hahahahaha. They will actually kill me for that if they see it. But that’s unlikely as Jonathan, Grasshopper and Jeff are far too busy promoting their excellent new album Snowflake Midnight and its sister release Strange Attractor. We hooked up with them, sadly in the downstairs room of a hotel and not in the back of their tour bus yomping across the wastes of upstate New York, but you can’t have it all. Or in my case, anything. Suffice to say we were in garrulous spirits, which resulted in us all failing to conform to the perception that the Rev are miserable, glum, intense musicians and instead resulting in a rather strange but highly amusing conversation taking in a world petting zoo tour, the contractual obligations of their album artwork bunny rabbit, and, er, Jonathan’s lack of glumness. Dammit guys – why d’you have to be so funny and so talented? I feel small.

Keep your eyes peeled for the interview in the next episode of Flyposter. Not a dry seat in the house……

Micachu is a young 21 year old indie-punk gem.

From a young age, Mica studied the violin, viola along with musical composition; before being awarded a scholarship at the prestigious Guildhall School of Music and Drama.

Mica is currently making waves in the experimental and indie music scenes, along with her band the Shapes. Check out Gill’s exlcusive interview with Micachu and the Shapes here.

 Atop The Old Blue,  Shoreditch, Gill catches up with Micachu the unusual poptastic lady with her home made instruments- its a bit like a ukulele with a spare wire dangling down, hmmm, but pretty cool stuff…

Well, we made it down and back in one piece, which judging by the nick of Ian Brown as we left the VIP area, is a feat unattainable by other sons and daughters of Manchester. What did we see whilst there? Well, for a kick off the one thing we hardly saw any of was any bleedin’ taxis. I know it’s not the most Keef thing in the world to moan about, but in the name of Drew if you’re gonna put a festival on, put some bloody transport on too. Minor, slightly uncool whines aside, IoW wasn’t half bad. Apart from the fact that there is an increasing number of folk who, like me, are slightly grossed out by Iggy, who still don’t get the fuss about The Zutons and who could go the rest of their born days without hearing another spew of spittle soaked mockney bile from Lydon and his deeply un Sexy Pistols. Yeah, apart from THAT, the festival wasn’t half bad. Now it may have been the liberal jugs of Pimms available on site, but we found ourselves actually enjoying a NERD set, with Pharrell managing to inject some humour and charisma into his tiny unsmiling frame, and at least four recognisable from the original songs making their way over the heads of the arena. Oddly, The Wombats also managed to reach the increasingly rowdy fans (I blame the free drink pavilions that looked over the arena crowd) whilst as usual The Kooks succeeded in taking an open and happy crowd and sending them all off to the burger stands during their set. One thing – if you’re the headline act who’s taken the lucre for an appearance, and justified it in some convoluted inversion of your original manifesto, surely you would at least repay your loyal fans by spending some of the fee on a few lights and a bit of a show? Given your vocal performance and staged bile no longer cut the mustard, a few strobes and bit of dry ice wouldn’t break the bank would it? So why did Lydon and co ask us to crown an otherwise great days’ music with lukewarm delivery and 8 60 watt bulbs framing the stage?…something to dwell on as you wait on your bus home….

If I never see another gig again, I reckon I could struggle on…Well, barring Morrissey announcing that The Smiths are to reform for a special one off gig in my back garden, I don’t think I need ever go to another stadium gig again. In possibly the only time you’ll ever catch me cheering anything in Arsenal football club’s ground, I was to be found on Saturday night screeching No Retreat baby, No Surrender at a man old enough to be my father. And for once I wasn’t the only one. As he croaked and rasped his way through I’m On Fire a small lump caught in my throat and didn’t shift til about 5 hours later, by which point I was sweating and gurning on the dancefloor of an east end dive club, but that’s another post…..

well, it’s been a hell of a week since the shoreditch house party, more of which will be blogged, but first i wanted to flag up that the episode featuring all the interviews we did at the btpodshow launch party is now up. It gives a fairly accurate depiction of the night…I say fairly accurate, as a lot of what went on had to be deleted on pain of death from half the slebs…suffice to say Steve Furst, Charlie Brookes, Sandi Thom, Mathew Horne, Sam Sparrow, Tara Palmer Tompkinson, Gail Porter, and indeed our very own Lydia all behaved like teenagers in an alcopop theme park. Who knew vomit copuld come out that colour….Myself and comedian Dave Gorman were, of course, a model of sobriety. So much so that OK! magazine seemed to think I was a sleb….snigger…..coming up – where in god’s name have i been for a week?and some exciting news about hot new band The Dodo’s….. 

gill on the roof of shoreditch house chatting to actors Steve (Little Britain, Orange ads) Furst, and Charlie (Janine who killed Barry in Eastenders) Brooks.

The whole musical world seems to have the east end of london and its’ bands shoved down its neck at the moment. Luckily, the only thing we were shoving down our necks in London’s east end the other night was mediocre canapes and Sam Sparro’s tongue (we wish…well, not really, given I’m the wrong gender…ewww). Anyway, the point is Flyposter slithered its way in and proceeded to entrance / annoy in equal measure. Firstly we had the dubious pleasure of talking to stick in shorts Tara Palmer Tompkinson. Now we’re not ones to knock folk when they’re down, but really TPT….I’ve seen drunk kittens steadier on their feet than you in your YSL tributes. Next up we heard from the lovely Dave Gorman, who just gets it, you know? Anyway, as the cocktails progressed, things loosened up a bit and we found ourselves on the roof by the pool with the aptly named Gavin and Stacey star Matt Horne. All going swimmingly (i know, punny eh?) until pop stalker and clothes horse Alexa Chung takes to the decks. At what point did it become OK to say you’re a DJ if you can whack on a knowing Elastica album track then slide a fader across to ‘Now That’s What i Call Indie 78′…? I know we’re all sick of the Peaches Geldof’s of the world besmirching the noble art of a DJ, but a semi famous TV presenter whose main show is the execrable Vanity Lair (Lord of the Flies for vain people) taking to the decks? It’s beyond the realms of my understanding. Suffice to say for the hour she was on, most of the party decamped to the bowling alley and the roof……

There’s more to be told, including some nice gobbets from Orange ad star Steve Furst, professional baldie and nice lady Gail Porter, Sam Sparro, Olympic torch mugging victim Konnie Huq, the killer of Barry in Eastenders, Janine and most importantly, Lydia’s breasts…..

I had the fortune to chat to the gentle gents from Post War Years the other day. What a treat – lovely lads with lovely straightforward, honest to goodness english names (by english I mean spongy war time grey britain where fun had to be made, not bought. And boys wore their trousers short and had japes, not happy slappings.) Yes, Simon, Henry, Tom and Fred were nothing short of charming, and personnified the old school, war time good manners you just don’t see in nu rave bands. But then that’s probably because nu rave bands are public school boys who are brought up to believe that manners are for staff, whilst Post War Years seem more like the sons of staff. In a good way. Oh god, i’m getting in a mess here…..

Anyway, to quit whilst I’m only slightly submerged, I had a bit of a chat with them, principally to see if they were overweight.(you’ll have to watch the interview to understand that one) They’re not. So go check ‘em out in the next episode of Flyposter.