I simply
can’t believe we’re into the third month of 2017 already. It really is time for a cultural blog,
cleaning up the back end of last year and the start of this, even if I’ve been
so busy I’ve hardly seemed to have any time for culture or even the world
outside my front door. However, Laura
and I stepped out on St David’s Day to see the ever brilliant Fairport
Convention on their 50th anniversary tour. Having missed visiting the
Sage last year, they were back in their beloved Hall 2 for the sixth time in
the last 8 years, while Laura and I were in our customary A1 and A2 of the
stalls, between Ric and Simon. Superb view for a superb gig.
As ever,
they played two sets; the first alternating between the new album (which I was
going to buy, but missed out on as I got a dolphin hand puppet instead…. Don’t
ask) and old favourites. It was especially good to hear Genesis Hall and Now Be
Thankful in the flesh for the first time. After the break, it was more
crowd pleasers, including a stunning Rising
for the Moon, which eclipsed even
Matty Groves and the eternal Meet on
the Ledge. Despite their age, they’re as agile, nimble-footed and
charmingly garrulous as ever. More power to their fiddlers’ elbows….
I really
needed that night out, as the previous 8 weeks have whizzed by in a haze of
stress and bile, on account of work. Back to graft on January 3rd, I
succumbed to a chest infection the day after; now I’m never normally off, but I
had no choice with this. The sympathy from work was in short supply, as my call
to the absence hot line was responded to with a text that told me my condition
had caused “a nightmare” for management. My heart didn’t bleed that much I have
to say, mainly because I’m fed up with the whole situation. I've been teaching
nigh on 29 years and I’ve endured was the worst half term I've known in my whole career; unceasing,
unending pressure, repeated petty criticism, judgemental, inflexible micromanagement;
topped off with zero support and not one syllable of thanks, never mind a hint
of gratitude or praise. Treat people like dirt and, surprisingly, they don’t
respond positively; it seems to me that FE is the sweatshop of education and
I'm sick of it....
I’d call for
a revolution, but that seems a fond hope in the current political climate. A
propos last week’s pair of by-election results, I have to say I’m delighted by
the Stoke result; not just because Labour held it, but because the appalling
Nuttall did poorly, though it would have been delicious if he’d finished third.
As regards Copeland, nobody with an ounce of compassion can ever cheer a Tory
victory, but I felt this was inevitable, on account of the Sellafield factor.
It’s important to recognise though, that the PLP has been denuded of two of the
biggest piles of shit ever to sit on the woolsack to represent the interests of
the working class; Tristam Hunt and Jamie Reed will not be missed.
Looking at
the various parties in the light of the election, other than the Tories who
I’ve decided not to comment on, it’s clear Tim Farron has no hope of saving the
Lib Dems; they and the Greens may as well combine as some kind of Vegan
Wehrmacht, as they’re both finished. The good news is that UKIP are finished
too; as Brexit has become a reality, their raison d’etre has vanished and they
have exhausted the seam of xenophobia and intolerance that they previously
mined so well. It seems as if the supply of Islamophobic Wetherspoons drinkers
has dried up, which is good. The history of British far right politics has been
one of splits and fissures over ego more than ideology; expect many defections
to the Tories and a new BNP / NF / Britain First / UKIP monster to evolve soon.
As far as
Labour goes; sad to say it, but Corbyn is finished. The last in a series of
atrocious gaffes was to insist on voting for Article 50, when all the data
shows the vast majority of Labour votes voted Remain and would still do so
again, given the chance. His wrongheaded
decision to insist on this may have provided succour to the political
equivalent of the Flat Earth Society, the Leninist Lexit Loonies who are
(thankfully) mainly outside of the Labour Party. Corbyn’s decision was as
indefensible as Harman’s insistence on Labour MPs boycotting the Welfare Bill
after the last election. As a result, Corbyn must go because he, together with
many of his apologists, failed to see the reality; support for the Labour Party
is rock solid and immovable from the sections of society who are still in
favour of the old post war Social Democratic consensus.
We are not
isolationists, we are not Tory light; we believe in higher taxation, extensive
state ownership, and massive reductions in defence spending to provide full
funding for the NHS, education, welfare state and benefits. We are tolerant,
inclusive believers in a multi-ethnic, multicultural society, vehemently
opposed to racism, homophobia, Islamophobia and all other manifestations of
prejudice. Crucially, we are not an
insignificant number; the support for socialist Labour policies is there.
Sadly, Jeremy Corbyn has failed us and must go. Who can replace him? Dennis
Skinner is probably too old and after that I’m struggling…
BOOKS:
Christmas
seems a long time ago, but I think back and smile at the printed presents Ben
gave me; Joan Cornella’s latest collection of bizarre, unsettling, subversive
and screamingly funny cartoons, SOT,
proves he has found his oeuvre and he’s sticking to it. Honestly, whenever I’m
really miserable, a quick flick through a Cornella book cheers me right up.
Similarly Bad Graffiti, as
photographed by Scott Hocking, chronicles hundreds of poorly executed and
syntactically incorrect examples of “street art” in and around Detroit. Hocking states that bad graffiti can be
“vulgar, juvenile, poorly scrawled, misspelled, ignorant and ridiculous,” but
it can also be “freaking hilarious” and “so bad, it’s good.” For example the
tagger who for some reason took the name of “Salad” and writes it in cursive,
which Hocking describes as provoking a “mystifyingly bad reaction.” Sadly
Hocking’s sardonic commentary doesn’t appear anywhere often enough as a
counterpoint to the truly dreadful tags, though they do speak, albeit
inarticulately, for themselves.
On a totally
different theme, Somerset cricket historian David Foot wrote a rather too
reverent hagiography of one of the county’s finest ever batsmen. Harold Gimblett ; Tortured Genius of Cricket paints a wonderfully evocative picture
of county cricket in the west Country in the decades before and after WWII,
though the main subject himself, and specifically, the demons that destroyed
him, remain maddeningly elusive. No doubt this was out of a sense of solicitous
duty for Gimblett’s widow, who provided much of the material Foot used as a
basis for his research.
Something
I’m incredibly proud of for 2017 has been the new Lit Zine I’ve set up; glove #1 has been flying off the
shelves. At the time of writing, I’ve only a dozen of the 44 page A5 collection
of 21 slices of outsider short fiction, flash fiction and poetry from
contemporary writers operating outside the mainstream. You can get it via
PayPal for £3 to iancusack@blueyonder.co.uk if you’re quick. One writer I
was delighted to include is Gwil James Thomas; in fact his poem Stock Car Racers is the second piece in
issue #1. His collection of poems Gwil v
Machine is available from Martin Appleby (editor of Paper & Ink lit zine) https://www.paperandinkzine.co.uk/shop and is well worth £2.50 of your
hard earned for confessional, autobiographical accounts of a life endured
rather than enjoyed. There’s nods to Bukowski, Ginsberg and the Fantes, but
it’s authentic and heartfelt personal torment, not imagined hardships.
As ever, I’m
always prepared to read through the gaps in my knowledge, so I invested in dirt
cheap Amazon bookstore withdrawn from library stock copies of A Sense of Detachment by John Osborne
and Peter Handke’s The Ride across Lake
Constance and other plays. The first one is an abysmal attempt to recreate
Artaud’s Theatre of Cruelty off
Shaftesbury Avenue. Osborne was renowned as a vain, egotistical bully, with
nary a good word to say to anyone once his theatrical talents had waned. This
tawdry attempt at combining Brecht with The
Skinhead Hamlet is without merit; zero plot, one dimensional characters and
stilted dialogue shows Osborne was already into a steep descent of his talents.
I loved
Handke’s novels The Goalkeeper’s Anxiety
at the Penalty Kick and Short Letter,
Long Farewell when I read them at university. Subsequently I came across The Left Handed Woman and Afternoon of a Writer whereby Handke’s
spare prose style appeared to be descending into self-parody, such were the banal,
polished minutiae of ephemeral trivia he sought to centre his work on. These
plays, the first three of which predate the first two novels mentioned and the
latter two which date from the period between the opening and closing pairs of
novels mentioned, are baffling and maddening in equal measures. Late Beckett
post language exaggerated mime and Ionesco influenced seemingly meaningless,
pretentious glossolalia rub shoulders at first, before Sam Shepherd style
ersatz portentousness takes over for the title play and the well-known They are Dying Out. The nouvelle roman develops stage fright as
the audience falls asleep.
MUSIC:
I love David
Shrigley; everything of his I’ve seen has tickled and warmed me, especially the
very wonderful, though deeply unsettling, Partick Thistle mascot Kingsley. At
the end of last year, my weekly email from Monorail
told me of a 7” single, written by Shrigley and performed by Iain Shaw. I
ordered it immediately and when Listening
to Slayer arrived, it didn’t disappoint. With a kind of Jad Fair naïve
artist delivery and a simple acoustic guitar backing, we learn the tale of a post-Apocalyptic
future where only syrupy energy drinks and the charmless purveyors of Death
Metal are able to keep up entertained. I’ve no idea what it means, and it’s a
nightmare vision, but I love it.
My other two
purchases are also 7” singles that ought to have been released last year, but
were delayed for different reasons. Firstly Teenage Fanclub’s I’m In Love is known as the storming
opening shot on last year’s predictably brilliant Here; I bought it because the b-side is Grant McClennan’s beautiful
Easy Come, Easy Come given the usual
sparking TFC treatment, with Gerry Love’s vocal deserving an Oscar.
The final
record is Vic Godard’s I’ll Find Out Over
Time, which was due to be launched last October at a series of dates that
had to be pulled because of the tragic illness and death of his wife Georgie.
It seems churlish to review it, but it’s important to recognise what a
wonderful, Northern Soul tinged, organ driven stomper this is. An absolutely gloriously
happy slice of good time 60s pop. Can’t wait to see him at The Cumberland on 8th
December.
So, future
gigs include 27th March The Wedding Present in Stockton, 8th
April British Sea Power at the Riverside and The Weddoes doing George Best at the Academy on 7th
Jun. More to be added and more to be bought, no doubt, including David Keenan’s
debut novel and a Trembling Bells RSD 7”. There’s also a slight chance I might
get a guestie for Shirley Collins at the Sage…
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