'huge, queer and tawdry' but 'much admired by the public'

Finished Paul Auster's New York Trilogy this week. I feel like I should have something to say about it, but every attempt I make reads like I'm trying to describe a dream. What a strange book(s).

The new Cathal Coughlan album is, unlike the Fatima Mansions records which first brought him to my attention, very quiet. Almost flat at times. Of all the strange little boys who were blown away by Scott Walker and decided to be singers too, Cathal was the one with the voice most like Scott's in sheer scale and power, but here he seemed to have made his Any Day Now - not a bad record by any means, but not one that grabs the attention either. Live, though...live these songs are so much more dynamic. They may not grab you, but they envelop you instead, and at times I was closing my eyes just to savour how damn *big* Cathal's voice is. Not that it was all new ones; aside from earlier solo work, there are two Fatimas tracks chosen with an eye to the Tube strike, 'The Loyaliser' ("Lockdown London!") and 'You Won't Get Me Home'. We do get home eventually, but only after a fairly lengthy journey that takes us past an estate agent called Herzog. Which was not even the most intriguingly named business we'd seen that evening.

Loved the first two thirds of Mad Men's return. As soon as Betty turned up again, I realised why it was that half hour had been so good. When did she get so desperately boring? I enjoy the focus on the new agency, and if we're going to see more of those left behind, please can it be the rump of Sterling Cooper, not the vacuously decorative ex? Also checked out Swingtown, whose emphatically 1976 setting makes me suspect they were going for some of the same retro kudos; in practice, it feels more like Anchorman. And the direction is clunky as Hell. Still, the script managed not to insult my intelligence at any point, which is rare enough for a US network series or one broadcast on ITV1. Plus Jack Davenport and Deadwood's Molly Parker gave very good central performances. I'll stick with it for now; knowing there's only the one season somehow makes it feel like less of a commitment.

Thursday: I am needed in the ancestral acres, with a chainsaw. Groovy. Further explorations of the old haunts are considered, but a downpour arrives with sufficiently precise timing to make clear that the time is not right. So it's a more leisurely journey back to the Lexington. Two entirely unconnected books I've read recently have brought to my attention that it stands right next to an area formerly considered to be Merlin's; I'm unsure what to make of this, but it has to be something, especially since the plaques I saw en route included one for the former home of that pioneer of the rum and uncanny, Charles Fort. The oddness continues - post-Britpop nearly men Ultrasound (subject of a running joke which has surely now backfired in Kill Your Friends' face) do not seem to have aged in the slightest, or even changed their outfits - except bassist and sometime singer Vanessa, who is turning into Tamsin Grieg. They play all the 'hits', and even manage to redeem the title track of the inexplicably disappointing album Everything Picture, but while the songs sound the same as they did first time around, when they were brilliant, rallying cries for the kids disappointed by the laddish morass into which Britpop had sunk, now there's something missing. These were songs that captured the zeitgeist of a time that never quite happened; through no fault of their own, they now struggle to connect. I don't regret going, and in a few months I'm sure I'll be playing the EPs again, but I don't think I'll be at any further shows.