JAWS at Exeter Cavern 22/01/14 : Squats, Nights out with Miley and a Caterpillar cake

Cavern’s own ‘KINK’ night; wooing students and kindred alternative musical sprits sparsely scattered over the west-country wide.  ‘The Big V’ play supporting in a splay of blackened red and glitter and forcibly feisty female vocals with subtle undertones of Portishead. ‘The Boy is Easily Broken’ we are told, attempting to set the scene for a throng of violent revellers to some avail. 

Yet deep in the burrows of the venue we find the Birmingham collective JAWS nestling, somewhat wearily following an 8 song set, ‘Stay in’ ‘Toucan’ and ‘Gold’ rousing crowds to a flurry of faux-american pop liberally laced with synths. 

They gather tentatively round the ‘VIP’ broom cupboard and comparatively luxurious toilet. Spirits are high with the birthday bassist Jake beaming after a spectacle of anthemic 90s infused ‘surf-pop’ numbers, cast adrift to Devonian shores. 

Ultimately in a style wholly true to myself I decidedly squat myself next to bubbling guitarist Alex Hudson, the bleached mushroom of delight and quietly inquiring as to ‘wouldn’t you rather just stand?’ and a cautious ‘mind the fire extinguisher’. Admittedly, first impressions were of surprising chivalry. 

‘Never been to Exeter, never in my life.. it’s alright though, a good show.’ Connor Schofield the lead singer acknowledges. A ha! I note the soft lull of the black county. Synonymous with the emerging B-town alternative scene, JAWS have supported the likes of contemporaries Swim Deep and Peace though I am firmly assured prior to the gig by a man posing at the merchandise stall with a tiny fringe that JAWS are the firmly righteous successors. ‘You learn from them I mean they were our first two tours. From that aspect you’re influenced yeah but musically not so much- you learn to be a bit more of a professional.’

They themselves formed in February 2012, a consequence of attending music college and living in Birmingham and ‘jos jammin together’. The band acknowledge Soundcloud as a vital vehicle for propelling artists in a media saturated world, they themselves taking to it as a medium for opening up their audience. This is one they themselves recognize as a young base around the ages of 16 often with a limited income to splurge on an LP (let alone be old enough to have any godforsaken idea what an LP is?).

Having spent a solid five minutes explaining the pronunciation of the collective sat before me to colleagues at various intervals throughout the day (‘It’s jaws. Not jewels. JAWS. J-A-W-S’ - followed by a frankly violent movement of my lower mouth in a gestural act) naturally, I was eager to uncover the motive behind this. 

‘Couldn’t think of a name.. wrote a load of s*** names and then watched James Bond, writing all the character names down; James, Moneypenny, Bond, Man with the golden finger, and then jaws. It was a rushed decision because we had this song we wanted to put online. If we could change our name we’d be called Geach and the Three Nuts.. or Geach and the Morons?’ a unanimous appreciation for Geach and his beauteous name is shared.

The online presence and the necessity for bands to maintain an air of internet savvy-ness is one that is prevalent and also significant to the genre, the rise of social networking sites playing a major role in publicity. ‘It’s the easiest and most accessible way to stream music for anyone putting music out’ Alex chirps, 'If you're a new band it's the best thing in the world, put your songs straight onto the internet and it can instantly go viral, it's all positive..literally anyone can have a Soundcloud account’.

Light and dark, whilst JAWS have benefitted hugely from online publicity, the simultaneous rise of music piracy looms over them. 

‘It’s sorta like you’re being mugged. But we would not be in the Cavern, under the holes if people didn’t stream or illegally download our music’. This date is first on the bill for a string of UK dates we are told following several UK festivals last year (reading was ‘surreal man’ and appropriate recognition was given for the heavenly feline-meets-NASA attire as donned by Mr. Schofield)

‘They’re listening to your music and the point of making music is for it to be heard so, you’re obviously losing money but more people are hearing you. You can always make it back through gig tickets but i don’t think it’s made a massive difference. ‘nowadays accept it, don’t make a big deal out of it, embrace the public demand!’.

A topic close to the bone and one I am eager to explore, the conversation steers towards the importance of a band’s look in relation to how one listens. ‘We didn’t have press shots or pictures for I think like six months. I don’t listen to a band and think ‘Oh what haircut’s he got?’ I mean it’s sad because it actually does matter but to me it doesn’t interest me at all’. They smirk, like a gaggle of school boys as Jake remarks ‘I just wore a pair of denim shorts and a baggy teeshirt.’ followed by a nonchalant ‘yolo’.

So, it shouldn’t matter but it does. ‘I mean most of the time all One Direction are on about is Harry Styles’ So if say a band looking like One Direction made the kind of music JAWS do how would they feel about that? There is a rising ambience of voiced opinions from an ensemble that initially took me as almost introvert. Miley? Soon deemed a legend. ‘Good on a night out.’ ‘The only people what care are the f****** mums!’ ‘I kinda think she’s fit but I don’t want to admit it’  the birthday boy is swiftly named and shamed and we proceed.

Talk soon wavers back towards flamboyancy, ‘I’ve got this trippy, crazy ass jumper but it’s like skin tight because my step mum doesn't know what size I am’ and Hudson grins sheepishly. There is definitely something audibly alluring and mellifluous in hearing the phrase ‘crazy ass’ spoken in a brummy dialect. ‘but, but music IS before image’ Schofield sharply interjects, clarifying the revelation of an enjoyment of image, ‘you need to write your songs before you decided what you’re gunna wear on stage’.

Heads up for 2014? ‘A band called Green Day?’ ‘CHVRCHES, Baby Pink especially they’re our boys. Superfood are gunna be the biggest band..’ ‘SUPERFOOD ARE GUNNA HEADLINE GLASTONBURY!’. This year? I am met with an assertive ‘YES’. ‘Laced! and Drenge will get way bigger than they are already’. 

In terms of writing JAWS have finished recording the album and are provisionally set for release in late summer. Though still essentially unsigned their music is promoted through the ‘Rattlepop’ label and EPs Milkshake and GOLD are available to purchase digitally as well as in vinyl format.

special thanks to the endearing accomplice Jessica Eason - you save my bacon.

A Concrete Meccah: 96 Hours in Berlin

Land of the estranged, notoriously darkened figures cloaked in webs of cigarette smoke and European allure darting through silver streets: admittedly initial expectations for the hub of German culture was a little adventurous but I was lustfully hungry for cultural enrichment. Devon had worn me down, hedgerows sullen- I yearned for a retreat from normality.

We departed at a meagre 11pm from Tiverton parkway train station headily catching a train into Exeter to spy our entourage of the next few days when Louis and I made the executive decision to sensibly stop off at The Imperial for a night cap, quick woozy brew to keep our spirits high for the ominous journey to the East as we eventually bundled onto the back of a coach to Gatwick, ticked off the register and told to 'mind your language'.

What followed, through a thick fog of gross fatigue, inebriation and perpetual nicotine fixes from hanging round the back of the group as we entered Berlin after concluding our intrepid embark, fending through customs and other such airport jargon was a rich Eastern melange. Though not quite as rose tinted as my minds eye, skies were heavy and sheet white omnipresently. The sheer vastness was what struck me first, the sheer velocity and magnitude of German architecture- looming sheets of stagnant grey concrete, splayed luridly in graffiti tags, scattered over all manner of buildings and previously bare faces. It felt barren, sharp and a cold juxtaposition of old and new architecture; all with the unanimous intention to astonish- the 'Reichstag' gloriously ancient though with the recent acquisition of a glass dome. In the evenings we explored aptly put as a 'PG-13' segment of the nightlife in Alexanderplatz. Dipping our toes fleetingly in a gay bar the size of a larger than average postage stamp we poked our heads through of the doorway (the frame of which brandished a 'We Welcome HIV Positive!' sticker) inhaling a musk of an enclosed carcinogenic smog (-it's Berlin darling, you smoke indoors) and glancing a few withered revellers we made a hasty dash to a local bier garten- the likes of which are abundant.

The big American chains are prevalent on the high street, a startling reminder of globalisation as you stroll past the fourth consecutive Dunkin' Donuts and Starbucks, the gag starts to wear a little thin. The Markets, though stunning are inevitably an almighty tourist trap and one can't help but be irked to compare to Exeter's own 'authentic German Christmas Market'. Here Gluhwein flows freer than water.

Given the 'History' facade of the trip we pay a visit to several local museums, Berlin wall commemorations and Sachsenhausen concentration camp to gain a contextual perspective to the city. What strikes many of us is the realisation of the relevancy of events in the relative recent time frame in which the Holocaust happened and the extent to which it still affects generations today. The image of the Nazi Medical chamber in Sachsenhausen is one that shall be indelibly engraved in my memory. The clinical labortory perfection of the room was silencing. Tiled entirely in white, two white glass cabinets stood at the rear with two operating tables in white on either side of you as you entered the chamber. One couldn't help but be persistently consciously aware of the mortuary beneath your feet, and the intense isolation and sparseness of the camp truly emphasised the tremendous number of those captured.

A city once divided, the astonishing history to the city of Berlin given the cultural, social and political shifts over the past 100 years gives for an intriguing and maturing voyage, and having ventured from my mild Devonian home I found myself cursing the wind at having missed out on the Dali exhibition. There's no chance in hell I'll ever get to see that in bloody Barnstaple.

Mark my words Berlin, this isn't the last you've heard from me.

All images my own.

A Good Day

Today has been a good day.
Owing much to overcoming the toils of procrastination. I have finally triumphed in the face of laziness and got my first published article!
My previous post 'The Look vs. The Hook' is just that, and today was published in Exeter's own Express and Echo weekly local paper.
Making a hasty dash to Co-op following a rather flustered flute lesson (last ever, I'm hanging up the metal pipe following considerations of Grade 8 Jazz; a daunting feat) I snatched up a copy, casting a pound at the cashier and indistinguishably mumbling something about having an article in it to the facially sagging older woman before upheaving my small woodwind burden and sprinting over to the college 'Tower'.
Still incredulous, I insisted on purchasing an additional 'safety' edition much to the reluctance of my trustworthy accomplice Louis, fist pumping.
We commence an expedition to Berlin on Tuesday and in light of todays events, I am left in suitably high spirits.
Still bloody beaming.

Billy Bragg @ Exeter Great Hall, support from Kim Churchill

A fresh December eve, accompanied by an intrepid father though quietly brimming with nostalgia fuelled ecstasy no doubt stemming from our freeloading musical bounty having won a pair of tickets from an email draw in low budget Devon music freezine, we drifted through flocks of receding hairlines. I felt veritably marginalised. Finding myself a sensible seat and fittingly offered half a cider we were greeted with bare footed, whispy haired ozzie Kim Churchill; singer song-writing one man band, harmonicas brazen and brandishing his guitar with arachnid type dexterity authentically concocting an auditory aperitif, convincingly clad in an open necked denim article. A quivering halo of locks empasionately bobbing as vocals broaden. He offers an ultimatum- ‘acoustic contemplation on the concept of rage’ or a ‘psychadelic rock’ umber, a delirious interjection of ‘DISCO!’ from a swaying punter to a hearty middle class chortle confirms the latter in a notably un‘psych’ed rendition. A driving outback spin on Dyaln’s ‘Subterranean Homesick Blues’ seduces his observers to sporadic  standing ovations and a pat on the back from a paternal Bragg. Indicative of the age, a flurry of Samsungs and HTCs protrude from the sea of middle class parent’s pockets, proclaiming to their followers of their CONCERT. GOSH HOW YOUTHFUL OF YOU! I catch mutterings of ‘real ale festivals’ and patiently press a stress inducing game of Candy Crush. Bragg enters in a wake of polished angsty triumph, ‘Nobody Know Nothing Anymore’ sets the tone, we are subservient to your ideological preachings. He sings of cyber surveillance, scientific progression and inequality with an Americana undertone (to which he informs us is ‘country music for people who like The Smiths’) with a peddle guitar prevalent. Famed for his patriotism he is soon to declare an adoration of the archaic British brew, aptly namedropping his associate Morrisey as a fellow lover of a cuppa to soothe the vocals. Sporting a newfound speckled grey fuzz of facial hair and an all American Cowboy shirt he admits his boots are ‘a little bit pointier than before’. The anedcotes however one could have checked off a premeditated list- Syria, Twitter, the SNP, the glory of the old school protest songs (a suitable nod to Woody Guthrie) alongside Tory cynicism, Socialist cries of DEMOCRACY FOR THE PEOPLE , globalisation, radicalism, THATCHERITE BRITAIN and gender constrictions with ‘Sexuality’ dedicated to recently forthcoming Tom Daley. He trails the nouveau, grinding to a halt at a surprisingly delightful Kraftwerk infused ‘New England’ with a verse dedicated to fated Kirsty Maccoll. He emerges for the encore rehydrated yet furrowed with poignant news, after a stomping ‘There is Power in a Union’ he addresses the crowd. ‘Tonight we have lost a father.. Nelson Mandela, I’m sorry to have to tell you’ to which spectators let out protestations, ‘NO!’ followed by cannonic sharp inhalations of breath, it’s a suitably moving tribute and one that defined the night to be engrained in the memories of many. As a product of 95 I felt somewhat disparate from the wave of songs condoning 80s political oppression and the multitude of his nostalgia wading followers. Regardless, Bragg’s ideological groundings are undeniably relevant to today’s society and his aptitude as a song writer and performer is formidable, even 30 years on from the release his first album.

'Holy Shit' Album Review for A2 Language

 

Yannis and co. Trot boldly onto album three

*  * * *

Elinor Potts

 

In a haze of almost Win-esque vocals, Yannis initiates the turbulent expedition of Foals’ ambitious third album in a flurry of interweaving guitars.  This veritable melodic smorgasbord is an intrepid exposition into what many deem to be the their breakthrough album, seminal to 2013 (though recently grappling for the formidable Mercury prize snubbed to by none other than blub-stepper James Blake in the woozy, bluesy wake of Overgrown). From their math rock roots the Oxford bred collective shuffled onto the scene in 2005, clean shaven with a fresh faced penchant for similarly clean cut guitars. Beards a bit longer, minds a bit darker, after cult ballad Spanish Sahara of 2011 dropped there was always going to be an over-hype for the infamously tricky third album.

First track Interlude is a well-crafted tribute to those earlier guitar counterpoints of Antidotes and textur-alised with the classic Foals’motif. Inhaler proceeds, leaving a funky trail in its wake. Their decision to incorporate a more neo-funk element evident from live clips from late 2011, experimenting with the crossing of musical territories with ‘O Funk’ and‘Krakowfunk’ shabbily surfacing on YouTube. ‘IMPOSSIBLE POSSIBLE’ he wails at your cochlea, a grittier tone, with driving festival ambience, ‘I shimmy and shake, I wake and bake’ that despite proclamations of curbs in collective weed consumption, his is a blatant nod to drug culture (-or a newfound vocation in early rising culinary exploration?)

 Arguably an unrepresentative first single of this venture to the mainstream defiant pop ballad ‘My Number’ slinks light-heartedly behind- a defining mainstream anthem, projecting Foals further into the public eye. Injections of ‘Oooo’ Beyonce style-y backing administer an undercurrent of sass from the suburban ass-jigglers.

A slower affair, the Chelsea favoured ‘Bad Habit’ is tainted by the visual acquisition of twenty something Cameron hailers and twenty something awkward pauses dragging our hoofed collective further into the pitiful abyss of Grazia flicking primetimers.

‘Come this way’ Yannis beckons you, underpinned by booty shaking bass one can’t help but fall amorously into the musical embrace as he breathes down your neck ‘every time I see you, I wanna sail away’.

The solo Indie serenade ‘Late Night’ is a sort of Spanish Sahara take #2, an auditory time warp of the 2010 infamous video as you gaze out over a vast expanse of stagnant water, blubbering. A nod to Two Steps Twice, epic guitar solo storms, a love child conceived in the womb of rehabilitation, fated for muddy fields. You can almost hear the future yelps of pretentious new disciples; ‘I’m totally into the old school The Foals’ holding only this number to their name. It builds in an expansion of melodic satisfaction as Philipakkis makes sweet audio love.

You’re plunged further into a grotto of heavenly noise as ‘Out of the Woods’ emerges, the runt of a pedigree litter much to the fault of its psychologically harrowing video and with quite possibly the best goddamn use of glockenspiel synth since the dawning of time. It makes you think that after 29:50 minutes of incessant groovin’ you’ve almost certainly acquired RSS in your right foot.

They’ve come a long way since 2010’s Total Life Tour. As a 14 year old punter caught in a primary midst of groggy rockers and stale ale, the first encountering of haphazard musical enlightenment was nothing short of monumentous.

A brew of angst driven dystopian lullabies whilst perpetuating the Math Rock influence in playing ‘Cassius’ and set staple ‘Two Steps’ with characteristic guitar solo that has frontman clambering the crevices of the Brighton Dome. Juxtaposed by their Reading 2013, this performance displayed a wizened head-down spectacle, drawing in flocks of pilgrims stretched over sparse Reading fields, a bona fide Meccah to those immersed in the Indie sphere.

 There is a definite musical cohesion to this record, intertexture prominent and crafted with loving hands. Bold use of strings and a fluidity of synths that rears its head as the record begins to round itself off and adopts a more pensive, contemplative stance. More filler less killer- anyone tells you this is their favourite is a foot-kissing toe-tapping ultimately bland imbecile.

IS THIS A CONDONATION OF CLASSICAL ORCHESTRATION? I have scrawled in my notes on proceeding ‘Milk and Black Spiders’ it’s not quite a Muse but it’s a definite third album act of pomposity leaving auditory voyeurs frothing at the mouth. ‘I’m an animal just like you’ he assures in a cursive tones, breathing sultry air over that recurrent riff. Thereon follows the descent to desolation ‘I’m falling, deeper down I go’ he says whimsically to prevalent string orchestration and near tribal percussion in the penultimate Stepson, as Moon boasts tenacious lyricism from our enigmatic facially furred Cypriot. It ultimately concludes on a polished, glassy Sigur Ros note making for an overall emotive, synthesised melange of dominant triumph, all guns blazing.

Peaks and troughs, of emotion, turbulent this is a veritable voyage leaving one breathless and gripping the seatbelt for dear life. A triumph regardless, teetering on the conceptual, still an astonishing feat of achievement in this age of hashtagged, Internet frenzied, TV roused audiences.

Hats off to Senor P. and the gang.

 

The Look vs. The Hook

 

 

'In my opinion the image of a musician counts on everything. You can have very generic images for certain genres for example pop punk is always looking very American, ¾ sleeve tops with colourful hoodies skinny jeans and vans, where as you look at the new artists coming into the more mainstream pop they could be dressing in things you may see in river island or they could be completely alternative, an example of this could be The 1975 they dress with the style of their music. I often also think the style of music they are producing changes their image, Fall Out Boy or Panic! At the Disco are great examples.’  - Chris Wormald, Devon based singer /songwriter

How much of what we listen to is governed by how the band looks? If not subliminally, think about it. Take contemporary Heavenly collective Temples in a glitter splayed T-Rex smog of ringlets. Then remove the heavy weighting on their outer layer and what remains is still a heady melange of neo-psych. Not always the case. I’ve been giving this some thought and have drawn the conclusion from a lot of deliberation peering down lipstick tainted coffee cups on, clenching throbbing ears on the lengthy commute from college that so much, too much of the music that we engage with, irrespective of genre is based on the superficial and artificially manufactured exterior of musicians, which is turn sways significantly who and what we deem to be bona fide exemplars of music. It’s primal, it’s false and it’s morally corrupt.

Take the saccharine soaked, bleached leers of One Direction and irrespective of their cultural and social significance, the mass pumping of mundane lyricism and god-awful X-Factor legacy, hailed as prodigies by throngs of the prepubescent. Now remove it and perceive their music as a solitary construction. That’s what I believe the true essence of musicianship should be established on. The grounds of genuine exemplar works of noteworthy accolade, experimentation, poignancy of lyricism in the face of adversity. A kind of communist approach I suppose, musical equality goddamn it I’m calling for a revolution. No Brand mind, I have a proposition (I’m a little taller and my hair, though unkempt, is far from the mane of secrets).

I’m not saying that the individual eccentricity of appearance is negative, god no. Yet all so often it would appear that much of what is driven in popular culture is peculiarity lacking in substance and concrete depth. I’m talking Miley, I’m talking raging feminists hurling fists at screens when they accidentally flick to MTV. So much of the forsaken popular media culture is reliant on outward looks. And for what? More pedantic sales of humdrum monotony and sell out tours to psychologically warped individuals.

If Miley Cyrus (and I quake as I type its name) dressed still as she did in 2009 would anyone give a shit? If controversiality sells and meaningless unconventionality is the mark of a good album then I’ll be damned. Call me a fool, but my distaste is not superficial.

'I think that image plays a very important part of the music that I listen to because it gives me an identity and a social group to be part of. I often see a photo of a band or artist and make the decision to check out their music because I can deduce from their image that I may be interested in their music. Image can also have an impact on determining genre and so I can see if a band play music in a style that I like just by looking at them’ – Leo Braukmann Pugsley, Devon based Singer/ Songwriter

Temples/Telegram @ Exeter Phoenix

Under a heady torrent of rain, we trundle to Exeter’s very own Phoenix Arts centre under the blanket of October post-fest-melancholy, optimistically clutching glitter in clammy hands. Accompanied by my friend, a similarly budding punter, we are rural voyeurs to Kettering’s very own ‘Temples’ on the penultimate date of their tour, fresh faced neo-psyching in a 60s retro-prog melange of sparkles and tangles.
James divulges to us whilst shuffling, semi shrouded under an impressive gravity defying contortion of dark ringlets underpinned by an exclamatory streak of signature silver under each eye. He remarks on our own and the seeming cult following of James miniatures in this eves crowd.
‘I nearly didn’t make it tonight, my voice was nearly out’. Honey and lemon? ‘Yeah yeah! You’ve gotta go easy on yourself, don’t burn the candle at both ends’. Not quite the envisaged rock and roll lifestyle Mr. Bagshaw?
Having formed but a ‘year and a bit’ ago the sheer escalation from dingy 100 capacity venues and pubs to headline tour is a progression they themselves don't seem to have anticipated fully. Bagshaw confesses the bands label, Heavenly Recordings (think Charlie Boyer, Stealing Sheep) have Brixton Academy visions of 2014. Happily signed, Temples settled briefly with Columbia records- home to Indie giants Peace, before moving with Heavenly, and Telegram, as they smugly tell us, worked to antithesis infact turning down Heavenly’s offer.
Though modestly introvert, Bagshaw still resides in his parents’ house, having converted his bedroom into the band’s studio. Asking their opinion on NME I receive a pensive pause.
‘To be honest, It’s great to have them backing you, you just want them on your side’ says Telegram bassist Oli Paget-Moon slouched on the door frame as James nonchalantly fondles a floral lighter ‘mate you’ve had that all tour’ he provokes. Here is a band with enough flair to brandish the odd flowery number and uphold an enigmatic stage persona.
Temples wear their influences on their sleeves, the usual comparisons to the Beatles, T Rex, as well as a love for Bowie (of which we had a confirmational discussion as to the subjective pronunciation, I was put straight.) no doubt as a by-product of being the godfather of stage slap.
‘I’m really into MC Hammer..’ he continues followed by the raising of eyebrows to which Oli swiftly interjects with a confessional proclamation of adoration for late 70’s and early 80’s disco to eyebrows nearing hairlines. A disco infused Telegram record then? ‘Well we have one track we haven’t recorded or played live yet that’s quite disco’. This just took a totally unexpected turn.
Yet despite Temples frontman’s initial impression of seeming introversy there’s more to the man than meets sparkling eyes. There is a cynicism, the typical anti-X Factor spiel as well as a disliking to contemporaries- Peace.
'You heard Lovesick?' he says turning his head slightly askew in inquisition. We nod, a mutual distaste owing much to the pressure of large labels in requiring specific categorical songs- disparate from that of early Delicious EP- defining California Daze a mark of raw beauty. Feisty.
‘People need to listen more with their ears than their eyes’ he chirps, curiously if not hypocritical, is the band not the epitome of effortlessly enviable indie? No, I express, it is more melody oriented than all else, it may not be a brawling live affair but there’s more than enough melodic tomfoolery to enthuse you throughout. We probe further, musical collaborations on the horizon? ‘we’ve actually been speaking to Melody’s Echo Chamber (hazy French psych collective) and Tame Impala about doing something together for Record Store Day’ and I sense my colleague stifle a cry of ecstasy.
In a perpetual state of writing but with the album recorded and currently being knitted together deep in the hub of Bagshaw’s boudoir set for release in February 2014, 2013 has certainly been a phenomenal year for Temples. Similarly for Telegram in rising through the ranks of the alternative sphere with debut single only officially released a month ago, no doubt thanks to the backing of Marc Riley on his Radio 6 slot.
It may not have been a riotous performance, but a blissfully enjoyable live show from one of the scene’s most promising bona fide talents and for me, a fourth time lucky as foot-tapping spectator. Reet little cracker.