Lovely young man Paolo NutiniNow you all know how I like a Nice Young Man. And, watching Glasto over the weekend from the warm and dry haven of my living room, I saw a Very Nice Young Man Indeed. Paolo Nutini is no relation to the chocolatey stuff you spread on your croissants, and despite the name, a Scot. The most gorgeous creature I have drooled over since Paul Buchanan of The Blue Nile. Also a Scot, incidentally. In fact, it seems that the best looking men these days are Jocks. Stop preening, Peter, Mr Farty and Dr Maroon. Paolo can sing too.
Then I watched a sixties revival show on a German channel. That was a trip down memory lane. A pudgy and middle aged Gerry Marsden was followed by the Searchers, the Fortunes, the Tremeloes (sans Brian Poole), Barry Ryan, even a grey-moustached and portly Peter Sarstedt, miming badly to that uber-cheesy song about the woman who kept her Rolling Stones records up the Boulevard St Michel, and who shamelessly made no attempt whatsoever to even pretend to be playing his guitar, simply gripped it round the neck tightly and pretended to strum. The only ones who showed any integrity at all were The Troggs who sang "Wild Thing" live, and a still-cool-at-66 Eric Burdon, accompanied by Brian "Wheels on Fire" Auger on keyboards, who sang a quite original blues version of "House of the Rising Sun". I sat there transfixed, wondering who they would wheel out next. I would have put my money on Engelbert Humperdinck, but never got to find out, as I fell asleep before the end.
The Fete de la Musique this weekend was a washout, due to driving rain and gusty winds. The Belgians don't relish mud as much as we Brits do. I had to shelve my plan to hold my Glyndebourne picnic in the park (Pimms and Fortnum's hampers obligatory), where some live bands were due to perform, and instead repaired to the local hostelry where I fell over Spanish Goth sitting in the doorway nursing his hair.
The band who had just been battling with the elements in the park were a genial bunch of Brazilians who, if I am not mistaken, go by the name of Agua de Beber. At the end of their set they gathered up their instruments and legged it through the rain to the pub, where they got the beers in and launched into an all-afternoon jam session. There is nothing quite like getting nicely hammered on Belgian beers, listening (and, later, singing along loudly) to live samba music, on a wet and windy Sunday afternoon. Due to the inclement weather I was not wearing my trademark fruit basket on my head, so I had to use my gay umbrella as a prop to lead Spanish Goth and Angus McSporran up the high street in a conga line. Goth's bondage trousers made it a bit difficult to kick his leg out, but he shuffled along as best he could, and Angus kept time on a pair of chopsticks stolen from the Chinese restaurant while I entertained the neighbourhood with "BraZIL ... da da da da da da da daaaaa, da daaaaa, da daaaaaa ...."
Strangely enough I can't remember for the life of me how I got home.
Next Sunday I think I'll stay in and watch Songs of Praise.
Then I watched a sixties revival show on a German channel. That was a trip down memory lane. A pudgy and middle aged Gerry Marsden was followed by the Searchers, the Fortunes, the Tremeloes (sans Brian Poole), Barry Ryan, even a grey-moustached and portly Peter Sarstedt, miming badly to that uber-cheesy song about the woman who kept her Rolling Stones records up the Boulevard St Michel, and who shamelessly made no attempt whatsoever to even pretend to be playing his guitar, simply gripped it round the neck tightly and pretended to strum. The only ones who showed any integrity at all were The Troggs who sang "Wild Thing" live, and a still-cool-at-66 Eric Burdon, accompanied by Brian "Wheels on Fire" Auger on keyboards, who sang a quite original blues version of "House of the Rising Sun". I sat there transfixed, wondering who they would wheel out next. I would have put my money on Engelbert Humperdinck, but never got to find out, as I fell asleep before the end.
The Fete de la Musique this weekend was a washout, due to driving rain and gusty winds. The Belgians don't relish mud as much as we Brits do. I had to shelve my plan to hold my Glyndebourne picnic in the park (Pimms and Fortnum's hampers obligatory), where some live bands were due to perform, and instead repaired to the local hostelry where I fell over Spanish Goth sitting in the doorway nursing his hair.
The band who had just been battling with the elements in the park were a genial bunch of Brazilians who, if I am not mistaken, go by the name of Agua de Beber. At the end of their set they gathered up their instruments and legged it through the rain to the pub, where they got the beers in and launched into an all-afternoon jam session. There is nothing quite like getting nicely hammered on Belgian beers, listening (and, later, singing along loudly) to live samba music, on a wet and windy Sunday afternoon. Due to the inclement weather I was not wearing my trademark fruit basket on my head, so I had to use my gay umbrella as a prop to lead Spanish Goth and Angus McSporran up the high street in a conga line. Goth's bondage trousers made it a bit difficult to kick his leg out, but he shuffled along as best he could, and Angus kept time on a pair of chopsticks stolen from the Chinese restaurant while I entertained the neighbourhood with "BraZIL ... da da da da da da da daaaaa, da daaaaa, da daaaaaa ...."
Strangely enough I can't remember for the life of me how I got home.
Next Sunday I think I'll stay in and watch Songs of Praise.
10 comments:
The Brazilians know how to move and have an eye for the rump, just like us gorillas. I heard that Shirley Bassey stole the show at Glastonbury.
You forgot to mention the lovely your Brazilian girls 'shaking their booty' - shit, I forgot to mention it too and yet I can picture it quite clearly
What a wet weekend! Totalmente!!!
Everywhere you look... Wine, beer, Mojitos...You lucky buggers!!!
But Songs of Praise can be quite wild, I've been told!!
Granted, Paulo is marginally better-looking than me. Granted, he's a far better singer. But...feck. He is good, isn't he?
My mum used to love that Peter Sarstedt bloke. La da-de-dahhh da-de-dahhh da-de-da-da-da-dahhhhhhhhh. Or something.
GB, I missed Shirl. I wonder if she was wearing muddy wellingtons with her sparkly evening dress?
Goth, I'm more interested in lovely young men.
Cream, the Devil has all the best tunes, as we know.
Mr Farty, It was a terrible song but nobody who hears it ever forgets it. Peter Sarstedt's brother was quite famous too back in the day, went by the name of Eden Kane.
I forgot to mention that one of the Brazilians reminded Goth of Howard from the Halifax. Can you guess which one, children?
We have similar tastes. I saw Paoli Nutini and was interested enough to find out his name. I liked his singing too.
Peter Sarsted brings back memories of Paris. He was cool in the sixties.
'Where do you go to my lovely?'
Shirl was fantastic. She is about to have a renaissance! Don't you read my post anymore?
Pat, mea culpa, I don't have much time to get round the blogs at all at the moment, in fact hardly have time to keep my own up to date. And to cap it all, my home computer has died. All will be back to normal come August, hopefully.
That's a fabulous photo of you darling. Where did you get the silk-covered bra.
Brazil.... da da da da da da da dahhh.
Weren't no good looking jocks when I lived there, hence why I ran off with an Orish one. . .!!
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