Undoubtedly,
if it were possible for me to up sticks and move to another city, the only
location I’d countenance would be Glasgow. I love the place for numerous
reasons, though one of the most compelling is that it boasts possibly the best
and most vibrant music scene of any urban metropolis on earth. As ever, 2020
will be another year of dominance by the Merchant City.
Take
for instance, January; the first record and first gig were both from residents
of said city and products of its music scene. Firstly, ex Trembling Bells
bassist Simon Shaw’s West Coast powerpop ensemble Youth of America released the
gorgeous Bop Showaddy EP, boasting four wholesome sticks of goodtime bubble-gum
pop extraordinaire. Standout tracks on this essential purchase 10” include the
sexy deadpan Death Doula, that drives along with a clear nod to Sister Ray’s uncompromising riff, not to
mention a respectful take on The Rubettes’ falsetto kitsch classic Sugar
Baby Love, that is all the better for having the histrionics toned down a
notch from the original. This EP is great work and I’d love to see the band put
through their paces on stage. One person
I did see on stage, doing a solo, acoustic free gig on Burns Night, was Teenage
Fanclub drummer and all-round musical polymath, Francis MacDonald, who
performed a beguiling set at The Cumberland Arms. In town to catch up with a
former neighbour, Francis made the excellent choice of not putting on a
greatest hits by other people show, and did half an hour of his own material
and songs given to him by friends, as well as a genuinely moving take on Green Grow the Rashes-Oh. He’s got a
great voice and certainly knows his way round a fretboard, as well as providing
excellent company over a post-gig pint. I did make the point it is important
that we see him again as part of his day job, at which point he reassured me
new TFC product and shows are in the post. Hallelujah.
Moving
on to February, the first day of the month offered up the most enticing night
of 2020 thus far, in Easterhouse. For months, Laura and I had been looking
forward to the launch party for Andromeda, Alex Neilson’s new album,
under his Alex Rex alias, especially as support came from the eternally radiant
Lavinia Blackwall and Stilton, whose own album is out on May 1st.
Heading north on the 10.46 train to Waverley and thence on to Queen Street, we
ran into Cath and Phil Tyler, toon-based troubadours who were also on the bill
at Platform; a council performance space of the kind the Tories decimated south
of the border. A spot so cerebral it makes Gosforth Civic Hall look like Max’s
Kansas City.
On
arrival at Queen’s Street, we took the short walk to Central and our adjoining
hotel, Motel One. It might just have been a place to get our heads down, but
it’s a quality spot and I’d recommend it on terms of location, price and
facilities. We’d stay there again. Having booked and made a pretence of
unpacking, it was time for football. Laura had hoped to see Partick at home,
mainly for a glimpse of their amazing mascot Kingsley in the flesh, but Sky TV
had intervened, moving their game to the night before. Therefore, we had no
real choice; as Airdrie versus Raith was just too far to double back to, a trip
to Hampden Park for Queen’s Park v Cowdenbeath, giving us the chance to be part
of the 616 rattling around in the 52k capacity National Stadium was our
destiny. Being next door to Central, we availed ourselves of the train to Mount
Florida and took a deserted walk down to the ground that once held 135,000 or
thereabouts. Next door, the renascent Lesser Hampden is being spruced up ready
for next season, when it will become the Spiders’ permanent home, as they
vacate the uneconomic big brother that has been their home for more than 150
years.
In
the ground, spectators of both sides mingle freely on the concourse of a modest
quadrant in the South Stand, but the two seating areas are segregated, with a
somewhat excessive sterile area keeping the 50 Fifers in support of the Blue
Brazil distant from the devotees of the descendants of the Men with Educated
Feet who formed Queen’s back in the mid-Victorian Era. English groundhoppers,
paying a final respectful trip to a Queen’s home game, are spread on both sides
of the netting, visible by the weight and volume of club merchandise they’ve purchased.
Indeed, the nearest we get to disorder are 3 teenage lads in our section having
their 500ml bottle of Volvic
confiscated by one of the stewards. However, the yellow jacketed crowd control
operative returned with the contents of said bottle poured into a plastic
glass. That’s how they do things here and I like their style.
The
shouts of the players echo around the 3 and a half empty stands, as the
promotion chasing visitors are placed firmly on the back foot by the
well-organised home side from the off. Late last year Queen’s membership voted
to abandon not just Hampden Park, but their code of unapologetic amateurism
that had been the philosophical touchstone of their 152-year existence. Will
this work? It isn’t really our place to comment, as 80% of the club’s
membership voted to go down that modernising route. A significant step was the
appointment of Ray McKinnon as manager. I’d last seen him getting pelters from
a seething gang of disaffected Bairns during his final game in charge of
Falkirk away to Dumbarton in November. He’s certainly nowhere near as divisive
a figure on the South Side. Indeed, I didn’t hear a single cuss all afternoon
from the Spiders’ fans, probably because they were massively on top and took a
deserved early lead when Slater buried a low shot after a tidy move from back
to front, before 10 minutes had elapsed. Lots of possession football followed,
but chances were scarce from both sides, though there was a late shock right on
half time when Cowdenbeath hit the inside of the post, but the ball stayed out
and we breathed again.
During
the break, I ate an awful pie and Laura bought me a pin badge, before a
frenetic second period that saw Queen’s Park swarm all over Cowdenbeath, but
just couldn’t find a killer second. Obviously, there was later desperate
pressure from the visitors to endure, but the Spiders held out and we gave two
modest cheers at full time, before training it back to the hotel for a quick
sit down. Soon, we were in an Uber on the M74, hurtling towards Platform.
Having eventually found the entrance, stood athwart a Library, a College and a
swimming pool in the sort of compassionate urban planning we don’t have in
England any longer, we were immediately welcomed by ex-Bells guitarist Mike
Hastings and soon took our seats for opening act Boss Morris; a 10-strong
female dance troupe from Gloucestershire, accompanied by a fella on the
accordion. Brilliant, crazy traditional stuff; they were like Toto Coelho meets
The Wicker Man. Next up Cath and Phil Tyler brought the mood down low
and desperate, with the darkest shades of Americana imaginable. These fine
folks make The Ballad of Hollis Brown seem a comedy sketch in
comparison. One highlight I’d not heard before was the set closing, banjo
driven riff on Matty Groves, whereby the male is the one who cheats on
the female and is done away with for this crime passionel. More rather
than less extraordinary for such an unexpected juxtaposition.
It's
10 years in May since I first saw, heard and fell in love with Trembling Bells
and all their constituent parts. Being honest, it was Lavinia’s voice that
first caught my attention; Sandy Denny reincarnated was the common reaction.
However, from a decade distant, listening to her current work, it seems scarcely
credible that we made comparisons with Folk sirens and vixens. Stilton are a
brilliant rock band, but they’ve far more in common with The Faces than
Fairport Convention. Unlike Trembling Bells, Stilton are more about light than
shade. Bright, positive, life-affirming 70s tinged rock pop that combines
gorgeous singalongs with driving, rhythmic backing. Lavinia seems so much
happier when in control of her oeuvre as well, especially with Marco and the
boys complementing her words so fittingly. I literally cannot wait for the
album.
Alex’s
album had arrived on the Wednesday before we went north. My goodness, I had
assumed Otterburn was his finest possible moment but, brilliant though
that album was, Andromeda outpaces it in terms of self-evisceration, vicious
barbed tongue lashings and the deepest, darkest sources of hatred and
hopelessness. This album could stand alone as a book of poetry or a concerto
that muses on the inherently evil and distressing nature of human relations. I
am shocked and grateful that Alex has been able to bring this mighty beast into
the open. Simply, put songs such as the terrifying I Am Happy, which
grows a tenth set of balls and teeth on stage, the sulphurous Oblivion,
the ironic and hateful Rottweilers, not to mention my personal
favourite, the howling, atonal I’m Not Hurting No More, as well as the
curiously pastoral, yet lyrically vicious closer Pass The Mask, show
Alex to be simply the most creative and inventive practitioner in the world of
music today. Praise must also be given to the magnificent backing provided by
Audrey Bizouerne, Rory Haye and Georgia Seddon, whose playing dovetails
perfectly with Alex and has taken his sound to a different stratosphere, where
the intensely personal words are complemented by intensely personal and perfect
music. The comparisons are no longer with Fairport but Nick Cave, Jandek and
the Brel v Gainsbourg interface.
Live,
Andromeda and friends is a riot of
decadent emotions, where the black mood is punctuated by purple prose and white
noise. Nods to where he’s come from include a drawling, laconic Master,
where Severin has finally broken the ties that bind, and a defiant, adorable Night
Visiting Song that may have been slightly spoiled by my presence on stage,
“singing.” The evening ends with a Last Waltz style ensemble singalong, where
Mike Heron takes centre stage and brings the house down with a public hug with
Alex. Truly, a night of one thousand
stars. Roll on April 8th when he brings the band to The Cumberland
Arms.
And
so, we took our leave on a shuttle bus to Mono, when things became blurred. I
remember being offered shots of vodka by a pleasant enough sociopath in a kebab
shop, but nothing else until next morning, when the rain was lashing down.
Still, Glasgow’s Miles Wetter as they always say. A tour around the city
centre, marvelling at both the rain and architecture, ended at Monorail, of
course, with the purchase of Return to Y’Hup, a tribute to Ivor Cutler
that had been showcased the Wednesday before we hit Glasgow. Twenty-six
glorious Cutler cuts, both musical and spoken, from all parts of his extensive
career, performed by a who’s who of Scottish indie music, marshalled by Citizen
Bravo and Raymond MacDonald. As a 40 year fan of Ivor, I am a bit of a
traditionalist, but there are some glorious moments here; Emma Pollock doing Size
Nine And A Half is one, Duglas Stewart’s warm and wondrous Vitamin P
is another, but Tracyanne Campbell’s Women of the World is the winner
here, breasting the tape just ahead of an ensemble I Got No Common Sense.
This really is a fabulous project and a record I’ll grow to love more with each
listening.
The
train back was from Central, meaning the first stop was Motherwell, appositely
enough as I’ve just finished dear, departed Deborah Orr’s tearjerking Motherwell:
A Girlhood. The progeny of vicious,
evil parents whose vanity and narcissism was expressed by an urge to put their
own needs before those of their first born daughter, Deborah compounded the
misery of her emotionally barren childhood, by marrying the hideous and evil
Will Self, whose self-messianic tendencies outdid even the cruelty of her
parents. It is a brave, beautiful book and I urge you to read it, especially in
memory of poor Deborah who passed late last year of the same demon cancer that
claimed both her parents.
Our
train arrived nigh on 17.00 and we headed home; tired, hungover but always
improved by a visit to Glasgow and the company of the best musicians in the
world. Only then did I discover that Andy Gill, guitarist with the Gang of Four, a man I've admired for over 40 years, had died. I'll return to his work in a later blog, but I can tell you I'm devastated at his passing.
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