Crete gives me the elbow

Banana Palm (A5 sketchbook, Pilot pigment ink drawing pen)

There was a cold wind blowing in from the sea. It flapped and cracked the folded umbrellas as I sat and sipped my ouzo in an otherwise deserted taverna on the harbour front at Chania. Suddenly, a Native American squaw walked by clutching a stuffed fox with a bird in its mouth. A group of inflatable Spongebob Squarepants drifted eerily after her.

Had I read the signs, I should have been prepared for Fate leading me inexorably to an examination table in a hospital in Heraklion, with doctors cutting and tugging at little bits of my elbow, shaking their heads and exchanging knowing glances.

"You shouldn't laugh," Patsy123 had said. I'd made some kind of facetious remark about "Einstein a Go Go" when I first saw the Red Indian Chief with the big feather head-dress, who was playing an electronic flute.

But I wouldn't listen to her. No, I just wouldn't listen.

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Despite the six or seven stitches in my left elbow, I enjoyed the last few days in Crete. It was a time of political rallies. Pictures of New Democracy leader Costas Karamanlis were everywhere evident and the New Democracy rally was an exciting and turbulent affair, with car horns , music and Greek flag waving supporters thronging the streets.

By direct contrast, the KKE put up a poor show. Patsy123 and I watched the rally from the comfort of a cafe table near the Morosini Fountain, eating bougatsa. The speeches seemed dull and perfunctory and the rock band lacklustre. We'd hummed a few choruses of the Red Flag and hoped we might get the chance to join in the Internationale - the Left really does have all the best tunes, you know - but it was not to be. After a while they rolled up their flags and shuffled off out of the square looking dejected.

On our last night in Heraklion (and Crete, for that matter), we'd planned to sip an ouzo at a taverna we'd found the night before, then go off for what we hoped would prove a memorable meal. Instead, we found the ouzos was being sipped in a square destined that night to be the site of a rock concert in support of PASOK. So we stayed.

After all the usual sound checks, lighting checks, roadie walk-ons, eviction of small children from the stage, some guy from PASOK -presumably the candidate - made a satisfyingly short speech and the band came on. They were terrific and I'm still desperately trying to find out who they were. It might be that they go by the name of the lead singer - whoever she might be - or they may have a band name; I simply don't know. But they put on a storming concert, still going strong at 11.45, when we decided we really must go to find something to eat.

Less of a tourist place, more of a working city, bars and restaurants don't stay open very late in Heraklion, so we had to settle on a souvlaki joint, complete with formica-topped tables and dogged-eared menus.. Four skewers of pork souvlaki between us, with some chips , tzatziki, and pita bread, washed down with cold draught beer. Great.

A free rock concert and a souvlaki meal. Never mind the fancy food in an expensive restaurant. That was a night to remember.

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The banana palm? That was drawn from our balcony in Chania.

Rhythm Kings

What could be more fun than a load of old farts playing old fart music to an audience full of old farts?

A couple of nights ago, Patsy123 and I went to see Bill Wyman's Rhythm Kings. It was exactly as I've just described it and it was magic

Bill Wyman sat contentedly on his stool most of the time, surrounded by ace musicians like Albert Lee and Georgie Fame, who all had a go at lead vocals. Now and again even Bill took his "turn in the barrel," as he put it.. Beverly Skeet was getting over a bout of the 'flu and so couldn't perform I Put a Spell on You, apparently her usual standout number, but still lent excitement to the vocals.

The songs had been chosen to reflect the influence they'd had on all of the band members - songs by Mose Allison, Bob Dylan, Clifton Chenier, Ray Charles and like so.

To cap it all, Soul Man Eddie Floyd put in a guest appearance and was a show-stopper.

And then, when they would normally have done a number in tribute to Lonnie Donegan, who'd inspired them all, they were unexpectedly able to bring on Lonnie's son, Peter, who did an amazing rendition of his father's version of Frankie & Johnny, complete with Jerry Lee Lewis-style piano. His curse and his gift is that he's inherited his dad's nose, through which he sings in the family manner. From the live dates on his website it looks like the boy lives in the north-east.

A great night. A great band.

See you at the Beer Tent

The Frootbat emailed me today, telling me and Buddy K why he won't be going to the Bracknell Festival:

I think I'm going off big festivals. It's all the standing around, you know. They should have an Oldies section, with seats. And free bowls of bread soaked in milk. And secure walking stick parking facilities. In fact, I think I'm going off big gigs - I haven't forgotten my unpleasant experience seeing Public Enemy at Northumbria U. last year - the air of uncritical drunken worship almost, regardless of the quality of what was presented. Plus a floor so sticky you had to keep moving unless you wanted to be trapped in one place. Plus lots of students - one of whom said, "You lads don't look like Public Enemy fans." The cheeky young pup! If Chuck D had been in the audience, rather than on stage, I bet he would have been spluttering and complaining as well. DON'T, DON'T, DON'T, DON'T, DON'T KEEP TALKING SHITE! And if they'd had the Beastie Boys as support, I'm sure we'd have heard, YOU GOTTA FIGHT! FOR THE RIGHT! TO BE COMFORTABLE!

I won't be going either, but mainly because just as it starts I'll be getting back from a few days in London where I'll be soaking up the delights of the Hopper show at Tate Modern. I can't really afford the time or the money to turn round and go back down again.

But in a way I sympathise with the Frootbat's reasons. I never was much one for the big event. Give me a more intimate venue like the Live Theatre, the Corner House or even the Cluny (bad though the sight-lines are), and I can enjoy myself. Put me in a field full of geeks, nerds, drunks and stoners and I can enjoy myself for a while. Then I'll start to realise I've been downing the warm lager for some time and begin to wonder how long I'll have to queue for a pee.

And oh for a seat. I'm lucky in that I can stand for very long periods. This is good considering how much time I spend in front of an easel. But there comes a point where I really would like to sit down, and the ground is not made for the likes of me and my office-damaged back.

Late last year, Buddy K kindly bought us tickets to go to the Newcastle Arena to see Radiohead. Once there, I got pissed off immediately with the fact that even though we had seats, we were forced to stand up because the jerks in front insisted on doing so. During the quieter numbers it was obvious the rest of the audience thought it was cool to sit down. Our jerks, who could after all have stood on the Arena floor, didn't seem to think sitting was the thing to do at any time.

After the gig, when they were filing out, one of them said to Buddy K, "Sorry if we blocked your view." Gritting your teeth and smiling do not a pretty face make.

The light show was good, provided by some video engineers who clung perilously high up on the lighting gantry. But then, who really gives a shit about light shows? It's the music that counts.

And I've found it difficult to find any affection for Radiohead's music, so not knowing the songs didn't help the evening. I recognised some of the earlier stuff, which has a certain melodic quality. Thom Yorke's voice is perhaps better live because he inevitably has to shout, but the sound mix was pretty poor and much of the music came across to me as extremely loud, undifferentiated noise.

A great number of air guitars were in evidence and the arena floor was a sea of waving and punching arms; even cigarette lighters made an appearance amongst the mobile photo-phones.

The support band was Asian Dub Foundation who were thunderously loud (my right ear started to hurt and the air in my lungs was vibrating), but came across as interesting. For a while. After a while it seemed like a little went a long way.

Still, glad I went. It was an experience.

Hot News!

While helping CJ get rid of the Too Much Work Blues (ah, how I remember those) at the Sicilian restaurant, Pani's, tonight, I found myself with a face full of buccatini and no-one to talk to cos she'd gone to the loo. Looking up I found I was watching the "Hit Channel" on some Italian broadcast service. While a guy rattled on incomprehensibly over a video of some squawking bimbos, a banner ran across the bottom of the screen. If my Italian hasn't totally failed me, it seems Zak Starkly (sic), son of Ringo Star (sic) has joined Oasis and makes his debut with the English band at Glastonbury. Not hot news, huh? Do I care? Naah. I think it'll take more than Zak Starkly to pull their chestnuts out of the fire.

[Chestnut cliche provided by Over the Moon Services]