Friday 12 November 2021

The Exclusive Brethren

 Reading is a solitary pleasure; it's almost getting that way with gigs these days...


Music:

Having reacted to the new Alex Rex album Paradise with feelings adjacent to hysteria, I was equally agog at the prospect of catching a live performance on his latest tour, at The Cumberland natch. The shame was that Lavinia Blackwall had to postpone her tour, which would have seen her pitching up at Bobik’s two days later. Instead, we will wait patiently until April for that one

The realisation drew on me that Alex, with neither Lavinia nor Marco Rea accompanying him, was going back to basics. Just like in the old Tight Meat days with him and David Keenan, this would be a duo; Alex on drums and Rory Haye on guitar. However, I thoughtfully didn’t suggest they could possibly rename themselves Loose Vegetables when I ran into the great man, bearded and resplendent in a tweed jacket and high polo neck sweater, coming out of The Cumberland bogs. How different he looked when contrasted with the outfit of Harrington, DMs, Fred Perry and suede cut on his last visit. Despite his travails with digestive issues on his previous two visits, Alex had still eaten at Al Baik, though Rory assured me he’d stuck with vegetarian options. Loose vegetables are preferable to loose stools I suppose.

Support was provided by the immensely entertaining Spanish guitarist and singer Victor Herrero, of whom more lately; and the passionate and beguiling Yakka Doon, with a set of plaintive, self-written regional ballads.  When the main act took the stage, there was no hint that being reduced to a duo would limit Alex Rex’s power. For a start, Rory’s guitar was like the rebirth of That Fucking Tank and for another thing, the less cluttered, punishing sound gave further space to Alex’s self-immolatory lyrics.  Is he the most confessional lyricist ever? While that may be the case, he managed to find a cover, Man in the Tree by Pearls before Swine, which outdid the great man himself for misery.

One of the main effects of being a duo was the fewer than expected numbers from Paradise that got an airing; only 5, including The Great Experiment, dedicated to Faustino Asprilla and Scandalise the Birds, because I asked for it, which meant in return that I missed the last encore getting him and Victor a pint. Small beer eh? However, Alex is nothing if not creative and he debuted a minimum of 4 new songs in the set that, as ever raised the bar on his art. The bloke is a genius and quite why the turnout was so depressingly low is a mystery to me.

 


One very cheering element was Victor Herrero’s set; I’m not sure if the eccentric troubadour was playing classical guitar, Flamenco flourishes or what, but I loved what he did. Standouts included a song about a horse and a final improvised number with Alex and Rory had reminded me of a Velvets rehearsal or a NEU! demo, adorned perfectly by Alex’s anti-Motorik drumming.  Victor’s performance was so good, I invested in a copy of his 2020 album, Hermana, which means Sister, but has little in common with the Sonic Youth album of that name.  Accompanied only by his own playing, Victor has 10 beguiling tracks that vary between complex yet gentle instrumentals and insistent vocal numbers where his voice complements and challenges the fluent guitar work. A thoroughly engaging album and one I’m glad I bought.

As mentioned above, Lavinia Blackwall has postponed her tour until next April, though this has not put paid to her releasing music, as the very beautiful, self-titled Wyndow album that she made remotely with Laura J Martin has seen the light of day. Their partnership was forged by a mutual love of Robert Wyatt, which is writ large by their sensitive and soothing version of his Free Will and Testament. I first saw Laura supporting Euros Child, who had the wonderful Marco Rea and Stu Kidd as his Roogie Boogie backing band. No doubt this helped forge links between the two angelic voiced singer / songwriters who have produced a female duo folk-ish album as seminal as Silly Sisters by Maddy Prior and June Tabor. Throughout the piece their superb voices complement each other and are augmented by Laura’s subtle, but brilliant keyboard work and some superb guitar from Marco. The whole 11 tracks are of the highest quality, building a stronger and perceptible dream like atmosphere as the record progresses, which is possibly why I feel the closing two tracks When Winter Comes Shadowing In and Tidal Range are the strongest and most powerful on here. I’ve no idea if Wyndow will prove to be a samizdat lockdown project, or if there’s a niche second string to their bows, but the album will last long on regular repeat in this house.



Another of the Byres Road cognoscenti to regularly collaborate with an array of sympathetic souls is the storied Alasdair Roberts, who last played here in October 2019 as a bandleader, with a certain Alex Neilson on drums. Now he returned, after an 18 month Covid delay, as part of the Green Ribbons unaccompanied singing project, along with Debbie Armour (better known as Burd Ellen, who I shamefully missed at Bobik’s a while back) and Benjamin Webb (aka Jinnwoo and Bird in the Belly), though there was no sign or mention of the fourth member of the recorded output, Frankie Armstrong. The 62 bus never showed up, so I had to get the 63, which meant I arrived in the middle of a very brave set by Cath & Phil Tyler. Cat hasn’t been well of late, but she really put her heart and soul into a set of Northumbrian Americana; great to see you back. The 5 performers were slightly outnumbered by a simply appalling turn out of 6 punters, but even if the room was almost bare, the standard of performance was stunning. The three of them, individually and severally, were absolutely outstanding, from Alasdair’s opening Geordie to the collective closer of Sheila Stewart’s The Parting Song, by way of an Aberdonian skipping song Debbie learned from Isla St Clair, of all people. Great gig, wonderful people and a late night listening back to the CD with a couple of beers. Well worth Friday’s hangover, even if it made me hors de combat for The Blue Orchids the night after. Ah well…

 

One of the things I missed most during lockdown was popping out to a midweek gig alone on a school night, sipping on soft drinks and heading home, entertained and ready for bed, soon as the last encore finished. This was situation I found myself in when going to see the glorious Burning Hell at The Cumberland. I’d seen them twice before at The Cluny 2 and Cobalt Studios, so I knew exactly what to expect. They don’t disappoint. They never let you down. Their songs are wonderful and nourishing.  If you ever wanted to know what a cross between Yo La Tengo and King Missile would sound like, then check this lot out.  Touring as a four piece, the sound was superbly beefed up, with the emphasis more on out rock’n’roll than whimsy.  Fantastically, this was a sell-out, because Newcastle loves the Burning Hell and the Burning Hell love Newcastle.

Paul Flanagan has been my mate for 35 years now. I met him in 1986 and in 1990, he started playing live gigs and recording songs, firstly with Puppy Fat, whose baggy and indie grooves I loved, then with the slightly recondite Nancy Bone, who sometimes hit the spot with their creative Lee and Nancy style updates. At the end of the previous millennium, he called time on his musical career, save for a single Nancy Bone support slot with Penetration at The Cluny in 2013 as far as I can remember. However, just before lockdown, he told me of the existence of a new band he was playing with; Emergency Librarian. They’ve played a few gigs, but I hadn’t managed to see them until I caught the first date of their winter 2021 mini tour (Friday October 29th, Newcastle and Saturday October 30th, Salford) at the Cobalt Studios.

With a spring in my step I’d walked from home to Newcastle Cricket Club for Peter and Gillian’s 60th birthday then, after a couple of free pints, headed on down to Cobalt. Not only was I delighted to be seeing Emergency Librarian in the flesh, but also running into my old mate Knaggsy for the first time in far too long, was a highlight. Anyway, Emergency Librarian were the support act to some mixed media doo dah called Marra, which was supposedly a rumination on life in West Cumbria. I’ve no idea what the denizens of Workington and Whitehaven would have made of a performance piece that consisted of a load of straw scattered over the venue floor, and a malfunctioning PC, but it was enough to send me away down to The Lodge in an Uber.

However, Emergency Librarian were worth the price of admission. I found their combination of atmospheric drone and strident local folk to be particularly endearing. Like a cross between Fairport Convention, Godspeed You! Black Emperor and Hawkwind, they fused brief vocal parts with lengthy proggy workouts. I liked almost everything about them, save for the slightly too strident percussive parts that dominated the latter part of their set. I’d certainly go and see them again, even when the bespectacled bassist becomes a sexy sexagenarian.

Books:

Perhaps one of my most incompetent on-line purchases was my dealing with Roddy Doyle’s latest novel, Love. Published in June 2020, I immediately ordered it as a click and collect from Waterstone’s, not realising, in my attempt to save pennies, I’d bought the paperback edition that didn’t come out until this year. It was worth waiting for, but a bloody frustrating salutary lesson nevertheless. So, when learning of the imminent publication of a collection of his short stories, Life without Children, this October, I bit the bullet and bought the hardback. I must say I’m very glad I did too. This is Doyle’s third collection of short stories; first there was 2007’s The Deportees, in which all the stories were specifically written for Metro Éireann, as an attempt, not always successfully, to reach out to Ireland's immigrant population and explore their experiences. The stories were written in 800 word chapters and published monthly; as Doyle explains in the foreword:-

The stories have never been carefully planned. I send off a chapter to the Metro Eireann editor Chinedu Onyejelem, and, often, I haven't a clue what's going to happen next.  And I don't care too much, until the deadline begins to tap me on the shoulder. It's a fresh, small terror, once a month. I live a very quiet life; I love that monthly terror.

 Such circumstances made for some pretty uneven writing. In contrast, 2011’s Bullfighting, acting almost as a precursor to 2013’s The Guts, is when Doyle starts exploring middle age in a serious way, rather than simply using Jimmy Rabbitte Sr as a figure of fun and the butt of most of the jokes going around Barrytown. Bullfighting sees men turning 40, losing it at the temples, gaining it round the waist and failing to understand why. It’s a sobering collection and it paved the way for Jimmy Rabbitte Jr’s bowel cancer, Victor Forde’s examination of his abusive childhood and Joe saying goodbye to his auld fella after a day on the batter.

 In Life without Children, the Fir na hÉireann, or at least ones who live in the nice bits of da Nort Soide, are really getting on. They’d love to retire, if only the crash hadn’t knocked the bollox out of them and their money back in 2008. They’re drinking too much, or not enough. They’re at daggers drawn with the missus, or falling head over heels in love with her all over again.  This lockdown is the worst thing ever, or perhaps it’s the best. Doyle gives us ten glorious stories where your sympathy is always with the main character, whether he’s a hero or a terrible bastard. As ever, Doyle turns the ordinary into the extraordinary; the unelected voice of modern Ireland’s moral conscience focuses on the pandemic from a dozen different angles and hits the bullseye with every poison arrow and popgun floater he fires off.

 It’s a long time since I read any Graham Swift. Back in the mid-80s, my old school pal Anna Dodd gifted me a copy of Waterland, which she’d read when domiciled in East Anglia. I remember finding it thoroughly depressing from start to finish. A load of bourgeois navel gazing dressed up as philosophical import, causing clenched teeth revulsion in the same way as I respond to the thoroughly detestable Ian McEwan’s writing. Being the charitable sort, I gave Swift another go when Last Orders won the Booker Prize, finding it a much more conducive read, as I’m a sucker for character based fiction. Some 25 years after finishing Last Orders, I found myself changing trains at Carlisle station, on route to Motherwell v Ross County, which formed part of the blog http://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.com/2021/09/ian-paisley.html If you’ll remember the problems I’d had with starting Monument Maker by David Keenan, as I was intimidated by the sheer size of it, as alluded  to in another fairly recent blog, http://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.com/2021/09/unmade-bedside.html then you’ll appreciate why I’d travelled without a book to keep me company. Thankfully, Carlisle station has a British Heart Foundation charity book stall that operates on trust, with an honesty box. All books are 50p, but only one appealed to me. Amidst the Grishams and Clancys and other such detritus, I was amazed to find Swift’s debut novel The Sweet Shop Owner.

 Of course I bought it and thoroughly appreciated my charitable act as I travelled to Motherwell, then Glasgow, then Paisley and back again the next day. Published as long ago as 1980, it is an enjoyable and controlled debut, where characters and the passage of time, an obsession throughout Swift’s works, vie for equal importance. The plot, replete throughout with flashbacks and memories, describes the routine events of what turns out to be the last day in the life of Willy Chapman, the eponymous owner of a South London sweet shop, who dies of heart failure on a sunny Friday in June 1974. Central to the book is his relationship with his beautiful and yet distant late wife Irene, who bore him a daughter on the unspoken agreement that no love would be expressed between them. Interspersed with flashbacks to his earlier life, Willy attempts to justify his meek surrender of all ambition and independence, to his estranged, unforgiving daughter Dorry via an internal monologue. It is a vaguely sentimental portrait of the dying man, craving reconciliation with his headstrong daughter, who appears to have inherited all her mother’s cruel traits. Yet Willy dies fulfilled, knowing that Dorry will inherit the three bedroomed suburban semi-detached she recoiled from when leaving for the semi-bohemian attractions of University, as well as the eponymous, decaying sweet shop that stands as a modest memorial to Willy’s modest life. A damn fine read for ten bob I must say.

 Incidentally, I’ve got to page 364 of Monument Maker; only another 450 to go. It’s not bad actually…


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