Rocking in the Chicken Cottage

I, Melachi ibn Amillar, being of unsound mind and body, did visit the Chicken Cottage restaurant by Mornington Crescent tube station, 21 High Street, Camden Town, London, on 22 September 2012. The price of 2 pieces of chicken and fries was approximately 50p more than in a neighbouring chicken establishment, nevertheless it seemed less crowded so I entered. Ordering the meal at £2.49 the pleasant though slightly bored operative asked if I would like a drink, and I asked how much a drink was. He said it was included and so I ordered 7-up, which was provided in a can. He then charged me £2.99, which I noticed was indeed the price of the meal displayed, when ordered with a drink. The additional cost of the can was therefore a further 50p, making a total additional cost of £1. He invited me to sit down if I was dining in, which I did, and he brought the food to my table and then transferred a tomato ketchup bottle to me as well, which was nice. The table was not perfectly clean, but not too bad; the window was seriously cracked, and there was a black bag, presumably with rubbish, pushed under the bench on which I was sitting, close to a standard plastic bin, though a built-in plastic bin was also available at the other side of the store. A man entered and showed the salesman an expensive looking watch; he shook his head and the man exited. Another man came and ordered some food; when he sat down, on the end of the same long bench, it rocked back and forth in an annoying manner, and continued to do so repeatedly. This bench clearly needed some more screws.

As for the food, the tomato ketchup was a little watery and probably not from Heinz. The fries were acceptable though some could have been warmer. The first piece of chicken was pleasantly moist, though would have benefited from a more interesting selection of spices and herbs. The second piece of chicken was a little dry.

I then placed my refuse in the more distant disposal bin, said goodbye to the salesman, and took my leave. In total, I would say it was on the good side of a fried chicken meal, and one's choice might depend on one's financial situation; next time I would be inclined to pay a pound or two more and visit the Colonel.

Ensiferum: swords and tubes

I, Melachi ibn Amillar, being of unsound mind and body, did attend the Finnish roadshow led by Ensiferum at the Islington Academy on 18 September, 2012. The first band I thought had a new-mettalish sound, though calming down to a more conventional guttural and rhythm attack. I do not remember anything else about them. The second band, Amoral, were a bit similar but with more melodic themes, some guitar solos, and an impressive singer whose vocals ranged from the early Axl to the more modern guttural. Ensiferum began with a Irish jig type rhythm, and may well have played exactly the same theme for the next hour and half. I believe this is known as folk metal. The lyrics were mainly about the raising of swords, meant literally, but I could not hear them well. Generally, they resembled Alestorm, but without the jokes. They were deliriously received by a youngish crowd who bounced vigorously together throughout the entire set. Well, this was rather unsophisticated for the musical tastes of Melachi, though might have gone down well with foaming tankards, buxom wenches, and some sort of castle or great hall with long wooden benches and oak tables. However, the ambience of the Academy is modernist, the beer too expensive, and the girls thin and selling Jagermeister in curious tubes. I say yea to potential Oktoberfest experience, nay to exposed pipework.
 

Everywhere, Overdrive

I, Melachi ibn Amillar, being a man of wealth and taste, did read Dana Johnson's novel "Elsewhere, California" (2012) in August 2012, since I had heard it dealt with a black girl who liked Led Zeppelin. Unfortunately, I find this girl also likes to talk about African-American hairstyles, modern art, and, especially, baseball. I know nothing about these latter topics, so their semiotics, if any, remain oblique to me. She is from a poor area, and goes to a better area, then to college and eventually finds herself living with a wealthy "European", all in Los Angeles. The latter sections are intercut with the earlier ones, so I am not giving away the plot. The book is in the narrative present and the sections dealing with childhood are in a black dialect, which gradually whitens out as the story progresses. The transition from life in a poor (but decent) family to a situation of relative wealth strikes me as more crucial than the racial aspects, which makes the book less programmatic than it might have been, though whether this is due to the nature of the city in particular, or the country in general, I cannot say. It is all somewhat earnest, correct and reflective, more like a memoir than a piece of dramatic literature. The overall experience resembles the watching of a ballet, perhaps portraying the release of a battery chicken, and with the sound turned down. The childhood sections are not terribly interesting, being the thoughts of a 9-11 year old, but it gets better towards the end. And who can resist the image of the blacks of West Covina bopping to the Bachman-Turner Overdrive? Certainly not Melachi!

Borderline Magenta

I, Melachi ibn Amillar, being of unsound mind and body, did attend the Magenta gig at the Borderline, London, on 8 September 2012. It was the first band heard by myself of the 2012/13 season, indeed since Black Sabbath at Donington Park, so there was something for them to live up to. The first band was Alan Reed, actually an acoustic guitar with an electric keyboard player. The songs he played were rather long and involved for an acoustic treatment, which is generally used for fairly simple melodies and heartfelt lyrics. Some of the exposed vocals were slightly painful, and I am not sure what possessed him to finish with an acoustic treatment of Peter Gabriel's "Biko" (as I could never quite work out why Peter Gabriel himself used to finish with it). However, he did say he had some CDs available with the songs played by a full band, and that these would sound different (for which I read, better).

The gigs of Prog are possibly the least stylish of all possible events (indeed, the only other non-balding person there was a lady scribbling in a reporters notebook), but since the lead guitarist of Magenta made the effort to wear a natty red tie, let the annals record that Melachi was wearing drainpipe jeans, in black, Clarks goretex boots, in black, an Electric Wizard T-shirt, predominantly black, topped off with a collared shirt, left open, in a fetching shade of black. Magenta clearly have that Prog choppy rhythm well sorted, the guitarist being excellent in all respects, other than the tie, using brief explosions of appeggios to mark the entries, in the style of Yes or IQ.  Their lead singer had, I think, a bit of an issue with rhythmic attack, and tended to bend the notes a lot, in the manner of a cabaret singer; more seriously she seemed to be singing to herself most of the time, sometimes with her eyes shut. She might work at slower and more directed movements, taking command of the stage, and being present for all the audience, particularly in such a small venue. She seemed more an accompanist to the guitarist. A few riffs would have added some variety and the singer could have strapped on a rhythm guitar to get some more meat into the instrumental sections. Nevertheless, they were almost there and I, Melachi, enjoyed this gig and would not mind seeing them again.