That Man Loves You

I’m writing this immediately after hearing of the death of legendary avant garde saxophonist Lol Coxhill. I first became aware of him, and specifically his 1975 album “Fleas in Custard,” during one of my epic browsing sessions through the experimental and prog rock racks at the Pop Inn record shop in Felling Square. The title and his name struck a chord, even if I hadn’t a clue what kind of sounds he produced, though needless to say my fascination endured and I eventually tracked down a CD of him and ex Mott The Hoople fella Morgan Fisher aound the turn of the millennium; enjoyable it is too. Now I may have to look for more Coxhill product. Lol’s last gig in Newcastle was in July 2008 and it was a source of regret to me at the time that was away in Portugal on holiday; that regret is all the more pronounced now that he’s gone aged 79 and I’ll never get a chance to see him. RIP Lol.

I did see another 79 year old last week though; former Newcastle United chairman and self-mythologising, unreconstructed Thatcherite megalomaniac, Sir John Metrocentre Hall. As someone who believes passionately in fan ownership, I’ve never had much time for Hall, his family or his ilk. Actually I’ve never had any time for him; even when he took over from the contemptible Gordon McKeague, it was clear that Newcastle fans, whether they were aware of it or not, were entering in to a Faustian pact with the Wynyard Dynasty. While we got great football on the pitch, we paid through the nose for it, were treated with contempt by the board and then had to stand helplessly by as they made unimaginable millions from selling their assets in our club. When I look at the likes of Seymour, Westwood, McKeague, Shepherd and Ashley, I know there’s not a shred of difference between them. All they wanted, during their period at the throttle of the sporting gravy train that is Newcastle United, was to maximise their investments; at least Ashley doesn’t feel he has to patronise the supporters with preposterous flannel about the Geordie Nation. Sadly, not everyone sees the imperative of fan ownership as a standpoint which must perforce be vehemently opposed to billionaire owners soaking the ordinary fan for every penny then can get. To me it’s clear that those who combine their ostensible contempt for Shepherd with unctuous fawning over Ashley are the modern equivalents of 70s Rad Fems who continued to wear dungarees while voting Tory.

I’ve always found Hall to be a vacuous, preening narcissist; his latest utterances stating he won’t allow Ashley to change the name of St James’ Park to the Sports Direct Arena without a fight would have more credibility if Hall hadn’t renamed the Leazes after himself almost 20 years ago. It was all rather redolent of the sort of rewriting of history that allowed John Lydon to be introduced before his embarrassingly populist spot on “Question Time” as the singer of Public Image, presumably because it’s PiL that he’s promoting this summer, not the Sex Pistols or anchor butter.

However Sir Wynyard wasn’t the only bloke from Ashington that I heard talking bollocks last week. The 2012/2013 football season arrived after a painful 28 day close season with the visit of the Colliers to Grounsell Park. Ashington, or Benfield Rejects as they should be known with Paul Antony, Paul Buzzeo and Andy Dugdale playing for them, came up against a highly organised Heaton Stannington side, who deservedly won 2-0, much to the chagrin of the visiting supporters who were seemingly unused to Alliance officials and their arcane use of the laws of the game as a starting point for debate on foul play rather than as unequivocal arbiters of acceptable conduct. Ashington player Jonny Godsmark suffered a nasty injury after what appeared to be a fair but firm tackle, though the Collier Army didn’t see it like that, rising like lions after slumber to upbraid the referee. With the Northern League adopting a Secret Shopper approach to keeping foul language in check during 2012/2013; it would be a good idea if those from Woodhouse Lane took a step backwards before issuing volleys of profanities in future, as their intemperance may cost them dearly.

One field of human conflict in which swearing has to be encouraged is popular music. While I watched Heaton Stann v Ashington on a pleasant, warm afternoon, my son Ben was shivering in ankle high mud and swearing at the elements in a field in Perthshire, awaiting the arrival of The Stone Roses at T in the Park. The night before I’d watched BBC3’s highlights of this contemporary Dante’s Infernofuelled by Buckfast with distaste bordering on contempt as first Professor Green (how can anyone voluntarily listen to that shite?) and then Tiny Tempah, who appears to be Precious McKenzie’s grandson in 3D specs, sent me off to bed before 11.30 on a Friday night. Obviously I’d needed a good kip as there was football, beer and rock n roll to entertain me on the Saturday.

Last November, I wrote a blog about The Fall (http://payaso-del-mierda.blogspot.co.uk/2011/11/fragments-of-unpopular-culture-8-das.html), mentioning their rather wonderful gig at the ersatz Riverside on Guy Fawkes Night. Well, amazingly, after not visiting the area in almost 4 years, they were back again, supposedly to play the Cult Festival at Hoults Yard on Walker Road. Hardened Fall watchers took a sharp intake of breath before knowingly opining that the venue, promotion and endless list of smug non-entities from the local band scene that made up the rest of the bill hinted at a no-show, a late show or a very bad show from Das Gruppe. As tickets were £20, I’d decided not to bother, until my mate Knaggsy came up with the goods in the shape of a pair of freebies.

Knaggsy is a solicitor with a prestigious Quayside law firm who use Hoults Yard to store their documents, presumably as it’s far cheaper to hire space in Walker than on Sandhill. Their firm were given a load of freebies because of this; normally it’s tickets to the Falcons or boxes at the Theatre Royal when the Scottish Opera are in town, but this time it was The Fall. Knaggsy was a proper post punk lad back in the day (he’s 3 months  younger than me), being a guitarist in a band who not only released a single, but also supported The Fall at the Riverside in 1986. He’d not seen them since; in fact I don’t think he’s been anywhere other than The Newton since, except to see Killing Joke.

We made a night of it; a pint in each at the Cumberland, Cluny and Tyne, before a couple in the jewel of Newcastle’s pub world, the glorious Free Trade Inn. After this, we headed along to Hoults Yard. The festival seemed a jolly place; stalls selling veggy food, jugglers and some terrible local bands. We arrived to hear Beth Jeans Houghton’s set; it was awful. Perhaps the only interesting thing about this lady is that she’s walking out with Antony Keidis of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, so presumably the two of them have had a First Class time with Mr & Mrs Mensch at some point. However, let us leave that subject as memories of such gatherings are no doubt hazy.

Bearing in mind that the primary emotion before any Fall gig is not anticipation, but anxiety, the news that they were due on at 10, but this had been put back to 10.30 seemed ominous, even if we’d been reassured MES was “in good spirits.” In actual fact they arrived at 10.05, set up at 10.10 and were playing by 10.15.

Despite owning every single Fall album, it is often difficult to work out exactly what it is they are playing; I think I managed to recognise the opening “Strychnine,” the unexpected jewel of “Container Drivers” and the strand-out recent track “Nate will Not Return.” Regardless, this was one of the finest Fall gigs I’ve been to in the last 32 years of seeing them. MES was in a good mood; playing the keyboards, altering amp volumes, putting the mic in to the audience and in the bass drum, not to mention offering the bouncer outside for roughly handling a stage diver. I made it fr4om 5o yards back to actually standing against the stage and it was an absolutely brilliant night.  Everyone I knew there (all seeming to be on guest list places as well) agreed they’d not seen MES so animated, or the band so efficient in decades.

Even better, my old mate Peter, who used to be High Barnes’ number 1 Scritti Politti fan and is now Bedlington’s number 1 Scritti Politti fan, gave us a lift back to The Newton for last orders. A gig and a half and a night and a half. Meanwhile in Balado, The Stone Roses did a self-indulgent 12 minute version of “Fools Good” and no encore, or even a duet with Dappy. Frankly, is Ian Brown any better a person, or indeed a singer, than Sir John Hall? As for Mark E Smith; 32 years after first seeing them at the Tyne Theatre, it is still abundantly clear that man loves you.