Sitting in the medieval stone plaza as I overlooked the baroque facade of Santiago’s Cathedral I breathed a deep sigh of relief. Not a Starbucks in sight. No one inanely telling me to ‘have a great day’ with fake smile. A cityscape that had been the same for eons prior and was likely to remain the same for many centuries more.  I was no longer in the USA. Viva Espana.

Galicia was always a part of Spain I’d wanted to visit. I’ve been to most parts of the Iberian peninsular (Extremadura is still on the list, so is Jerez, Paloma, Cordoba, Almeria, the Castillion Plain etc) so wanted to see this legendary green part just above Portugal with Celtic influences. Upon driving around the terrain a few things struck me. It is very green, it appeared very affluent with large houses dotting the roadsides all well maintained. Galicia reminded me of many other parts of the world. Switzerland for being so well kept and orderly. Wales with all the isolated valleys leading to the sea. Cornwall (I know it’s not a country) for the gorgeous rugged coastline. France for the atmosphere in the towns, baguettes in the breadshops and men in berets. It’s a million miles from the Kiss Me Quick Costa’s most of the British get to see and so much better for it.

It also seemed very friendly. You’d ask for directions and locals would enter into conversation and even offer to lead you to your destination. So different from my experiences of living in Catalonia for two years. Franco’s regime was very recent and, particularly for Catalans who suffered perhaps the worst persecution, it seems to have left open psychological wounds manifesting in suspician and hostility to outsiders. I don’t think Galicians suffered so much at the hands of Franco - he was from Ferrol in Galicia.

We drove around the coast. First it was the Rias Baixes - lots of gorgeous estuaries and river mouths leading down to the pristine sea. Densely  populated with fishing villages, ports and quays. White sand beaches with crystal clear sea looking very much like the Carribean. Galicia faces out to the open Atlantic so it’s a great surf spot but alas there wasn’t much of a swell on but you could see the potential.

A lot of the towns are famed for their well preserved medieval stone quarters; Pontevedra, Coruna, Orense and of course Santiago where we were staying. Walking around Santiago you were taken back to centuries earlier, I imagined faceless cloaked figures skulking in door ways, up to intrigue and no good as part of some medieval plot. The old stone quarter is gorgeous with little plazas dotted with fountains and cafes, the large cathedral with it’s World Herigage baroque facade and countless other architecural beauties. And of course, how can you talk about Santiago withouth mentioning the famous pilgrimage which involves walking from the base of the Pyrenees to the town and further to the coast on certain routes. Worn Peligriones are all around the town, nursing acheing feet and hand carved walking sticks. I believe it is the second most famous Christian pilgrimmage in the world behind Lourdes.

On day three we ventured into Portugal on a two hour drive to Braga just north of the Druro valley. It had been many years since my previous vist to Portugal on our frequent family Algarve trips in the 80s. Again this part of the country is very different. Lush green valleys, slightly run down, old towns with Romanesque churches, vines in every garden. Braga is a university town. Lonely Planet described it as ‘the Rome of Portugal’ which I thought was stretching it a bit, but it is absolutely gorgeous and worth a visit. A lovely Cathedral, lots of other interesting architectural nuggets, so many beautiful old town homes run down and in need of restoration. Could this be the new Provence? Swarthes of invading upper middle class English growing organic produce and pricing the locals out of the property market.

This region of Spain has it all. If you like seafood it’s your mecca. Great beaches, old towns, mesmerising scenery, friendly, cheap and close by thanks to Ryanair. I hope the ‘Year In Provence’ masses stay away. On our third night there it was the final of the European championships and Spain outclassed Germany. I watched it in a local bar but was struck by the restraint after the Spanish victory. In England it would have been vomitting, fights and debauchery. Here there were cheers and lots of beeping of car horns but that was about it, perhaps of a symbol of the restrained but stylish aura of the region.

Let’s face it, Radiohead could record their farts and loop them backwards with some reverb and the critics would still be creaming their skidmarked pants. They can do no wrong. They are officially ‘My Favourite Band In The World’ so I was particularly excited to see them in London.

The stage in Victoria Park was massive - it was more like a festival vibe and the capacity must have been 20-30,000 and this was the second night on the sell out UK leg of their world tour. They are also everyone else’s Favourite Band In The World.

Thome was looking punky in tight red jeans and a Bowie circa Aladdin Sane hair do - which was apt as on stage Mr Yorke looked like a Amanin Sane. The sound was great and live they are very faithful to their recordings, helped by top notch production.

The tour was on the back of In Rainbows but then it ascended into a greatest hits which was obviously what the band wanted. I heard on the night before it was more of their recent albums. I’m seeing them next in August at the Hollywood Bowl.

Life moves in funny ways. I was watching Amy Winehouse on a music channel in Hi Def as she performed at London’s Koko. Koko’s used to be the Camden Palace, a venue I used to go to regularly in the late 80s to a night called Twist & Shout where they played sixties music. Here I was almost twenty years later sitting in my living room in California as Ms Winehouse sang sixties soul retro numbers at the same venue, on the same stage I used to bounce around on as a teenager.

Amy looked remarkably good in Hi Def. I couldn’t make out any signs of self harm. She’s like a cartoon character, a crack head Olive Oil with a remarkable talent and voice. She’s a proper artist who lives her art, perhaps too much as all her escapades and struggles are played out in lo def in the tabloids. I was pleased to be seeing her this time on TV doing what she’s best at. She mumbled in between songs. Then when singing she makes such an incredible noise for such a small being.

Koko looks all gleaming and spanking as a new music venue for London in the new millenium - especially in Hi Def, almost unreal, newer than new. Quite unlike when I used to frequent it to listen to The Who, James Brown, The Stones, The Kinks, Aretha etc blast out into the smokey, beer soaked hall. Admittedly my memories are faded, they could do with some upconverting into Hi Def. Okay so I’ve over use the Hi Def analogy - I’ll stop now. I remember regulars used to dance in sixties retro clothes (greasy quiffs, Converse hi tops, Lee Jeans) and dance in formation to some of the songs. We were just sweaty public schoolboys, drunk on Stella and perhaps a cheeky spliff before dancing. It was on a Wednesday night - a school night.

Camden Palace was shabby then with chewing gum on the floors and an air of faded glamour. I remember walking around the club and there were photos of Boy George and Steve Strange dotted around, relics to another of the Palaces incarnations as a hot spot for the New Romantics in the early 80s. The venue keeps reinventing itself. Thank you Amy in Hi Def for the retro memories.

Can you believe I have lived in the US for almost three years and have yet to visit Hooters? Well I put wrong to rights and made my virgin appearance at this shrine to Americana and breasts the other night. In England males oggle naked breasts on Page 3 courtesy of stunners from Basildon, Guildford and other bizarre satellite towns. In America it seems that Hooters is the culturally prescribed method of tit watch, although not of the naked variety. For that pleasure it’s off to the Hustler club.

At Hooters the all American girls wear orange 70s style hot pants that leave little to the imagination. Their tops leave even less. Like the clothing, the whole thrust of Hooters ethos is stuck in the 70s. The attractive girls are servants to masculine requests for beer, deep fried buffalo wings, other food items bathed in fat, all delivered with shiny toothed grins whilst we watch sport on mutltiple screens. For many men it’s their idea of heaven. Hell yeah! After a while, I found the combination of the bright lights of the bar and dazzling teeth of Lacy from Fountain Valley a bit grating. Plus being vegetarian, the menu was limited. I opted for the ‘cheese platter’ - a toasted cheese sandwich with curly fries. After three pints of Stellar it tasted phenomenal. I wanted to comment the chef - who I’m guessing was French - on the way he toasted the white bread.

The first Hooters was started in Clearwater, Florida and now there are over four hundred establishments in the US, including hotels, plus a magazine and all the merchandising. In my experience, many American’s have an old fashioned sexist approach to women. The ritual of the cheer leader is a good example of how females are frequently objectified. Add to that beauty pageants, the cult of the Prom Queen, Girls Gone Wild and obviously Hooters, and you can see how common it is for women to be viewed merely as totty for our titilation. Plus, due to the overly strong thrust of religion in creating the American moral universe, cultural attitudes to female sexuality are often hypocritical and delivered with mixed messages. Witness the furor when Janet Jackson accidentally exposed her breast a few years ago at the Super Bowl. Plus, why can’t women sunbathe topless as in Europe?

Anthropologically speaking, Hooters was an interesting place. But if you really want to look at girls, you might as well cut to the chase and go to a strip club. You get the real deal. Right, I’m off to the Hustler club, they do a great cheese sandwich.

I must confess my first introduction to The Cure was as a hormone addled pubescent chasing home counties crumpet into haystacks at various ‘balls’ in the late 80s. ‘Boys Don’t Cry’ and ‘Lovecats’ was a staple at a lot of the parties I went to as a spotty public schoolboy, along with ‘Come On Eileen’, ‘Tainted Love’ and ‘Relax’. Those were the days.

I wasn’t some uber-goth who saw them in the late 70s / early 80s supporting The Damned at a gig attended by 30 people in some gothic concert hall in South London. I’m a ‘Best Of The Cure’ kind of guy, first attracted by Robert Smiths superior knack for creating perfect, accessible, short and snappy pop numbers. ‘Lullaby’, ‘The Walk’, ‘Lovecats’ etc etc. You get the idea.

One of the best things about the gig was people watching. Loads of older goths - who probably did see them originally at that gothic venue in south London. Many into their fifties replete with white face make up, heavy eyeliner, Doc Martens, long rain coats and sullen expressions. Wonderful.

For me Robert Smith’s voice embodies the 80s. The tone, the frailty, slightly nasally and high alongside the common Cure themes of alienation and loneliness. Robert is the 80s. He speaks like he sings although he said very little in between songs. He was also a sartorial icon when at school, as I was surrounded by moody teenagers with eyeliner, baggy pants, long carigans and crusty Doc Martins.

The Hollywood Bowl was a sell out. His fans are adoring, singing along to all the songs - and not just the big hits that I knew the words to. Robert looked quite podgy, his face quite expressionless as it beamed onto the big screen like a mannequin. It was somehow touching, like he was some frail porcelain doll ready to crack at the stresses of this big bad world. It’s this obvious vulnerability that clearly makes him so popular. 

Age hasn’t affected his singing or guitar playing and the set lasted for three hours. He played all the big songs, along side the darker, earlier gothic stuff which sounded great and his band were exceptionally tight. I was surprised he didn’t play ‘Killing An Arab’ an excellent ditty of his debut album ‘Boys Don’t Cry’. I wonder if he’s saving that for the Middle Eastern section of the tour.

Plus Robert sang this:

“Yesterday I got so old I felt like I could die,
Yesterday I got so old it made me want to cry,
Go on go on
Just walk away
Go on go on
Your choice is made…”

The Cure, In Between Days

Perhaps my favourite opening lyrics to a song…

Jamie and his band jumped on stage looking like a white version of George Clinton’s Parliament, all shiny suits and zany shades. The El Rey is on Wiltshire Boulevard near Beverley Hills and it was suitably plush with red velour walls, squeaky clean floors and extravagant chandeliers.

I have a - admittedly very tenuous - connection with Jamie. Ten years ago he used to be the flatmate of my good friend Lynton down in Brighton. One weekend I went to stay with Lynton and met Jamie, who was then banging out squelchy techo from behind racks of synths in his bedroom. I hasten to say struggling artist as that’s a cliche - but it’s amazing what can happen in ten years. Now Jamie’s one of the hippest artists out there, packing concert halls, supporting Elton John on his upcoming UK tour and generally being a fave with the critics. Lynton said I should go and say hi at the concert but I thought it would be a bit flaky; ‘hi, remember me from ten years ago?’. I’m sure he’d be more interested in blond groupies not pre-middle aged friends of friends.

I had Jamie’s album Multiply. I’d also heard some of his material as Super Collider, a collaboration with Christian Vogel who I was at University with in Brighton and DJ’d alongside at a gig in the students union.

Jamie jumped on stage looking much thinner than I remembered. I imagine that’s what excessive touring and shagging does for you. Where do I sign up? His voice is exceptional - note perfect. I’m not exaggerating by saying he reminds me of Al Green (mixed up with Prince and Curtis Mayfield). No lie. There’d been some comments in the press about his casually hopping from one genre (techno) to the next (soul / retro R&B) as is if this was not allowed and was also a sign of sell out. The critics can stick it up their jacksys.

Jamie is superbly talented in both genres. I don’t think it’s a sell out. He clearly has a genuine love for soul and his voice is phenomenal. He probably understandably wants to reach a wider audience. He was also a great performer, energetic, keeping the audience involved and throwing the mic around. Older fans were also treated to his beatbox routine - where he beatboxes into a machine and loops the beats and noises to create mouthmade techno. He then segued this back into the live three piece band. He also did some Cameo-esque vocoder call and responses between him and his saxophonist, a cool 80s reference. Jamies on the verge of something massive, I’m pleased I saw him before it happens and I wish I’d said hello.

After five years of retirement, I’ve resurrected my DJing career out here. I got a gig playing at Avalon bar in Costa Mesa - a small, hard to find ‘hipster’ joint consistently empty on the Thursday nights I play. I spin alongside Matt, a friend of mine out here who comes from Leeds and is a music connoisseur.

My last DJ gig was of course Chamonix which proved to be the nail in the coffin for playing records due to acute tinnitus. That’s what five hours a night of banging tech trance will do to your ear drums. Thankfully the tinnitus has waned - or maybe I’m just used to it.

I felt like a crusty old rocker wheeled out from retirement. I blue the dust of my upfront - well actually five years out of date - records and span a selection. I’d only been able to bring over one box from the UK so I bought a handful of faves from each genre.

My first night went well. DJing’s like riding a bike - you don’t forget it. I had some positive comments from the crowd (of three). I played funk, hip hop, UK soul, then moving into deep and funky house and picking up the pace with a lickle bit of DnB. I had to drink a lot to keep my tinnitus worries at bay. When I woke up the next morning my ears where indeed ringing like a church steeple on a Sunday.

I’ve been playing every Thursday. I’ve really enjoyed it. Gets me out the house. Maybe that elusive gig at Space Ibiza may happen after all.

I opted for a walk yesterday on another gorgeously sunny Sunday afternoon in Southern California. We walked on the broadwalk next to the beach south from Newport Beach to Balboa Pier. It’s fun observing the vagaries and characters of SoCal beach culture.

Rollerbladers whizz past. Lithe youths play beach volleyball. Muscled surfers walk past clutching their boards under rippled arms, looking off into the distance, probably disappointed at the lack of waves on that day. Attractive girls in skimpy bikinis cycle past on beach cruisers.

It’s all very sunny and perfect, as if there’s no room for discrepancies or anomolies. It’s almost Aryan in it’s idealised pursuit of beauty, youth and material prosperity.

Walking along the sidewalk multi-million dollar homes with ocean views sit on the beach. Some are small shack like buildings - but still worth millions. Others are chrome and glass artworks, modern design pieces as featured in magazines and architects portfolios. On their beachfront verandahs Californians sit in the sun, sipping wine and revelling in the good life. It’s a form of ‘look-at-me’ peacockery. We’ve arrived. Aren’t we great?

On other verandahs teenagers party, drinking and smoking and listening to bad music. I wonder if they’re at their parents house? Or do they actually own this beachfront property? It reminds me of the ‘reality’ shows about Southern California - ‘The OC’ and ‘Laguna Beach’. Everythings perfect, everyones good looking, everyone’s seemingly happy, nothing is out of place. It’s ironic that they make ‘reality’ shows about a place that clearly has no reality.

I was over the moon the other day to hear my two year old son shout out ‘mum’. He could have quite easily opted for the American version ‘mom’ but he didn’t. I think it’s because he just returned from a holiday with his grandparents and heard me saying mum. Mummy. Oh mummy. Mum!

Now I have to train him to say nappy, pram, geezer, aright mate, oi!, cheers love, how’s your father and mum will defintely be the word.

One of the amazing things about Mexico is it’s diversity - of people, environments, coastlines - so I was happy to see another part of this beautiful country for a wedding I attended in Cancun on the Yucatan, Peninsular.

The Cancun marketing department have billed this stretch of coast the Mayan Riviera. I don’t know why, but I find that quite a cloying term. The Maya have been exploited since the Spanish decimated most of them in the 1600s with war, religion, illness and overall subjugation. Now a lot of them probably do low paid, menial jobs in the glitzy resorts whilst tourists - me included - trample over their ancient ruins, complicit in an exploitation of another kind. 

Cancun is massive. With its huge strip of hotels it reminded me of Las Vegas on sea (minus the gambling). A Benidorm full of Americans redeemed by the brilliant turquoise of the Carribean. For me the sea was the best bit. We were staying at the Hyatt and our room backed onto the beach; the Carribean makes a great back garden. The sand is so fine that the shoreline water has a creamy colour, turning turquoise and green as it gets a little bit deeper, turning into deep blue past the coral reefs.

The first day we went to Tulum. It was ridiculously hot. Tulum is the famous Mayan ruin right on the coast, overlooking a majestic white beach which stretches for miles. It’s breathaking and also home to one of the famous Yucatan postcard shots of the ruins with crystal sands and blue sea as a backdrop.

We also went to Chichen Itza, another popular Mayan ancient city, which is located about two hours inland from Cancun in the hot and sweaty interior. On the way there we stopped at Valladolid, a quaint town with a typical Mexican zocalo and some lovely colonial buildings, including a baroque Church which was unfortunately closed. Onto the ruins. We arrived at 5.30 to be told it was closed. We had to bribe - we are in Mexico of course - the door man to let us in. We only had an hour  but I walked around and took my photos and savoured the sights. It has the large pyramid centrepiece. I don’t know much about the intimate history of the Maya and we were too late for a guide. I tried to imagine what it would have been like as a functioning city thousands of years ago. All too often, images from Mel Gibson’s Apocolypto kept popping up in my mind. I imagined sacrificial heads bouncing down the steps of the pyramid as a drug crazed King communed with the gods.

Chichen Itza is a massive tourist stop off. To get to the site you have to walk down a boulevard lined with stalls selling tourist tat; ethnic fabrics, pottery, musical instruments, carved Mayan masks, stone carvings, t shirts etc.