Reading Festival

I've read some important books recently, as well as listening to some excellent music. The two situations are to an extent, linked...

Winter is such a bleak time that there’s no excuse for not shuttering your soul from the realities of the shitstorm that is the outside world by immersing yourself in a good book or three. Ironically then, I’m going to start this blog by talking about two of the worst books I’ve ever read. Back in August when I inherited nearly 150 football related books from Percy Main FC, I managed to quickly flog 100 of them at a quid a pop (all profits to the club). Consequently, I have since been left with a crate of ones that nobody wants (list available on application or £10 for the lot if you’ll come and fetch them from mine). I decided to take one, or actually two, for the team by thinning out this number and reading copies of duplicate books. Somehow, the person who’d donated his entire sporting stock to the club in the first place had managed to get hold of a pair of copies of both Glen Hoddle; the Man and the Manager by Brian Woolnough and Oliver Derbyshire’s sycophantic screed John Terry; Captain Marvel.

The first is phoned-in biography for dummies that ends at the moment England secured a fortuitous 0-0 in Italy to qualify for the 1998 World Cup, so we don’t have troubling elements such as his treatment of Paul Gascoigne or eugenicist beliefs that the disabled are being punished in this life for their sins in a previous existence. Instead, we get a plodding flat narrative, where Hoddle’s seemingly arbitrary choice to leave his wife and kids after two decades of marriage is described with less detail or empathy than his decision to drop Ian Walker for Nigel Martyn in the England squad. Hoddle may be an enigmatic combination of banality and the occult, but you’d never get that here as Woolnough appears to be at least 100 yards distanced from his subject at all times. The book is an utter waste of paper, but is only marginally less otiose than Derbyshire’s dross that clearly was composed by means of a slavish copy and paste job that harvested quotations from a dozen interviews Terry didn’t give to the author who, as if to make up for the utter lack of insight into the deeply unpleasant bar room brawler Terry still was at the time of publication in late 2005, decided to produce 250 pages of inane, hagiographic horseshit that would be better used as blotting material on a dysentery ward. There’s three hours I’ll never get back, eh?

Thankfully, I did read some very good books this month which, serendipitously, all seemed to be about broadly similar subjects. Firstly, Gavin Butt’s No Machos or Pop Stars which concerns itself with the influence of the Fine Art departments of both Leeds Poly and Leeds University on the post punk scene in that city, which gave birth to such vital, compelling and ageless bands as Gang of Four, The Mekons, Delta 5, Scritti Politti and The Three Johns, as well as giving floorspace to other less well known groups whose work and reputation has not been so well remembered. Secondly, Hungry Beat; the story of Scottish post punk from 1977 to 1984 by Douglas MacIntyre, Grant McPhee and Neil Cooper, as viewed from the perspective of initially those concerned with Fast Products in Edinburgh (hello to the Gang of Four and The Mekons again, as well as other Yorkshire based acts such as The Human League and the criminally underrated 2.3) which morphed into Pop Aural and gave us The Flowers, The Fire Engines and Boots for Dancing, then Glasgow and Alan Horne’s seminal Postcard Records, home to the enduring beauty of Orange Juice and Aztec Camera, as well as the angular majesty of Josef K, not to mention a dozen other great lost bands, such as The Jazzateers, whose long-forgotten debut disc has not been off my turntable these past few weeks. Finally, or perhaps not quite, Stuart Braithwaite’s Spaceships Over Glasgow, where the Mogwai frontman gives us a superb and sentimental journey through his hedonistic teenage years as a shoegaze and psychedelia obsessed underage boozer and enthusiastic acid head. It’s quite one of the most charming books I’ve read in years.

Taking the books in turn, I was most keen to read Butt’s account first, not realising that as a Professor of Fine Art himself (at Northumbria), the contents would be as much to do with a scholarly analysis of the Situationist International as it was about the mechanics of forming a band as a revolutionary act against the prevailing macho culture of West Yorkshire in the late 70s. As such, I felt slightly short changed by the book in its entirety, as my desires were not addressed by Butt’s methods. For my tastes, there was rather too much evaluation of the syllabus content and ideological methodologies of the two institutions degree programmes than there was reference to where The Mekons got the lyrics for 32 Weeks from. Perhaps we need another book about Yorkshire music? Indeed, do we need a book about Sheffield? If there is one about ABC, Cabaret Voltaire, Chakk, Clock DVA, Heaven 17 and the Human League, I don’t know of it.

In contrast, Hungry Beat spoke intimately, entertainingly and without any filter to the reader, as an oral history of the Scottish counter culture from 1977 onwards. Unlike Manchester, which defines its musical Year Zero as the Sex Pistols at the Lesser Free Trade Hall in July 1976, Scotland (specifically Edinburgh as punk was effectively banned from Glasgow by the Presbyterian city elders, with all progressive gigs taking place in Paisley of all places) looks to the Clash’s White Riot tour of May 1977 as the big bang moment. Wonderfully, it wasn’t the posturing English upper classes as embodied by Strummer’s throwaway lyrics that won Caledonian hearts, but the off-kilter inventiveness of the much missed Ari Up and The Slits, as well as the still revered Vic Godard and his influential, incomparable Subway Sect. From that point on, Davey Henderson with the Fire Engines (subsequently Win, Nectarine No9 and Sexual Objects) and The Scars became the cultural gauleiters changing and influencing the zeitgeist from Leith to the Royal Mile. Needless to say, those who expressed a liking for football followed Hibernian. How could it have been otherwise?

Fast Product may not have publicised and presented local musical talent in any meaningful way, but the need for a city based label that allowed all the significant heads in the scene to coalesce was taken on board when the flame of creativity went 40 miles west. Those early Postcard singles were well named The Sound of Young Scotland as, to this day, Blue Boy, Simply Thrilled Honey, Mattress of Wire, We Could Send Letters, Sorry for Laughing and Heart of Song still stir the blood in a way little other geographically specific music has ever done. Sadly, across both books, important people fade from the scene. Andy Gill’s death hangs like a veritable spectre across No Machos or Pop Stars, while the unexplained disappearance from view of Alan Horne and Paul Quinn is the undoubted elephant in Hungry Beat’s front parlour. It is, however, a splendid book and an essential reference companion to the Teenage Superstars film.

Braithwaite’s book has far less lofty aims than the other two. He just wants to tell us, breathlessly at times, how much of a blast his life has been and what great music he’s listened to, and made, on the way. The contempt with which he refers to Britpop warmed my soul on a particularly dreich day in mid-November. I must admit I listened to Ten Rapid, the compilation of Mogwai’s early singles, with a great deal more amusement and compassion in the light of information about the poverty and squalor the band were living in, as well as the amount of rotgut booze they were pouring down their necks in those days. Spaceships over Glasgow has the special skill of being able to humanise the author, as well as demystifying his creative process, which makes it essential reading. It also makes me even more excited about seeing Mogwai at Sage in February 2023. 

Another book that does exactly the same thing as Braithwaite’s is Pomona Press’s beautiful Sleeve Notes by David Gedge, whereby The Wedding Present frontman takes 15 of his songs, from My Favourite Dress to Rachel from Going Going and spills the beans on the back stories behind them. For instance, who on earth would have believed that Dalliance, one of the most autobiographical of confessions by a writer known for such punishing screeds of self-revelation, was actually about the woman having an affair with Jilly Cooper’s husband? Honestly, it knocked me for six learning that, as well as several other things from this book and an evening I spent at Gosforth Civic Theatre, watching a Q&A session with Gedge, followed by a semi-acoustic stripped back set from a slimmed-down Wedding Present, which is where I bought the Sleeve Notes book, as well as the guide to Valentina that I didn’t bother with when the album came out. It’s down to a fiver now, so I’m glad I got it; still won’t be buying the Cinema remake of the album though.

No need to panic; the music was great. Brassneck man; you know what I’m saying? Obviously, I’m a sucker for everything Gedge has done, but I am starting to get a little tired and wary of his endless pension booster tactics. I know he spent all his savings on keeping Cinerama afloat, but there’s a limit to how often you can rinse your fans without some of them occasionally feeling exploited. This 24 songs carry on for 2022 has passed me by; I’ve not bought one of the 12 singles (£10.99 each!!) and I certainly won’t be lashing out £135 for the whole lot of them in a presentation box. It’ll come out on CD eventually and I’ll get that. In the same way I never got any of the Tales from the Wedding Present graphic novels, but they can now be bought in two hardback volumes, which was what this tour was ostensibly trying to flog. I’m not a fan of comics, so I wasn’t likely to spend cash on that, not when I had the other 3 books I’ve just talked about to get. As an aside, I had intended to get You Must Get Them All by Steve Pringle, which is an appreciation of every record released by The Fall. Unfortunately, the fact it was £25 has put me off for the minute. I’ll wait until the price drops as, frankly, it isn’t going to go out of date, now, is it?

Interestingly, Gedge claimed that he can’t remember all the songs he’s written, so questioning him on specifics of an obscure b-side doesn’t necessarily mean he’ll be able to bring anything to the party. This is a shame as, while I’m elated to the point of leaping off my seat when My Favourite Dress gets an outing, I still feel a burning desire to know what Gedge thinks about a song like Maniac in retrospect? Here’s the lyrics, with the added information that the first verse is spoken by a female -:

I did get your message

I just can’t believe you’re doing this

What is wrong with you?

I told you, it’s over, I am not coming back

More importantly, I just don’t love you any more

Can’t you get that into your head?

 

And when I made that stupid oath

About how I was going to

Pay for someone to kill you both

It was just my way of showing you

That I wasn’t playing

Oh yeah, you’re right, I sounded like a maniac

But that’s just what I am saying

You’ll only see how much I’ve changed, if you come back...

Hmmm…

Elsewhere musically, I finally managed to plug the gaps in my Godspeed You! Black Emperor collection by availing myself of Music Magpie pre-loved copies of Lift Your Skinny Fists Like Antennas to Heaven, which lives up to its reputation of being one of the very finest post rock albums of all time and replaces the worn and stretched C90 copy I’ve been using these past couple of decades, as well as the curiously underwhelming, if not to say tame, Yanqui UXO. Despite the iconic cover art, the presence of Steve Albini at the controls and, in the shape of Rockets Fall on Rocket Falls, the best title in the history of humanity, the record as a whole fails to ignite. Still, at least I’ve got a copy of it at last.

I’ve also finally got a copy of Umami Music by my erstwhile musical collaborator Chris Bartholomew, who I also had the pleasure of seeing live at The Globe the other week. Partly because I find it invidious and indeed impossible to adequately critically assess Chris’s work, I won’t mention him further here, though I do discuss him at some length in an article, 2022; The Golden Age of Rock & Roll that will appear in TQ 58 early in 2023 and also, subsequently, on this blog. Be patient please everyone; my words will be worth it, honestly.

The final musical item I’ve purchased of late is Burd Ellen’s outstanding A Tarot of the Green Wood. In these awful times, there is nothing more enjoyable that to lose yourself in both a book and the beguiling, but almost frightening aural netherworld inhabited and delineated by the eldritch drones of the folk avant garde, which is where Debbie Armour and Gayle Brogan take us. An album of traditional witchcraft balladry, with the compulsory Alasdair Roberts track amongst it all, A Tarot of the Green Wood begins with the unrestrained jollity of The Fool, before taking a far darker journey, presumably on the say so of tumbling cards. En route, we come across my former pupil and underground homme terrible Mark Wardlaw as well as the demonic piping of Eoghan Ó Ceannabháin, as Burd Ellen combine the sweet melodies and sclerotic memories of a world too dystopian to be fake but too disturbing to be real. Undoubtedly, this is the best album of 2022 that doesn’t feature Alex Neilson.

 

 

Shachtman Denver Overdrive

 This World Cup is going to spoil one of potentially the best season's ever for NUFC...

It was just before the Manchester United game when I last blogged about Newcastle United. At that point, the season had seen a steady start, but nothing out of the ordinary, with some of the usual hysterical gripes on social media exploding from the great unwashed, such as the clown in the Peaky Blinders cap bellyaching that we were in a relegation dogfight after the Bournemouth draw. So, how’s that working out for you fella? Perhaps you were the one in The Gosforth Hotel at the start of the Chelsea game, also keeping the Birmingham millinery manufacturers in work, claiming we’d get beat with Woods and Willock in the team. Well said that lad…

Looking back now, in something of a sulk that the unwelcome distraction of the World Cup will stay our stellar progress, the most amazing thing about the Manchester United game is that it wasn’t on the telly, which is probably why it felt like such a low profile affair. No I don’t do fire sticks or any of that palaver, so I only got to see the highlights on Match of the Day 2. Should have won it in the first half; could have lost it after the break, so I suppose a draw was a reasonable result in the circumstances, though I do think we’d have had more of a go at them with the benefit of 6 weeks of hindsight after the way we’ve played since that point. The biggest shame back then was news of Isak’s injury, which I guess just proves football is a wicked game. Predictably ASM found some kind of injury to duck out of things and make his reputation grow by not actually playing. I’m becoming less and less convinced he is essential to the squad moving forward.

And so on to the Everton game, where the big pixels of Amazon Prime made the television coverage look like a tribute to the Blockbusters pieces that Bob Holness used to concern himself with, when not performing saxophone solos for Gerry Rafferty (yes, I do know…). What was still abundantly clear is that Newcastle were the best team by far and Everton, under the less than expert tutelage of Lampard minor, have not progressed a scintilla since El Fraudo was given the shove. Almiron scored a blinder, and we could, and should, have had a few more, but it didn’t matter too much in the end as Everton were so pedestrian, they didn’t threaten our goal in any meaningful manner throughout the entire game. It was an efficient victory with the added bonus of another clean sheet as we continue to demonstrate that the current Newcastle defence is almost unrecognisable from the shambles under Algarve Bruce.

If the Fulham and Brentford games had an air of unreality about them, on account of the crushing margins of victory in both, then that particular sensation was redoubled during the next pair of fixtures. The manner in which Newcastle crushed Aston Villa was redolent of the 5-1 scudding handed out to them when Andy Cole notched his 40^th of the season back in 1993/1994. Sometimes it can actually amaze you just how good a team we’ve become. The fact Villa had won well themselves the week before, having freed themselves of the shackles of Gerrard’s incompetence, was not a threat, more of an utter irrelevance. Courtesy of that stumbling carthorse Mings rendering his own keeper senseless and pensioner Ashley Young (ironic name alert) displaying the reactions of a tired Argentinosaurus when the ball was fired towards his arms, we got the first goal from the spot, which put us ahead at the break and allowed us to crush them underfoot in the second period. It could, and should, have been 6 as Wilson and Murphy both cracked the woodwork late on.

As for Southampton, having endured Hassenhuttl’s bellyaching after Wood and Bruno did for his side last year, it was even better to see them both on the scoresheet again as we obliterated his mob, despite not passing the ball that well. What we did was score a clutch of sublime goals, with the side netting feeling the caresses of our footwork on every occasion. Probably the most telling moment was Botman’s frustration as they pulled one back on 89 minutes; with an attitude like that, no wonder we’ve got the best defensive record in the league. Incidentally, Sean Longstaff was incredible; his indefatigable stamina showing the fruits of all those summers spent haring round the back field at Tynemouth Cricket Club, with his dad Davy shouting the odds from a prone position. Let’s hope young Matty reaps the benefits soon, as there’s not one true NUFC fan doesn’t love the bones of the pair of them.

When Palace rolled into town for the League Cup tie, it was great to finally get to a game. Courtesy of my mate John’s membership, he sorted out brilliant tickets in the Leazes North East Corner, which must be one of the most civilised parts of the ground to spectate from, for him, me and my Ben. This is a 70 year old bloke coming over from county Kildare for a midweek game you do realise. That’s what I call dedication. We had a superb pizza before the game in Pinocchio’s as well as the usual brilliant pints in The Bodega. It was just a shame we had to endure 90 minutes of football that teetered between tepid and terrible. I liked our initial team selection, but both Shelvey and ASM were still miles off the pace and turned in woeful displays over the 90. I liked Howe’s substitutions even more, but the crucial breakthrough just would not come and so we had the lottery of penalties. The least said about Bruno’s effort the better, but you have to say that Pope earned his money that night. When he came in the summer, I wasn’t convinced we needed another keeper, but he has demonstrated he’s a clear step up on Dubravka. The reward of a home tie against Bournemouth next time out is one I appreciate. I’ll definitely be at that pre-Christmas treat.

And so, the Chelsea game. Again, what can you say? They were absolutely horrific, and we ought to have smashed them out of sight. I’m still scratching my head at why we didn’t get a penalty when Chalobah almost took the laces out the ball, but it simply didn’t matter in the end, despite Kai Havertz’s toddler tantrum, as Willock scored as good a goal as any of Miggy’s recent superstar strikes. Almost incredibly, but totally deservedly, we head into this strange pause with 30 points from 15 games, having tasted defeat only once and that being in August. Without question, these players are responding to some superb coaching and man management; whether they’ve been here for several seasons and been able to shake off their post Algarve Bruce torpor, or if they’ve arrived in the last 12 months and have grasped the nettle in turn the club around, they are giving Eddie Howe at least 110% if not more. Howe himself has proved all doubters wrong, in terms of his coaching and his demeanour. It’s a while since we last had a manager I respected, probably Chris Hughton if I’m honest, but here is a man whose words I hang on. Except when he is unnecessarily forced into a corner by mendacious members of the Fourth Estate asking vindictive closed questions about Saudi Arabia. That we can all do without.

Ah Saudi Arabia; the investment by PIF. At some point, the elephant in the room had to be addressed. I’m guessing that probably 10% of our active support have some kind of moral dilemma about being owned by bloodthirsty, theocratic despots. However, most of them can sleep soundly in the knowledge of this. Being generous, I’d imagine only 1% of those have walked away from the club and then, they’ve done it without making a fuss for the most part because, being honest, as a single person you’re never going to right the wrongs of such investment, much less turn Saudi Arabia into a modern, democratic state.

Indeed, the only visible protest group who are voluble in their opposition to Saudi investment are the Denver Humbert group, NUFC Fans Against Saudi Sportswashing. The irony was, they had a silent protest before the Chelsea game; all 8 of them. Now the self-elected theoretician at the head of this miniature vanguard of the non-working class is my cousin, John Hird. He’s 61 and has been a resident of Euskal Herria since 1992. There’s still a season ticket in his family, used by his elderly mother I believe, but Denver Humbert himself doesn’t go. We come from a large, fractured, extended family and I do not have any contact with him or any of his relatives; a situation that will not change any time soon. However, I will say this; I feel it beholden of me to correct the endless inaccuracies on social media, about his biographical details and motives for doing this. Don’t get me wrong; I’ve made enough embarrassing errors on social media to last a lifetime, so I really hope he stops his protests sometime soon as, to be perfectly frank, his motives are far from praiseworthy.

Denver wasted most of his adult life as an obedient errand boy for Vanguardist megalomaniac Peter Taaffe in the discredited Trotskyite cult, Militant and whatever daft reformist scion they evolved into subsequently. He doesn’t really want to save Newcastle United, although there is more than a whiff of the Shachtmanite Steve Wraith about Denver. What he really wants to do, with his tiny band of pals, is to make unrealistic “transitional demands” to help foment class warfare. He actually needs to seek medical attention as he’s 61 in a fortnight. I know this protest group will peter out into nothing, like all of his other efforts over the last 40 years; I just wish he could have the self-awareness to see this and then, from the comfort of his Vitoria-Gasteiz bolthole, enjoy the NUFC ride, giving critical support all the way.

As I Was Walking down the Newsham Road

 Blyth Rangers 3 Heddon United 1,,,

Blyth Rangers FC were formed in 2000, which makes them a dozen years older than the famous Glasgow side with the same suffix who have just registered the worst ever performance in the Champions’ League group stage. Even this ignominious “achievement” is beyond the modest horizons of Blyth Rangers, who are beginning their first season in the Northern Alliance Third Division. In the past, there have been a couple of teams with Isabella in their name who have used the facility Rangers are operating from. Indeed, their opponents Heddon, or teams from the same locale, have previously participated at all levels of the Alliance; most noticeably Heddon Institute. However, the current Heddon side no longer playing in their home village, opting instead to operate from Walbottle Campus sport complex, also how to Benwell and Walbottle Cricket Club where I took a lifetime best 4-16 (all bowled) a couple of seasons back. Just thought I’d mention that.

Unlike my last trip to a new Alliance ground on the bus, Go North East proved themselves to be miles better than Arriva, sending a 309 on time in each direction. From New York, I took the 12.50 to Blyth, alighting at the Broadway about half an hour later. Being honest, I’m not a fan of Blyth as a place, certainly the centre, but all I saw today, on the A193 coming into town, was the usual sporting highlights; Blyth rugby club, Blyth cricket club and then Croft Park, which was my cue to ring the bell. Heading up Princess Charlotte Avenue, I crossed over by the Sport Centre and took a tour down a cycle path, adorned with tremendously illiterate graffiti, before emerging on to the main drag opposite Isabella Pavilion.

Whatever reason Blyth have for using the Rangers suffix, it wasn’t an indication they’d be in the same sort of kit. Indeed, Heddon were in blue shirts, though Blyth opted for orange it should be noted. The pitch was huge and, in the first half at least, used in contrasting ways by the two sides. While Heddon played an intricate short passing game that was easy on the eye, but ultimately fruitless in terms of putting the opposition under pressure, Blyth sought to play in a more direct, fast paced way, though their attempts at forcing the issue were to come up short because of overexcitement before the final ball. Ironically, the closest to a goal in the opening half hour was a Heddon defender wildly miskicking an attempted clearance on the volley and hitting the outside of his own post from fully 25 yards. Then, out of nowhere, Heddon took a lead that they kept until the break when a shot from the edge of the area took a huge deflection, completely wrongfooting the keeper and dribbling apologetically over the line via the post.

At that point, neither side could really say they deserved the lead, but Blyth were resurgent in the second period. As the pitch cut up and legs became heavier, play became less composed from both sides, though Blyth’s all-action approach game them renewed hope. It was no surprise when they equalised from the spot after 65 minutes, though the heavy challenge on a player miles away from goal was totally unnecessary. From that point, Heddon were a beaten side; the spirit went out of them as wave after wave of Blyth pressure saw the Rangers turn the screw. Despite a pair of blinding saves from the Heddon keeper, a Blyth winner was inevitable. On 78 minutes it came after a swift exchange of passes and a thumping finish. Straight from the kick off, Blyth came forward again and made it 3-1 after a pinpoint cross was artfully touched home at the back post. In short, you couldn’t argue with the result on the balance of play after the interval.

After the whistle, I headed back for the 309, eschewing the potential pleasures of firstly the second period of Spartans v Telford (3-0) and then the closing stages of Whitley Bay v Thornaby (3-0), getting home to celebrate news of Percy Main’s wonderful 3-1 win away to Killingworth in the Benevolent Bowl.