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 25th,
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ghost-written by Roddy Doyle but already out of date as the Villa departure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 23rd 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
2nd 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…
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