Bill Wells & Aidan Moffat
Amsterdam Vondelkerk, The Netherlands
3rd November 2011 (2011-11-03)


RECORDING:

Type: Audience (master), recorded front of house, seated, 2 metres back from
the left floor-standing speaker
Source: 2 x matched DPA 4060 mics ->
DPA MMA6000 amplifier (100 Hz low-cut filter) ->
Edirol R-09HR recorder (44.1 kHz/16 bit WAV)
Lineage: Audacity 1.3.13-beta (tracks split, fades added) ->
FLAC (compression level 8) [libFLAC 1.2.1 20070917]


SET LIST:

01. Tasogare
02. Let's Stop Here
03. Cruel Summer
04. Dinner Time
05. Pauper Don't Preach
06. The Copper Top
07. Glasgow Jubilee
08. Box It Up
09. The Sadness In Your Life Will Slowly Fade
10. A Short Song To The Moon
11. Ballad Of The Bastard
12. [banter]
13. The Greatest Story Ever Told
14. [encore break]
15. If You Keep Me In Your Heart
16. [banter]
17. And So We Must Rest

Running time: 51m 29s


NOTES:

After failing to record Anna Calvi at the start of October and somehow not
managing to capture the first two thirds of I Like Trains' opener last week, I
was seriously afraid of scoring a hat-trick this evening. If I didn't want to
fuck those up, I can tell you that I really, really, REALLY didn't want to
fuck this one up.

The older I get, the harder I find it's becoming to muster enthusiasm to go
out to gigs. Intellectually, I still want to be there and I'm not about to
waste the money I spent on a ticket, but I'm usually knackered when the time
comes to go and the thought of having to endure other people's antics is
something I particularly don't relish when I'm anticipating an especially
rambunctious gig.

I nearly always have a good time once I'm actually there, but that somehow
doesn't make it any easier to drag myself out the next time there's a gig.

For some gigs, it's easier to summon enthusiasm than for others, of course,
but it's a relatively rare gig that has me actively looking forward to it,
days, weeks or even months in advance.

Tonight was such a gig. I'd been anticipating this one since it was announced
several months ago. Its appearance on the gig calendar had surprised me;
firstly, that Bill and Aidan were bringing their quintessentially Scottish
circus to Amsterdam; and secondly, that they would be playing in the beautiful
Vondelkerk of all places, a church just on the other side of the Vondelpark, a
mere five minute bike ride from my house.

Given the ecclesiastical venue, I was virtually certain that it would be a
seated affair, so I was the first to arrive and sat on the church steps until
the doors swung open at 20:00. In the meantime, I made the acquaintance of the
band's trumpet player and his seriously drunken brother as they drew on a
pre-gig fag.

It emerged I was right about the seating, but as the first through the doors,
I had my pick of the house. I could have opted for a vantage just a couple of
metres in front of the band, but with my mind on bringing home a lasting
memento of the evening, I instead positioned myself in the second row, all the
way to the left.

The plan was to capture a nice mix of amplified sound and the raw acoustics
coming from the floor. There was no stage as such, with all of the instruments
and their players simply assembled in an alcove.

Would that all gigs were so civilised and dignified. I left my jacket on my
chair and purchased a drink at the back of the church. How nice to be able to
amble around without fear of losing one's spot or belongings.

As if the prospect of Bill and Aidan weren't treat enough, fitting support was
to be provided by RM Hubbert, a gifted if perhaps somewhat unlikely-looking
Spanish guitar player. I had caught the end of his set earlier in the year at
the Paradiso in support of Mogwai and I was looking forward to hearing more
of him tonight.

R (I have no idea what the 'R' stands for; or the 'M', for that matter) played
for over half an hour, lifting the veil on his lyricless compositions with
revealing spoken introductions.

A few minutes after his set finished, Bill and Aidan took up position in the
alcove and, with very little ado, commenced their set.

The pairing of Bill Wells with Aidan Moffat is a dream partnership. Bill's
doleful minor chords pair beautifully with Aidan's keen, undiluted
observations of modern urban life.

These poignant tales of pedestrian life eschew no emotion or descent into
profanity. Rather, they confront us with their unalloyed honesty, their
furnisher concerned only with the graphic integrity of his tale.

It can be no coincidence that my gigs of the year so far have been John Grant,
Josh T. Pearson and now Bill Wells & Aidan Moffat. Each involves a man,
reciting highly articulate autobiographical musical anecdotes, which together
offer a peephole through the floorboards into his personal odyssey of despair.

There's profound sadness, speckled with fleeting moments of soaring joy, as
each sees a universe of infinite possibilities, viewed on one's back from the
gutter.

Imperfect in our human foibles, we recognise ourselves in these vignettes. We
recall the joy of finding love, the agonising desperation and all-consuming
loneliness that follows its loss, the growing realisation as we get older of
the temporariness of all life, the undeniable pointlessness of our existence
beyond the meaning that we, ourselves, attach to it.

Everything's getting older.

When Aidan sketches his attendance of a funeral in his new suit in 'The Copper
Top', we hang on every word. It's a story with no beginning, no middle and no
end. Essentially, nothing happens, but the first person narrative has us
anticipating every word for insights into the speaker's disposition and
character. We're there with him, at the tailor's shop, at the funeral, and in
the pub afterwards.

Similarly, the slumbering jazz of 'Dinner Time' sets the scene perfectly for
its narrator's tale of returning to a house he once called home. How many of
us have passed by an old home, haunted by memories of carefree childhood and
the conjured recollections of relatives long since deceased? Again, the
description of the scene is so lush, that we are immediately transported to
that same stairwell and can almost hear the creaking of the stairs.

A rare moment of surging optimism arrives in 'The Greatest Story Ever Told', a
rapturous, uplifting celebration of life. The ability to see the
limitless beauty and potential of life is a prerequisite for feeling
inconsolably miserable about what we choose to settle for day to day.

Aidan hangs his lyrics on the air as if holding up a poetic mirror. We see our
own life staring back at us, confronting us with our petty successes and, more
urgently, our monumental failures. These are the thoughts we manage to banish
from our mind most of the time, but not this evening.

'Everything's Getting Older' must surely be a contender for album of the year.
We're treated to the entire song cycle, bar 'Cages'. A further two songs are
pulled from the 'Cruel Summer' E.P, which, before you ask, does, indeed,
feature a cover of the early Bananarama hit.

One final instrumental number is taken from one of the supplements on the
limited edition triple vinyl release of the album. That package, incidentally,
features 20 additional tracks not on the CD and is positively the ONLY way to
experience the album.

The set was all too brief, clocking in at just 51 minutes. They were 51
minutes of pure bliss, however; the tiny morsel of exquisite food in the
centre of a huge plate at an expensive restaurant. This was haute musique.

Better conditions for recording the gig are scarcely imaginable. The result
speaks for itself. I have not doctored the sound in any way.

This is one to play over and over again.

Enjoy!