Memories of 2 Free Festivals

Early Friday tea time on July 20th, as I piled a Waitrose trolley full of picnic goodies (olives, chorizo, Camembert, artisan bread, pate, rioja, pinot grigio and so on; yee knaa the fuckin score), the local press and social media were antic with hysteria about the supposed return of Andy Carroll to St. James’ Park.  One pleasing irony on a personal level was the fact that the day Carroll moved to Liverpool on January 31^st 2011, I went to see a Shakespeare play (The Comedy of Errors at the Theatre Royal), while on this day I was about to see another (Much Ado About Nothing performed in Jesmond Dene). Frankly, I could not have selected a more appropriate brace of theatrical events if I’d tried, even if the Newcastle United hierarchy are more akin to Iago or Macbeth in their ruthless ambition, but I’m digressing.

Holidays notwithstanding, I try to get to see the Jesmond Dene Shakespeare festival each year, though I missed out on seeing last summer’s production on account of being unavoidably detained in Euskal Herria, which still meant I managed to keep up my intake of olives, chorizo and rioja at least. Although at times, the sustenance required to battle through an outdoor performance of The Bard is of a less sophisticated and undoubtedly more fortifying timbre; one freezing Friday in August 2005, when I paid my first visit to the Dene to see Heartbreak’s previous touring production of Much Ado, attired in hooded sweatshirt and fleece to keep the cold at bay, I microwaved a tin of Heinz tomato soup as soon as I returned in an attempt to thaw my frozen blood. Subsequently I’ve seen their versions of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Love’s Labour Lost, Romeo & Juliet and The Tempest; all of which have been at least good. Frankly, at a tenner a pop (plus whatever you choose to spend on the goody bag of munchies and libations), you can’t go wrong and while tonight’s show was the weakest cast Heartbreak have assembled, with a script that would have benefitted by being shorn of at least 30 minutes of extraneous material that formed an unconvincing and slightly irritating back story, I was glad I’d made the effort to see their labours.

Undoubtedly there is a clear and immediate need for a scholarly article comparing Newcastle United with Shakespeare, but this blog is not it. Suffice to say, the multiple layers of artifice, deceit, doublespeak and chicanery that make up the typical Elizabethan or Jacobean comedy lend themselves to a close comparison with events at St. James Park. However just as Benedick is able to silence Beatrice when he decides to “stop up your mouth with a kiss” and Iago opts to take the fifth after his arrest (“from this moment on I never will speak word”), the noiseless utterances of Ashley and Llambias are a study in silent malevolence.

While Carroll would be a useful addition to a squad that has lost Lovenkrands and Best, with Ranger totally out of the picture and Ba’s future remaining uncertain, with Pardew obviously tactically able enough to get the best out of Carroll and able to alter the team’s style of play according to personnel, the transfer activities of Newcastle United (including still to be concluded but apparently active deals for Debuchy and Douglas) remains a mummers’ play behind the arras. Perhaps the most preferable scenario is the supposed Machiavellian attempts of Ashley and Llambias to either get Carroll for £13m (effectively half of what he was sold for, minus the 20% sell-on clause Newcastle inserted in the deal) or to force Liverpool to sell him for more than that, gaining Newcastle a windfall in the region of £5m; what a pair of ruthless bastards they are. And I mean that as a compliment.

While the Carroll speculation raged on Tyneside, Newcastle United’s tour durch Mitteleuropa shaped up on ESPN. Years ago friendlies abroad would get 3 column inches in the Chronicle 48 hours after they’d taken place; now we get the full game live on satellite TV. I didn’t see the 1-0 loss Chemnitzer, but caught the first half of a walking pace 1-0 win over Monaco, where Ba scored a header the keeper deserved a hiding for allowing in. The day after Much Ado, I took in the soporific 1-1 draw in Austria with Fenerbache in The Newton with Knaggsy; another dull game was wrested from terminal torpor by an Abeid rocket that gave us a late lead, before an Elliott howler let them equalise with 30 seconds to go. If all we learn from this tour is that Elliott isn’t good enough to be the second choice keeper in the Premier League, it will have been a worthwhile trip.

Pre-season kickarounds are generally pointless, except for the purpose of gaining fitness or allowing managers to assess the quality of trialists or fringe players, though I did enjoy Percy Main 1 Redcar Athletic 2 on the Saturday. However, the real glamour tie in the region last weekend was Heaton Stannington hosting Gabon’s Olympic side at Grounsell Park at noon on the Sunday. Based at Northumbria University for training, as they play one of their fixtures at SJP, Gabon had flown in on the Saturday and were keen for a game; the Stann obliged. The score was 4-0 to Gabon and the attendance about 70; “less than they get for Shankhouse,” as Knaggsy commented.  Meanwhile the biggest football story of the weekend was that those idiots full of sound and fury, signifying nothing, The 3 Legends (Horswill, MacDonald and Slaven) have had their nightly phone-in 86ed by Real Radio, to the relief of football lovers from Whitby to Berwick.

You’ll notice I don’t include a review of the Stann v Gabon game; well, to my shame, I was unable to attend, as full time in the Newcastle v Fenerbache game had signalled my cultural move from football to music mode, as I sought to square the social circle whirl with trips to both the narc Fest in the Ouseburn area and Summertyne extravaganza outside The Sage. As ever, I barely scratched the surface of either event.

While it was commendable that there was so much going on, and all of it for free, surely the narc bods must have realised that Summertyne  happens the same weekend each year and that with the Sage booked out 3 nights solid, with afternoon and evening gigs in both halls, local bands should cede to major international artists. Without being overly critical, let’s hope this sort of carry-on doesn’t happen next year.

Anyway, full time in Austria, I caught the 63 down the road to The Tanners; my least favourite Ouseburn pub, on account of it being the nearest approximation to a normal venue in this area. The Cumberland and Free Trade had folk acts, which would have been my pub and musical preferences, while The Tyne opted for blues rock (no thanks) and The Cluny for indie rock (ditto). Fair play to The Tanners; at least they’d gone for an eclectic bill of oddball acts.

When I got there, this young lad with a guitar was playing along to backing tapes that built up to a 30 minute prog rock piece that had me in mind of Steve Hillage; frankly, this wasn’t what Sid Viciou had died for. It was the sort of stuff we’d respond to as teenagers by hurtling through Handysides Arcade to chin the hippies, en route to the match circa 1978. Frankly, I felt rather like the young lad seeing the Emperor in the buff and no-one ever listening to me. However, Charles Dexter Ward (as he styled himself in homage to Lovecraft) was showered with praise by his chums when it finally stopped. Perhaps it was all part of some post-modern joke; perhaps I’m just old and intolerant.

Next up were Parastatic; my mate Dave had insisted I come see them, as they are supposedly Newcastle’s prime Krautrock outfit. Perhaps they will end up like that, but only if they slow it down considerably as the drum machine and WASP synth dominated fast numbers sounded like New Order, or even Revenge (without the bass lines), though one number that was very similar to “Hallogallo” was an absolute treat. Top of the bill were The Exes, who made my heart sing with their three minute spiky numbers that seemed so fresh and original after the backing tape dominated electronica of the previous acts. Bass, drums and guitar firing out rapid, non-nonsense numbers that reminded me of Thee Headcoats. Well done lads; hope to see you again soon.

Having headed off straight afterwards, full of real ale and music, I approached Sunday’s festivities in a more circumspect manner. I visited my mam, did her shopping then arrived at The Sage just after 4. I’d hoped to catch The Treetop Flyers, but got my times wrong; they’d just finished to be replaced by the dire MOR AOR of Grainne Duffy, the Monaghan Pat Benatar; yes that awful. Still, I took the time to schmooze while her caterwauling blues droned incessantly on and caught up with Richy, Calla and several colleagues from work, all enjoying beers as they were free from the need to get up on a Monday for five whole weeks. Summertyne is Real Ale middle age writ large, it has to be said.

At 6, the act I really wanted to see were closing the event; Slim Chance, the backing band of the late Ronnie Laine, recently reformed and keeping his music alive. As a kid I’d adored his solo singles, “How Come?” and “The Poacher,” both of which featured today. Their folksy feel was almost equidistant between The Faces and Lindisfarne, to the delight of your typical Jumpin’ Hot Club punters, attired in cheap Stetsons, washed out denim jackets, needlecord shirts, bootlace ties and desert boots. If Charles Dexter Ward had been the unacceptable face of pre punk music, this was the glorious legacy of those days. I loved it, despite the atrocious quality of elderly dancers in front of the stage.

Summertyne only does it for me intermittently, but like Shakespeare in Jesmond Dene, Narc Fest, pointless friendlies or transfer speculation, it’s part of the essential fabric of Newcastle in July; here’s to next year. I only hope Xisco is around to see it....

Epatez La Bourgeoise!!

T.S. Eliot claimed that “April is the cruellest month,” and while there may be some truth in that, there is a persuasive argument that mid July is the most noteworthy week in the calendar for red letter days, with the period 12^th to 15^th July containing successive dates of equal portent and importance.

On Thursday 12^th, renowned racehorse and helicopter owner Michael Owen, two months after he was granted a free transfer following his 3 year sojourn sat either on the bench or treatment table at Old Trafford, took to Twitter to declare that he’d not be stepping down to Championship level football to further his career and would retire rather than play at a lower level; brave words from someone who managed the grand total of 6 goals during his time with Manchester United.

Clearly this announcement of a desire to continue “playing at the highest level” was on account of two factors; firstly because the amount of unearned income he’d be able to soak up for achieving the square root of jack shit from Cardiff or Bolton wouldn’t satisfy his insatiable avarice and secondly because the upholstery on physio couches in the second tier wouldn’t be luxurious enough for him to relax on in style while poring over “The Sporting Life” each morning. No doubt some billionaire-bankrolled vanity outfit offering him unimaginable wealth and zero commitment will come in with a deal; my tip is the man who is held in contempt by the fans of every club he’s played for (Liverpool, Real Madrid, Newcastle and Man United) will accept a 2 year sinecure in Dubai, before disappearing off to count his enormous pot of gold. The man embodies everything that is wrong with modern football and I struggle to cogently express the contempt I feel for him.

However, his trifling Twitter inanities have been superseded in the public consciousness by Rio Ferdinand’s less than subtle 140 character attack on Ashley Cole, following the latter’s appearance as a defence witness in support of John Terry. To claim Ferdinand was being racist is not a standpoint I can agree with. I am uncomfortable with Ferdinand’s terminology and if it had been a white person saying the same thing, it would obviously have been racist in tenor, but Ferdinand is a black man; someone who has endured the institutional racist structures of capitalism from the day he was born. He may be a fabulously wealthy footballer, but at the end of the day, his skin pigment has marked him out for abuse and prejudice at every step of the way. To claim otherwise is to be as wide of the mark as those who state, without evidence, that Celtic are as bad as Rangers, but more of that later.

As we all know, Terry was found not guilty of racially abusing Ferdinand’s younger brother Anton. This verdict, given by a magistrate rather than a jury, as the case was not heard in a Crown Court, has been widely and roundly condemned by those with sketchy understanding of the English Common Law. Legally, what Terry did or did not do is immaterial; he has been found not guilty and, regardless of the removal of the double jeopardy concept from the judicial framework, the Crown Prosecution Service will not reopen the case as, in line with their guiding operating principles, even where a revisiting of the case would be in the public interest, as there is not a realistic chance of a conviction, the affair is at an end. Basically, in English law, the principle of innocence until proven guilty is the founding rock of the whole judicial system. Scrolling through the entire 15 page judgement handed down by Senior District Judge Howard Riddle (http://www.judiciary.gov.uk/Resources/JCO/Documents/Judgments/r-v-john-terry.pdf), who was the presiding magistrate in Terry’s case, the last sentence of all is the most relevant when debating Terry’s guilt or not; there being a doubt, the only verdict the court can record is one of not guilty. I am no lawyer, but I feel certain the prosecution brief in Terry’s case failed to do the evidence justice, rather than the Magistrate wrongfully letting off a felon. Unfortunately, if you believe in justice and the legal system, you have to believe in all of it, not just the bits that you agree with. Consequently, there is no option but to abide by this judgement, even if the temptation is to set off on a coruscating critique of bourgeois justice and the role of the legal profession in maintaining the capitalist status quo.

Basically, the prosecution failed in its duty to prove beyond all reasonable doubt that Terry was guilty of the offence of which he was charged. Of course Terry is a thoroughly dislikeable man and as much of a folk devil for the wrongs of the modern game as Owen, but being a lothario with parasitic family members with career criminal tendencies, isn’t a hanging offence. What Terry said was appalling, unacceptable and downright disgraceful; it will surely lead to the FA charging him and issuing a lengthy ban. This subsequent course of action is possible, not just because Yohan Cabaye received a 3 game ban for a “tautening of the facial muscles,” that indicated malice aforethought in a challenge during the cup tie at Brighton (yes I still have a bee in my bonnet about that game and the fallout from it), but because FA rules require far a less stringent proof of guilt than in a court of law. They can and they must throw the book at him.

The Terry verdict was announced on July 12^th, which marked the 323^rd anniversary of the Battle of the Boyne, which was an event that was often sung lustily about in The Shed, back in not just pre Abramovich but pre Matthew Harding days, when Chelsea were that little corner of West London that remained forever stuck in 17^th Century County Louth. There was a fanzine about Chelsea and their comrades in sashes, Linfield and Rangers entitled The Blues Brothers that was at great variance from my own take on Irish history. Suffice to say, seeing the scowling faces of the No Surrender zealots, it makes you wonder just how miserable they would have been if they’d lost the Battle of the Boyne. Of course the weather has been so lousy this summer; they probably struggled to get the bonfires lit on the eve of The Twelfth.

Clearly, the future of Newco was weighing heavy on the minds of Billy Boys everywhere. Despite the gerrymandering machinations of the utterly discredited SPL Chief Executive Neil Doncaster and the nonsensical, alarmist protestations of his SFA counterpart Stewart Regan, the grandsons of King William were rightfully denied not only a place in the Scottish Premier League, but also a dangerously fudged compromise of a parachuted place in Division 1. Following a 10-1-1 vote against them in the top flight, a 26-5 majority wanted them placed in Division 3, which is where they will most likely be, if talks to bring this about are successful. The clock is ticking, as their first fixture is away to Brechin a week on Saturday and the vexed issue of a 12 month transfer ban has yet to be addressed. Perhaps the most heart-warming fact of all is that finally Rangers will be given a chance to play league football in England, as they’re due at Shieldfield on August 25^th to take on Berwick Rangers. Quite what genteel Tweedmouth will make of 2,000 lairy Teddy Bears is quite another matter.

In all seriousness, the placing of Rangers in Division 3 must be applauded from every angle, which is no doubt reflected by the fact that an enormously high majority of their own fans wanted to be placed at that level, to effectively start from scratch. The fact that Scottish league clubs have looked at the sporting integrity of their competition, listened to the wishes of all supporters in Scotland and not been swayed by vague threats of a drop in revenue, as alluded to by Doncaster and Regan and then voted in such huge numbers for the bottom tier option has to be applauded. It is a bit of a shame that this vote was knocked back a day from Orangemen’s Day to Friday 13^th, but there is a pleasing logic to the horror connotations provided, especially if you’ve ever visited Ibrox.

The thing that annoys me most about The Old Firm, and as a Hibs supporter I’m used to regular maulings by both clubs, is how those outside of a Scottish context (I’m including the overwhelming majority of English fans in this) have seen the decision to put Newco in Division 3 as a kind of principled suicide pact by the Scottish league clubs. English fans see the decision only in terms of income generated and not the integrity of the competition. When this is pointed out, the nonsensical utterances that “they’re both as bad as each other” are blandly trotted out, presumably by those who think Rio Ferdinand is a racist. No, they are not; Celtic are nowhere near as bad as Rangers. The number of charges against Rangers for sectarian chanting (“The Famine Song” is both the most offensive one imaginable and the most popular among the Gers most intense fans) is simply staggering and this, combined with the illegal accounting practices that have bought them most of their honours in the last 10 years, have combined to make them uniformly despised outside of their Ibrox home. In the opinion of the rest of the Scottish game, and as a Hibee I must pay tribute to Hearts for their unbending stance on this, it is time for Rangers to atone for their wrongdoings and to come back as a proper club and as a better club, on the pitch, off the pitch and in the boardroom.

Unfortunately, there are plenty of other opportunities for the less than tolerant elements of Scottish society to spread their poison. I told of the Orange Walk query at the end of my trip to Shotts; well on Saturday 14^th, at Whitley Bay 1 Airdrie United 1 in a pre-season kickabout at Hillheads, a shadow was cast over my enjoyment by the appearance of 2 Union Jacks with SDL embroidery on them. Ironically, Newco’s arrival has helped propel Airdrie United (a club born after the liquidation of Clydebank) to Division 1. However, if Newco means Year Zero for Scottish football, then so be it. At least the Airdrie fans didn’t have a song sheet to rival the Ibrox hordes.

Talking of songs, I must have been about 12 years old when I first encountered the music of Woody Guthrie. One Saturday afternoon during the baking summer of 1976, I was listening to Alan “Fluff” Freeman’s show on Radio 1. It must have been in the summer, as during the football season I’d either have been at St. James’ Park (35p in to the Gallowgate and 40p in to the Leazes in those days) or listening to the Magpies’ usual away day capitulation on Radio Newcastle’s “Home & Away” programme presented by George Bayley, as the newly launched Metro Radio’s distracting adverts ruined the continuity of second half commentary. Anyway, in preference to Jonny Miller’s triumph at Royal Birkdale in The Open, Bjorn Borg’s debut Wimbledon success or Tony Grieg’s England suffering a 5-0 trouncing by the West Indies, I opted for some music.

At some point on that breathless, stifling afternoon Freeman played “1913 Massacre,” the tale of the deaths of 73 children in a stampede at a Christmas Party held by striking copper miners for their families in Calumet, Michigan. The murders were occasioned by scabs erroneously claiming there was a fire in Italian Hall, where the party was taking place, then locking the exit doors, causing a mass panic and deaths by suffocation, in the manner echoed by the 1989 Hillsborough Disaster.

Never before had I heard such music; plaintive, declamatory singing about a tragic incident over a simple acoustic guitar backing. I found the song immensely powerful and upsetting at the time and I still do. I last listened to it on July 14^th, Bastille Day, as this marked the 100^th Anniversary of Woody Guthrie’s birth and the bitter tears of upset and rage still flowed, not just at the tragic events, but at Guthrie’s castigation of the conditions of capitalism that gave rise to the whole situation; “see what your greed for money has done.”

Last July, Ben, Laura and I took in The Mouth of the Tyne Festival, pogoing and skanking the afternoon away to the joyous, righteous sounds of The Buzzcocks and Neville Staples. Clearly such a quality line-up on the rates could not be repeated, so this year’s festival, featuring McFly and The Wanted, was given a wide berth. I’ve not heard any reports about their performances, but I am no doubt they didn’t come together for a final encore of “This Land Is Your Land,” to commemorate Woody’s centenary, which is just as well.

One person who has a reputation for covering Woody Guthrie songs, including a highly arresting version of “Deportees,” is unapologetic Liberal Democrat voter Billy Bragg, or Baron Bridport as I like to call him, in recognition of his sterling work in helping to dismantle the last vestiges of the Welfare State. Bragg first crossed my radar in 1984, not on account of his then wishy, washy, hand wringing, soft left, reformist politics, but because of his beautiful love song, “St Swithin’s Day,” a festival which takes place on July 15^th each year. On that basis, it is a shame Bragg couldn’t have been in the North East last weekend (he was actually in America, playing a festival on the eastern shore of Chesapeake Bay)as there was a great opportunity for a double header; Sunday at Tynemouth and Saturday in Durham for The Big Meeting, where he could have shared a platform with another firebrand loony lefty (I’m joking here) Red Ed Milliband.

A fella I work with, Dan, comes from the former Durham mining community of Hetton. He’s a good lad Dan; a lifelong black and whiter from the Mackem heartlands who plays in top quality new folk octet Dennis (I’ll return to them in the future where their EP is released and they’ve gigs to play), who include a brass section from the Hetton Colliery Band. Despite being a strong advocate of his local community and its traditions (his grandfather worked underground), Dan doesn’t take in The Big Meeting any more, on account of the fact that politics and comradeship have been replaced by crass, day long boozing and trivial local disputes that turn, with depressing frequency, in to alcohol fuelled brawls. Rather like the situation regarding some misinterpretations about the Old Firm rivalry, simple lies replace complicated truths and the spirit and philosophy of Gramsci is again the guiding principle to understand anti social behaviour. Pisshead pit yakkas having a collective false unconsciousness…

Sadly, we live in troubled times where the hegemony of reaction and repression is reinforced and redoubled at our every step. Mes amis, il est maintenant temps pour nous de épater la bourgeoise.

That Man Loves You

I’m writing this immediately after hearing of the death of legendary avant garde saxophonist Lol Coxhill. I first became aware of him, and specifically his 1975 album “Fleas in Custard,” during one of my epic browsing sessions through the experimental and prog rock racks at the Pop Inn record shop in Felling Square. The title and his name struck a chord, even if I hadn’t a clue what kind of sounds he produced, though needless to say my fascination endured and I eventually tracked down a CD of him and ex Mott The Hoople fella Morgan Fisher aound the turn of the millennium; enjoyable it is too. Now I may have to look for more Coxhill product. Lol’s last gig in Newcastle was in July 2008 and it was a source of regret to me at the time that was away in Portugal on holiday; that regret is all the more pronounced now that he’s gone aged 79 and I’ll never get a chance to see him. RIP Lol.

I did see another 79 year old last week though; former Newcastle United chairman and self-mythologising, unreconstructed Thatcherite megalomaniac, Sir John Metrocentre Hall. As someone who believes passionately in fan ownership, I’ve never had much time for Hall, his family or his ilk. Actually I’ve never had any time for him; even when he took over from the contemptible Gordon McKeague, it was clear that Newcastle fans, whether they were aware of it or not, were entering in to a Faustian pact with the Wynyard Dynasty. While we got great football on the pitch, we paid through the nose for it, were treated with contempt by the board and then had to stand helplessly by as they made unimaginable millions from selling their assets in our club. When I look at the likes of Seymour, Westwood, McKeague, Shepherd and Ashley, I know there’s not a shred of difference between them. All they wanted, during their period at the throttle of the sporting gravy train that is Newcastle United, was to maximise their investments; at least Ashley doesn’t feel he has to patronise the supporters with preposterous flannel about the Geordie Nation. Sadly, not everyone sees the imperative of fan ownership as a standpoint which must perforce be vehemently opposed to billionaire owners soaking the ordinary fan for every penny then can get. To me it’s clear that those who combine their ostensible contempt for Shepherd with unctuous fawning over Ashley are the modern equivalents of 70s Rad Fems who continued to wear dungarees while voting Tory.

I’ve always found Hall to be a vacuous, preening narcissist; his latest utterances stating he won’t allow Ashley to change the name of St James’ Park to the Sports Direct Arena without a fight would have more credibility if Hall hadn’t renamed the Leazes after himself almost 20 years ago. It was all rather redolent of the sort of rewriting of history that allowed John Lydon to be introduced before his embarrassingly populist spot on “Question Time” as the singer of Public Image, presumably because it’s PiL that he’s promoting this summer, not the Sex Pistols or anchor butter.

However Sir Wynyard wasn’t the only bloke from Ashington that I heard talking bollocks last week. The 2012/2013 football season arrived after a painful 28 day close season with the visit of the Colliers to Grounsell Park. Ashington, or Benfield Rejects as they should be known with Paul Antony, Paul Buzzeo and Andy Dugdale playing for them, came up against a highly organised Heaton Stannington side, who deservedly won 2-0, much to the chagrin of the visiting supporters who were seemingly unused to Alliance officials and their arcane use of the laws of the game as a starting point for debate on foul play rather than as unequivocal arbiters of acceptable conduct. Ashington player Jonny Godsmark suffered a nasty injury after what appeared to be a fair but firm tackle, though the Collier Army didn’t see it like that, rising like lions after slumber to upbraid the referee. With the Northern League adopting a Secret Shopper approach to keeping foul language in check during 2012/2013; it would be a good idea if those from Woodhouse Lane took a step backwards before issuing volleys of profanities in future, as their intemperance may cost them dearly.

One field of human conflict in which swearing has to be encouraged is popular music. While I watched Heaton Stann v Ashington on a pleasant, warm afternoon, my son Ben was shivering in ankle high mud and swearing at the elements in a field in Perthshire, awaiting the arrival of The Stone Roses at T in the Park. The night before I’d watched BBC3’s highlights of this contemporary Dante’s Infernofuelled by Buckfast with distaste bordering on contempt as first Professor Green (how can anyone voluntarily listen to that shite?) and then Tiny Tempah, who appears to be Precious McKenzie’s grandson in 3D specs, sent me off to bed before 11.30 on a Friday night. Obviously I’d needed a good kip as there was football, beer and rock n roll to entertain me on the Saturday.

Last November, I wrote a blog about The Fall (http://payaso-del-mierda.blogspot.co.uk/2011/11/fragments-of-unpopular-culture-8-das.html), mentioning their rather wonderful gig at the ersatz Riverside on Guy Fawkes Night. Well, amazingly, after not visiting the area in almost 4 years, they were back again, supposedly to play the Cult Festival at Hoults Yard on Walker Road. Hardened Fall watchers took a sharp intake of breath before knowingly opining that the venue, promotion and endless list of smug non-entities from the local band scene that made up the rest of the bill hinted at a no-show, a late show or a very bad show from Das Gruppe. As tickets were £20, I’d decided not to bother, until my mate Knaggsy came up with the goods in the shape of a pair of freebies.

Knaggsy is a solicitor with a prestigious Quayside law firm who use Hoults Yard to store their documents, presumably as it’s far cheaper to hire space in Walker than on Sandhill. Their firm were given a load of freebies because of this; normally it’s tickets to the Falcons or boxes at the Theatre Royal when the Scottish Opera are in town, but this time it was The Fall. Knaggsy was a proper post punk lad back in the day (he’s 3 months  younger than me), being a guitarist in a band who not only released a single, but also supported The Fall at the Riverside in 1986. He’d not seen them since; in fact I don’t think he’s been anywhere other than The Newton since, except to see Killing Joke.

We made a night of it; a pint in each at the Cumberland, Cluny and Tyne, before a couple in the jewel of Newcastle’s pub world, the glorious Free Trade Inn. After this, we headed along to Hoults Yard. The festival seemed a jolly place; stalls selling veggy food, jugglers and some terrible local bands. We arrived to hear Beth Jeans Houghton’s set; it was awful. Perhaps the only interesting thing about this lady is that she’s walking out with Antony Keidis of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, so presumably the two of them have had a First Class time with Mr & Mrs Mensch at some point. However, let us leave that subject as memories of such gatherings are no doubt hazy.

Bearing in mind that the primary emotion before any Fall gig is not anticipation, but anxiety, the news that they were due on at 10, but this had been put back to 10.30 seemed ominous, even if we’d been reassured MES was “in good spirits.” In actual fact they arrived at 10.05, set up at 10.10 and were playing by 10.15.

Despite owning every single Fall album, it is often difficult to work out exactly what it is they are playing; I think I managed to recognise the opening “Strychnine,” the unexpected jewel of “Container Drivers” and the strand-out recent track “Nate will Not Return.” Regardless, this was one of the finest Fall gigs I’ve been to in the last 32 years of seeing them. MES was in a good mood; playing the keyboards, altering amp volumes, putting the mic in to the audience and in the bass drum, not to mention offering the bouncer outside for roughly handling a stage diver. I made it fr4om 5o yards back to actually standing against the stage and it was an absolutely brilliant night.  Everyone I knew there (all seeming to be on guest list places as well) agreed they’d not seen MES so animated, or the band so efficient in decades.

Even better, my old mate Peter, who used to be High Barnes’ number 1 Scritti Politti fan and is now Bedlington’s number 1 Scritti Politti fan, gave us a lift back to The Newton for last orders. A gig and a half and a night and a half. Meanwhile in Balado, The Stone Roses did a self-indulgent 12 minute version of “Fools Good” and no encore, or even a duet with Dappy. Frankly, is Ian Brown any better a person, or indeed a singer, than Sir John Hall? As for Mark E Smith; 32 years after first seeing them at the Tyne Theatre, it is still abundantly clear that man loves you.