Memories of 2 Free Festivals

Early Friday tea time on July 20th, as I piled a Waitrose trolley full of picnic goodies (olives, chorizo, Camembert, artisan bread, pate, rioja, pinot grigio and so on; yee knaa the fuckin score), the local press and social media were antic with hysteria about the supposed return of Andy Carroll to St. James’ Park.  One pleasing irony on a personal level was the fact that the day Carroll moved to Liverpool on January 31^st 2011, I went to see a Shakespeare play (The Comedy of Errors at the Theatre Royal), while on this day I was about to see another (Much Ado About Nothing performed in Jesmond Dene). Frankly, I could not have selected a more appropriate brace of theatrical events if I’d tried, even if the Newcastle United hierarchy are more akin to Iago or Macbeth in their ruthless ambition, but I’m digressing.

Holidays notwithstanding, I try to get to see the Jesmond Dene Shakespeare festival each year, though I missed out on seeing last summer’s production on account of being unavoidably detained in Euskal Herria, which still meant I managed to keep up my intake of olives, chorizo and rioja at least. Although at times, the sustenance required to battle through an outdoor performance of The Bard is of a less sophisticated and undoubtedly more fortifying timbre; one freezing Friday in August 2005, when I paid my first visit to the Dene to see Heartbreak’s previous touring production of Much Ado, attired in hooded sweatshirt and fleece to keep the cold at bay, I microwaved a tin of Heinz tomato soup as soon as I returned in an attempt to thaw my frozen blood. Subsequently I’ve seen their versions of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Love’s Labour Lost, Romeo & Juliet and The Tempest; all of which have been at least good. Frankly, at a tenner a pop (plus whatever you choose to spend on the goody bag of munchies and libations), you can’t go wrong and while tonight’s show was the weakest cast Heartbreak have assembled, with a script that would have benefitted by being shorn of at least 30 minutes of extraneous material that formed an unconvincing and slightly irritating back story, I was glad I’d made the effort to see their labours.

Undoubtedly there is a clear and immediate need for a scholarly article comparing Newcastle United with Shakespeare, but this blog is not it. Suffice to say, the multiple layers of artifice, deceit, doublespeak and chicanery that make up the typical Elizabethan or Jacobean comedy lend themselves to a close comparison with events at St. James Park. However just as Benedick is able to silence Beatrice when he decides to “stop up your mouth with a kiss” and Iago opts to take the fifth after his arrest (“from this moment on I never will speak word”), the noiseless utterances of Ashley and Llambias are a study in silent malevolence.

While Carroll would be a useful addition to a squad that has lost Lovenkrands and Best, with Ranger totally out of the picture and Ba’s future remaining uncertain, with Pardew obviously tactically able enough to get the best out of Carroll and able to alter the team’s style of play according to personnel, the transfer activities of Newcastle United (including still to be concluded but apparently active deals for Debuchy and Douglas) remains a mummers’ play behind the arras. Perhaps the most preferable scenario is the supposed Machiavellian attempts of Ashley and Llambias to either get Carroll for £13m (effectively half of what he was sold for, minus the 20% sell-on clause Newcastle inserted in the deal) or to force Liverpool to sell him for more than that, gaining Newcastle a windfall in the region of £5m; what a pair of ruthless bastards they are. And I mean that as a compliment.

While the Carroll speculation raged on Tyneside, Newcastle United’s tour durch Mitteleuropa shaped up on ESPN. Years ago friendlies abroad would get 3 column inches in the Chronicle 48 hours after they’d taken place; now we get the full game live on satellite TV. I didn’t see the 1-0 loss Chemnitzer, but caught the first half of a walking pace 1-0 win over Monaco, where Ba scored a header the keeper deserved a hiding for allowing in. The day after Much Ado, I took in the soporific 1-1 draw in Austria with Fenerbache in The Newton with Knaggsy; another dull game was wrested from terminal torpor by an Abeid rocket that gave us a late lead, before an Elliott howler let them equalise with 30 seconds to go. If all we learn from this tour is that Elliott isn’t good enough to be the second choice keeper in the Premier League, it will have been a worthwhile trip.

Pre-season kickarounds are generally pointless, except for the purpose of gaining fitness or allowing managers to assess the quality of trialists or fringe players, though I did enjoy Percy Main 1 Redcar Athletic 2 on the Saturday. However, the real glamour tie in the region last weekend was Heaton Stannington hosting Gabon’s Olympic side at Grounsell Park at noon on the Sunday. Based at Northumbria University for training, as they play one of their fixtures at SJP, Gabon had flown in on the Saturday and were keen for a game; the Stann obliged. The score was 4-0 to Gabon and the attendance about 70; “less than they get for Shankhouse,” as Knaggsy commented.  Meanwhile the biggest football story of the weekend was that those idiots full of sound and fury, signifying nothing, The 3 Legends (Horswill, MacDonald and Slaven) have had their nightly phone-in 86ed by Real Radio, to the relief of football lovers from Whitby to Berwick.

You’ll notice I don’t include a review of the Stann v Gabon game; well, to my shame, I was unable to attend, as full time in the Newcastle v Fenerbache game had signalled my cultural move from football to music mode, as I sought to square the social circle whirl with trips to both the narc Fest in the Ouseburn area and Summertyne extravaganza outside The Sage. As ever, I barely scratched the surface of either event.

While it was commendable that there was so much going on, and all of it for free, surely the narc bods must have realised that Summertyne  happens the same weekend each year and that with the Sage booked out 3 nights solid, with afternoon and evening gigs in both halls, local bands should cede to major international artists. Without being overly critical, let’s hope this sort of carry-on doesn’t happen next year.

Anyway, full time in Austria, I caught the 63 down the road to The Tanners; my least favourite Ouseburn pub, on account of it being the nearest approximation to a normal venue in this area. The Cumberland and Free Trade had folk acts, which would have been my pub and musical preferences, while The Tyne opted for blues rock (no thanks) and The Cluny for indie rock (ditto). Fair play to The Tanners; at least they’d gone for an eclectic bill of oddball acts.

When I got there, this young lad with a guitar was playing along to backing tapes that built up to a 30 minute prog rock piece that had me in mind of Steve Hillage; frankly, this wasn’t what Sid Viciou had died for. It was the sort of stuff we’d respond to as teenagers by hurtling through Handysides Arcade to chin the hippies, en route to the match circa 1978. Frankly, I felt rather like the young lad seeing the Emperor in the buff and no-one ever listening to me. However, Charles Dexter Ward (as he styled himself in homage to Lovecraft) was showered with praise by his chums when it finally stopped. Perhaps it was all part of some post-modern joke; perhaps I’m just old and intolerant.

Next up were Parastatic; my mate Dave had insisted I come see them, as they are supposedly Newcastle’s prime Krautrock outfit. Perhaps they will end up like that, but only if they slow it down considerably as the drum machine and WASP synth dominated fast numbers sounded like New Order, or even Revenge (without the bass lines), though one number that was very similar to “Hallogallo” was an absolute treat. Top of the bill were The Exes, who made my heart sing with their three minute spiky numbers that seemed so fresh and original after the backing tape dominated electronica of the previous acts. Bass, drums and guitar firing out rapid, non-nonsense numbers that reminded me of Thee Headcoats. Well done lads; hope to see you again soon.

Having headed off straight afterwards, full of real ale and music, I approached Sunday’s festivities in a more circumspect manner. I visited my mam, did her shopping then arrived at The Sage just after 4. I’d hoped to catch The Treetop Flyers, but got my times wrong; they’d just finished to be replaced by the dire MOR AOR of Grainne Duffy, the Monaghan Pat Benatar; yes that awful. Still, I took the time to schmooze while her caterwauling blues droned incessantly on and caught up with Richy, Calla and several colleagues from work, all enjoying beers as they were free from the need to get up on a Monday for five whole weeks. Summertyne is Real Ale middle age writ large, it has to be said.

At 6, the act I really wanted to see were closing the event; Slim Chance, the backing band of the late Ronnie Laine, recently reformed and keeping his music alive. As a kid I’d adored his solo singles, “How Come?” and “The Poacher,” both of which featured today. Their folksy feel was almost equidistant between The Faces and Lindisfarne, to the delight of your typical Jumpin’ Hot Club punters, attired in cheap Stetsons, washed out denim jackets, needlecord shirts, bootlace ties and desert boots. If Charles Dexter Ward had been the unacceptable face of pre punk music, this was the glorious legacy of those days. I loved it, despite the atrocious quality of elderly dancers in front of the stage.

Summertyne only does it for me intermittently, but like Shakespeare in Jesmond Dene, Narc Fest, pointless friendlies or transfer speculation, it’s part of the essential fabric of Newcastle in July; here’s to next year. I only hope Xisco is around to see it....

Epatez La Bourgeoise!!

T.S. Eliot claimed that “April is the cruellest month,” and while there may be some truth in that, there is a persuasive argument that mid July is the most noteworthy week in the calendar for red letter days, with the period 12^th to 15^th July containing successive dates of equal portent and importance.

On Thursday 12^th, renowned racehorse and helicopter owner Michael Owen, two months after he was granted a free transfer following his 3 year sojourn sat either on the bench or treatment table at Old Trafford, took to Twitter to declare that he’d not be stepping down to Championship level football to further his career and would retire rather than play at a lower level; brave words from someone who managed the grand total of 6 goals during his time with Manchester United.

Clearly this announcement of a desire to continue “playing at the highest level” was on account of two factors; firstly because the amount of unearned income he’d be able to soak up for achieving the square root of jack shit from Cardiff or Bolton wouldn’t satisfy his insatiable avarice and secondly because the upholstery on physio couches in the second tier wouldn’t be luxurious enough for him to relax on in style while poring over “The Sporting Life” each morning. No doubt some billionaire-bankrolled vanity outfit offering him unimaginable wealth and zero commitment will come in with a deal; my tip is the man who is held in contempt by the fans of every club he’s played for (Liverpool, Real Madrid, Newcastle and Man United) will accept a 2 year sinecure in Dubai, before disappearing off to count his enormous pot of gold. The man embodies everything that is wrong with modern football and I struggle to cogently express the contempt I feel for him.

However, his trifling Twitter inanities have been superseded in the public consciousness by Rio Ferdinand’s less than subtle 140 character attack on Ashley Cole, following the latter’s appearance as a defence witness in support of John Terry. To claim Ferdinand was being racist is not a standpoint I can agree with. I am uncomfortable with Ferdinand’s terminology and if it had been a white person saying the same thing, it would obviously have been racist in tenor, but Ferdinand is a black man; someone who has endured the institutional racist structures of capitalism from the day he was born. He may be a fabulously wealthy footballer, but at the end of the day, his skin pigment has marked him out for abuse and prejudice at every step of the way. To claim otherwise is to be as wide of the mark as those who state, without evidence, that Celtic are as bad as Rangers, but more of that later.

As we all know, Terry was found not guilty of racially abusing Ferdinand’s younger brother Anton. This verdict, given by a magistrate rather than a jury, as the case was not heard in a Crown Court, has been widely and roundly condemned by those with sketchy understanding of the English Common Law. Legally, what Terry did or did not do is immaterial; he has been found not guilty and, regardless of the removal of the double jeopardy concept from the judicial framework, the Crown Prosecution Service will not reopen the case as, in line with their guiding operating principles, even where a revisiting of the case would be in the public interest, as there is not a realistic chance of a conviction, the affair is at an end. Basically, in English law, the principle of innocence until proven guilty is the founding rock of the whole judicial system. Scrolling through the entire 15 page judgement handed down by Senior District Judge Howard Riddle (http://www.judiciary.gov.uk/Resources/JCO/Documents/Judgments/r-v-john-terry.pdf), who was the presiding magistrate in Terry’s case, the last sentence of all is the most relevant when debating Terry’s guilt or not; there being a doubt, the only verdict the court can record is one of not guilty. I am no lawyer, but I feel certain the prosecution brief in Terry’s case failed to do the evidence justice, rather than the Magistrate wrongfully letting off a felon. Unfortunately, if you believe in justice and the legal system, you have to believe in all of it, not just the bits that you agree with. Consequently, there is no option but to abide by this judgement, even if the temptation is to set off on a coruscating critique of bourgeois justice and the role of the legal profession in maintaining the capitalist status quo.

Basically, the prosecution failed in its duty to prove beyond all reasonable doubt that Terry was guilty of the offence of which he was charged. Of course Terry is a thoroughly dislikeable man and as much of a folk devil for the wrongs of the modern game as Owen, but being a lothario with parasitic family members with career criminal tendencies, isn’t a hanging offence. What Terry said was appalling, unacceptable and downright disgraceful; it will surely lead to the FA charging him and issuing a lengthy ban. This subsequent course of action is possible, not just because Yohan Cabaye received a 3 game ban for a “tautening of the facial muscles,” that indicated malice aforethought in a challenge during the cup tie at Brighton (yes I still have a bee in my bonnet about that game and the fallout from it), but because FA rules require far a less stringent proof of guilt than in a court of law. They can and they must throw the book at him.

The Terry verdict was announced on July 12^th, which marked the 323^rd anniversary of the Battle of the Boyne, which was an event that was often sung lustily about in The Shed, back in not just pre Abramovich but pre Matthew Harding days, when Chelsea were that little corner of West London that remained forever stuck in 17^th Century County Louth. There was a fanzine about Chelsea and their comrades in sashes, Linfield and Rangers entitled The Blues Brothers that was at great variance from my own take on Irish history. Suffice to say, seeing the scowling faces of the No Surrender zealots, it makes you wonder just how miserable they would have been if they’d lost the Battle of the Boyne. Of course the weather has been so lousy this summer; they probably struggled to get the bonfires lit on the eve of The Twelfth.

Clearly, the future of Newco was weighing heavy on the minds of Billy Boys everywhere. Despite the gerrymandering machinations of the utterly discredited SPL Chief Executive Neil Doncaster and the nonsensical, alarmist protestations of his SFA counterpart Stewart Regan, the grandsons of King William were rightfully denied not only a place in the Scottish Premier League, but also a dangerously fudged compromise of a parachuted place in Division 1. Following a 10-1-1 vote against them in the top flight, a 26-5 majority wanted them placed in Division 3, which is where they will most likely be, if talks to bring this about are successful. The clock is ticking, as their first fixture is away to Brechin a week on Saturday and the vexed issue of a 12 month transfer ban has yet to be addressed. Perhaps the most heart-warming fact of all is that finally Rangers will be given a chance to play league football in England, as they’re due at Shieldfield on August 25^th to take on Berwick Rangers. Quite what genteel Tweedmouth will make of 2,000 lairy Teddy Bears is quite another matter.

In all seriousness, the placing of Rangers in Division 3 must be applauded from every angle, which is no doubt reflected by the fact that an enormously high majority of their own fans wanted to be placed at that level, to effectively start from scratch. The fact that Scottish league clubs have looked at the sporting integrity of their competition, listened to the wishes of all supporters in Scotland and not been swayed by vague threats of a drop in revenue, as alluded to by Doncaster and Regan and then voted in such huge numbers for the bottom tier option has to be applauded. It is a bit of a shame that this vote was knocked back a day from Orangemen’s Day to Friday 13^th, but there is a pleasing logic to the horror connotations provided, especially if you’ve ever visited Ibrox.

The thing that annoys me most about The Old Firm, and as a Hibs supporter I’m used to regular maulings by both clubs, is how those outside of a Scottish context (I’m including the overwhelming majority of English fans in this) have seen the decision to put Newco in Division 3 as a kind of principled suicide pact by the Scottish league clubs. English fans see the decision only in terms of income generated and not the integrity of the competition. When this is pointed out, the nonsensical utterances that “they’re both as bad as each other” are blandly trotted out, presumably by those who think Rio Ferdinand is a racist. No, they are not; Celtic are nowhere near as bad as Rangers. The number of charges against Rangers for sectarian chanting (“The Famine Song” is both the most offensive one imaginable and the most popular among the Gers most intense fans) is simply staggering and this, combined with the illegal accounting practices that have bought them most of their honours in the last 10 years, have combined to make them uniformly despised outside of their Ibrox home. In the opinion of the rest of the Scottish game, and as a Hibee I must pay tribute to Hearts for their unbending stance on this, it is time for Rangers to atone for their wrongdoings and to come back as a proper club and as a better club, on the pitch, off the pitch and in the boardroom.

Unfortunately, there are plenty of other opportunities for the less than tolerant elements of Scottish society to spread their poison. I told of the Orange Walk query at the end of my trip to Shotts; well on Saturday 14^th, at Whitley Bay 1 Airdrie United 1 in a pre-season kickabout at Hillheads, a shadow was cast over my enjoyment by the appearance of 2 Union Jacks with SDL embroidery on them. Ironically, Newco’s arrival has helped propel Airdrie United (a club born after the liquidation of Clydebank) to Division 1. However, if Newco means Year Zero for Scottish football, then so be it. At least the Airdrie fans didn’t have a song sheet to rival the Ibrox hordes.

Talking of songs, I must have been about 12 years old when I first encountered the music of Woody Guthrie. One Saturday afternoon during the baking summer of 1976, I was listening to Alan “Fluff” Freeman’s show on Radio 1. It must have been in the summer, as during the football season I’d either have been at St. James’ Park (35p in to the Gallowgate and 40p in to the Leazes in those days) or listening to the Magpies’ usual away day capitulation on Radio Newcastle’s “Home & Away” programme presented by George Bayley, as the newly launched Metro Radio’s distracting adverts ruined the continuity of second half commentary. Anyway, in preference to Jonny Miller’s triumph at Royal Birkdale in The Open, Bjorn Borg’s debut Wimbledon success or Tony Grieg’s England suffering a 5-0 trouncing by the West Indies, I opted for some music.

At some point on that breathless, stifling afternoon Freeman played “1913 Massacre,” the tale of the deaths of 73 children in a stampede at a Christmas Party held by striking copper miners for their families in Calumet, Michigan. The murders were occasioned by scabs erroneously claiming there was a fire in Italian Hall, where the party was taking place, then locking the exit doors, causing a mass panic and deaths by suffocation, in the manner echoed by the 1989 Hillsborough Disaster.

Never before had I heard such music; plaintive, declamatory singing about a tragic incident over a simple acoustic guitar backing. I found the song immensely powerful and upsetting at the time and I still do. I last listened to it on July 14^th, Bastille Day, as this marked the 100^th Anniversary of Woody Guthrie’s birth and the bitter tears of upset and rage still flowed, not just at the tragic events, but at Guthrie’s castigation of the conditions of capitalism that gave rise to the whole situation; “see what your greed for money has done.”

Last July, Ben, Laura and I took in The Mouth of the Tyne Festival, pogoing and skanking the afternoon away to the joyous, righteous sounds of The Buzzcocks and Neville Staples. Clearly such a quality line-up on the rates could not be repeated, so this year’s festival, featuring McFly and The Wanted, was given a wide berth. I’ve not heard any reports about their performances, but I am no doubt they didn’t come together for a final encore of “This Land Is Your Land,” to commemorate Woody’s centenary, which is just as well.

One person who has a reputation for covering Woody Guthrie songs, including a highly arresting version of “Deportees,” is unapologetic Liberal Democrat voter Billy Bragg, or Baron Bridport as I like to call him, in recognition of his sterling work in helping to dismantle the last vestiges of the Welfare State. Bragg first crossed my radar in 1984, not on account of his then wishy, washy, hand wringing, soft left, reformist politics, but because of his beautiful love song, “St Swithin’s Day,” a festival which takes place on July 15^th each year. On that basis, it is a shame Bragg couldn’t have been in the North East last weekend (he was actually in America, playing a festival on the eastern shore of Chesapeake Bay)as there was a great opportunity for a double header; Sunday at Tynemouth and Saturday in Durham for The Big Meeting, where he could have shared a platform with another firebrand loony lefty (I’m joking here) Red Ed Milliband.

A fella I work with, Dan, comes from the former Durham mining community of Hetton. He’s a good lad Dan; a lifelong black and whiter from the Mackem heartlands who plays in top quality new folk octet Dennis (I’ll return to them in the future where their EP is released and they’ve gigs to play), who include a brass section from the Hetton Colliery Band. Despite being a strong advocate of his local community and its traditions (his grandfather worked underground), Dan doesn’t take in The Big Meeting any more, on account of the fact that politics and comradeship have been replaced by crass, day long boozing and trivial local disputes that turn, with depressing frequency, in to alcohol fuelled brawls. Rather like the situation regarding some misinterpretations about the Old Firm rivalry, simple lies replace complicated truths and the spirit and philosophy of Gramsci is again the guiding principle to understand anti social behaviour. Pisshead pit yakkas having a collective false unconsciousness…

Sadly, we live in troubled times where the hegemony of reaction and repression is reinforced and redoubled at our every step. Mes amis, il est maintenant temps pour nous de épater la bourgeoise.

That Man Loves You

I’m writing this immediately after hearing of the death of legendary avant garde saxophonist Lol Coxhill. I first became aware of him, and specifically his 1975 album “Fleas in Custard,” during one of my epic browsing sessions through the experimental and prog rock racks at the Pop Inn record shop in Felling Square. The title and his name struck a chord, even if I hadn’t a clue what kind of sounds he produced, though needless to say my fascination endured and I eventually tracked down a CD of him and ex Mott The Hoople fella Morgan Fisher aound the turn of the millennium; enjoyable it is too. Now I may have to look for more Coxhill product. Lol’s last gig in Newcastle was in July 2008 and it was a source of regret to me at the time that was away in Portugal on holiday; that regret is all the more pronounced now that he’s gone aged 79 and I’ll never get a chance to see him. RIP Lol.

I did see another 79 year old last week though; former Newcastle United chairman and self-mythologising, unreconstructed Thatcherite megalomaniac, Sir John Metrocentre Hall. As someone who believes passionately in fan ownership, I’ve never had much time for Hall, his family or his ilk. Actually I’ve never had any time for him; even when he took over from the contemptible Gordon McKeague, it was clear that Newcastle fans, whether they were aware of it or not, were entering in to a Faustian pact with the Wynyard Dynasty. While we got great football on the pitch, we paid through the nose for it, were treated with contempt by the board and then had to stand helplessly by as they made unimaginable millions from selling their assets in our club. When I look at the likes of Seymour, Westwood, McKeague, Shepherd and Ashley, I know there’s not a shred of difference between them. All they wanted, during their period at the throttle of the sporting gravy train that is Newcastle United, was to maximise their investments; at least Ashley doesn’t feel he has to patronise the supporters with preposterous flannel about the Geordie Nation. Sadly, not everyone sees the imperative of fan ownership as a standpoint which must perforce be vehemently opposed to billionaire owners soaking the ordinary fan for every penny then can get. To me it’s clear that those who combine their ostensible contempt for Shepherd with unctuous fawning over Ashley are the modern equivalents of 70s Rad Fems who continued to wear dungarees while voting Tory.

I’ve always found Hall to be a vacuous, preening narcissist; his latest utterances stating he won’t allow Ashley to change the name of St James’ Park to the Sports Direct Arena without a fight would have more credibility if Hall hadn’t renamed the Leazes after himself almost 20 years ago. It was all rather redolent of the sort of rewriting of history that allowed John Lydon to be introduced before his embarrassingly populist spot on “Question Time” as the singer of Public Image, presumably because it’s PiL that he’s promoting this summer, not the Sex Pistols or anchor butter.

However Sir Wynyard wasn’t the only bloke from Ashington that I heard talking bollocks last week. The 2012/2013 football season arrived after a painful 28 day close season with the visit of the Colliers to Grounsell Park. Ashington, or Benfield Rejects as they should be known with Paul Antony, Paul Buzzeo and Andy Dugdale playing for them, came up against a highly organised Heaton Stannington side, who deservedly won 2-0, much to the chagrin of the visiting supporters who were seemingly unused to Alliance officials and their arcane use of the laws of the game as a starting point for debate on foul play rather than as unequivocal arbiters of acceptable conduct. Ashington player Jonny Godsmark suffered a nasty injury after what appeared to be a fair but firm tackle, though the Collier Army didn’t see it like that, rising like lions after slumber to upbraid the referee. With the Northern League adopting a Secret Shopper approach to keeping foul language in check during 2012/2013; it would be a good idea if those from Woodhouse Lane took a step backwards before issuing volleys of profanities in future, as their intemperance may cost them dearly.

One field of human conflict in which swearing has to be encouraged is popular music. While I watched Heaton Stann v Ashington on a pleasant, warm afternoon, my son Ben was shivering in ankle high mud and swearing at the elements in a field in Perthshire, awaiting the arrival of The Stone Roses at T in the Park. The night before I’d watched BBC3’s highlights of this contemporary Dante’s Infernofuelled by Buckfast with distaste bordering on contempt as first Professor Green (how can anyone voluntarily listen to that shite?) and then Tiny Tempah, who appears to be Precious McKenzie’s grandson in 3D specs, sent me off to bed before 11.30 on a Friday night. Obviously I’d needed a good kip as there was football, beer and rock n roll to entertain me on the Saturday.

Last November, I wrote a blog about The Fall (http://payaso-del-mierda.blogspot.co.uk/2011/11/fragments-of-unpopular-culture-8-das.html), mentioning their rather wonderful gig at the ersatz Riverside on Guy Fawkes Night. Well, amazingly, after not visiting the area in almost 4 years, they were back again, supposedly to play the Cult Festival at Hoults Yard on Walker Road. Hardened Fall watchers took a sharp intake of breath before knowingly opining that the venue, promotion and endless list of smug non-entities from the local band scene that made up the rest of the bill hinted at a no-show, a late show or a very bad show from Das Gruppe. As tickets were £20, I’d decided not to bother, until my mate Knaggsy came up with the goods in the shape of a pair of freebies.

Knaggsy is a solicitor with a prestigious Quayside law firm who use Hoults Yard to store their documents, presumably as it’s far cheaper to hire space in Walker than on Sandhill. Their firm were given a load of freebies because of this; normally it’s tickets to the Falcons or boxes at the Theatre Royal when the Scottish Opera are in town, but this time it was The Fall. Knaggsy was a proper post punk lad back in the day (he’s 3 months  younger than me), being a guitarist in a band who not only released a single, but also supported The Fall at the Riverside in 1986. He’d not seen them since; in fact I don’t think he’s been anywhere other than The Newton since, except to see Killing Joke.

We made a night of it; a pint in each at the Cumberland, Cluny and Tyne, before a couple in the jewel of Newcastle’s pub world, the glorious Free Trade Inn. After this, we headed along to Hoults Yard. The festival seemed a jolly place; stalls selling veggy food, jugglers and some terrible local bands. We arrived to hear Beth Jeans Houghton’s set; it was awful. Perhaps the only interesting thing about this lady is that she’s walking out with Antony Keidis of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, so presumably the two of them have had a First Class time with Mr & Mrs Mensch at some point. However, let us leave that subject as memories of such gatherings are no doubt hazy.

Bearing in mind that the primary emotion before any Fall gig is not anticipation, but anxiety, the news that they were due on at 10, but this had been put back to 10.30 seemed ominous, even if we’d been reassured MES was “in good spirits.” In actual fact they arrived at 10.05, set up at 10.10 and were playing by 10.15.

Despite owning every single Fall album, it is often difficult to work out exactly what it is they are playing; I think I managed to recognise the opening “Strychnine,” the unexpected jewel of “Container Drivers” and the strand-out recent track “Nate will Not Return.” Regardless, this was one of the finest Fall gigs I’ve been to in the last 32 years of seeing them. MES was in a good mood; playing the keyboards, altering amp volumes, putting the mic in to the audience and in the bass drum, not to mention offering the bouncer outside for roughly handling a stage diver. I made it fr4om 5o yards back to actually standing against the stage and it was an absolutely brilliant night.  Everyone I knew there (all seeming to be on guest list places as well) agreed they’d not seen MES so animated, or the band so efficient in decades.

Even better, my old mate Peter, who used to be High Barnes’ number 1 Scritti Politti fan and is now Bedlington’s number 1 Scritti Politti fan, gave us a lift back to The Newton for last orders. A gig and a half and a night and a half. Meanwhile in Balado, The Stone Roses did a self-indulgent 12 minute version of “Fools Good” and no encore, or even a duet with Dappy. Frankly, is Ian Brown any better a person, or indeed a singer, than Sir John Hall? As for Mark E Smith; 32 years after first seeing them at the Tyne Theatre, it is still abundantly clear that man loves you.

Fight Imperialism!

On account of my relative disengagement with UEFA’s beanfeast in Poland / Ukraine and Newcastle United’s abeyance in the transfer market, I had hoped it would not be beholden of me to take up my metaphorical pen as an even more metaphorical simple sword of truth until the Northern Alliance fixtures were released on 19^th July. However, events on Wearside have forced my mind. As noted last time, Cornelius Cardew declared “Stockhausen serves Imperialism;” sadly it appears that Martin O’Neill does too.

In point of fact I’ve been to Wearside recently; I attended a conference at sunderland University this week on Gothic Literature, where one of the keynote speakers was Dr Alison Younger, whose lecture on Gothic monstrosities included the fascinating theory that the essential differences in ideological motivation between Bram Stoker’s “Dracula” and Mary Shelley’s “Frankenstein” were related to class conflict. Count Dracula was presented by Stoker and interpreted by many readers as being exotic, charming and intriguing because of his otherness; he symbolises old money and pre industrial privilege. In contrast Dr. Frankenstein, coming from the world of science, represents the unsettling values of the unknown and the forces of change relating to ambition; he almost exactly maps the unease pre Gothic romantic writers such as William Blake had for Newtonian principles in physics. What is more, Frankenstein’s monster can be interpreted as the inescapable rise of the working classes, especially how they are viewed by the bourgeois; nameless, sinister, massive in scale, destructive and unstoppable.

Dr Younger’s lecture was taking place at the same time as sunderland were launching their new kit, with the support of a predictably fawning and slavering puff piece in the repugnant “Guardian.” This garment has been unveiled to include the seemingly laudable sponsorship slogan of “Invest in Africa.” The publicity photos accompanying the launch included months old shots of former chief executive Niall “Mr Charity” Quinn, whose unexplained and hurried departure from the club has still to be adequately explained. Unlike the deep thinking that accompanied Dr Younger’s talk, it appears that scant regard for the implications of their actions in accepting this Faustian shilling has been undertaken by the so-called caring club, as they will henceforth be doing as much for that continent as manufacturers of baby milk did in the 1980s, even if they pretend their actions are Live Aid with shin pads. In short (no pun intended), the Mackems will be wearing shirts emblazoned with a slogan that has as much moral validity as if it said “Give heroin to toddlers.”

Because of this deal, sunderland AFC will be promoting the interests of Tullow Oil, a rapacious, unscrupulous, grasping, multinational conglomerate, dedicated to profiteering, exploitation and land despoliation. It is indeed a grim organisation to climb in to bed with, but not unsurprising for a club whose support would no doubt opt for Skrewdriver as their half time entertainment if such a choice was available. Make no mistake, this is not comparable to Barcelona putting UNICEF on their shirts; no grand philanthropic gesture this by Ellis Short. Think I’m being unreasonable? Well, read this article then see the veracity of my reasoning; http://platformlondon.org/2012/06/26/blowing-the-whistle-on-sunderland-fcs-oil-sponsorship-deal/ For me, the crucial parts are; Three years ago, Barcelona won praise for putting UNICEF on their shirts – this is an attempt to get similar credit, while effectively just getting money from an oil company aggressively expanding its operations across the continent… The result of this particular “Investment in Africa” represents a significant transfer of wealth from some of Africa's poorest to British and Irish investors…

While economic realities and the celestial dance of capitalism mean that shirt and other forms of corporate sponsorship are a reality that borders on to being a necessity, there are limits. Certainly, the renaming of grounds, such as Ashley’s crass attempts to ditch120 years of history relating to St. James’ Park (though protests against it from self-appointed gauleiters in Sports Direct attire who, to paraphrase Francois Mitterand, have the mouth of Caligula and the morals of Marilyn Monroe, lack a certain integrity) should be resisted at all times. At Percy Main Amateurs, we take any sponsorship we can; perhaps we are Maoist in outlook as local businesses offering us £100 now and then seems to be the extent of what is out there. However, I know for certain we would not accept money from an organisation we regarded as ideologically suspect; if only all clubs shared our probity.

The novelist Joseph Conrad wrote of the evil nature of European imperialism in Africa at the very end of the 19^th century in his masterpiece “Heart of Darkness.” While that text may be equally instructive for all those of a red and white persuasion who seek to justify their club’s actions, Conrad had earlier expressed his view of European activities in the Congo in a succinct but incredibly apposite phrase that sunderland apologists would do well to consider; the vilest scramble for loot that ever disfigured the human conscience.

The Enver Hoxha Experience

A couple of years back I used to be able to upset pretty much every football fan in the North East in some way or other with one single sentence; sunderland have got the best fans, but Newcastle have the best chairman. Those dozen words caused incalculable offence at every level among Mags and mackems, but sadly time moves on and nothing dates quicker than humour, however vindictive. Ever since Niall Quinn left his job as Wearside’s own Lord Haw Haw in circumstances that have still to be adequately explained, there really isn’t any point in dignifying the relentless mackem straw clutching they engage in as regards their settlement’s standing in the regional pecking order. Regardless of the criteria used; they really have been mastered by Black & White Bastards, end of story.

However, while we accept that there’s no realistic contest between the two in football terms (on the pitch or in the stands), then what happens if we move the debate on to music? Without getting in to the historical minutiae of the relative gig, band or club scenes of the two conurbations over these past 5 decades or so, while graciously acknowledging the fact my cousin Graeme’s band The Monoconics released a superb Comsat Angels flavoured 7” in 1981 when living in Hendon; the unvarnished truth is that there really isn’t much of a contest in this realm either.

Wearside’s current allegedly finest beat combo are apparently The Futureheads; purveyors of lame, identikit, indie by numbers and famous only for an uninspired cover version of a Kate Bush song. Truly, they are Lee Cattermole and Jordan Henderson with guitars; cheap plastic ones from out the catalogue. Tyneside, of course, can boast of Heaton habitués Maximo Park as the entire region’s current poster children; none of them come from Newcastle, but just like NUFC’s squad, they comprise a talented, articulate, popular, multicultural coterie of effortlessly effective, handsome individuals. They are not from Tyneside, but they are of the culture that breeds such creativity. Singer Paul Smith was apparently chosen for the role because of his eye catching dancing to Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition” at a student party. Times really do change; in my day he’d probably have been started on by Garry Blythe or another of the Felling Punks (FPX).

This summer, while my mind is more focused on Euros Childs and The Wellgreen’s gig at the Star and Shadow than on the Euros in Poland and Ukraine, the desperate devotees of the mackem cause are trying, and failing, to market Albania on Wear as a kind of presumed regional rock hub, by cashing in on SJP’s use as an Olympic football venue (another sporting event that won’t cross my radar this summer), by putting on some gigs at El Stadio de Mierda. Which ground-breaking acts are the dissolute cognoscenti from Downhill and Plains Farm being asked to enjoy? Well, the first ones up were the frankly appalling Coldplay, whose gig significantly coincided with 24 hours of incessant rain mixed in with torrential downpours and a one day strike by Metro drivers. If ever there has been such a definitive, localised example of false consciousness and Gramsci’s theory of hegemony in the region’s recent past, then I’ve missed it.

Local media outlets shamefully branded the strikers as cruel tyrants, hell-bent on destroying “tourism” in the region. The idle of thought and ill-informed of opinion took to the airwaves and internet, decrying these so-called Labour aristocrats who earned a seemingly mind-boggling £32k a year for working 3 successive 12 hour shifts, with no say over rest days or work patterns, on a public transport service that charges £70 a month; as if these drivers set the prices! As if they are anything other than exploited workers! As if they are as much to blame for the crisis of capitalism as the banking and bourgeois elite! All they were doing was striking to save their pensions; if it coincidentally meant several thousand people were saved from enduring the trite, smug blandishments of Coldplay, so much the better. Mischievously, I asked Ben if he fancied attending this gig; his response was “I’d rather shit in my hands and clap,” which proves I’ve brought him up properly. Perhaps he is even better a judge of audio quality than I am, as I’d considered the phrase “If they were playing in the back garden, I’d shut the curtains” to be adequately contemptuous.

The next gig at SoS is the relentlessly banal Bruce Springsteen, rolling up to trot out his blue collar dirges a mere 27 years after he played the same set of ponderous banalities at SJP. I missed that one away at University, but remember at the time several member emeriti of FPX bought carry-outs and listened to Springsteen from the comfort of Exhibition Park band stand; “shite” was Gord’s one word summary of The Boss. I have no reason to expect he will have improved with age; Springsteen that is, not Gord. Finally, Sunday 24^th June sees the last night of the Pallion Proms, when The Red Hot Chili Peppers take the stage, which is one gig Ben is actually going to. I’m not, but then again, I did see them on 6^th February 1990 at Riverside, for considerably less than the £45 the bairn is shelling out to endure The Futureheads as support. Here are edited extracts of the review of RHCP I penned for Paint It Red at the time, showing that the Decca employee who told The Beatles guitar groups were on the way out may have been a distant relation -:

This should have been one of the gigs of the year; a sold out venue and a highly vaunted band debuting in the city meant expectations were running high. However, the gang didn’t deliver the goods and for 50% of the time, I was bored witless. The supposed collision between Funkadelic and Big Black was only a pale imitation of what The Beatnigs can offer. The vital spark of energy, that extra yard of pace was missing and the whole set dragged. Ok, it was good to watch; crazy haircuts, confrontational tattoos and 5 bare chests, but the sound was lost in a sludgy mix. Indeed only a straightforward reading of AC/DC’s “Back In black” for an encore salvaged anything from a disappointing night. I wouldn’t write them off just yet, but I fail to see quite why so many people are frothing at the mouth about them.

It was only much later we were to learn that this tour coincided with the Chili Peppers at their drug fuelled, lowest ebb, which presumably explains why they were so dire that night. Personally I never really got in to them after that, other than “Give It Away,” mainly because that one used to be on the Egypt Cottage jukebox about 15 times a night in the early 90s, but I imagine they’ll put on a top quality show for the eager Sixth Formers journeying to the dark place at the weekend.

I have to say that at 17, which is the age Ben turns on 27^th June, there is absolutely no way I would have found myself attending a stadium gig, though 12 days before I turned 18, I went to Gateshead Stadium to see The Gang of Four and The Beat support The Police, in what was billed as Sting’s homecoming gig, though I was away out the door long before that tantric charlatan took the stage. Frankly, I’ve always been a wilful and contrary advocate of the obscure and, being honest, those of questionable or even negligible talent, as well as an inveterate opponent of the mainstream. From the age of 11 or 12, I used to spend inordinate amounts of my school holidays leafing through records in shops such as Felling Square’s Pop Inn. Poring over racks of unattainable vinyl (albums cost about £3; I used to get £1 a week pocket money), the ones that appealed to me the most were not releases by the famous or even the celebrated, but those unknown sounds of recondite bands with intriguing names; The Amazing Blondel, Brand X, Henry Cow, Snafu and a thousand other forgotten early to mid-70s outfits that never received any music press or, in some cases, even a CD reissue. Those that did, I sometimes bought a couple of decades or more later when spotting them in a bargain bin or the back page of an unsolicited mail order catalogue. In general, I listened a couple of times, before ruefully accepting that Social Darwinism can have a musical edge to it after all. To this day, I will always lend a sympathetic ear to the purveyors of Folk, Prog or Jazz Rock from 40 years distant, if I see a gig listed or a CD or album in a bleak corner of a record shop or in a forgotten pile at a market stall; anything other than blues or metal will command a degree of my attention and often a purchase. If you feel yourself in need of a Matching Mole, Hatfield & the North or Lol Coxhill album, just drop me a line.

As a young and enthusiastic observer, on the periphery of music, Christmas Eve 1976 changed me, forever. I became the involved and passionate consumer I still am today. Listening in to John Peel that December night, as I’d also become accustomed to doing in school holidays, he announced that tracks 50-41 of his inaugural Festive 50 would be played. While the cut that came in at number 50, the decidedly pedestrian, if not soporific, “And You And I” by Yes had no discernible effect on me, nor did any of the other Festive 50 tracks, bar “Go to Rhino Records” by Wildman Fischer that I eventually bought on CD in about 2001, one contemporary cut the great man played altered my perception of what music is about and what it can do to a person’s mind. The Sex Pistols “Anarchy in the UK” received its debut radio play that show, but it wasn’t that record. Basically other than the eternally adored pairing of The Clash and The Buzzcocks, the initial wave of British punk left me cold. The Sex Pistols were glam rock, The Damned a cartoon approximation of rebellion and the rest too tame for words. The Models? Chelsea? The Cortinas? Perhaps not…

No, the record Peel played that exploded my consciousness was Richard Hell and the Voidoids’ “I Belong to the Blank Generation,” a snarling, insouciant arty drawl of a song; I loved it instantly and still do. It sums up everything about how I felt and still do about refusing to compromise or bow down to the mainstream; on 30^th December 1976, aged 12 years, 4 months and 19 days, I bought the “Blank Generation” EP on Stiff and Bob Dylan’s “Highway 61 Revisited,” inspired and intoxicated by Hell’s NY punk attitude and the impossibly beguiling flights of imaginative fancy weaved by “Desolation Row,” which was number 3 in the Festive 50 I believe. Two purchases from Windows of the Central Arcade that I will never regret; the combination shows my earliest embracing of the ethos DIY and studied incompetence, as well as a profound love for imagination, innovation and an utter refusal to compromise; “Blank Generation” and “Like A Rolling Stone” don’t just make the hairs on my neck stand up, they make me stand up and cheer every time I hear them.

When I compare the music I love, whether it be the work of any of those listed above (seriously, Matching Mole were great!) or any or all of Teenage Fanclub, Trembling Bells, The Fall, The Wedding Present, The Velvets, The Dubliners, The Clancy Brothers, Planxty or Christy Moore, then by comparison, the RHCP seem dull and Springsteen utterly beyond parody. Yet I don’t see either of them as evil in the way I view Coldplay as being both profoundly wrong on every possible level. Anyone choosing to listen to Coldplay, on the spurious grounds that their anodyne, supposedly inoffensive, adult orientated, low-carb indie style pop pap, is offering an intelligent choice for an ageing, but still trendy demographic is reinventing themselves as John Major with an Ipod.

Whilst Edwina Currie’s Pooterish fuck buddy said with a straight face that Little Chef restaurants provided the kind of menu choices he liked best of all, ignoring a whole world of flavours, tastes and experiences he was too weak, too shallow and too pitifully pathetic to even imagine could exist outside his self-imposed cultural vaccuum, a swathe of 30 somethings are his de facto social descendants a generation later, by lapping up these trite slices of inanity. Those who seek to legitimise Chris Martin’s continued presence in the world of contemporary music are either pretending, or deluding themselves that Coldplay or the likes of Paul Weller provide anything worth listening to. Frankly I’d rather hear a recording of a boarding kennels full of Labrador puppies being napalmed than the Modfather’s latest pointless twaddle. With his Bert Van Marwijk hair and performances, the man has taken the apogee of wallpaper music in the Style Council and effortlessly raised the blandness bar again and again over these past 4 decades. Someone should stop him. Now!

Of course, Weller’s not the only one who needs some kind of aesthetic intifada visited upon him; what about the Stone Roses? Dull, plodding, pub rock performed by arrogant cokeheads with an illogical, messianic belief they were The Stones reanimated. Though their first album wasn’t bad, it was only really “What the World is Waiting For” and “Fools Gold” that lifted them significantly above the workaday and the humdrum. What possible reason other than unimaginably large piles of cash money could they have for getting back together now? I don’t gamble, but I’d wager any subsequent Stone Roses product that limps out won’t have the vibrancy, force or integrity of, say, Wire’s “Red Barked Tree.” That 2011 album is the quality of release that justifies a reformation, 34 years after “Pink Flag”; “The Third Coming” simply won’t do that.

However much I object to Coldplay on aesthetic grounds and The Stone Roses on moral ones, I feel it has to be stated quite unequivocally that the very worst of the indie Uncle Toms are New Order as, unlike the previous two ludd gangs, they did achieve absolute and utter genius, though not under their current name. Unquestionably, Joy Division were one of the greatest bands in the history of popular music; their music is both timeless and impossibly brilliant. New Order had to exist to allow the members to come to terms with the death of Ian Curtis, though after 1983’s “Power Corruption & Lies,” they have been utterly irrelevant, even if the occasional track, such as “Murder” or “Thieves Like Us” really did shine like polished diamonds in a cess pit.

Twice this year, in Newcastle and in Dublin, I’ve avoided going to see New Order, in the same way I ignored them at Glastonbury in 1987. While their relentless flogging of a creative horse that’s been certified as needing burial for over two decades, it isn’t as distasteful as Peter Hook finding some session singer to do Curtis karaoke-style as he tours with note for note recreations of “Unknown Pleasures” and “Closer.” In Hook’s defence, at least he’s honest about trying to rake in the cash and has got some publicity for his antics. The only time New Order were mentioned with anything other than withering contempt was in relation to Canadian gay porn actor and suspected cannibalistic murderer Luka Magnotta (aka Eric Clinton Newman), who apparently slayed then dismembered his lover Jun Lin in a flat in Montreal, before posting various parts of the corpse to Canuck political parties. What does this have to do with New Order? Well Magnotta filmed his grisly act and uploaded the video, entitled “One Little Ice Pick,” with “True Faith” as the accompanying soundtrack. I wonder what the baldy, beer boys in their Sports Direct leisure wear that make up New Order’s audience thought of that; actually I don’t wonder at all.

So, if that is what we shouldn’t be listening to (bearing in mind I’ve not even mentioned U2); what should we be exposing ourselves to? If you check my earlier blogs this year, you’ll see I laud the usual suspects: Fairport Convention, The Wedding Present, Trembling Bells, Lightships, Snowgoose and Christy Moore. In the near to distant future, there are gigs by The Fall, Patti Smith, Euros Childs, Plainsong, Half Man Half Biscuit and Dirty Three to look forward to. However, being me, I still have to have my Pop Inn moments, when the bizarre, the arcane and the downright ridiculous grab my attention. In 2012, I have been dazzled by Pecker Dunne, Godspeed You! Black Emperor and Cornelius Cardew; to whom I dedicate this blog.

In terms of fame and modernity, Godspeed You! Black Emperor (note the positioning of the exclamation mark) are the nearest of the three to being down with the kids. Possibly this semi-ambient, avant garde, Quebecois, post rock, nonet may be known to some of you. Having formed in Montreal in 1994, they released 3 albums around the turn of the millennium and toured the UK in 2001, while I was living in Slovakia; they probably didn’t play Bratislava as me and my mate Webby would have been the only ones in the audience. After that, the band announced an indefinite hiatus. In essence, I missed out on them first time round and it was only when news of their reformation in 2011 spread that I began to take notice and educate myself. Their three albums are: Yanqui UXO, Lift Your Skinny Fists Like Antennas To Heaven and F#A#~ which includes their finest moment, The Dead Flag Blues. How can anyone not love a song that has these lyrics?

the car's on fire and there's no driver at the wheel

and the sewers are all muddied with a thousand lonely suicides

and a dark wind blows.

the government is corrupt

and we're on so many drugs

with the radio on and the curtains drawn.

we're trapped in the belly of this horrible machine

and the machine is bleeding to death.

the sun has fallen down

and the billboards are all leering

and the flags are all dead at the top of their poles.

it went like this:

the buildings tumbled in on themselves.

mothers clutching babies picked through the rubble.

and pulled out their hair.

the skyline was beautiful on fire.

all twisted metal stretching upwards;

everything washed in a thin orange haze.

i said: "kiss me, you're beautiful -

these are truly the last days."

you grabbed my hand and we fell into it

like a daydream or a fever.

we woke up one morning and fell a little further down;

for sure it's the valley of death.

i open up my wallet

and it's full of blood.

Compared to Godspeed You! Black Emperor, Pecker Dunne is like Rick Astley. Actually Pecker Dunne is an octogenarian Irish traveller, who plays banjo and fiddle, either in pubs or outside GAA matches, particularly in Munster, passing the hat round and never asking for a definite fee. His peripatetic life has seen him roam from his birth town of Castlebar in County Mayo in 1931, to Wexford, where he spent most of his life, to his current abode in County Clare. Often his material consists of Irish folk standards, such as Whiskey In The Jar, Roisin Dubh or McAlpine’s Fusiliers, as well as forays in to C&W schmaltz, like Ballybunion By the Sea, that thankfully don’t stray too close to Kevin Prendergast or Big Tom territory and comic numbers, such as the Black Velvet Band parody The Ould Morris Van, which may be resolutely unfunny but is still a thousand times better than anything Seamus Moore produced.

However, what intrigues me, apart from the gratuitous and unconvincing, populist, pro Republican sentiments in the final verse of the almost risqué Down by the Liffeyside are his own numbers. In particular his breakthrough hit from the 1960s Sullivan’s John and his signature tune Wexford, which tell a compelling tale of his life and the hardships he endured in the town he called his home and in the life he has lead -:

My family lived in Wexford town, stopped travelling and settled down,

Though my father kept a horse and car, we lived within the town,

The people there misunderstood, or they did not know our ways,

So with horse and car, back on the road, I began my travelling days

My father was called the Fiddler Dunne, and I'm a fiddler too,

But although I often felt his fist, he taught me all he knew,

I know I'll never be as good, and yet I feel no shame,

For the other things my father taught, I am proud to bear his name.

He taught me pride and how to live, though the road is hard and long,

And how a man will never starve, with a banjo, fiddle or song,

And how to fight for what I own, and what I know is right,

And how to camp beside a ditch on a stormy winter's night.

O times were good and times were bad, and people cruel and kind,

But what I learned of people then, has stayed within my mind,

I'll honour friends with all my heart, do for them all I can,

But I've learnt to go the road again, when they spurn the tinker man.

O Wexford is a town I like, but the travelling man they scorn,

And a man must feel affection for the town where he was born,

I know one day, that I'll go back, when my travelling days are done,

And people will begin to wonder, what has happened to the Pecker Dunne.

Perhaps he can teach it to Mick Wallace, who could then busk it outside Leinster House as he tries to pay back the £21m he owes in unpaid VAT. Frankly, it seems Wexford Youths must be on the way out, as they are the last of his problems, so he may as well do it as a duet with Roddy Collins after Monaghan United’s shock departure from the League of Ireland.

The final member of my obscure musical trinity has been dead for over 30 years. The classical composer Cornelius Cardew died in a hit and run accident in east London on December 12^th 1981. Having been in London two days prior to this at a University interview, I can confirm the weather was dreadful and a thick fall of snow had covered the capital. Nevertheless, Cardew’s political friends still maintain it was a Secret Service hit than finished him off.  This is a long, weird story…

Cardew was born to Bohemian parents in Devon and, as a prodigiously talented chorister and pianist; he first attended Winchester Cathedral School and then the Guildhall. It was while studying piano and composition he found himself drawn to the avant garde; initially this meant Stravinsky and Bartok, but eventually contemporary German music was where his interests were focussed. Moving to Munich after graduation, he studied under Stockhausen and from the late 50s and during the whole of the 60s, he became one of Britain’s foremost composers. His work is this period proved to be part of a natural continuum that began with Stockhausen’s dissonant systems music and led to John Cage’s more freely improvisational pieces. Cardew’s genius was seen in the Wittgenstein inspired Treatise and the wildly ambitious The Great Learning, where he invented a whole new system of musical notation, based on Chinese philosophy. He performed initially as part of the trio AMM, before forming the large, amateur musical collective the Scratch Orchestra, who were closely aligned with left wing causes and who regularly performed more and more outlandish from the seemingly endless Great Learning.

As the 60s turned to the 70s, Cardew, having undergone a political awakening, made an ideological decision to abandon the avant garde and dedicate himself to what he termed People’s Liberation Music. In deference to the Maoist self-critical practice of Jingtao, he published Stockhausen Serves Imperialism, denouncing the classical music world as being interested only in maintaining capitalism by means of a self-perpetuating oligarchy that were opposed to class struggle, of which he had been part while producing his earlier body of work that he rejected outright. Eventually, Cardew went further and was one of the founders of the pro Albanian Revolutionary Communist Party of Britain (Marxist Leninist). From 1972 until the end of his life, Cardew’s obsession with People’s Liberation Music led him towards compositions that were characterized by their belligerently Marxist lyrics and stridently accessible music; “compositions of the utmost crassness,” as his biographer John Tilbury described them.

Cardew’s earlier compositions were not easy listening; I find the CD “Works 1960-1970” to be challenging, but his later efforts, such as the CD “We Sing of the Future” are simply too bizarre for words. They comprise either Irish Republican folk songs performed irritatingly slowly, with the words sung by plummy voiced, classically trained opera divas, or indigestible chunks of Marxist dialectics, often composed in conjunction with RCPB (ML) theorist Hardiel Baines; a man so preposterous in his opinions that one must speculate whether Kurt Vonnegut based Kilgore Trout on him, or whether Baines sought to emulate Trout’s prose stylistics. While I can find no evidence of recordings of such classics as The Emancipation of Women is an Essential Prerequisite to the Dictatorship of the Proletariat, Tirana the Citadel, O Albania or When Comrade Enver Sharpens his Sword, I can point you in the direction of such gems as Smash the Social Contract or British Working Class You Are The Revolutionary Force.

Now, look me in the eye and tell me that you prefer Coldplay, The Stone Roses and New order to Pecker Dunne, GY!BE or either oeuvre of Cornelius Cardew. Go on, I dare you!!

Park Life

The full time whistle at Hannah Park on Saturday 9^th June saw Girvan players prostrate themselves across the turf in paroxysms of agony at their unfortunate relegation, while the Shotts Bon Accord team celebrated their victory with clenched fist salutes and a profound, yet manly, group hug. Of course a single goal defeat at Thorniewood on the Monday and a stalemate in their final game at Rutherglen Glencairn (that isn’t a typing error) meant Shotts came up short and handed the West Superleague First Division title to Glenafton Athletic after all, but my day out in Lanarkshire did serve to end the domestic season for 2011/2012 in the tumultuous fashion that is the wont of Scottish Juniors football, or at least my experience of it.

Moving forward, the obvious question posed by the ending of the domestic football calendar was just exactly what was I going to do with my leisure time, especially on Saturdays, before the round of pre season friendlies begin in mid July. Most people would probably keep one eye on the papers and internet to see for news of Newcastle United, though I’d regard that as a fruitless exercise fit only for the most desperate of scandalmongers, as the essentially secret nature of the club’s dealings in the transfer market these past 5 seasons has meant that all surprise entrances and exits, both pleasant and unpleasant, have come completely out of the blue. Thus all idle speculation about the club’s intentions is precisely that; idle speculation.

Obviously, for the Carling and sofa tendency, there is the semi important matter of the European Championships unfolding in Poland and Ukraine, though to preview or review the tournament in any great detail would be an unhelpful act on my behalf, as the sheer weight of verbiage spewed forth about the tournament means that any new comments must be both insightful and original; two qualities my writing may always aspire to but rarely achieves.  To be frank, though I’ve not seen all the games (I missed France’s opener as I was at work, while a riotous night on the gargle down the Ouseburn stopped me from taking in Sweden’s second match), I’ve enjoyed almost of all I’ve seen. Sad to see Russia going out, but fair play to the Czechs for coming back from such a battering in the opening game. In addition, Ireland’s performances (and I’m writing this in advance of the final game against Italy) have been the cause of great sadness for me. To be frank, the squad is the weakest one of the 16 qualifiers, but the shameful spectacle of an ageing, washed-up Shay Given conceding the sort of soft goals I let in at 6 a side, is almost too tragic for words. We’ll leave it there eh?

Instead, let us return to the mantra; “football always lets you down, but music never does.” Bearing this in mind, Saturday 16^th June, as well as being Bloomsday, was dedicated to music on my part. Last October, Hazel Plater and Carl Taylor published their book about Newcastle’s premier independent venue Riverside (RIP). I contributed to the book and blogged about it here http://payaso-del-mierda.blogspot.co.uk/2011/10/riverside-remembered.html Since then, Hazel has started her own site (http://www.hazelplater.com/) which includes information about their next project, which is a film about the venue. You can contribute to this very worthy cause by going to http://www.indiegogo.com/rivfilm and pledging what you can. If they raise the money, and I intend to contribute at the top end, the film will get made; otherwise….

On Saturday, I attended a little gathering at Reflex records, where punters from Riverside were to be filmed, saying the name of a favourite band they saw at that venue, to appear as extras on the DVD; I chose Fugazi and was lucky enough to be the first person filmed. As I pointed out in a fortnight ago’s blog, I’m no longer able to amuse myself by wandering around city centres. This was a problem as on Saturday, I’d 2 hours to kill because I wanted to catch one of the free shows that Maximo Park were doing in town. While I like some of what they do, I’m not exactly a devotee of the band, and I seriously wish the singer would take that bloody daft trilby off once in a while, but I have enormous respect for them. Despite none of them coming from Tyneside, they still live and work in Newcastle, making no bones about who they are and how much they love the place; for that we have to admire them. Not only that, but they do their bit for the local music community.

Their Bloomsday had started with an in-store in Stockton at noon, followed by one in sunderland at 2, before the Tyneside triple header. Having been informed by my Ben, who’d just seen them at Evolution the other month, that he was going to see them in both Reflex at 4.30 and Beatdown at 6, it was made clear to me in no uncertain terms that if I wished to see them, I was left with the option of RPM at 3.30, or of doing without.

Leaving Reflex after the filming around 2, I grabbed a coffee and a sandwich then meandered off to RPM, which I discovered had moved from High Bridge opposite the Duke of Wellington, to the alleyway leading from The Old George; in other words, behind the Duke of Wellington. In steady drizzle that occasionally turned in to torrential, driving rain, a crowd was beginning to mass in the courtyard. To be frank, I was the oldest one there by 20 years, but I’m glad to have seen them, even if it was no “Get Back” moment. Of course I’ve seen them before; in 2005 at the Cluny and in 2009, with Ben, at the Academy. It’s impossible to state just how big they are among the soft beer boy tendency; Maximo Park surely are the definitive musical soundtrack of lower middle class academically underachieving call centre employees with pointy shoes and tousled, distressed hair.

The RPM courtyard gig drew, I’d guess, about 200 well-behaved, expensively attired, heavy smoking 20 somethings on a wet afternoon, to hear 7 songs. The first half dozen were from the new album, which I bought for Ben and had autographed (what charming young men they are too). Particularly impressive to me were both the title track, “The National Health,” and the relaxed, friendly banter and demeanour of the band; they like their audience, because they used to be their audience.

All in all, an excellent afternoon, made all the better by the sight of Ben and his pals making their way to Reflex for the second gig; the curt nod of acknowledgment in my direction was vindication enough of my existence; the Iphone snap of Ben with the band that arrived a couple of hours later was a touching moment; almost as touching as the CDs of “Screamadelica” and “Lust For Life,” to replace well loved but battered vinyl, that I received on Fathers’ Day afternoon (once he’d got up of course).

Thanks to Ben, Hazel and Maximo Park for making my weekend.