Little Vision Come Shake Me Up

Hi. We're Wolf Parade from Montreal Canada.

There's something ancient and noble about an unwashed, half cut, travelling band of entertainers from a far off land coming to perform their tricks to the collected rabble, from whatever random elevated podium, scaffolding, or beer crate and plywood platform, which by dint of even the slightest difference in elevation between it and the floor, gets called a stage. The same stage where on any evening anywhere, opera, poetry readings, theatre, witch hunts, fight nights, magic shows, a Furey Brothers gig, public executions, motivational speeches, technology demos, cock fights, sumo bouts, world changing speeches or, as witnessed at the Pavement gig recently, middle aged men, get flung from with wildly varying levels of dexterity. Call it showbiz, call it stagecraft, call it a ritual. I'm such a fanboy, I even get daxxled by an empty stage of backline humming under the lights or the ruby red twinkling of the standby lights on the amps. Ahh what a well placed mic. There's art in it, there's lights on it, there's atmosphere around it, there's thousands of years of tradition in it, there's the combined weight of the audience's expectation upon it filling the room until the band walks on. And there's release (and if we're really lucky- entertainment) in it.

Hello. We're Fugazi from Washington DC.

Fugazi always introduce themselves with their hometown appended. As did Black Flag. It's a nice touch. And how could I forget Shellac of North America?
And so with a thumping headache in a work shirt, slacks and comfortable shoes, me and mister Van Basten saunter into one of those well appointed but yellowing, neglected old Dublin pubs where the sun sets in the glasses over the bar, where there's exactly 12 steps between your barstool and the urinal and every patron propped at the counter is an unabashed, never wavering alcoholic and/or Man Utd fan. The kind of bar where, as a contingency, knitting sits in a plastic bag under the stool waiting to be withdrawn when the talk turns to mickey muck, the ponies or Jimmy Keaveny. A sunlit drunken version of "I Know Him So Well" (It took time to understand him) was our pre-show entertainment, the stage in this instance a rickety barstool, this at 8pm of a Thursday evening. Pock marked plastic bags were appearing billyo as we left and the third rate second division game on the box in the corner was still nil all. There were some excellent vintage Barney Rock era Dublin jerseys, originals as far as I could tell, on display aswell. Could have been 1982 but for the polyeseter panic.


I got a savage bout of culture shock on entering into the false darkness of the venue for Wolf Parade, not 5 doors down from the pub mentioned above. No obvious alcoholics, no Dublin jerseys, no knitting. Just buckets of young wans falling over each other to appear unobserved and disinterested. Met up with Anonymous Dave and his lovely girlfriend Evelyn both looking dashingly windswept and interesting. Highlights of the main event were This Heart's on Fire and I'll Believe in Anything - still the best song in their songbook. No Fine Young Cannibals unfortunately. Everyone except the drummer had their own keyboard. Dan was playing one of these aswell. Still one of the very few guitarists I've witnessed (on several occasions) playing a single guitar through an entire gig despite hammering eleven shades of shit (per song) out of the thing. Without a doubt Dan is the Barney Rock of Indie Rock.

And here's one he made earlier - download "Ghost Pressure" from their new album : Little vision come...come and shake me up. It's a cracker.


Nice blog : http://flyingbuttresses.wordpress.com

This One's Called "Old Camera Blues in Red"

Athdown Syndrome

Edit - two more photos from Martin's phone, reproduced with kind permission etc :

The only documentary evidence of the camping. Martin's tent pitched a little too close to the river for a man on valium stumbling around in the dark.

Maith an banbh! Also compliments of Martin.

Spent the long weekend in the mountains at a reassuringly difficult to find bend in the river Wicklow with family and friends and friend's children and food. From speaking to people afterwards, everyone thoroughly enjoyed the peaceful surroundings and the escape from the hassles and inconveniences of modern life without the inconvenience of having to travel half way across the country to do so (except for Marc - see later). Somewhere to stay out of sight for a long time. Stars in the night sky. No midgies. May contain traces of banana. Quote of the weekend goes to Mei who announced apropos of nothing during dessert that Marc farts through his nose. Thanks to all who dropped by kids in tow.

Ass and Elbow

Interesting to note the navigational efficiencies or otherwise of those who turned up. Martini made it without any contact with the mothership. He cleverly saved the map I'd sent to his phone and used it to navigate through perilous obstacles like signpost-stripped crossroads, yellowribbonless oak trees, concealed entrances and a complete lack of referenceable landmarks. The Hopkins used the "I'm blowing the horn, can you hear it?" trick of the truly lost - even though, without knowing it they had made it to the gate at that point, using the same cunning tactic of printing and following the map I'd sent. The Lardners (and their beautiful new daughter who we were all introduced to for the first time) needed a chance encounter with a bunny-hopping Marco Van Basten "up top rohd" to confirm their suspicions they were in the general area but, in fairness made it with minimal radio guidance.

Mei-vid Bellamy

Mr. Odysseus Van Basten Doyle and his car load of disoriented passengers took the scenic route, referencing random landmarks all over south Dublin and east and west Wicklow ("......we're at the Blue Gardenia......") as they wended their leisurely way, mapless (note, the graphic designer and the photographer were the only ones not to avail of the rudimentary visual aid of a pre provided roadmap), towards that silver cow gate somewhere in Wicklow. Never judge a man until you've walked a mile in their shoes. Or travelled one hundred unecessary miles in their backseat. Hiroko, Mei and Eri were remarkably understanding :)


The food for the entire weekend was fantastic, M brought most of our kitchen with her and fed and watered all comers with an accomplished array of wholesome and nourishing food while simultaneously juggling either or both of the girls - see above. There was pinhead porridge with apple & cinnamon and milk and honey, followed by bagels and bananas with piping hot coffee for breakfast, salads a-go-go, quinoa chilli, and quesadillas with homemade guacamole for dinner and fresh pesto pasta with whole cherry tomatoes for lunch. Martin though he'd died and gone to heaven. Hiroko and Eri also contributed salads and pastas to feed the combined carb cravings of several well rounded vegetarians' appetites turbo charged by the fresh mountain air. Louise and Stephen brought some delicious snacks, sampled later in the evening when taste buds were in full bloom.

One disheveled silhouette in waiting

For me, the camping itself is always a highlight. Out came the baby MSR and the camping was indeed wholly refreshing. I went to bed on Saturday night in a wet fridge but I awoke on my back on Sunday morning with the sun in my eyes and the rain making alternately semi predictable or completely random patterns on the bubble of backlit transparent orange tent fabric which my sleeping quarters had thawed out to become. It was like what I imagine awakening from being cryogenically frozen might feel like. Or being inside your own brain watching thoughts develop, witnessing the chemical synapses form and dissolve circuits of perception. Or seeing a stop motion movie of the path and pace of a long and interesting conversation. Better than squinting at the ceiling cracks in a badly built semi d in anyways.


The next morning I was awoken early by the Brownian motion of the disheveled silhouettes of two young rapscallions (namely new BFFs D and Mei) calling my name as they ran in opposite directions around the footprint of the tent trying to figure out, by echolocation I presume, where the door of the tent could be found. Oh to be awoken every day by such a random and refreshingly different collection of visual alarm clocks.


M and the girls chose the more considered option of kipping in the cabin. This weekend marks the significant emotional milestone of any mother; their eldest child's first night in a big girl's bed. The fact that it was a bunk bed and had dinosaur prints on the pillow helped. Every time we brought this up in conversation over the weekend (which was often as we are proud parents) D would chime in incredulously......"and I didn't fall out!" to heighten the effect of our story.


Also managed to get some decent mountain biking in over the weekend, compliments of Martin and his new family. Ended up on the baby slopes of Ballinastoe Mountain Bike Trail (which turns out is just up the road from the cabin) and fun was had and the bug was revitalised. We're both trying to convince Marc to drop a grand and a half on a decent bike so he can accompany us on future adventures.

Yuri Gagarin

Met a man on the river fishing with his son who, without any prompting whatsoever, gave us this mouthful of a URL. He's a neighbour apparently and doesn't frequent the Ballinasloe horse fair (_major_ faux pas bringing that up).

Happy Hanukkah, Tasty Salad

Miraculously inherited a ticket to Pavement on Tuesday night via Martin. Great gig. Really brought me back. All the hits from the full back catalogue were rolled out..... and it was good. Stephen J. Malkmus catatonic, autistic trail boss, battle hardened cattle herder and single handed bringer of perfectly odd guitar music on expertly confused guitars. At one stage he was standing in the corner playing 2 notes, repeatedly and the sound he made was Pavement. He's got style, miles and miles. Mark Ibold is a great lad altogether, what with his haircut from the 90s and his rock solid abilities delivered super modestly. My dislike for and belief in the irrelevance of Spiral Stairs (guy with the cap, stage right in the video) was greatly enhanced during this gig. Even the tambourine player has more raw talent. That's unfair on Bob. He is in fact a genius.

And finally.....

For Mikey and the Cat. S loves sushi rice too! :)