My Dark Places

I faced some internal demons last week, by paying a visit to Felling, where I was dragged up -:

About a fortnight ago, I heard second hand that a couple of people I’d known earlier in my life had died. One of them, Maureen Humbert (84), was a vague relation I’d never, ever got on with. The other death was of Sandy Chadwin (59); a bloke I’d been at University with but had subsequently lost touch with over the years. Somewhat bizarrely, one of the reasons Sandy cut off contact with me,  was because of my unequivocally negative attitude towards Felling; that scenic fishing village on the south bank of the Tyne where I puked my puke of a childhood until I escaped in 1983. Sandy, who was born and brought up in one of the biggest houses in Jesmond, seemed to subscribe to my ex-sister’s  overly sentimental staged attitude to the place. Then again, he didn’t have to live there and didn’t hang about with anyone who did.

Let’s be honest about things. I am, by nature and by experience, a miserable wreck of a human being. I’m not breaking any confidences or covering any new ground when I state that I have hated huge portions of my life; certainly, I have no happy memories of my childhood until the age of 14. Everything about my formative years was a misery; I was relentlessly physically and sexually abused by my parents. I lived in constant fear of violence being inflicted on me, which lasted until I was almost 22, as the last time my father beat me up was the day of my graduation. What a great memory to leave people I studied with who’ve never seen me since. I had such a toxic relationship and negative attitude to my mother that from the moment I went to University, I pretended that my real mother had died when I was very young and the swaggering, evil psychopath my father married was my stepmother. Indeed, as I only got on with her for about 3 years of her widowhood, after my ex-sister cut off all contact with her, until the onset of vascular dementia returned her behavioural patterns to the true nasty, evil psychopath that she was, I feel I was right to do that. Nobody ever wants to admit their mother used to abuse and belittle you. Then again, I do now. I embrace the fact I survived her attacks.

I no longer consider the question as to whether I am mentally ill or indeed what conditions I suffer from, as relevant to explaining my personality. I am just me; ian cusack. I am a product, as we all are, of my experiences, though almost all of mine are thoroughly unpleasant ones. In considering how I turned out to be the person I am, I see growing up in Felling, home of some of the most violent heterosexual men you could ever want to meet, as one of the major problems in my life. Getting over my childhood and adolescence is one obstacle that has resolutely remained unsurmountable. I hated Felling and still find it almost impossible to talk about the whole NE10 post code cogently and calmly, as it is a terrible trigger for my anxiety and depression. Flashbacks, both visual and auditory, make me want to be physically sick.  

I did move back there between 1988 and 1991, buying my first flat on Woodlands Terrace, only moving when my first wife Sara (mother of my son Ben) and I bought a lovely house in Spital Tongues, but that brief return is not something I am happy to admit. I regret it bitterly. However, the deaths of Maureen Humbert and Sandy Chadwin have caused me to take time and reflect on my life, my mortality and my legacy to-be. Having gone back to The North of Ireland in August to rediscover where I lived as a student, I knew I had to take a trip back to Felling and try to make sense, or contextualise, the source of all my sad dreaming. 

You see, when trying to make peace on our own terms with the dead, it isn’t just a case of regretting we weren’t able to call a truce before their passing. Sometimes it is the exact opposite of that; Friday 27^th October 2023, the day of my trip, would have been my mother’s 86^th birthday and if I’d gone to visit the grave she shares with my father in Blaydon Cemetery, I would have lain flowers for him and spat on her name, as that what she means to me. My main regret is that I didn’t tell her what an evil, malign influence she was on me and how I’m delighted she’s dead. I only wished it had happened much sooner so my dad could have enjoyed his last years, rather than waiting on her hand and foot, being given zero thanks in return. I’ve never mourned her passing and I never will.

I’m 60 next birthday and, at times, I worry that I’m not going to make it. I don’t think there is anything specifically wrong with me, but I have a bizarre sense that something foreign, something malign is growing within me. It may be anxiety, or it may be something more sinister, though every test I’ve had, for a boatload of possible cancers, has come back clean. I don’t want to die yet, as I’ve never been as happy in many aspects of my life than I am now, though these deaths have shaken me. Made me question my existence and my purpose. The simple fact is one never knows what is around the corner. This is part of the reason why I took myself off to hospital. The bus stop next to the Queen Elizabeth Hospital. Having stood in Eldon Square Bus Station for an aeon on Friday morning, the first bus that arrived was for Wrekenton, rather than Winlaton, which decided things for me. I wasn’t going to Blaydon to visit the dead. I was going to Felling to fight them.

And so it was, I took the 57 to The Traveller’s Rest; a pub I’d only ever been in once, back in 1981. It’s still open, unlike the formerly neighbouring White Swan, which has been demolished and rebuilt as flats. There was a logic to me approaching Felling from the South; the place is built on a huge hill that is probably the Tyne’s floodplain, so walking down Windy Nook Bank is considerably less effort than coming up. The fact was, I wasn’t strictly in the historical territory of Felling, which used to be denoted by the Felling Urban District Council sign that stood opposite the entrance to the QE, and its adjoining training establishment (whose sign claimed it was the Gateshe Re Schoo o Sing) until April 1^st, 1974, when the town was absorbed into Gateshead. Strangely though, as kids we didn’t consider our concept of Felling as being the full geographical town, as we narrowed our parameters to the ward boundaries and school catchment areas. Hence, Windy Nook corner, or the adjoining top Bay Horse (still trading) when we got a bit older, was the end of the known world. It still seemed that way as The Black House (RIP and now a Tesco Express) at the junction of Coldwell Lane and Carr Hill Road with Windy Nook Road and Albion Street, still stood as the gateway to our known world. From there you could trace the back lane along to Robert Owen Gardens, Oxberry Gardens, Greenbourne Gardens, all accessible from the magnificently named Co-Operative Crescent, where the late fruiterer Steven Foster owned his bungalow. I used to collect pools coupons as my first ever job and his 8 from 10s were one of my regular collections. He died of a brain aneurysm in 1978, aged 59. The same age as I am now. His widow must be dead now, but their bungalow looks untouched.

Next we came to Nursery Lane, with Ruskin Road and Iona Road the southern and western boundaries of my childhood world. Arran Gardens is reasonably new; built on what used to be the allotments in between Carr Hill and Felling. Nursery Lane was the epicentre of my world until about the age of 11. I lived there, played there and just about went to school there at Falla Park Infants and Juniors. The only extension to my world before the 1974 World Cup was to Heatherwell Green, where my grandmother lived for the last 50 years of her life, where we played football from dawn to dusk for 9 months of the year and cricket for the other 3, or to dice with death amidst the building works involved in the subsequently long-demolished Poulsen-designed Balmoral Drive tower blocks and maisonette slums. They were pulled down in 1987. Barely a decade and a half they stood.

Heatherwell Green’s proud sporting pitch is now decimated by the need to provide parking spaces for residents. When my grandfather was alive (he died in 1967), he was the first person to park a vehicle overnight on that street. Having learned to drive in the Army during WW2, he secured a job back on Civvy Street delivering bread for Carricks’, with a large lorry to dispense the large loaves from. Scaffolding currently covers their house at number 2, but the houses look as sound and steadfast as ever, which isn’t bad considering they’ve been there almost 90 years. Hopper Road. Brettanby Road. Victoria Road. Falla Park Crescent, still bounding the school and leading on to the trio of damp, sandstone Tyneside terraces that predate the brick built council houses by at least a quarter of a century. Clarke Terrace. Woodlands Terrace, where someone emerges from a van with ladders on the top and knocks on the door of 21. He gets an answer and I put my phone away. No photo today. Hewitson Terrace, where Carole Connor’s house still displays her ballroom dancing obsession with tango and cha cha cha themed curtains and ornaments.

The rain has held off so far, but just as I brace Coldwell Park, where I endured years of parental torment, the rain starts to fall without respite. A biblical downpour. My pen fails. My notebook turns to mush. My fiery anger is unwillingly quenched and, with no choice but to head on at double pace, I turn back on myself to visit Rectory Road, Chilside Road, Belgrave Terrace, Werhale Green, Elldene Crescent, Monksfeld, Watermill Lane, The Drive, Crowhall Lane and back down to Felling Square. The Greyhound and The Jubilee are gone, but The Blue Bell and The Portland cling on. A junkie tries the door handle of an incongruous BMW, muttering as the security system foils him.  The Princess of Felling probably doesn’t realise the Library on Tarlton Crescent is now houses, with Godfrey Thompson Court and Felling Club soon to be demolished for more new developments.

The rain got heavier, and my task lost its purpose. My feet ached. I was soaked from head to toes. I could no longer take notes. My wish to cover the High Street and the section from the Park to Heworth Metro would have to wait for a better day. Not for the first time, Felling had defeated me. I left, not with feelings of anger, but of dejection and despair. Yet again, nobody listened to me and so, before I die, before whatever the malaise within me overtakes my senses, I will be forced to return.

Wide Boys

 On Saturday 21st October, I went to see Wallsend Boys Club Under 23s v Wideopen, and thoroughly enjoyed myself...

The news that Percy Main’s game at home to Chemfica Amateurs, along with every other Northern Alliance fixture that was to be played on grass, had been postponed on account of Storm Babet’s excessive watering of the pitch, was not in any way unexpected. It was still very disappointing, as it was supposed to be the debut programme with me as editor. In order to keep myself sane, I knew I needed a live football fix and not just some firestick fun. Hence, I scanned the surviving fixtures, of which there were 2 in the George Dobbins League Cup (Newcastle City v Whickham Under 23s and Wallsend Boys’ Club Under 23s v Wideopen) and 5 in the Bill Gardner Cup (Gosforth Bohemians Reserves v Blyth Rangers, Heddon v AFC Newbiggin, Hexham v Walker Central, Newcastle Independent v Benton and North Shields Athletic Reserves v Great Park). Interestingly, there was also a potentially fascinating encounter that spanned the political divide in Conference North where Blyth Spartans, a team from the Tory heartlands, were hosting the sporting scion of the Socialist Republic of Tamworth, but it was £15 to get in, so I quickly abandoned any thoughts of that one. Just as well, as it was apparently a rotten game that Tamworth won deep in injury time.

Of the 7 fixtures available to me, I immediately dismissed any thoughts of Gosforth Bohs (2-2 and 4-3 after penalties), even if they were playing at Kenton School, where I’ve never been, Heddon (0-11), Hexham (1-5) and Newcastle City (4-0), because of the length of journey required and Newcastle Independent (4-0), as I’ve been to Coach Lane on innumerable occasions. This left a straight choice between North Shields Athletic and Wallsend Boys’ Club, which I allowed Go North East buses, fresh from their latest week’s holiday, to decide. Stood by the Shiremoor Farm, I decided that the first 307 to arrive would seal my fate; up the hill and I was off to the Boyza, while down the hill would send me to Shields. Within a few minutes, I spotted a bus lumbering up from the Coast Road, passing Formica and the industrial estate where the sorting office is; Wallsend here I come.

I was pleased with this flip of fortune’s coin for a couple of reasons. Firstly, and most relevantly, I’d seen WBCU23s a couple of times, most recently when they won away at Walkergate, and I liked the way they played football. Secondly, and more nostalgically, I’d not been to the Rheydt Avenue site since I retired from playing Over 40s at the end of the 2016/2017 season. I’d played for the same team from the start of the 2005/2006 season, when we finished 9^th in Division 4 and quit when we won the Division 1 title, just before I turned 53. Initially, we were The Board Inn, from Herrington by the A19, but that was simply because we’d taken over their former team’s registration. We were subsequently known as Heaton Winstons, then Wallsend Winstons and, finally, Wallsend Boys’ Club. I found it more than amusing that someone of my modest to negligible abilities was able to call myself a playing member of the famous WBC. It had to be true; we were all given training gear and strips to prove the fact. I’ve still got my polo shirt and training top. Of course, being honest, I was basically the reserve keeper for my last 3 seasons, getting rustier and older by the week, given the odd game when the first-choice lad wasn’t available, or brought on in the last few minutes with the points already secure. The very idea of me donning the gloves in the Premier Division of the North East Over 40s, up against blokes who’d played as professionals or won the FA Vase as non-league players, was laughable. Farting about on the website, I did notice one intriguing thing though; the team I played for are now called North East Sporting Club, so I presume there has been a falling-out along the way. I’ve no idea why though and, as I don’t recognise any of the named players on the registration list, it’ll remain a mystery, I guess.

Anyway, alighting from the 307 at Devonshire Gardens, I realised I’d misjudged the distance I needed to walk, to the extent that by the time I arrived, it felt like I’d managed to get my 10k steps in and still made kick off. The new 4G facility is very impressive, as it boasts both a perfect playing surface and a proper stand, providing cover from the elements and, crucially on this sunny afternoon, shade from a glaring sun that beat down relentlessly, blinding those on the far side and making a liar of the meteorologists who’d claimed incessant rain would be our lot until late Saturday night.  The game, like the weather and the surroundings, was pretty good as well. I’ve not seen Wideopen in years, though I have noticed they’ve progressed up a couple of divisions in recent seasons, and they looked a decent, experienced outfit.

The home side, playing as ever to a system that emphasised pushing up and short passing, took the lead with a decent strike into the top corner, but this was rather against the pattern of play in the first half. Wideopen’s experienced strikers showed a fine sense of movement and dragged the Wallsend defenders around the place, though the quickfire double that gave the visitors a half-time lead, came more from inspired clinical finishes than any style of play. The equaliser saw the balled curled home from the edge of the box, though there may have been a final touch that deceived the home keeper, while the second saw a moment of calm after a frenetic scramble, as a well-placed effort was rolled into the corner.

I’d spent the first half squinting into the sun, so moved round to the stand, with an attendant 15 degree drop in temperature, to sit among some rather partisan home fans, who appeared to be the dads and uncles of the lads representing the Boyza. For almost the entire half, they were frustrated and disappointed as the Wideopen keeper held everything they threw at him and the ones he didn’t catch went harmlessly wide. Frankly, WBC could have scored at least 3 on the balance of play, but Wideopen showed how it should be done with a fast break and simple tap-in. It wasn’t as good as Callum Wilson’s goal at SJP that put the cherry on the 4-0 thrashing of Crystal Palace, but it deserved a warm round of applause as it made the final score 3-1 to the visitors, who progress to round 3 of the George Dobbins League Cup. Best of luck to both teams. I hope to see you again in the future.

  

 

 

Football Travels

I'm delighted to say I've just accepted the role as programme editor for Percy Main Amateurs. The first issue is this Saturday (October 21st) at home to Chemfica Amateurs in the Bill Gardner Cup. Here's my article from the programme, explaining why I've not seen The Villagers that often of late...

As Norman mentioned earlier on in this issue, the home game against Hebburn Town Reserves was actually an away game, meaning our last proper home fixture was the 2-0 win over Burradon & New Fordley on September 2^nd. Indeed, from a personal perspective, that was the last time I got to see the Main in action, for a variety of reasons, which I’ll attempt to explain as follows…

September 9^th: Tynemouth 3s (235/7) beat Lintz 2s (170/8) by 65 runs.

Perhaps not the most high-profile of fixtures, but an important one, as this victory kept Tynemouth 3s safe from relegation, meaning we’ll again be plying our trade at the exalted level of Northumberland and Tyneside Cricket League Division 5 (South) again in 2024. For this particular fixture my telling contribution involved not being required to bat and not taking a wicket in either of the overs I bowled. Just call me Liam Livingstone II.

September 16^th: Whitley Bay 3 Newcastle Benfield 1

One of those instances when the difference in rainfall between the north and south banks of the Tyne can be strangely significant. A few years ago, this would have been one of the top fixtures in the local non-league calendar and, to be fair, both teams are still reasonably big names, but the standard of Northern League Division 1 is dropping alarmingly, as a result of so many teams being promoted to the Northern Premier League East. Whitley, still managed by Nicky Gray, are up in the top part of the table, but don’t appear to have the strength in depth to remain there, never mind push on. Meanwhile, Benfield are now managed by Paul Brayson (who named himself on the bench on his 46^th birthday), but other than the eternally excellent Andrew Grainger and the returning Lewis Scorgie, are a side too young for this level, though it was good to see ex-Villager Jay Errington getting his game up top. Should have scored too!

 

September 23^rd: Walkergate 1 Wallsend Boys’ Club Under 23s 2

As we always going to be without a game on this day, I had decided to continue the football equivalent of painting the Forth Bridge, by making steps towards recompleting the Northern Alliance. Having been thwarted at the end of August when the ref failed to show up, I got to see a decent contest on a difficult surface, with heaps of cut grass over ankle deep in places, that saw the one-touch football of the Boyza youths, who we saw lose unluckily to Morpeth A in the Neville Cowey Cup final back in May at Purvis Park, hold of the more robust and direct style of the home team. This ground is on the Fossway, across from the former pub of the same name and the residence of a famous East Ender, John Henry Sayers. You’d want to be careful about putting the ball over his fence, eh?

Saturday 30^th September: West Allotment Celtic 4 West Auckland Town 0

Having cried off from attending both the previous evening’s 1-0 loss up at Alnwick town and Newcastle v Burnley, on account of the bus strike, I took my bike up the A191 to East Palmersville Sports Pavilion. While this is a brilliant facility for Forest Hall (Celtic!) in the division below us of The Alliance, I have my reservations as to whether a very handy Northern League side, with more than an outside chance of promotion, should really be playing at a ground where you can wach the game for nothing from the road beside the ground. Although I have to say, the current WAC are well worth paying your £6 to see, especially their French schemer, Cyril Giroud, once of Benfield, who took a lumbering West Auckland defence to pieces on his own, setting up all four goals. A decent afternoon out, which unfortunately ended in a teeming downpour that made the 4 mile return bike ride seem considerably longer.

Saturday 7^th October: York City 2 Bromley 2

Shelley’s daughter Chloe is a student at York University. Having spent her first year in the safety of the halls of residence, she is now attempting to recreate the set of Withnail and I with 5 pals in a house share. Clearly Mother wanted to check on how the first born is coping, so I organised cheap train tickets on a Saturday that just happened to coincide with a home game for the Minstermen. Strange that, eh? Well, Chloe’s chap Max is a York fan (and former academy keeper no less), so it was a good opportunity to get acquainted. Their old ground Bootham Crescent was a lovely old spot, in walking distance of the Minster, but the LNER Stadium is a new build on a retail park, past Heworth (no; not that one!). I tell you what though, it’s a great ground; superb legroom, great sightlines and a passionate 4,500 crowd who were dancing in their seats, until Bromley’s 94^th minute equaliser silenced the place. I’d definitely come here again.

Geordie Internationalists

Newcastle United's last few weeks summarised.....

Things seem to be happening way too fast to properly reflect on their impact and importance, regarding Newcastle United these days. Perhaps that’s why, for probably the first time ever, that an international break is seen by the club as a whole, both fanbase and especially players, as a good thing, not because we want to see some of our players strut their stuff on a world stage, though it does baffle me how Sean hasn’t had a call up from Southgate, but to provide an opportunity to rest weary bones and recuperate from the injuries and niggles that have limited Eddy’s options with the squad of late. Certainly, the narrative of NUFC as indefatigable battlers until the final whistle was challenged by West Ham’s (admittedly deserved) late equaliser against a Newcastle side that were out on their feet in the final game before the temporary cessation of hostilities.

Anyway, our stories began at the onset of the last international break in early September. On the back of three successive league defeats, including the wasteful defeat at home to Liverpool and the shameful shellacking on the South Coast at Brighton, there was a scarcely believable media whispering campaign, no doubt led by Craig Hope, suggesting that Howe’s job was under scrutiny. Preposterous I know, but in an era when papers don’t sell, it’s only wilful and wanton nonsense like this that gets the mouse clicks that drive the advertising income that keeps clowns like Hope in a job.

Of far more interest and importance to true followers of Newcastle United, were the two Saudi Arabia friendlies held at SJP, which attracted crowds of about 5k for their pair of defeats to Costa Rica and South Korea, despite tickets only costing a fiver. I’ll get you the data on numbers of “away” fans travelling when I have it. Personally, I was unable to be at either game as my beloved Shelley was taken seriously ill on the Sunday night / Monday morning of the international break, necessitating a stay at the Freeman Cardiology Unit. She’s on the mend now, but it wasn’t a nice experience for anyone involved. Neither was the experience of heading to the turnstiles for ordinary Newcastle fans attending the first Saudi friendly against Costa Rica, which they lost 3-1, on Friday 8^th September, mainly on account of the conduct of Denver Humbert and his Hypocrite Heptarchy. These Islamophobic Idiots were farcically demonstrating against Newcastle being owned by Saudi Arabia. Now, Denver is entitled to his mad, bigoted and discredited opinions, though the language used by @NoSaudiToon veers incredibly close to hate speech, but the stakes have been raised against the crazed vanguardist now that it is public knowledge, he was a handsomely remunerated employee of the House of Saud between 2002 and 2004. His response to on-line questioning about his background and motives, is to block anyone who brings the point up. Not only that, but his LinkedIn CV has also been doctored of late. As I say, the Monksfeld Meathead was discredited already, but things could be about to get a whole lot worse for him, especially if certain people go public with all the gen they have on him.

Equally unhinged, though in a different way, is narcissistic Mackem, on-line self-publicist Michael “Captain Fishpaste” Graham who, in the build up to the Brentford game, sought to suggest that the reason Paolo Di Canio got his P45 on Wearside wasn’t the team’s terrible performances on the pitch, but that the Brexit and Loyalism loving lads from Joker Avenue, actually drove the fascist fuckwit out of the place. Serious, he actually said that. As we all know, such a statement is complete bollocks, though to their credit, plenty of their own fans told him so, in no uncertain terms. Graham, Hope and Humbert were all crying bitter tears of recrimination when Newcastle eased past Brentford, even if was only 1-0. The headline of “Newcastle ease pressure on under fire Howe” was a monument to the kind of lies more associated with the Third Reich than the Fourth Estate. As regards the game, despite Brentford starting well, they simply ran out of steam as Newcastle grew stronger the longer things went on. Flekken in the Brentford goal is the football equivalent of a social hand grenade, liable to explode at any second. He conceded the penalty, should have given away another and was given the benefit of the doubt by a ludicrous call to disallow another Wilson tap-in. Mind if Flekken is bad, Thomas Frank is ten times worse. I used to think he was an endearing eccentric, but the longer Brentford stay up, the more he turns into a Klopp whingealike, displaying paranoid tendencies and the inability to either tell the truth or let a grudge go. Sounds like Denver, huh? Well, if the cap fits…

And so, to The Champions’ League and Milan away. From a personal perspective, I don’t have that great an interest in European football, as I don’t feel any particular emotional attachment or indeed antipathy towards any particular competition or set of opponents. My take on Newcastle’s involvement is this: while it would be quite nice to do well, then any progress may come at the cost of progress in our domestic league. That said, finishing top 2 in the group and progressing to the second stage would be an enormous source of revenue for the club. Then again, if we can’t get top 2, we’d be better off finishing last, as becoming clogged up in the labyrinthine machinations of the Europa League is the last thing we need right now. However we do, the overarching principle is that we need to make money, a lot of money, enough to enable us to obviate FFP rules when signing stellar players and thus ensuring we can qualify for this big club beano in its extended form, consistently in the future. Cynical? I’m afraid so, but the Corinthian spirit of European club competition has been dead these past 30 years, despite our heroic lifting of the Inter Toto Cup in 2006/2007.

The trip to Milan saw thousands there, all getting drunk and making balloons of themselves. Those behavioural scientists and Amnesty International supporters on Wearside, who were last in European competition half a century ago, were keen to point out that any bad behaviour should not be tolerated. True enough, but their sniggers and censorious comments of “serves him right” when one bloke got stabbed, showed them to be as vacuous as they are hypocritical. They are already rubbing their hands with glee at the thought of NUFC fans coming a cropper in poorly lit Parisian back lanes and unfriendly banlieues.  This from the same set of fans whose ethical take on Sheffield Wednesday fans waving photo images of the late Bradley Lowery, is to demand the incarceration of the perpetrators.

While I found the actions of those idiotic Wednesday fans to be abhorrent, it does not sit comfortably with me that they have been taken to court and are possibly facing jail time. Why do I think like this? Am I a contrarian? Well yes, I am, but my ethical standards may be slightly different than yours. We might have grown up in different circumstances and have different life experiences which have shaped our ethical perceptions. Of course, ethics does not provide all the answers. It offers tools for thinking about moral issues, though we need to note that ethics, or morals if you prefer a more censorious term, and law are not the same. Law is statutory. It’s the minimal standard for social justice, human rights, peace and stability. It must be followed, or there will be some sanctions. Often, it lags behind ethical standards, and it may be influenced by those. Ethics, on the other hand, is much more than a code for living. It stands for what is permissible, required, encouraged or admirable. It should be followed because that’s the right thing to do. Eventually, it can inform legal standards, often because of the influence of a third element: public opinion or public perception and that is why two blokes from Sheffield waving mobile phones provokes outrage and the stabbing of a 58-year-old man creates laughter, especially if you inhabit the demi-monde of an on-line Sunderland message board.

As regards, Milan versus Newcastle United, I didn’t get to see the first half as I was stuck at work. Just as well probably, as it was apparently dire, though we looked fairly compact and tight in the second period. Clearly, a decent point wasn’t enough for some cyber hot heads, as media and on-line zealots insisted, we’d been thrashed out of sight; to me, this is a strange way to interpret a 0-0 draw.  Obviously, the fact we could have sneaked it right at the end, if Sean’s effort hadn’t been so close to the keeper, wasn’t seen as relevant. Thankfully though, he got the winner at Bramall Lane in the very next game.

Without sounding wise after the event, I didn’t entertain any thoughts of defeat before this one. From full time at the San Siro, I was beatifically calm and certain we’d cruise past the Blades. However, I’m not going to sit here and claim I’d foreseen an 8-0 win with an octet of different scorers. Eight people on the scoresheet; that’s more than Denver had protesting against his former employers the House of Saud a couple of weeks before. Incredible, and good to keep a second consecutive clean sheet as well.

From there, we moved rapidly on to the League Cup and the bummest of bum draws, Man City at home. The team Eddy put out showed he thought we’d probably be going out at the first hurdle and, to be fair, the first half was almost entirely one way traffic towards our net. However, Murphy’s chance after 40 minutes was a sea change in the context of the game, as it allowed us to believe, and a couple of significant changes at the break, saw us take control. Bruno took the game by the throat and Isak scored one of those magnificent one-touch team goals we’re getting used to, and that belief become an unshakeable certainty. What a debut by Livramento though. The lad looks to be a jewel and he was a decent part of the reason we got through on merit, against a City side who simply ran out of ideas, though the reward of an away draw against Manchester United wasn’t what we’d hoped for. Thanks go to Neil Lennon and Don Goodman, or Don Lennon as the Sky presenter referred to him (imagine…), for that one.  

Another date with a team from the far side of the Pennines saw Burnley arrive on the last day of September for one of those weird 3pm Saturday games. It’s a long while since a home game was seen with such uninterest by even those in attendance, with it simply being a case of get in and get it done, and that is exactly what happened. While I was enjoy West allotment 4 West Auckland 0, a stunner from Miggy set us on our way and a calm, expertly taken Isak penalty sealed the deal, leaving the only unanswered question as to why Kompany always wears that ridiculous baseball cap. Has he a Mental Mickey complex about male pattern baldness? I think we should be told, don’t you?

From the banal to the beautiful and the Paris St Germain game. I’d been offered a ticket for this one, but turned it down, as I simply can’t justify spending £60 on a football match. Instead, Ben and his mate Elliott got to go. Heading away from town to Shelley’s a couple of hours before kick-off, I was baffled by the huge queues of traffic going into the city centre. The ground holds 52k; that was the attendance for the Burnley game and that would be the attendance for PSG, so how come there were so many more cars on the road? I soon forgot about that, when settled on the sofa and gently dabbing at the corners of my eyes in the moments before kick-off, I was reduced to blubbering by the incredible work Wor Flags had done. I don’t buy into the staged, compulsory adulation they seem to insist on, when I’m in the ground, but looking from an outside point of view, it had me almost wishing I was there. This wish became a more fervent desire as the game unfolded. I was too young for 1969, but I recollect that amazing night against Barcelona in September 1997, where I stood, amazed at events, in the Gallowgate. This waseven better, though PSG were agents of their own downfall, courtesy of a lazy, arrogant display that they couldn’t snap out of once we’d tore them a new one. Mbappe, in particular, was a disgrace. Miggy’s finish. Bruno’s cross. Sean’s run. Schar sat down on his arse. Four incredible images that will last forever. Tonight, more than ever, it felt perfect to be a Newcastle fan. Meanwhile, to the interest of absolutely nobody, Denver whinged on-line that Eddy Howe had expressed an opinion about Sycamore Gap but failed to respond to a letter he’d sent him. Hopefully someone had taken a chainsaw to that epistle and is coming for him soon.

Then we had West Ham. Bruno should have been sent off. Tonali, who is apparently worse than Glyn Hodges according to the X Men, wasn’t fouled in the lead up to the equaliser. Someone should have tracked Kudus. However, just look at our second goal. Bruno to Trippier to Isak; some of the sexiest one touch football you’ll ever see. Let’s snooze through the break with memories of this unbeaten patch and wake refreshed in time for Palace, Dortmund (twice), Wolves, Man Utd, Arsenal and Bournemouth in the next tranche of games.

Oh, and best of luck to Saudi Arabia, who are at their other home, the John Hird Stadium in Riyadh, to Niger and Mali over the next week.

57 Varieties

For no good reason, the American one hit wonder Carole Bayer Sager’s three minutes in the spotlight, You’re Moving Out Today came to mind the other month. Presumably this was when I was rooting through the cupboard in the spare room and came across my 61 cassettes; well, 59 actually, which I whittled down to 57 by giving away a couple of Whitehouse Live Action tapes, as I’m no longer prepared, ideologically and morally, to give them house room. Having just taken possession of a tape player, meaning I was now able to listen to cassettes for the first time in a decade or more, I set myself the mammoth and possibly pointless task of listening to every single one of these dusty mementos of a bygone era, in alphabetical order of course, then doing brief reviews for this piece. Without spoiling the imminent reveals, I must admit I know I can live without the vast majority of these unearthed treasures. Hence, if you’d like any of the tapes numbered: 1,5,6,7,8,9,10,11,12,15,16,17,24,25,26,31,33,36,39,46,48 50,52 send me an email listing your choices and I’ll post them on to you.

 

1.      Anoranza: Hasta Siempre Comandante Che Guevara. I bought this from a shop in the hotel where I was staying on Tenerife in August 1994, entirely because it has a photo of Che on the front cover. Apparently Anoranza means homesickness and they were a Canary Islands based, Cuban inspired Trova band. Listening again, this is an interesting series of polemics, whose lyrics I don’t get. Perhaps that’s why my favourite track is the instrumental El Pajara Campana, which is apparently a bare-throated bellbird. One for all you ornithologists out there anyway.

2.      Joan Baez: Ring Them Bells. I love Joan Baez. Seeing her at The Sage back in 2010 was a real delight and honour. This is a live album, recorded in New York, back in 1995, which I was given when I wrote for Paint It Red, not because they wanted me to review it, but otherwise it was going to be thrown out. That would have been a shame as superb versions of The Lily of the West, Willie Moore and an acapella The Night they Drove Old Dixie Down are enough to make this set quite memorable.

3.      Blur: 13. The last time I had a stand-alone cassette player was back in 1999 when I first moved to Bratislava. CDs were still a scarce commodity back then in Slovakia, so I had to improvise for my musical enjoyment. Some things I listened to were old, many were borrowed and only this one was new. It’s very blue in its mood, as Albarn moves on from the grind and crash of Blur, with a set of generally low-key and lo-fi introspective numbers that were clearly a way of distancing himself from the wreckage of his time with Justine Frischmann. My favourite on this one is the wrecked elegy that is No Distance Left to Run. Blur never did a better song. Indeed, this is a superb album, but one that I sidelined after returning to England, in favour of the easier to use double CD, The Best of. Poor old Think Tank probably only got listened to a couple of times as well.

4.      Bogside Volunteers: Ireland’s Fight for Freedom / Owen McDonagh: Songs of Irish Civil Rights. One of 2 C90s of rebel songs (the other gets a mention in a bit) duplicated for me by Paul Flanagan, who was just learning how to use his scanner back then (1998), when he presented them to me. And this is absolutely tremendous; in a kind of K-Tel Arla, we get 20 rebel songs by the Bogside Volunteers, including just about every number you’d need, bar perhaps The Rose of Mooncoin (I’m jesting here), for a proper republican karaoke. Owen McDonagh’s set is equally interesting, in a different way; recorded back in early 1969, this is the People’s Democracy songbook, with most of the material written contemporaneously. A fascinating historical document that proves, as ever, cruel England is to blame.

5.      Vincent Bugliosi: Helter Skelter. A four-cassette talking book of the memoirs of Charles Manson’s prosecuting attorney. Somebody gave me this. I can’t remember who or when. I didn’t listen to it then and I still haven’t now.

6.      Charles Bukowski: The Home Recordings (1969-1970). Double cassette pack. Bought this one mail order (those were the days, eh?), like the next two, when I was going through a Chinaski addiction during my MA in American Literature & Creative Writing. Not that I’ve got any time for the misogynist old soak these days I must say. The self-indulgent ramblings of a boring, aged egotist. A bit like my blog I suppose…

7.      Charles Bukowski: The Screaming Life. See above.

8.      Charles Bukowski: There Goes the Neighbourhood. See above.

9.      Johnny Cash: Water from the Wells of Home. I love Johnny Cash. Always have done; always will, though I do acknowledge there are different levels of enjoyment to be had from his work. His career was bookended by genius; from the raw, early stuff with the Tennessee Two to the bleak, nihilistic sparseness of his latter-day American Recordings, he produced a body of indispensable work. The problems lie with the schmaltzy, corporate pap that big labels insisted he did, by welding orchestral arrangements onto songs that worked best in a stripped-down fashion. Water from the Wells of Home just manages to stay on the right side of rhinestone rubbish, including a fabulous reworking of the appalling paean to God, Mom & Apple Pie sensibilities, Ballad of a Teenage Queen. I was given this by the folks, who’d got it free with The Sunday People, but didn’t know any of the songs. Fair enough I suppose as the main songwriter was John R Cash, the younger Man in Black. He deserves to remain anonymous, other than the baffling and bizarre rewriting of the Highland clearances, A Croft in Clachan (The Ballad of Rob MacDunn), that is a real curio and very hard to explain. Not Johnny’s finest hour, but not irredeemably terrible either.

10.  Johnny Cash: Unchained. Johnny Cash’s first collaboration with Rick Rubin, American Recordings, is a solid gold classic. Utterly unaccompanied, The Man in Black lays down some of his most poignant and emotive performances of his entire career. This follow-up album, purloined from the slush pile at Paint It Red some time in 1996, with a backing band of Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers isn’t in the same class, but it does include some fantastic readings of excellent songs, such as a delightful Memories are Made of This and a solemn take on Petty’s Southern Accents, not to mention a rip-roaring tear through I’ve Been Everywhere. There’s also the atrocious Spiritual by Spain, but you can fast forward through that one, as it’s at the end of side one. All in all; a good album and one I enjoyed hearing again.

11. Cathedra: Until the End of the World. Released on Kev Wilkinson’s Muza Muza label, I bought this on the strength of one track, Song for JB, that appeared on a compilation tape in 1997 that I’ll review later. The pastoral beauty of the piano and woodwind simplicity, albeit computer generated, of that track and the eponymous opening number make this tape a decent purchase, even if some of the longer, sombre pieces on side 2 are a bit of an ordeal to get through. I must admit I know nothing of the band, their members or other activities. Sometimes that doesn’t matter.

12. The Chemical Brothers: Brothers Gonna Work It Out. Another Bratislava banger. At a time when Surrender was pretty much a permanent soundtrack to my life in Slovakia, along with Shellac’s 1,000 Hurts, I was gifted this tape by a fella I worked with. Gary was more of a soul boy and this mega mix was a bit too big beat for him. I must admit that having this on tape is almost perverse as it should be used for mixing, if properly treated. That said it’s a solid, inspiring and in your face uplifting combination of many disparate sounds, from 60s soul to introspective indie. I’m not sure if I’ll listen to it much by myself, but it is decent artefact of a particular time, place and genre of theft and composition.

13. Brigid Corey: Guns and Songs of the IRA / Ray McAreavey: Irish Rebel Ballads. The second of the tapes duplicated for me by Flanners. Initially, I thought this was a pile of old toffee, which it is, but Brigid’s hysterically tremulous voice and comical insistence on screaming out the name of anything or anyone to do with Cork (no bad thing of course) make this an enjoyable, if not an edifying experience. Sean South from Garryowen wins the prize here, but a closing Soldier’s Song (what else?) is great value, on account of her managing both verses. As much fun as a late one in a Leeside hostelry. Ray McAreavey’s set is dull in contrast, both in choice of material and delivery, although a spirited James Connolly Was There is a decent shoutalong.

14. Cornershop: Woman’s Gotta Have It. Of all these cassettes, this promo tape that I reviewed glowingly in Paint It Red back in April 1995, includes one track that would make it on to any Desert Island selection I could be asked to make: 6AM Jullandar Shere. The single most ecstatic moment this wonderful band have produced, which is almost matched by the closing 7.20AM Jullandar Shere. Unfortunately, bar the brilliant Loaded-era pastiche Looking for a Way In, the rest of Woman’s Gotta Have It doesn’t consistently match up to the same exacting standards, though the French-language tabla and sitar driven My Dancing Days Are Done is a standout moment. Cornershop are still one of my all-time favourite bands like.

15. Drill: Killerism. Before Kev Wilkinson launched his Muza Muza label and Big Road Breaker (BRB) projects, he used to be the leading light behind South Shields’s extreme noise terrorists Drill. This tape was handed out at their Riverside gig on Holy Thursday, March 31^st, 1994. If I remember correctly, it was one hell of a gig and, probably, the last time I saw them live. It’s almost 30 years ago now, but I sense Drill were too limiting for Kev’s musical visions. This tape was radical in its day, reaching out towards Ministry, Nine Inch Nails, Revolting Cocks and other industrial metal acts of the time, though it sounds tame compared to what Kev does these days. Then again, so does most stuff. Definitely an interesting historical curio.

16. Bob Dylan: John Wesley Harding. I bought this, my first ever Bob Dylan purchase, out of a bargain bin in a Benidorm gift shop in early April 1976. It was cut price, as it didn’t have a cover, so I made one of my own with a picture cut from an Observer magazine review of Desire, which became my first vinyl Dylan album, on the same day I also bought Highway 61 Revisited. Ironically, I bought what I thought was the album version of this from Tynemouth Market about a decade ago, only to find that the record was actually a badly scratched duplicate of Planet Waves. I kept the cover and chucked the disc in the bin. Anyway, this is another one of those indispensable run of Dylan albums from 65 through to 67 when he produced the best stuff of his career and some of the best records any human being has ever made. Listening to this tape again, I am transported back nearly 50 years to my pre-teenage bedroom and its rapidly expanding collection of music and books that I love to this day and will remain close to until I die.

17. The Fall: I Am Kurious Oranj. I didn’t get a CD player until October 1991, which meant I began to miss out on bonus tracks and remixes that didn’t come with vinyl releases. Very, and I mean very rarely I bought cassettes for the freebies they contained. This, which came out in November 1988, was one of them. Coming only 6 months on from the stunning Frenz Experiment album, this soundtrack to the play / ballet that MES had concocted with Michael Clark, it is a bit of a hit and miss affair that combined quality tracks that had to be shoehorned into a narrative that allegedly retold the story of William of Orange, together with dull bits of incidental music, written especially for the play. On the whole, I’d rather have bought the vinyl, even if it meant I would have missed out on the anonymous Guide me Soft.

18. Gerard Hoffnung: A Last Encore. Now this is definitely an acquired taste; acclaimed cartoonist and jobbing musician Gerard Hoffnung is repeatedly interviewed for the wireless by uptight, humourless American Charles Richardson. It leaves me on the floor in hysterics, as does Hoffnung’s magnificent address to the Oxford Union. A double cassette of spoken word silliness from an era when people sat in their drawing room, huddled round an open fire, giggling at silliness from the Bakelite set that brought the Home Service into their homes, in an austere post war world. Just lovely.

19. Jazzfinger / Big Road Breaker: Live at Surface Noise, 12 September 1997. Recorded in the much-missed Ridley place record shop on a Friday evening and then broadcast the same night on a short-lived local radio station, Has and Ben, as Jazzfinger, cook up a slow, tremulous stew of groaning undercurrents and guttural choking sounds of the swamp. Atmospheric it is too, without being as full on aggressive as BRB’s technological sonic assault. I was at this gig and remember the night, but not the music.

20. George Jones: Good Year for the Roses. Just as I’d remarked to myself as to the surprising quality of the sound on these long-ignored tapes, here came one of the major drawbacks on music on cassette. I’d been given this one when my old folks upgraded to a CD player in summer 1989 or thereabouts, which suited me just swell as the title track and White Lightning (covered so memorably by The Fall) are favourites of mine. Sadly, the tape was stretched beyond redemption and after an initial giggle at George sounding like a muppet on quaaludes, I realised this had potential to unspool in the player, so I pressed eject and sadly put it in the bin. Wonder what happened to my Mam’s CD of this one?

21. The Mekons: So Good It Hurts. Now, this is the most likely candidate for my Desert Island album of all the tapes I’ve heard so far. I bought this at Leeds Astoria in March 1988, when The Mekons were sharing a bill with Pere Ubu. It was a blinding gig, and this remains a blinding album. The last one before they temporarily abandoned their hillbilly incarnation in favour of an unhappy marriage with A&M as a rock band, So Good It Hurts finds The Mekons in top gear throughout.  The most famous number is Ghosts of American Astronauts, but the highlights for me are the faux dub opener 1967 (I’m Not Here) and the pounding Fantastic Voyage. All in all, a very special album by a very special band.

 22. Meredith: Demo. The next four tapes are all demos done by local bands who I saw, enjoyed, and reviewed for Paint It Red back in the early to mid-1990s. Now, if you consider the sheer volume of promo cassettes we were bombarded with by young hopefuls in those days, you get an indication of the quality of and affection I felt, and still feel, for these tapes. Meredith, featuring Phil Tyler on guitar, came to my attention in the very early part of 1992. Indeed, I recall them visiting my house in Spital Tongues on Sunday 8 March of that year so I could interview them. I presume it is around then that I came into possession of this tape. It’s got 4 tracks listed on it, though there are actually 5 songs performed. The two particular highlights are the opening Falls and the closing Footsore Four, which both showcase the excellent musicianship, especially Phil’s guitar, and Kay’s remarkable voice. I loved their frigid, glacial indie sensibilities that reminded me of Edinburgh’s The Flowers. I’ve no idea what they did after this, though I obviously know what Phil is up to.

 23. Missy X: Edit Yrself / Trout Mask Replica Replica. Missy X came from Morpeth way. They released a 7” on Slampt in late 1995 that I absolutely adored, writing an effusive review in Paint It Red. I believe I called them the future of rock and roll. This led to me being sent this C90 of two cassette releases and getting to see them live, as well as interviewing them, at The Cumberland on Holy Thursday in 1996. Their basic position was a quizzical one; they thought they were terrible, and by any normal standards they couldn’t play competently, so they couldn’t understand why I liked them. Still, to this day, I find their shambolic amateur take on DIY punk meets free jazz to be some of the most compelling music I’ve ever heard. Certainly, their cover version of A Love Supreme is one of the most daring, and inaccurate, interpretations of a jazz standard I’ve ever heard. I’ve no idea if they ever played live again after Easter 96. If anyone has any info on what became of them, please let me know.

 24. Mouthpiece: Demo. One of the main reasons I found the urge to explore the weird world of cassettes, old and new, was a chat I had with Joe Murray (aka Posset). He is an unapologetic advocate of cassettes, both for recording and listening to music. Ironically, this 1994 tape features Joe in his previous incarnation as a singer, in one of his hometown Bishop Auckland bands. Bishop had quite a scene back in the day and Joe, whose voice I always loved as he used to close his eyes and sing, rather than mumble or shout, was always a central figure. With Mouthpiece, the first side has him singing in a Damon Albarn style Mockney yarn on Sin in Suburbia and a Transatlantic drawl on The Spy, but it’s his pure, unadulterated baritone on an interpretation of Edward Lear’s The Pelican Chorus I love.  Flip the tape over and he up it an octave on Electric World, with a solid and reliable joyous indie backing, which is almost reminiscent of Julian Cope at times. I know Joe has moved on from this sort of stuff, but I’m happy to have this memory of his art at a certain point in time, especially for the closing bonus track Michael Jackson.

 25. Nancy Bone: Excerpts from a Garage Opera. Nancy Bone were a strange one for me. I’d loved Puppy Fat and felt desperately sad when they fell apart in 1992 or possibly 1993 but was intrigued when Nancy Bone arrived on the scene, with a set almost entirely composed of surf instrumentals. Of course, this meant that just about every band was doing versions of Miserlou, Rumble and Pipeline. Hence, Nancy Bone had to change or die and change they did, into a kind of Lee and Nancy with twin guitars. I think they’ll admit themselves that they were brave to make that decision, which didn’t entirely work, but it did produce some highlights. The gig at Live Theatre when they did a stunning take on Kraftwerk’s Radio Activity was one. Another was The Big Spoof that opens this tape. I’m not sure how Nancy Bone will go down in the annals of the Tyneside music scene of the 1990s, but I’m glad to have this small piece of musical memorabilia and equally pleased that the two Pauls and Carol continue to play important roles in the local scene.

 26.  Nico: European Diary, 1982. There were some stunning cassette only releases I missed out on in the early 1980s: ACR’s The Graveyard & The Ballroom, The Fall’s Legendary Chaos Tape, though I did get this when a CD version appeared mid-90s, and The Mekons Live in New York. However, I did get my hands on this one, as a 19^th birthday present from my ex-sister in August 1983. Sadly, listening to it again, an awful lot of it is dull, pedestrian, phoned-in pap. I suppose that’s not surprising considering she was up to her eyeballs in skag at the time, though it isn’t how I remember things from the 2 shows I saw her perform at Rockshots in June 1983 and September 1985. Really though, she couldn’t sing with any emotion, so the only things that work are the opening Janitor of Lunacy, where she accompanies herself on harmonium and an acapella All Tomorrow’s Parties. As for the rest; meh…

 27. Pavement: Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain. Another promo tape courtesy of Paint It Red, from back in February 1994, which contains another Desert Island song in the shape of the breath-taking eulogy to rock music, Filmore Jive. All in all, Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain is a storming album, where Pavement showed they could be so much more than Fall copyists. The lyrics may still have been culled from the MES school of arcane imagery, but numbers like the lovely Cut Your Hair are part of the Great American Guitar Band canon. Another tape I’m delighted to have rediscovered.

 28. Pettaluck: Pass. Pettaluck is Emma Reed, a multi-instrumentalist and songwriter from Southend, who I first came across when she played the first TQ night at The Globe in August 2023.  I was immensely impressed by her charmingly idiosyncratic set that brought to mind everyone from Lol Coxhill to Ivor Cutler to Essential Logic and was delighted to swap products with her at the end of the evening. She played Abattage from Bartholomew x cusack’s Dresden Heist CD on her radio show, so giving Pettaluck some positive words on here is the least I can do. Her cassette is available via her Bandcamp page, and I strongly suggest you get hold of one.

 29.  Kevin Prendergast: Let’s Go Back to County Mayo. A simply dreadful pile of Irish country dogshit from the Ballyhaunis resident, which follows the usual blueprint of exhaustively namechecking every culchie hole in the road to a backing of pedal steel schmaltz and wheezy accordion. I’ll Sing About Roscommon, Three Pubs in Bohola, Four Roads to Glenamaddy, The Rose of Castlerea; you get the picture? I liberated this from a cottage in Bonniconlon, County Mayo where we holidayed back in 1998. I’ll never be parted from it; mainly because nobody else would want it.

 30.  Red House Painters: Rollercoaster. Mark Kozelek’s first notable vehicle for his angst-ridden, self-flagellating lyrics and depressive, grinding acoustic slowcore, Red House Painters, are unaccountably forgotten these days. And, personally, despite being a devotee of Down Colourful Hill and Bridge, both of which I have on CD, I am guilty of allowing this brilliant double album to fall from my consciousness, only on account of it being on cassette. Given to me in May 1993 by 4AD’s press department, who were starting to view me as their go to reviewer at Paint It Red, I played this achingly solemn set of 14 doom-laden ballads endlessly. The standout tracks include Katy Song and, of course, New Jersey, not to mention Mother, but the whole album is a brilliant listen. I’m so glad to have rediscovered it.

31.  Jim Reeves: Waiting for a Train. Recorded live at the Grand Ol’ Opry, we get 20 tracks of almost hysterical, flamboyant intensity that suggest Jim and the lads were all hepped up on goofballs for this performance. Another cassette that was palmed off on me by the parents at some point in the mid-90s, it includes Bimbo and He’ll Have to Go, of course, though my favourite is the ludicrous Yonder Comes a Sucker. Destined for landfill if nobody expresses any interest, proving yet again that the capitalist crisis of overproduction is a real and compelling thing.

32.  Alex Rex: Memory, Speak. Alex Neilson is a genius. Period. I love him and I love his music. I am also deeply saddened by the lack of new product issuing from the lad. So desperate am I to have Alex Rex music about the place that I actually purchased Memory, Speak in December 2021 as a download and I hate downloads. It came with a free cassette, which I’ve finally got round to listening to. Obviously, I’ve listened to the download and, equally, obviously it is a work of stunning beauty.  This is the big Alex Rex band with Audrey Bizouerne on bass and Georgia Seddon on keyboards, as well as the ever-present Rory Haye on guitar, which means we get full blooded versions of Night Visiting Song, The Cruel Rule and Coward’s Song, but those three songs are only part of the 11-act tragedy that is Alex’s baleful, self-immolatory narrative. As I say, the bloke’s a genius and this is one of the top 5 tapes I’ve got on this list. Brutal and blindingly brilliant.

33.  Seize the Infidels: Demo. The Nico gig at Rockshots in September 1985 I referred to before? Seize the Infidels were the support act. This was their demo tape I got hold of that night. Nearly 40 years on and the Beefheart meets The Fall style shuffling growl and grumble still appeals. The two tracks that open each side, Mock Tudor and Map of England respectively, are bloody great songs. They’ve got a fairly extensive Bandcamp archive, so if you’re wanting to explore more, go and check them out. Shame their best years were when I lived away from Newcastle.

34.  Smashing Pumpkins: Cherub Rock. I saw Smashing Pumpkins twice at Riverside in 1992; February and August and, frankly, I was a little underwhelmed. Unlike Dinosaur Jr, for instance, I didn’t feel as if I was swimming in a pond of psychedelic soup or being punished with sound like Swans did to you. The only really good thing about them was the fact they didn’t play things too fast, which is always a positive in my book. I didn’t get Gish but Paint It Red provided me with the follow-ups to review and I really like Cherub Rock, which is both intense and melodic, but not as much as I love the b-side of this one. French Movie Theme is a seemingly inconsequential piece of piano and acoustic guitar led Serge Gainsbourg style Scopitone pop that dissolves into a very bizarre, distorted version of The Star-Spangled Banner.

35.  Smashing Pumpkins. Siamese Dream. Starting off very strongly with the aforementioned Cherub Rock, Siamese Dream is the one album where Smashing Pumpkins make complete sense to me. Rhythmic, introspective and dripping in slow guitar solos, this is exactly what I like corporate rock to sound like. Alright so Corgan is a complete badly fraud, but on tracks like Hummer and Disarm he just gets everything right, no doubt assisted by Butch Vig, who layers shimmering guitar onto pounding drums, topped off by languid, disinterested vocals, lacking any histrionic overacting. I’ve not really bothered with much of their other stuff, but I do like this one.

36.  Sun Ra & His Arkestra: Interplanetary Music. I really regret that I never got to visit Volcanic Tongue record shop when I was in Glasgow. Anywhere that had David Keenan and Alex Neilson behind the counter must have been worth a visit. Sadly, the times I made it up there, it was closed, but I did get a couple of things mail order from them; firstly, Keenan’s work with his partner Heather Leigh and a certain Thurston Moore, under the name of Dream Aktion Unit and, much later, this cassette, once they were winding down the business.  I’m not a devotee of Sun Ra; indeed, this isn’t just the only thing I own in his name, but actually the only thing I’ve ever heard. It’s alright I suppose, but if anyone wants to relieve me of a slice of weirded-out Free Jazz nonsense, they’re welcome to it. I think I only paid a fiver for this, so it’s not as if I got mugged for it.

37.  Swans: Live at Newcastle Riverside, 20 May 1988. Remember those old bootleg C90s you could pick up at record fairs for three quid? The muffled recordings made on a Walkman, wrapped up in a photocopied cover on coloured paper and blessed with a charmingly inaccurate set list. Here’s one that I bought in April 89, as I’d been at this gig the year before and was utterly besotted by Swans at the time. In October 1987 they’d toured the Children of God double album, which was probably them at their loudest, most punishing and fearsome. Consider this; their 90-minute set consisted of a grand total of 7 songs. I’d seen them two nights in a row at the Riverside and Leeds Poly, as I was living in Leeds at the time, doing my postgrad stuff. On both occasions I’d ended up with my head in the bass bin to Sex God Sex, and by the end of the second gig I couldn’t hear or even walk straight, as my inner ear was that affected by the sheer volume. Eight months later, Swans returned, and I travelled up home one Friday night to see the gig. Despite the sound quality, my memories of that evening over 35 years ago remain undiluted, with absolute killer versions of Let it Come Down and Sex God Sex, but also the cover version of Love Will Tear Us Apart that hinted at the next step in their journey. You know, if I’d listened to this tape a bit sooner, I may well have gone to see Swans at The Boiler Shop this August, even if tickets were about £35 or something mental.

38.   Swans: Love of Life. After the apotheosis of sheer noise that was Children of God, Swans dialled it back a notch with the relatively mainstream The Burning World and the intense acoustic fury of White Light from the Mouth of Infinity, but didn’t tour the former extensively or the latter at all, so it was March 1992 after the release of Love of Life when I got to see Swans again, this time in Middlesbrough. I got to meet Michael Gira afterwards and he was a complete gentleman, who was very complimentary about the review I’d written for Paint it Red of this album. Thirty-one years on, I stand by it; I do wish I’d bought the CD rather than just having this tape though, as it means I’ve been denied access to some stunning music, including the title track and the anthemic closer, God Loves America, not forgetting the ethereal The Other Side of the World that Jarboe sings so beautifully.

39.  Swell: 41. Released back in 1994, this is one of those abandoned jewels this exercise in sound archaeology has thrown up for me. San Francisco based and decidedly lo-fi, Swell’s first album on Beggars Banquet ended up on my slush pile at Paint It Red. I remember reviewing it very positively, but that’s the last I got to hear of the band who, I’ve just discovered, have recently reformed as a tribute to their former singer and main songwriter, David Freel, who passed last year. I hope he had a good life, as 41 is a worthy footprint to leave the world to remember him by.

40.  That Petrol Emotion: Manic Pop Thrill. Sadly, this is totally unlistenable as the tape is stretched beyond any practical use. Of course, as TPE are one of my favourite bands and I’ve known them and followed their career since 1985, I simply can’t throw this out. I didn’t buy it on record at the time it came out, as I was at university, without funds or a record player. I actually got hold of it in 2000, from a second-hand shop on Cowley Road in Oxford, for a couple of quid, so I don’t feel like I was defrauded. I’ll stick with Babble and the rest of their superb output instead.

41.  John Trubee: Sampler. The RE/Search publication Pranks, which was basically an account of cod-Situationist misbehaviour in the 60s, 70s and 80s, by such notable counter cultural US slackers as Timothy Leary, Abbie Hoffman, Monte Cazazza, Jello Biafra, Joe Coleman, Karen Finley, John Waters and Henry Rollins and their, generally unsuccessful, attempts to challenge the sovereign authority of words, images and behavioural convention.  The book was very influential, and it led me to contact the erstwhile leader of the bizarre band, The Ugly Janitors of America, a certain John Trubee, who is my Facebook pal to this day. John’s finest achievement was writing the incredible faux C&W nonsense Blind Man’s Penis. This opens the tape and is probably the only thing worth listening to, as the rest of the side is full of unfunny prank phone calls to various massage parlours, pizza takeaways and random members of the public. Side 2 is a load of semi-unlistenable noise by The Ugly Janitors of America dying on stage. As I say, Blind Man’s Penis is wonderful. The rest isn’t.

42.  Unrest: Fuck Pussy Galore (& all her friends). A real tragedy this one. The gloriously obscure Washington state natives behind the criminally ignored Teenbeat Records, Unrest, put out a cassette only compilation of their long unavailable early stuff in late 1993, cashing in on their late career interest in their brilliant Perfect Teeth album, which I still play frequently. Sadly this cassette became another casualty of time, moisture and neglect, as it unspooled while playing and became hopelessly entangled on the tape heads. It was snapped and ruined, so I had no option but to throw it away. A real tragedy.

43.  Tom Waits: Goin’ Out West. A 1992 promo cassingle (remember those?) from old gravel voice’s Bone Machine album. I’m not a Waits afficionado, but I like everything I’ve ever heard by him, and this is no exception. Actually, the style of it does seem an exception to his usual stuff; a thudding, percussive beat underpins the song, which made it very appealing the first time I heard it. There’s another track from Bone Machine on here, A Little Rain, but the one that catches my imagination and ear is the subtle piano led The Ocean. A minor curio that I’m delighted still to own.

44.  The Wedding Present: Live at Windsor Old Trout, 28 October 1993. Back to bootlegs. This time an official one, which was released when David Gedge was more concerned with getting his music out there, rather than bolstering his pension plan. Obviously, having been selected for release, this is a top notch set, both in terms of choice of material and the actual performance. Considering it was in their hiatus between 1992’s Hit Parade and 1994’s Watusi (of which more soon), this iteration of the band are superbly focussed, especially on an enthralling Cat Woman that would have been new to the audience. Perverse as ever, they open and close the set with two other cuts from Watusi, namely Let Him Have It and So Long Baby.

45.  The Wedding Present: Watusi. Ironically, So Long Baby kicks off this album, which was a forgotten gem of a release, long unavailable after Island deleted it, that came belatedly into the spotlight after The Wedding Present toured it in 2014. At that gig, at The Cluny, David Gedge inquired of the audience as to what format they had of the album and burst out laughing when I told him I had it on cassette. Indeed, when I’d seen The Wedding Present on that tour at Newcastle University in October 1994, I got Gedge to sign the promo cassette and CD singles of Yeah Yeah Yeah Yeah Yeah, which could be the finest song on the album. Other than Click Click and Cat Woman of course, not forgetting Spangle and Gazebo. Goodness, this is an absolute belter of an album. I’m furious that, having ignored Newcastle on the 24 Songs tour, TWP aren’t coming our way when the play Watusi again next year. Twats.

46.  Various: Bend It 93. One of those early 90s compilations of football related songs that were released by both Cherry Red and El Records (there’s a track here by renowned French football writer Phillipe Auclair under his indiepop alias Louis Phillipe; not that it’s any good). As this about the fifth in the series, there’s an element of barrel scraping going on, though a few tracks are worth investigating. Franz Beckenbauer’s effeminate monotone on Ein zu Null fur Deine Leibe is an amusing diversion, as is Godley and Crème’s instrumental Funky Manchester City, the frankly weird Soccer Boppers by The Posh but the best of all is Johnny Cobnut’s endearing Ipswich Town Calypso. The rest you could easily dispense with. See also tape #50.

47.  Various: C86. There’s already a book about this seminal tape that I really must read. Sadly, I’ll not be listening to the cassette again as, having got through side 1, where The Bodines and Stump wipe the floor with the rest, my machine chewed up the tape just as The Close Lobsters started on Firestation Towers. I have to say that, having had this tape since it came out in April 1986, I felt quite emotional as I unspooled the chewed-up wreckage of a specific set of memories and threw it in the bin. Oh well; I’ll just have to get the CD and pretend it is the same. Doubt I can bear to throw the inlay card away mind.

48.  Various: Dry Humour. This came free with a box of Stella, which was the kind of marketing strategy that I could get in bed with. That’s surprising as, other than Stewart Lee, I don’t like comedy. Not because I don’t have a sense of humour, but because I don’t like comedians. Frankly only the Stephen Wright section can make me laugh, though the Paul Calf and Jo Brand bits are alright. Sean Hughes, Eddy Izzard and Fry & Laurie completely get on my tits, but then they always did.

49.  Various: Field Trip. Free with the NME, containing 5 bands on stage at that year’s Glastonbury. Something worthy from Belly, something awful from Suede, something stoned from The Lemonheads, something dull by Spiritualized and then the only reason I’ve kept hold of this; Teenage Fanclub with a storming take on Alex Chilton’s Free Again. Thirty years on and it still sounds immense.

50.  Various: Football Crazy. Another cash-in compilation (see #46), but as it is from 1995, there’s even less decent stuff to choose from. Despite the appearance of a couple of NUFC related numbers by the bastard son of Marshall McLuhan, the infamous Harry Palmer, all that’s worth listening to are the wonderful Soccer Fan by Real Sounds of Africa and the disturbing Alouette by David Webb. Yes, that David Webb.

51.  Various: Gigantic! A superb compilation from the back end of 1988 that came with Melody Maker. I mean there is some shite on here (no names; no pack drill), but there’s also The House of Love (Shine On), Band of Holy Joy (Killy Car Thieves), Ultra Vivid Scene (Lynn Marie), Wire (Kidney Bingos), My Bloody Valentine (Slow), Dinosaur Jr (Freak Scene), Swans (Trust Me), Sonic Youth (Teenage Riot) and The Pixies (I Bleed). Now that’s what I call music…

52.  Various: Good Evening, We Are Not The Fall. When I first became aware of the internet, I didn’t go looking for pornography, you’ll be astonished to learn, but for stuff related to The Fall. I discovered Fall.net which was the biggest store of stuff imaginable related to your pal MES and his lads. Of course, lots of it was rubbish and this tape of alleged Fall cover versions that came out in 1996 is possibly the worst of the lot. Other than Mohammed Salam’s take on Jerusalem, which isn’t really a Fall song anyway, there’s nothing worthy of your attention here. A load of smug Frat boy wankstains who think they know best, attempting to update and rewrite Fall songs in their own inimitable way. I thought it was rubbish at the time. Coming at it from 25 years later, it’s far worse than that.

53.  Various: Humbug. This tape was given away free with Dissident magazine in 1993. I don’t recall that publication, nor do I remember how I ended up with this tape in my possession. In fact, other than Captain Sensible and TV Smith’s Cheap, I’ve never heard of any of the musicians on here. It’s that kind of southern English whimsy I tend to associate with El and Cherry Red permeating this release, but there is one outstandingly beautiful song. Martin Newell has been in The Cleaners from Venus for 43 years; I’ve heard the name, but nothing by them. Under his own name Newell performs the achingly melancholic Boy from the Home Counties. It’s a glorious moment and enough to make me want to find out more about him. The rest don’t impress at all.

54.  Various: Mixed Peel. Another one from the NME in late 1987, in collaboration with Strange Fruit. The line-up is, frankly, stellar: Wire, Robert Wyatt, Gang of Four, The Slits, The Birthday Party, Culture, That Petrol Emotion and, of course, The Fall. Considering there’s nothing less that 38 years old on here, it’s an absolutely mighty listen. Nostalgic and righteous.

55.  Various: Muza Muza. As I’ve mentioned earlier, Cathedra’s sepulchral Song for JB pricked my interest when I first heard this tape. It was handed out to those attending the Jazzfinger and Big Road Breaker event at Surface Noise back in September 1997. I’ve not listened to this tape much, I have to admit and, looking back over quarter of a century, many of the electronic pieces have not lasted the test of time. However, there is a glorious minimalist guitar piece called Quartz by Ashtray Navigations as well as a trademark sonic inferno from Culver that I rather enjoyed.

56.  Various: Outlaw Blues. Along with football compilations, another early 90s fad was the tribute album, whereby a load of artists, some of dubious ability, covered a legendary figure’s greatest hits and some of their lesser-known moments as well. Illuminated Records were big movers in this scene, and I’ve still got all 3 volumes of their Velvet Underground tribute series, Heaven and Hell. This, which was a review copy for Paint it Red from late 1992, is a Bob Dylan tribute. As it concentrates on the golden period of 1965 to 1968, the material is of a uniformly high standard, so there aren’t really any duffers on here. My favourites are a very breathy Spirea-X addressing It Ain’t Me Babe and a superbly thrashy garage version of Sitting on a Barbed Wire Fence by Thurston Moore, Kim Gordon and Epic Soundtracks (RIP), though a seriously sinister Isis by The Poster Children is worth a listen too.

57.  Various: The Tape with No Name. I used to be quite a fan of Alt Country back in the day (this tape was given away free with the NME back in 1987), but I lost interest when I heard Ryan Adams, who makes me ill, and that Americana Festival started at The Sage, which legitimises the Jumpin’ Hot club nonsense.

So, having gone through all 57 tapes, with 54 surviving and 53 still in listenable condition, discounting Dylan and Alex Rex from my list as I know those albums inside out, I’d suggest the following are gems I’ve rediscovered that I could never be parted with -:

-          Cornershop: Woman’s Gotta Have It

-          The Mekons: So Good It Hurts

-          Missy X: Edit Yrself

-          Pavement: Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain

-          Smashing Pumpkins: Cherub Rock

-          The Wedding Present: Watusi

-          Various: Gigantic

-          Various: Outlaw Blues