Here we are again with another of my infrequent cultural
round-ups, relating to what I’ve been reading, hearing and very occasionally,
watching during the last while. As this bulletin includes the time I’ve been
off work, I have understandably read more than in previous blogs, though one
surprising innovation for this summer is that live music really took centre
stage (pardon the pun), not particularly in a Festival setting either, with
some superbly important gigs in the last few weeks. However, purchases of
recorded music are at a very low level; indeed I think I’ve only availed myself
of 6 new albums in 2014, though the new Shellac release is on the horizon.
Firstly though; television. Now as I’m fond of saying, other
than news, football and the occasional police procedural I’m not a great
watcher of the idiot box. An exception I made was Utopia in 2013; a taut,
dystopian fantasy that combined excellent characterisation, superb dialogue and
innovative filming. Just when I’d forgotten about it, series 2 came on our
screens in July. I saw episode 1 and 2 on consecutive nights, and then promptly
went on holiday and forgot about the remainder. Luckily Laura recorded them for
me and I watched the last 4 together, including the closing episode in real
time. The superb script continued, with historic conspiracy theories about
Airey Neave, interwoven with unvarnished gore and a real sense of character
development. The final episode that saw Wilson accepting the role of Mr Rabbit
and the others seeing their fate resting on his subsequent actions was
genuinely shocking and paves the way for a third series that I’m anticipating
already. The sheer ordinariness of the characters’ previous lives and the
humdrum reality of the settings are what make Utopia both creepy and
memorable.
Books:
Years ago, I used to buy books on spec, regardless of my
reading habits and stockpile them, reading them when I had the time, or
inclination. Eventually, after finally clearing my bedside table of the to-do
pile, five years after I moved into my house, I decided I would only buy or
accept books when there was a reasonable prospect of reading them in the next
few months. I’ve pretty much stuck to that, though Neil Young’s autobiography Waging
Heavy Peace has sat on the night stand since Ben bought me it last
Christmas. It’ll be tackled soon, I promise. To be fair, I didn’t buy the crime
thriller Melting by Anna Davis, I simply picked it up from the IT suite
at work on the last day of term, as it had lain there, presumably abandoned,
for about 2 months. I can understand why.
It’s the story of professional con artists Jason and Fran,
who induct Eileen to their clan and move from London to Manchester to Cardiff,
running high end scams that always succeed. The risible plot premise becomes a
minor detail as they move to Cardiff and Eileen becomes embroiled in a love
affair with the trustafarian restaurateur they are trying to bleed dry. For a
while you actually feel for Eileen as she wrestles with her conscience but,
long before she escapes unscathed with a huge bag of foreign currency and a
false passport, the mundane dialogue, implausible events, poorly drawn
characters and leaden descriptions squeeze the life out the book. Ironically
Anna Davis has packed in fiction to become a literary agent. I hope she can
spot talent better than she could ever construct books.
Another person who abandoned fiction is the Irish writer
Eamonn Sweeney, whose debut novel Waiting for the Healer caused me to
write him a fan letter in 1998. I told him that never before had Longford,
Edgeworthstown and Athlone been so memorably depicted in a tremendous account
of family ties and mental disintegration in the drink-sodden Irish
midlands. He responded with gratitude
and we exchanged correspondence and several of my stories, which he was most
complimentary about. A couple of years later, I read his fictionalised account
of post Treaty Irish politics, The Photograph, which I felt to be a
more ambitious and less successful work, then he dropped under the publishing
radar. Until I discovered he had reinvented himself as a GAA journalist,
specialising in hurling. As he comes from Sligo any GAA devotee will find this
amusing, but as his dad was from Kilkenny and Sweeney now resides in Cork,
things do make sense.
Having seen the GAA round 4A football qualifiers in
Tullamore in July and still holding fervent hope that my beloved Cork hurlers
would win the Liam McCarthy this year, I began Sweeney’s The Road to Croker just
in time for Tipp to smash the Rebels out of sight in the semi-final. I still
read the book though and loved every page of his account of the 2003 season.
His father dies, but Kilkenny win the hurling just days before his death and
Tyrone beat Armagh in the first all Ulster (9 counties!!) final, making it both
tragic and uplifting as Eamonn boozes and muses his way from Dungarvan to Newry
and west Cork to Donegal, watching games and meeting the people who make the
GAA what it is; the social and sporting glue that holds the country together in
good times and in bad. This was a tremendous read and I’d recommend it without
hesitation.
If you’ve got £2, Up Craig Dobson’s exhaustive account
of West Allotment Celtic’s promotion to Northern League Division 1 in 2013/2014
is well worth a read. Written with both flair and balance, it is lavishly
illustrated and innovatively designed, though I’d imagine the subject matter
makes it a niche read. However Craig is now editing a football magazine about
all NE teams, Northern Promise, that I’m writing for, which will hopefully
bring his enthusiastic work to a wider audience.
Another niche read for me was Comrades; Inside the War of
Independence by Annie Ryan, that I picked up from a newsagents for a
couple of quid in Dalkey on a blisteringly hot afternoon when I’d only gone in
for a Cornetto. Comrades is a series of first-hand
accounts of the War of Independence told by the protagonists, often many years
after the events. Ryan’s book draws on official witness statements taken in the
late 1940s and only released to the public by the Irish Government in 2002, so
divisive and contentious were many of the oral accounts. The events are
described in a series of geographically distinct chapters and include a section
on the significant role played by women throughout the conflict. The flying
columns, the ambushes, the activities of the Black and Tans and the reprisals
are all vividly outlined through the voices of the protagonists, who recollect
their roles, great and small, in the struggle that ultimately led to the Treaty
negotiations and the establishment of the Irish Free State. 95 years on from
the Soloheadbeg Ambush, the legacy of the bitter struggle to establish the
state is evocatively brought to life by the actual words those long dead men
and women who were brave enough to take part.
Bravery and the importance of standing up for what one
believes in are the absolute cornerstones of Mohsin Hamid’s wonderful novel The
Reluctant Fundamentalist. The book, which reminded me so much of La
Chute by Albert Camus, is the story of a young Muslim man's loves and
losses, daubed against the backdrop of September 11th. The narrator
Changez is a young Pakistani graduate of Princeton who secures a top job on
Wall Street and falls in love with a beautiful American woman. Events following
the attack on the Twin Towers send Changez spiralling to the depths of a
paranoid crisis of identity.
During the course of the novel, set during a return visit to
Lahore, Changez tells this story to a mysterious American. He explains how he
has struggled against the suspicions cast on him where, despite his
achievements and ostensible 'Americanness', the colour of his skin is a veil
implying 'terrorist.' As afternoon turns to evening on a busy Lahore street,
Hamid cleverly brews an air of simmering distrust between Changez and his
listener, subtly juxtaposing light and dark. The novel succeeds in wrapping an
exploration of the straining relationship between East and West in a story
which remains taut until the final pages. The roles of speaker and listener
remain unnervingly elusive as the narrative ends with a strident note of
unease.
There’s a similarly unhappy ending in The Big Midweek: Life Inside The
Fallby Steve Hanley, which catalogues his 16 year career in my once
favourite band with meticulous, chronological detail. Hanley, the reserved
family man who always demurred to Mark E Smith’s violent, arrogant posturing
tells the story of the band and not just of the frontman. It is a great read,
by turns fascinating, amusing, uplifting and eventually, thoroughly depressing.
Fall fans know the band were never the same after signing to Beggars Banquet
after 1983’s Perverted By Language bar the occasional spike above the
mediocre in Extricate, Infotainment Scan or Shiftwork. However, if
the band creatively began to decline, as an entity The Fall ought to have died
when Hanley followed enigmatic Craig Scanlon, irrepressible Marc Riley, the
irascible Karl Burns and his studious younger brother Paul Hanley out the band.
That said, the book did make me nostalgic and I had a great evening
rediscovering such classics as Iceland, Garden and Paintwork.
Whisper it quietly, I’m off visiting Ben in Leeds at the end of
November at The Fall are playing Brudenell Social Club that night.
Music:
Obviously I’ve already blogged about Teenage Fanclub in
Glasgow, so staying with the theme of outdoor music, the place to start is the
north east summer festival season. Well, there’s not a lot for me to say; I
didn’t get to the Ouseburn weekend as I’d not heard of any of the bands, then
the Mouth of Tyne Festival was headed
by Paul Weller so I wasn’t going anywhere near that, which only left the
Americana weekend at The Sage. That clashed with Northumberland v Sussex on the
Sunday and Benfield v Darlington on the Saturday, so I was only able to make it
there for the opening afternoon, as I wasn’t prepared to lash out £30 to see
the scarcely credible Steven Siegal Blues Band. First up were Shipcote &
Friends who did their usual down home, folksy kitsch thing with washboards and
banjos. Pleasant and diverting as ever, if not exactly creative. However, the
great thing about Americana, or Summertyne Home Fries Stage, to use
the proper name, is the chance to catch up with people, whether that’s John and
the lasses over from Euskal Herria, Raga popping in on an extended lunch break
or Ray from Lindisfarne wandering past, it doesn’t really matter. This year I
had a really good chat with Alan the photographer, who I’ve known for almost 25
years but rarely get to see.
Friendly chat was a good diversion when former Hurrah
frontman Paul Handyside took the stage; a Lyle Lovatt thin singer songwriter
with dreams of being John Hiatt on Tyne, his serious tone was almost too sombre
for the occasion. A small indoor venue in winter would suit his furrowed brow
better than the wide open spaces of the lee of the Sage. Rosie & the Hips
were a blessed relief, playing some obvious covers and derivative originals
that gave the event a village fete in Georgia type feel. Tony Bengtsson was
altogether more original, in terms of the composition of the songs played, and
with his band they finally took the music played beyond the level of incidental
music with a strong set of Irish influenced folk rock that I’d be happy to hear
again, as I would Lesley Roley. A talented and engaging singer songwriter, she
went up in my estimation by including 2 Joni Mitchell covers and was the only
artist I took the time to congratulate when she’d finished her set. In fact,
hers was the last set I saw in its entirety. I knew I’d be heading off before
Archie Brown’s dated blues rock bluster ended proceedings, but the bluegrass by
numbers of the curiously passionless Kentucky Cow Tippers had me heading home
just after 5pm. Despite the damp squib
of an ending, it was an enjoyable day and I’m glad this free festival still
takes place, but I can’t say I heard much, bar Lesley Roley, that really moved
me.
So far 2014 has not been a vintage one in terms of
collecting huge amounts of new releases. Thus far I’ve now got 6 new albums and
3 singles to speak of. I’ve also got 1 brilliant old single. As a secondary
birthday present, Ben got me the Jamaican 7” of War in a Babylon by Max
Romeo and the Upsetters, a song I’ve loved since I first heard it in 1977. The
absolute lack of reggae on my 100 songs for my 50th birthday would
have been resolved if I’d had this slice of genius a couple of weeks earlier. Next stop must be to finally plug that gap in
my collection by getting King Tubby meets The Rockers Uptown.
The only new release I’ve purchased since I last blogged has
been Crabs
by Death Shanties, the “balls to the wall” free jazz combo lead by Alex Neilson
of Trembling Bells on drums, aided by Sybren Renema on baritone saxophone and
Lucy Stein on visuals. Admittedly this latter third of the outfit doesn’t come
across as much on record as it does live, which I found out for myself during a
tremendous show at The Bridge Hotel on August 5th. Live Neilson and
Renema combine to produce a dense, throbbing soup of wailing, primal aggression,
while Stein utilises an OHP to display visceral slabs of colour that illustrate
the sound for all synesthetics present. In the most part, the tracks are short,
punching and utterly uncompromising. Live there are a few seconds rest between
each piece, but on vinyl it all combines in one throbbing, breathless complaint
of sheer brutal anger, which for some unaccountable reason I find both
heartening and hilarious. One track they didn’t do live is the astonishing take
on the old English folk song, O Where is St George, which includes
Trembling Bells guitarist Mike Hastings, as well as Lucy Stein reading from D M
Thomas’s chilling novel The White hotel. This is really
special experimental stuff and evidence of the importance of the eclectic Mr
Neilson in so much of what is good in contemporary music. Roll on 2015 and the
promised Trembling Bells album.
This takes us to a trio of absolutely superb gigs over the
summer; Midlake in Whitley Bay on July 10th, British Sea Power with
the NASUWT Brass Band in Durham on July 17th and The Mekons at Cluny
2 on August 7th. I first came across Midlake in 2007 at the time of Van
Occupanther which I still love. Laura and I were lucky enough to see
them at The Sage 2 back then, but missed out on The Courage of Others
tour in 2010, when they played the smaller Cluny as the 250 tickets went in a
day or so. This latter album was hailed as a masterpiece and I assented to this
view at the time, but in retrospect I don’t feel it has lasted as well as Van Occupanther,
sounding a little worthy and precious in comparison. Line-up changes meant
their latest Antiphon hints at a slight change of direction, but only
slight. Midlake remain the most skilled and authentic contemporary exponents of
the varying sounds of 1968 to 1974, covering folk rock, country rock and now
psychedelic prog rock with great gusto and guile.
Having only previously been to Whitley Bay Playhouse to see
Charlie Chuck (it was empty) or for work events (always dull), I wasn’t sure
how the place would play out as a rock venue. Well, I’m glad we took some
surreptitious cans of ready mixed G&T as the bar shut at 8.30, at the very
moment when the band took the stage, on account of the staff there looking as
terrified as previous generations of suburban venue staff had when Rock
Around the Clock in 1954 or the 1976 Anarchy in the UK tour
hit town. Needless to say, Midlake drew an audience far removed from the slavering
hell hounds North Tyneside Council had feared. Thankfully there was a crowd as
I had worried, on account of the minimal publicity, that there wouldn’t be much
of a turn out, but the place was 90% full and it was a superb show.
Drawing mainly on Antiphon and Van Occupanther the band
gave an intense and accomplished account of themselves, barring an
anti-climactic Young Bride. The highlights came towards the end when Roscoe
gained a massive response, before the pretend encore (they seem at one with
David Gedge on this) consisted, obviously, of an anthemic Head Home, but was
prefaced by a version of I Shall Be Released that was better
than the one from The Last Waltz. Midlake set the bar gloriously high in terms of
summer gigs and I’m delighted that each successive band raised it.
The week after, British Sea Power’s gig at Durham Gala Theatre
for the start of the International Brass Festival was an immediate sell out.
Thankfully, I managed to secure a pair of tickets for Ben and I through Bill at
work. A pleasant afternoon wander through the land of the Prince Bishops via a few
beers and a meal in the Head of Steam saw us arriving at the venue in good time,
as we’d been warned it would be a prompt start. That is putting it mildly as
BSP, with no support, took the stage at 7.35 and the whole event was over by
9.10, with Ben and I catching the slightly delayed 9.22 train back to the
Central. This made Whitley Bay Playhouse seem like a Haight Astbury happening
in terms of event management, but the gig was even better.
I’ve never seen BSP in the same venue twice; Middlesbrough
Empire, Newcastle University, The Tyne Theatre, Northumbria University and now
here, the last 3 times with Ben. Every show has been different and every one a
triumph. This run through their back catalogue with the NASUWT Brass Band was
another classic evening, despite the band’s unaccountable and perverse need to
end some gigs with When a Warm Wind Blows through the Grass immediately after Waving
Flags had got energy levels up to the stratosphere. To be fair, this is
only a minor quibble as the 15 songs benefitted from the beefing up provided by
the authentic Durham pit band. Quite what the fellas in their neat uniforms
thought of the usual 15 minute orgy of sound that was Lately, which is always
my BSP highlight, though Lights out for Darker Skies and The
Great Skua came close, was not reported. I’m really looking forward to
seeing this lot again at The Sage on October 25th, to discover if
the brass section is even more vital after a few months gigging experience. It
did make me wonder why rock bands don’t adopt a conductor, waving a baton and
coaxing out ever greater performances from the musicians. Perhaps one day we’ll
see that and I’d imagine BSP are one of the bands most likely to incorporate
such a potential innovation. Also, the
Durham stage was too small for the bears and I want to see Ursos Actos treading
the boards during Lately again before I die.
If British Sea Power had gone for extra recruits for their
band, The Mekons had gone the opposite way and pared the whole thing down to
essentials. In the absence of the unwilling Tom Greenhalgh, the most enduring
band to come out of Headingley (are the Gang of Four the greatest? Possibly;
certainly the most important) stripped themselves down to an acoustic outfit
and brought along Chicago pal Robbie Fulks to play in front of a healthy
gathering at The Cluny 2 on August 7th. This was to have been my 50th
birthday lads night out celebration, but with Raga opting to see Penetration at
the Three Tuns and Ben off to Boomtown Festival, the theme for the evening was I’ll
have to Dance Then on my Own, which they didn’t play of course, but we
did get a storming set drawn from the entire history of the band.
There was an understandable emphasis on much of the post
reformation era C&W tinged material, on account of their acoustic set-up, but that was fine as it is some of
their strongest material, with Ghosts of American Astronauts, (Sometimes I
Feel Like) Fletcher Christian and Big Zombie being particular
highlights. That said, the old timer in me was elated to hear The
Building, which Jon did while Robbie Fulks changed a string for him,
and a final encore of Where Were You? No Corporal
Chalkie alas, but a hug from Jon Langford at the end made the whole
evening, which was really well attended, a total triumph. Thanks to the Jumpin’
Hot Club for putting it on. I really hope Tom’s absence from the band
isn’t the sign of a final fissure and that The Mekons get back together
recording soon.
Well, that’s it for now. The autumn offers the prospect of
gigs by Vic Godard (Star & Shadow final event on September 19th, as well as Ben
and I’s last dad and lad gig before he heads off to Leeds Met to study
History), British Sea Power at The Sage on October 26th, The Wedding
Present doing Watusi and Mini at The Cluny on November 10th
and Ray Jackson’s Lindisfarne at the City Hall on December 23rd. In
terms of recorded music, there’s the new Shellac album at last, as well as a
special Velvet Underground Live 68 semi-official bootleg that I’ve got on order
from Volcanic Tongue, which I’ve discovered is now mail order only (wish I’d
learned that before my 4 mile hungover hike in Glasgow the other week). In
terms of books, I’ve just banged in orders for Roddy Doyle’s latest collection of his Two
Pints duologes and Eamonn Sweeney’s book about Sligo Rovers. Then I’ll
get round to Neil Young’s Waging Heavy Peace. Is it any wonder
I don’t have time to watch television?
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