Gentle music and harsh words...
Music:
Back
in January when I first heard Alex Rex’s stunning third album, Andromeda,
I would have been incredulous to be informed that it was not to be my favourite
album of 2020. Further, were I to be told that with 4 months of the year to go,
that Andromeda would be languishing in joint 4th place in my
personal poll, I’d have assumed somebody was telling lies. However, such is the
strength of the competition, this is manifestly the case. Having already ceded
pole position to Cornershop’s peerless England is a Garden and Ed
Askew’s personally passionate London, the release that has denied Alex’s
still brilliant effort a podium spot, is the fragile, spellbinding beauty of Hello
Sorrow, Hello Joy by Three Queens in Mourning. This tribute to Will Oldham,
aka Bonnie “Prince” Billy, consists of a dozen interpretations of some of the
finest moments of Palace Music by Glasgow based trio Alasdair Roberts, Jill
O’Sullivan (aka Jill Lorean) and a certain Alex “Rex” Neilson, which is
slightly ironic I guess.
Having known Alex and his work for approximately a decade and Alasdair’s for a slightly shorter period, I first encountered Three Queens in Mourning live at the Star & Shadow back in October 2018, when I was delighted to make the acquaintance of Jill O’Sullivan. Naturally therefore, I found it necessary to purchase her Not Your First EP under the moniker of Jill Lorean from Bandcamp. What a blinder it is too; 6 tracks weighing in at 22 minutes plus, this half album is really the bee’s knees in psychedelic pop with a driving dirty bassline running rapidly through it. Like a contemporary, Caledonian-based Suzy Quatro, Jill’s great and groovy release packs a powerful punch. The opener Strawberry Moon is a stomping sock to the jaw that grabs your attention and doesn’t let go. Eyes on the Bird, by contrast, has that essential folk-tinged wistful contemplative tone that leaps out from every doorway on Byres Road. I’ve got a strong affection for Your Younger Self and the closing Axe to Grind as well. You probably won’t get this in the shops, other than Monorail perhaps, so I’d suggest you take yourself over to https://jilllorean.bandcamp.com/releases and bag yourself a copy. There’s also Alasdair’s latest project; the acapella outfit Green Ribbons, who are theoretically still slated to play The Cumberland on November 9th. I am intending to pick up their CD that night but, if as expected, the gig is pulled, then I’ll get my copy from https://greenribbons.bandcamp.com/album/green-ribbons
Wire’s Mind Hive was another early 2020 triumph, which is why it was slightly surprising to hear about the existence of 10:20; a quartet of demos and outtakes from both Red Barked Tree, a decade back when Matthew Simmons was a guest rather than an integrated member of the group, while Margaret Fielder McGuinness also contributed, and Mind Hive. It is the earlier material that is of greater interest; both Boiling Boy and German Shepherds are quality, melodic numbers, unimpeded by any residual hesitancy occasioned by a band feeling their way back into a creative groove. Best of all is Underwater Experiences that is a dead ringer for a hi-tech Pink Flag outtake, with a frantic 2-note lead guitar line, shouted vocals and a ferocious minor chord rhythm part. Fantastic stuff. The modern tracks are less intriguing, but there is no good reason why the 35 minute Mind Hive set wasn’t bolstered by the inclusion of these cuts. Small Black Reptile is 154 reincarnated; catchy, pleasant and lyrically incomprehensible, while closer Over Theirs is a compelling Krautrock pastiche that ends with a powerful drone coda that makes it a memorable cut. A decent release, but not a vital one; two Wire albums a year is one too many.
Books:
About
15 years back, once I’d abandoned my faith in The Fall, I began to take less
and less interest in most activities to do with Das Gruppe, though I did
read Steve Hanley’s masterful account of his two decades of devoted service, The
Big Midweek. What struck home most forcefully about that book was the
undisputable fact that all musicians who passed through The Fall, after the
initial line-up that recorded Live at the Witch Trials disintegrated,
were merely employees, who worked in Smith’s backing band. The Fall were not a
democracy. After MES passed in early 2018, I thought of reading all those books
about The Fall I’d previously studiously ignored but put that thought to one
side. As 2020 has been designated the year of reading voraciously, I consented
to the inevitable and picked up Paul Hanley’s Leave the Capital, a
detailed and persuasive piece of cultural agitprop that successfully makes the
case for Manchester being the only viable centre of musical creativity in
England outside of London. Did you know The Beatles never recorded a second of
music in their own city and that Merseybeat was invented in a Denmark Street
office? Well, there you go. Hanley focuses on seminal Mancunian groups and
their hometown recordings; The Hollies, 10CC, The Buzzcocks and the whole
Factory shebang get more than mere namechecks. The Fall get a mention as well,
which spurred Paul on to write an account of the recording and importance of Hex
Enduction Hour musically, culturally, and personally, entitled Have a
Bleedin’ Guess, which started me off on a journey of discovery.
As a long time Fall fan, I’ve always said the absolute epitome of their art comprised the period from 1979’s Dragnet to 1983’s Perverted by Language. Paul Hanley joined in 1980, just before his O Levels, and left in 1985. Hex Enduction Hour came right in the middle of this period and remains The Fall’s finest moment, by a short head. By almost writing himself out of the narrative, though he contextualises with much autobiographical detail from the pre and post Hex Enduction eras, Hanley is able to forensically examine the individual tracks, while recalling the recording sessions in Iceland and Hitchin and giving an insight to how things were in the band. It’s fascinating, brilliant and drove me straight back to listening to the crucial period of The Fall’s oeuvre, which I was more than glad to revisit. Hanley’s a great writer and, while I’m happy to see him and his older brother forming the rhythm section of Brix and the Extricated, I’d like to read more from him in the future.
Simon Wolstonecroft occupied the drum stool for a decade in The Fall, having previously missed out on the gig as The Stone Roses’s stickman, despite being school pals with Brown and Squires, though he graciously admits Reni is a superior drummer, and a similar job with The Smiths, because he couldn’t stand Morrissey, which is a good enough reason for me. Known as Funky Si, Wolstonecroft has been an itinerant musician with dozens of obscure Mancunian outfits from the whole spectrum of musical genres from the early 80s to the present day. He tells us about these in his autobiography You Can Drum but You Can’t Hide, as well as fronting up about his failings as a husband and father, not to mention coming clean about a near 40 year skag habit. Obviously, The Fall section was the bit I was most interested in and, in his disarmingly honest way, Si says how much he liked MES, which goes against the received wisdom expressed in just about every other summary of Smith’s character I’ve read. Wolstonecroft, the eternal optimist, is now happily settled with a partner and makes a living on the former celeb treadmill of tribute bands, reformations, and podcasts. Good luck to the lad.
The final two Fall related books I’ve read of late, are Dave Simpson’s exhaustive search to interview every former member of the band, apart from the elusive Karl Burns, The Fallen and Smith’s poorly ghostwritten autobiography, Renegade. With the latter, MES is, as John Peel said of The Fall, “always different; always the same.” His cruel and unapologetic tone reflects the kind of monomaniacal need for total control he exhibited as band leader from 1978 until his death. There are, of course, some laugh out loud interjections, such as claiming his favourite Australian singer is not Nick Cave, but Dr Karl Kennedy from Neighbours, but the book mainly consists of self-justification for terrible acts of cruelty and retribution. Smith wholeheartedly embraces the never apologise, never explain mantra, justifying every act as necessary for the greater good; the cantankerous old pisspot he was.
At least you can laugh at Renegade; the same cannot be said for The Fallen, which is a brilliant idea ham-fistedly executed. I’m really sorry for Dave Simpson that his then partner left him while he was writing the book, but it really wasn’t important enough to have the whole story of a relationship breakdown in a book about as important a band as The Fall. Simpson does succeed in tracking down almost all former members, but despite interesting revelations from the wonderful Una Baines and tetchy Martin Bramah, what all Fall fans want above all else, are the unexpurgated memories of Craig Scanlon and Karl Burns. We need them and I need to read Brix’s autobiography to understand the full picture.
I’d had my eyes on Give Us Tomorrow Now, David Snowdon’s detailed examination of the Alan Durban era at Sunderland, for some time. Detailing the period from 1981, after Ken Knighton’s dismissal to the appointment of Len Ashurst and his incredible fringe in 1984, Snowdon forensically deals with the travails of a manager who may have aspired to be Brian Clough revisited, but ended up resembling a kind of slightly less belligerent Dennis Smith. Sunderland spent 5 successive seasons in the top flight from 1980 to 1985, without ever finishing top half, struggled to attract 20,000 fans on a regular basis and were eventually undermined by the boardroom incompetence of Tom Cowie. In retrospect, as a Newcastle fan who didn’t keep both eyes on our nearest and dearest, I didn’t appreciate just what an absolute shithouse of a man Cowie was; he combined the loudmouthed, empty headed bullshit of John Hall with the seemingly deliberate attempts to alienate support and sabotage the team that Mike Ashley has a reputation for. The small-minded parsimony and abrasive manner of Cowie ensured Durban was doomed to fail, though the karmic conclusion was the club’s relegation under the hapless Ashurst, who also received his marching orders. This ushered in the era of Lawrie McMenemy; what could possibly go wrong?
Tony and Penny Miles compiled Smiles from the Summer Game, a short but engaging anthology of cricket writing from pre-WWII Punch. Sure, the jokes and stories are anachronistic to the point of incomprehensibility, but the sketches of late Victorian county games and the players involved provide a diverting and charming way to lose yourself for a couple of hours when bad light stops play.
Sean O’Callaghan’s autobiography The Informer tells of how he was a PIRA volunteer from Tralee in Kerry, a Republican stronghold during the Free State’s birth and adolescent agonies. His father had been involved during the 1957 Border Campaign, so when the whole of the Six Counties exploded into bloody civil war in the late 60s, O’Callaghan did his duty and signed up. Showing a flair for planning and organisation, he moved on from doing jobs to ensuring others did so. However, in what I found to be a surprising revelation, he quit the Ra in the mid-70s, convinced of the futility of the Armed Struggle and moved to London with his Glaswegian hippy wife, to run a contract cleaning business. Unfortunately, their marriage fell apart and he headed back home around the time of the Hunger Strikes. In a less-than-convincing plot turn, he rejoined the Provos, having established contact with Gardai top brass, for whom he acted as a tout. Alas, this is as far as it got as I left the book on the bus from Lanchester to Durham. Oh well…
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