Alight numbers at the bombed out church stops have dwindled since they shifted the commercial district half a mile closer to the waterfront. To fully explain the motivations behind the very existence of a Bold Street Festival would require depth to drown even the most competent of 'verbal swimmers' I like to call readers. Although that barely makes any sense, it does sound alright, so it stays. Anyway, just understand that I'm saving you from having to tolerate a load of relevant (but seriously dull) journo-style opening paragraph filler / context stuff (you're welcome) and trust that the businesses higher up the hill have suffered since the opening of Liverpool One: Bold Street has a festival now.
Those present on Sunday gone would perhaps argue the point that it was more a case of Bold Street being open, as per usual, with the addition of balloons and bunting to adorn the awnings. But inarguable was the presence of stages (perhaps spaces would be more apt) exhibiting dubious artistic outpourings, one example being the twenty minute spillage of our musical bile (this being the literary bile) across the cobbled filth that paves the increasingly tranquil side of the CBD. I don't want to detract from the event or the wider success of the day: it is a worthy cause, a welcome addition to the city's events calendar, organised by devoted and passionate patrons of that noble climb towards wrong-o-clock and Tokyou. It is just a shame that this once crucial route on any shopping trip worth its (Matta's-bought Italian rock) salt has to resort to this level of prostitution - in a Holden Caulfield dismissing movie scriptwriting way, nothing more sinister - just to get people to acknowledge its being there. The fault lies almost completely at the doors of cash hungry town planners and developers. That's not news, though.
Bold is a street that I will forever associate with my earliest forays in to town, both with and without mother. In the memory rain is rare, its limited outings confined to the heart wrench of some Romantic image that Claus of Innsbruck might cast in bronze for me; so perhaps the cynicism of my now years is completely misguided. The relative corporate neglect lends well to a counter-cultural renaissance, which is a good thing. All of this, of course, the subjective anecdotal ramblings of a tired man. So we move on to report the stuff worth reporting.
It counted as gig number six as our current carnation and it was maybe one of the worst yet. Such harsh self-criticism comes on the back of the mild success of our midweek dalliances: what we're looking for is that rare thing called consistency, and over the two shows we certainly demonstrated little of it. With computing issues that the rockers of old would certainly spare a chuckle for, such a thing could well take longer than it otherwise would. Nonetheless lessons were learned, even if the principle one was that stylophones and songs about spiders are more crowd-friendly than the tidbits we have to offer a disinterested passer-by. Which, when you really think about it, isn't a lesson at all.
P.S. Only now, having read the above back, do I realise just how little sense any of it makes. Not that you can expect an apology, they're your eyes and it's your fault for leaving them open. The song below, which I'd well recommend, has a tenuous link to some of what was said, and may well make the effort of you scrolling all the way down here worthwhile. Just remember to try and bring yourself to pause our music beforehand (if you've already paused it, shame on you), unless you want an inadvertent and probably quite terrible mash-up. Mash tips? Answers on an email.
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