Performance!

 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 19^th, 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 13^th 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 2^nd, the Band of Holy Joy at North Shields Wheelhouse on April 15^th and the Wedding Present at Newcastle Boiler Shop on April 30^th. 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 2^nd, 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 30^th 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 28^th. 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.