Radio 4 joined in for the last song, a funky feel-good number which encouraged the arrogant young fuck to jump into the crowd and shake his ridiculous hair around the (plentiful) women watching. It's very rare to find someone quite so pleased with himself and not find him offensive - maybe that's star quality for you. Legal note: no owls were fucked or otherwise hurt during this performance.
And finally, there was Radio 4 themselves. This is their second time in Nottingham already, they seem to like it and the feeling seems mutual as the crowd swells and shakes while the band rattles through the best bits of their terrific 'Gotham!' album (pretty much all of it, then). Unlike a lot of the other prominent New York bands at the moment, Radio 4 don't look all that much - they're definitely a triumph of content over style. And what content - 'Dance To The Underground'; 'Struggle'; 'Start A Fire' and 'Save Your City' amongst the highlights of a set where you didn't have to be a Hooters waitress hunting for a tip to shake your tail-feathers to it. A great live act: catch 'em if you can.
Incidentally, Radio 4 apologised for the last-minute no-show from the Rogers Sisters on this tour - they're safely back in New York, he assured us. It was 'too long a story to go into', apparently. Some gossip in there maybe, I reckon - go to work, people and tell me the news.
So this Easter weekend I visited Nottingham for the first time in my life, a strange thing really as it's not that far away from where I live. Engineering on various rail lines meant a two-hour journey expanded to three but aside from that everything went fairly straightforward with the re-scheduled trains turning up on time. Let's also gloss over the fact that the asshat taxi driver took me to the wrong Moat House hotel despite explicit instructions, eh?
The outskirts of Nottingham city centre reminded me very much of Brum but the city centre has more of a cosmopolitan feel as well as giving the appearance of retaining more of its cultural and historical heritage. The various ongoing construction work didn't do much for the ambience, mind.
In the afternoon I went in search of Ye Olde Trip To Jerusalem which is reputedly the oldest pub still serving in Britain. Any excuse for a quick pint to steady my nerves while West Ham were busy losing their Premiership status against Bolton some miles further up north. Despite the fact that the pub was full of American tourists swapping travelling anecdotes it was kind of spooky in a nice kind of way supping ale in such a fine and cavernous building. Nothing olde worlde about the beer prices though I'm afraid - two quid and five pence for a pint: the spirit of Robin Hood truly lives on.
Still, rubbing shoulders with all those transatlantic cousins had me hankering for a taste of US cuisine - well, that's my excuse for having a grilled chicken salad at Hooters and I'm sticking to it. My waitress for the evening was Traci who had a kind, freckled face and a backside a little wider than her colleagues, looking all the better for it, imho. When she didn't have any fetching and carrying to do she wiggled her bum (or should that be ass?) to the music, and I wondered if that was what she was told to do, or whether it was her little improvisation.
Nevertheless, she earned her tip for not laughing too loud when I attempted to sprinkle vinegar on my curly fries only to find no sprinkler in the top and the bottle's entire contents swooshing onto the table. She also highlighted her name on the bill with a loveheart and I'm absolutely convinced (and won't be persuaded otherwise) that she never does this for anyone else.
On then to the Rescue Rooms, a newish venue in Nottingham just round the corner from Rock City. First band on were Plan B, a duo from Seattle comprising a guy dinking on his Apple laptop and another bloke with an upright string instrument (cello? viola? I never really paid attention to my music classes, sorry Mr McGeoch). Maybe I'm a Luddite but I'm not sure about the Apple laptop business. Yes I know it's probably the most convenient way to store and transport electronic data but it seems like another small step towards the day bands just turn up slip on their latest CD and mime along to it, if you ask me.
Hey (maybe!) the singer from Plan B is reading my thoughts because later in the show, he suddenly drops into the public area and bodypops along to one of his choons for the purposes of a bit of live! interactive! entertainment. You've got to admire his balls, or his drugs, or possibly both. Despite some reservations, Plan B were actually quite effective at what they did - they'll make good soundtracks for car adverts in the future, mark my words.
Next up - Outhud! First impressions: the guy with the weird frizzy hair stage left has to be the most arrogant looking fuck I've ever clapped eyes on. I kinda liked him though actually. But over in Blighty he's been having problems with the birds. It appears an owl's hoots have been giving him disturbed thoughts in the morning. 'That fucking bird' he insists 'was fucking' and goes on to give his best Arthur Edwards impression of the dirty creature in question.
With two scary-looking girl lead singers and a vibrant physical energy in their stagecraft Outhud reminded me of some of the 2-Tone bands in their pomp. They had a good attitude and good tunes too, and their half-hour set seemed all too short. The drummer from Radio 4 joined in for the last song, a funky feel-good number which encouraged the arrogant young fuck to jump into the crowd and shake his ridiculous hair around the (plentiful) women watching. It's very rare to find someone quite so pleased with himself and not find him offensive - maybe that's star quality for you. Legal note: no owls were fucked or otherwise hurt during this performance.
And finally, there was Radio 4 themselves. This is their second time in Nottingham already, they seem to like it and the feeling seems mutual as the crowd swells and shakes while the band rattles through the best bits of their terrific 'Gotham!' album (pretty much all of it, then). Unlike a lot of the other prominent New York bands at the moment, Radio 4 don't look all that much - they're definitely a triumph of content over style. And what content - 'Dance To The Underground'; 'Struggle'; 'Start A Fire' and 'Save Your City' amongst the highlights of a set where you didn't have to be a Hooters waitress hunting for a tip to shake your tail-feathers to it. A great live act: catch 'em if you can.
Incidentally, Radio 4 apologised for the last-minute no-show from the Rogers Sisters on this tour - they're safely back in New York, he assured us. It was 'too long a story to go into', apparently. Some gossip in there maybe, I reckon - go to work, people and tell me the news.
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