Here’s a really lovely review of the recent Sonic Asylum at the Edge by John Kirremuir – and some nice pics:

I used to like going to music events and festivals when I was young(er). The buzz, the crowd, the jostling, the raw energy lifting you into an intense place.

But then I got un-young. Not old; I’m 43, and in my head a lot younger when the mood arises. But I like my comforts now; so judge me. I get cramps in my legs. My back hurts from falling out of one too many trees. So, as on a plane or train, legroom is great, especially if the journey lasts several hours. And OMFG a comfy seat yes yes yes. And I’d like to hear the music and for everyone else to STFU so I can hear it clearly – especially when, at contemporary events, you pay a bundle of notes for the ticket, another bundle for the booking fee, yet more cash for the “drink”, and so forth. Go to a concert nowadays, and you’re lucky if you can hear what you want, and you leave with any change out of fifty quid.

End of grumpy middle age man rant. I just want to leave an event less stressed, and more chilled out, than when I went in.

Hence, the last concert in Birmingham I saw was Amiina, sitting down in quietness while listening to six heartbreakingly talented, shy, demure, Icelandic musicians coax notes, tunes, melodies out of all manner of instruments and kitchen implements. I spent the concert blissfully being gently flown away, and idly wondering how I could successfully propose to Hildur Ársælsdóttir who played the saw (seriously). And I left the concert relaxed and content, not stressed. That’s how it should be.

So I took a punt on Sonic Asylum at The Edge. The admission was only three pounds, so that was low risk; hell, it costs more to get a return ticket on a local psychopathically driven  bus. I’d been to The Edge in Digbeth before, and knew what this unassuming building, in a part of Birmingham bearing more than a passing resemblance to Detroit in the Robocop films, looked like inside so the venue was okay with me.

And I wasn’t disappointed. Fairy lights hung around a giant playing card. An artist in one corner, who designs the flyers for Sonic Asylum, was busy at his craft. Bar staff wore colonial hats straight from the shoot of the Madness “Night Boat to Cairo” video. Musicians milled and spoke to people who turned up early. The dirty laugh of Sandra, one half of Friction Arts who inhabit the bat cave that is The Edge, floated over the people who drifted in early, like the laugh Sid James made just after Barbara Windsor’s bikini top flew off in Carry On Camping. And while the staff wore doctors coats – the ethos of Sonic Asylum is to cure your ills and stresses – Lee, the other half of Friction Arts and a man who has without exaggeration read many thousands of books, decided to dress like a patient.

The Edge sort of filled up, but not to an annoyingly crowded level. The place does take a little finding – it’s on Cheapside in Digbeth – which may put off a few people. But, it’s eight minutes walk from the Bull Ring, and a few blocks from the 35, 45, 47 and 50 bus routes. So it doesn’t take *that* much finding. Those people who didn’t make the effort; well, their loss.

And it filled up with nice people. Quiet, friendly, non-aggressive, unpretentious people of a wide age range. No egos, or pretentious people in ironic red snow coats, or hipsters with ironic beards and ironic £145 adidas retro bags. Just … normal people. I bought a beer (no queue!), said hello to some people I slightly recognised from Brummie social media and cultural stuff, said hello to some total strangers, used “the facilities” – again no queue! – and wandered back.

 The first act politely took his seat, so people took theirs. I chose a sofa. A Sofa. A SOFA. Not a muddy puddle in a field in Leicestershire with alternating rain and bikers piss raining down on me (bad memories). Nor a manure-sprayed field with twenty thousand undergraduates who know only the chorus, and not the verses, to James’s “Sit Down”, and pass around a rizla filled with nutmeg while pretending to “get down” with the “crazy beats”. Nor an eight square inch of neon-dazzled floor boundaried by people half, or a third, of my age who again do not STFU (yes, I have got a thing about people who turn up to cultural events, ignore the performers and make noise, and I think it is legitimate to at least slap them lightly).

But, A SOFA.  With as much leg room as I wanted.  That’s a point – I’d happily pay a premium for a sofa on a train, or even a plane. Especially a plane. But I digress. Again. Badly.

The first performer was Charles H. Wolfenbloode / Rupert Tsua, a musician, scholar and robemaker from Birmingham. Studious, concentrated, but warm in demeanor, he played a seven stringed traditional chinese instrument called the guqin zither, laid out in front of him. His fingernails were noticeably cut, rounded, to an exact length, shape, as he plucked strings. Before each piece, he’d explain the historical context, and the title, such as Geese Rising from the Sand Bank.  You could have heard a pin drop, as the cliche – in this case accurately – goes.

The audience politely applauded between piece, held attention. I tried to discreetly take photos, and not appear to be a dickhead amateur photographer (don’t get me started on people who now hold up iPads at festivals to record performances). The lighting in The Edge was subtle, picking out his fingers on the strings. And, it needs repeating, we could hear Every. Single. Note. Clearly. (Kudos to Peter the sound man).  It was the kind of performance you’d pay 30, 40, 50 and more quid to go and see in the Symphony, or Royal Albert, hall.  I paid three quid and this was just the first act. As we’d write on twitter: #win.

The next act, as with the others introduced by the irresistably friendly Dr Soesmix, came on. Danny was a solo guitar musician hailing from Scotland and had risked the train ride over the border for this event. His quietly understated songs, with for those people listening nicely sharp lyrics, continued the relaxed atmosphere initiated by Charles.  Half time. I bought a large slab of cake. It cost me a pound. Supper. Super. Super Supper. Whatevs; it was nom and I was full and halfway to a diabetic coma.

Though all good, the third act, Arkala, were my favourite. They performed one long, sinuey, thirsty piece using guitar, drum, fading feedbacked miniature megaphone, miniature hurdy gurdy (yes! eighties pocket instruments!), and other exotic equipment. Imagine a longer, more epic, twisty version of the Chemical Brother’s Private Psychedelic Reel, but reinterpreted by múm while being played by Jóhann Jóhannsson sitting in an Icelandic volcanic-heated lagoon (yes I am obsessed with all Nordic culture; deal with it) – and that’s part of the way there. The only downside: it eventually finished

The final act were a local three piece band, three guys playing the kind of array and combination of instruments you don’t usually see being played together. A loud cheer went up, announcing the local support, and Mendi Singh on the tabla, a crossed legged drumming arrangement, led on the first piece. It was interesting watching him play the tabla close up, and the sounds it made finally made sense, seeing how he used the palm and heel of his hand, not just the fingers, to produce individual sounds which … curved … in pitch and tone.  Mendi was joined by two other musicians who (as I’m not an artist or musician, and not part of the local scene) I appeared to be the only person in the room not to know. And all three were seriously good, at one point playing what appeared, and sounded, to be Persian, sub-continental and Irish music at the same time. And it worked. A broadsheet reviewer would come up with some wanky term for this (“Global Jazz Fusion”?), but for me it just … worked. As individuals, and as a group, all three were tremendous.

And then they finished and, despite three or four hours of music and chat, it was over. More conversations, then a walk back through pre/post apocalyptic Digbeth.

And the cost, for the economically minded. Admission: 3 pounds. Booking fee: erm, what booking fee? Beer: 2.50. Soft drink: 50p. (Seriously – when was the last concert you went to where soft drinks were 50p each? The Wurzels in Taunton in 1977?) And a large slab of cake: £1.  So, I saw four quality acts, spread over several hours, had left the house with ten pounds … and still came back with three.

But even better, I returned back to base and to two perpetually pretending-we-are-unfed cats blissed, and with a lower blood pressure. Which is just what the “doctor” ordered.

Thanks John – nice review, fancy going myself!  Everybody else, don’t forget this weekend’s Flatpack-flavoured goodness at the Edge – two special Outersight Psychedelic Psynema Pshenanigans, we received this postcard the other day…

Looks like it’s going to be a blast! There might be one or two (literally) tickets left, so scoot over to Flatpack festival to get your hands on ‘em.