Last night I went to a Mogwai gig and sat in the Old People's Seats.

For the past couple of years I've been fighting the urge to sit down at gigs. I remember when we went to see Radiohead with my pals Jane and Rory in 2003 and they had seated tickets. I thought they were craaaazy! How could you not want to be right down the front, gazing straight up the nostrils of your idols, with strange, sweaty strangers pressing against you and/or sloshing lager all over your head. What's not to love?!

Hmm, yes. Well, I blame the Picture House in Edinburgh for speeding my descent into middle age. It has this great upstairs bit with plush benches to sit on that have a perfect view of the stage. The first time I went to a gig there I was in the standing area. I kept looking back up at the Seated People and thinking, Man. My feet hurt.

Last year we were back there to see Gary Numan. I didn't know feck all about Gary Numan except for Here in my car, blah blah blah blah so I reasoned: It's not like I'm an actual Gary Numan fan, so it's acceptable if I sit down on the comfy seats, just this once. Its only fair to leave more room for the true Numan lovers down the front of the stage.

But when we arrived at the Picture House last night I made a beeline for the stairs. In fact I made Gareth eat his dinner very quickly because I feared the comfy seats would go quick. AND I WAS RIGHT. We got there half an hour after doors opened and we only just managed to nab a spot on the sweet, comfy, lovely, cushioned benches.

Mogwai have been my pet band for a wee while now. Gareth was always been the big fan and had to coax me along to their Usher Hall a few years ago. He warned that they'd be loud but I did not expect to feel like my lungs had been hurled against my ribcage; the floor vibrating like a tractor beneath my feet. I wanted to diiiie. But they really grew on me and I became a big nerdy fan and have have seen them four times since. They are just hilarious and huge and foxy and loud and they tweet what they eat and did I mention they're really fucking loud.

ANYWAY I remember thinking when I was down the front at one gig a wee while back, I wonder if they band can see us? I wonder what it feels like to be in a band for years and years and years, and you started out seeing all these young, sexy faces in the front row then over time it becomes a sea of baldy heads and people who came along still in their work clothes? Are you cool with that because the fans still love you, and you're not as young as you used to be either? Or do you pine for the days of the young sexy faces? I wonder.

Last night I discovered there is a downside to the cosy seats. Sure you are comfortable, and you do not get bruised or shoved or have a plastic cup crushed against your skull, but you do get mature blokes intent on recording a whole song holding up their stupid little Flip video cameras right in your line of vision. PUT IT DOWN OLD TIMER. And said bloke is so excited to have a night away from the kids he insists on making the most of it by chugging a pint every fifteen minutes and having to get up between every song to go to the loo, for fuck's sake not AGAIN you incontinent bugger.

So the music was exhilarating and so very very very delightfully loud and today I still have that post-gig delirium where your whole body buzzes and you just feel glad to be alive. I don't think it matters how old you are or where you sit, if the music moves you, it's all good.

Down on the misty Solway coast of Scotland lies a music festival called The Wickerman. It's named after the 1973 cult movie – many scenes were filmed in the area. The highlight of the festival is the burning of the big fella on Saturday night, except there's no Edward Woodward-type trapped inside.

This is the 2006 model. Such tardy blogging.

Music festivals can bring out my most pathetic insecurities. I don't really drink or partake in wacky substances (got enough problems with sugar and saturated fats already), so at first I stand round feeling dull and clumsy and wobbly. I curse my inability to casually layer tiny garments and look cool despite three days without bathing. I don't even attempt welly boots. But the Wickerman has a more cosy, welcoming vibe. You only get the occasional hipster in the mist.

The line-up is eclectic with scores of obscure bands and remants of big ones. When we first went in 2006 the headliner was a Ramone. The Ramone. I can't remember which one; the one who wasn't dead. There was also The Blockheads; no Ian Dury of course since he's also no longer with us. This year we had KT Tunstall, Gary Numan and… Hippo! Yep, Dr G took his sexy keyboards on the road.

 

I got to be a roadie for five minutes when he had technical difficulties with the Powerbook. The volume control had disappeared from the menu thingy but I totally saved the day. Except for the bit where I might have cocked up a bit because when they jumped into the first song all you could hear was DR G ON THE KEYS! Thankfully nobody in the crowd noticed as they were all merry with their substances. After some quick adjustments the rest of the set was bloody magnificent. They sounded so, so, so good. I was delirious with pride and could have kissed all seven of them if not for their coatings of festival grime.

Meanwhile back at the campsite, the port-a-loos were doing a roaring trade.

While our pals went to see KT Tunstall (or attempt to see her since the mist was so thick) Dr G and I headed over to the ska tent to see Neville Staple, otherwise known as The Dude from The Specials.

I'm ignorant so I kept referring to him as Arthur Staples. Gareth reckoned I must have him confused with the elderly president of a lawn bowls club. Neville Staple on the other hand is a spritely 53 years old, supremely buff and dancing like a mofo.

I only knew Too Much Too Young and A Message To You, Rudy but went crazy with the dancing too. And so did Dr G!

That was when I realised that in almost five years of togetherness I had never seen the Doctor dance. It was surreal! Not because he danced like a dickhead or anything, but you get so used to someone looking a certain way – hunched over a computer or painting a wall or hiking up a hill or sitting behind the wheel of the car. It was so foreign and hilarious and oh so good, shaking up our little world.

Scottish festival food is getting posher these days – lots of noodle bars and organic frou frou. You've gotta look harder for the shitty burger vans.

Floating like lillies on a pond.

They burned the wickerman at midnight; you could barely make it out the poor bugger in the fog. We were too busy scoffing doon our chips anyway.

File footage from 2006!
(More Wickerman pics on Flickr)

On a bit of a Temptations bender this week. This could be a contender for the greatest lyrics of all time:

Every stove has a fire
and every car has a tire.

Everybody's got something but me.

Right now I'm watching a film on BBC4 about Scott Walker. You know, that bloke that David Bowie, Radiohead, Pulp et al always namecheck. So far the film is 50% interesting information and 50% random shots of famous musicians nodding with their eyes closed, Scotty crooning in the background.

What I have been wondering for many years is, why do Men of Rock always have such skinny legs? When I think of the Beatles I think of their twig-like pins in those natty grey suits. Mick Jagger, AC/DC, Johnny Rotten, every boofheaded hipster in the NME. All of 'em!

Which comes first – the body or the rock? Do blokes hit the age of 16 or so and look in the mirror, Right. I've got no arse and tiny legs, I'd better join a band! Or do the legs come later; a product of the rock lifestyle – sex, drugs and malnourishment. Are there heaps of really talented bottom-heavy blokes sulking in their bedrooms, not even trying because they know they won't look good in drainpipe jeans?

If you can think of someone truly rockin' with chunky thighs let me know!

Jeff Buckley died ten years ago today. When I heard the news I was all alone in my wee flat in Bathurst, second year of university. I cried and cried and moped and moped, sitting on the couch with something sugary, probably a jar of Nutella!

For someone who only made one studio album in his lifetime, Jeff Buckley Inc. has been remarkably prolific over the past decade. And now for the anniversary there's yet a-bloody-nother one, So Real: Songs From Jeff Buckley. Some sort of greatest hits thingy. Hmm. All I can say to his estate is, whatever happened to rest in peace?