Live

The Green Man - Hampshire Bamboo Exchange
After over two thousand years of continual gigging (a feat unequalled even by Bob Dylan) one might expect the Green Man's enthusiasm for live performance to be a little depleted. Not a bit of it. The eight foot tall forest spirit bestrides the stage with all the relish of a fox sinking its fangs into a lamb's neck, bellowing his doom-laden ecologically-themed lyrics to an audience clearly in the grip of some kind of primal fear. Many of them have brought along plants as instructed by the Green Man's web site and are astonished when he waves a massive gnarled hand and causes the amassed rhododendrons, busy lizzies and spider plants to burst into life, choking their owners with their writhing fronds. As the gig-goers sink to their knees, eyes bulging and hands clawing at their throats, the Green Man flashes a yellow grin from under the vast tangles of his leaf-entwined beard, throws back his huge head and roars with laughter.

Staring at a Blank Wall in Tesco Car Park Rather Than Watching Robbie Williams
The evening got off to a great start with me looking at the texture of a brick rather than hearing Williams sing "Let Me Entertain You." I then concentrated on the mortar for a bit, noting its creamy colour and pleasing convex shape instead of watching Williams prat about the stage singing "Rock DJ". My interest was then held for some time by a woodlouse skittering up the wall, its antennae twitching like an old man's moustache, and I reflected how lucky I was to be doing this rather than experience Williams gurn his way through "Millennium". Finally, I pondered on some graffiti reading "PC Brad is a nob!", wondering what prompted the writer to so publicly vent his spleen against this particular policeman, and ended up concocting quite an amusing little tale in my head involving a betting slip and a stolen felt-tipped pen. All of which was preferable to seeing Robbie Williams finish his set with an extended version of "Angels" while the crowd waved cigarette lighters above their heads. In short, highly recommended.

Joy Division - Live and Undead, Liverpool Foamatorium
Expectations were high as I joined the queue outside the Foamatorium last night. For most of my adult life I’ve cursed the fact that I never got to see Joy Division live in all their glory. Now, thanks to the miracle of modern science, I was going to have the chance.

Inside, the band kept us waiting for an excruciating hour and a half while they summoned Ian Curtis using the patented Perivale method. Finally, the living members of the band took to the stage, Hooky began to play the opening bass line to "Transmission" and a single spotlight lit up the empty microphone at the front. As the rest of the band joined in there was a commotion in the wings and Dr Perivale appeared, dragging a clearly distressed spectral Curtis towards the microphone with taut semi-transparent chains. The gig continued with Curtis reluctantly moaning and wailing his way through several of the band’s most fondly remembered tracks (including my personal favourite, "New Dawn Fades"), only needing the occasional application of the Spirit Lash from Perivale, who remained at his side throughout the concert, beady little eyes gleaming with manic glee.

I’ll never forget the look of cringing terror on Curtis’ pale, incorporeal visage when he was dragged back on for the encore and forced to replicate one of his famous epileptic fits by liberal applications of another of Dr Perivale’s instruments of control, the Soul Prong. The other band members shot uneasy glances at each other as Perivale goaded the spirit to even greater lengths, cackling maniacally and muttering “fools, fools…They said it couldn’t be done.”

So it was with a feeling almost of relief that we witnessed the performance drawn to an abrupt close as the ethereal Curtis rose up and strangled the incredulous Perivale using his own spectral chains. The apparition then rose to his feet, bowed and gradually faded as the first swells of heartfelt applause rang out in the cavernous concert hall. An evening to remember.