Sick of being the only grey-tinged gal amid an ocean of bald blokes at gigs, Vicky Lindsay Warburton decided to start holding her own. Kind of. Grab your utensils and get ready to mosh not mash.
No longer the safe, welcoming home hub, by night it’s powered down and ignored. That is, until there’s a MASSIVE BANG while sat ALONE in the west-wing (living room, next door). Anyone who’s been quietly comatose on one’s settee, then rudely defibrillated back to the present by a MASSIVE BANG in the kitchen, hands up. Quickly now, hands down, I can see BO stains from the instant sweat a shock like that causes.
First reaction: err… it’s my cubs falling out of bed (only 20-foot high beds would produce that noise). I’m up the stairs like Usain Bolt. Boy: fast asleep in bed. Girl: fast asleep in bed. Shit, it really was in the kitchen.
Second reaction: run into the kitchen in the dark to… to bloody what? To go to the glass back door to look out, of course. What for? To wave? Offer the mass murderer a cheeky brew and biscuit then call it quits? No one there, so I retreat to the safety of the front room. Another bang. I’m upstairs lifting our broken blind in darkness willing my X-ray vision to kick in. Then silence, all night.
Rational thinking descends and I realise it must be a fox that has run into the glass door. I then convince myself it was the spirit of my granddad who played for Leicester City and it was a sign; THE FOXES had just won the league. This thought helped me access sleep when banishing ideas of a torturous end.
The truth emerged with my child from school the following day, explaining, “No Mum, we didn’t fall out of bed last night and it wasn’t a fox [I had them checking for fox-face marks on the glass] – it was a sonic boom.”
Apparently, many other parents had been charging around their holes hunting for sleepy children on floors and bracing themselves for mortal combat (no one else mentioned a fox). Once the lights go out things can feel pretty intense, even in your safe zone. I played these tracks to calm the old nerves.
Red hot and boiling on my hob this month is Mr Michael Kiwanuka, soul singing about being a “black man in white world” to a white woman in a blacked out kitchen. This north Londoner with Ugandan refugee parents draws worthy comparisons to the likes of Otis Redding and Bill Withers.
This was a difficult second album for Mr K to make but with direction from producer Danger Mouse, he found his way back after four years. If this track is anything to go by, they’ve nailed it and many of us will be slotting Love and Hate next to Home Again on the shelf. Kiwanuka is touring all over this year. Dance and sing out.
This San Franciscan singer-songstrel has produced Echoes of the Dreamtime, a cracking third album (her husband Rick Parker actually produced it). She’s had her share of collaborations and even an early stint in the psychedelic underground heavyweights The Brian Jonestown Massacre.
Richards has journeyed through life and learned from the best, including guitar coaching from heavy metal great Kirk Hammett (Metallica, dude).
All her creative foraging has blended into this ethereal dreamy record, which emanates mellowness to calm the most frantic of minds. Definitely not an homage to rock or pure psychedelia, she’s, as 7th Ray puts it, “found a new way”.
Listeners travel along, with her voice a gentle guide. If you ever get chance to see this album performed live get yourself there – she performed a fully orchestrated version from start to finish over the pond with her band. But is she coming over? As a partial medium I can reveal I have foreseen her visit with my third eye. (Truthfully, we emailed and asked her. She’s a-coming).
In my deep freeze this month I dug out a band to ward off evil spirits with a track to inject radiance into anyone’s face, She Don’t Use Jelly. Oklahoma-based creative innovators The Flaming Lips have sure had some weird and wonderful creative times; almost burning venues down with pyrotechnics (flaming indeed) to releasing four CDs – to be played simultaneously. These boys have never thought anywhere near The Box.
Formed back in 1983, Wayne Coyne and Michael Ivins are the original members of this psychedelic five-piece. For live spectacles, extra musicians join the band to weave audio layers for the audience.
After 20 years the band released Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots, to widespread critical acclaim, therefore noted in biro as their breakthrough album. Fans will battle with Yoshimi and fight for The Soft Bulletin but there’s only one winner and that’s us.
Coyne is on my fridge ripped out of a magazine wrapped in fur, in my life every day. If you don’t make it round to mine, you’ll find inspirational Coyne and his brilliant band zorbing around the Wilderness festival this summer causing a sonic boom of their own.
Check out all of Vicky’s kitchen gigs here.3590 Views
Vicky is reintegrating back into society as her children are now in school. She teaches mindfulness to teenagers, wears trainers and paddles through the nonsense of life.