The Jayne Dent Experience

 Cultural meanderings over the last couple of months...

Performances & Recordings:

Only a couple of days after I posted my last cultural blog, I took delivery of This Stupid World, the new album by Yo La Tengo. While I’ve always maintained that YLT are one of the most consistent and reliable American bands around, I have been left a little underwhelmed by some of their most recent albums. However, they’re right back on form with This Stupid World, which is a solid gold classic and an absolutely quintessential Yo La Tengo release, chock full of Ira Kaplan’s squalling guitars and murmured vocals, alongside Georgia Hubley’s still, introspective ballads in glorious effect. The band recorded the album near-live and what is striking is the contrast between Kaplan and Hubley. Even when Kaplan is wringing his guitar for noise, on the opening trio of Sinatra Drive Breakdown, Fallout and Tonight’s Episode, it sounds as though Hubley is playing with brushes, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible, not just in terms of her minimal use of fills, but volume. That is perhaps the biggest difference between YLT now and back in the day.

Mortality is a theme on this post-lockdown set. “Prepare to die,” Kaplan cautions on Until It Happens. “The pain creeps in anyhow / You feel alone / Friends are gone,” Hubley offers on the layered, electronic Miles Away. Best of all is Hubley’s Aselstine, that accurately summarises grief: “I can’t sell your books, though you asked me to,” she sings, nearly whispering. A quiet, and a loud, slice of genius that should not go unnoticed by the wider listening public.

Meanwhile, the no audience underground continues to flourish apace. Early March saw the return to life of TUSK events, with the TUSK North weekender at the Lit & Phil. Because of other commitments, I was only able to take in the Friday event and even then, I had to push off early. As it was still a bit nippy outside, the audience was predominantly, predictably jumper clad and almost uniformly hirsute. The whole shebang kicked off with David De La Haye, who isn’t a boxer even if he sounds like he should be, presenting some of his fascinating underwater soundscapes, harvested from ponds and lakes. While the organisers may as well have bolted the chairs to the floor as no-one was likely to dance, this was an utterly charming experience and redolent, to me at least, of the kind of thing you used to see on Vision On back in the day. Pat Keysell would have loved it.

The next piece just didn’t work at all, unfortunately. Networking’s The Flight of the Monarchs, which had something ostensibly to do with migration patterns of butterflies, was supposed to be live from “the most dangerous town in Mexico” via a You Tube feed, but for the vast majority of the time, the internet was down, and we had alternate visions of a frozen still image of silent musicians and immobile dancers, or a large buffering icon. Maybe next time they could try broadband rather than dial up, as the performance was almost entirely unintelligible, replaced instead by muttering, departing punters. I could see them sneaking out.

I took their lead and headed for a pint in The Split Chimp with Gary and Ant from Ashington, who are and were St James Infirmary, getting back at 7.30 for another wonderful, inspirational set from Sgerbwd, which I’ve now learned isn’t just a random set of letters that looks like a bad hand at Scrabble, but the Welsh word for skeleton. This fresh, innovative and intense experience was in contrast by the bland and uninspiring Nagruska, whose soppy synth set was like an extended homily to Robert Miles. Dull, soft and safe.  After this, we were shunted upstairs into the beautiful library for a performance by Sean Thomas and a pal as The Agarfinger Inexperience. I knew nothing about them but enjoyed their crunching waves of noise in an incredibly beautiful setting. Sadly, I had to split after this, but on the whole, it was another enjoyable night among the Society for the Abolition of Guitars. I still haven’t cracked this whole TUSK scene though; it seems to me, and I may be wrong, that the MA in Electronic Composition cohort, with associated camp followers, at Newcastle University is running the show and calling the shots. Perhaps I’m wrong.

The reason I couldn’t make it the night after was that Shelley had arranged tickets for us to see Banners at The Cluny. Until Shelley introduced me to their work, I was utterly ignorant about the project of Toronto-based Liverpudlian Michael Nelson, who it seems is something of an underground, download indie phenomenon. Occupying territory between The Killers, Keane and perhaps Talk Talk, this is probably a considerably more commercial and mainstream soundscape than I’d normally opt for, but I’ll tell you what, the bloke’s got talent and a hell of a good band behind him. The drummer in particular was a star in waiting, on a night when The Cluny was totally sold out. The thing that amazed me was the age range of the audience; alright, there were plenty of studious and spectacled young women, but a fair few white-haired muso blokes as well. This shows Banners have wide appeal, even if sourcing physical copies of their music, especially the impressive Shine a Light, is a tough ask. Maybe this is where the age gap is most pronounced; I want my sound purchases to be tangible and the youngsters prefer downloads. O Tempore! O Mores!

I’ll tell you what physical CD I’m elated to have and that’s Moorbound by my pal (Chris) Bartholomew. Released by Wormhole World in early March, this is Chris’s paean to the public spaces and parkland that fringe the north side of Newcastle city centre, where he has walked his dog since moving up here two years back. It’s great; partly solo electronic pieces and partly duets, two with saxophonist and clarinettist John Mays, two with violinist Dan Garner, this is an exceptionally warm and creative piece of work. My favourite two pieces are the ones with Mays, the sublime In Like a Lion and the beautiful Gaits. I’m delighted to report that the interest in and reception for the album have been both overwhelmingly positive. Equally superb was Chris’s scoring of the album for a live band, including Faye McCalman and John Pope, for a performance at Little Buildings on a bitter Thursday night that dissuaded many from venturing out. What an evening they missed!! This is the sort of thing you should be seeing at Café OTO, it’s that good. Chris is an immensely talented and deeply humble bloke who deserves to be recognised and rewarded for the good that he does. I’m proud to know this fella.

Another person who deserves accolades for his sterling work on the local scene is Andy Wood. Frankly, the TQ Live show he put on at the Lit & Phil on Friday 31 March was the best night out of the year so far. I mean, the January show with Culver and Sgerbwd was brilliant, but this bill, consisting of Big Road Breaker, TSR2 and Gidouille, bested it. First on were the charmingly, idiosyncratic low fi vibes of Gidouille, which is French for “silly,” but also the name of the swirl on Pere Ubu’s gut in the Alfred Jarry meisterwerk that brought the science of Pataphysics into human consciousness. Their performance was entitled “Fibonacci in Citta,” which will have something to do with maths and number sequences far beyond my ken, so we’ll not explore that avenue any further. Their name may mean “silly,” but Gidouille are far from that, the polar opposite in fact. Portentous, but not humourless, they are, as Swell Maps were once described, “serious fun.” Perhaps a solemn laugh; never dull, always hypnotic, Gidouille are definitely one for the purists. Theremin squelches and soprano sax runs so rich you’d think Lol Coxhill had been raised from the grave. I was so enthused I bought a Gidouille badge and a copy of their Zineogenesis CD that I’m looking forward to exploring in depth. Marvellous stuff.

Next on, after what I’d thought was a Whitehouse tribute band but was actually a malfunctioning fire alarm signal, were the analogue trio TSR2 and the first question I have to ask is why aren’t these fellas playing 3,000 capacity arenas, with sold out audiences raising their hands to the sky in celebration of their glorious 808 State meets Tangerine Dream synth symphonies? TSR2 are commercial without being cheesy; they are Kraftwerk on Ouse. The only TQ act you could dance to and definitely the first ones to get an encore. Probably the only ones to do actual songs as well. Their backing visuals were brilliant as well; a film of Tokyo rush hour that I initially thought was the Haymarket bus station. In mitigation, I had just been to the opticians and now know I need a far stronger prescription. TSR2 all wear specs as well, sometimes on their heads for distance, so I felt even closer to them.

Top of the bill were Big Road Breaker, performing live for the first time in 22 years.  As ever Kev Wilkinson orchestrated a punishing noise and a disturbing set of images, far in excess of that famous 1993 Riverside gig while in Drill that Lee Conlon called “The Devil’s Music.” Frightening music and frightening videos from friendly people. This is the sort of stuff your mother warned you about.

In a lot of ways, early 2023 has been a disappointing time for live gigs. Sadly Alasdair Roberts, Burd Ellen and Lavinia Blackwall all bypassed Newcastle on their recent tours, despite the latter two attempting to make contact with venues hereabouts. Sad, isn’t it? Perhaps I should set myself up as a promoter, specifically to organise shows by Glasgow-based musicians on the interface between folk, free jazz and experimental sounds. This thought became even more compelling when I went to get a ticket for Unthank Smith at the Wylam Brewery, simply because the support act was non other than the Godlike genius of Alex Rex. Not having seen THEE Drummer since September 2021, my anticipation levels were sky high, only to be dashed when I discovered it was sold out as, being turned into an all seater venue for this gig, the capacity was significantly lower than usual. Like all good blaggers and bloggers, I fired off some begging texts to THEE Drummer himself, but the signs weren’t good, as obviously this was a hometown show for both the headliners. Thankfully, just as Manchester United were being eviscerated by Eddie Howe’s PFI Mags, news came through that there was a space for me, though I had to use the highly credible pseudonym of Jayne Dent.

Despite having some happy teenage memories of dossing around Exhibition Park, I’d never actually been to the Wylam Brewery since it was the Military Vehicle Museum a lifetime ago. I’m really keen to go again as it looks to be a fantastic space. Taking a spare seat in the second row, as many of those there for the headliners were grabbing pints in the foyer, it was wonderful to see the duo again. Rory, locks shorn and looking devilishly handsome still plays that growling guitar redolent of That Fucking Tank back in the day, while the bearded and tousled Alex still has a winning line in sarky and self-deprecatory between song patter. Dedicating songs to Joe Willock and Callum Wilson, he quickly got the audience on his side.

 

The set included classics such as Every Wall is a Wailing Wall, The Great Experiment and Coward’s Song, though it was predominantly unreleased stuff, which isn’t surprising as they’ve got 2 albums in the can and are thinking about recording another. The highlight of these numbers, as ever, is Two Kinds of Song, with the kind of maudlin, bitter, self-recriminatory lyric that is a Neilson speciality. Brilliant also to see locally based jazz sax genius Faye McCalman joining them on stage for what was a superb show. Hanging out at the merch table afterwards, it was great to see Alex Rex neophytes picking up CDs, won over by a class performance. Personally, I just like any pop stars who give you a hug and compliment you on your new haircut. Goodness, I love these chaps and I love their music. In many ways, it’s a great shame I’m gigging on Saturday 8 April, as they’re playing sunderland Fire Station and I could happily go to see them again, making sure I clear off before the headliners of course. I did that this evening, wandering down through Brandling Village, past the RGS and Jesmond Metro, catching the 308 at what used to be known as The Royal Archer stop. The bus, replete with tired and happy Newcastle fans, smelled more like a brewery than Wylam had.

As well as gigs, Shelley and I have been to a couple of theatrical performances recently, of widely varying standards, it must be said. First off, we went to Northern Stage to see Theatre RE’s The Nature of Forgetting. It wasn’t a play as such, but a 70-minute piece of physical theatre, that seemed to be a narrative dance. What had attracted us to this show was the publicity which told of a sensitive exploration of the nature of dementia. The only thing was, that wasn’t what we saw. Sure, the main character was suffering from memory loss, but not because of any question of Alzheimer’s, but because of trauma. It appeared to be the case that he’d been in a car accident that killed his wife and, as a result, he blotted out things to the extent he thought his daughter, who seemed to also be his carer, was his wife. The fact the events revolved around a visit by the main character’s elderly mother and his erstwhile best friend, showed he wasn’t actually that old. Frankly, as well as being a bit confusing, it was also overlong and repetitive. Not the greatest of performances I have to say.

However, the live stream of The National Theatre’s production of Othello was absolutely phenomenal. Despite a few surprising cuts from the text, this was a compelling and emotional take on the finest examination of evil and jealousy in Shakespeare’s canon. We had a truly evil Iago and a strong, independent Emilia, acting as counterpoints to a brave but bewildered Othello and a headstrong, independent Desdemona. One really interesting choice was to cast an Irish actor as Michael Cassio, bringing out his different cultural background, as a Florentine, to the Venetians who are the other characters. While going to see a film for £20 isn’t exactly a bargain, the quality of acting and the thought behind the staging, made this a luxury worth paying for.

Books:

Anyone who knows me will tell you I’m a sucker for anything that could be considered a bargain and an assiduous charity shop crate digger and shelf scourer. Hence, when renowned north east football and local history author Paul Brown announced on Twitter that he was attempting to divest himself of many items he no longer had use for, it seemed precisely the right time for me to take a load of his excess clutter and marry it up with my own excess clutter. In the end, I bought 5 books from him. Firstly, and this is probably more of a coffee table period piece than something you’d want to read from start to finish, even though I did, was Desmond Morris’s seminal The Soccer Tribe, which sought to place the kind of theoretical framework sociologists were using the describe social phenomena in the 1970s and 1980s, over all aspects of the game. Morris examines everything from terrace chants to superstars appearing in adverts, and from the instrumental powers of those who police the game to the influential aspects of the mass media’s hold over fans as well as players. It isn’t by any stretch of the imagination a Marxist diatribe; indeed, from the benefit of 40 years hindsight, it comes across as rather a snobbish, intellectual tome that looks down its nose at the game and those who are most passionate about it. Considering Morris was a director at Oxford United (before Robert Maxwell, thankfully) and remains a devotee of the game into his 90s, one wonders just what a less sympathetic commentator may have said about football. Still, there are hundreds of gorgeous photos of Stan Bowles, Mickey Droy and a cast of badly tousled thousands snarling and expectorating on mudheaps, in front of packed scratching sheds to ogle over.

Another period piece, though one with a far more entertaining text is the storied Hugh McIlvanney’s On Football. Published in 1997, it is an anthology of the great journalist’s oeuvre from his first 35 years in the game. Ironically, his pieces on Jock Stein, Matt Busby and Bill Shankly, who comes across as the least successful and least important figure of the three, have lasted far better than his later writings on the English game, accrued from Sunday Times columns from the early years of the Premier League. When he analyses characters, rather than in his less than persuasive takes on the wider issues, he is detailed, eloquent and subtly persuasive. McIlvanney also writes well about Bob Paisley and Alex Ferguson, but perhaps best of all, is the final piece in the book; a love song to his native Kilmarnock, hoping that they see off Falkirk in the 1997 Scottish Cup final. They did as well. The bastards.

I also hoovered up three periodicals; the final two issues of Simon Kuper’s ambitious but ultimately doomed attempt to craft and curate regular anthologies of long form football writing, Perfect Pitch 3 & 4. Having bought the first two issues when they came out, I somehow missed these later editions, which contain excellent writing on an array of subjects (who would have guessed George Graham was a modern art connoisseur?). Certainly, unlike the load of pretentious, fatuous twaddle The Blizzard peddles, Perfect Pitch was an engaging read. Such a shame it didn’t find a niche in the market, unlike the fabulous Nutmeg and the equally laudable Pog Mo Goal, both of which continue to thrive.

At the time, I remember the storm created by Ian Hamilton’s Gazza Agonistes, the centrepiece of issue #45 of Granta, edited at the time by Bill Buford, the author of that gross pile of ordure masquerading as investigative journalism, Among the Thugs. Rather like Buford’s scurrilous tripe, Hamilton’s piece suffers from the kind of class-based, Oxbridge educated disdain for the lower orders so often to be found in discussions of popular culture. I mean, it’s not as bad as Jonathan Miller failing to recognise Bobby Robson when they were both being knighted on the same day at Buck House, but it has an element of petit bourgeois, faux Pecksniffian prejudice running through it. Perhaps what’s worse is that Hamilton’s narrative stops abruptly before Gascoigne’s departure from Lazio, especially as his early life is detailed extensively. In some ways, the fact the story is unfinished, is a relief for denizens of the more staunch areas of the West of Scotland and anyone with any fellow feelings for Teesside, as a freelance academic ponce could really get stuck in to Gascoigne’s later career moves, without even touching on his time at Everton or Burnley. Frankly, I enjoyed the other articles in Granta far more than Hamilton’s piece, but I’m glad I read it and even happier if I made a bit of space Paul Brown’s spare room with my purchases.

James Ellroy has always been one of my favourite American novelists and news that his latest, The Enchanters, will be out in late summer pleases me greatly. However, I was also pleased to get hold of Stephen Powell’s biography of the great man, Love me Fierce in Danger. Ellroy, perhaps unsurprisingly, isn’t one of America’s more radical writers; a dyed-in-the-wool rabid Republican, God-fearing conservative and unquestioning supporter of the Los Angeles Police Department, he nevertheless has charted every nuance of American political life, whether factual or fabulated beyond the dreams of all but the most ardent of swivel-eyed conspiracy theorists, from the early days of World War II to the fallout following Watergate. Powell, at one step removed from the elusive and famously grouchy Ellroy, charts the writer’s life, from his dysfunctional upbringing by his louche father to his mother’s murder, the key event in Ellroy’s life, through his wild early years in LA as a drug addicted golf caddy, before AA influenced sobriety gave him a work ethic and an insatiable sexual appetite that has been his personal undoing on numerous occasions. The amazing thing is Ellroy has produced a canon of impeccable writing that has been forged and crafted amidst the regular wreckage of his personal and emotional life.

Having enjoyed Powell’s work, I headed to eBay for some bargain basement picks to fill the holes in my Ellroy library. While the reportage and short fiction collection Destination: Morgue! remains on the unread pile, I’ve enjoyed leafing through LAPD 53, a west coast Weedgie style photobook of accidents, murders and suicides in the city of the Angels 70 years ago. Ellroy, a self-confessed sexual voyeur, has no qualms about showing the aftermath of erotic asphyxiation, of liquor store heists and writing a staccato commentary of the greatest cynicism to accompany it. Frankly it is far more enjoyable than the misogynistic, self-aggrandizing warts and all biography The Hilliker Curse: My Pursuit of Women, which is a disturbing and depressing read. Then again, I love Larkin’s poetry and he was an absolute cunt of a man.

Finally, I have read some fiction as well. Peter Carey’s rollicking adventure, Jack Maggs, who is Carey's version of Magwitch, the convict from Great Expectations. Carey's 1837 London, where most of the novel is set, is a brilliant Dickens pastiche, all filth and dark corners, its buildings bursting with a violent life of their own. But this is Victorian England with a difference. Things that were suppressed or unspoken in Dickens, such as homosexuality, illicit sexual passion and the abortion trade are unsentimentally exposed in this rewriting. Carey upends Dickens's story of the convict who makes a gentleman out of the orphan boy who once helped him. Carey's convict, instead, deported for burglary in 1813, has made a lucrative career for himself as a brick-maker in New South Wales. In this version Maggs gets the better of Dickens and goes back to Australia to look after his own children and to lead a happy, successful, and wealthy life.

But we'd get tired of Jack Maggs, if it was just an exercise in mimicry. More than an imitation, this is an exploration of how writing works as a form of trickery. At the heart of the novel is the battle for mastery between Maggs and Oates in a plot, as melodramatic, creaky and violent as anything in Dickens. This conflict is threaded into a spider's web of life-stories in which no one is who they seem. Everyone is caught between the desire to keep their secrets and the urge to confess. Through all the brilliant contrivance and literary panache comes a profound sadness, looking with tenderness at peculiar humans.

Last of all was the latest one by Magnus Mills; Mistaken for Sunbathers is the third in a series of novels about a post-apocalyptic England, almost uninhabited, utterly post-industrial, but really rather pleasant, as all there is to do is enjoy yourself. Most people opt to sunbathe at the seaside, so the typical, anonymous Mills narrator is rather more focussed on duty than leisure and spends a great deal of time trying to find odd jobs to occupy himself. It is a typical Mills novel. Repetitive, wooden characters lack either purpose or initiative, hold stilted unimaginative conversations, resulting in endless repetition of plot and lots of lunch breaks. Comic genius in the manner of a contemporary Samuel Beckett. Long may Mills continue in this manner.