Here I am late at night, still slightly steamy from three bowls of rather spicy oxtail soup watching BBC 2’s Glastonbury coverage. Not something I had crossed as a must-see in the Radio Times but rather something that happened to roll round after Gordon Brown finished his pally chat with some BBC journalists on Newsnight.
Despite that I’m rather engrossed. The Arctic Monkeys are performing over the mud bath and mosh pit beneath them. Barely a year old and I find their songs intensely nostalgic (I’ve obviously acquired the time perspective of a teenager), listening to them as I did on many late night drives last summer coming back from gigs in the first few months of my doing stand-up.
Music back from gigs was split: if it was me all on my tod the the melodic and lyrical thrashing of the Arctic Monkeys was the thing to keep me perked up on an empty M4 or M1, whereas if there was a group of us (Robin Ince’s Book Club tour, as a rule) then we’d all sing along to the curiosity that is Sarah Vaughan interpreting the Beatles songbook.
Of course, if things took a pedestrian yet energised turn then it was E.L.O all the way.
Why I’m not really sure, but only a year later this all seems terribly evocative.
