MUSIC:
When
Trembling Bells called it a day last September, I was stunned. What would the
constituent members of the finest group I’d discovered in 10 years do next?
Thankfully, it’s all been good; Simon Shaw has released the debut Youth of
America album, while Alex Neilsen, under the Alex Rex brand, had produced the
stunning Otterburnand will be at The Cumberland in early September to
finish off his next tour. Rather pleasingly, Lavinia Blackwall and most of
Stilton started off their summer jaunt at the same venue at the end of June.
Having already released the jaunty and joyous 7” Waiting for Tomorrow, there
was an indication of what direction Lavinia is heading. Certainly, the most
important thing to note is that she and Marco are divinely happy and incredibly
comfortable creating new, different and better art. In the Bells, Lavinia
didn’t write the words she sang, so the fact this venture allows her to create
the whole songs, including the lyrics, means she seems to be singing with more
belief. It is wonderful to see, as well as hear on the latest single Troublemakers
and the absolutely stand out number, Ivy Ladder. The plan is to record
the full album to be released early next year and then tour again. I simply
can’t wait.
In
ordinary times, specifically those when Alex Neilsen didn’t release Otterburn,
there would be no doubt that Shellac’s double album of tracks
recorded for separate John Peel sessions in 1994 and 2004, would be the year’s
most lauded disc. As it is, it comes in second (so far), but remains a titanic
set of both restrained and untamed existential fury and angst. Shellac are the
only band I know whose humans are in control but whose instruments aren’t.
These 12 cuts, opening with a relentless version of Spoke, a track that
wouldn’t see the light of day after this performance until 2007’s Famous
Italian Greyhound, constantly jostle and kick against the normative
preconceptions of the power trio structure. Witness Canada; recorded in
the 1994 session and again in 2004. There‘s a hypnotic melodicism in Albini’s
singing, but where the 1994 version is wound tightly around the rhythmic crunch
of Bob Weston’s low bass, the 2004 version features the band singing the theme
song from the Canadian TV sketch show Great White North, as they’ve done
live, and a markedly slower pacing to the tinny riffs that lurch the song
forward. First version is unsettling, while second version is terrifying. The
second session, featuring classics such as Billiard Player Song and Il
Porno Star was recorded with a live studio audience shortly after Peel’s
untimely death and feels like a service of celebration of the great man’s life.
The End of Radio features Albini narrating from the perspective of the
last DJ on earth. The title track is the key song on this release; a postmodern
masterwork, balancing Albini’s nihilism with an evergreen critique of the
centrality of mass media. To Albini and plenty of other fans at the time, a
post-Peel radio landscape clearly felt like the end of something, as the man
who saw potential in Albini’s earliest works was dead. Of course, Shellac had a
message for listeners at home: “John Peel was a hell of a man. This session
tonight, it’s the end of radio!” An utterly essential purchase.
Probably
the only Trembling Bells related release I didn’t pick up on during the group’s
lifetime was Mike and Solveig’s Here Comes Today, which
I’m delighted to say has been repressed in CD form, enabling me to pick it up
at the Lavinia gig at the back end of June. Mike Hastings is a magnificent
guitarist of the old school; folk, psych, prog and blues stylings come
naturally to him and it is a joy to see him rocking out on stage. However, this
album is a much quieter beast, where Mike’s riffing is restricted to plucking
and strumming by Solveig’s accompanying studious violin and fragile vocals. In
many ways, this would appeal to those who enjoy left-field eccentricity from
the likes of Doctor Strangely Strange, where surreal whimsy stands shoulder to
shoulder with gentle, introspective songwriting of an impressive standard. I
sincerely hope to see Mike back with a band soon, but it is reassuring to know
he has the ability to effortlessly switch genres when required.
Heading
down to Ben’s MA graduation in July, I picked up a copy of the latest issue of The
Wire. It came with a free double CD that I’ve not worked up the courage to
listen to yet, but more importantly it introduced me to the County Leitrim
based post rock outfit Woven Skull; a band highly unlikely to
regurgitate a rake of pints from The Anchorage all along the Shannon’s
side in Carrick of a Friday or Saturday night. I have to say though, having
been tempted into ordering their self-titled album on account of the fact most
of their releases were on long sold out C90s and so on, this lot have the
potential to replicate Godspeed You! Black Emperor in my affections. Describing
their art as “minimal psychedelic repetitions made inside of haunted forests
and burning bogs,” the quartet are comprised of: Ailbhe Nic Oireachtaigh,
Aonghus McEvoy, Natalia Beylis and Willie Stewart. The four of them deserve
immediate membership of Aosdána for the hypnotic, minimal perfection of the
tumultuous opening track; Exile On Warren Street, though the rest of the
album is pretty fucking special as well. Their home county is known as Lovely
Leitrim; it’s a description I’d adhere to and Woven Skull produce the loveliest
sounds from Manorhamilton to Roosky (the nice bit that’s not in Roscommon
anyway).
It’s
not exactly a secret that I’ve been a devotee of The Wedding Present
for more than 3 decades now. Indeed, I’m looking forward to the 30th
anniversary tour of Bizarro arriving in Newcastle at the end of October.
Unlike other bands, such as The Fall, The Mekons, Teenage Fanclub or Trembling
Bells, I don’t have everything TWP, or David Gedge to be more specific, have
ever released; firstly, I lived a kind of semi-nomadic existence without
regular access to a gramophone in the 1984 to 1988 period, meaning I only
bought records infrequently, often relying on stuff taped from John Peel to
stay abreast. Secondly, I thought most of the stuff Cinerama did was bland
drivel. Certainly, that isn’t a charge that could be levelled at the gloriously
ramshackle debut single the Weddoes released 35 years ago now; Go Out and
Get ’Em, Boy and (The Moment Before) Everything’s Spoiled Again are
as vital and compelling as the day they were released. News that Optic Nerve
Records were rereleasing this single brought joy to my heart; I’d long coveted
a copy. Optic Nerve made me wait well over 6 months to get my copy, with no
explanation for the delay, so I’d be wary ever doing business with them again
as any enquiry as to the delay was contemptuously rebuffed. In complete
contrast, Come Play With Me Records delivered the new Weddoes single (a 10”
picture disc if you please), Jump In, The Water’s Fine backed by Panama,
the day it was due to be released. Fair play to them for that, though I’m not
so sure about the music contained within just yet. The b-side is a
straightforward latter day TWP thumpalong, but the main track seems to be less
than the sum of its parts, starting with a tremendous clatter but degenerating
into fairly formless power ballad pretension. I need to reinvestigate this one
sharpish.
Quite
unbelievably, the first gig I got to this year was BMX Bandits,
for the first time in 30 years, at the Head of Steam on May 17th. Of
all the possible venues Duglas and his band could have played, the Head of
Steam basement is possibly only trumped by the Riverside in terms of
unsuitability. Bad sound and no decent vantage points on account of zero stage
elevation. Ho-hum, at least the band were great. Despite Duglas’s rise to
prominence alongside the other heroes of Bellshill, Teenage Fanclub, his
strongest influences and antecedents aren’t to be found the guitar-driven pop
of Big Star or The Byrds. On the night of the Eurovision Contest, Duglas showed
that the lush strings and continental cool of Serge Gainsbourg and Jane Birkin,
or even Tony Hatch and Jackie Trent, are where his heart lies. If you don’t
believe me, search out his bon chansons on the gentle and joyful BMX
Bandits Live Forever set that Elefant put out a couple of years back.
The
second gig I got to this year was The Burning Hell at the Cobalt
Studios, which was the first time I’d been to this cute and comfy Ouseburn
backwater. Arriving just in time to miss Nev Clay as support and be harangued
by an apologetic TERF for my stance on trans sexual politics, it was a relief
to catch up with Canada’s cutest export. Expanded to a 4 piece since last
December’s Cluny 2 show, they put in their usual marvellous performance,
sprinkling a few new numbers among the old favourites. They were a delight to
catch up with afterwards, especially as I got to introduce my Canadian pal
David to them, resulting in much reminiscing about DeGrassi Junior High. Even
better, their Bangers & Mash CD of cover versions was available; you
really ought to hear their impeccable takes on Dolly Parton 9 to 5, Pink
Floyd’s Bike, Joni Mitchell’s Carey and Dylan’s Love Minus
Zero / No Limit. They are a truly lovable and eccentric band.
Talking
of lovable and eccentric Canadians; my pal David presented me with a trio of
class craft ales and lost grunge heroes Unwound’s 1994 album, Fake
Train, for my recent birthday. It is a bit of a minor classic, made when the
band had unhitched their wagon from the tiresome brain drain hardcore train and
started to record something a lot looser and more creative. Instead of
machine-gun drums and cut throat yowling, the gaps and repetition to be found
in numbers like the impressive opener Dragnalus or the stupendous, Sonic
Youth circa Bad Moon Rising tinged instrumental Were, Are and Was or
Is, show a band evolving far beyond the 90-second straightjacket of
powerchord shoutalongs. I had honestly never heard of Unwound before I was
presented with this disc; I am more than delighted to have been introduced to
them.
In
some ways, I hoodwinked myself into purchasing Professor Yaffle’s
A Brand New Morning believing that, on account of the fact it was a
double album, it would be an acid drenched psych and prog wig out in the manner
of Amon Duul II meets Ten Years After. It isn’t. Professor Yaffle are Liverpool
based and so, it is of no surprise that there are hints of the articulate
singer / songwriter intelligent pop from the likes of Michael Head, Candy
Opera, the Icicle Works and a dozen other Merseyside outfits you could mention,
though with added sitar, table and reed flourishes that do hint at a none too
subtle 60s Astral Weeks influence. It’s good, but I wonder whether,
allowing for the fact much of the splendid instrumentation is either or both
acoustic and restrained, judicious editing could have pared this back to a
single killer disc as there seems to be a fair bit of filler on here, with
noodling towards the coda a regular feature. However, tracks such as Flying,
A Brand New Morning and All in Your Mind make the venture a
worthwhile one. In addition, the cover looks absolutely beautiful and at £7 for
the CD, this is a steal. On balance, it is well worth buying.
BOOKS:
The
arrival of a new James Elroy novel is always a time to be
treasured. Almost 5 years on from Perfidia, the second volume of his
Second LA Quartet, This Storm is upon us. Stylistically, we are back in
the dance band era (Count Basie and Duke Ellington are peripheral namechecks)
and Elroy’s prose fittingly echoes the swoops, swirls and improvised takes on the
insistent rhythms of the time. We aren’t among the machine gun blasts of harsh
monosyllabic plot delivery of The Cold Six Thousand; instead we are
immediately embraced by the poetic embrace of the seductive yet sordid LA demi
monde of early 1942, where Dudley Smith’s malfeasance is as commonplace as
Barbara Stanwyck’s sapphic nymphomania. Within 10 pages, we are at home and at
ease with characters and settings that fit us like the tailored sap gloves used
to take Orson Welles down a peg or two for coming onto the Dudster’s latest
squeeze. Unlike other Elroy novels, the plot is contained by a modest three
strands that, as ever, are perfectly resolved in the denouement. This is little
gore and only two heartbreaking deaths of characters we’ve grown to love. It is
almost as if the Devil Dog has grown affectionate as he embraces his 70s. Who
can tell? Roll on the next instalment.
Since
becoming involved in the Lit Zine world about 5 or 6 years back, there are two
actual genii I’ve come across in that time; firstly, there is Holly Watson,
whose delightful Coventry Conch series of memoirs of a Midlands
upbringing in the 80s and 90s deserves to be made accessible to a wider
audience, in both written and spoken forms. Secondly, there is Michael
Keenaghan; the finest exponent of hard-boiled London noir violent short
fiction imaginable. This fabulously talented member of the Irish diaspora
writes brutal, convincing, tautly plotted and realistically voiced slices of
gangsta, gang, cop and robber short fiction. There is no conscience. There is
no happy ending. Broadwater Farm Blues, a single-story chapbook from
East London Press, is as good as anything you’ll read this year and better than
the dross churned out by the John King wannabes from the M25 EDL lickarse gang.
This is strongly recommended.
I’d
strongly recommend you avoid Elaine O’Connell-Gray’s deceitful
and overtly sentimental soi disant (auto)hagiography, The Prostitute
of Felling. Running to just over 90 pages, this rancid book of lies drips
with insincere, self-serving rewrites of history. While the author has suffered
from mental illness for most of her life, this is no reason to tell lie after
lie in the hope of excusing her repugnantly selfish conduct, motivated entirely
by money no doubt, towards her parents. However, since the audience for this
fraudulent and poorly structured version of Mein Kampf will be the
barely literate scions of the most despicable woman ever to live on Monksfeld
and a slack handful of socially inadequate vanity-publishing losers, it doesn’t
really matter. O’Connell-Gray is a failure as a human being; other weak
failures from Spain to the Spanish City will lap up this prosaic excrement and
pay for the privilege.
TELEVISION:
Being
honest, other than the news, sport and the occasional documentary, I’m not a
great watcher of television. However, I made an exception for George Clooney’s
superb adaption of Joseph Heller’s classic novel, Catch 22.
I adored the book when I first read it as a scrofulous undergraduate, in awe at
Heller’s asynchronous narrative and parade of surreal idee fixe characters,
which Mike Nichols melded into a flawed but fascinating film. On my MA course,
I grew even more enamoured with Heller’s novel, though the long-time coming
follow-up, Closing Time, was disappointingly flat. No matter, this
6-part dramatization of the novel was simply immaculate; stripped of much of
the experimental artifice and pretension of the original, it was a
chronological take on the book that is best described as Jarhead for the
Glenn Miller generation. Beautifully
shot and superbly cast with actors who made you believe in their characters, it
is a deceptively brutal takedown of military idiocy and obstinate, by the book,
rule of law. What begins as a gentle then horrific character-driven tale turns
into an uncompromising castigation of the meaningless and destructive nature of
war, where the decisions of one’s own higher-ups can be infinitely more
terrifying than the strategy of the opposition. A worthy interpretation of the
great American novel and a truly great show in its own right.
