Father John Misty. And Why the Military-Style Planning of a Mother Should Never be Underestimated.

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FJM, Southampton Guildhall, Saturday 23rd May 2016

 

When Middle-Aged Mothers Plan to Attend a Gig. Step Aside Whippersnappers.

Last weekend my husband and I went to see the Father John Misty gig at Southampton’s O2 Guildhall, and we were not disappointed.

For anyone who has not yet heard of FJM, or Josh Tillman as he’s known on his bank statements, he’s been on the music scene for years, but only emerged under the moniker of Misty in 2012. A native of the USA, his 2015 album I Love You, Honeybear, is a blend of ironic, witty, and ultimately beautiful songs.

Misty is known for his energetic performances on stage – think Jim Morrison’s head (circa the Beard Years) on the body of Russell Brand, and you’re near the mark.

His lyrics are narrative, social commentary, and existentialism rolled into one, waxed by the wheels of melody, and if the words aren’t for everyone, then the fact that they are set to incendiary tunes was probably a factor in his filling the 02 Guildhall to the brink with fans on Saturday night.

We were lucky enough to be in the front row (the military-style planning of a middle-aged mother is never to be underestimated; Tripadvisor, carpark app, met office map, mini-umbrellas, synchronised watches. I’ve handled babies with poo up to their eyeballs with no clean nappy to hand and only a handful of grass to help me, step aside youngsters), and therefore benefitted from the full Misty experience. And what an experience that was – Tillman, Misty, it makes no difference which moniker he goes under, he’s a born showman.

The crowd was rapt, swept up in the sheer and palpable energy that radiated from the stage. It’s a rare thing to find a singer-songwriter-musician whose voice, when experienced live, is beyond anything that MP3s, vinyl or CDs even suggest, and whose lyrics – raw and personal – are brought even further to life when performed with the honesty of a man who is literally giving all that he can to the fans who’ve paid and turned up to see him.

The added bonus, for oldsters such as myself, was that I was still able to get home before midnight and collapse into bed, complete with my ringing eardrums. And, with that one sentence, I suspect I have instantly quashed any vague suspicion that was forming that I am a cool gig-goer. Nope, just a shattered mother still.

 

Pregnant Ladies can Wee in a  Police Person’s Helmet.

My friend Melissa is pregnant at the moment and has informed me of a marvelous fact. At least, we think it’s fact, and I am not googling it in too much depth, for fear that we shall be disappointed. However, initial findings prove positive.

Apparently, a pregnant woman has the right to relieve herself in a police person’s helmet. (Urine only, for the avoidance of doubt.)

I am wondering, therefore, which area of law this comes under? Is there such a thing as urinary law? And whoever would’ve decided that head-based receptacles – particularly those belonging to the police – would be your best bet.

Given the lack of police on the streets these days you’d probably have given birth before you found one anyway.

 

Fitbits and Competitive Partners.

My husband and I bought Fitbits a couple of months ago and have been using them consistently ever since. The information that the activity trackers give you is fascinating, and I have since become something of a resting heart-rate nerd. My husband however, has become something of a competitive despot.

You can challenge one another using the Fitbit, via the app on your phone, and my children have been excellent spies, feeding back when daddy has been sprinting the length of the bedrooms when they are brushing their teeth and I am downstairs, unawares.

It is surprisingly hard to do 10 000 steps every day, and I’d consider myself active. I’m tempted to strap it to the dog instead.

 

FJM Live – I Love You, Honeybear – this is well worth a watch …

http://www.canalplus.fr/c-musique/musique/pid5065-live-du-grand-journal.html?vid=1393769

 

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Jim Morrison and Pamela Courson, Hollywood Hills

 

 

 

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