Christmas Cakes & Ale

We’re in December you know; where the hell did that come from? In a couple of weeks I’ll turn my attention to the annual tables of gigs and releases of the year and, sad to say, a list of remembrances for those who’ve passed on in 2016.  It’s been a sad old year.

Musically, the death that has affected me above all others is that of the wonderful Leonard Cohen. While Bob Dylan remains my first and most enduring singer / songwriter crush, I adored much of Laughing Len’s output. I first heard him aged 12, in early 1977, when my older cousin Grahame gave me an old CBS compilation album, "The Rock Machine Turns You On," which included "The Sisters of Mercy." I immediately fell in love with Cohen’s voice and the atmospheric sparsity of the sound. Having, at that time, already embarked on a process of collecting all of Dylan’s early albums following my exposure to “Highway 61 Revisited” some months before, I did the same with Len. Then, as now, “Songs Of” and “Songs from a Room” were my favourites. Suddenly punk happened for me and the frankly baffling Phil Spector produced "Death of a Ladies' Man" stopped me in my tracks, as did Dylan's subsequent Christian bilgefest "Slow Train Coming." I’ve never bought any subsequent product by either of them, but will adore until my grave the work they produced from 66-74 and 63-78 respectively.

Of course, like David Bowie, Leonard Cohen had penned his own musical epitaph, in the shape of “You Want It Darker,” which came out a month before his death. Unlike those awful jazz-tinged live albums he churned out, replete with hysterical backing singers and unnecessary alto sax waffling, this was stripped back, solemn, funereal and hilarious; the title track and the marvellous “Treaty” would go in a top 10 of my favourite Len moments. It is a fitting, self-penned obituary to a unique talent. Goodbye Chuckles; your work will endure. Incidentally, other than Velvet Crush's take on "Everything Flows," my favourite cover version of all time is The Jesus & Mary Chain's go at "Tower of Song."

One death that bypassed the mainstream media was the tragically early departure of Vic Godard’s wife Georgina (aka George aka Gertie), who was a constant presence at his annual Newcastle gigs, always at the merchandise stall, as well as maintaining an erudite and fascinating blog on the website for the notoriously technophobic Vic. This year, the stars seemed to have aligned as Vic and The Band of Holy Joy were playing together at the Cumberland on a Friday night. Only a week before, the gig was pulled and less than a week later George was dead, of a particularly aggressive type of cancer. There really were no words, but Johny Brown and friends found some, in a beautiful tribute on their Resonance FM programme that I listened to in floods of tears. In these times of social media contact, your heroes become your friends and I’m delighted to have known George, however superficially. I do note, with elation that Vic is gigging again; I send him all my regards.

Because of Vic’s troubles, I found myself with a spare Friday night, so I took the opportunity to see Sean Keane at the Irish Centre for the Tyneside Irish Festival. He wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t quite the authentic Sean Nos I’d hoped for. That said; he did a delicious version of “There Were Roses” by Tommy Sands, which I’d last heard by Andy White probably 30 years previously. Quite ironically, the only book I’ve read of late is “Addicted to Murder” by Michaela Sitfold. It’s an express written cash-in about Harold Shipman, published in the window of financial opportunity between conviction and suicide. It is possibly the most superficial, worst written and banal accounts of evil I’ve had the misfortune to come across. Then again, I’ve just accepted a review copy of Norman Bettison’s self-justifying autohagiography “Hillsborough Untold.” I’ve made it through the opening 65 pages with my teeth permanently on edge. Goodness I look forward to laying into this despicable tome.

However, let’s move on to happier matters; a pair of brilliant gigs by my favourite bands that brought the concert-attending year to a close. Teenage Fanclub at Whitley Bay Playhouse on Wednesday 16 November and The Wedding Present at The Point in Sunderland on Friday 2 December. A key difference between the two bands is the number of opportunities one has to see them in the flesh; this was the first time The Fannies had played the north east since November 2005, while I was seeing the Weddoes for the fourth time in 2016, at four different venues, with four different sets and an already scheduled visit to the Academy next June to play George Best. Suffice to say, David Gedge has a higher profile than Norman, Gerry, Raymond, Francis and Dave. However, neither familiarity breeds contempt nor absence makes the heart grow fonder applies to either of these bands. For instance, since November 2005, I’d seen TFC on 5 separate occasions in Glasgow.

In terms of venues, surroundings and ambience, the two evenings could not have been more contrasting. For Teenage Fanclub, I’d purchased 3 tickets, with Ben coming up from Leeds to join Laura and me, for his first ever TFC gig. We met in the new micropub that has just opened in Monkseaton station; I have to say the Left Luggage Room is just about perfect in terms of décor, ambience, clientele and, above all, beer; this is simply a jewel in the crown of coastal drinking and an antidote to the bland uniformity of Monkseaton Front Street and the horrors of Whitley (Rockcliffe Arms excepted). What made it even better was the sheer number of punters I knew; all on their way to the Playhouse for the Fannies.

As ever, the support was ignored and we made our way to the venue with 15 minutes to spare; until curtain up, I spent the entire time saying hello to loads of people I’d not seen in ages. Literally, I must have known at least half the audience, which was great for nostalgic reasons. I’ve always found TFC followers to be like a family and this reinforced it tonight. Admittedly it wasn’t the greatest of venues, being all-seated, but I soon got over that problem, charging down the front after the opening notes of I Don’t Want Control of You. Frankly, my dancing is an embarrassment, so it was beneficial for Ben and Laura that I got out of their way, so I didn’t hamper their enjoyment.

My enjoyment level, as ever, was stratospheric. I do feel the Weddoes with Going Going have won album of the year by a short head from Here, but TFC won gig of the year; not just the obvious highlights of Sparky’s Dream, It’s all In My Mind, The Concept, Verisimilitude and Don’t Look Back, but the growing realisation that Raymond McGinley has never been more vital to the band than he is now.  Gerry does the sweetness and Norman knocks how to rock, but Raymond is the eccentric craftsman, taking us down proggy, folky, indie, jazzy byways that make his work just that little bit extra special.

At the end, I spotted Kerry from Kelso, who I’d met in 2006 at the Banwagonesque gigs in London and Glasgow; she was alone, so we took her under our wing and managed to make last orders in Whitley’s grotesque Town House, as ropey a chain pub as you could imagine, but it was quiet, deserted and we could have a chat and a sit. It truly was a wonderful night. In some ways I was a little sad I’d opted for The Weddoes at Sunderland rather than TFC at Barras for the first weekend of December, but in the end, I think I made an economically sensible decision.

Having seen The Weddoes on Laura’s birthday with Ginge, it was perfectly sensible I saw them on his birthday with him. This time, having seen then do a greatest hits set supporting The Wonder Stuff (we left before they spoiled the evening) at the Academy in March, doing Saturnalia in Leeds at the end of May, doing all of Going Going at the Sage, this was a traditional headlining set, drawn from all aspects of their career.  We’d been lucky enough to get a lift there from Ginge’s wonderful Heather; we grabbed a pint in Sunderland’s best bar, The Dun Cow, before ignoring the desperately deteriorating Borough in favour of the frankly bizarre, and deserted supposed Bier Kellar, Bavaria. Lovely Erdinger mind. From there we headed to The Point, which looked like a bingo hall from the outside and had illuminated stairs like Santa’s Grotto, but had a decent shape to it and wasn’t exactly packed.

The evening started with  Give my Love to Kevin, included other early stuff like My Favourite Dress and also several numbers from the new album in the 19-song, 85 minute set, which highlighted the latest guitarist to work with Mr Gedge. Australian Marcus Kain is a dazzling axeman, but I would imagine his foot on the monitor, hand shaking histrionics may be frowned on by the band’s owner.  My highlights were Dalliance, simply because it’s one of the best numbers they’ve ever written, a pulsating Flying Saucer and an absolutely storming Dare. A great night, even if I only knew 4 people in the audience.

Gig over; we headed back towards our pick up point, which resulted in a frankly disturbing experience. A Wetherspoons, in Sunderland, on a Friday night, surrounded by lumpen authoritarian populists; the white working and underclass who are implacably opposed to the cultural assumptions, such as a respect for human rights, immigration, feminism and diversity,  that are the bread-and-butter of liberal democracy. These are not my people; Sunderland, having been twice in a week after attending Ryhope CW 4 Marske United 2 with Harry the previous Saturday, is not my town. Teenage Fanclub and The Wedding Present are my bands, together with my darling Trembling Bells.

Incidentally the title comes from my mother once referring to The Wedding Present as The Christmas Cakes…….