Amazingly, my solo CD, "The Pseudobulbar Effect" has sold out of all physical copies, so here's my latest cultural blog about what I've listened to and read over the last couple of months -:
MUSIC:
I should have reviewed the double album soundtrack that accompanied David Keenan’s magisterial account of outsider music, “Volcanic Tongue,” last time around, but for ages I couldn’t bring myself to listen to it, as I feared it would contain the sort of industrial power electronics that made Nurse with Wound sound like The Dooleys. Guess what? It doesn’t and it is as brilliant as it obscure. Containing 20 “Tips of the Tongue,” which were the pick of the crop contained in each weekly email from the titular record shop, this is an eclectic compilation album celebrating a whole raft of contemporary DIY music from around the world, often released in tiny runs on homemade CD-Rs or cassette, and also sought to shine a light on forgotten artists from the past, who had often released their music as a ‘private press’ LP. This collection has been put together from releases that run the gamut from outsider synth burbles to psych-folk to damaged rock’n’roll, with tracks recorded between 1968 and 2013, making it a celebration of a vibrant and wilfully esoteric underground avant-garde that lives up to the description of it as being “A Time-Travelling Evangelist’s Guide to Late 20th Century Underground music.” If you know, you know and if you haven’t got it, you really should.
On a totally different track, the doyen of football journalists Brian Glanville died in May, and his obituary told me his son, Mark Glanville, an Oxford educated former Millwall boot boy, was an opera singer, whose stand out project, with the pianist Alexander Knapp, “A Yiddish Winterreise” is described as “A Holocaust Survivor’s Inner Journey Told Through Yiddish Song.” Before anyone gets on their high horse and calls me a Zionist apologist or sympathiser, educate yourselves as to the stance of Orthodox Jews towards the behaviour of the state of Israel. This is not a defence of the indefensible; it is a slow, solemn paean to the victims of pogroms and holocaust since the middle ages. It’s very heavy going, with no pause for breath, though the English text reveals lyrics that sometimes celebrate love, marriage and the beauty of nature. I don’t know how many times I’ll listen to it, but I’m certainly glad I have it in my possession. Similarly, Isolated Community’s latest set of field recordings “Movement in the Half Light” is an intense and impressive collection of found sounds from the wilds of the Northumbrian countryside. Rachael and Richard Dunn have put together another aurally challenging and visually stunning package that transcends simple electronica and ambient noise, to make a loving tribute to the eerie beauty that lies on our doorstep. Give or take 40 miles anyway.
Back to Glasgow (do I have anywhere as much music from any other city? I sincerely doubt it, though New York may come close) and Lavinia Blackwall’s fantastic sophomore solo release, “The Making,” has been well worth the half decade wait since her debut, “Muggington Lane End.” A sprightly, life affirming collection of self-penned Baroque Folky semi-psychedelic anthems, it shows her to be in fine form and backed, as ever, by the cream of Glasgow’s folk pop intelligentsia; husband Marco Rea and Stilton alumni Jim McGoldrick and Seb Johnsen. A rich tapestry of folk, rock, and psych-power pop, the album showcases Blackwall’s unparalleled vocal prowess and evocative songwriting, further cementing her reputation as one of the most distinctive around. The cover is beautifully nostalgic as well.
The supremely talented Jill Lorean released a split 7”, “The Book,” with S. Antigone, of whom I know nothing, other than her track “Sweethearthood (An Ode to Laurie Bird)” is a sumptuous slice of dream pop, not too far away from several C86 acts we could, but won’t, mention. AI tells me S Antigone “likely refers to the musical project or band featuring Simone on guitar/vocals and Georgia on clarinet. They are described as playing together for the first time, with their music characterized by the interaction and sometimes jarring contrast between the two instruments. Simone's vocals range from muttered musings to "evil song" yelling.” Fair enough! Meanwhile, Jill has delivered another blistering, high octane pop punk number that adds to her ever growing canon of brilliant work. This band should be massive. I can say the same about Dragged Up, whose CD single “Blake’s Tape” *and the superb accompanying “Clachan Dubh”) is a menacing beast of a song, showing how ferocious they can be. Live, I’ve seen this band and know how powerful they can be, so it is great to have a physical release that showcases them when they’re off the leash. Love it.
Digging through the bargain bins the other week, I found a copy of Beverley Martyn’s 2014 solo album “The Phoenix and The Turtle.” It’s more acoustic blues than folk, but worth getting for her solo take on the original version of “When The Levee Breaks.” There’s a few other interesting cuts on there as well and certainly represents a quid well spent.
As
well as collecting recorded music, I’ve also ventured out to a few gigs of
late. Chronologically, the first one was Ramleh at The Lubber Fiend, which was
back on May 31st. They were supported by Louse, who were a little
too fast and growly for my tastes, but the audience seemed to love them. The
singer looked like PC Hipsta gone to seed and when he took his t-shirt off
revealed a set of capacious man boobs. Half the members of Louse were also in
the other support, The Shits, who are truly one of the worst ordeals I’ve ever
been put through. A dull Ruts tribute act with a gormless singer who spent half
the set spitting at the audience. Truly terrible, but at least Ramleh were
good. Without the US-based Phillip Best, they have morphed into a kind of psychedelic,
slow motion hypnotic Dinosaur Jr style outfit, with nods to Pink Floyd, The
Grateful Dead and Swervedriver. This is what I came to hear, and I didn’t mind
missing the last bus home after the gig ran late.
There’s no chance of missing the last bus after a Shunyata Improvisation Group gig; not when it starts at the Cullercoats Watch House at 7pm anyway. On the second Sunday in June, I was free to walk through my beloved Tynemouth for the first time in 3 years. A good shift in the gym, a quick visit to TCC to see how the Academy were getting on and then a stroll up and down Front Street, then along the sea path to Cullercoats. Oh how I’ve missed the place. I’m sad I can’t go back there permanently, but you make choices in life. Sometimes they are for the better and sometimes they just don’t work out. I don’t regret leaving when and why I did for one moment, but I am glad I can return without repercussions. I even overcame my fear of solo dining, having a splendid curry in Bilash. The mixed kebab was an excellent starter, but the superb Lamb Bhuna was even better. Thanks to Dan Storey for the recommendation.
And so to the Watch House. Last time I’d seen Shunyata here, the wind from the sea was so strong you’d have thought an orchestra of comb and tissue players were outside, such are the decrepit window frames. This time, it was still and only the inane burbling of a pair of entitled middle class bores passing by was of minor irritation. Instead, we could focus on the joyous work of the latest, three-piece iteration of SIG. They are as beguiling as ever, but the addition of vocals by Katie Oswell, like a kind of Buddhist Diamanda Galas meets the whistles and bird song of Percy Edwards, makes it an even more profound experience to immerse yourself in. John Garner has been so busy with his Shakuhachi studies of late that it was a joy to hear him on the violin for so much of tonight. A wonderful, reflective event that had a shamefully low attendance of about 15 souls, but it makes me long for their next performance on September 7 at The Healing Café. The menu looks promising as well.
I’m
starting to become a little depressed by the pitiful turnout at some
independent gigs. My pal Richyy organised an early evening double header at The
Little Buildings the other week. Despite the number of people who claimed on
Facebook that they were interested, or even going, the attendance was a paltry
dozen or so, for two excellent female singer songwriters. First up was
California native but York resident Isadora Darling who has a soulful voice
that could charm the birds from the trees. A set of self-penned ballads of love
and loss that were perhaps a little too Jools Holland for my tastes, but the
woman has talent, and can she sing? Wow! Watch out for her name and see how
many people pretend they came to see her once she goes global. More to my taste
was So-Anne-So, a zany French chanteuse who was almost a Gallic female Ivor
Cutler. Weird and whacky narratives delivered on her Casio keyboard, with
Bontempi flourishes, that included a delicious, madcap version of “Ever Fallen
in Love.” She is brilliant. I’m seeing her again whenever I can and will buy
all her product, once there is some. A true one-off. Thanks to Richyy for
putting this on and no thanks to those of you who couldn’t be bothered to show
your faces.
I know Andy Wood of TQ has been suffering the same problems with the gigs he puts on at The Globe, which is why I was relieved there was a decent turn out for my mate and one-time musical collaborator Chris Bartholomew the other week. Bartholomew, as he styles himself, has just released his new album, “Subterranea,” a wonderful, expansive collection of electronic composition with additional trumpet and vocals that is even better than his last universally praised release, “Moorbound.” Supported by Lauren Sarah Hayes, who was like a cross between Laurie Anderson and a crashing computer game, but in a good way, Bartholomew live did the album justice. Augmented by peripatetic cello player Mark Carroll and the angelic vocals of Peony’s Will Rees, for 35 minutes we were transported with Chris on a musical journey of self-discovery and spiritual growth. I can’t recommend “Subterranea” highly enough.
Finally,
we’ll end this section where we started it and seem to have spent most of the
piece, Glasgow. For the first time in 11 years, since Ben’s 19th
birthday in point of fact, the wondrous sound of The Pastels rolled into town.
Two years ago I saw The Vaselines and Jon Langford play a Sunday matinee in The
Cumberland that was the hottest gig I’d ever been to. This one was of an
equally high temperature, but with added humidity, making it probably the
steamiest event I’ve ever been to, and I couldn’t watch the support act as the
place was so airless I felt faint. However, we returned for The Pastels and
they were fucking brilliant. Quite a lot from “Sow Summits,” which is still
contemporary in their eyes I suppose, a brooding, motorik-powered “Baby Honey”
and a triumphant set closer of “Different Drum” made this a memorable family
day out with the bairn and the ex-wife. Stephen, as ever, was charm
personified, so I even popped into Monorail when up in Glasgow last Wednesday
to say another thank you, which he graciously accepted. I just wish I’d got my
copy of “Suck On,” recently obtained from GW Lang, autographed. And what a
compilation that is; two versions of “Baby Honey” no less. Honestly, I only buy
good records these days, even if they were released 40 years ago.
Without question, the book I’ve enjoyed most since I last culturally blogged is Michael Keenaghan’s latest collection of violent slices of probably true crime in North and East London, “Cocaine Eyes.” Bent coppers, petty thieves, drug dealers, drug users and all manner of life tales of those on the seamiest fringes of the greatest cosmopolitan city in the world, just trying to get by whatever it takes, or they have to take from someone else. The brilliance of Keenaghan’s writing is that he makes every single one of his characters, their stories and the world they live in 100% credible. Each of these pieces could be a film and it always amazes me that none of Michael’s books have yet been optioned for a cinema project. He is undoubtedly the poet laureate of North London and the finest English realistic crime writer on earth. He deserves to be a millionaire.
Probably the toughest book I’ve read since last time, not in terms of complexity of plot of vocabulary but just the sheer difficulty of getting into it, was the recently deceased Dag Solstad’s “Professor Andersen’s Night.” It’s like a Norwegian version of “La Chute” by Camus in many ways, though written in the third person. A reserved, divorced, prosperous middle aged professor of literature, the titular Andersen, is about to have a Christmas Eve meal by himself in his large apartment in the fashionable part of Oslo. Looking out of his window, he sees a man strangle a woman to death in the flat opposite. Instead of calling the Police, Andersen looks on dumbfounded and, inert and introspective, spends the rest of the novel questioning his own moral cowardice in not confronting the situation head on. While in a perpetual fug of moral quandry, he lives his life as normal. He goes to friends’ houses for Festive dinners, flies to Trondheim for a brief skiing holiday at a colleague’s house, then somehow encounters the murderer in a Sushi Bar on New Year’s Eve. At every point he wants to call the Police to report the crime but never does. The murderer goes away to the Far East on business, the Professor returns to work for the next semester, and the victim is unnamed and apparently unreported, so consequently unmourned. A sad and irritating book that is completely out of place with these times but caused much debate when published in the late 70s.
In contrast to the two months it took me to wade through “Professor Andersen’s Night,” I read my Father’s Day present from Ben, “To Hell With Poverty” by Jon King, on the day itself. I was sad not to be able to catch Gang of Four on their farewell tour but devoured King’s account of the rise and demise of the archetypal Leeds-based Rough Trade post-punk agitprop outfit. In minute detail, it tells of their friendship from schooldays, devotion to cricket (Paul Downton was a classmate!), love of music, revolutionary politics and the world they inhabited. Sad to say, but in every band there is one member the rest hate; the fact this was the late Andy Gill should be of no surprise to anyone who followed the band from the brilliance of “Entertainment” in 1979 to the rancid rubbish that was the Gill-dominated “Hard,” before the band initially disintegrated in 1983. On the way, bassist Dave Allen disappears after a drug-induced breakdown and faithful drummer Hugo Burnham is sacked by Gill who reckoned using programmed percussion was the way forward. King is as honest as he is exhaustive in his explanation of events and one can only imagine another volume is forthcoming, telling of the various reformations and reincarnations, with and without original members, leading up to the final incarnation after Gill’s death from COVID, who have just thrown in the towel. The Gang of Four are one of the most important groups in my life and this book does justice to their wonderful legacy. Until 1984 that is.
I bought “Professor Andersen’s Night” after reading Dag Solstad’s obituary in The Guardian. On the same basis, I got hold of “The Man with the Chocolate Egg” by John Noone after reading his obituary in the same paper. Noone was once a highly promising fiction writer, with this his debut novel picking up the Geoffrey Faber Memorial Prize in 1967, who turned away from literary fiction after his second book failed to sell. I have to say, I may well hunt down his other novel, “The Night of Accomplishment,” as the brief, terse, nerve shredding story of a deranged military deserter who kills himself by detonating a hand grenade on a London bus, when such an event seemed a preposterous invention, is a compelling read. I thoroughly enjoyed Noone’s ability to create a world of crazed illogical thinking that seems perfectly rational from the perspective of the main character. I’m delighted to have come across John Noone, though sad that his death was the reason I did so. RIP.
I managed to finally get rid of “Professor Andersen’s Night” by swapping it for John Braine’s “Stay With Me Till Moring” at the Jesmond Vale book swap point. Braine, one of the original angry young men in the mid-50s, with “Room At The Top,” had become one of the complacent middle aged men like contemporaries Amos and Osborne by the time this book was published. This novel is the story of an upper middle-class pair of nouveau riche Tories in the posh bit of North Yorkshire getting bored with the conventions of bourgeois society and jumping into bed with a pair of completely unsuitable bits on the side. The married couple reconcile while the lovers are discarded without a second thought. It’s titillation for those who admired Cecil Parkinson and Jonathan Aitken’s personal lives. I didn’t enjoy it much.
Irvine Welsh has only written one truly terrible book, “The Sex Lives of the Siamese Twins,” though “The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs” isn’t great either. His latest, “Men in Love” isn’t as bad as either of those two, but it is a country mile away from being one of his best. Picking up on the usual Leith Crew after Renton’s betrayal at the end of “Trainspotting,” getting the voices of Sick Boy, Spud, Begbie and Renton back in your head is as comfy as popping your feet into a pair of old slippers that have been warming on the hearth. Relaxing and reassuring but, because we know how life pans out for them from “Porno,” “Dead Man’s Trousers” and several other of Welsh’s books, there’s no sense of tension or a real narrative force to the book. Instead, it reads like a load of well-written vignettes, some of them truly laugh-out-loud episodes, that reinforces the facts that Begbie is a psycho, Sick Boy a bad bastard, Spud an affable loser and Renton a tortured underachiever. Other than that, there’s no real point to this collection of unlucky in love tales. However, I did enjoy catching up with some old mates I guess.
I’d seen huge amounts of praise on-line for Café Royal Books, who specialise in amateur photographers, with a strong focus on social history and reportage. As a result, I got myself a copy of “Punk Rock, New Wave; Newcastle and Middlesbrough, 1977/1978” by Brian Gibson. I have to say I was a little underwhelmed, not by the photographs, which are a fascinating documentary of exactly what the title says it is about, even if I wasn’t at any of the gigs and only recognise a handful of those featured, and even then by sight and not name. It’s the fact it’s only an A5 fanzine, printed on bog standard paper, rather than a glossy, coffee table memento of a long gone era. Sadly, there’s no contextualising introduction or commentary, so it’s basically Brian Gibson’s photo album of what he did 47 years ago. This could have been so much better and that is a comment directed to the publishers, not the artist.
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