Why don’t you admit it?

They want our way of life
Well, they can take mine any time they like.

I’ve waited 11 years to see Jarvis Cocker. I know, I know, you liked Pulp in 1985, you’ve seen them 17 times in their native Sheffield, you still have your blow-up Jarvis from Select magazine and you once saw him buying a cookbook in Waterstones. But I haven’t, so please indulge my smug satisfaction at having relished the presence of one last teen idol.

Love is subjective so I shan’t be turning music critic any time soon, but let me just say that Jarvis still has it in abundance, working your heart with humour and darkness and recognition, and his band are great too. Most of the crowd were well rehearsed in songs that came out only a few days ago, and even if they weren’t full of the wide-eyed euphoria that I absorbed on Monday (David says that this is how cults get their groupies) they were mostly delightful, throwing their own balloons (‘Cyril’s 80th Birthday’) and bopping gently along.

The lyrics are outstanding, the tunes are engaging, the fringe and hips and elbows are jutting away as ever and Candida is waiting in the wings with her arms folded and a little smile on her lips. I am realising that I don’t know the words to the third verse of ‘Space Oddity’ and then I think Jarvis looks straight at me and I blush. Proper, proper heroes never let you down.

Ah, it stinks, it sucks, it’s anthropologically unjust,
Oh but the takings are up by a third.

C***s are still running the world.

Do you realise?

It’s not often a girl can say she’s literally been bowled over by a fella, but tonight I was. It was quite embarrassing really, or would have been had the room not been filled with love, light and happiness (that could just have been me, but I doubt it). I was knocked down by a giant inflatable ball that was filled with naught but air and Wayne Coyne of the Flaming Lips. Fear not, I wasn’t hurt.

I have gushed about the Flaming Lips in another blog at another time but let me just assure you that they remain gushworthy. Highlights included a shitload of little and huge balloons that leapt towards my waiting punches like baddies in Space Invaders, yeah yeah yeahing with a load of happy people and having my faith in all things wonderful strengthened in bouncy bouncy laser-showing puppet-weilding Bush-bemoaning joy.

Towards the end Wayne tells us that when the song finishes we should tell people we love them. It ends and I hug and say nice things to Sarah. I then text a few people in accordance with Wayne’s instructions. Here is a selection of the responses that aren’t too lovely to share

eh?

Stop drinking, it’s frying your brain

Who is Wayne Coyne? And who are you?

I appear to be writing gig reviews that don’t mention the music much, but you can read a proper music blog for that, can’t you?

Cockswain

I went with Sally to see Graham Coxon at the Astoria. It was weird. I didn’t really know his solo stuff but Graham Coxon was alright, did a top job, punked it up a bit, few good songs, lovely. However, the crowd were a little strange.

There was a mosh pit. The mosh pit were rocking out, throwing themselves towards the stage like the young scallywags they were, plenty of injuries and sweat and swilled beer. Well done the mosh pit. Sally and I got through them quite easily, they being enthusiastic weaklings and us being hardened rock chicks (that’s my version of the story). However, at the front left of the stage where we positioned ourselves to annoy the guitarist it was a different story.

Hordes of petite pretty women in ultrahip outfits stood still – some perfectly still – showing no signs of enjoyment whatsoever. The band poured out songs through which I would find it incredibly difficult to remain static if listening through my headphones on the tube. They responded with a credible impression of Topshop mannequins (only one or two people away from the bouncing throng) looking miserable. Fair enough if this was slow, sad music, but it wasn’t. They lined the whole front of the stage.

If they did make a move it was simple; one arm aloft, pointing and clicking with the mobile phone. Not just one or two, oh no, all of them. As though they’ll show or send the photos later, to tell their mates “yeah I was at Graham Coxon, look at the fun everyone else was having”. “I was there because I’m so hip, I know all about Blur and shit, I was there you know.” So what’s the point in that?

Dave and I discussed it last night. He reckons it’s the media’s fault – telling you what you should like, how you should dress, where you should go. I guess you get there, it’s not where you really want to be so you take photographs by way of compensation to pretend you’ve been having fun. Or you go there just to take photos to add to your porfolio of cool… there’s me in the tent at Glastonbury, there’s me next to someone who knows Danny from Supergrass, there’s The Kaiser Chiefs. I used to love James Blunt, me, but now everyone says he’s shit.

I’m often tempted by events because it would be great to say “I was there”. But while you’re there, enjoy yourself. Even if you don’t really want to be there, find some fun. Or leave. People! Be happy! Do I really have to tell you this?