The
consumerist festival of dubious moral provenance that is Record Store Day 2018
is upon us and I am glad to say, still smarting from being fleeced for £16 for
a Best Coast 7” last year, that nothing on the extensive and eclectic list
looks utterly essential for me. I am intrigued by the possibility of Snatch and
Alternative TV reissues, but the thought of shelling out £40 for a Mogwai
compilation doesn’t appeal. This is just as well as I’ve been enjoying plenty
of other new purchases in both aural and printed formats in the last while. Let’s
take an alphabetical amble through my latest acquisitions.
BOOKS:
During
his lifetime, Iain Banks wrote 28 novels; exactly half of these were volumes of
speculative fiction under the name of Iain M Banks and I do not feel it is
likely that I shall ever read these, as my preference is for earthy, grounded
realism. As regards the 14 volumes of what can loosely be called “mainstream
fiction” he published, I have now managed to read 6 of them, the latest being
1987’s Espedair Street. I have
thoroughly enjoyed every one of Banks’s novels, as I find both his
characterisation and sense of place utterly compelling and intend to read more,
as and when I come across them. I’m less convinced by some of the plot devices
he employs, as there’s rather too much reliance on chance and coincidence to
unravel seemingly intractable narrative dead-ends for my tastes, but I suppose
this isn’t a problem if one accepts all of his narrators as unreliable. In Espedair Street, Dan Weir, the rich as
Croesus former bassist of Scottish prog rock heroes Frozen Gold, who appear to
be as much Fleetwood Mac as they are Stone the Crows, finds meaning in his
empty post-superstar days, by escaping his anonymous Glasgow existence,
explained away by lengthy autobiographical interpolations, by reuniting with
the girl he left behind a decade earlier. It’s sentimental and unconvincing,
but the little vignettes about his life and the narrative of 70s excess he
retells, keep the book moving forward. At the end the reader is genuinely
pleased for the happy ending, which seems fine by me.
If
I could have my life over again, I’d like to have been either a bassist in
Godspeed You! Black Emperor or an orthodox left-arm spinner for a First Class
county. Aged almost 54, I realise neither proposition is likely to come to
fruition, especially as I used to bowl right arm, though I live in hope and
read as much as I can about such bowlers. The absolute epitome of the
uncompromising, querulous genius, seething at his captain’s incompetence from
the colonial posting of Long Leg, is Philippe-Henri Edmonds; the
uncompromising, maverick serial underachiever and fully paid up by direct debit
before the red letter comes out, member of the awkward squad. The appropriately
titled biography, A Singular Man, by
noted cricket writer Simon Barnes, gives a flavour of the wilfully antagonistic
and arch character who combined bowling brilliance with cantankerous contempt
in equal measures. The African colonialist whose family provided safe haven for
Zambian independence fighters. The Cambridge graduate who bemoans wasting time
enjoying himself as a student. The only spinner ever to be no balled in a test
match for more than one bouncer in an over. Edmonds is all of these things, but
he is no clown; a reticent, intelligent competitor, he keeps Barnes at arm’s
length throughout, minimising the number of potentially embarrassing anecdotes
from past or present, making the author rely on second-hand tales of Mike
Brearley’s exasperation with and Geoffrey Boycott’s affection for the man who retired
from Middlesex aged 35, but was already a multi-millionaire because of an
extensive property and share portfolio. The truly surprising thing is that,
post playing career, Edmonds and his gloriously unapologetic snob of a wife
Frances haven’t had a higher media profile. Still, fame is temporary whereas
wealth is permanent.
I’ve
said this before, but one of the best things about the social media revolution
has been the removal of barriers between creative types and their audience.
Just like it was back in Punk Rock days when we used to write letters to The
Mekons at their Richmond Mount address in Headingley, there is no real
impediment to direct contact with musicians and writers. Sometimes, almost
incredibly, you discover that you can become friends with people whose work you
admire. Ironically, two of my favourite writers have become friends because I
wrote them fan letters; Harry Pearson, who has just won Cricket Book of the
Year for his biography of Learie Constantine, and David Peace. Obviously with
Harry living in Hexham I see more of him than I do of David in Tokyo, but email
is a great way to keep in touch across the miles. David sent me a copy of his
new novel Patient X, for which I was
enormously grateful. Flicking through it, I was almost overcome to discover I
was one of those he’d listed for thanks. Simply put, I couldn’t be more humbled
to learn this, especially as it came straight after Trembling Bells namechecked
Laura and I on the sleeve of Dungeness,
of which more later.
Patient X is the telling and
retelling of the life and death of Japanese novelist Ryūnosuke Akutagawa, who
committed suicide in 1926. The book takes the form of 12 thematically and
chronologically linked tales chronicling the writer’s life from birth to death,
all in the trademark style of repetition, monologue, multiple narrators and
precise detail. The effect, as ever, is hypnotic and disorientating. We are Ryūnosuke
Akutagawa and we are also his friends, his family and his judge and jury. The
meticulous attention to detail and character makes Patient X a compelling and convincing read. The book is both
accessible and evocative of times, places and the deteriorating mental
condition of the protagonist. While we are not required to love the central
figure, unlike Bill Shankly in RED OR
DEAD for instance, the accessibility (and relative brevity of 289 pages) of
the novel makes it, to this reader, the most enjoyable of the 3 Japanese novels
David has published so far. While other writers slip into obscurantism or
self-parody (I’m almost afeared to begin Welsh’s latest, Dead Man’s Trousers), David Peace has become broader in scope and
even more skilled in his craft as his writing has progressed. Patient X is another triumph, though a
considerably different sort of victory, than all of his other works.
John
O’Farrell published Things Can Only Get
Better in 1997, no doubt intoxicated by the heady sense of false hope
engendered by Blair’s landslide. You see, John O’Farrell, as well as being a
noted television comedy writer for the likes of Spitting Image and Have I Got
News for You was also, and still is, a lifelong Labour Party activist. His
ex-patriate Irish parents ended up dealing antiquarian books on the western
fringes of the Home Counties, where their love of social justice marked them
out as tolerated eccentric oddballs. Young John followed in their footsteps,
including 3 years of fruitless campaigning in the rock-solid Tory bastion of
higher education that was Exeter University. Come graduation, the need for work
took him to Wandsworth, in the febrile post 81 riots and pre-Malvinas
atmosphere of SDP defections and Tony Benn’s deputy leadership campaign.
O’Farrell was not a revolutionary by temperament or instinct and chronicles the
decade and a half of opposition through a prism of then as yet undiscredited
New Labour centrist smarm. Events have not been kind to his political ethos,
with the Blair and Brown years rightfully regarded as a shameful betrayal of
Labour principles, though to be fair to O’Farrell, he is an engaging writer who
seems unable to restrict himself to cheap, self-deprecating gags about the
Livingstone London Loony Left in glorious technicolour. There are elements of
light and shade, of self-doubt and recrimination that show O’Farrell, back in
the day, as a writer of some promise. Thankfully he has subsequently abandoned
cracking gags and is now a serious novelist of some repute, so I’d commend this
curiously anachronistic period piece to those who enjoy his oeuvre and seek to
learn if child was father to the man.
Music:
Just
under 2 years ago, former Loft and Weather Prophets frontman turned university
academic Pete Astor broke a decade and a half long musical silence with the
cracking solo album, Spilt Milk. On
the back of its release, he played a handful of dates, though none up here,
before concentrating on the day job once more. Right at the start of 2018, he
followed up Spilt Milk, with One for the Ghost, as well as announcing
a gig at The Cumberland Arms at the end of March. Brilliant stuff. This would
be the first time I’d seen him live since May Day Bank Holiday 1987 when The
Weather Prophets played the Riverside; the same day Newcastle lost 3-0 at home
to Charlton Athletic and I twisted my ankle stepping off the kerb outside the
long-gone Rose and Crown. As I developed tonsillitis overnight, I could neither
walk nor talk next morning. Thankfully this evening wasn’t so traumatic as
Astor, using the support act as a pick-up band, combined half a dozen solo
acoustic numbers with a similar number of traditional rocking stompers. The
live set veered backwards and forwards from the mid-80s to the present day,
though without any nods to his first band The Loft, surprisingly enough. One for the Ghost, a charmingly positive
exploration of the meaning of death in twelve immaculately crafted, sugary
indie acts, featured in considerable detail, giving Astor the sheen of the
ideologically correct Phillip Larkin of the C86 generation. There was also time
for a couple of real highlights; a rumbling, triumphant The Getting There from Spilt
Milk and a closing, piledriving take on the Weather Prophets classic, Almost Prayed. A great night and a great
album to add to the collection.
When
Mekonville, a festival to celebrate the 40th anniversary of one of
the most enduring and beguiling bands to emerge from the 1977 musical
realignment, was announced last summer, I was aghast at being forced to miss
it, on account of the fact it coincided with Ben’s graduation in Leeds. This
sense of anguish was doubled when I got my hands on the fantastic 12” Still Waiting and realised just how
vital and empowering the band’s music could be. However, in a way that
wondrously squared the circle, The Mekons 77 (the original line up of the band)
had actually recorded a whole album and announced a short tour scheduled to end
in Leeds, on a Saturday night. Ben, currently engaged on his MA dissertation
about the influence of the Situationist International on Factory Records,
suggested we attend this gig. I didn’t need asking twice. In preparation, I
ordered and absorbed the fabulous album It
Is Twice Blessed, which comprises a load of recordings they did last summer,
proving that The Merchant of Venice
and The Mekons will never grow old or lose relevance. Yes, there is nostalgia,
from the opening thump and glorious thud of Healey
Waving onwards, as all of these tracks could feature on The Quality of Mercy or my personal
favourite, Devils, Rats and Piggies: A
Special Message from Godzilla. However, sometimes that’s a good thing; the
excoriating genius of Evening All,
holding police to account for the state-sponsored murder of 70 civilians since
Blair Peach, is the finest criticism of the violence inherent to the patriarchal
society since Corporal Chalkie. The
whole album deserves proper recognition; after all, it isn’t just Guy Debord,
Griel Marcus and me who love this band.
And
so, following a 3-0 home thumping for my beloved Benfield at the hands of
Jarrow Roofing, 4 train cans from Centrale and a smooth ride to Leeds, I meet
Ben at the station. We hit The Fenton (where else?) for a pint before finding
our way to the Brudenell Social Club. I’ve seen The Pop Group, The Wedding
Present and now The Mekons here; a venue doesn’t get acts like that by chance.
It gets them by being brilliant. Thankfully, the bands reciprocate and The
Mekons 77 gave us a spectacular dose of reality. This was the future, and this
was the past. Ranging backwards and forwards from the late 70s to the present
day, the overwhelming awareness of history repeating itself as austerity,
repression, war and false consciousness continue to be used as tools of social
control, was hammered unequivocally home from the opening bars of 32 Weeks, Fight the Cuts, Never Been in a Riot and The Building. It wasn’t just polemicist agitprop; The Mekons were
always too cute for the obvious. There was the love and loss epics of Rosanne and the beautiful bathos of Lonely & Wet. The first sighting
I’ve had of Tom Greenhalgh in 20 years saw him tackle After 6, with the customary fragility at the song’s heart. All doubts the band could replicate their original fire were cast aside by a closing salvo of Dan Dare, followed by the encores of What Are We Gonna Do Tonight? and Where Were You? I don’t know, and I don’t really care if this was
all we’ll ever get from the original line-up, but it was life-affirming and
proof enough that fighting the cu(n)ts for the past 4 decades has been the
right thing to do. Thank you for being geniuses.
Trembling
Bells are also geniuses. Everything they have ever released is brilliant. I
didn’t think they could top The Sovereign
Self or Wide, Majestic Aire, but Dungeness has aced everything in the
band’s back catalogue. Frankly I am so far beyond being able to discuss their
music in a disinterested or objective manner that one wonders as to the value
of any words I expend on them. Suffice to say, in my opinion it has reached the
point where it is futile to try and spot the influences on and cultural
references within the band’s work; suffice to say Trembling Bells are a synthesis
of the entire history of popular, folk and classical music, as well as harbingers
of what there is to come. They stand above and beyond all other bands making
music in this world today; a perpetually replenishing cup to drink from the
fountain of eternal creativity. Yes it is possible to discern a nod towards
Scarlet Rivera’s violin work on Desire in
Christ’s Entry into Govan, while
every review I’ve read has namechecked Black Sabbath emerging from the shadows
in The Prophet Distances Himself from his
Prophecy, not to mention Alex Neilson’s drumming getting more like Ginger
Baker’s every day; and that’s not a tonsorial comment neither. But so what? If,
as has been suggested, the 1960s finally said goodbye with The Last Waltz, in the process laying down the gauntlet of
challenge that the future has failed to either emulate or surpass, then what is
humanity to do other than accept Rebecca,
Dressed as a Waterfall as all that can be said in return?
I
was appalled by Trembling Bells omitting Newcastle from their April tour, but
elated to learn of an impending return visit to The Cumberland in July; the
same night as The Oh Sees are doing the Boilershop Steamer apparently, but
there’s no contest for me. I know for certain that Trembling Bells will mean as
much to me during the rest of my life as Teenage Fanclub, The Mekons, Godspeed
You! Black Emperor, The Wedding Present and Fairport Convention have done so
far. I simply cannot fathom how Dungeness
hasn’t sold a million copies. Also, I’m dead chuffed the band namechecked
Laura and I on the cover.
Roaming
around the internet, as one does, I found reference to a Swedish duo called Us
and Them, whose sound was apparently redolent of the Pillows and Prayers era Cherry Red stable. While this sub-genre was
always a little winsome and asexual for my tastes, I did sit up and take notice
when it was revealed that once of their releases comprised their versions of four
of the mad songs from The Wicker Man
soundtrack. Now it’s a film I love, as much for its sheer silliness as anything
else, but I wouldn’t put the musical interludes as anywhere near as important
as Christopher Lee’s wonderful hairstyle for instance. However, I was intrigued
by reference to the fact that Us and Them had recently released an EP of Sandy
Denny covers on the wonderfully zany British prog and psych label Fruits de
Mer, with the brilliantly pretentious title of Dwindling Within the Fading Sun. It was only a tenner, so I
immediately invested. Almost inevitably, the 5 song 10” release is something of
a curate’s egg; vocalist Britt doesn’t get within a country mile of Sandy’s
range and power, with a voice that echoes the tremulous warbling of Vashti
Bunyan. The opening Winter Wings is
formal and respectful, as is the elegiac Take
Away the Load. Unfortunately, Next
Time Around is a terrible dirge, though the purchase was justified by the
superb take on the traditional Banks of
the Nile and a glorious reading of the Fairport classic Farewell, Farewell, though even I could
make a decent stab at such a wonderful creation as that one. An interesting and varied recording;
one of my favourite obscure impulse purchases of recent times.
Yo
La Tengo are touring soon. They aren’t playing Newcastle of course; that last
fiasco in the deserted big hall at the Sage will keep them away forever. I’m
ambivalent about heading down to Leeds on May 3rd to see them,
partly because it’s the Tyneside Repeal the Eighth fundraiser at the Irish
Centre and partly because I’m not so sure I need to hear much of the new album,
There’s A Riot Going On, played live.
Sharing a title with Sly Stone’s 1971 classic of the same name suggested to me
this was going to be some kind of pre-apocalyptic, amps turned to 11, visceral
howl of protest at the final days we’re living through, but that’s exactly what
it isn’t. YLT’s 15th album is pretty much the other side of their
oeuvre, boasting several slices of gentle pop rock with sweet melodies and
restrained instrumentation. George sings a few and Ira sings the rest, without
finding the need to trash the equipment at any stage. It’s very good though; a
calm and rational response to these terrible times we’re enduring. This is their
least song-centric album, anchored by 12 minutes of largely wordless ambience; “Dream
Dream Away” and the fluttering organ drone and staticky radio transmissions of
“Shortwave” that makes them sound more brooding than ever. There’s love too; “Shades
of Blue,” a lullaby of romantic longing, and the romance of “For You Too.”
Let’s be clear about this; Yo La Tengo are not murdering the classics, they are
offering counsel to those enduring post-traumatic stress at the sheer evil and
insanity in our world. It’s camomile tea rather than bourbon and hemlock
cocktails all round. There’s no riot and there’s nothing going on, but that
doesn’t matter when the tranquillity of stasis is as beautiful as this. Stay
indoors; you don’t need to see a 60-year-old guy battering a Marshall amp with
a sunburst Telecaster. Or perhaps we do…
Thank you Mr Cusak. I need to lie down now.
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