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Nearly Midnight, Honolulu to New Rose

The journey through the N songs continues with the latest daily chunks – not every day, there are days when other music (or, perish the thought, none at all) gets a look in.

Nearly Midnight, Honolulu to Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels)

Do not want to start on a negative – that comes part way through this section from Neko Case to Arcade Fire – but the latest batch of tracks came with one of the annoyances of this A-Z musical journey.

In the rules set down before a single track was played, each one must be listened to until the end.

Which makes any track which ends with a long period of silence really annoying. Or if the lengthy silence, which has to be listened to, leads into some totally unrelated musical meanderings.

As is the case of Negative Space by Metz, who having barely registered before we hit N, have suddenly earned two mentions in as many posts.

They fit firmly into the category of wondering where on earth they came from. No idea how or when they – and one eponymous album from 2012 – made it into my musical collection.

Do know Hope Of The States (who popped up here with Nehemiah) made it in on the back of their 2004 The Lost Riots album creating a bit of buzz. Enough, probably in Uncut magazine or NME’s end-of-year lists around then, for a few pounds to be spent on it.

Just never got to know it very well.

It was one of the discs – think a …Trail Of Dead album was among them – in the CD changer in the boot of my car which got completely stuck.

By the time had got round to doing something about it and the local dealers had given up trying to fix it and sent the whole mechanism to Peugeot in France, any remaining buzz about the band had long since been waned by the time it came back and my choice of driving music had moved on.

Neither Hope Of The States nor Metz were in the running for track of the day.

Could have gone for The Beta Band (Needles In My Eyes), Gruff Rhys (Negative Vibes) or even Neglekted by Afghan Whigs, who are on the possible new additions shortlist.

But the last track harkened back to another band who once burned brightly – Arcade Fire’s Neighborhood #1 Tunnels.

Get a feeling will hear plenty more from them soon…

Neighborhood #2 (Laika) to Never Destroy Us

Arcade Fire definitely very much in the neighbourhood (proper spelling) to kick off a landmark stretch through the A-Z, which kicked off with the other three Neighborhood tracks (#2 twice, #3 and #4 – or Laika, Power Out and 7 Kettles as they are more commonly known) from their debut album Funeral.

Bought as a present, probably for Christmas, it was – probably still is, not one go back to often – a terrific album and for a good few years, was very much in the Arcade Fire camp.

A former, floppy-haired colleague had misgivings, declaring them always on the edge of trying to burst into something epic whether the song needed it or not and he has a point, but after two great albums – sandwiched between one best described as… meh, but which also contributed title track Neon Bible to this section – the standard has fallen.

Kept the faith and kept on getting new work, but it has been a case of diminishing returns and that boat has sailed without a major return to form.

Still, we will always have Funeral. And The Suburbs.

The landmark which followed later in this chunk of tracks was so good, we passed it twice.

Once upon a time, the wonderful iPod Classic would tell you what number track the journey had reached and keeping track has become a bit of a pain. To the point where, for lengthy periods, just have not bothered.

Easiest way is just to cut and paste my library into a document and let that tell me. Right up until that stopped working.

But a reset on my Macbook cleared up memory to try that again and we hit the 10,000 track mark shifting some heavy weights, courtesy of Bob Mould and Nemeses Are Laughing and the accolade was taken.

Right up until got in the car, plugged in my phone and the screen flashed up track 9,983.

The lazy option – which very nearly took – was to ignore that and stick to the document. The accurate version involved deleting a few files downloaded with albums – videos and digital booklets – which the car stereo was not counting.

And so, this section was rounded off with the actual 10,000th track (probably), Never Destroy Us by The Dears.

Track of the day? It could have been Arcade Fire again, either Laika or Power Up. Possibly was. But that is being a bit boring.

Instead, the honour goes to one of those artists who always think should know better and welcome when he does pop up, Steve Mason and Never Be Alone.

Never Ending Circles to Never Mind

On the treadmill and bikes in the gym are touch screens which allow you to choose various scenic spots from around the world to virtually exercise through. Rather than look out the window at the passing traffic.

Among them are a couple in Patagonia, including the Fitzroy trek from the edge of the small Argentinian town of El Chalten to the foot of the giant peaks which tower over it amid some quite amazing scenery.

It all brings back memories of walking that very route – not all of them good.

If you select the run option – not that there is much running going on – it will take you through the arch marking the start of the route, along a flat bit and then swing left, past some woman standing in the way and onto a set of irregular steps fashioned into the first uphill section.

That first step became my nemesis – the kind of uneven climb which, apparently, my knee does not like.

So every time it appears on the screen, my mind goes back to when stepping on it in real life sent a jolt through my left knee. And then another one. It did settle down and, fuelled by jelly baby rewards every kilometre, we made it to the foot of the steep final ascent a couple of hours later.

Discretion – and a nagging ache – took control and so while the others scrambled up the steep final slopes to some pretty spectacular scenery, ate my lunch and, driven on by some strong painkillers, made a rapid descent back to town.

Not to a much-needed shower or some form of attention on my knee – that came back in the UK when, with everything locked down, a physio diagnosed my kneecap has a habit of popping out of the groove it sits in (since confirmed) and talked me through a few sessions and rehabilitation programme online.

Instead, returned to the bar outside our hostel, beckoned in my those who had not ventured out on treks or had long since turned back.

And there, bar a quick break in the waffle place next door, we stayed until well after the one decent beer they had on tap had run out and well after the liquid painkillers had done their job.

All that rolled back into my head in the treadmill warm-up for the day’s circuit. Every other Thursday is normally a session with the personal trainer, but remarkably it is her laid up with a knee injury – apparently they do ski in Australia – so this was circuit day to round off a heavy loading week.

The treadmill kicked off a short session which only took us a limited way beyond 10,000, from Chvrches to The Replacements, via Idles (two versions of Never Fight A Man With A Perm, title of the day), some new Phoebe Bridgers (Never Going Back!), Drive-By Truckers (Never Gonna Change) and Elastica (Never Here).

But the day after reading a list which put it as The Smiths’ best song (it is not, by a long way), track of the day is Never Had No One Ever.

And the video is three days after saw them at Gloucester Leisure Centre.

Never My Love to Never Talking To You Again

Of all the thoughts going through my head in the last five minutes of a half hour uphill session on a gym bike, Never Stop was not one of them.

The complete opposite, perhaps, but not that.

But that was the musical accompaniment, the first of four versions of one of Echo And The Bunnymen’s overlooked earlier singles which provided a good chunk of the tracks from Lambchop to Husker Du.

Lay down your raincoat and groove.

Well, once you have finished the ride and your legs start working properly again.

Never Turn Your Back On Mother Earth to New Rose

At some point in my school years, we were given some English homework to write a poem. Simple as that. Write a poem.

Sure there was more involved. Probably some reading as well, but forgotten about that – wrote an A-level mock essay on a book that to this day have never read. DH Lawrence, possibly.

What made this poem slightly different – and memorable enough to recall for this tale – was the best efforts would be entered into a poetry competition. Not a school one, this was for a literary festival in Stroud.

Sat in my attic bedroom, poetic inspiration arrived from the music blaring out of the inevitable headphones – far more of a distraction than drowning out any noise that always claimed whenever my parents suggested they did not make for ideal working conditions.

They had a point. If much work was actually being done.

The musical choice that night must have been The Jesus & Mary Chain’s (still) wonderful Psychocandy – the album which taught me music could be harmonious and noisy at the same time – for at some point, the idea popped up to use it as a muse.

Linked together as many song titles from the track listing as possible into a few vaguely coherent verses, slapped the title Psychocandy on top (complete with credit to the Reid brothers), handed it in and forgot about it.

Until somehow it was awarded second place in the competition and an invitation to a prize ceremony – complete with recital by the winning authors – on a Saturday afternoon.

Not sure did too much during my time at school to make my parents proud – although my father always harked back to praise from my first year form/music teacher for having the common sense to put my arms on the strings to deaden the noise when had my head inserted into a piano for a loud playing of the school song (Carmen Cryptiense – can still remember the first verse, even in Latin) as a punishment for something.

But my mother proud enough she even agreed to come and watch me play rugby on a Saturday morning, over the Golden Valley in Cheltenham, for the only time so we could head from there straight to the ceremony.

Hanging out in the backs, put a kick through from which we scored a try – possibly the winner, who knows? Certainly had no idea, had been hit late, high and was lying in a crumpled heap in the mud – knocked out briefly for the first of two times in my playing career.

Nowadays, would have been ushered off. Would certainly have failed an HIA.

But this was the mid-1980s, finished the last few minutes, showered and was rushed across the county to make my mother proud.

Trouble is, by this time the after effects of the hit had taken hold, was white and shaking. And, complete with the new short, spiky haircut my mother hated, the fairly fresh scar from eight stitches above my eye (another story involving a night out and a shelf in a club toilet) and a growing bruise on my other eye, recited a poem entitled Psychocandy.

The two old women sat in front of us were adamant my poem should have won, especially given what they now believed to be the drug-addled story behind it. Was in no state to correct them.

That whole tale popped into my head as Never Understand popped up twice early in the latest – and fairly long as it soundtracked much of a day off – section from Neko Case to The Damned, through the Nevers and into the News.

Not sure if it was one of the song titles used to get poetic – think more miserable mid-80s indie lyrics than anything too flowery, rhyming or actually any good, although it was the first thing published with my name attached – but it was certainly a contender for track of the day.

We had multiple entries for White Denim and multiple versions of the same song from Lambchop (The New Cobweb Summer), Joy Division (New Dawn Fades) and Red House Painters (New Jersey).

And hard to look past three appearances for A New England – one original from Billy Bragg, two for the Kirsty MacColl hit. Expected it to be the other way round.

But the distinction goes to a former Travel Marmot track of the year – New Order T-Shirt by The National, which also popped up with a live version (see below).

Might have had a job cramming that title into a poem.

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N Dakota to Nearly Daffodils

N is for new – a new letter, new tracks, new blog posts on the musical journey through my iPod from A-Z and a new way of marrying them all together.

Since this whole journey started 12 years ago, the music has veered from centre stage to providing a jumping off stage by sparking some memory to write about or an apparent afterthought, shoehorned on the end of a rant or musings on whatever had jumped into my mind.

But for the next few weeks – before the A-Z goes on hiatus while posts from Africa take over – there is a fresh way of doing it, a musical diary with brief chunks on what each day has thrown up.

When the post is long enough, will set it free into the light of day.

The idea is to get through a good chunk of tracks before heading back to the northern hemisphere and also to shine the spotlight on a few different artists.

Also means do not have to think too hard for subjects or find that much time while Africa preparations – and blog posts – fill a lot of the coming weeks.

As a bonus, rather than the same artists hoovering up much of the attention – rather inevitable, given they are the ones who soundtrack key parts of my life – there will be stretches when others come to the fore.

As evidenced by the first seven days of musical offerings…

N Dakota to Nameless Faceless

Monday after work, even finishing at 4pm, means a busy time at the gym. It is a younger crowd than in the mornings with a fair few regulars.

There are the guys on nodding terms from when we were the last ones left waiting outside when the fire alarm went off, the young couple who are in most days (at least she is), staff from the dentist and doctor surgeries next door and the two guys, with their baseball caps at jaunty angles, who spend most of their time staring at the phone while the other one occasionally tries a couple of half-hearted lifts.

And the young lad whose attempts to chat up some of the women would probably go a lot better if he was not wearing his school gym shirt.

The opening musical stretch of N tracks took us from Parquet Courts – one of those bands people keep recommending, but never understood why – to Courtney Barnett and two versions of Nameless Faceless.

Not sure she is really suited to acoustic versions.

Having started in North Dakota, we headed through NY (Doves – who have never matched the sheer thrill of pounding in a small, sweaty Cardiff indie club) and Wales with a bit of Gwenno.

Cabaret Voltaire popped up with Nag Nag Nag, in this instance from a Rough Trade compilation but which first popped up on an NME compilation tape.

Indie City – from 1988, apparently – came via sending off a coupon in my weekly, ink-smudged new music fix before you could just go online and sample new music. And apparently after a multi-week A-Z of every band who had appeared in the indie charts.

It introduced teenage me to some greats tracks which still listen to – Nick Cave’s finest hour Tupelo (renamed Buffalo after a bar in Cardiff on a few nights out), Death Valley ’69 by Sonic Youth, Up The Hill And Down The Slope by The Loft and Aztec Camera’s We Could Send Letters – as well as the likes of The Fire Engines, Gang Of Four, Robert Wyatt and This Mortal Coil.

To say nothing of The Freshies with I’m In Love With The Girl On The Virgin Manchester Megastore Checkout Desk. Might have to search that one (and a few others having dug out the track listing) out again.

Maybe not There Goes Concorde Again by And The Native Hipsters (although that is waiting about 4,500 tracks away).

Track of this section was a close one with nothing really jumping out – Nabokov not Fontaines DC’s finest, Naeem by Bon Iver came close, but the one which really caught my attention was Naked Souls by Bill Callahan.

Which is increasingly true about his stuff.

Nancy’s Got A New Boyfriend to National Shite Day

There’s a man with a mullet going mad with a mallet in Millets

National Shite Day – Half Man Half Biscuit

Tuesday morning and the gym is a bit quieter – just the two of us in there at one point as the musical A-Z took us through 18 tracks from Hamell On Trial (album largely forgotten after being bought off the back of a single song) to Half Man Half Biscuit – very much not forgotten.

And early on it was largely tracks by bands that have never really grabbed me, despite being held in huge regards by other people – Tame Impala (Nangs), Neutral Milk Hotel (Naomi) and, most baffling of all, The Libertines (Narcissist).

Manic Street Preachers (Nat West – Barclays – Midlands – Lloyds) are a level or two above that, but do not quite get the reverence in which many hold them.

But they arrived, on the heels of Nashville Parent by the unsung Lambchop, ahead of a strong finish and some contenders for the track of this section (which appears to be a unplanned thing).

On other days, National Anthem could well have taken the crown – one of the better offerings from post-OK Computer Radiohead – but two tracks, appearing twice each, share that accolade.

First up Natalie’s Party by Shack (and Michael Head in solo, live guise) from the truly wonderful HMS Fable album – mistakenly overlooked when considering great opening tracks in a previous post.

And from just across the Wirral, National Shite Day – Nigel Blackwell’s classic wander through a bleak few hours in (not so) modern Britain, complete with bus/train replacement services, sausage rolls, “the rubber-faced irritant Phil Cool”, Primark FM, bad pavement etiquette when leaving shops, Stockard Channing, Stringy Bob, sanderlings and that wonderful line about Millets, a shop had to check still exists.

Live in Australia. More than aware mullets are still a thing.

Native Woman to Natural Light

Natural Shite Day came a bit too early – summed up large chunks of the day.

Not that busy at work – certainly been a lot busier – but nothing went in a straight line with several lines running at the same time to keep untangled. Not sure they were all without knots by the time handed over to London and signed off.

Thursday after work at the gym sees a lot of the same faces as earlier in the week, plus a bloke who decided the best place to do his stretches was in the middle of my little – already condensed – circuit.

Lunging around him holding a heavy bell failed to shift him, think the message finally got through when the risk of getting hit by a swinging kettle bell became a reality.

Circuit day to round off the week’s programme is short and sharp, so we only made it through seven tracks – several of them quite long – from Gregory Isaacs to the Drive-By Truckers.

One of them a far more expected inclusion on the A-Z.

Not the strongest of selections, the once inescapable Moby reminding us of his presence with Natural Blues while Bill Callahan (Natural Information) continued his welcome run of popping up up fairly frequently.

But pick of a limited bunch goes to Kevin Morby’s Natural Disaster – someone had largely, and apparently wrongly, overlooked until a conversation with a colleague in London as he handed over to Australia pointed me in his direction.

No memories if that was ahead of a good or shite day.

Natural Rhapsody to Navegando

Once upon a time, Friday after work meant going to the pub. And staying there. For quite a few hours.

Nowadays, it is the gym and for a much shorter time. Although chances are there may well be something alcoholic a bit further into the evening.

Bit of a bonus session so no actual planned programme and, shorn of much inspiration to draw one up, stuck to half an hour (well, nearly) on the bike. Looking at either the petrol station opposite the gym or the rather more picturesque scenery of choosing on the screen.

Just eight songs from Jonathan Wilson to Drugstore, via a couple of bands (Wild Beasts and Metz) that fall in the when did those get downloaded category, the Pixies (The Navajo Way) and Nausicaa (Love Will Be Revealed) by Cameron Winter.

Never quite warmed to his solo stuff as much as Geese.

Track of the day? Let’s go with Nature’s Child by SG Goodman (with Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy), edging out Naturally It’s You by Michael Head & The Red Elastic Band.

Navigator to Nearly Daffodils

Used to avoid Sundays – and weekends in general – at the gym. It was always an after-work activity, not designed to interfere with a restful couple of days, especially when you work regular weekends.

That downtime is to be cherished, not spent sweating and straining in public.

But in a total reversal, they have almost become the preferred time alongside just a few others committed enough to get on with their own programme and plenty of room – have been the only one in there a couple of times, which is a bit odd.

Although with only four people in on a Sunday, two of us were still trying to use the same part of the gym at the same time.

The musical accompaniment to a few stretches and some increasingly testing cardio took us from The Pogues to English Teacher and within sight of 10,000 – a bit of a download session of new and upcoming albums shunting Nearly Daffodils to track number 9,976.

The latest selection gave us Iggy Pop with Nazi Girlfriend. And (fill in your own joke from that) a bit of Morrissey, with the biggest surprise that he did not cancel. Neal Cassidy Drops Dead did little to change any view of his later solo output.

Teenage Fanclub, one of those upcoming albums downloaded, provided something a bit older with Near You. A nice touch of something summery as the sun breaks out and able to go to and from the gym in shorts for the first time in a while.

It is not yet, according to my wife, fake spring in Canberra when people get excited about improved weather, only for winter to pop up for a final assault.

She would, no doubt, have dismissed offerings from Idles (Ne Touch Pas Moi) and Deafheaven (Near) as shouting – have not exposed her to much Bob Mould, sandwiched in between with Neanderthal, to get her views.

But it is more the guitars that are turned up with Bob. They were ringing in my ears for days after seeing Sugar live twice in a few days many years ago.

The guitars are turned down a bit in REM’s Near Wild Heaven, one of the candidates for track of the day and another prompt to give Out Of Time a rethink. Couple of songs well down their list rather colour the view of some really pretty good ones.

But think track of the day goes to our closer, Nearly Daffodils. More ideas in one track than many albums and most of them just about come together.

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Agony Freak to Magnolias

Despite how it might seem at times, not sure the alphabetical journey through my musical collection is long enough to be split into eras.

But there are distinct periods – occasionally of complete inactivity – through which it is possible to map the progression of the journey.

Sort of a digital version of geology, but rather than thousands of years of pressure revealing layers in the rocks, this is mapped out by the evolution of digital music.

If my memory serves, we have gone through two iPod Classics – the much preferable ones with the wheel they do not make any more – and three iPod Touches.

Two of which are still going and will head to Africa, albeit one with a cracked screen because it was in my back pocket after supplying pre-wedding music and forgotten about until the photographer asked us to sit on a rock.

The much newer, more expensive phone emerged unscathed and has provided most of the music over the last year, if only because it means fewer things to cart around the gym.

There has been a few pair of headphones along the way, from in-ear cables, over-ear cables and a couple of pairs of bluetooth headphones which, this week, have been supplemented by a pair of ear buds.

Which am pretty much guaranteed to lose at some point.

If how the music is provided has changed, so has how and when it is listened to (if not the volume, whatever the digital warnings keep saying) for starters, not the only one in the house so blaring it out is no longer an option.

But my listening habits have evolved rather more naturally than that.

There was a time when barely stepped outside without headphones clamped over my head, a habit which started with various Walkmen (other brands were available – and cheaper) taking the dog for a walk.

Music was invariably plugged in while driving – unless listening to sport on the radio – and on the bus when my long-serving car finally came to the end of the road ahead of going to Africa, when the headphones were never too far away during truck days.

The lure of long sessions listening to music helped take me on long walks and to the gym while getting conditioned for heading back on the road in South Africa but, whisper it quietly, have increasingly left the house without headphones as the years have rolled in.

The bulk of the A-Z listening these days, bar the odd catch-up session at home when normally pick other options to listen to, is again back in the gym.

Which has become part of the routine. If not quite daily, usually four or five times a week – the advantages of being glued to UK time while working in Australia and finishing at 4pm for half of the year between clock changes – which means progress through the alphabet is at a decent rate.

That is not the only advantage of going to the gym. The others are a bit more expected.

In the early days of the blog, wrote a few times about how getting fit was pretty much a fixture at the top of the to-do list. Mainly because never did anything about it and it just kept getting pushed onto the list for the next day, week or month.

Was fit enough to deal with Africa, just not as fit as would have liked, so did something about it before heading to South America, just not quite what was planned.

Managed to lose a fair amount of weight, but fitness was hit – almost inevitably, given my record – by injuries.

The first, totally inevitably, was my back from pushing too hard too early in the gym. The second, a calf issue, popped up amid a lot of swearing as attempted a couch to 5k programme.

A couple of weeks off was not quite enough as the calf went pop again pretty much instantly, the osteopath imposing a ban on running (more than happy to oblige) ahead of a gradual return via a static bike and a programme of my own invention, designed to get me in shape to walk the Inca Trail.

Not sure anything can really prepare you for that, especially flat walks alongside a canal, but lengthy sessions on treadmills with the incline being constantly increased did the trick and headed to South America in good shape.

And walking at the same speed which the treadmill had been set to, right up to the point the path really pushed uphill.

Lockdown, a knee issue aggravated first on a Patagonian hillside – with the very step on one of the options on the gym’s treadmill screen – and an uneven Gloucester pavement (which ended any lingering desire to get off the couch and run 5k, as well as prompting physio sessions via Zoom) and lack of motivation as the world closed down did little for my fitness or waistline.

Joining a local gym was a fairly early thing ticked off the list after arriving in Australia, only for an induction session – which ignored building up fitness in favour of seeing how close they could push me to throwing up on the ski erg machine – to squash any residual enthusiasm.

Attendance was erratic, but with getting fit again topping the to-do list for another African adventure, headed back, got in conversation with a new personal trainer and took the plunge.

And 10 months later, it has paid off.

Not going to be running any marathons or considering a comeback to rugby, but feeling the benefits.

That ski erg, avoided like the plague for so long, is now just a warm-up and while some of the positions suggested for stretches remain a pipe dream and a few sessions with the trainer have had me regretting my choice of breakfast (or lack of it, big mistake), more than happy with my progress.

For starters, no longer feel an outsider among the gym bunnies. Belong there, doing my thing which has got me fitter, stronger and more flexible. Well, a bit for the last one.

And, a niggling bicep apart, not even injured (he says, touching wood, hoping not to jinx it).

The back still hurts. Have learned to live with that over the last 30 years. But stretch it off, walk away and come out of the gym feeling fine. Even good and bouncing. Well, some of the time.

Will keep going, working through my three personalised programmes a week with one or two more thrown in, until we head to Africa, soundtracked for the next few weeks by songs beginning with N.

Which will take their place in another new era for the blog.

We have worked our way through a few different approaches to the music on the blog – shoehorning it on the end of something totally unrelated, focusing purely on the music, a mix of the two approaches and even a couple of live posts.

But for the coming weeks, we will turn the focus back on the music with a few posts in a diary style – whatever we lesson to each, be it just a couple of tracks or a few hours worth of listening, will pick out the pick of what pops into my head while listening (the shareable bits at least).

Will post when there is enough to make it worthwhile.

It should help keep things moving as the pre-Africa to-do list continues to tick along, as well as focus on the music and use some of the thoughts which pop into my head while listening, but which have to make way for length.

Or have simply forgotten.

That will kick off with N, a relative sprint of 544 tracks beginning with number 9,892, but before then we need to mop up the tracks from A-M which have been added in to the collection earlier in the journey.

Which are largely the new additions since we started M in March, the tracks and albums jostling for position in the best of the year lists – helped by time to get to know all of them on the back of a truck and the fact there is likely to be few, if any, new additions after a potential rush of downloads in early October.

As well as making regular appearances on those lists – to the point a category has been invented for her a couple of times – Phoebe Bridgers soundtracked the injury-stricken pandemic attempt to run five kilometres with Punisher (top of the list in 2020).

And she has soundtracked the last couple of days with her new album Lost Weekend.

First impressions are good and her best work has a habit of revealing itself on repeated listens, so that is the plan among the A-Z for the next few days at least.

Was a bit non-committal on lead single Lost Boys for the first couple of listens, but once it peeled away the layers and took root in my head (to mix any number of expressions), it revealed itself as vintage Bridgers.

The as-yet unclear end-of-year lists may start to take shape with a few more listens.

Man/Woman/Chainsaw’s debut album was released just in time to sneak a few tracks into the catch-up – whether they make it onto the list come the end of the year, but the early signs are pretty good (although not quite as sold as on regular reader appears to be).

They are a young band that almost do what it says on the tin.

They have a man singing, a woman singing, they have… well, maybe not quite a chainsaw but there’s something akin to some decent gardening equipment when the kick it up a gear.

If there is anything akin to a chainsaw in this section, it comes from Sugar.

That same regular reader blames us seeing them twice in a few days for his tinnitus.

My hearing – despite attempts to persuade my wife to the contrary at times – survived intact, although had only just recovered from the first one by the time we went again (although did twist an ankle in the mosh pit, which probably tells you how long ago it was).

Tinnitus or not, my gig companion has seen the reformed band, while Australia has had to make do with a couple of singles. It is not Copper Blue, but Bob Mould releasing new music is always a good thing.

Slightly – well, much – quieter, Kevin Morby and Bill Callahan cropped up fairly regularly on the catch-up journey from Snail Mail to Rosalia, and certainly need more attention, as did Courtney Barnett, The Twilight Sad (fuzzy Scottish shoegaze), Mitski and The Coral.

The Mary Wallopers cropped up with three new tracks (some of their next album will have to wait for the next catch-up), at least one of which is likely to annoy anyone draping themselves in a flag rather than understanding of the history of why it might upset some people.

Particularly some near neighbours.

Aldous Harding and Cardinals still have some work to do to grab attention – Cardinals in particular, hotly tipped and enough good ideas which somehow get overtaken by something which steers it in another direction.

It is not all this year’s stuff, there are a couple of albums from last year was possibly a bit late to (although one managed an honourable mention on the last list).

Nick Cave’s Live God provided a few tracks to this stretch, all of which were very welcome videos – particularly the wonderful version of Into My Arms.

Cave is one of those artists always felt should cherish and know more about, but increasingly coming to the conclusion that this is the best way to interact with him.

An entire album of this stuff is just a bit too much. A bit overwrought.

And then there was Rosalia.

Resisted for a while, but despite all the red flags – opera, classical, foreign languages, an album about saints – Lux is just a really good album.

Totally bonkers, but demanding of attention, however long the journey.

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Mr Ambulance Driver to Myxomatosis (Judge, Jury & Executioner)

Raising the bat (or laptop) for a triple century did not seem the right way to mark reaching 300 posts on Travel Marmot.

If only because only my wife would probably notice and think it a bit odd. The cat, if awake, is likely to bolt or stare unimpressed at such behaviour.

Debated something a bit more spectacular or downright bizarre, after all that seems to be the way major milestones are being marked at the moment.

My wife and the cat would get close to the size of the crowd at some landmark events in Washington.

If it was not the middle of winter in Canberra – yes, it does get cold in Australia – could have built somewhere for some blokes to fight out on the lawn and show due respect to the founding fathers of the blog (two blokes chatting in a pub, one of whom took the conversation seriously and created a website while the other was sleeping in his spare room).

Will have to make do with jet washing the area out the front of the house which has gone a bit green where the bins are kept.

Lot less hassle and more successful than getting rid of anything green and mouldy from a reflecting pool.

Instead, we mark the occasion with a couple of my favourite songs from bands who pop up often in this A-Z journey through my iPod and who lit up the latest section from Mr Ambulance Driver to Myxomatosis (Judge, Jury & Executioner) as we weaved our way to the end of the M tracks

Halfway through the alphabet.

And look back on how we got this far.

Post number one was not originally on Travel Marmot. It was not even my first foray into blogging, but that – from my first bout of longer travelling, six weeks on my first visit to the US – was shared with someone else on another hosted site.

My first solo post was written, as memory serves, on an old, far too heavy laptop balanced on my lap on the sofa in my front room in Splott, Cardiff in January 2010.

Like so many which followed, You Gotta Keep the Devil Down In The Hole stole a title from a song (the theme to one of the greatest TV shows, no arguing) which is still a fair way off in the A-Z.

It served as the opening post in the countdown to my London to New York trip, which started a couple of months later, and was housed on a now defunct blog hosting site – chosen by two of us, largely because they heralded that we would have a permanent record of our trip.

Up until they closed down.

At that point, had no intention of keeping the blog going beyond the end of the trip

But then came that conversation in a London pub – which was revisited outside one in The Rocks in Sydney not that long ago – and the Travel Marmot site was born in March 2014, initially populated by those travel posts from the previous sites and some random others, mostly originally written for newsletters for a small overland company.

Overland travel gave plenty to write about in the early days – as it will for the next 15 months or so, again in Africa – and we also saw the birth of the A-Z journey through my iPod (as it was totally then, rather than my phone and laptop taking their share of the strain).

Quite how the idea came up is a bit hazy but certainly stems from another random conversation. This one in the office (remember them), rather than the pub.

The idea of listening to my iPod in alphabetical order had been floated before, had even started a bid to do that which somehow stalled fairly early. It would have been a much shorter journey back then.

Think might have mentioned both that and a desire to fill the gap on a travel blog when not actually travelling in close proximity during a chat at work and someone came up – possibly in Cornish – with what seemed like a good idea at the time.

Twelve years and 9,779 tracks later, 7, 163 to go – keeping a track on the exact number has been a bit of an evolving saga which might get to before we hit that landmark – it largely still is.

It has not been a constant journey. There have been lengthy breaks in both alphabetical music and blogging.

Often because was listening to other stuff, occasionally because was not getting the opportunity to give time to bouts of plugging myself into the music, more commonly because the music and the writing were not in sync.

And often because just needed a break.

There are certainly lengthy periods of silence or just the occasional post. Mainly because was spending all day in front of a screen at work and the last thing on my mind in the evenings was doing the same.

Travelling, moving to Australia and getting married have also kept me pretty occupied between A and the end of M.

But back in the swing of blogging, the A-Z remains a good idea – discovering (and rediscovering) tracks hidden away in the depths of my collection, along with the tracks and artists which you would expect as major landmarks along the way.

With the A-Z soundtracking trips to the gym, been making pretty good progress – both listening and writing – and while not returning to the challenge of writing a blog post a day for a month any time soon (my wife is under instructions to put a stop to any suggestions that is a good idea), do have an idea for a daily approach to rattling through the tracks over the next couple of months.

Once we have had a bit of a catch-up and before it takes a necessary break – found very quickly in Africa last time, keeping two blog strands going on the road is not really on.

Not travelling to blog, but blogging because of travel. Not adding to the task of capturing the journey for posterity. And stupid jokes.

The end of M – from The Flaming Lips to Radiohead – was dotted with a fair few heavy hitters as we worked through a section dominated by the Mr/Mrs/Ms and My songs.

Two tracks, as mentioned right up there in paragraph eight, in particular.

Echo & The Bunnymen, as explained to somebody at work in a conversation which somehow linked Simon Pegg, The Daily Express, GCHQ, nuclear obliteration and my first gig, were my teenage band and pop up regularly on this musical journey (is it long enough to be an odyssey yet?).

Have written several times (it is 300 posts, you expect original thought all the time?) about how the second side of Ocean Rain is about as near perfect stretch of songs as exists anywhere.

Also wrote about how disagree with Ian McCulloch that The Killing Moon is the greatest song ever written. It is not even the greatest song on the B side of Ocean Rain (which is pretty stiff competition).

That is the oft overlooked My Kingdom.

Once had to submit at the last minute – because a better-known columnist had not bothered replying – my top 10 tracks of all time for a Christmas newspaper feature.

Pretty sure most of that top 10 would not still be on any such list. My Kingdom probably is. My White Devil, which popped up with two versions, is not but is among the best tracks on Porcupine.

My Favourite Dress was not on the list. Not sure at the time it would have been my pick of The Wedding Present catalogue.

But having gone back to them after a largely inexplicable fall out of favour it has pretty much emerged as the pick of their work, which features as often as anyone throughout this A-Z work.

John Peel had a point when he said: “The boy Gedge has written some of the best love songs of the rock n roll era. You may dispute this, but I’m right and you are wrong.”

My Favourite Dress is exhibit A (B, C and D given the four versions – one more than My Kingdom).

If anyone features as often in my musical collection as The Wedding Present – will actually check that one of these days, but know it is close – it is Ryan Adams.

Nowadays he may not elicit the same feelings as Dave Gedge – or as when those tracks appeared in my collection – but he did manage a rare feat on this journey of different songs from the same artist back-to-back (without them being linked in some other way).

For all his baggage, My Winding Wheel (four versions, two live) is still a great song. My Wrecking Ball (twice) maybe less so.

Must I Paint You A Picture is pretty high on the list of Billy Bragg songs on the A-Z and he is probably not far behind those two amid the most regular appearances, which also included My Youngest Son Came Home Today and The Myth Of Trust in the closing stages of this section.

As well as the closing track, Radiohead contributed My Iron Lung (from The Bends, their best album as an oft-visited pub argument contended) while other regular visitors included Pixies (Mr Grieves), Mrs Robinson (both The Lemonheads’ cover and Simon & Garfunkel’s cover), Wilco (two versions of Muzzle Of Bees, a welcome rediscovery) and Buffalo Tom (My Responsibility).

The Mr section gave us, probably not that surprisingly, something from The Killers, Mr Pharmacist by The Fall, Mr Wendal from the excellent Arrested Development debut album and three versions of Mr Tambourine Man.

Not sure The Flowers Of Hell (nope, me neither) really stood up to Bob Dylan or The Byrds.

Covers kept cropping up – Sid Vicious sneering his way through My Way, probably in between my own sneers on the leg press at the gym, while The Vines’ version of Ms Jackson more than held its own alongside Outkast’s original.

The Dream Warriors are far from frequent visitors but My Definition Of A Boombastic Jazz Style sent things in a rather different direction briefly, as did Eminem (My Name Is) and My Shot from Hamilton, just to cover the rap genre a bit wider.

We rewound the clock a bit to Catatonia (Mulder and Scully) and the eponymous track from Mull Historical Society.

And went even further back in time to My Perfect Cousin by The Undertones. The first song knew all the lyrics to, which came in handy when did it at karaoke.

Many years later. Probably about the same time as the first Travel Marmot post was written.

Suggest another 300 may come and go before try karaoke again.

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MKVI to Moya

Headlines have played a sizeable enough part of my professional life for some fairly firm opinions to take hold, opinions which were stirred by a couple which jumped out of social media feeds in the past few days.

Both started with the phrase “rugby player dies”, triggering annoyed shakes of the head and, after some time mulling it over in the gym, a reshaped topic for this blog post.

It is not quite as strong a reaction as to the phrase “popular cafe closes” or the word legend – banned on desks when my voice has carried any weight at all on the style guide.

It is, if it is to be used at all beyond its literal sense, to be saved for very few people. Not some bloke who has played a handful of games for the local team.

And if that cafe (shop, business, take your pick) was so popular, probably would not be closing.

But those complaints are as much about an old sub-editor shouting at clouds (somewhere along the lines of where this post was originally going).

My objection to the “rugby player dies…” headline is how much would hate that being used about me – these were not top-level players, but local club players who probably had so much more going on in lives cut short.

Yet someone opted to reduce their lives to that phrase, not because it was an accurate summation but because they thought it would attract more online clicks as people wondered if it was someone they had heard of or seen play.

Understandable, yes. Headlines are supposed to draw you into the story. But you can do that in other ways, providing a glimpse into the story without zeroing in on one tiny aspect.

It is not quite clickbait – whatever the people who shout that at any headline or story they dislike might think – but it is just a little… icky.

But, shouting at clouds apart, the reason it had me mulling things over while training – something largely avoided in my playing days – was it coincided with my former club captain posting an old programme from a representative game, full of names which either knew through playing, got to know to varying degrees through reporting or simply were names which take me back to those days of my youth.

Talking about my playing days, was a far better player if the person on the receiving end had no chance of having seen me play.

Was… OK. Rather like my school reports, could have been better if had applied myself and put in the work. Like actually turning up to training.

Rather like my days skiing, what happened after with a drink in hand rather took over from the actual activity as time wore on, but have plenty of good memories to look back on.

Did play a bit of mini rugby, but never really enjoyed playing until secondary school – even then it took a few years, having been cut from the school team in the early years before returning as we grew up and even managing to captain the first team a few times while retaking my A Levels (something to put on university forms at least).

Unlike many of my contemporaries, had not played for a local club side – which were thriving in Gloucester in those days – so was at a bit of a crossroads when left school and deciding what to do next.

Had a few offers from clubs – the nearest team would have made sense, being a few minutes walk/staggering home away, while one of my dad’s old teams made contact through people he knew.

But had pretty much decided on my school’s old boys team – was close enough to home, knew people there and had played well enough in the annual school v club match for them to welcome the idea.

Right up until the point one Friday night in the pub when asked if was available to play for someone else’s third team the next day and found myself agreeing, waking up groggily in the morning, cleaning off my boots and working out where the hell Gloucester Old Boys played.

Having found them, played well enough to be asked back – and promoted to the seconds the next week, if only because one of the first team props had been sent off – and so began six seasons at the Old Boys before injuries and the need to work on a Saturday afternoon cut short my playing career at 23.

The club secretary at the time was probably the most disappointed with my playing days ending – Norman had played with my father and, when he discovered the link on my first day there, proudly informed me of the family honour of the first player to be sent off for the club (back in the days when local rugby pitches were a little bit more of a free for all).

Dad always protested his innocence – he reckoned the second row behind him threw the first punch – but Norman was always keen for the completion of a family double. Came close a few times.

Those six years were studded with success – league titles up to the brink of the national leagues, County Cups, North Glos Combination Cups (the best sporting tournament, at least in those days) – although the fact those trophies coincided with my presence was entirely coincidental.

In my first season, when still a teenager, bounced between the second and third teams, dislocated my shoulder at least once, scored my first try and injured my back for the first time in the same match (which also involved a mass brawl which spilled onto the adjoining pitch and, details are hazy, a female spectator hitting players with an umbrella), had my first “Kermit” drink to mark my first try, and threw up my first Kermit out of my bedroom window which dried on the roof tiles to my mother’s annoyance.

There was also stuff on tour in Skegness, but what goes on tour…

And somehow took over the captaincy of the third team.

Probably because was too naive to spot a set up in the players’ meeting to elect one.

Biggest problem was actually having to turn up on training nights – not always easy with work – to sit on selection. Which for the thirds, until the fourths kicked into gear, was largely making a team of who was left. And filling in the gaps when players got called up to the higher teams.

That first season ended with a bemused teenage captain at the centre of a dispute after a draw in a midweek Combination Cup tie saw the two teams disagreeing over when a replay should take place – mainly due to one team’s reluctance to play on a Saturday because they had players unavailable (at least that is what the committee members who came running onto the pitch at the final whistle explained, imploring me to stand my ground in negotiations).

The fallout saw us kick off on the Saturday with no opposition, cup committee members resigning (which turned into another story as one was a friend of my father’s and worked across the road from my mother) and us going out in the next round.

Cup rules meant having played for the thirds, was still eligible to move up and plug a front-row hole for the seconds (coming off the bench early for them and playing for the thirds on successive nights at one point) in a semi-final.

We lost, but having looked around the first lineout and realised was the smallest player in either pack (am not small), it was an education. Not always pleasant, but certainly an experience to remember.

It gave renewed purpose and actually turned up to training throughout the summer (more throwing up after/during a couple of the sessions, this time not from drinking), to the point where was picked to go with the first team squad for a pre-season trial game.

Thrown into action for one of the periods, came off fairly pleased at my performance in a notable step up in level – right up to the point bent over to pick up a drink and could not get back up again.

The back problem which have lived with since had flared up and was told by a doctor my season was over, although the first of many (many, many) visits to an osteopath had me back in action by Christmas.

But the rest of my playing career was spent in the lower teams – bar the occasional call up the ranks – as made the decision, partly because of work, to play for fun with my mates. Have a lot of good memories of winter Saturday afternoons around the rugby pitches of Gloucestershire and, occasionally, a bit further away.

Was often out of position – spent best part of a season at full-back (when definitely out of position too often), as far away from the front row as you could find, to protect my back a little bit (probably should not have been playing at all, but hey, this was a young man’s logic).

Could catch high balls, kick and pop up occasionally on the crash ball close to the line. Just not so good in defence when any speedy back opted to do anything other than run straight at me.

Did make it on to the first team bench a couple of times, but this was before non-injury replacements and was only there as an emergency, plucked from the adjoining pitch at the last minute.

My main role at the club became as press officer.

The reports on our match and whichever team was playing at the same place were pretty easy. Trying to get the details of the other sides after everybody had downed a few beers could be a bit tricky.

As was trying to make sense of my notes the following morning.

But would knock them into some sort of shape, deliver them to the local paper and do a good enough job that they came calling and offered the job which took me from a district weekly to a city daily – and ended my rugby career, signing off with two tries against, ironically, the local side whose reports we carried in my first paper.

My first Saturday afternoon in the job saw an instant return to the Old Boys, refusing the offers of putting on a pair of boots to help out and undergoing a crash course in filing copy during a match for a Saturday night sport paper without a laptop or mobile phone (this was the mid-90s) and only a phone behind the bar, out of sight of the pitch.

The Old Boys took me further afield – a national cup clash with once-mighty London Welsh, complete with a future British and Irish Lion at number eight, at Esher – while took in the rest of the then booming local rugby scene.

We had two rugby writers – one did Gloucester, the other did the other 40-odd clubs in the region (was once told Gloucester had more rugby clubs per head of population than anywhere bar a place in New Zealand, possibly Auckland).

So those names on that programme became key figures in my working life, got to know some of them pretty well.

Travelled across the country with Lydney and Berry Hill (often on the team coaches, thanks to the very understanding men in charge – the much missed Gordon Sargent and Ian Seymour, who were endlessly patient with a young reporter), was held up against a clubhouse wall by a prop who did not like a comment in a cup game report and stood on top of a radio car to see over the crowd on a touchline during a match at Swanage. Filed my report drying out on the bus.

Even sat on the bench as emergency prop cover while reporting, although they had the same attitude as the Old Boys first team and suggested players fought through any injury which might have seen me enter the fray.

Much to my relief and that of the copytaker receiving my report down the phone.

As it progressed, my rugby career took me to Twickenham (to cover many of the names in that programme as Gloucestershire won the County Championship, somehow being handed a pass to the post-match reception), Millennium Stadium, Murrayfield, Stade de Colombes and even the holiest of holies, Kingsholm.

Refused to give up one of my fleeces to a former All Black who had been unwise enough to wear shorts and a T-shirt to coach a pre-season game at Ebbw Vale in August.

And was told to, in his exact words, fuck off by another All Blacks legend. One of those people you can use that term to describe. Big bloke, played on the wing.

That one was not my fault – the photographer who got in the way after had got the player to agree to a quick chat got even more extreme language from me.

Cannot say the same about the other big name – a childhood hero and a fixture in any greatest team have watched – who told me to… go away, abruptly. Was pushing my luck on that one.

Covering rugby gave me some great memories. There are many more tales to be shared – being followed around a ground by an elderly club press officer trying to find out which player was leaking stories to me, the interview through a tiny gap in a door as a player on the other side took a post-match drugs test and the official desperately tried to get rid of me spring to mind.

But nothing quite matches playing. Might not want it in any headline about my demise, but three decades-plus on, still consider myself a rugby player.

Not sure everyone who saw it would agree.

  • The original plan for this post had an easy link worked out from journalism to the latest section of the A-Z journey through my iPod – you know, the thing this is supposed to be about.

There was going to be some link between news, social media, flags, gammon and Model Village by Idles. Shouting my wife would call it, but this is top level shouting with a purpose.

They also contributed two versions of Mother on the journey from MKVI to Moya, from Speedy Ortiz to Godspeed You! Black Emperor ahead of the final stretch of M tracks. And a major landmark.

Both of which next time.

Godspeed You! Black Emperor occupied a fair amount of time during this section, not only because the shortest of their four entries – Moya, Mladic and two tracks which popped up back-to-back during the Mother section which we will not repeat – weighed in at more than 10 minutes.

Other repeat appearances came from regulars Radiohead (Morning Bell twice, Morning Bell/Amnesiac and Motion Picture Soundtrack), Billy Bragg (Mother Of The Bride and Moving The Goalposts) and REM (Monty Got A Raw Deal and Moral Kiosk).

Manic Street Preachers – a band go back on forth on, depending on how often have heard them recently – also popped up with two of their finer moments, Motorcycle Emptiness (twice) and Motown Junk.

They also provided a return to South Wales, where much of my rugby reporting took place, as did Public Service Broadcasting who provided a tenuous link to that trip down memory lane above.

They provided Mother Of The Village from their truly wonderful Every Valley album, which was recorded in Ebbw Vale, just around the corner from where spent many afternoons and evenings covering the Steelmen.

Just make sure you pack an extra fleece, even during summer.

There were multiple appearances for several songs – The Modern Age by The Strokes, Molly’s Chambers by Kings Of Leon (before they had all the rough, interesting edges smoothed off by corporate America) and three outings for Modern Art by Art Brut.

Which falls into the interesting discoveries section – soundtracking a lengthy session involving step-ups and squats – along with Molehills by Arab Strap and Deafheaven’s Mombasa. Calm by their standards.

Joanna Newsom, however, again failed to convince with Monkey vs Bear. Just do not get it.

But pick of the multiple tracks was Monkey Gone To Heaven by the Pixies.

Can go a while without hearing the Pixies, but when they do pop up – particularly this track which is one of the reasons fell in love with them in the first place – always feel the need to remedy that.

Loudly. Well, quietly, loudly, quietly, loudly…

There were other flashbacks from back when could take to the rugby field without fear of the impact on my back – Monkeys by Echo & The Bunnymen, The Sugarcubes grower Motorcrash, Movin’ On Up by Primal Scream and Prefab Sprout’s Moving The River.

I Am Kloot do not go quite that far back, but remember listening to The Moon Is A Blind Eye – and the whole The Sky At Night album, on the back of a recommendation from home – on the bus from Manhattan to JFK Airport (with a hangover) to round off my first lengthy bout of travelling.

Almost 16 years ago to the day.

And we had Motion Sickness from Phoebe Bridgers when she was still one to watch and on the verge of taking up residence in the Travel Marmot end-of-year lists.

A tradition which could return with a new album on the horizon.

But we will get to that in the very near future.



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