It's very simple and its charms sneak up on you.
Pleasing and agreeable in nature.
It's incredibly reminiscent of mid sixties garage, albeit a cleaned up garage (with all dad's tools put neatly in place).
Everything is sharp, every lick and riff are honed and every musical diversion has a suitably satisfying conclusion.
TFC have always traded on soul-searching lyrics, which despite their honesty, usually have a very recuperative effect on this listener.
Kirchin, who lived in Hull for much of his life, was writing about the decline of the industrial north. He was observing ways of life that were vanishing.
1966 And All That
Basil Kirchin – Abstractions of the Industrial North
Henry Flynt and the Insurrections – I Don't Wanna
We don't use much drugs and when we drink too much we just get sleepy. It's sad, I know.
That's not to say there weren't the odd thing to catch your eye occasionally – one of George Harrison's guitars costing £70,000, a Sex Pistol's drum kit raising £15,000
Herbert recreated the meal that Nigella Lawson cooked for George W Bush when he came over to Britain to meet with Blair. The meal was laid out in a field and then he drove a chieftan mk 10 battle tank over it.
He is also one who has generally stayed below the critical radar. I guess that's where he is happiest – either that or he has some of the worst pr and marketing people in history.
Tom White joined us (replete with a pink silk scarf) and proceeded to taste the afore-mentioned liqueur with gusto and some abandon; eventually finding sanctuary on the verdant greensward.
Richard Ashcroft, came on stage and sung boring songs for about half an hour. Everything he sung sounded the same and he kept repeating his own words, like an echo.
Suffice to say some aspects of this gig have fuzzed in my aging memory banks.
Maybe I'm missing the point?
Absurdly simple and basic in its creation, it is absolutely fucking briliant.
His hair is dyed an unseemly shade of metallic yellow, and his clothes look like they have been stolen from the deceased.
Mr Bits, dressed modestly in white, played his casio with a series of jerky, saucy manouevres, allowing me to fantasize about George Formby playing Blackpool Pier in the ‘thirties.
As usual there are no track listings, and you the listener would be best advised to approach their music as if you were attending a classical or avant garde piece.
There are moments where you are drawn to compare Dig with that other great rockumentary, This is Spinal Tap. Except that this is no spoof.
Byrne lays his cards on the table with Now I'm Your Mum. It's a ridiculously upbeat tune and runs through three or four different grooves before it finishes. It's packed with horns and Byrne's falsetto – after all, this is a song about having a sex change operation.