Eyes & Ears VII: Seasonal Codicil

I had thought “Eyes & Ears V” would have been my final cultural blog of 2014, but I’d forgotten about the top 10 lists, so that became “Eyes & Ears VI.” Of course, that meant there were still December’s purchases and Christmas presents to attend to, so here we have a shorter than usual final say about what I’ve read and listened to of late.

Books:

Three book s to mention; all of them Christmas presents. First up is the one I’d been looking forward to the most; “The Second Half” by Roy Keane and Roddy Doyle. This was an (unintentionally?) uproarious laughter session from start to finish, where north Cork’s most humourless man has his obsessive, compulsive, paranoid, egotistical, intense personality laid bare with his accounts of his departures from Manchester United, low-key spell at Celtic, the rise and fall of Sundireland Incorporated, his ill-fated administration of Ipswich Town and the supposed new chapter as willing apprentice with Ireland and Aston Villa. We’ll ask Tom cleverley how that final appointment worked out, though we probably won’t spend 15 minutes ringing on his doorbell to get an answer. 

The joy of this book is that Doyle’s brilliant prose style makes every single paragraph of this sensibly chronological account sound as if Keane is speaking it, dead-eyed, monotone and emotionless, directly at the reader. Unfortunately, for every amusing score-settling with a cutting anecdote, about Dwight Yorke, David Nugent or Robbie Savage for instance, there are others that are lightly glossed over. His departure from the Mackems and his disinclination to accent the Celtic job are told in too superficial a manner to allow us to fully appreciate what happened. However, this is a minor quibble; I wanted to read this book because I love Doyle’s writing and not because I like Keane. That situation remains unchanged.

I don’t know Dave Kidd, but I know his wife (who went to school with my sister) and I know his work as a “Sunday Mirror” football journalist. I asked Santa for his collection of short stories “Half Man Half Misfit,” because I feel in many ways I do know him, even if tangentially. In many ways, this provided me with a problem, as I began to analyse the 15 stories as being, in some way, autobiographical which, as a writer, I find maddening when readers do the same. I would guess though that much of the material herein is at least observational as Kidd has produced an intriguing collection of tales of males, mainly middle aged, mainly middle class, and their neuroses with relationships, work, family and ageing. The tales are, by turns, funny, nostalgic, sad, depressing and uplifting; sometimes all on the same page. Some of them such as “Spin Cycle,” the tale of a troubled widower, his autistic son and the chance of love in a launderette are works of genius. Others don’t work quite so well. However, that’s why anthologies of short fiction, a genre I remain strongly connected to, are like albums; sometimes you get a blinding set, while most times you hope there isn’t too much filler. There’s very little filler in this charming, diverting collection and I suggest those of you who enjoy Nick Hornby or John Updike get hold of a copy.

I’m a sucker for dictionaries and encyclopaedias of arcane trivia, so I was pleased to get “Bingo Boys and Poodle Fakers” by Claire Mackey, which is an alphabetical list of curious, redundant English phrases, often without any real context. It would have been more helpful if the book had been arranged thematically. Instead, it's all lumped together in an unwieldy and fairly unsatisfying mess. This is strange given that in her introduction the author is very aware of the importance of context, even if she doesn’t actually introduce any. Another one for the browsing and referencing section than actually reading.

Music:

Four albums, two new and two old, as well as one gig to discuss. We’ll start where my live music experience began back in December 1976; Lindisfarne’s Christmas gig at the City Hall. Admittedly, it’s only just Ray Jackson these days, but it’s still an event to be treasured. While I went into minute detail last year, writing 5,000 words in http://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.co.uk/2013/12/magic-in-air.html I simply want to reference that I was delighted to be able to take both Ben and Laura to this one, as it’s important I feel he gets to experience a seminal NE musical tradition.

On the day Mike “The Mouth” Elliott passed, it was fitting “January Song,” which closed an impeccable first half, was dedicated to him. The start of the second half was a little dull, with too much blues and “Back and Fourth” for my liking, but the admittedly predictable run-in from “Winter song” was as emotional a set of songs I can think of. As soon as “Clear White Light” ended, I knew we’d be back next year. You just have to be…

The last couple of albums I treated myself to were both by long-time favourites of mine. I’ve been disappointed by the lack of activity involving Euros Childs this year, but a late spurt of action saw a Marc Riley Radio 6 session, a few solo piano dates and a new album, “Eilaaig.” Most people, erroneously as it turned out, assumed “Eilaaig” was a Welsh word, but as Euros revealed it’s actually a predictive text suggestion, but he can’t remember what for. “Eilaaig” is as low key as the rest of 2014 has been for him; no big tours, no super poppy albums, but instead a quiet, introspective piano only album, where 6 of the 9 tracks are instrumental and the other 3 are in Welsh, such as “Basged o Clustiau,” which means “Basket of Ears,” so it is very much a mood piece, rather like “Face Dripping” from a few years back. That said it’s haunting, it’s delicious and lovingly crafted like all of Euros’s music and I’m very glad I bought it.

Rather more memorable and alluring is Alex and Lavinia from Trembling Bells’s (largely) unaccompanied “The Golden Boat” album, under their Crying Lion moniker. It’s been a busy year for Alex with his “balls to the wall” free jazz outfit Death Shanties, alongside this equally eccentric, esoteric and memorable release. The title track is one of the best call and response sea shanties ever written about Byers Road and its environs. I don’t know the terminology required; but the beautiful madrigal voices holler and swoop in a way that takes us from medieval to modern in the space of a single track. Fascinating, beguiling and avowedly and acquired taste, this is a simply superb set.

I often wonder if I’ve brought my son up properly. Such thoughts can be easily dismissed when your Christmas box from the bairn is Augustus Pablo’s “King Tubby meets Rockers Uptown” and “Super Ape” by The Upsetters. If you had to pick one album that best represents the art of dub, few would fault you for ending up with Augustus Pablo’s magnificent album, which stands as perhaps the finest collaboration between two of instrumental reggae's leading lights; producer and melodica player Augustus Pablo and legendary dub pioneer King Tubby. Among other gems, this album offers its title track, a dub version of Jacob Miller's "Baby I Love You So,” which is widely regarded as the finest example of dub ever recorded. However the rest of the album is hardly less impressive; "Each One Dub," another cut on a Jacob Miller rhythm, possesses the same dark and mystical ambience, if not quite the same emotional energy, as "King Tubby Meets Rockers Uptown," and the version of the epochal "Satta Massaganna" that closes the album is another solid winner. Pablo's trademark "Far East" sound, characterized by minor keys and prominent melodica lines, is predominant throughout, and is treated with care and grace by King Tubby, who rarely sounded more inspired in his studio manipulations than he does here. Absolutely essential.

Lee "Scratch" Perry's dub masterpiece “Super Ape” was given a heavy makeover for its international release on Island records in August 1976, as well as being credited to his backing band The Upsetters rather than the great man himself. The record is undoubtedly one of the greatest dub albums ever released, combining the rhythms of some of Perry's most recent songs of the time, including Max Romeo's "Chase the Devil" and "War Ina Babylon", Devon Irons' "When Jah Come" and Prince Jazzbo's "Natty Pass Thru Rome", with the heaviest layers of dub Perry had created thus far. The album showcases how Lee Perry would incorporate his African heritage into his music, its spiritual influence creating an album that is both at one with nature and yet still in keeping with modern reggae times. A classic album, a landmark for Lee Perry, Reggae and Dub and a great Christmas present.

Eyes & Ears VI; End of Year Awards

2014 Albums of the Year:

Some blinding releases this year. Shellac and the Pop Group do bile and anger better than anyone else. That frightfully talented Alex Neilsen combined “balls to the wall” free jazz with Death Shanties and Copper Family tinged madrigals with Crying Lion. Euros Childs and Jon Langford were as reliable as ever, while Norman and Joe in The New Mendicants started January with a gorgeous set of tender ballads. I discovered Blueblut and Bardo Pond and rediscovered the brilliance of the Band of Holy Joy who, along with Trembling Bells and Teenage Fanclub, are the ones to look out for in 2015. I also bought the Mogwai album; dull stuff.

1.    Shellac: Dude Incredible

2.    Death Shanties: Crabs

3.    Crying Lion: The Golden Boat

4.    The New Mendicants: Into The Lime

5.    The Pop Group: We Are Time

6.    The Band of Holy Joy: Easy Listening

7.    Euros Childs: Eilaaig

8.    Bardo Pond: Looking For Another Place

9.    Blueblut: Hurts So Gut

10. Jon Langford: Here Be Monsters

11. Mogwai: Rave Tapes

2014 Gigs of the Year:

Sixteen gigs by 14 acts this year, with The Band of Holy Joy (Cluny in March and Bede’s World in December) and British Sea Power’s Sea of Brass (identical sets at Durham Gala Theatre in July and Cluny Hall 1 in October) being the bands I caught twice. In that instance, I’ve included the gig I enjoyed more in this run-down. This list also includes 12 different venues, of which Durham Gala Theatre, Glasgow Kelvingrove Bandstand, Stockton Georgian Theatre, Jarrow Bede’s World and the superb Leeds Brudenell Social club were new for me. The only band that were new to me were The Pop Group. I attended 3 gigs alone (5, 12 & BSP, October), 2 gigs as part of an FPX reunion (10 & 14), 5 with Ben (2, 3, 6, 9 & 11), 5 with Laura (1, 4, 8, 12 & BoHJ in March) and 1 with Ben and Laura (7).

1.    Teenage Fanclub: Glasgow, Kelvingrove Bandstand, August.

2.    The Pop Group: Leeds, Brudenell Social Club, October.

3.    Penetration: The Cluny, March.

4.    The Band of Holy Joy: Jarrow, Bede’s World, December.

5.    The Mekons: Cluny 2, August.

6.    The Pastels: Cluny, June.

7.    Lindisfarne: City Hall, December.

8.    Midlake: Whitley Bay Playhouse, July.

9.    British Sea Power: Durham, Gala Theatre, July.

10. The Wedding Present: The Cluny, November.

11. Vic Godard: Star & Shadow, September.

12. Death Shanties: The Bridge, August.

13. Fairport Convention: Sage Hall 2, February.

14. Pete Wylie: Stockton, Georgian Theatre, November.

22 Going on 23

Sunderland's latest victory over Newcastle was their fourth in a row; depressing I suppose, but we've had it worse. New Year's Day 1992 for instance, when we lost 4-0 to Southend United, Here's a piece I wrote about that game for Southend fanzine All Across The Sea...

On New Year’s Day 2015, it will be 23 years since the very worst period of my football supporting life began. January 1992 was absolute hell for fans of Newcastle United as we fell to the very foot of the table in Division 2; the horror began with a 4-0 trouncing at Roots Hall, followed by an almost encouraging 2-2 draw at Watford where we’d been 2 down after 4 minutes, a 4-3 home loss to Charlton, courtesy of an injury time Liam O’Brien own goal, when we’d led 3-0 at the break, a defeat on penalties in the FA Cup to Division 3 Bournemouth, before rounding things off in style with a catastrophic 5-2 pummelling at Oxford when the fog was so dense you couldn’t see the edge of the penalty area. Frankly the high spot of the month was my auntie’s funeral on the 28^th.

As this is a Southend United fanzine, it would be reasonable to expect I would now proceed to give a sentimentalised account of a boozy, bleary-eyed journey down from Tyneside for that famed lunchtime obliteration at your hands; except, I was still asleep when that particular game kicked off. You see, I spent New Year 1991/1992 in South Yorkshire with the in-laws, who are all Barnsley fans. With typical bad timing, the Tykes were away to Sunderland (of all teams) that day, so me, the father-in-law and her sister’s bloke, decided on our football fix between Sheffield Wednesday v Oldham Athletic in Division 1 and Rotherham United v Carlisle United in Division 4, after the spin of a coin . The Owls won out and we paid a staggering £12 each to sit in the top deck of the Leppings Lane End supporting Joe Royle’s team during a muscular 1-1 draw, as my two companions drew the line at voluntarily intermingling with Wednesday followers.

The world was a very different place slightly less than quarter of a century ago; while attending top flight football wasn’t prohibitively expensive, mobile phones were unattainably pricey for ordinary fans. In the pre WiFi era, the only scores available over the tannoy at Hillsborough were other Division 1 fixtures. In addition, my father-in-law didn’t have a radio in his car, denying us the opportunity to listen to Sports Report. Hence, I didn’t find out the result from Roots Hall until nearly 6pm, when we returned home in time to see QPR hammer Man United 4-1 at Old Trafford live on ITV. Incidentally, Rotherham would have been a far more realistic £6 in and The Millers won 1-0. I was disappointed, but not surprised by our score; Newcastle were rubbish and Southend were near the top of the table, so the game had gone to form.

The game at St. James, back on 20^th November 1991, had seen us triumph 3-2 in front of 16,185, which was a fairly standard attendance before Keegan came back as manager in February 1992. Of course the really ridiculous thing was this game took place on a Wednesday, making it doubly difficult for away fans to get there. Sadly, I don’t remember the fixture in any distinct detail, other than our ex player John Cornwell racing to get the ball out the net after you’d pulled it back to 3-2 late on. In many ways, that’s a shame as it’s the only Newcastle v Southend game I’ve ever seen, because of circumstance.

After the dismal fare for most of 1991/1992, Newcastle suddenly became brilliant under Kevin Keegan the year after. We won 29, drew 9 and lost 8 in 1992/1993, winning the title by 8 points and kicking off with a 3-2 victory over Southend on 15^th August. Despite having owned a season ticket since I came back home after university in 1989, I missed out on this one as we were on holiday in Corfu at the time. Pre Sky TV, ex pats, thirsty for beer and updates, had only one option. Hence why so many crowded into a beach bar in Agios Georgios to listen to second half updates from Arsenal v Coventry on the BBC World Service. The woozy, waning signal sustained long enough to allow the final scores to be listened to in respectful silence, with attendant smiles, winks, shrugs and grimaces from the assembled throng. A clenched fist at an opening day win led to several more Amstels; I got to see Paul Bracewell’s debut strike that set us on our way on video at my parents’ house when we got back the following Tuesday.

The return fixture was scheduled for 6^th February, but was moved back to 20^th January, a Wednesday. Not for television, but on Police instructions, mainly because the Young Conservatives were holding their AGM in South on the first weekend in February. Crazy eh? Or perhaps not when you consider what the Tories did to my region between 1979 and 1997… Anyway, keeping politics out of sport, it ended up in a 1-1 draw and I caught 30 seconds of highlights on the local late news.

And that’s it; the 4 league encounters between the 2 clubs took place in 14 months. However, I did get to see Southend once more that season. On 18 April, it was my sister-in-law’s 21^st birthday, so we headed down from Tyneside. As it was Millwall away at the old Den and I’m a complete coward, I was glad of the family intervention providing me with an excuse not to go to Bermondsey. However, there was a game to watch; Barnsley hosted Southend in front of the lowest crowd in the country that day. A mere 3,185 thronged Oakwell to see Stan Collymore put Southend ahead, only for the home side to come back to win 3-1.

23 years on, whenever I think of Southend United, it isn’t Phil Brown’s bizarrely hued epidermis that occurs to me, but a 4-0 hammering at lunchtime on New Year’s Day.

Eyes & Ears V

And so to my final cultural blog of the year, covering the period October to mid-December. This missive isn’t a complete warp of 2014 though, as there are two albums, Eilaaig by Euros Childs and The Golden Boat by Crying Lion, that are presumably coming down the chimney on December 25^th, together with a brace of books that comprise Roy Keane’s latest autobiography, ghost-written by Roddy Doyle but already out of date as the Villa departure wasn’t covered, and Dave Kidd’s debut collection of short stories. Also, the final gig of the year, Ray Jackson’s Lindisfarne at the City Hall (where else?) on December 23^rd is still to take place. More of those cultural delights early in the New Year.

Books:

 

The first and most important book to be mentioned is James Ellroy’s magnificent, visceral tour de force, Perfidia, which is the first part of a new LA Quartet, set before the previous one and including many of the characters that appear in his later, fictionalised chronicles of the appalling malfeasance at the heart of American darkness. Here we are in 1941, from Pearl Harbour to the end of the Christmas holiday, seeing evil but alluring men like Dudley Smith, commit appalling acts of violence and treachery, in the usual Ellroy style. He seems to have reined in the metronymic grammatical assaults of The Cold Six Thousand, but the overall impact of the usual complex, labyrinthine narrative is as exhaustingly amoral as ever. I love his work and this novel in no way disappoints; all that one can do, together with the work of his estimable British counterpart David Peace, is stare, agog and agape, at the inevitability of destruction and wonder at the evil at the heart of so much of our world. An amazing read.

The other work of fiction, if we can call Perfidia that, is Jon Tait’s First Plane Home. Jon is the Northern Alliance’s Press Secretary, a member of the British Communist Party and a native of the far north of Northumberland, which enables him to call on his own Border Reiver heritage. First Plane Home is a chronological, rite of passage, bildungsroman set in 4 year gaps that chronicle Scotland’s qualification for 5 successive World Cups from 1974 to 1990, with each tournament showing how the narrator and his friends develop, from snotty nosed bairns kicking a ball around the back yard, to E-generation love children exchanging Ashington for Ibiza. It’s a heart-warming, affectionate portrait of an era I remember very well, which is suffused with Jon’s left wing sympathies in terms of the asides related to current affairs of the time. I enjoyed it tremendously.

Moving into non-fiction, I found Dave Zirin’s social and political history of Brazil, Dance with the Devil, a fascinating read. Zirin is a sportswriter from Chicago, but an unabashed lover of proper football, which he proselytises endlessly in this book. Written specifically for an educated American audience, it is as much a historical account and sociological survey of current Brazilian social mores, as it is a primer for those wondering just what the World Cup and Olympics will do for Brazilian society. Zirin’s contention, passionately and impressively expressed, is that nothing good will come of these tournaments and it is hard to argue against him. Sadly, it is not exactly groundbreaking news to conclude that FIFA and the IOC are rogue organisations, corrupt and avaricious in equal measure, prepared to ride roughshod over human rights considerations for the sake of global television markets and the needs of merchandising megacorps. Instructive and sobering words on every page.

Michael Walker and I crossed the Irish Sea in September 1983 when heading for university; me to Derry to read English and him to Newcastle to study the same. The main difference being I returned and he stayed; we now both live in Heaton. Michael was for many years The Guardian’s North East football correspondent, though now he writes for The Irish Times, despite being “of the other tradition.” He can be a defiantly spiky character in real life, often seeming to glory in the misfortunes of North East teams (at Benfield v Bridlington with Harry Pearson back in September, Michael took great delight in informing us Newcastle, Boro and sunderland were all losing, though Newcastle did pull back to draw with Palace), though his beautifully written book Up There is as warm and affectionate a portrayal of the game in our region as you could wish to read. Walker’s prose style is effortlessly alluring and he paints affecting and effective images of the importance of football between Tyne and Tees, even down to Northern League level. I read the book in one go and found it to be a highly moving counterpoint to The Far Corner, which must be updated soon you have to feel, eh Harry?

A former colleague of mine Damien Wooten sacked off education to try and make a living as a photographer. I don’t know how he’s doing, but his evocative series of plates about life on a farm on the edge of Gateshead, bizarrely close to both the A1 and Anthony Gormley’s signature statue, Beyond the Angel, shows him to be a skilled advocate of place, time and character. The monochrome slices of a hard life tell a compelling narrative of an existence that seems out of place and out of time. It’s not quite Hannah Hauxwell territory in all senses of the word, but the dignity and difficulty of everyday existence is told in rich detail.

The final book this time is Sandy Macnair’s account of a life supporting Hibernian from 1970 to 1979, called Growing up in Green. As the author of a memoir of Irvine Welsh, Carspotting, Sandy is, as you can imagine, one of the more chemically influenced of Hibernian’s support, meaning this book is not a relentless, turgid account of statistics and match reports; it is more of an impression of an era, reading very much like a series of particularly polished fanzine entries and I enjoyed it greatly.  Despite following Hibs for over 40 years, I’ve huge gaps in my knowledge of James Connolly’s team and it was refreshing to find out exactly what it was like supporting the Hibees in a decade that involved glorious success and abject failure. Definitely well worth reading.

Theatre:

I should go to the theatre more often than I do, which tends to be about once a year.  2014’s visit was to Backscratch Theatre at the Mining Institute, next door to the Lit & Phil, mainly because their play, Hewin’ Goals, was about the Northern League. Let’s be honest, it wasn’t great; the actors were decent enough but the cobbled together script had more holes in it than a slab of Emmenthal. That said, it deserved more than a desultory dozen punters on a Thursday night with no competing sporting events. Hopefully, the theatre company will continue from this their debut show; with more support from the wider community than with a niche interest show, however admirable the subject.

Music:

I alluded in a previous blog to the closure of Volcanic Tongue’s Glasgow shop. However, one upside of this development is that the owners are turning up hitherto lost and obscure stock, which they punt at knock down prices. I bought a cassette (yes, a CASSETTE) of Saturn by Sun Ra and his Arkestra, comprising a series of 1960s radio sessions for a Jazz station in LA. It’s mad, as you’d imagine; completely and utterly mad to be honest. Free Jazz parping and squeals, together with improvised sound poetry makes this uneasy listening and challenging fun. Also, it’s good to have such a rare artefact.

Continuing on the Free Jazz theme, already having fallen in love with Death Shanties over the summer, I also enjoyed Hurt So Good by Viennese trio Blueblut. Comprising drums, guitar and Theremin, Blueblut are noisy, mischievous and extremely innovative. With pieces ranging from ear-splitting assaults to whimsical slices of found sound and stolen soundtracks, they’re not the most easy to listen to, though I’m still disappointed they pulled their gig on November 2^nd at the Bridge Hotel for the spurious reason of zero advance ticket sales. I was going to go!

 

The most important gig I got to see of late was taking Ben to the superb Brudenell Social Club in Headingley for The Pop Group. What a magnificent, unholy, furious row they created. This band were one of my favourites back in 1979 and nobody, ever, has produced a more bitter, angry, bile-spitting criticism of society than We Are All Prostitutes; 35 years later The Pop Group are as intemperate, as effective and as correct as they ever were. It was a cerebral and caustic experience that, from start to finish, showed so many other bands what political music should be about. This wasn’t dippy Billy Bragg shit; this was furious, righteous anger and I loved it, as did Ben. He even bought me the re-release of We Are Time, with some of the finest bass playing of all time on Where There’s A Will, showing the anarcho syndicalist path to funk righteousness. Absolutely amazing and there’s a new album in 2015.

Perhaps I was spoiled by this experience, but British Sea Power at The Sage two nights later doing Sea of Brass, on stage 7.30, lights on 9.05, seemed rather tame in comparison. It was exactly the same set as they’d done in Durham back in July, though with a much more integrated NASUWT Riverside Brass Band (many of whom had been necking pints in The Central beforehand). My comments from that night still stand; it took a while to get going, then was spellbinding, before drifting off to an anti-climax with A Warm Wind Blows through the Grass. I will always treasure hearing Lately done will a 28 piece brass band, but regret the bears never made it on stage. Let’s hope BSP now turn their attention towards a new album; I’m still glad I chose to see them instead of Real Estate or The Wave Pictures, who were also in town that night, but it wasn’t their finest performance.

My friend Jonathan Hope sent me a couple of Creeping Bent Organisation CDs he’d acquired; an interesting compilation called Popism, where Vic Godard and The Fire Engines stand head and shoulders above the rest and the great lost debut album by The Jazzateers. Despite their name, they weren’t very jazzy at all, but rather like a cross between The Fire Engines and Pere Ubu; this lost 1983 set is a bit of a minor masterpiece and I’m very glad to have it, even if I’ve no idea what any of the tracks are called as the cover doesn’t list them…

Finally, to a trio of gigs that I’d been looking forward to for a long time. Firstly, The Wedding Present’s 2014 tour was centrepiece Watusi at The Cluny. I have to say from the outset, that this isn’t a good venue for them; a balcony isn’t the best place to see them from, as I found out and the floor space isn’t wide enough for the whole audience. Consequently, for the first 4 songs, I couldn’t see a thing. I managed to crowbar a space by the side of the stage and then began to thoroughly enjoy it. Watusi is another minor classic; not as ferocious as Seamonsters but more coherent than Hit Parade, with a series of sure-fire pop classics like Click Click and It’s A Gas, as well as my favourite Catwoman. Obviously there are other songs as well in the latter part of the set, with Dalliance being the stand out moment for me. Apparently Gedge isn’t keen on touring Saturnalia next year, preferring to concentrate on writing new material; if that’s the caser it’s a shame as I’d love to hear Skin Diving again, but at least he’s doing it for the right reasons. The Wedding Present remain a singular, driven outfit and fascinating by every turn. I’ll stick with them whatever they chose to do.

Almost 33 years to the day since I first saw Wah! Heat, Pete Wylie was on tour; not in Newcastle, but down to Stockton’s Georgian Theatre for an acoustic set. It’s a great venue and I applaud the gig-going culture of Teesside; while there were half a dozen bladdered Stone Island Allough Bearny former Holgate Enders only there for Story of the Blues, there were plenty of other more musically astute punters, including gaggles of female punters. Well done Stockton. Well done Wylie too, for being engaging company and not name checking former Trotskyist fraudster Derek Hatton in Come Back. While it wasn’t brilliant (no Death of Wah, Somesay, Remember or Other Boys), Wylie’s natural raconteur’s delivery and a voice that has remained strong, even if he looks like Orson Welles these days made the evening a success. Admittedly he’s hardly written a note since 1985, but it didn’t matter with the likes of Better Scream to keep us entertained. I sincerely hope he can put a band together to rediscover the less obvious parts of his back catalogue, as shown by the superb revisiting of the previous overblown Hope (I Wish You’d Believe Me).

 

It’s not often you get a lift home from a gig from Pauline Murray and Rob Blamire is it? Sorry for the name dropping, but it was North East Punk Aristocracy night when the Band of Holy joy played the rather surprisingly fitting location of Bede’s World in Jarrow. Supported by Gary Chaplin, aka Quarterlight, who let us know just exactly what he’d been playing these last 35 years, Johny and the very best line-up he’s had in three decades, gave us a triumphant gig in superb surroundings. Honestly, Rosemary Smith should be the national anthem of Shields. Tactless is as fine as it was the day I first heard it and the final, climactic Fish Wives brought the house down. Even more encouraging, 4 new songs were debuted, with news of the lads heading into the studio in early January, it means that the Band of Holy Joy will remain at the forefront of challenging contemporary music in 2015.

So, there you have it; I suppose I’d best sort out my Top 10 albums and Top 10 gigs from 2014; watch this space…

 

 

 

Political Football

Saturday 13th December; I should have gone to Manchester for a UCU Further Education Sector Conference. Instead I went to Hedworthfield Red Hackle v Wallsend Winstons; it was a 4-4 draw. On the same day, Chester FC's "Blue & white" fanzine came out. I wrote this piece for it...

I’m not sure, but I’d imagine I’m probably a little bit further to the left than you or anyone else you’ve ever met. Politically, I am a supporter of the Socialist Party of Great Britain and companion parties in the World Socialist Movement (http://www.worldsocialism.org/). To clarify, we’re nothing to do with Deggsy Hatton’s Leninist vanguardista grandchildren in the “Socialist” Party and their thinly disguised TUSC organisation. Without getting all People’s Front of Judea on you, since 1904 the SPGB has maintained that the Labour Party is as irredeemably corrupt as all other parties that seek not to promote the interests of the working class, but to maintain the interests of capitalism. Consequently, the SPGB actively opposes all reforms to the capitalist system as being of negligible benefit in the broader scheme of things, while also opposing all top-down, reformist, so-called left-wing pressure groups and movements, as these are invariably organised by charismatic autodidacts more concerned with establishing power, whether instrumental or influential, for themselves than advancing the cause of the working class. We believe all change must be organic, peaceful, democratic and led by the united will of the working classes. Many political analysts describe the SPGB as coming from the “impossibilist” school of thought. I see their point.

At work, I’m the union branch secretary; which is as close as you get to a shop steward in Further Education. I make no bones to my members about my political beliefs and they’re happy for me to undertake my role regardless. Often, union work involves interminable wrangling with management over the interpretation of contractual obligations, where tiny victories are sometimes won after prolonged debate and negotiation; however any success over management is celebrated by individual members as a small piece of good cheer. When I’m at work, expedient pragmatism has to outweigh political ideology. Hence, I modestly celebrate these small achievements as well, while always acknowledging their ultimate futility, by remembering the SPGB comment on active trade unionism that it is our job as socialists to stand with our fellow workers in their necessary battles to defend themselves, but to point out at all times that the real victory to be achieved is the abolition of the wages system.

What has this red propaganda got to do with football? Well, as a supporter of Newcastle United, I look at your club’s fan ownership model, as I do with other clubs such as FC United and to a lesser extent Swansea City, with both admiration and envy. I’m not naïve enough to see a disparate handful of clubs coming under fan ownership as a panacea for all the ills of the modern game but, as a former shaggy haired Maoist, I hear what Chairman Tse Tung said when he commented “even a journey of 1,000 miles must begin with a single step.” My mantra is, while Mike Ashley remains, it is immaterial who manages or plays for Newcastle United, nor does it matter where in the table the club finishes this season, as I am firmly of the belief  we need Ashley OUT and 100% Fan Ownership IN, though I am prepared to accept 51% Fan Ownership as a transitional demand. However, in the same way that my political beliefs are shaped by the founding principles of the SPGB that go back to 1904, which I freely acknowledge are not likely to become reality at any immediate point in the future, I accept that Mike Ashley is not imminently about to hand over ownership of Newcastle United to the entire support in the region and Geordie diaspora worldwide, allowing us to democratically elect  executive officers, subject to immediate recall by the membership, who will be charged with running the club on a non-profit basis for the greater good of both Tyneside and the north east as a whole, as well as the wider community involved in the game of football, while remaining vehemently opposed, on principle, to the grotesque parody of sport that the Premier and Football Leagues have become. Still, it is good to have something to aim for, isn’t it?

In 2015, Newcastle United’s inevitable relegation to the Championship (despite what I said above about the irrelevance of the team’s fortunes, I obviously realize Pardew is a vain, narcissistic, populist oaf who couldn’t run a bath never mind a football team) will probably coincide with the General Election. Never before have I felt so attuned to the will of the majority of people, many of whom, in whatever facet of my life I converse with them, view all major parties, including Farage’s Estate Agent Wehrmacht, with a profound, embittered loathing and contempt. As a result, in a series of actions that reminds me of nothing less than rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic to get a better view of the on-coming pretty lump of ice, the main political parties are vainly seeking a populist toehold in the public’s consciousness, by hauling the question of the regulation of football into the forefront of the political arena, for a couple of weeks at least.

First to dump their pustular backsides on board this shambling bandwagon are Labour, who have announced what is being touted as a “substantial manifesto commitment” (their words; not mine), ensuring that were Milliband’s class traitors to be returned to power after the election, “some” ownership of football clubs would be passed over to registered Supporters Trusts at every Football League and Premier League club, as well as placing at least two representatives on each board of directors. Wow.

Forgive me for not spontaneously combusting with excitement at this vague promise of sugar-free jam tomorrow, but I simply fail to see how such ill-conceived, tokenistic window-dressing can be regard as any kind of step in the right direction. Firstly, while Supporters’ Trusts are a good thing, the experiences I have had with my own club’s inert and bumbling NUST, as well as their mutual love-ins with the pompous and dirigistic Supporters Direct and Shachtmanite, dynastic FSA, are wholly negative ones and far beyond the scope of this article. Secondly, my vote will not be cast for a party who serve the interests of the capitalist class, support illegal foreign wars and who have gone on record as stating they will not seek to redress the actions of the last 5 years of Condem misrule. Finally, to suggest that anyone will find such proposed, minimal legislative intervention into the wrongs of the game as being a positive reason to vote Labour, is errant nonsense. If we wish to see our game run properly, the way to do this is to ensure that our clubs are run properly; for the fans and by the fans. Once such a state of affairs is in place, it will be comparatively simple to ensure the administrative bodies overseeing the framework of the game are run in an equitable, not-for-profit manner that will benefit every player and supporter from Under 8s to the highest rank of the professional game.

One of my favourite ever cartoons by the late Ray Lowry was in the NME around the time of Graham Gooch’s English rebel tour of apartheid era South Africa in 1982. The scene was the Roman coliseum; as a Christian slave is about to be fed to the lions, he cries out “imperialist bastards!” The betogaed and garlanded emperor turns to his flunky and announces “I do wish they’d keep politics out of sport.” However, you simply can’t do that. In my eyes, capitalism is wrong in all its manifestations; whether it’s Mike Ashley’s or Ed Miliband’s version, I’m opposed to it on principle and will remain so until my dying breath.

Unpopularity Contest

As I alluded to in last week's blog, the FSF had this glitzy awards ceremony on Monday, where Sergio Aguero, Phil Neville and Amy Lawrence were garlanded at a sumptuous banquet, where the real winners were sponsors William Hill. In a spirit of competition utterly anathema to any of us who hold the founding principles of fanzines dear, news that the Fanzine of the Year Award went to long-established Leeds United publication "The Square Ball," no doubt helped by my articles for it in April 1994 and October 1996, which was one of 3 publications, along with "United We stand" and "A Love Supreme" that were founded long before Sky TV existed, seemed to confirm that this awards ceremony was all about celebrating the entrepreneurial spirit at the heart of sporting SMEs. Two neophytic publications in the shape of "Stand," last year's winner and Stoke's glorious "Duck" were other nominees, while the last fanzine to be listed was Doncaster Rovers' "Popular Stand." I was at Doncaster Rovers v MK Dons back in late October and bought myself a copy. Suitably impressed, I penned them an article and heard nothing back... it happens. Anyway, here is that article -:

The first time I can recall being in Doncaster was Tuesday 18^th August 1992, when I made my one and only visit to Belle Vue to see Rovers lose 3-0 to Lincoln City in a League Cup first round, first leg tie. I believe Newcastle played a preseason friendly at Doncaster in either 92 or 93, but both times I was on holiday, so my only experience of a Rovers game was that one. Why was I there? Well, in the early hours of that Tuesday morning, we’d flown back in to Manchester from holiday in Corfu and, utterly exhausted, we’d decided not to head back home to Tyneside, preferring instead to stop off at my wife’s parents’ place in Barnsley to recuperate and / or watch shit football. Of course I had the delights of NUFC v Mansfield Town on Wednesday 19^th (won 2-1; Gavin Peacock double) to look forward to, but the chance of ticking off another on the road to completing the 92 seemed appealing; hence my visit for that match. In all honesty, I remember nothing about it, other than the ease of Lincoln’s win.

I made a couple of visits to Doncaster the town in the summers of 2001 and 2002. In July and August of those years, I was employed by York University as tutor and social co-ordinator on an academic English course for overseas potential students. In other words, they came over from China, Japan and Bahrain, paid the thick end of £5k for 4 days teaching a week and a day’s “cultural improvement.” Some weeks we headed to Haworth, where they ignored the parsonage and stocked up on knitwear from the Sweater Shop outlet; other times we went shopping in the town that Italian students believed was called Liz, while I sat in The Fenton watching the Racing Channel. Once each year, we came to Doncaster Dome. The students went ice skating and I wandered around outside the incredibly dilapidated Belle Vue for a couple of hours. I often wonder what the cream of the Mandarin nouveau riche’s offspring thought of Rovers’ old ground, though I never asked.  Can I just state at this point that I do not know Alan Kristiansen, Alan Cracknall or Ian Hay? Thanks.

Fast forward to 23^rd October 2009; Belle Vue has gone and Rovers are on an upward trajectory and in a new ground, when my son, who played rugby league for Wallsend RL under 15 team at the time, travels down with his club mates to be ball boys at the Keepmoat Stadium for England’s 34-12 victory over France. He goes home by coach that night and the next day, 24^th October 2009, he takes his usual seat at St James’ Park, with his grandfather occupying my generally unused one, to see Newcastle United defeat Doncaster Rovers 2-1 with a last minute Kevin Nolan goal, while I attended Peterlee Newtown 2 Percy Main Amateurs 4 in the Northern Alliance first division, having refused to watch Newcastle United while Mike Ashley owns the club. It’s a long story and I wrote a book about it; £2 via PayPal to iancusack@blueyonder.co.uk if you’re interested.  

Now, let’s come back to the present day; in June 2014, myself and two other 50-something NUFC fans are having a post work pint of a Friday evening, when we decide that it’s a tragedy our club no longer has a fanzine, so during the second half of the France v Switzerland World Cup game, we make some plans, send some texts and by full time, The Popular Side has been formed (@PopularSideZine price £1 via PayPal; same email address as before). So far we’ve released 3 issues of our old school, A5, not for profit publication, with a fourth due out on 22^nd November.   We were inspired by such publications as Duck from Stoke, A Fine Lung from FC United, West Stand Bogs from Barnsley and the general magazines Stand and The Football Pink. Registering our Twitter name, we came across your good selves, hoped you wouldn’t be litigious on grounds of intellectual property and I hatched a plan to make a pilgrimage back to South Yorkshire.

On 24^th October 2014, I headed from Newcastle to Leeds, where my son is now a first year history student and where I did my postgraduate diploma in 1987, to see the reformed, belligerently magnificent Pop Group at Brudenell Social Club, 35 years since I last saw them. I drink a lot of beer and feel proud my son is settling in to his new life and surroundings and listens to the same post punk music as me (my next trip down is to see The Fall on 28^th November). Currently, despite editing an NUFC fanzine, I still don’t watch Newcastle, on principle, throwing my lot in with Benfield of Northern League Division 1, whose programme I edit. As they were away to Ryhope Colliery Athletic (lost 3-0), and being of the opinion that any Saturday afternoon without football is a Saturday wasted, I decided to make that pilgrimage and watch Doncaster Rovers at home to MK Dons, since my resolution this season has been the only professional games I would watch would be League 1 games in Yorkshire (9^th August; Barnsley 0 Crawley 1 and 29^th November; Bradford City v Leyton Orient). In addition, I’ve always made the joke that if I’m not able to watch Newcastle on moral grounds, I’ll support the 1988 FA Cup Winners MK Dons instead, though many people fail to get the irony.

Wending my way down through Headingley, past my old home on Manor Drive, across Woodhouse Moor and through the University, where my old department was securely locked up, I emerged by the Merrion Centre at almost noon. I’ve no idea what the crowd was at Elland Road for their defeat to Wolves and monthly game of sack the manager, but Leeds city centre from The Headrow down to the station was absolutely teeming with expectant fans. I felt pity for them as I eased aboard the almost deserted 13.05 to Kings Cross.  It would be fair to say I was one of the very few who got off that train at Doncaster to head for the game.

I took a service bus (58 perhaps?) up to the ground, which had a few MK Dons fans on it. Bearing in mind these blokes were, at the outside, mid 20s, the chances are the only team they’ve watched regularly in their life are the side still known as Franchise FC in some quarters. Frankly, to have such a dismissive attitude towards fellow fans strikes me as unnecessarily confrontational absolutism; these people simply want to watch their local team. They had nothing to do with the Pete Winkelman era relocation and, unless you’re going to extend such obloquy to followers of Airdrie United in Scotland and Spennymoor in the Unibond League, or even Arsenal for migrating from Woolwich, it seems perverse to insist MK Dons fans shouldn’t see their local team and would be better off as sofa or bar stool Chelsea or Liverpool supporters. That said, while I defend their right to support their team, the witless droning of approximately 200 Buckinghamshironians through a predictable litany of “you’re not very good “and “shall we sing a song for you?” in flattened quasi estuary English tones was exceptionally grating.

We’ll not bother talking about the game shall we? The fact I stayed up until nearly 1.00 to watch 12 seconds highlights on The Football League Show astonished me, as I was amazed they found so many incidents to show. However, in all seriousness, you’ve got a lovely ground you know; if I could design a new football ground, I think the Keepmoat, as well as probably Hull City’s KC stadium, would be the blueprint I’d base it on.  Great access in and out of the ground, good signposting, plenty of facilities (decent coffee I must say) and helpful stewards who guided me to the correct car park for the bus back to town.  Even better, you’d allowed a lad called Curtis Main to play alongside the professional players; had he won a raffle to do that or something? I’m disappointed not to have seen James Coppinger as I actually remembered his only appearance for NUFC (won 2-0 home to Spurs in August 2000); mind I’m also disappointed I didn’t see any goals.

Back in town, I killed time before the train with a couple of pints in The Tut and Shive and marvelled at how drunk and obstreperous the racing fans were, when compared to the well behaved football supporters; I presume a nice suit and a badge giving you entrance to the Enclosure, or wherever, entitles you to be boorish and loud in a way that would get a football fan locked up. That’s by the by though; I had a great time watching Doncaster Rovers, despite the game, and wish you and your club well for the future.