Summer Nights

My last cultural iterations were published back in April, so we’ve a bit to catch up on. Not really in terms of reading; Irvine Welsh’s Dead Man’s Trousers still sits unopened on the nightstand, while the only 2 published documents I’ve made my way through are the independent poetry chapbooks Crust by PJ Carmichael and A Life Like This Ain’t for the Faint Hearted by Bradford Middleton. Both collections are from the tattered margins of the literary world and society in general, specifically Boston, Massachussets and Brighton respectively. The two writers tackle the role of the outsider poet in different ways; Middleton opts for the Bukowski-inspired autobiographical, prosaic style of anecdotal retelling, whereas Carmichael communicates the breakdown of ordinary life in jagged, barbed, depersonalised fragments of anger. Both approaches work well, but it is Carmichael who has the wider appeal by eschewing the first-person narrator in the hope of telling truths to a wider audience.

 Being a little hard up these days (see next week’s blog for more details), I’ve not got a lot of new stuff, but I did make a few modest purchases after Record Store Day; two to be precise. Mark Perry has reanimated Alternative TV and released the 12” EP Dark Places. Four and a bit decades since Sniffin Glue was a thing, Perry remains as vital and innovative as ever, with four prime slices of miserable, doom-mongering despair. Opener The System is an anarchistic call to arms that could be from Action Time Vision, while Verlust is a tough homage to the last days of Krautrock. Flipping the disc over, we get the angry, spooky, spoken word diatribe Like A Tomb, which could claim a place on The Good Missionaries’ Vibing up the Senile Man and nobody would bat an eyelid. Closing number, the thrashy, minor chord feast of Her Dark Places pays tribute to UK Decay and the early days of Killing Joke. A top-quality recording and a delight to have Mark back again.

I was delighted that Mogwai’s Ten Rapid, an essential compilation of tracks from their early days, giving insight and context to their sound, as well as showing the band at their most raw, was made available again. How joyous it is to hear the plaintive riffing and deadpan vocals of Angels Versus Aliens and A Place for Parks, then the wheezing noise of I Am Not Batman and Helicon 1.  Through it all, the band’s unmistakable power and grace oozes through the tracks. Ten Rapid captures the band before they’d honed their craft, and is possibly their most honest, revealing record of all. On top of that, Helicon 2 might be the most unashamedly beautiful thing they have ever recorded.

I recently obtained a split 7” 33rpm by the Philadelphia thrash outfit Bandit and New Jersey powerviolence practitioners Ground. It’s a bloody tough listen; Bandit play at about 200 mph and a similar number of decibels, while Ground are very loud and very slow. I dislike Bandit’s style of music entirely; sorry. Ground are more to my taste but seem a little too testosterone-charged for me. Apologies everyone.

 No apologies needed for the recent live attractions I’ve been privileged to see. When The Wedding Present, or specifically David Gedge, announced that Tommy had been chosen as the next album to be toured, I wasn’t surprised. Gedge’s seemingly obsessive attitude to detail always suggested he’d take compilation albums as integral parts of the band’s CV and thus they needed playing, then archiving. I did have a sense of unease though, as for every Felicity to celebrate, there is an inferior My Favourite Dress to be endured. Seems like I wasn’t the only one with misgivings as the crowd was very disappointing; less than half of the turnout for George Best last year. In the end, it was a good gig, but not a great one. Part of the problem is that the very early material can seem weak and unchallenging for a band as brilliant as the current line-up. Certainly, Charles Layton could play this stuff in his sleep, while Danielle Wadey has grown into the band and is an integral member, who needs a tougher set list to truly challenge her. She certainly had that with the absolutely blinding take on Boo Boo and a storming closer of Take Me! As ever, it was worth attending and I’m already looking forward to next year, which will no doubt be goodnight Bizarro.

There are those bands you build up such a rapport with over the years that they become friends as well as sources of musical pleasure. Two such outfits are the Band of Holy Joy and Trembling Bells; the former I’ve seen 13 times over a period of 31 years and the latter 10 times in 8 years. However, I do feel able to dispassionately discuss their work without sounding gushing or nepotistic, especially as they are both at the very top of their game.

 The Band of Holy Joy’s appearance at Tynemouth CIU Club was the seventh different venue they’d played since they came back into my consciousness in 2009. Inventive gigs at the Star & Shadow, Bede’s World and The Cluny 2 have been complemented by sweaty, intimate performances at The Cumberland and Surf Café of late. Here, on a baking, airless night, with the village awash with 3 stripe dadsuals insensible from the heat, the drink, England’s World Cup QF win and the sounds of the hideous Paul Heaton at The Priory, Johny Brown and the lads owned the Fringe Festival. I’d last been in the club in March 1983; even then it was only to play snooker. I didn’t even know there was an upstairs, but it’s a delight and I sincerely hope that a Coastal gig circuit can be established on the back of this. From the opening bars of the glorious Revivalist Impulse, it was clear Johny, surrounded by the best musicians he’s ever worked with in the 40 plus years I’ve watched from the sidelines, was coming home with a vengeance and in triumph. His glistening, clean white shirt gave him the aura of a matinee idol in surroundings that were ideal for those of us who remember and love Tactless. This was surely The Land of Holy Joy and a classic hour of modern and unreleased numbers was topped off with a stunning encore involving a climactic Fishwives. Just brilliant.

 The term “brilliant” is inadequate to describe the magisterial, regal glories of Trembling Bells. Dungeness will be the album of 2018; of that there can be no doubt. Last year they did a 50^th anniversary of the Summer of Love with Mike Heron, who was curiously absent tonight; it was great, but I adore seeing them on their own terms in the intimate surroundings of The Cumberland. In fact, the first place Laura and I saw them that evening was in The Bake, Byker’s best Lebanese restaurant. A serious great spot for a bit of scoff if you’re in the area, it used to be a pub called The Plough, where falling letters suggested it was actually called The PLO; hence the nickname Arafat’s. Unfortunately, and I doubt it was to do with the bait, Alex started to look distinctly unwell at the end of the meal. Within an hour it had become a full-blown dose of the shits and the gig looked likely to be pulled; much to the chagrin of two lads who’d driven down from Coldstream to see them. Alex is an amazing songwriter, performer and all-round polymath; he’s also a brave bastard and deserves a medal for going on stage. From out of nowhere, the gang pulled a brilliant rabbit out of the hat, with a stormy set. Derived mainly from Dungeness, classics such as The Prophet Distances Himself From His Prophecy and Christ’s Entry Into Govan with characteristic, psychedelic flair. What I found most encouraging was the closing new number; a bass-driven glam grind called I Am The King. Stick sax or a clarinet over the top of this and it’s Roxy meets Bowie circa 72 or 73. Stunning. As ever, a wonderful evening’s entertainment with wonderful people, especially Marco Rea of The Wellgreen and Euros’ Roogie Boogie Band, who is Lavinia’s blissfully happy fiancé. Congratulations and all our love to both of them. All of our love and thanks to the rest of the band as well.

 When Michael Head formed The Pale Fountains, I was listening to the likes of Einsturzende Neubauten, The Gun Club and Dinosaur Jr; there wasn’t a lot of space in my musical world for melodic, summery pop. They completely passed me by, though I did prick up my ears when Shack arrived, especially the fin de siècle masterpiece HMS Fable, though I’ll hold my hands up and admit I didn’t feel compelled to search out the rest of Head’s oeuvre, until last year’s Adios Senor Pussycat. There are many critics of Twitter, but I’m delighted that contacts through this social media platform helped me catch hold of the buzz surrounding Head’s latest, drug-free renaissance. It’s a gorgeous album, full of warmth, love and optimism. Live, after a great set of anthemic glamorous, psychedelic jangling by the immensely promising Peach Fuzz, Michael Head is a rare treat; a life-affirming, positive, quasi spiritual experience. 

Bearing in mind the sub culture tangentially and loosely associated with the cultural milieu that celebrates Shack and other projects, I had worried this would be a tough, hard-faced crowd of 3 stripe scowlers in chunky knitwear. It couldn’t have been further than the sock and roll dadsual nightmare I’d feared, other than one lad melting in his Baslager MA.Strum rig-out. Head bears the scars of his lifestyle choices on a prematurely aged face, but it is one that remains wreathed in smiles of genuine gratitude at the acclamation he receives. He appears genuinely abashed and rendered shyly inarticulate by the adoration of the crowd. All he can do is what he does best; glorious, effortlessly-constructed pure pop from the tradition of Big Star, The Byrds and many other classic influences from the canon of melodic grace. In an extensive set, ranging backwards and forwards across the years, many numbers both old and new stand out and sure-fire classics, but none more so than the iconic, anthemic Streets of Kenny. Perhaps the grandest and saddest song about buying heroin since Waiting for the Man; a baroque, melancholy eulogy to all those wasted lives and wasted years. But, let’s stay optimistic; Michael Head is back and in the best form of his life. Love him; he loves you.