Circumstances will no doubt dictate that I return to the
subject of football by the end of the week, but for the minute let’s just
ignore NUFC and have our bi-monthly delve in to my cultural activities instead…
Music:
If you read my blog of June 4th (http://payaso-del-mierda.blogspot.co.uk/2013/06/up-for-bit.html),
you’ll know I’ve dealt with The Pastels live in Glasgow and their glorious new
album, Slow Summits, so I’ll not mention them here, other than saying
I’m sorely tempted to head over to Preston on July 26th to see them
there.
My last music blog (http://payaso-del-mierda.blogspot.co.uk/2013/04/sound-vision-ii.html)
was uploaded a few days before 2013 Record Store Day. Like many things, I was
late to the party on this moveable feast, only getting involved last year
because the very fine Snowgoose were playing Reflex records in town.
This year I didn’t even make it to town, sending Ben instead as he’s becoming a
bit of a vinyl devotee of late. Instead of giving him a quid for going, I
bought him British Sea Power’s 7” release of Machineries of Joy / Facts Are
Right, which he loves because it’s brilliant. Incidentally, I must just
massage my own ego as a parent, as he’s got me a ticket to see Wire at The
Cluny in September for Fathers’ Day, which shows what a wonderful
person I must be.
My proxy purchases on RSD 2013 included Vic Godard’s 7” Caught
In Midstream / You Bring Out The Demon In Me, which sees the certified
genius and postman continuing to reinterpret his early career 30-35 years later,
while simultaneously releasing high quality new product, by successfully laying
the ghosts of his monochrome, angst punk 77-79 period and embracing his torch
song, crooner era, with a couple of jazz and swing tinged numbers, that are
drenched in organ and soul percussion. It’s an excellent slice of good time
power pop that takes me back to the summer of 1981 and the parallel narratives
of positivity from Orange Juice and introspection from Josef K. I recently
discovered Vic has booked his annual return to Newcastle for late autumn, which
is great news for all concerned.
Last year, The Wedding Present celebrated RSD 2012 with Quatre
Chansons, including 4 numbers from the (then) newly released Valentina
sung in French. Musically it was great, but vocally David Gedge seemed
to be a little less than convincing in the old Charles Aznavour stakes. However
this year’s Vier Lieder is an altogether more successful affair, though
also a 10” on clear vinyl the same as last time. It isn’t so much that the
songs chosen are stronger, including as it does my favourite and least
favourite moments from Valentina, namely You
Jane and Girl From The DDR respectively, it’s just that the German
language seems to suit Gedge’s delivery more than French does. He simply sounds
more convincing. Either that or I’m just desperate for more Weddoes material.
One consolation is that they’ve booked a Newcastle gig for October 28th,
which is half term and means I’m definitely considering a trip to Liverpool for
their show there the next night.
Tame Impala are big and heading towards massive. While
they’ve a reputation for being the great new hope of Stoner Rock, I detect
enough melody and subtlety in their work to appeal to my jangly pop sensitive
ears and consequently I’m able to view them as the mid-point between Dinosaur
Jr and Teenage Fanclub, which is pretty high praise indeed. Their re-released
debut EP was probably the first 12” single (on blood red vinyl no less) I’ve
bought new since Swervedriver’s Rave Down, which is another decent
reference point. Regardless of influences and similarities, the fact is that Half
Full Glass of Wine is the best thing they’ve done or are likely to do.
With a stunning mixture of laconic vocals, a powerful bass riff and a closing
drum solo, this one ticks all the classic rock category essentials from Led Zep
to the present day and back again. Whether I investigate Tame Impala further is
a moot point; this lot are shoo-ins for headlining stadium gigs within a couple
of years and I don’t think I’ll be following them in the flesh, unless they can
guarantee songs of the quality of Desire Be Desire Go frequently.
I alluded to The Pastels’ personalised mixtape, Insane
Energy Drop, in my blog about them; well, it has 2 Scottish cousins
that I’ve come across recently. Released on RSD 2013, but donated to me out of
friendship by Bill from Pop Klubb was a sampler from
Mogwai’s own Rock Action Records and simply stunning it is too, full of
eclectic aestheticisms culled from the label’s 5 year history. Moving
effortlessly from glorious, uplifting ambient post rock anthems by Mogwai,
Remember Remember and Envy, to angular, shouty pieces by The Yummy Fur and
Afrir Ampo, it is a superb 80 minute journey through the record collection of
true connoisseurs of anti-commercial excellence. To borrow a phrase from ATP,
Mogwai have truly curated a textbook of tunes that deserves a wide audience.
The flip side of the coin is to be found on The
Barne Society CD; assembled by Marco Rea and Stuart Kidd from the
gorgeous The Wellgreens, this release is as organic and heterogeneous a
collection as I can remember since Pillows & Prayers, as well as
being what I gave Bill in return for Rock Action Records 3. This is
contemporary Scottish west coast pop, with the coast in mind being California
and the era being 1965 to 1968 or thereabouts. The fact that many of the songs
are similar sounding is actually one of the greatest strengths of the release,
as this house sound is exactly what I love to hear. Particular highlights are
the achingly sad Endless Lullaby by Robbie MacInnes and the equally heart
rending I’ve Been Mad for Fucking Years by Picture Houses. Retailing at
only a fiver, this is a great bargain and a yin to RSD’s steep prices; £12 for
Tame Impala indeed.
My final purchase from RSD 2013, albeit slightly belated as
I got it mail order from Norman Records in Leeds was The Fall’s 7” Sir
William Wray / Jetplane / Hittite Man; all 3 tracks, as well as last
year’s Fall RSD Victrola, which I only managed to get hold of as a download,
appear on the latest Fall album Re-Mit. Having just checked, I
believe it is The Fall’s 30th studio album and of course I’ve got
them all. 2011’s Ersatz GB didn’t last long on the iPod, with only Nate
and Happi
Song remaining now. On that release MES sounded like he’d lost his
false teeth, with his unintelligible mumble punctuated by bizarre whistling at
the end of words, but that wasn’t a bad thing. What really made it so dull an
experience was the bland uniformity of so much of the music on there that made
many of the tracks interchangeable and indistinguishable. Re-Mit is a massive
improvement, possibly because of the familiarity I approached it with; of the
12 tracks, 2 are versions of the same song (No Respects) and the 4
mentioned earlier have been released before.
Das Gruppe consists of the superb band MES toured with last
time, as well as this year even if he missed Newcastle from the itinerary. His
lads churn out a series of intriguing, quality numbers that veer between no-fi
Krautrock workouts, like Jam Song, Noise or Kinder
of Spine to almost rockabilly, stripped down hellraisers, like Sir
William Wray, which ironically sounds the spit of Teesside Fall
impersonators Shrug’s Hood Street Gyratory. The absolute
standout is the brilliant, multi-lingual narrative Jetplane that combines
arcane, yet compelling lyrics with minimalist backing and could have been on
either Hex Enduction Hour or Room to Live; yes it’s that good.
Indeed, this is a very intriguing Fall album; perhaps the fact it is tame,
well-rehearsed and properly executed means they’ve released something they can
be proud of and that MES won’t be disowning it in 6 months’ time. Certainly I’d
imagine it’ll stay on my iPod for a while yet.
The same cannot be said of Camera Obscura’s Desire
Lines, which is an eminently pleasurable, unchallenging listen, but far
too polished and sparkling for my tastes. In fact, it is decidedly mainstream
as they appear to have moved on from sounding like a pastiche of Belle &
Sebastian to Sheena Easton fronting Scouting For Girls; that’s bad isn’t it?
Well, yes it is if you like an element of humanity and a large dose of
independence of thought and method to your pop music; perhaps something akin to
what The Pastels produce, for instance?
Let’s be honest, there’s nothing wrong with Desire
Lines and it will remain a distinctly comfortable listen that is
certainly a few notches above most of the mainstream, but it is awfully clean
sounding and basically two dimensional. Perhaps Camera Obscura want to be
famous pop stars; certainly their gig at Northumbria University on June 8th
showed they’ve invested an enormous amount in this album as they played it
pretty much straight through. Sadly, the audience didn’t seem all that familiar
with the new release and the gig just didn’t catch fire until the twin show
stoppers Tears for Affairs and Are You Ready to be Heartbroken?
Obviously, with Tracy Ann being 6 months pregnant the gig was never going to be
a stage diving, slam dancing festival of fun, but it seemed to me that this was
a desperate last hurrah by a band who want to be massive, but who’d produce
better music and be happier in themselves if they slowed it down, lost the
silly flamenco flurries and played music they believed in. You really have to
believe in what you do if you want to sustain your creative power and vital
force, which brings us to the life defining night I spent in the presence of
Neil Young.
Being too young to connect Prelude’s After the Goldrush with
its author, my first actual exposure to Neil Young was via The Old Grey Whistle Test
in December 1977. A best of year compilation featured a live version of Like
a Hurricane, which was music the likes I’d never heard before; a tortured,
operatic vocal and blistering, aching guitar beauty than wrung blistered tears
from every note, spread out over 8 and a half, beguiling minutes. I still see
the check-shirted Young, wreathed in sweat, his lank hair plastered across his
face by the on stage wind machine, eyes closed in concentration, wrestling more
and more impassioned sounds from his guitar; I was the one getting blown away.
Seven months later, in a basement in St. Etienne du Rouvray,
across the Seine from Rouen in Normandy, I came across Heart of Gold for the
first time and simply choked up at the beautiful simplicity of the song. As a
Dylan devotee, I understand exactly how two parallel, contrasting, divergent
musical styles could happily coexist in the work of an artist. For 35 years
I’ve loved Neil Young, but had never had the opportunity to see him live. When
he announced this tour last December, it provided a rite of passage opportunity
for me and for Ben; for me, it was Fathers’ Day and for him an early 18th
Birthday present. At £53 a ticket, it was the most expensive gig I’ve ever been
to, but it was worth it and, being realistic, it is highly unlikely I’ll get to
see the 67 year old Mr Bernard Shakey ever again. So, from the perspective of a
week’s distance after the event, all I can say is that it was one of the
seminal, musical nights of my life.
It was wonderful to wander around the Arena foyer and catch
up in the time before the gig started with 40 or 50 blokes in their 40s and 50s
that I bumped in to, who I knew from all aspects of my life: music, football,
work, wherever, who were all as excited at the prospect of this momentous event
as I was. In the aftermath, text messages and social media updates show they’ve
almost all given the evening an incredibly positive thumbs up, so here’s to:
Nella, Craggzy, Mike, Neil, Davey, GWL, Malley, Paddy, Richard, Calla, Paul and
Carol, Rob, Pauline and Alex and everyone else I saw there who was there and
who loved the night, but have been missed off this list. We’ll just ignore Richyy’s
trademark eeyoreism as a by-product of his new, healthy regime. However, aside
from him, there was one drunken moron who did his best to ruin the evening for
Ben and I, but ended up with his tail between his legs.
The bare facts are these; on stage at 8.48 with A Day
in the Life, followed by the bizarre sight of Neil Young and Crazy
Horse standing to attention for God Save the Queen (I wonder if
Glasgow had the same song? Or whether Dublin was treated to Amhrán
na bhFiann at the start of the night not the end?) and eventually off
stage at 11.13 after a set that consisted of -:
1. Love & Only Love
2. Powderfinger
3. Psychedelic Pill
4. Walk like a Giant
5. Hole in the Sky (Unreleased)
6. Comes a Time (Solo acoustic)
7. Blowin’ in the Wind (Solo acoustic; Bob Dylan cover)
8. Singer without a Song (Unreleased)
9. Ramada Inn
10. Cinnamon Girl
11. Fuckin' Up
12. Surfer Joe & Moe the Sleaze
13. Mr Soul (Buffalo Springfield)
14. Into the Black
ENCORE:
15. Rockin' in the Free World
It was around the time of Walk like a Giant that
our would-be party pooper came to my attention, screaming “play something
proper you lazy Canadian cunt.” Now while I’ve a great love for Cripple
Creek Ferry and Coming Apart at Every Nail, I was
aware this was a Neil Young and Crazy Horse gig; the accent would be on volume
and guitars, rather than harmonicas and harmony. This was obviously lost on the
moustachioed mackem in the K-Swiss white, Velcro trainers, BHS chinos &
Jacomo polo behind us, who missed most of the superb newie Hole in the Sky,
returning from the bar with 2 pints and a bottle of wine for his wife, who
reminded him she was driving and asked just why he’d bought so much drink. His
intelligent reply was; “So I can put up with this fucking shite.”
Admittedly he did quieten down during Comes a Time and Blowin’
in the Wind, remarking “that’s better after each one,” but he really
started to kick off during the unreleased Singer without a Song, which
admittedly was the weakest part of the set, complaining about “gullible twats
lapping up this shite,” which made me turn round. He pulled himself up to his
full 5ft 7 and tried to stare me out; it is pretty hard to take being menaced
by someone in bi-focals seriously, so when he asked me if I had “a fucking problem
pal,” I smiled and told him I was just enjoying my son’s 18th
birthday celebration.
The wonderful Neil Young setlist site www.sugarmtn.org reveals that the last time
Neil Young played Newcastle, was at the City Hall on 9th November
1973, when he played -:
1.
Tonight’s the Night
2.
Mellow on my Mind
3.
World on a String
4.
Speakin’ Out
5.
Albuquerque
6.
New Mama
7.
Roll Another Number
8.
Tired Eyes
9.
Tonight’s the Night
10.
Flying on the Ground is Wrong
11.
Human Highway
12.
Helpless
13.
Cinnamon Girl
14.
Southern Man
15.
The Losing End
16.
Don’t be Denied
A link to a review, from almost 40 years ago, mentions that
“while most of the crowd were enthusiastic and appreciative of the varying
styles of music Young played, there were certain of the audience who were distinctly
unappreciative of the electric rock parts of the show.” Some things never
change eh? I bet you Velcro trainers was one of them at the Albert Hall in 66
screaming “Judas” at Bob Dylan.
At the end of Singer without a Song, Ben and I
decided to move forward as I wasn’t prepared to endure a worse view of
proceedings because of that meathead. As we went to move, unknown to me, he
attempted to trip Ben up; at which point Ben turned round and used his 4 years’
experience as a prop forward to bang him in the chest. Tough guy, who had taken
his geps off ready for a pagga, staggered back and announced “I’m going to
knock you two out at the end.” He didn’t, of course; he actually scuttled off
through the opposite exit, presumably having been humiliated by a 17 year old
lad being enough embarrassment for one night. Now, if he was hating the
evening, I can understand his frustration at having lashed out £100 on tickets,
but if it was me I’d have either cleared off, or gone for a pint to calm down,
before coming back for a song I liked. If he didn’t want to hear anything by
Crazy Horse, why buy the tickets in the first place? He could have sat at home,
like the conformist populist he undoubtedly is, and watched some shite
documentary on the military on BBC2.
Thankfully, he was out of our hair from the minute we moved
forwards, to within 20 yards of the stage, from which position we were as blown
away by Neil as I’d been that winter night of 1977 watching The
OGWT Christmas Special. Personally, I have to say that my adoration of
the evening is tinged with sadness that Like a Hurricane wasn’t the last
encore, but this is tempered by the fact that Ben’s favourite Neil Young song
is Rockin’
in the Free World and I’m glad he got to hear that; equally none of the
British or Irish dates included Like a Hurricane, though Birmingham
got Heart
of Gold, as did Glasgow and Cortez the Killer too, which also
appeared in the Dublin set list. It’s all quid
pro quo with Neil though; he has a 45 year career to try and cram in to one
evening. He’s included 2 new songs, something from his earliest recorded
output, a cover version of a song that influenced him and several crowd
pleasers. The man is a fountain of arcing creativity and he thinks deeply about
what he does; I can’t praise him highly enough.
To be picky, the 40 minute version of Walk like a Giant could
have been shorn of the 15 minute Arcweld feedback coda and Fuckin’
Up of its singalong, crowd participation section, to allow for a few
more songs, but you have to remember Neil Young has released a whole CD of
Sonic Youth inspired feedback and likes to make his guitars work for their
money. I am satisfied that I was in the presence of genius that night,
especially during the glorious highlights of Powderfinger, Ramada Inn
and Into
the Black, where the guitar sounded like an amplified avalanche and the
floor actually vibrated.
Leaving the gig, we were both on a massive high. In fact the
adrenalin meant I didn’t sleep until after 2, while Ben reckoned it was nearer
4 when he finally dropped off. What an experience.
Books:
I’ve been busy at work with marking and stuff since Easter,
so reading has been on something of a back burner unfortunately, though I’ve
still managed to get through a whole shedload of new fanzines; see last week’s blog
for details. As far as books go, well I’ve made slow progress. The first book I
read was Billy by Pamela Stephenson, which was trumpeted at the time as
a harrowing, deeply intimate portrayal of a tortured genius. I certainly didn’t
get that from reading it. Indeed, Connolly simply came across as a star struck
egotist who had less quality control than Michael Caine and really ought to
have stuck to what he was good at; being funny. Obviously the Glasgow tenement
humour had long passed him by, but the observational stuff could still crack
anyone up. Sadly, we learn more about Pamela Stephenson than Connolly and
frankly she’s not exactly an endearing figure; a talentless groupie with a Ph.D,
utterly without a concept of confidentiality and providing less insights in to The Big Yin than many of the glamorous,
Hollywood high rollers he hob nobs with. A dull and disappointing read.
The other book I’ve finished is Cormac McCarthy’s Border
Trilogy, comprising the novels All the Pretty Horses, The Crossing
and Cities
of the Plain, which tell of the parallel lives of John Grady Cole and
Billy Parham, a pair of contemporary cowboys, living marginal lives both sides
of the Rio Grande in the years after World War II. Unlike the grandeur of Blood
Meridian or the taut fatalism of No Country for Old Men, the three
novels exhibit a wistful, elegiac quality that puts them closer to Suttree
in terms of McCarthy’s oeuvre.
In All the Pretty Horses, Cormac McCarthy
begins his Border Trilogy with a coming of age tale that is a departure
from the bizarre richness and mysterious violence of his early novels, yet in
many ways preserves the mystery and the richness in a more understated form.
Like Blood
Meridian, this novel follows a young man’s journey to the regions of
the unknown. John Grady Cole, more heroic than the protagonists of McCarthy’s
earlier novels, confronts the evil that is an inescapable part of the universe
as well as the evil that grows out of his own ignorance and pride. His story is
told in a style often restrained and simple, embedded with lyrical passages that
echo his dreams and memory. All the Pretty Horses is a hero’s
quest without a neat resolution, a book in which the strange light of mythic
struggle shines through the quick-paced adventure.
The Crossing is the initiation story of Billy Parham and his
younger brother Boyd (who are 16 and 14 respectively when the novel opens). The
novel, set just before and during World War II, is structured around three
round-trip crossings that Billy makes from New Mexico into Mexico. Each trip
tests Billy as he must try to salvage something once he fails in his original
goal. On both his first and last quest he is reduced (or perhaps exalted) to
some symbolic futile gesture in his attempt, against all obstacles, to maintain
his integrity and to be true to his moral obligations. This novel explores such
issues as guilt, the acquisition of wisdom, heroism, and the crucial importance
of stories. The novel ends with Billy symbolically weeping after he has
abusively chased away a pathetic, crippled dog that had “howled again and again
in its heart’s despair.”
Cities of the Plain binds together the separate tales
of John Grady Cole and Billy Parham to create a more realistic Billy and a more
mythic John Grady. Within the confines of a relatively spare 293 pages, the
classic all American cowboy John Grady devotes his life to saving every hurt or
wounded creature that crosses his path, a noble and impossible task that leads
ultimately to his own destruction. The tragedy of his failed rescue of the
epileptic prostitute Magdalena makes a martyr of the near-faultless John Grady,
yet McCarthy stubbornly refuses to let the novel backslide into blubbery
melodrama. Told in both McCarthy’s signature lyrical style and his dead-on
ranchero dialogue, Cities of the Plain ends the trilogy at the
height of McCarthy’s storytelling skill.
The epilogue takes place fifty years after the main
narrative, as a 78-year-old Billy rests under an overpass in Arizona and talks
with a nameless, mysterious stranger. In an intricate and intensely lyrical
dialogue, the man tells Billy the story of his dream of a traveller and the
traveller’s own dream of death by pagan sacrifice. The conversation weaves in
and out of alternate realities and dream worlds, which Billy struggles to
understand and make sense of. In the final scene, he tells a woman who gives
him a place to sleep that he understands neither his identity nor his purpose;
the woman, with the voice of a kind listener or a reader coming to the end of a
long tale, assures him that she knows both very well.
Now, I’ve read everything Cormac McCarthy has published; all
I can do is wait for the film he’s written the screenplay for, The
Counsellor, to be released this autumn. It is a wait, like that for the
new Teenage Fanclub album that leaves me intensely impatient and nervously
expectant.
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