The house is in darkness, everyone is out. The journey up four flights of stairs is treacherous yet uneventful, navigating stair-gates and miscellaneous clutter. With laptop retrieved, the reviewing process can begin.
Round 1
This weeks cider is Westons Premium Organic Cider, 6.5%, 500ml. It calls itself a flavoursome organic cider produced from organically grown cider apples, fully matured in old oak vats to develop its rich smooth character. The tall bottle is made of brown glass, with a pale yellow label applied which bears a minimalistic rendering of a cider apple - I assume it is a rending of an organic cider apple but I am not able to discern the difference. When the bottle is returned to a recycling depot in South Africa, you will be given 5cents.
The drink itself is still and offers a much less offensive scent than Savanna Dry. It leaves a sour taste in the mouth after each sip, this must be the taste of real apples grown upon a real tree by a real British farmer - I assume it is grown in Britain as the bottle says produced and bottled by H. Westons & Sons, Herefordshire, it could have been made somewhere else and driven to the bottling site in a tanker, I don't know. It proves easy to drink, the first bottle from the marvellous "3 for £4" offer disappearing in about thirty minutes. I am fairly certain of this timing as the soccer is on TV - I started at the half-time interval and the game clock has now reached the fifty seventh minute.
The game is open and end to end, an early goal for the away team in the first match of a two-leg fixture, has opened up the game. One of the players is nicknamed "Hulk" and has this nickname printed on his shirt in place of his actual surname, the commentator objects to this. A player attempting to take a throw-in creeps forward around 15 yards from the spot where the ball goes out, the referee penalises him for it. Another player falls over under very slight contact and the referee rewards him for this. Sloppy clearances and misdirected passes mean alot of possession changes but few clear chances on goal. Long range shots trouble both keepers but are parried away.
Substitutes are brought on to relieve the fatigued and injured as the clock hits 70 minutes. A man falls down and the referee deems that it was a fair challenge, the player is unimpressed. Another player is hacked down just inside the penalty area, he is not rewarded and is also unimpressed; meanwhile play continues and a counter attack is mounted. The crowd's shouts for hand-ball all evening are finally answered and a free-kick is given just outside the penalty area. Number 7 stands with both feet planted slightly wider than shoulderwidth - the ball strikes the wall and bounces out into open play. A good cross from the right glances off the strikers head and flies off for a goal kick, firmer contact would have resulted with the ball in the back of the net. The commentators babble on and show replays of the earlier penalty appeal when the ball is played out for a throw-in. A tattooed man is substituted off, a man in long sleeves replaces him - he could be equally well-tattooed under the sleeves and we would never know. The away goal scorer is also taken off - he receives a round of boos from the home crowd for his trouble. The hoardings around the edge of the pitch passively display their advertisements for credit cards, cars, lager and mobile phones. The lager advert is mostly taken up with the phrase "Enjoy responsibly", the credit card advert has no such advice.
I am typing as a goal is scored, the first I know is the shouting of the commentator and the roar of the crowd. 5 minutes to go, the crowd are now singing an indistinct chant. A player receives a pass 10 yards outside the penalty area, the paying fans implore him to shoot and he obliges - the keeper is not troubled. The away side has equalised, the majority of the crowd fall silent apart from the small contingent of travelling fans. Regular time is about to expire, there is to be 3 minutes of injury time. A player has his nose bloodied and the physio is summoned to the pitch to escort him to the touchline, the crowd show their disapproval. Number 7 wins a freekick just outside the penalty area, he stands over the ball in his trademark fashion. He is not happy with the wall creeping forward. Number 11 takes the kick and places the ball over the bar. The goal keeper is cautioned for time wasting, 3 minutes of added time has turned into 5. The final whistle goes and the cameras focus on the pale and disappointed faces of the home fans.
Round 2
With most of the absent residents now returned, the house is mostly illuminated, making the journey upstairs easy. A sibling is in my room making use of the Xbox. I remove the cap of the second bottle; it has a brushed steel top with black, crimped edges. Whilst iTunes loads, I check my email for a message that will probably never arrive - once again my pessimism is rewarded. I choose Warren Zevons eponymous album. On the TV screen a figure moves around, practicing an art that is of no employable use; I am in no place to criticise him. The second half of "Frank and Jesse James" kicks in and then makes way for "Momma Couldn't Be Persuaded" which I find slightly grating, perhaps it is the Violin/Fiddle or maybe the verbose chorus. The cider persists in leaving its bitter taste after every mouthful. The music is punctuated by syncopated dull thuds and groans from the television's speakers. The album is bookended by two four-minute forty tracks, the rest don't trouble the four minute mark. "Hasten Down The Wind" includes a nice lap-steel guitar which is rewarded with a solo; the song reminds me of "The Eagles".
"Poor Poor Pitiful Me" is a great Zevon track - a good guitar riff and dark, cutting, sarcastic lyrics. I put my head on the railroad tracks to wait for the double-E, the railroad don't run no more, poor poor pitiful me. A sigh emerges from my brother meaning he has lost a close fought battle to a random person over the internet. The next track is "The French Inhaler", I am not familiar with this song. It features the nicely overdriven guitar I associate with Zevon's work, halfway through it raises to a rousing chorus and then cools down to simmer before a lifting guitar solo and a subdued ending. "Mohammed's Radio" follows, proving nothing is sacred to Warren. "I'll Sleep When I'm Dead" begins and my brother makes his exit.
I restart the previous track. The first couple of verses remind me of older times, with the sheriff and the village idiot making appearances - however this is incongruous with the later verses about gasoline and Mohammed's titular radio. I give the song a third listen and punch the title into Google in order to bring up the lyrics to aid my digestion of the songs meaning. I would wager that song is about the unfulfilling nature of the working man's life, never having quite enough money for gasoline and meat, and how music is a release and escape.
"I'll Sleep When I'm Dead" starts with a stomping drum beat and fills out to include a harmonica taking the bridge lead. Sadly Mr. Zevon is now acting upon this songs message and that is a great loss to us all. A gentle arpeggio on an acoustic guitar introduces the next song, "Carmelita" - this has long been one of my favourite songs, I am not sure why. Again it has vague hints of "The Eagles", but with sharper lyrics than they could ever manage. Carmelita, hold me tighter, I think I'm sinking down, and I'm all strung out on heroin on the outskirts of town. I imagine that Carmelita wears a red dress. I am unfamiliar with the next track, "Join Me In L.A.", it is rather funky and swaggery for Zevon, with a clean, single note guitar and a staccato synth, combined with backing singers high up in the mix. A Saxophone takes a solo three-quarters of the way through the song.
"Desperados Under The Eaves" is the last track, and also the longest of the album. It begins with a string section intro before the electric guitar and piano introduce themselves. All available instrumentation is thrown at this song, aswell as some fine lyrical wordplay - a verse identified as the humming of an airconditioner, mimicked by Zevons humming and a swelling string section. The final refrain of "Look away, down Gower Avenue" continues until the song fades out and ends the album. A good album by a great artist. Only the dregs of the second bottle remain, I strike out to obtain the third and final bottle.
Round 3
I select Neil Young's "Zuma" album and skip to the track "Cortez The Killer" - I have long admired the seven and a half minute track, it was one of the tracks on my iPod as I travelled to L.A. I recall listening to it whilst coasting above the clouds and looking out, over the planes portside wing - looking down upon landlocked America. Young's guitar playing is simplistic and uncomplicated, yet I find it mesmerising - the combination of the chords and guitar tone. The lyrics are blatantly falsified - insisting that "hate was just a legend, war was never known" to the Aztecs, however the last couplet before the final refrain "I still can't remember when, or how I lost my way" resonate with me. The final track of the album plays and I decide to start again from the first track, I decide it is to raucous for this time of night and this state of mind. I settle for Jenny Lewis and The Watson Twins album, a much gentler experience. I post something witty on Facebook, I hope they appreciate it.
Men are recommended 3-4 alcoholic units daily according to the bottle, and I am now at 6.6 and heading towards 9.9. A life of reckless excess, I may die before I get to collect my state pension, and it would only be my fault. "Happy" from the Jenny Lewis album is a nice song. I have yet to watch yesterdays Daily Show. I watch a video about a man who died at the G20 protests of "natural causes" being shoved down by police, from behind - he lands heavily and dies a few hundred yards down the road. I don't know what to think and unpause the music. Jenny Lewis has a small amount of the witty and biting lyrical style of Warren zevon, sometimes you need pessimism and sarcasm. I enjoy the minimalism of the guitar parts and the music in general - I was going to called it simplistic but that seems slightly demeaning. A Travelling Wilburys cover plays, I agree with the sentiments. There is still no email and there never will be. Midnight, and the wind is howling - infrequent drops of rain bombard my windows. The good weather of the last week has departed, summer could be over.
The album ends and so does the bottle of Westons. I would recommend Savanna Dry over this, purely as it was easier to drink and had a sweeter taste. This could be the best cider in the world and at this time I would have no way of knowing, a future retaste will be required when my palette has expanded. In a battle of price versus performance, the three bottles obtained for four pounds have made me sufficiently happy, not to the point of self-endangerment but instead to the point of self-contentment. Overall I would avoid this drink and I am now dubious of the value anything that claims to be organic.
