Early Friday tea time on July 20th, as I piled a Waitrose
trolley full of picnic goodies (olives, chorizo, Camembert, artisan bread,
pate, rioja, pinot grigio and so on; yee knaa the fuckin score), the local press
and social media were antic with hysteria about the supposed return of Andy
Carroll to St. James’ Park. One pleasing
irony on a personal level was the fact that the day Carroll moved to Liverpool
on January 31st 2011, I went to see a Shakespeare play (The
Comedy of Errors at the Theatre Royal), while on this day I was about
to see another (Much Ado About Nothing performed in Jesmond Dene). Frankly, I
could not have selected a more appropriate brace of theatrical events if I’d
tried, even if the Newcastle United hierarchy are more akin to Iago or Macbeth
in their ruthless ambition, but I’m digressing.
Holidays notwithstanding, I try to get to see the Jesmond
Dene Shakespeare festival each year, though I missed out on seeing last summer’s
production on account of being unavoidably detained in Euskal Herria, which
still meant I managed to keep up my intake of olives, chorizo and rioja at
least. Although at times, the sustenance required to battle through an outdoor
performance of The Bard is of a less sophisticated and undoubtedly more
fortifying timbre; one freezing Friday in August 2005, when I paid my first
visit to the Dene to see Heartbreak’s previous touring production of Much
Ado, attired in hooded sweatshirt and fleece to keep the cold at bay, I
microwaved a tin of Heinz tomato soup as soon as I returned in an attempt to
thaw my frozen blood. Subsequently I’ve seen their versions of A
Midsummer Night’s Dream, Love’s Labour Lost, Romeo
& Juliet and The Tempest; all of which have been
at least good. Frankly, at a tenner a pop (plus whatever you choose to spend on
the goody bag of munchies and libations), you can’t go wrong and while
tonight’s show was the weakest cast Heartbreak have assembled, with a script
that would have benefitted by being shorn of at least 30 minutes of extraneous material
that formed an unconvincing and slightly irritating back story, I was glad I’d
made the effort to see their labours.
Undoubtedly there is a clear and immediate need for a
scholarly article comparing Newcastle United with Shakespeare, but this blog is
not it. Suffice to say, the multiple layers of artifice, deceit, doublespeak
and chicanery that make up the typical Elizabethan or Jacobean comedy lend
themselves to a close comparison with events at St. James Park. However just as
Benedick is able to silence Beatrice when he decides to “stop up your mouth
with a kiss” and Iago opts to take the fifth after his arrest (“from this
moment on I never will speak word”), the noiseless utterances of Ashley and
Llambias are a study in silent malevolence.
While Carroll would be a useful addition to a squad that has
lost Lovenkrands and Best, with Ranger totally out of the picture and Ba’s
future remaining uncertain, with Pardew obviously tactically able enough to get
the best out of Carroll and able to alter the team’s style of play according to
personnel, the transfer activities of Newcastle United (including still to be
concluded but apparently active deals for Debuchy and Douglas) remains a
mummers’ play behind the arras. Perhaps the most preferable scenario is the
supposed Machiavellian attempts of Ashley and Llambias to either get Carroll
for £13m (effectively half of what he was sold for, minus the 20% sell-on
clause Newcastle inserted in the deal) or to force Liverpool to sell him for
more than that, gaining Newcastle a windfall in the region of £5m; what a pair
of ruthless bastards they are. And I mean that as a compliment.
While the Carroll speculation raged on Tyneside, Newcastle
United’s tour durch Mitteleuropa shaped up on ESPN. Years
ago friendlies abroad would get 3 column inches in the Chronicle 48 hours
after they’d taken place; now we get the full game live on satellite TV. I
didn’t see the 1-0 loss Chemnitzer, but caught the first half of a walking pace
1-0 win over Monaco, where Ba scored a header the keeper deserved a hiding for
allowing in. The day after Much Ado, I took in the soporific 1-1
draw in Austria with Fenerbache in The Newton with Knaggsy; another
dull game was wrested from terminal torpor by an Abeid rocket that gave us a
late lead, before an Elliott howler let them equalise with 30 seconds to go. If
all we learn from this tour is that Elliott isn’t good enough to be the second
choice keeper in the Premier League, it will have been a worthwhile trip.
Pre-season kickarounds are generally pointless, except for
the purpose of gaining fitness or allowing managers to assess the quality of
trialists or fringe players, though I did enjoy Percy Main 1 Redcar Athletic 2
on the Saturday. However, the real glamour tie in the region last weekend was
Heaton Stannington hosting Gabon’s Olympic side at Grounsell Park at noon on
the Sunday. Based at Northumbria University for training, as they play one of
their fixtures at SJP, Gabon had flown in on the Saturday and were keen for a
game; the Stann obliged. The score was 4-0 to Gabon and the attendance about
70; “less than they get for Shankhouse,” as Knaggsy commented. Meanwhile the biggest football story of the
weekend was that those idiots full of sound and fury, signifying nothing, The 3
Legends (Horswill, MacDonald and Slaven) have had their nightly phone-in 86ed
by Real Radio, to the relief of football lovers from Whitby to Berwick.
You’ll notice I don’t include a review of the Stann v Gabon
game; well, to my shame, I was unable to attend, as full time in the Newcastle
v Fenerbache game had signalled my cultural move from football to music mode,
as I sought to square the social circle whirl with trips to both the narc
Fest in the Ouseburn area and Summertyne extravaganza outside The
Sage. As ever, I barely scratched the surface of either event.
While it was commendable that there was so much going on,
and all of it for free, surely the narc bods must have realised that Summertyne
happens the same weekend each
year and that with the Sage booked out 3 nights solid, with afternoon and
evening gigs in both halls, local bands should cede to major international
artists. Without being overly critical, let’s hope this sort of carry-on
doesn’t happen next year.
Anyway, full time in Austria, I caught the 63 down the road
to The
Tanners; my least favourite Ouseburn pub, on account of it being the
nearest approximation to a normal venue in this area. The Cumberland and Free
Trade had folk acts, which would have been my pub and musical
preferences, while The Tyne opted for blues rock (no thanks) and The
Cluny for indie rock (ditto). Fair play to The Tanners; at least
they’d gone for an eclectic bill of oddball acts.
When I got there, this young lad with a guitar was playing
along to backing tapes that built up to a 30 minute prog rock piece that had me
in mind of Steve Hillage; frankly, this wasn’t what Sid Viciou had died for. It
was the sort of stuff we’d respond to as teenagers by hurtling through
Handysides Arcade to chin the hippies, en route to the match circa 1978.
Frankly, I felt rather like the young lad seeing the Emperor in the buff and
no-one ever listening to me. However, Charles Dexter Ward (as he styled himself
in homage to Lovecraft) was showered with praise by his chums when it finally
stopped. Perhaps it was all part of some post-modern joke; perhaps I’m just old
and intolerant.
Next up were Parastatic; my mate Dave had insisted I come
see them, as they are supposedly Newcastle’s prime Krautrock outfit. Perhaps
they will end up like that, but only if they slow it down considerably as the
drum machine and WASP synth dominated fast numbers sounded like New Order, or
even Revenge (without the bass lines), though one number that was very similar
to “Hallogallo” was an absolute treat. Top of the bill were The Exes, who made
my heart sing with their three minute spiky numbers that seemed so fresh and
original after the backing tape dominated electronica of the previous acts.
Bass, drums and guitar firing out rapid, non-nonsense numbers that reminded me
of Thee Headcoats. Well done lads; hope to see you again soon.
Having headed off straight afterwards, full of real ale and
music, I approached Sunday’s festivities in a more circumspect manner. I
visited my mam, did her shopping then arrived at The Sage just after 4. I’d
hoped to catch The Treetop Flyers, but got my times wrong; they’d just finished
to be replaced by the dire MOR AOR of Grainne Duffy, the Monaghan Pat Benatar;
yes that awful. Still, I took the time to schmooze while her caterwauling blues
droned incessantly on and caught up with Richy, Calla and several colleagues
from work, all enjoying beers as they were free from the need to get up on a
Monday for five whole weeks. Summertyne is Real Ale middle age
writ large, it has to be said.
At 6, the act I really wanted to see were closing the event;
Slim Chance, the backing band of the late Ronnie Laine, recently reformed and
keeping his music alive. As a kid I’d adored his solo singles, “How Come?” and
“The Poacher,” both of which featured today. Their folksy feel was almost equidistant
between The Faces and Lindisfarne, to the delight of your typical Jumpin’ Hot
Club punters, attired in cheap Stetsons, washed out denim jackets, needlecord
shirts, bootlace ties and desert boots. If Charles Dexter Ward had been the
unacceptable face of pre punk music, this was the glorious legacy of those
days. I loved it, despite the atrocious quality of elderly dancers in front of
the stage.
Summertyne only does it for me intermittently, but like
Shakespeare in Jesmond Dene, Narc Fest, pointless friendlies or
transfer speculation, it’s part of the essential fabric of Newcastle in July;
here’s to next year. I only hope Xisco is around to see it....
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