Rock & Roll; that's where I'm coming from....
Music:
Since
we last spoke, I’ve attended 5 gigs and purchased 5 albums, so let’s talk about
the live experiences first. Back on
March 19th, I took a terribly percussive bus journey on the 10 out
towards the Tyne Valley, alighting in Ryton for TQ’s Auntie Joy 2
at Holy Cross Church. Not being a member of the Anglican Communion myself, I
was unsure what to expect, but found myself arriving in a deeply relaxed state
of mind after a bucolic walk through what appears to be a lovely community.
Holy Cross is a strikingly attractive building and an excellent space for the
kind of reflective, immersive musical experience Auntie Joy sought to create. It made me think there may be a future
yet for all these redundant draughty, stone edifices, built for a previous way
of life.
The
event began with the insistent pealing of pulsating church bells that was
compelling without being overtly intrusive. From this point, impressively
talented percussion artist Christian Alderson assumed the central role. His
whole performance was a testament to the need for events such as this, for
experiencing him in the flesh was a joy and an honour. Next up, Shunyata
Improvisation Group, reduced to a trio by COVID concerns, brought things down
to a more contemplative level, with quiet acoustic exploration, which was
maintained when Kate Halsall, virtuoso harmonium player, joined the
performance. Unlike Shunyata, Kate played scripted rather than improvised
pieces, but the pastoral element to her practice added a fragile beauty in
keeping with the ambience and surroundings. The final section saw all 3
performance elements joined by the tolling of a single, funereal bell in a
performance of aching solemnity. The conclusion completely made sense in the
context of the morning. It was a wonderful event and deserved a far higher
crowd than it drew. Certainly, I preferred it to Ryton & Crawcrook Albion 1
Bedlington Terriers 0 where I spent the afternoon.
The
next time I saw Shunyata was on Friday May 13th at Cobalt Studios in
the Ouseburn. Not only was I there to observe, but also to participate, having
asked if I could collaborate with them on a piece related to the evening’s
theme of “Escape.” Each collaborator was given 15 minutes and a wholly,
spontaneous, improvised piece with Shunyata was the target. I must admit, as a
spoken word practitioner, I did write an outline piece, though once I was
caught up in the moment, I began to deviate from the scripted page and follow
where the mood took me. Certainly I enjoyed it, as did Shunyata. I was almost
overcome with emotion when applause rang out. It reinforced my awareness that I
need to be more creative and to participate in further events like this.
In
fact, an hour later, I sat in with Shunyata and Andy Wood, the editor of TQ
magazine and promoter of Auntie Joy, playing acoustic guitar. It was so
instructive to try and find a complementary style that fits with the vibe of
the other musicians. I mainly played harmonics and paired notes, but it seemed
to fit in with Andy’s wonderful pastoral field recordings and understated
keyboard phrasings. I absolutely adored this. I must also pay tribute to the
other participants, who made this a memorable event: Richard Scott (violin),
Katie Oswell (voice artist), Tobias Sarra (guitar), Posset (sound artist) who I
knew as Joe Murray, singer with Lumpsucker et al 30 years ago, Debra Milne
(voice artist) and Charlotte Kennedy (violin) all played their part in a superb
showcase of improvised music.
So
that leaves us with 3 gigs to discuss: Teenage Fanclub at Leeds Beckett
University on April 2nd, the Band of Holy Joy at North Shields
Wheelhouse on April 15th and the Wedding Present at Newcastle Boiler
Shop on April 30th. You couldn’t really have a better month’s
entertainment than that, or perhaps we could if Lavinia Blackwall hadn’t
cancelled her show at Bobik’s on April 2nd, due to family illness.
Having
endured Farsley Celtic 1 Kettering Town 1, I met up with Ben, Lucy and Sara in
Leeds and enjoyed a couple of good pints on the way up to Beckett Student
Union. When it was The Poly, I saw Swans, Age of Chance, Misty in Roots and Big
Black there. They appear to have made it smaller and wider since the late 80s.
Despite all the worries about post Gerry Fannies not cutting the mustard, with
Big Dave laid low by COVID as well, they were sublime. I got centre stage front
row, between Norman and Raymond. A superb view and a superb 20-song show that
walked on water from the opening Home
to the closing Everything Flows. They
are still the best fucking band in the world, even without Gerry’s songs. It
was a triumph and a tear-provoking joy.
Speaking
of joy, just how exactly does Johny Brown manage to raise the bar higher on
every performance up here? With another new musician and without a drummer, the
Band of Holy Joy killed Good Friday at The
Engine Room on the Quay. A set drawn from ancient and modern releases,
performed immaculately and with a hammered audience delirious after Shields won
promotion, this was the only place to do. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house
when they blitzed Tactless and Rosemary Smith. Sam Fender will have to
play for a long time to be the equal of Johny Brown.
The
Boilershop is the best big venue in town and the Wedding Present made a decent
attempt at filling it for the Seamonsters 30th anniversary tour.
It’s my favourite Weddoes album and Dalliance,
Corduroy, Carolyn and Heather
were all stratospherically good. He’s got a good band with him at the minute,
especially James Beer-Pierce back on guitar. They second part of the set saw My Favourite Dress and Kennedy ruling the world as ever, so
despite my misgivings about much of what he does being a glorified attempt to
flesh out his pension pot, the boy Gedge done good again.As
regards the music I purchased, the first item was Where the Waters Meet,
which is David Scott’s interpretation of a cycle of poems written by Alex Reed
in memory of his recently deceased wife. It is, by necessity, a solemn set, but
the understated angularity of Scott’s guitar is a fitting tribute and a worthy
consideration of some heartfelt words. I picked this up at Auntie Joy 2 and
have no further information about the project.
One
artist who could never be called obscure is Sam Fender. I’ve never seen him
play live and probably won’t have that pleasure, but I’ve had a beer with him
on several occasions, in both the Tynemouth Lodge, which is my second home, and
Low Lights Tavern, which is his. Once I had the strange experience of him
recognising me and seeking me out for a chat, which shows you just what a
lovely lad he is. Like those other graduates of John Spence High School, Sean
and Matty Longstaff, Sam is a bloody great young man and a humble, grounded
credit to their family and to Shields as a whole.
However,
I was unable to pass any comment on Sam’s music, as I’d not heard any of it. A
decade ago, perhaps more, I had a lot of time for his older brother Liam’s
rootsy folk stuff, but his star sadly waned just as Sam hit the big time. I’d
assumed from his persona and the noise surrounding him, that he’d be on a Clash
type trajectory and then I heard Seventeen Going Under, the single I
mean. That suggested he was more likely to be looking to be a Tyneside
Springsteen than a Shields Strummer, not just because of the presence of sax
superstar Johnny Blue Joke. I saw Sam doing the song on the Christmas Top of
the Pops and seriously felt proud while watching him perform. Laura
revealed that she had ordered me the special edition of the album from Santa,
specifically because the cover was the work of one of my very favourite
artists, David Shrigley. Brilliant news, but “production difficulties” meant
the release had been “indefinitely delayed.”
Eventually,
the very smart looking disc arrived in time for Easter. To my ears, it’s a good
listen, blessed by 3 absolute belter tracks (the title cut, plus the anthemic
pair of Last to Make it Home and The Dying Light), with only one
duff number that I’ll not mention here. The real disappointment for me is that
the magnificent Howdon Aldi Death Queue only makes it onto the Deluxe
edition, which is a shame. As I say, Sam’s made a good record here and he’s
obviously a great lad, witnessed by the presence of Liam on stage at the Arena
on rhythm guitar. All you can do is wish the pair of them all the best for the
future.
I’ve
long made my peace with the appalling exploitation visited upon the average mug
punter by Record Store Day. Consequently, I bought Ben the 7” of Jimbrowski
by The Jungle Brothers as it is an essential slice of 1980s Hip Hop and Not
About to Die, Wire’s set of demos for tracks that would eventually make it
on to Chairs Missing and 154. For myself, I made the choice to
opt for a recording of Sandy Denny’s last ever gig, Gold Dust, rather
than the more expensive Early Home Recordings set. However, I can’t
promise I won’t return to Windows for that incredibly appealing set. Gold Dust is patchy, relating more to
the quality of the material, but certainly worth getting hold of. While I tend
to regard supposedly seminal Sandy solo tracks like The Lady and John
the Gun as less than essential, the lesser-known Stranger to Himself
is an absolute stand-out track that deserves equal billing with certified
classics The North Star Grassman, Who Knows Where the Time Goes and the
heartrending closer, No More Sad Refrains. While the band is a little to
schmaltzy to ever be regarded as the equal of Fairport, they compliment her
attempts at commerciality quite well. I’m glad to have bought this.
I
was elated to find a copy of Bardo Pond’s glorious sludgefest, Bufo Alvarius.
The absolute epitome of stoner post rock, this is eminently familiar Bardo Pond
territory: slow, repetitive bass riffs, economic drumming, inaudible, whiney
vocals and nerve-shredding, deafening squalls of intense psychedelic guitar and
wailing feedback, stretched over 4 sides of vinyl. In the case of one track, Amen,
weighing in at 29.15, it stretches across two sides by itself. Perhaps this is
even too indulgent for me, as the first disc is by far my favourite. Seven
superb slabs of dingy, gruelling laze rock slop. Go to Back Porch or On
a Side Street and see where I’m coming from. Stoner rock that’s too stoned
to even skin up. A veritable masterpiece.
A
contemporary masterpiece is Jill Lorean’s dazzling debut, This Rock.
Having charmed me half to death with Alex Neilson and Alasdair Roberts in the
Bonnie “Prince” Billy tribute act, Three Queens in Mourning, Jill knocked me
sideways with her stunning debut EP, Not Your First last year. This
Rock continues in the same vein as Not Your First, but benefits from
a whole 50 minutes, to produce a cogent and compelling call to arms in the
dystopian shadow of apocalyptic late era capitalism. Jill’s voice, by turns as
sweet as Maddy Prior and as raw as Maggie Bell, spins nursery nightmares and
beguiling bittersweet lullabies, accompanied by scorching shards of violin that
Warren Ellis or John Cale would be proud of. Yet at other times, we get sweet
Glaswegian indie as fresh as a Sunday stroll by the Kelvinside, though with
barbed lyrics that make you sit up and listen. An astonishing triumph and I
can’t wait to see them at The Hug & Pint on Great Western Road on May 28th.
Anyone in the environs who choses to watch the Champions League final instead
kneads their bumps felt (see what I did there, eh?).
Books:
The
first book I picked up since we last spoke was Brian Glanville’s Soccer
Round the World. Published back in 1959, it is a gazetteer of the spread
and standing of the global game, written in the wake of the 1958 World Cup. Typical
of Glanville’s work, it contains abrupt generalisations (“we need to see more
of them against higher grade opposition”), often couched in inappropriately
verbose language (“the egregious caprices of officiating martinets”), making it
both wearisome and unintentionally amusing.
Glanville’s
book was part of the pile of football books donated by my pal Kenny up in
Glasgow. Some of the stuff he’s given me is great, while others, not so much. I
particularly enjoyed Tony Cascarino’s Full Time, which I remembered
garnering much praise at the time of its publication. An honest, unflinching
tale of infidelity, financial insecurity and the wearying awareness that time’s
winged chariot has us all in its sights, it doesn’t make you particularly like
the author, but I certainly finished the thing with considerably more respect
for someone I’d always viewed as an immobile donkey in a green shirt, on his
appearances for Ireland. Still, having been part of the Gillingham side that
relegated Sunderland in 1987, he’ll always have a place in my heart.
Bob
Crampsey’s Aberdeen Final Edition was an interesting account of all the
Scottish Cup finals played by the Dons, until 1990 when the book was published.
With Crampsey, you have precise and articulate prose that lifts the book above
the drudgery of chronological match reports, perceptively interweaving it with
contemporary cultural nuggets and recollections from the players involved. In
that sense it is diametrically opposed to Andrew McArthur’s Over the Top
with the Tartan Army; a repetitious, demotic account of a series of
drinking bouts in various European capital cities as Scotland prepared to
qualify for the 1998 World Cup. That seems incidental to exhaustive retelling
of days on the gargle in airport lounges, Irish bars and market squares,
involving a load of people you learn nothing of and care less about. Dull.
Craig
White, the fraudulent, diminutive Hun who succeed in liquidating the World’s
most evil club within six months of buying Castle Greyskull, produced a
self-serving, arrogant summary of how he had nothing to do with the death of
the most loathsome example of Calvinist culture ever to disfigure the proud
Scotch nation. Suffice to say, in his tawdry little pension pot project, Into
the Bears’ Den, he finds it impossible to accept any blame for the whole
operation going under, preferring to heap the blame on David Murray and that
hero of Wearside, Martin Bain. All in all a mucky, mendacious read that
tragically ends with White avoiding a spell in Barlinnie.
Finally,
digging through a load of old boxes in the garage, I came across James M Cain’s
superb pulp potboiler, The Postman Always Rings Twice, which has twice
been made into a film. For some reason, despite its brevity (124 pages), I
didn’t get round to reading this on my MA in Twentieth Century American
Literature. I’m glad I did now. A taut, unforgiving plot; desperate and
degenerate characters combining searches for love and money in the arid
California of the depression. The inevitable tragic denouement is as
predictable as it is crushing. A thoroughly enjoyable little read.
