Here's is my latest exploration of recent musical & literary adventures, though I must begin by paying tribute to the passing of one of greatest ever American novelists, the utter genius that was Cormac McCarthy. We will not see his like again -:
Music:
The first gig of a very sparse early Summer schedule, should have been my attendance at TQ Live 5 at the Lit & Phil on Friday 23 June, featuring acoustic sets from Christian Alderson, Mark Carroll and Tobias Sarra, as well as an improvised set from them as a trio. However, it was pulled the day before as the venue had become unavailable. This did, however, result in me being able to take up a very generous donation from my pal Tim Dredge, who passed on his Sunday matinee ticket to see The Vaselines supported by Jon Langford, with Barkley McKay and Susie Honeyman at The Cumberland. In a salutary lesson for those who believe in good karma, I’d first met Tim about 5 years ago outside The Tanners, while he was looking for a Vaselines gig at the Star and Shadow. Obviously, this was just after the venue had moved and, being from out of town, he did not know this. I helped him find the place and he helped me out with this one, as the tickets had all been sold. You’re a very good man Tim and I salute you for your great act of kindness. I had a brilliant afternoon.
Asymmetry (Not
adhering to perfection). Saturday 14 January. Support: Thomas
Dixon
2. Non-attachment (Open
minded and detached, being without any form completes every form). Saturday
11 March. Support: Tobias Sarra.
3. Naturalness (Artless
in its natural form, without pretence). Saturday 29 April. Support: Molar
Crime.
4. Simplicity (Not
complicated or gaudy). Saturday 24 June. Support: Mobius.
5. Silence (Limitless
Silence, the inward-looking Mind). Saturday 9 September. Support:
Richard Scott
6. Wizened
Austerity (Solitary, dignified like an old tree). Saturday
11 November. Support: Paul Taylor
7. Profound
Subtlety (A hidden memory lingering deep inside, limitless
implications). Saturday 9 December. Support: Katie
Oswell.
Each
performance is named after one of the 7 principles of zen aesthetics, as codified
by the secular Buddhist thinker Stephen Batchelor, of which 4 are used as
titles for the 5 short pieces on the new Aesthetics CD, recently
released by the estimable Wormhole World imprint. The longest piece, at a shade over 30
minutes, is the opening, eponymous opus that acts as a focal point to coalesce
the thoughts and impressions yet to come. It is, without a shadow of a doubt, a
phenomenal piece of work that proves the Shunyata Improvisational Group to be
one of the most vital and vibrant voices in the contemporary experimental and
improvised music world. The telepathic understanding between the 4 members of
this current iteration of SIG is without parallel in my field of listening
experience. So unified are the 4 disparate elements that they instinctively
know where to go and what to do next. From the opening tolling of a bell (or is
it a bowl?), an aural depiction of the concept of art and beauty threads and
weaves its way through the listener’s consciousness, giving space for
unconscious thoughts of what is and isn’t an aesthetic experience to become
palpable. Of course, mood, location and atmospheric conditions are of equal
importance, meaning that every time you listen to Aesthetics, it says
something different. This is very similar to previous Shunyata releases, such
as Balances or Pivot Moments, both of which offer something fresh
and different on every listen.
As regards the 5 shorter pieces that complete the CD, their brevity in no way compromises their importance or the quality of music they contain. Rather they act as complementary pieces, where the individual members of SIG take turns to be the focal point on each subsequent pieces, though please don’t imagine there is any kind of Ummagumma style self-indulgence at play here. Guitarist Martin Donkin is described as the Shunyata Improvisation Group’s Co-Ordinator, rather than leader, which is a democratic description of his role, rather than the more egotistical (Messianic?) idea of a leader. It is also fitting, as Martin’s fluent, understated, calm guitar playing lends a kind of peaceful, meditative quality that veers away from conscious virtuosity and acts as a conduit for integrating the other members of Shunyata Improvisation Group. For instance, Mark Carroll, abandoning his cello for a moment, provides solemn, dignified and sedate piano motifs that seamlessly meld with Martin’s gentle, insistent riffing, for want of a better word, at the start of closing track “Solitary, Dignified” reminds me of a combination of “A Forest” by The Cure and the instrumental soundtrack of Withnail & I, when Paul McGann takes a solitary walk in the Cumbrian countryside, in possibly the only understated section of that wonderful, riotous comedy.
Elsewhere, “Non-attachment” features insistent violin patterns by John Garner that produces possibly the only section of urgency across the whole piece. Perhaps most fascinating, indeed beguiling, of all is NofC setting aside his array of percussive devices to affect sonorous scat singing that could almost be a kind of plainsong speaking in tongues on “Wizened Austerity,” which ends with a rich, warm belly laugh. It is a deeply intriguing piece set amongst one of the most interesting and compelling suites of music you will hear in this or any other year.
With Aesthetics, the Shunyata Improvisation Group have not only released a concept album, or even made a series of conceptual performances, but have actually embraced the idea of aesthetically living a concept year, though that oft-maligned term should not be seen in a pejorative way, as I do not mean to use it in a way redolent of Rick Wakeman or any other discredited 70s pomp rock behemoth. This is a release to spark internal dialogue; it provokes debate and demands discussion in the mind of the listener. It is an extraordinarily fine album that will be listened to long into the future, which must be a sign of true genius for a series of pieces recorded live, spontaneously and entirely in the moment. I simply can’t recommend it enough.
Meanwhile, 180 degrees distant from the Shunyata experience, I got hold of Deaf German’s Mute Whore EP, also from Wormhole World. It’s the musical, and I use that term very loosely, equivalent of putting a dentist’s drill in your left ear and a Black & Decker power tool in your right. Lasting 100 seconds in total, it contains 14 extremely short, powerful and punishing doses of aural scree. Like a cross between dial-up modem squeals and explosions of random static, it is probably the most unpleasant sound experience I’ve had since I first saw Whitehouse back in 84. However, unlike the po-faced power electronics tribe, Deaf German are funny, to the point of making you laugh out loud at the sheer abrasiveness of their noise. I love this record and the Swansea outfit’s previous release Tyres, which is sadly only available on download at the moment, though Wormhole World may change that situation in future.
As well as being purveyors of the finest experimental music in accessible, tangible form, Wormhole World are also incredibly good value for money. Having spent a tenner on the Deaf German and Shunyata Improvisation Group releases, I was delighted to discover my package continued a gift; Reality is Not Enough by Brume, which is the cacophonous solo project of French multi-instrumentalist and studio wizard, Christian Renou. A dozen sections of found and purloined spoken sounds are slathered in metallic clatter, grunge guitars and exploited toys to great effect. I thoroughly enjoyed this slice of l'underground musical sans public, especially at such a bargain price.
In contrast, I threw £25 down the drain on this year’s Record Store Day purchase. I was bitterly disappointed not to source either this year’s Bardo Pond release or a Virgin Prunes compilation of archive stuff, so I put my hand in my pocket for Polar Regions by Jowe Head’s Swell Maps C21, which was culled from two sold out shows at Café Oto back in December 2021. Tickets were gone even before I knew of this mini residency, which I could have screamed with frustration at missing out on. However, and this bitterly disappoints me to say it, this does nothing to add to the legacy of the Swell Maps. Having read Head’s book about Swell Maps last year, which revealed Nicki Sudden to just about the biggest dickhead to walk this planet, I was excited to hear this project reinterpret some classics from back in the day. Unfortunately, other than the instrumental pieces (Don’t Throw Ashtrays at Me, A Raincoat’s Room, both of which feature Lucie Rejchtova deputising for the sadly departed Epic Soundtracks, and a storming Big Empty Field), the record sucks. Sub-karaoke stagger-throughs of HS Art, Read About Seymour and particularly Let’s Build A Car, are little other than self-indulgent stabs at reflected glory. I’m turning more against the concept of Record Store Day with each passing year and overpriced piffle like this is unlikely to win me round.
This is not to say nostalgia doesn’t have its place. The best location for it was The Lubber Fiend on Saturday 27 May when, fresh from a good scudding by 75 runs by Anfield Plain (despite my fluent 1*), I took in the mighty UT, at a gig promoted by Kev Wilkinson of Big Road Breaker et al. Never having seen UT before, it was another joyous tick on the No Wave Bingo Card of life and they were truly tremendous; tense, intense, fraught and frightening by turns. This was angry, angular wailing of the finest vintage, with the added bonus of Tim Hodgkinson on saxophone on a couple of numbers. Also, it was fabulous to see old pals like Has Gaylani that I’d not seen in years. Such a shame I didn’t buy any musical produce that night, rather than the Swell Maps piffle.
I have been trying to avoid funding David Gedge’s retirement over the past few years, yet I still find myself a sucker for just about any Wedding Present merchandise that has escaped me. Hence, finding their Scopitones website had copies of various 1992 Hit Parade releases was me like a moth to a furnace. As a result I’ve now got copies of July’s Flying Saucer, backed with a great version of Mud’s Rocket and December’s passable No Christmas, with some Elton John cover on the b-aide that I’ve not listened to yet. That’s 10 out of 12 secured now anyway. As a matter of fact, I didn’t buy any of the 2022 Hit Parade redux singles, as they were £15 a pop, plus £20 for a decorative box to store them in. Wise old ian waited for the double CD that came out this year to get the whole load together. Gedge has entirely reordered the songs and it comes across, certainly on the first CD, as a bloody strong album, courtesy mainly of Sleeper acting as the backing band. Opener I Am Not Going To Fall In Love with You is an absolute belter, followed up by Memento Mori, which is in the Weddoes top 20 songs ever. There’s only a couple of covers; A Song From Under The Floorboards and White Riot, which reflect the quality of the originals in terms of these interpretations. My goodness Magazine were a fine, fine band. In total we have 29 songs across 2 CDs and, undeniably, the first disc is stronger than the second, but it certainly shows Gedge’s songwriting skills, providing he’s egged on by a strong enough backing band, remain undimmed. I’m delighted I got hold of this.
Books:
All the Songs Sound the Same is a 350-page series of short essays by Wedding Present devotees talking about their favourite song. In some cases, Cinerama even get a mention. It is, obviously, repetitive, with My Favourite Dress and Kennedy getting the nod from 75% of punters, but that’s not a bad thing as many people have interesting stories to tell. Shame that my take on Boo Boo is such a pile of sub lit crit, pretentious wank, but never mind…
There aren’t a huge number of books for me to write about as, for no readily apparent reason, I took May off and didn’t read a line the whole month. Perhaps I needed the space after joyfully absorbing the late John Arlott’s stupendous memoir, written somewhat bizarrely in the third person as if it were a biography, Basingstoke Boy. Rather than just a chronicle of cricketing anecdotes, it tells of his entire life and career, from mental hospital orderly, to police constable, to jobbing, itinerant BBC producer of literary readings and eventually to a not altogether contended retirement on Alderney. As well as joy at the good things that happen, his enduring despair at the death of his eldest son Jim in a car accident and guilt at the failure of his first marriage are addressed fully. It is a wonderful read and I felt more than a tang of sympathy when both his favourite football sides, Southampton and Reading, suffered relegation at the end of last season.
One bloke I never feel sympathy for if his team gets humped is notorious Jambo Ian Rankin, though I do love his writing style. His late era Rebus procedural, Saints of the Shadow Bible, featuring the reopening of investigations into some nefarious dealings by loose cannon cops back when Rebus had just joined CID is brilliantly paced, flawlessly plotted and suffused with laconic dialogue. I always enjoy my trips to Rankin’s imagination and this one is no different. The same could normally be said of James Ellroy’s world, but the anthology Destination Morgue! which features both long form journalistic pieces that were originally found in Esquire as well as 3 terrible novellas about an LA Detective and his preposterous revenge killing adventures with a fading Hollywood glamour girl, are simply too vile for my tastes. Ellroy makes no secret of his redneck Republicanism, but this is him dialling up the bigotry to 11. He’s done that before, such as in The Cold Six Thousand especially, but at least then the weasel words are spoken by the bad guys, not the protagonist. Having trawled through this, I’ve now read all of Ellroy’s published works, which is an achievement, probably on a par with getting through the entire Bukowski oeuvre. Like Hank, the Devil Dog’s work is of a variable quality, but at least I’m prepared for the publication of The Enchanters, voiced again by the notorious Freddie Otash, in September.
Elsewhere in the literary sewer of the United States, I read Short Eyes by the Nuyorican dramatist Miguel Pinero. Set in a New York House of correction in the early 70s, it tells the tale of the incarceration and murder of a suspected white child abuser, who is caged on remand on a racially tense wing, where Hispanics and Blacks rule the roost, and the white prisoners and guards need to remain vigilant. Within this melting pot, internecine warfare between gay and straight Puerto Ricans and Mexicans, Panther devotees and drug dealing libertines from the various 5 Boroughs, as well as the fighting Irish in both prison and police uniforms, is frequently ready to boil over. A white “short eyes” is the lowest of the low, according to the jail’s moral code and his murder, despite questions over his innocence or guilt, is seen as inevitable. Post mortem, no tears are cried in this harsh environment. I’d love to see how the 1974 film dealt with the harsh brutality of the world this tense two act play depicts.
Harry
Pearson’s
world is never harsh or brutal; it is always charming, thought-provoking and
mildly eccentric. I am honoured to have called Harry a friend for almost 30
years now and to have read every single thing he published. The other week he
came to see me play for Tynemouth 3s at Hexham, much to the delight of our
skipper Richy and opening bowler Ed who are both devotees of Harry’s work,
especially Slipless in Settle for some reason. We lost by 8 wickets, but
at least I hit a straight driven boundary that Harry likened to Victor Trumper
in his prime, and he gave me a copy of his latest book, No Pies, No Priest,
which is an absolutely fascinating slow meander through arcane world of
minority regional sports. From quoits in Northumberland to stoolball in Sussex
to road bowling in County Armagh, we take a bucolic ramble through the obscure
and fascinating world of folk sports with our latter day, clean shaven and
slightly diffident Jack Hargreaves redux. Like any good afternoon spent in
Harry’s company, whether that be at cricket football or in the pub, things are
over far too soon, which is the mark of how fine a writer he is. If you want to
relax and enjoy rural pastimes vicariously or as an accompaniment to a picnic
tea at a second XI club game, grab a copy of No Pies, No Priest (the
chapter from whence the title comes is an absolute cracker), because you won’t
regret it.
