For a
change, this week’s blog begins with an apology. However before the Strawberry
Blonde Sturmabteilung kick off their stirrups, dismount their high horses and
start with their best Gene Awtry impersonations, I need to clarify that my sorrowful
imprecations are directed to the finest Man of Gwent, Jon Boy Langford. The
friendliest Mekon in the entire world played The Cumberland Arms on Saturday 16th November and, in
the normal run of events, I’d have been the first one through the door.
However, my attendance was prevented by prior engagements. As a one of the most important figures in the
post-punk era, I’m sure Jon is fine with knowing my absence was caused by Ben
and me heading to Glasgow for The Raincoats at Mono. Jon’s devotion to Newport County will also allow him to nod
in sagacious support of me and the young’un taking in Dumbarton versus Falkirk
in the afternoon. Those of you who know your Scottish football nicknames will
immediately recognise this as being a contest between The Sons and The Bairns.
I’ve no idea if Dumbarton women’s team is called The Daughters, or whether Ayr
United’s are the Bonnie Lassies…
Following on
from trips to Stirling Albion and North Ferriby, this was my third trip away
and second to Scotland in a month. At least I didn’t have to worry about
Benfield’s fate in my absence, as the away game at Shildon was rained off well
before Ben and I escaped the party of braying Proscecco loutesses en route
to an Old Reekie birthday weekend piss-up, who’d thronged our carriage to
Waverley. Having blown kisses to Sam Smith’s
Park and Easter Road at both ends of the East Coast journey, we took the
typically empty service to Queen Street, averting our eyes from both Murrayfield
and Swinecastle, arriving in time for the 13.06 way out west to Dumbarton.
The other
week a few of us had been reminiscing how, in the olden days, the way to spot a
football ground in an unfamiliar city was to look for the floodlights. Of
course, since the predominance of identikit concrete bowls in the name of
progress, most places don’t have floodlights these days. Dumbarton do, but
there’s a slightly larger landmark to follow; Dumbarton Castle, which sits on a
240 feet high plug of volcanic basalt known as Dumbarton Rock, with the
football ground at the foot of it. You can’t miss that notable landmark from
Dumbarton East train station. However, we weren’t there to sightsee; instead we
went in search of a pint.
In Scottish
League 1, Falkirk are unquestionably the side with the largest home and away
support, so Dumbarton made this game all ticket. With the final attendance being 986, only
marginally higher than the previous league best of 970 against Raith Rovers,
which was still considerably less than the 1,394 who came for the visit of
top-flight Motherwell in a League Cup group stage game, it is questionable
whether this was the best decision economically, bearing in mind the C&G
Systems Stadium has a capacity of 2,020. Whatever the arguments, it meant the
1872 Bar in the back of the stand was out of bounds for travelling fans, which
was a shame as it appeared to have plenty of intriguing memorabilia about one
of Scotland’s oldest teams. Instead, we headed down the very end of the spit of
land beyond the Castle to Rock Bowling Club, where we were meeting Falkirk fan
and Razur Cuts editor, my pal Derek Steel and East Stirlingshire’s celebrity
fan (the Shire were playing Sunday), Dickson Telfer; an accomplished writer and
musician, recently bassist in the delightfully lush and off-kilter L-Space.
Check them out.
Two pints
and then to the game, arriving right on kick off, when the venom began to pulse
in earnest. In all my years of attending football, I can’t recall many more
choleric away supports than the Falkirk zealots in the first block of the
stand. From the very start, an undercurrent of abuse towards board members and
manager Ray McKinnon in particular was never far from the surface. Only a few
weeks ago, Falkirk had shown signs of shaking off their post-relegation torpor,
by going top of the table. Since then, the expensively assembled squad, in
Scottish League 1 terms, have gone completely off the boil. In this game, the
only true quality was to be found in the play of former Dundee United and Senegal
playmaker Morgaro Gomis, whose skills on the ball and effortless array of
passing kept The Bairns on the front foot. Typically, after 3 presentable
scoring opportunities, Dumbarton came up the other end and took the lead with
their first serious attempt on goal. Rangy striker Isaac Layne touched in Joe
McKee’s cross from a yard out, meaning the first 30 minutes of Falkirk industry
went to waste. Their fragile confidence was demonstrated by the unimpeded
progress of McKee’s hopeful ball and the subsequent disintegration of the
Falkirk gameplan.
Half time
saw the players, management and board booed off by the irate Bairns. And the
second half got no better, as a modest Dumbarton side, managed by serial
dug-out failure Jim Duffy, kept a maddeningly shot-shy Falkirk easily at bay.
McKinnon’s insistence on 4-5-1, even when bringing on former Wigan and Ireland
blunderbuss Connor Sammon, who was stuck out on the left wing, ramped up the
vicious abuse. In the 90th minute, Falkirk were awarded a somewhat
generous penalty for handball, but even after Declan McManus proved his aim was
true (geddit???) from 12 yards, there were no celebrations on the field or off.
The final whistle was again greeted with a storm of invective and incessant
booing. The game had been terrible; I’d enjoyed it immensely.
We bade
Derek and Dickson farewell, then headed for the station. Amusingly about 20
Dumbarton neds who fancied themselves as a kind of trainee Young Team threw a
few insults at Falkirk from 50 yards away in the park, where anonymity was
provided by black darkness. Soon the train came and we headed to Charing Cross,
booked into our miniature hotel room, before heading for Mono. Having eschewed the opportunity for a Scotch pie at the
football, a snack was imperative, so we went less than native with a quick Subway before the gig. Waiting for it is
when I received a text from Derek rejoicing at the fact McKinnon had been given
his cards. Not a wasted day on the terraces for the travelling Bairns after
all.
The queue
for entry snaked almost to the road, so we abandoned thoughts of a quick one in
the 13th Note and showed
patience, in the bar queue subsequently as well, then found a good spot at the
end of the counter, to rest our pints of Merchant City New World IPA, which had
a little too much of a banana tang for me, and Joker IPA, which consistently
remains the most reliable of all Scottish beers and the reason why I’d loved to
visit Alloa Athletic sometime soon. You
know, I could probably spend every weekend in Glasgow if it weren’t for the
fact stumping up for the train and a bed means you’re looking at a baseline
£100 before you’ve even had a coffee. I mean, Alex Neilson curated an evening
the week before with Lavinia top of the bill at The Hug and Pint while this weekend coming sees The Pastels
supported by Lightships up in Maryhill. What a city. What a venue. What a gig.
As I said to
Stephen Pastel afterwards, after all the gigs I’ve seen in all the years I’ve been
coming to Glasgow, this was perhaps not the best, but it was the most
significant. The Raincoats were an incredibly important band to me; I fell in
love with them after watching the South
Bank Show special on Rough Trade,
which sent me to Listen Ear on Ridley
Place to purchase Fairytale in the
Supermarket in June 1979. I’d almost played it to death by the time the
first album came out in November that year; on the same day as all the macho
tough guys were buying London Calling
by The Clash. In many ways, that’s a
great album, with Lover’s Rock and I’m Not Down being my favourites, but it
doesn’t hold a candle to The Raincoats.
Undoubtedly,
the truly iconic nature of The Raincoats is reflected by how their first album
changed the way women in the post punk scene were regarded by participants and
non-participants alike. The main effect of Vicki Aspinall, Gina Birch and Ana
Da Silva’s work was to establish women could be regarded as equals; as human
beings. Sure, The Slits were great, but they didn’t set themselves up as
feminist fighters, looking for equality. The likes of Kleenex, Delta 5, The
Flowers, Essential Logic and Prag VEC similarly showed that in the inclusive
DIY aesthetic of post-punk, creativity and integrity mattered most. As a gauche
teenage wallflower, I loved these bands, and The Raincoats most of all, not
just for their incredible music that inspires me to this day, but because their
existence and body of work allowed me to reject all versions of masculinity and
the patriarchal narrative. Most of this ideological rebellion was in my head,
though I did wear a Rock Against Sexism
badge, even when stood in the middle of the Gallowgate End.
The
Raincoats had been due to play Newcastle on 18th June 1980, at a
long-gone warehouse on the Quayside, which I think was the day I finished my O
Levels. For some reason, it didn’t happen, so I didn’t get to see them until
June 1994 at the Riverside. They had Steve Shelley on drums and were promoting
the release of their Blast First John
Peel Session EP; it’s great and they were great, though they didn’t play most
of the first album, which was sad.
This time,
they began with a triumphant Fairytale in
the Supermarket, before charging through the first album. Other than
perhaps Thirteen or Bringing it all Back
Home, I struggle to think of an album with a more powerful first side than The Raincoats. Joy; No Side to Fall In. Ideology; Adventures
Close to Home. Defiance; Off Duty Trip. Celebration; Black and White (and how jealous I was of the London audience who
got to see Laura Logic playing her part on stage). Revolution; Lola. Their passionate versions of these
obscure songs from 4 decades ago elevated the audience’s attitude to
stratospheric levels of love towards these strong, brave, indomitable women.
Shambolic and endearing, but so fucking important, they played side 2; The Void, In Love, No Looking; you know what I’m talking about.
The same night Liam Gallagher was playing Glasgow and Gerry Cinnamon Newcastle.
Men are fucking shit when you think about it…
The final 4
songs were the Peel Session EP and they were so fitting in this context. Gig
over, I purchased Ben a copy of The Raincoats
and got myself Odyshape, the second
album I’d only ever had on cassette. It remains an endearing and experimental
step forward that requires closer listening than the first album, as it still
eschews immediacy in favour of craft. Ben also got himself the EP by support
act Hairband. Now this Glasgow quintet knows their feminist musical history and
by goodness they can play a storm. Perhaps with more of a hint of C81 era funky
pop than 78 industrial miserabilism, they understand what Rough Trade did for
us all back in the day. Ordinarily, I often find myself trying to talk to bands
post gig, but not this time. As a bloke I didn’t want to invade spaces where I
wasn’t required. I still had a chat with Stephen and also the very wonderful
Tam Dean Burn, both of whom loved the gig.
Drunk on
nostalgia and rightful aesthetic inspiration, we grabbed an Uber and a late
night pizza on Sauciehall Street, before crashing out. Cheers to The Raincoats,
Mono, Hairband, Derek, Dickson, Dumbarton FC, Falkirk FC and Joker IPA. I wish
I belonged to Glasgow, but I’ll see you soon.
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