I’ve got to start this piece by saying a fond farewell to the late, great David Thomas, leader of Pere Ubu for 50 years. Goodness they were special. My favourite time seeing them was with The Mekons at Leeds Astoria in March 1988. What a night that was and what a night I’ve just had seeing The Mekons in 2025.
MUSIC:
You want to know why I rate Greil Marcus so highly? He was the only rock writer who spotted that the most important act to come out of the largely turgid (in retrospect) 1977 Punk Scene this side of the pond, as opposed to those brilliant bands who came later, were The Mekons. Alright, it is possible to suggest Wire are another group with a comparable breadth of genius and longevity of creative excellence, but we’ll forget them for now. Almost 50 years after they formed, the fundamentalist, new wave situationists who emerged from the dank cellars of Richmond Mount in Headingley are still as fresh, vital and compelling as they ever have been. This year’s album “Horror” is a slab of solid gold ultra-left art punk, dub, folk, rock and indeed roll that hits the mark from the opening “The Western Design” and its jaunty excoriation of English imperialist misadventures over the last 500 years. People need to know these things and The Mekons have always told it straight. Tom Greenhalgh has a beautiful, diffident voice and lovely clear accent, so you know exactly what he’s lecturing you gently about on this one and “War Economy.” Britain is bad. Capitalism is bad. The Mekons are excellent, and they don’t let the ruling class off the hook. Eric “Rico” Bellis is a brilliant accordion player and even better on the harmonica. I can’t think of a better song he’s contributed to The Mekons oeuvre than the stunning lead single “You’re Not Singing Anymore.” Essentially the current sound of The Mekons is a combination of “Fear & Whiskey,” “FUN 90” and “Existentialism,” which is fine by me, as every single release of theirs is dear to my heart.
I’m delighted they are getting so much good press about the new record and the fantastic tour that dropped in at The Cluny on May 12th. Restricted to a 7-piece as Lu Edmunds is off on his PIL duties, every one of them was a hero. Tom, behind shades and hidden under a bucket hat still wields a gorgeous red Strat. Susie Honeyman’s violin is one of the most important sounds around. Steve Goulding keeps a ferocious beat. Sally Timms (up from her sick bed) deserves accolades for “Millionaire” and my personal favourite “Corporal Chalkie.” Dave Trumfio plays a mean bass. Rico we’ve already mentioned, and Mitch still does a splendid high kicking dance routine to accompany “Where Were You?” The final encore of course. And also, we can’t forget Jon Boy Langford. Well he’s Jon. What an entertainer and what a hero. We had “Lonely & Wet,” “Last Dance,” “Memphis Egypt” and “The Curse.” Every single one a classic and 15 other golden nuggets. I don’t know when they’ll be back, but I’ll be there. They remain a band as dear to my heart as GY!BE, The Wedding Present, Mogwai, The Gang of Four, Trembling Bells and even Teenage Fanclub. Timeless brilliance.
Another band from back in the day I loved were Swell Maps, though the death of two members means I’ll never get to see them. Last Record Store Day or the previous one, I forget, I wasted thirty quid on a less than brilliant Live at Café Oto semi-tribute live album by Jowe Head and pals. This time, and I’ve probably got even more reservations about Record Store Day than you have, I spent a very reasonable £30 on a Swell Maps “Peel Sessions” set. Including 13 numbers culled from visits to Maida Vale in 78, 79 and 80, it catches the band at their mischievous best, using studio time paid for them that they utilised to wander through the far reaches of atonal experimentalism. From early efforts like “Read About Seymour” through to late period semi-improvised pieces like “Big Empty Field,” this is an essential snapshot of the sort of art noise I fell asleep, deeply in love with on Peel every night before I did my O Levels. I’m very glad I bought it.
To be frank it wouldn’t be Record Store Day without me wasting money. I noticed a hole in my collection caused by a lack of Blue Cheer, I bought what I thought was a compilation album, “Junk.” It isn’t that but rather a late period live album, which isn’t really what I’d hoped for. Three dull sub-metal originals plod through like The Quireboys on Librium, before a couple of great covers of “Piece of My Heart” and “Sympathy for the Devil” rescue this disc from utter oblivion, but if anyone wants this record, contact me at the usual address and I’ll pass it on, if you pay postage. I’ll need to find an early Blue Cheer release to see if they were all they were cracked up to be.
I did pick up a couple of old releases that I really needed though. Soft Machine’s “Live at the Paradiso” is the 1969 trio of Ratledge, Wyatt and Hopper storming through what would be the second album in a Parisian dive and it’s great. Jazz, prog, improv; all the details you’d expect. Mind, you can see why Robert Wyatt gave up singing with them as Mike Ratledge’s organ sounds like an industrial estate on piece work. Very good and almost mainstream compared to AMM. As I’m currently embarked on my own Cornelius Cardew inspired journey as part of the Scratch and Reflect ensemble (another blog will tell the tale, in early June probably), I needed to get this. I’ve got several of Cardew’s classical pieces, from “The Great Learning” to “Treatise”, as well as some of the silly RCPB(ML) socialist realist tosh we belatedly turned his hand to. AMM however are a very different beast. Impossible to believe this improvised noise, with radios being tuned and detuned throughout, was recorded almost 60 years ago, as it sounds as vicious, raw and feral as anything the NAU produces now. I loved it very much and I’m glad to finally have a copy.
There are two left-field contemporary releases I’ve got recently. Firstly the mysterious Milkweed’s latest offering “Remscéla,” which I bought on cassette, of course. I find it breathtaking, which is ironic as I’d wondered if they’d became too much of a parody of themselves, but this is not the case and I’m kicking myself for not going to see them at The Lubber Fiend the night before The Mekons. This time, after looking at Welsh, Danish and North American mythology, they took as their text “The Tain,” which I’ve not read, but I did hear Horslips’ “Book of Invasions” many years ago when stoned at a house party in Portrush. Sonically speaking, you pretty much know what Milkweed are about by now: elements of traditional music, folk, dub and spoken word, knitted together by a recording technique which is both lo-fi and uncompromisingly avant-garde. Acoustic instrumentation competes with grainy, degraded tape noise. Ancient European mythology channelled by a voice that sounds like an Appalachian ghost. But somehow the inscrutable duo always manage to come up with something entirely surprising. The secret is in the material.
The opening “How the Táin Bó Cuailnge Was Found Again” hides fragments of speech behind a minimal banjo refrain. It might not sound like much, but it is instantly identifiable as a Milkweed song, so different from just about anything else. Hearing a band sound so absolutely like themselves, but never stuck in a creative rut, is a rare and beautiful thing. Milkweed songs are normally short, so when a piece like “The Pangs of Ulster” weighs in at over four minutes, it feels like a grandiose epic. For them. Indeed, it is a kind of musical and thematic centrepiece, lyrics telling the story of how the men of Ulster were cursed to feel the pain of childbirth, a curse that lies silent at the heart of the events in the Táin.
Their attention to detail is greater than ever before, which results in a sound that is even more lo-fi than usual. The beats that form the backbone of the instrumental “Drinking in the House of Fedlimid” seem initially conventional, almost as if they had been transplanted from some long-lost trip-hop demo tape, but Milkweed twist and delay them until the tune comes to resemble an ancient and shattered object. Vocals are decayed to the edge of recognition and whole fragments of the tune are chipped away. “Exile of the Sons of Uisliu” is almost hit radio material, as it splices processed beats to chanting delivery, while the melody is punctuated by moments of near-silence or hollowness and breaks down into discordance as it nears its end. The final track, “Noisiu’s Voice a Wave Roar, a Sweet Sound to Hear Forever,” begins in scraping, droning noise and switches part-way through to a clear, short, uncluttered banjo solo. It is the most conventionally pretty few seconds on the album, and for that reason alone, it provides an uncanny coda.
The wider world is no closer to knowing anything about Milkweed. Their only press photo shows them covering each other’s faces, just two brown coats and two pale pairs of hands are visible. Their invisibility reflects the way myth can disappear or lie dormant, the way that stories can wither away to nothing except a sense of mystery and still be brought back to life. But the duo’s pathological shyness (and I’ve talked to them both so I can testify to that) also focuses our attention on the music, and on the amazing job they are doing of uncovering these myths and presenting them in vibrant and vital ways. They remain the most enigmatic and experimental band currently active in the folk music genre.
Now, Alex Rex, “The National Trust.” Oh where you been my red haired son? Where have you been my darling young one? I’ve loved this man’s work, with bands, solo and as a guest, for over a decade and a half and I’d long wondered when his next release would appear. Here it is at last, and it’s brilliant, but it’s apparently the last thing he’ll do under the Alex Rex moniker, which makes me very sad, but also agog with wonder about where Alex is going next. This one is a cracker though, with Lavinia, Mike, Rory, Jill and a whole host of others joining in, to produce a real honky tonk, foot stomping slice of wild, free and fun stuff that takes you from the late 60s to the present day, accompanied by trademark sardonic, self-deprecatory lyrics.
While most of Alex’s solo work in the past has given off the sense of being a reckoning of sorts, the feeling here is intensified. A haunted and heightened feeling of loss and remembrance, as if he is coming to terms with his tangled past and moving on. There are many songs on “The National Trust” that deal directly with the death of his brother Alastair and the great pool of grief that formed in the aftermath, as was the case with “Otterburn” five years back, but these songs are about more than grief, I feel. And I hope Alex doesn’t mind me saying that he’s always been hard on himself, but now it appears as if his self-loathing (real or perhaps slightly sprinkled with artistic licence) has provided a kind of understanding and an ability to reconcile himself with past demons. I’ve mentioned “Two Kinds of Song” before, where he laments his inability to write like former collaborator Will Oldham while ironically wringing about as much emotion out of a song as is humanly possible. It’s stunning. “The Tragedy of Man” says genuinely big things about big subjects in entirely new ways: it’s a song beset by a swooping, all-encompassing nihilism, the sound of someone whose only escape is his boundless creativity.
Alex returns geographically to the place he loves best. Carbeth, which gave the first Trembling Bells album its title, so it is wonderful to see Lavinia back in the tent, as it shows their friendship, fractured after Trembling Bells split, has been mended. Part of that Trembling Bells sound is present here, and this project helped restore Alex’s relationship with Lavinia. Her presence is subtle, while rekindling some of that famous Bells alchemy. Mike Hastings makes a return too, along with Marco Rea, Jill O’Sullivan (some rocking violin there, mate!) and Rory Haye. Together their various contributions help to lend an acid-rock thump to stand out number “Psychic Rome,” a quasi-glam stomp about the end of civilisation. Various shades of rock are explored, sometimes within the same song. “People Are the Pollution of God” has an operatic vibe that sometimes threatens to spill over into 80s metal, 70s prog and classic folk rock. The usual territory huh?
The title track is both an impassioned primal scream and a crafty in-joke which somehow manages to satirise our relationship with some of the sacred cows of English literature while also recognising their humanity. On “Boss Morris” Foucault and football get namechecked in a way I adore. “I Started out a King” is a sprawling ode to the crumbling of the self. Its twin “The King Devours his Young” is deceptively simple, but nails the coexistence of love and pain, and the need to create art. These songs may wallow in bitterness and humiliation, but they are real and wise and beautiful. Alex is a genius, and I love him, as a person as well as an artist, whatever he feels about himself. I’ll be scanning the shore, binoculars at the ready, to see where he washes up next.
The only other gig I’ve been to recently, other than The Mekons, was a lunchtime piano and harpsichord performance by Mark Carroll, formerly the celloist in Shunyata Improvisation Group and flamboyant improvising piano virtuoso Paul Taylor at the Literary and Philosophical Society. The sort of gathering where you felt out of place if you hadn’t brought some sushi for your bait. Also, I think I was one of the youngest ones there, apart from the performers. Attired in a Slayer t-shirt, Mark took on the harpsichord first, after winning the coin toss. He took centre stage, attacking his instrument with verve, steadfastly refraining from using the keys. Instead it was a kind of John Cage inspired prepared harpsichord, using what looked like a roll of fishing wire to manipulate the strings, producing a kind of hypnotic drone. Paul Taylor, who often can err towards the theatrical, kept things under tight control, left hand on the keys and right hand inside the body of the piano. Mark then went further by using beaters to turn the Harpsichord into a percussion instrument.
For the second piece, the hall went from 80% to 60% full as they swapped instruments. Paul used the harpsichord to make a sound that reminded me of Harry Partch more than anyone else. This was no Elizabethan Pavane. Mark’s focus on the bottom notes of the piano gave this a less pastoral, more sinister tone. While the understanding between the two was almost telepathic, it almost seemed as if they had different goals. Mark veering off to the avant garde while Paul seemed to be heading towards jazz improvisation. It worked well, especially as Mark’s orthodox piano work allowed Paul’s imagination free rein, even in passages of almost complete silence that had an almost menacing undertone. Very glad I came to this and very glad I bought “Interventions and Detours” by two other members of the Shunyata Improvisation Group: John Garner, primarily known as a violinist but here exclusively focusing on the shakuhachi, a Japanese flute, and Martin Donkin on acoustic guitar. These six instrumental, improvised pieces are free, delicate and beautiful, but also desperately strong in form. The elusive and illusory world of their musical imagination brings a profound sense of calm and restorative order to the mind of the listener. An absolute minor treasure.
BOOKS:
To begin with, I must talk about a couple of books I erroneously neglected to discuss in my last cultural blog. Firstly “A Kiss in the Dreamhouse” by the editor of DIY litzine “Tangled Lines” and massive Bromley fan, in every sense, Mike Head. Mike has an unpretentious, cathartic, prose style and this particularly works when dealing with a realistic, rights-of-passage narrative like his debut novella. The narrator is innocent to the point of naivety and events happen to him. It is a truly enriching process to see things unfold and how the characters grow, develop and even wither. If you notice the fact that “A Kiss in the Dreamhouse” was named after Siouxsie and the Banshees 1982 album, you’ll be well on your way to recognising the cultural milieu in which this book is set. A truly invigorating read.
Moving a decade forward and 300 miles north, Austin Burke’s “Crazy on the Waltzer” is a tough as teak Geordie crime novel, set for the most part in Whitley Bay and North Shields around 1993 to 1994 time. Up here we’re proud to say we’ve always had rotten, corrupt and evil polis and good, honest criminals. This is the way it is in “Crazy on the Waltzer,” a fascinating, page turner that slowly unveils the complexity of the plot and complicity of the plod in the events of the novel. From the opening pages that describe the murder of his father in the Spring Gardens in Shields, we follow the misadventures of Paul Docherty as he tries (and fails) to avoid a life of crime, while building a relationship with a single mother and score pills for weekends down Whitley. It’s an engaging and compelling read for anyone, not just those who lived through the era and in the locations mentioned.
Another local book is “31 Days, 31 Nights” by the Adrian Mole of Belmont, Ben Nolan. This disorganised, pretentious pile of teenage tosh is by a considerable distance the worst book I’ve read in years. A GCSE student spends his summer holidays going to various places, such as Edinburgh, York and, err, Haltwhistle, trying to get drunk and achieving nothing. Appalling rubbish, though it does describe a memorable visit to The Station pub in Haltwhistle, a bar where Harry Pearson and I had out of body experiences with the yokel locals a couple of years back. Trash.
Following on from my recent habit of reading books written by those whose obituaries I read in The Guardian, I investigated “Street Sleeper” by Geoff Nicholson. It is a daft, surreal, road movie of a book, whereby a lonely librarian quits his crap job and drives around the country, seeking sexual liberation and philosophical insight. It’s almost a pisstake of “Zen & the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance” in parts and ends up with our protagonist back behind the issue counter, sleeping in the box room at his parents and in a chaste relationship with his fiancée, which is where it all started. Amusing, but I’ll not be investigating anything else on his literary CV. RIP Geoff.
A writer who gets a lot of positive press coverage is Max Porter, which is why I picked up “Lanny” online for a quid. It’s a good read too. The eponymous hero is a weird young lad living with his hopelessly mismatched parents in a rural idyll that is still commuting distance to London. He likes to roam around the fields and ditches in the local area for adventures and loves drawing, which he has a talent for. One day he goes missing and so the book becomes an intense grief memoir, that shows his parents have vastly differing attitudes to their son. Thankfully Lanny is found safe, returns home, continues to draw and his father leaves them. A very compelling and interesting use of multiple narrators made this a book I enjoyed tremendously. Recommended, as is this next one. You’ll know of my enduring love for Magnus Mills and the crazy world he inhabits. His latest slice of surreal sense is “An Early Bath for Thompson,” where he’s back in the world of work with some odd blokes doing odd things. Daft and almost indescribable, it had me giggling as my mind expanded.
I’m not so sure I’m a fan of Limerick-based novelist Donal Ryan. His probing take on the collapse of Catholic morality in semi-rural Ireland has much to recommend it, but I’m often at a loss to work out whose side he’s on. Certainly “Strange Flowers,” a tale of secret lesbian love between the plain woman of Ireland and the daughter of the Big house is less ambiguous than “All We Shall Know,” but that is probably not how it would have been seen in Tipperary at the time. An only child runs away from her aged parents for no apparent reason, breaking all contact. She returns from London five years later with a son, born to her semi-estranged Jamaican husband and her family, at first appalled, learn to love this strange trio who have nothing in common with them other than blood ties. The husband becomes a pillar of the community, playing hurling no less, then dies tragically. Then the real emotional tragedy reveals itself as the two women, from vastly differing economic backgrounds, find a way to be together. All knots are untied, and life goes on in its usual quiet way. Very intriguing. In some ways it’s similar in tone to Ian McEwan’s “On Chesil Beach,” where two student lovers get married after a brief courtship in the early 60s but split up with the marriage unconsummated after a chaotic attempt to free them both of their virginity, on their Wedding night. An annulment follows and the two never meet again, spending the rest of their sad lives wondering what might have been. Not a barrel of laughs, but thought-provoking.
The only delve I had into non-fiction writing of late was David Keenan’s magisterial, encyclopaedic overview of the weirdest, most obscure and most challenging music this century. Named after his onetime Glasgow record treasure trove, Volcanic Tongue that he ran with his partner, Heather Leigh, in Glasgow from 2005-2015.presents the first ever collection of his music criticism, if you count England’s Hidden Reverse as more of a biography. Keenan has been writing about music since publishing his first fanzine, inspired by The Pastels and by Glasgow (and Airdrie's) DIY music scene, in 1988. Since then, he has written about music for Melody Maker, NME, Uncut, Mojo, The New York Times, Ugly Things, The Literary Review, The Social and, most consistently, The Wire. Volcanic Tongue features the best of his reviews, interviews and think pieces, with exclusive in-depth conversations with Nick Cave, members of legendary industrial bands Coil and Throbbing Gristle, krautrock legends Faust, Shirley Collins, Kevin Shields, Einstürzende Neubauten, as well as analysis of the back catalogues of groups like Sonic Youth and musicians like John Fahey, extensive writings on free jazz and obsessive in-depth digs into favourites like Pere Ubu (David Thomas RIP), Metal Box-era Public Image Ltd, Sun Ra, guitarist and vocalist John Martyn and many more. It is an essential addition to any music fan's bookshelf. There is also a double album of weird noise culled from Volcanic Tongue’s pick of the week releases. I’ve got it. I haven’t listened to it yet. Too busy. I know. Next time I promise.
I’ve just finished my pal Nick J Brown’s engaging and amusing “Hunter.” The story of a hapless, down-at-heel Mancunian private eye and his preposterous caseload, it reminds me greatly of “Dangerous Davies; The Last Detective” by Hunter Davies and “Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency” by Douglas Adams in term of tone, amount of wisecracking and the unlikely hero of the hour. Nick publishes his works via Incendiary Books, and I suggest you get on board with his journey. Well written mate!
