Skanky, not wanky.
The Roquefort Files went to see Primal Scream in Glasgow on Friday night. They were playing in the Carling Academy (the same venue I'd seen Grandaddy at) and we managed to miss the support band. Again.
Anyway, the 'Scream wandered onto the stage (complete with Manny from the Stone Roses, quite clearly off his face on something or other, providing a Spinal Tap-esque stage presence) and launched into Accelerator, a mind-buggeringly dense, feedback-laden track. Annoyingly, the sound was persistently poor throughout the whole gig; it was certainly loud enough but the quality was abysmal, even for lo-fi tracks like Accelerator.
Apparently, Primal Scream are a fucked up band. They told us so about half way through the concert. As Bobby Gillespie helpfully explained: "Coldplay: not fucked up. Primal Scream: fucked up!". How very rock & roll... On the whole, it was a frustrating concert. There's a good band lurking under the self-preening, druggy image they project, but it was pretty hard to discern, and crappy sound quality just grated the whole time.
After the gig, we met up with the Captain and Fat Pete (don't ask) at the Festival Club, a Celtic Connections event in the oxymoronic Quality Hotel. It was a damn sight better than Primal Scream, thankfully, consisting of a collection of groups/performers taking part in Celtic Connections each performing a few songs. We got drunk and tapped our feet.
Saturday was utterly non-blogworthy. I ate, I drank tea, I played the bass. I unexpectedly went out for dinner with my parents, and therefore managed to miss a party in Fife. Usual stuff.
On Sunday I dragged myself out of bed at 6.45 am so that I could drive to Perth and meet Doug for a day of boarding. This was also utterly non-blogworthy. The snow - the bits of it left clinging to the rocks and mud - was crap; my technique was rusty, my temper was bad and my Achilles tendons are still aching. 3/10 on the Roquefort Files' SBD scale. It was just about saved by a couple of cathartic bad-coffee-fuelled bitching sessions in the Meall Odhar (Gaelic for 'Malodorous') café. Just about.
Once I got back, I hurtled across to the Cameo to meet Kate to see a prearranged but completely forgotten-about film - Lost In Translation. It was rather good, I think. It put me in mind of Morvern Callar; it's a film where very little happens, but unlike MC, it manages to engage the viewer by, sensibly, not disappearing up its own arse. There's just enough humour in it to drag it away from being overly sentimental, and the performances were absolutely brilliant. Top stuff.
Afterwards, we did the Blind Poet (Kate: "I'm more in the mood for skanky than wanky on the pub front") pub quiz, and were crap.
It's been a slightly odd weekend. The signal to noise ratio was pretty low; for all the running around I did, and for all the money I spent, I just feel a bit knackered. Ah well; science may have caught up with the good/bad weekend curve after all.
