City Hobgoblins

Issue #5 of "Push," the greatest literary magazine in the world has just been published. Get it for £2.50 inc P&P via PayPal from joe.england64@gmail.com but hurry as there's only 120 available. My article in this one is about The Fall, a group I've written about before http://payaso-del-mierda.blogspot.co.uk/2012/07/that-man-loves-you.html but not as well as I've done in "Push," in my opinion. Here are my words, but do make sure you buy the magazine to read the other excellent stuff in there...

For many, many years, The Fall used to be my favourite band in the world, ever, of all time. From the first time I’d heard them in late 1978, when my cousin John  played me “It’s The New Thing,” their second single, right through to a shambolic, non-performance at the Sage in October 2004, I spent over 25 years in love with the band. I bought every single release of theirs, attended every gig I could and proselytised them in print. These days, of course, I realise Teenage Fanclub are the best band in the world and The Wedding Present are the second best. However, back in November last year, The Fall played Newcastle and I took my son Ben to see them.  I think he was expecting to hear “Winter,” “Touch Sensitive” and “Theme From Sparta FC.” He didn’t. What happened was The Fall (MES in particular I mean) finally showed up 45 minutes late and played an hour’s set in which I recognised 4 songs (“Strychnine,” “Psykick Dancehall,” “Printhead” and “White Lightning”), but they were really rather tremendous. MES looks as well as ever (cough!) and the bairn drunkenly told me it was one of the best gigs he’d ever been to. Of course this was before we went to see Neil Young, which he claimed has changed his life; and that made me think of a similar night over 30 years ago.

Wise-ass American film critics probably would call it a 'rite of passage'. We linguistically sober Brits would refer to it as all part of growing up! I'm talking about my first ever Fall gig. It happened on 28 June 1980, 14 years and 364 days before my son was born, at the Newcastle New Tyne Theatre. Tickets cost £2.00 and beer was 43p a pint. I was a month away from my 16th birthday and was on something of a high, having just completed my O Levels and secured an enticing job in an electrical components factory. This particular night was a Saturday and I was still coming to terms with having £25 to spend in my pocket.

The gig was being promoted by a wonderful organisation called Anti Pop that had done the Au Pairs and Delta 5 the week before and, wait for it, Pink Military Stand Alone (remember them?) the previous night. The New Tyne Theatre was not new at all, but an aged musical hall that had done time as the Stoll 'erotic' cinema before lying dormant, like its former customers presumably, for many years. It's still doing service as a theatre and infrequent musical venue; in fact, I’m off to see Christy Moore there in October. The best thing about the New Tyne was that all the seating was as it had been; so me and about 10 mates (we styled ourselves as FPX; the Felling Punks) commandeered one of the Royal Boxes, complete with velvet drapes and opera glasses, in order to get a better view.

First on were local band Flesh, both of whom worked in the local Virgin Records store and were absolute shite. They released a record once: a cover of 'My Boy Lollipop' in the manner of Suicide. This 33 years ago, remember. Next to read the boards were Clicks, a band memorable only for having ex-Penetration guitarist Garry Chaplin as leader; they had played one gig the previous April as Iron Curtain and used Munch's 'The Scream' for their posters and t-shirts; Joy Division crossed with the Velvets. I friended Gary on Facebook last year and reminded him of the gig; he described it as an “unpalatable” experience. Perhaps this doesn't seem to be much of a night to remember so far but Cabaret Voltaire, in their atonal electric Dadaist phase, were on immediately before The Fall and achieved an enormously polarised reaction. I thought they were brilliant; the rest of the audience bombarded them with glasses, jeers and phlegm. To be truly innovative, you must be prepared to endure the opprobrium of those less tolerant than yourself I mused, and then went for a pint.

When The Fall hit the stage, I had the horns of a dilemma to sit on; should I remain in the Royal Box with a perfect view, or should I venture to the front in search of a better atmosphere? There was no problem with sound quality, it was diabolical everywhere, but it was important for me to find the right spot to spend the second most important night of my life thus far. Downstairs, I discovered the closest I could get to the stage was about 50 feet away. Contrast this with The Fall's next appearance at Newcastle in October 1981, when I spent the gig sat on the stage at the dismally naff Hofbrauhaus Bierkellar; this was in the days when finding a place for non-mainstream bands to play was almost impossible.

The reason for being kept at a distance was the roped off orchestra pit area that hailed back to the theatre’s Music Hall days. Faced with this huge gap, I returned back upstairs. Sadly, unlike Royal Variety Command performances, all performers and audience didn't turn to applaud us and throw red roses at the end.

Years later, I sourced a bootleg of the gig from a Fall website and listening to it again, what strikes me is just how long a gig it was. This digitised version of recording made on a smuggled mono cassette recorder reinforced fading memories of how wonderful 'Impression of J. Temperance' and 'New Puritan' sounded  Perhaps it was the waft of Evo-Stik from the UK Subs fans in the bogs or just the sheer excitement I felt, who knows? It certainly affected my mental equilibrium, because most of the evening passed in a blur. As was their wont at the time, The Fall slipped in eight unreleased songs out of a 16-song set. I spent a lot of time inventing possible titles for the newies, such as, and how I cringe now, “Totally Wild.”

The only downer was at the end. As the gig would finish after the last bus and I hadn't a clue about taxis at that age, my dad had arranged to pick me up. Horror upon horror for me and my cousin, as my dad and uncle were waiting directly outside and proceeded to drone on for the 15-minute journey home about how dreadful punk fashions were and how the music is just noise. I’m an older man now than they were then and I rest contented knowing I can still appreciate Godspeed You! Black Emperor, even if my son thinks the Quebecois nonet are just an awful racket.

The Fall’s set at Newcastle New Tyne Theatre, 28.06.80

The N.W.R.A. / 2nd Dark Age / Impression of J. Temperance / City Hobgoblins / Totally Wired/ Muzorewi's Daughter / Fiery Jack / Gramme Friday / Printhead / English Scheme / New Face in Hell / Choc-Stock / Diceman / New Puritan 

Straky Do Toho*

On 17th July 2005, I was in the small central Slovak town of Dubnica nad Vahom watching Newcastle United win 3-1 in a first leg Inter Toto Cup game. It was a good day; I wrote about it for Stand AMF magazine's summer special, which doesn't appear to have materialised. Probably because they spent a lot of effort organising the "Ale Music Football" night in Liverpool on 6th July, which I didn't make as it clashed with my Ben's family celebration for his 18th birthday. I was quite pleased with the article, so I've decided to post it here -:

I’ve no concrete evidence to back my assertion up, but I reckon most football managers are fairly right wing. Long gone are the days when Jack Charlton would lend his official Newcastle United Rover to striking miners from Ashington, so they could go picketing in Nottinghamshire. Admittedly he’s not a self-proclaimed Fascist like the clown on Wearside, but Alan Pardew must be on the extreme fringes of the Tory Party or even UKIP; how else can we explain his rampant Euroscepticism? Not content with ending Newcastle United’s involvement in the Europa League at the quarter final stage in early April, Pardew has adopted a Little Englander position that seemingly refuses to countenance fording Offa’s Dyke to play the likes of Cardiff or Swansea.

As a bairn in the early 70s, the FA Cup final on the first Saturday in May marked the end of the domestic football season. Back then, all I could do to feed my obsession until August was affect an interest in supporting Cumberland United of South Australia Division 1, who I discovered on my dad’s pools coupon. These days there are international tournaments every June and pre-season round robins on Channel 5 from the start of July onwards. However, for truly competitive summer club football, the Inter Toto Cup had it all. It was the last trophy Newcastle won, in 2006 courtesy of Livorno beating  Auxerre (the structure was a mite complicated…), though my favourite engagement with the competition was the year before.

Under the appalling Souness, we’d lost a UEFA Cup quarter final, an FA Cup semi-final and finished thirteenth in the League.  Bizarrely, we actually qualified for the Inter Toto Cup; mainly because England was awarded a Fair Play place and none of the eligible clubs above us were interested in taking it. Given a bye to the third round, I was ecstatic when we drew ZTS Dubnica. While many people would query the appeal of a mid-July weekend in an industrial city in the Vah region of Western Slovakia, having spent 2 of the best years of my life living and working in Bratislava either side of the millennium, I was elated to be going back to my adopted home country, with my team.

Interest levels in this trip were low among my associates; frankly, this wasn’t Barcelona, Bruges or Benfica. Indeed the grand total of 83 Newcastle fans eventually made the trip, including the heroic Glenn Wallace who travelled, as he does to every Euro away, by train. Opting to fly from Manchester to Bratislava, I pitched up in the Slovak capital Friday afternoon, 48 hours before kick-off. It was fair to say I was the advance party, as there wasn’t another Geordie in town, though there was a Mackem; my former work colleague Steve, who put me up but steadfastly refused to go to the game.

We took Friday night easy, with loads of leisurely beers in the Stary Mesto (Old Town). Unlike England’s difficult away in October 2002, there didn’t seem to be anything brewing. Saturday was different though; I took myself out for a noon constitutional down by the Danube, just as the bus from Budapest Airport arrived, disgorging about 60 thirsty Geordies who’d been on the dawn Easyjet. A day on the piss ensued, involving several of us doorstepping then NUFC chairman Freddy Shepherd as he sat down to eat with assorted lackeys in Bratislava’s poshest restaurant. From nowhere Northumbria Constabulary coppers emerged from the shadows and ushered us away; they even bought half a dozen of us a beer in The Dubliner before the self-preservation klaxon told me it was time to split.

Match day saw about 30 of us on the noon train to Dubnica; the rest had opted for the much cheaper and far slower bus. As we executive travellers sat in the restaurant car sucking on 500ml bottles of Pilsner Urquell while nibbling on restorative cheese and salami for less than a quid a plateful, I reckon we’d the better deal. In Dubnica, the first person we saw was Glenn Wallace, who described his Saturday night as the only English speaker in Dubnica as “like finally being famous.” We soon learned what he meant as locals, in assorted Champions’ League replica tops, bought us beer and shook our hands; in 30 degree heat, this was a happy and hot special occasion.

The game itself happened in slow motion; Michael Chopra scored after 5 minutes, then there was an own goal, before they pulled one back. James Milner grabbed a third in a quarter speed second half; I drank 6 beers during the game, while my mate Davey Faichen fell asleep at half time and snoozed on the terraces until we took him up for the train at full time.

We enjoyed a leisurely trundle back to Bratislava, then a crazy drunken night in The Dubliner with a load of Dutch tennis fans, in town for a Davis Cup tie versus Slovakia. They’d lost, but what the hell. I’m no specialist on Euro aways, having only done Eindhoven (twice) before Dubnica, but Slovakia was a fine, fine weekend; 8 years later, those who were there still speak warmly of it.

One brief cameo provided the best advert for summer football and the Inter Toto Cup in particular I could ever imagine, while I mooched around the three quarters deserted  train on the way back to Bratislava. Somewhere just south of Trencin, as the sun slowly set over the Bílé Karpaty Mountains, one of the Prudhoe Mags, happy, sunburned and half cut, was on the phone to his girlfriend. The noise of the rattler drowned out his voice as I weaved down the corridor, but as I passed him,  he ended the call with a smile and a heartfelt I love you too pet. A thousand miles from home, semi-surrounded by a few knots of tired, contented and gently boozed NUFC fans, I knew just how he felt; I loved all of humanity that warm Sunday evening.

* Straky Do Toho = Come On The Magpies, po Slovensko....

S.T.I.*

On Saturday 13th July 2013, I won't be at a game. Considering in 2012/2013, I only missed seeing football on August 11th (my birthday and I was at Cork v Galway in the All Ireland hurling semi final) and May 12th (UCU IBL inaugural conference in Manchester), this is a surprising announcement. Except it's not; I'm going to carry the UCU northern region banner at The Big Meeting and attend a much smaller meeting of SPGB members and supporters, then hit the beer tent. In all seriousness, the time has come to make a stand; the situation in this country and this whole rotten capitalist system need to be confronted. The revolution has to start somewhere and today my as well be that point as any. However, pre season friendlies go ahead all over, especially the South Tyneside Summer Cup, a 6 team tournament at Hebburn Town. Here are a couple of short pieces I've written for the programme today -:

Hebburn Reyrolle F.C.

As a result of my club Heaton Stannington’s retention of the Northern Alliance Premier Division title, the club has been promoted to Northern League Division 2, which when combined with the usual resignations and renamings that go on each close season, means that the Alliance has accepted 5 new teams for 2013/2014. Alongside Newbiggin and West Allotment Reserves, other new faces include the returning Chopwell, a Gateshead Leam Rangers side that will be of a supposed parallel standard to their Wearside League outfit and Whitburn Athletic (the one near Souter Point, not the one halfway between Glasgow and Edinburgh).

While in the past there have been such seemingly anomalous members of the Alliance such as the East 

Durham trio Peterlee Newtown, Murton and Easington Colliery, these latter 3 neophytic outfits s that are joining Swalwell in Division 2, alongside Birtley St. Joseph’s and Gateshead Redheugh 1957 in Division 1, will combine with Gateshead Rutherford and Hebburn Reyrolle in creating the largest presence of clubs in the South Tyneside and Gateshead area in recent memory.  However, it must be acknowledged that both Rutherford and Reyrolle hung on to their Premier Division status in somewhat fortuitous circumstances; finishing well adrift from the rest in the bottom two places, the duo were spared the ignominy of relegation because of the resignations of both Amble united and Harraby Catholic Club.

Hebburn Reyrolle are a club with a proud history as they were formed as long ago as 1923, originally going under the name of Reyrolle Staff F.C. The club played their football mainly in the North East Amateur League until they were accepted in to the Northern Football Alliance in 1992, where the 3 three seasons have been of particular interest.

Having won the 2010 Stan Seymour League Cup Final by defeating Heddon 3-1, but losing to Percy Main in the same season’s Combination Cup Final, Reyrolle set the bar even higher during the 2010/11 season, when they completed a historic treble under the management of Mark Collingwood and his assistant Simon Johnson as they won the Division One Title, The Combination Cup and The Durham County Trophy. In 2011/2012, they retained the Durham Trophy when they defeated Coundon & Leaholme after extra time.  Were it not for a crucial home defeat by Percy Main on May Day 2012, Reyrolle could well have pipped Heaton Stannington to the Premier Division title; such glory seemed far away during the campaign just ended.

In fairness, 2012/2013’s disastrous season for Reyrolle did include some excellent results, including thrashing Percy Main Amateurs 4-1, and it was a campaign made exceedingly difficult by the decampment of manager Mark Collingwood and many of his players to Seaham Red Star. It is indeed a tribute to Reyrolle that they showed such stoicism in the face of adversity and made it through to the end of the season, from which time they’ve managed to regroup. This season will see the club under the stewardship of newly installed manager Aiden Finnigan, who is the father of former Newcastle United reserve and current striker for Dundee Carl Finnigan and hopes are high of a Reyrolle renaissance.

Free Ticket Mag

I have a real problem with individual sports; the arrogance, monomania and narcissism of the preening solo superstar, whether they are Tom Daley, Jensen Button or Chris Hoy, both grates and nauseates. Highest on my list of sporting hates is anything involving motorised vehicles, horses or above all, for ideological reasons, golf. Back in the good old days pre Glasnost and Perestroika, those countries lucky enough to be part of the Warsaw Pact banned the existence of golf courses on account of the shameful waste of good farming land occasioned by the maintenance of greens and fairways; a decision I was in total agreement with. Even worse than individual sports are the shameful ways those gaggles of rampant egotists are herded together by some fake collectivist ideal; Team GB, the Ryder Cup and, least convincingly, the Davis Cup doubles. The individual sportsman loves only himself and his bank account; not his team.

However, please allow me to be a hypocrite; despite a trip to a gloriously sun-drenched Jesmond for day 1 of Northumberland (461-9 dec) v Bedfordshire (97-2) preventing me from watching Andy Murray’s triumph at Wimbledon (or Wmbldn as Harry Carpenter insisted on calling it), I welcome his victory, solely because he is a supporter of Scotland’s greatest football team; Hibernian. For that we can forgive him anything, though I’m still struggling to forgive Hibs for losing 3-0 in the Scotch Cup Final to Celtic at the end of May. I attended this game, my debut appearance at the wonderful Hampden Park, and enjoyed myself despite the score. That said, I would struggle to say the game offered value for money at a cost of £35 for a ticket. Indeed, I came away from Mount Florida firmly resolved that I would do all I could to ensure I will not pay a penny piece to watch a game of football in 2013/2014. Hence you’ll excuse me for not attending this tournament.

Last season I attended 14 Newcastle games; all the Sunday Premier League games and the Europa League home games, only enjoying 2 of them; Bordeaux and Southampton. This cost me around £300. While I managed to watch Northern Alliance games with my former club Percy Main Amateurs without having to pay to view, those in the Northern League cost between £4 and £6 per match; it adds up after 60 games a season. Thankfully, following my big money transfer to Heaton Stannington, I will be able to watch The Stan’s games for nothing, and I fully intend to see every competitive game we play, but my other attendances may be limited. So far I’ve taken in Whickham 7 Benfield 0 and Chemfica 1 Whickham 1; both free to watch, both very enjoyable and both pointing the way forward in these straitened economic times.

*S.T.I. = South Tyneside Invective

In My Own Write

One of the biggest ironies about my big money transfer to Heaton Stannington is that my first book "Village Voice," the story of Percy Main's 2009/2010 season has just been published in iBook & Kindle formats, by those awfully nice people at Zapa Books (http://www.zapaebooks.com/noticias/29/village-voice-now-available-at-the-ibookstore-and-on-kindle/). Proofreading it before publication I was struck by two things; firstly I couldn't differentiate between "into" and "in to" and secondly, it wasn't a bad read at all.

Punchdrunk and delirious in pre publication frenzy, my commissioning editor at Zapa suggested that we could do a free ebook of this blog at some point. Post publication, he's gone very quiet about this, though I will have a chance to quiz him about in when he arrives on Tyneside for his annual visit this week. Taking his words of encouragement seriuously, I penned this introduction, which I'd like to share with you now -:

My life involves a number of interests that can easily be regarded as verging on obsessions; football (primarily Newcastle United, but also all levels of the professional and especially the amateur game as a volunteer, spectator, supporter and alleged player), music (from angular, uncompromising post-punk to enduringly, classic and seemingly mainly Scottish, guitar based indie to folk and folk rock, both Irish and English), Ireland (the history, culture, politics, music, sport and indeed every aspect of life in the entire 32 counties), literature and books in general (from Cormac McCarthy to William Butler Yeats and all points in between), not to mention Real Ale and ultra-left wing politics, though the commissioning editor for this volume would prefer I described myself as a cynical, petit-bourgeois, quasi-Stalinist, dilettante rather than a Marxist. These interests coalesce and combine when I willingly succumb to the primary, motivating urge in my life; the need to write. This need is beyond the intellectual; it is primal and something I find myself uncontrollably drawn towards and driven by. Every single day, there are thoughts, phrases, concepts and ideas I simply have to explore and exploit by writing them down.

This urge isn’t new. From the early 1980s onwards, I wrote poetry, lyrics, short fiction, as well as reviews, interviews and opinion pieces on music and football for an immense range of publications that ranged from national newspapers and magazines, to long forgotten fanzines than lasted barely a tomato season, let alone a football one. As I approached my mid-30s at the turn of the Millennium, several things occurred to me; firstly, the internet had caused an incredible contraction in the number of printed titles where I could have my work published. Basically, why would anyone choose to pay to read someone else’s opinions when they could publish their own in seconds? In practical terms, this technological revolution meant I found myself mainly writing for Newcastle United fanzines The Mag, from 1989-2004, and Toon Talk (formerly Players Inc), from 2005 to the present, as well as the Percy Main Amateurs match programme from 2007 to 2013. Currently, I am about to embark on an exciting (for me at least) new venture as editor for the Heaton Stannington programme for the 2013/2014 season; it may not be brilliantly designed, but all the apostrophes will be in the correct places.

Secondly, and thankfully I was completely wrong in this, the music scene appeared to have begun a slow death. For a number of years, I still listened to and watched live music, without ever imagining I’d write about it again; happily, I am rediscovering the pleasure of turning sounds in to words. Thirdly, my talent for writing fiction had deserted me; like Wendy scanning the night skies for Peter Pan, I fruitlessly hoped it would return. Sadly, it hasn’t in any meaningful way, though 2013 has seen 5 of my poems and one short story published in issues 2, 3 and 4 of the brilliant new literary fanzine Push. Rather like the continued existence of niche markets such as Real Ale and vinyl records, small bands of devoted followers are keeping a range of new and established fanzines going, with every sign of a grassroots renaissance in the offing, proving those who announced the death of the printed word to be far from accurate. I have also been commissioned to write pieces for the new Barnsley fanzine West Stand Bogs and the long established Wigan Athletic publication Mudhutter, showing that the fanzine renaissance is palpable; the best examples being the general zine Stand AMF, where I’ve seen my work appear and FC United of Manchester’s A Fine Lung, which sets the bar for all other fanzines in the quality of its writing.

However, the internet has proved to be the ultimate punk rock tool for writers everywhere; in the blogosphere it’s always late 1976, as everyone, regardless of their ability or lack of it, is as valid a voice as anyone else when it comes to publishing on line. This has been the case for quite a while; the platforms for publication have just become a little more sophisticated. Back, in 2002, I discovered the possibilities afforded by domestic broadband internet for the first time, which almost immediately resulted in my writing striking out in a whole new direction. Exploiting the speed and reliability of my connection, I became involved in a baffling array of on-line communities, signing up with new ones, seemingly on a daily basis, as my interests caused me to range around the web. These “messageboards,” especially those dedicated to particular bands, introduced me to the concept of writing briefer, more personalised, generally succinct and highly opinionated review and comment pieces, but for  far more informed and interested audiences than the general readership of those magazines I’d written for in the past. Aesthetically, the on-line results weren’t as pleasing as seeing your name on a glossy A4 double-page spread in a quality publication available in WH Smiths up and down the country, but the feedback was potentially immediate, mainly genuine and unfailingly honest. Crucially, it was, and is, also interactive. Through the on-line forums of Teenage Fanclub, The Wedding Present, Christy Moore and Fairport Convention, I’ve made virtual and real friendships with cyber penpals from around the world, enjoying pre and post gig beers with many of them. This is the nature of friendship in the contemporary world and I’ve mainly had positive experiences of it.

However, this new world of music mates mailing you compilation CDs and putting you on the guest list in Bristol or Leeds wasn’t uniformly pleasant; The Fall’s messageboard was the virtual equivalent of a belligerent taxi queue on Christmas Eve, where bile, vitriol and personal abuse seemed to be not only tolerated, but compulsory. Sadly, that level of profane invective appears to be the rule rather than the exception with most football boards. Indeed my club Newcastle United has one messageboard, which I’ll not name, that spews all manner of unchecked hate speak 24/7, where new participants endure a kind of ultra-Darwinian initiation ceremony, involving abuse, scorn and incessant ridicule that must skirt the borders of illegality. No doubt our rivals Sunderland have the same kind of vile sub-culture; indeed, I’d imagine such a depressing scenario is repeated at every football club, as it seems only general non-league forums, typical of the more civilised nature of the grassroots game, attract reasoned debate, despite the preponderance of groundhoppers, who tend to muddy the waters in that particular gene pool. Worse still are the soi-disant football Brains Trust egoists  that frequent the on-line sections of broadsheet papers and supposed independent football monthlies, where Polyversity Media Studies and Sociology drop outs assume dominant roles in a self-elected, self-perpetuating cyber Republique des Lettres and make smug, shallow, unfailingly inaccurate pronouncements about every aspect of a sport they never bother going to see. Certainly their activities have turned me right against Huddersfield and Ipswich Town over the last few years.

My life has been marked by a series of milestones, the dates of which I still remember; 1^st January 1973 saw my first trip to St. James’ Park, while 24^th December 1976 was the first time I heard (I Belong to the) Blank Generation by Richard Hell and the Void-Oids. Perhaps one of the most liberating dates in my life was 24^th February 2007 when I made my final contribution to a football messageboard, after I’d involved myself in a particularly mindless, internecine debate on the quality of Glenn Roeder’s stewardship of Newcastle United. What particularly irked me about attempting to discuss football on with ill-informed, faceless, abusive trolls was not the fact that followers of the same team could end up as implacable on-line enemies, whereby inflammatory rhetoric, vile threats and deeply wounding personal accusations would be the order of the day, all day, every day, but the paucity of actual, stimulating intellectual debate. Nowhere more is the truism that some people prefer simple lies to the complicated truth more evident than on the internet. I found the whole experience infuriating and dispiriting by turns and decided not to waste any more of my time on it. Unsurprisingly, my writing has changed, deepened and, dare I say, improved immeasurably since that point. Consequently, I disowned everything I posted on-line, as well as everything I wrote for one particular publication between 1999 and 2006 and then concentrated my efforts on focussing my creative urge in to becoming a proper writer.

Also, in 2007, I became involved with Percy Main Amateurs football club, initially as a programme contributor, then in the role I’ve recently vacated for the Heaton Stannington programme job, of Assistant Secretary. This set in action a series of events that resulted in me writing my first book Village Voice, which chronicled Percy Main’s promotion and cup winning season of 2009/2010. It’s self-published, but then again so were The Songs of Innocence and Experience and Spiral Scratch. What writing a book taught me was the need for discipline and rigorous self-criticism, when embarking on a writing project that extended over a longer period of time.

My writing, as far as it has changed over the years, has gone from the broad-brush, sweeping generalisations and vehement denouncements of my 20s, to a style that is hopefully more nuanced, consisting of a detailed exploration of the minutiae of any debate. Often, I start writing about a particular issue without knowing what I fully think or believe to be “the truth,” which can only emerge after upwards of 4,000 words and a week’s intellectual wrangling, relentless rewriting and ruthless editing. It may be pushing things to call my preferred prose style Socratic Dialogue, but I find this kind of on-going debate to the most effective way of communicating my ideas. My relationship with writing involves considerable amounts of reflection on events that matter to me, whether they are sporting, cultural or political, and to fill the void created when I completed Village Voice in June 2010, I began the Payaso de Mierda blog, almost by accident, as a way of recording my responses to the world around me.

If anyone asks me to name the worst thing about modern football, I’d unhesitatingly say referee Howard Webb. Born and brought up in Rotherham, in the heart of Yorkshire mining country, Webb was a month short of his 13^th birthday when the Battle of Orgreave took place; no doubt influenced by those images, he later joined the South Yorkshire Police, whose culpability in the 1989 Hillsborough disaster continues to emerge, rising to the rank of sergeant. His nonsensical decision to disallow a perfectly valid headed goal by Mark Viduka against Fulham in May 2009 contributed to Newcastle United’s relegation, but that is a minor (‘scuse the pun) transgression when compared to those listed in the sentence before. In July 2010, my cousin John (whose idea this book was) and I were in the centre of Vitoria-Gasteiz in the Basque Country; a slightly surreal, though undeniably idyllic location from which to watch Spain win the World Cup final on a giant screen. Webb was the referee that night and his abject performance caused many a member of the surprisingly partisan (if not patriotic) crowd to relentlessly berate his decisions, often using the phrase Payaso de Mierda. The literal English translation of Payaso de Mierda is shitty clown, which appealed to me instantly, mainly because of the lack of cultural significance or even any real meaning in English, and was the only viable title for the blog that I established, at John’s suggestion, on my return home. Ironically, my first article was about a trip to see Linlithgow Rose v Musselburgh Athletic in the East of Scotland Cup Final at Bathgate Thistle’s Creamery Park.

Since July 2010, I’ve posted over 170 articles on Payaso de Mierda on subjects as diverse as:  football, music, Ireland, literature and books in general, not to mention Real Ale and ultra-left wing politics. While about a quarter of the posts are articles that were written for or occasionally commissioned by other publications, the pattern I sought to establish from the outset was a regular, ideally weekly, lengthy comment piece on one of my major obsessions, related both to current events and what I’d been doing with my leisure time. Basically, Payaso de Mierda is both a recycling bin to store and a soap box from which to proclaim my opinions.

From my reading of other Blogs, predominantly about football, a major, repeated flaw seemed to be the predictable opinions, mundane style and discernible lack of editorial and quality control; people (I hesitate to say writers) seem to upload their thoughts without bothering to afford any article even the most cursory proofread it in most instances, which I think is both lazy and arrogant. However, even worse, it pays no respect to the audience, for surely if you publish something, your expectation is that somebody is going to read it and, ideally, respond in some way. While there are some great Newcastle United blogs such as Leazes Terrace, The Shite Seats and the brilliantly iconoclastic tt9m, the vast majority were cursed with appalling grammatical errors, but also many missed opportunities to elaborate on interesting points, or to eliminate potential ambiguities, which is real bugbear of mine. I always pride myself on the length of time it takes me to write my blog; a tortuous process of thinking (generally while cycling), note taking and making (often in bed), writing, editing and constant revision is my method. It seems to work, I may modestly say. Weekly posts are announced on Twitter (https://twitter.com/PayasoDeMierda) and, much to my immense personal gratitude, the feedback I receive is generally positive. However, I value negative comments as well, as only through constructive criticism can I improve. Mind, I know that even if my posts remained unread, I would still write; the creative urge will never go away.

So, here is a volume of my selected works, organised in thematic rather than strictly chronological terms. While being aware that the amorphous nature of many of the pieces means that boundaries may blur, I’ve grouped them around the subjects of Newcastle United, Ireland, music and football in general. Looking back on these pieces now, all of which I’ve provided a contextualising introductory paragraph for, it strikes me that I haven’t always got things right. If you’ll forgive me the indulgence of proofreading them for grammatical and factual errors, as well as a nervous sweep for anything vaguely libellous or just plain cruel, I’ve not materially changed anything in the text, as I felt the integrity of each piece would be better served by remaining in the form it was published. Every one of these pieces was created at a particular point in time and reflects my thinking at the moment of publication. While temporal distance has provided experience and perspective, to incorporate revised thinking would be to negate the creative urge that brought the articles in to being. Obviously, I’m aware this means I’ve included points and opinions which are inaccurate, poorly expressed, deliberately provocative, mad or just plain wrong; I’ll leave it up to you to work out which bits these are.

If you’d like to keep up to date with the blog, the address is http://payaso-del-mierda.blogspot.co.uk/ while my Twitter contact is https://twitter.com/PayasoDeMierda and I can be contacted by email at iancusack@blueyonder.co.uk Hope to hear from you soon.

Goodbye & Hello

After 6 years involvement with Percy Main Amateurs FC, initially as a writer for the programme and since 2009 as Assistant Secretary, I've decided to move on. On the whole I've greatly enjoyed my time at Purivs Park; after all it provided me with the material for my book "Village Voice," which was the reason I set this blog up in the first place. However, I feel it is time to move on as I've been made an offer elsewhere that I really had to take up. Obviously I'd like to wish all the team, players and supporters of Percy Main all the very best for the future and I look forward to seeing them all again on my future visits to Purvis Park. Hopefully it is au revoir and not goodbye.

This blog is the bones of an article I sent to Northern Alliance Press Secretary Jon Tait, who is compiling a book for the Alliance's 125th anniversary in 2015.  I reproduce it here as a way of drawing a line under my involvement in that league. Keep checking back here for news of my next venture...

Aged 8, I attended my first Newcastle United game on January 1st 1973, when we drew 2-2 with Leicester City at St. James Park.  A month later, my second trip to the ground saw my first, numbing experience of the familiar pattern of underachievement and failure that has followed Newcastle United around like a bad smell since we last won the FA Cup in 1955, as we were knocked out of the same competition 2-0 by Luton Town; 40 years later, the wait for silverware continues, with only the capture of the 2007 Inter Toto Cup to celebrate in the intervening period. It’s fair to say I’ve often sought escape routes from following the professional game, with non-league football having provided me with a regular reality check for a good 20 years now. Initially, I watched Northern League football, without really following a team until Benfield arrived from the Alliance in 2003; I still follow them now, but from a distance mainly, as the wonderful Percy Main Amateurs were a side who captured my heart, between 2007 and 2013. For six seasons I wrote for the programme and for four mainly enjoyable years, between 2009 and 2013, I was proud to be Assistant Secretary and a member of the football committee at the club.

My first experience of the Northern Alliance was seeing my local side Heaton Stannington, who have been promoted to the Northern League and whose programme I now edit, defeat Spital Rovers from Berwick by 2-0 on a warm August afternoon in 1998. My son Ben, ex-wife and myself had just moved round the corner from the Stann’s Grounsell Park in the summer of that year and, with Newcastle playing away to Chelsea, in a match that ended 1-1 and was the final one under the managership of Kenny Dalglish, I wanted to get the bairn out of the house and hopefully to see a game.

At the age of 3 my son was already showing an interest in kicking footballs, running after them and throwing them at his daddy. To encourage this, I started to take Ben to see amateur football at a very young age, just so he’d be aware that he may well be cold, bored and disappointed by the experience of live football when he finally got to see Newcastle United in the flesh.

On August 22nd 1998, Ben certainly wasn’t cold as a glorious, still August afternoon lazily slipped past. Initially I was taken aback by how basic the spectator facilities seemed, though not by the football which was of a comparable standard to Northern League Division 2, where Heaton Stannington now find themselves. It became clear to me over the years that the Alliance is reminiscent of club rugby union of the 1970s; players playing a game they love for the sake of it are at the heart of the matter, with officials drawn very much from the ranks of former players and the odd smattering of spectators being seen as an oddity rather than an expectation. Committee members seem to be drawn from both sources, with a bad temper and an utter lack of any sense of humour or human compassion being the only prerequisites for these roles.   

On Cup Final Day 2005, while Arsenal and Manchester United played out a sterile, drab 0-0 draw, I was in the company of several groundhoppers who had travelled from Leeds, London and the West Midlands, happily taking in Seaton Burn’s comfortable 5-0 win over Sport Benfield in Alliance D2 when a league official approached and asked, with a note of incredulity that could have been mistaken as menace by those unfamiliar with the cadences of the Geordie dialect, ”what are you lot doing here?” Perhaps such attitudes and the impossibility of getting a bit of craic going with the other spectators when only a dozen people are watching the game, most of them being substitutes, injury victims and the committee initially led me to remain as an observer rather than a fan of Alliance football. On the whole, I do not regret the decision to become fully involved with one particular club, even if the senses of gratification and appreciation were non-existent.

For the casual supporters, groundhopper and football addict, the Northern Alliance provides a source of great joy in the early summer. The lack of floodlights at almost all grounds means that midweek matches between mid-September and early April are a complete non-starter. Hence, while the Northern League wraps up its fixtures by the May Day Bank Holiday, the Alliance continues on until Whit weekend. This is why my first experience of Percy Main Amateurs came with a visit to Purvis Park on May 14th 2005, to witness the visit of Heaton Stannington, who I was actually supporting, having watched them intermittently since my first visit back in August 1998. Whenever Newcastle were away or inactive, I’d watch Heaton Stannington to ensure I got to see a game each Saturday, though this was something new; an away trip!

The game finished 3-2 to Heaton Stannington and I’ve no real recollection of it, other than standing near the corner flag with Ben and admiring the scenic privet hedge that acts as a barrier between the football ground and the adjoining cricket pitch.  The two sides next met on a cold Saturday in February 2006. It was, in retrospect, a momentous day; Newcastle won 2-1 at Aston Villa, I met my partner Laura for the first time that night and, perhaps most importantly, I discovered the essential spirit of Percy Main Amateurs. The club website carries only a brief outline of the day’s events. In its entirety, the match report consists of the following statement; “by all accounts an even game with chances at both ends and a good performance by Percy Main.” To say the least, that doesn’t tell the full story.

It was a cold but clear afternoon, with temperatures pegged slightly above freezing by a biting wind and ready to decline as the shadows lengthened. With Newcastle away to Villa and Benfield at Squires Gate in Blackpool in the FA Vase, I had resigned myself not to seeing a game, but walking past Grounsell Park, I saw the goal nets were up and corner flags in place. Having purchased a cup of hot brown liquid of indeterminate provenance from the ATS garage next door to Grounsell Park, this being the sole source of sustenance available near the ground before the opening up of fashionable Italian delicatessen Dean & Daniela’s, I was ready to make up approximately 15% of the crowd for this crucial Northern Alliance Premier Division game.

The opposition was immaterial to me as I was simply thankful to be able to see a game, but the claret and blue strips of the away team immediately told me it was Percy Main I’d be watching. 2005/2006 was a rancid season for the Main; a final playing record of won 4, drawn 4, lost 26; goals conceded 94, goal difference minus 65 led to a fairly predictable last place finish. As Heaton Stann were to finish in fourth place, a comfortable home win was to be expected. In fact, this was one of only about half a dozen games I’ve ever seen fail to finish; the other non-completers have been a couple of times for fog, three times because of a deteriorating pitch in monsoon conditions and once, in an Over 40s league game I played in for my team Heaton Winstons at home to Southwick WMC because of high winds. None of those reasons applied here.

Heaton Stannington versus Percy Main Amateurs is the only game I’ve seen abandoned because of fighting. This wasn’t just a couple of players pushing and shoving, or any of the proverbial handbags, this was 21 blokes having a full-scale brawl that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Wild West Saloon during the Goldrush or the Bigg Market taxi rank at closing time on Christmas Eve.

It was an incredible spectacle to watch; with the game goalless and only a few minutes remaining, a disputed throw-in on the touchline led to a swift and frank exchange of opinions that soon escalated in to a no-holds barred fight. Rather like those staged wrestling bouts that Kent Walton would commentate on at the end of World of Sport where half the audience at the Fairfield Hall Croydon or Wolverhampton Civic Theatre would climb through the ropes and do their best to launch a few shots at whoever was available, seemingly everyone from both clubs were windmilling, gesticulating and snarling on the touchline about 10 yards from where I stood, with no sign that it would all be over with a few handshakes and rueful smiles any time soon.

The referee and linesmen beat a tactical retreat as the melee continued unabated for several minutes. Looking on from the sidelines were about 8 spectators, which was a typical crowd for the Stann. One fella, earphones in, surveyed the damage and said “Toon are winning 2-1; Given’s saved a penalty and Babayaro’s been sent off. Mind it seems boring compared to this.” As I turned to leave, a bloke about my age who had only arrived as the fireworks were going off, turned to me and said; “football eh? Bloody hell!” The person who appropriated Sir Alex Ferguson’s immortal words following the 1999 Champions League Final was Villagers secretary Norman de Bruin. He, more than anyone else, built upon the fascination I had with Percy Main following that astonishing introduction, and is the reason why I started to write for the programme and did the best I could to help out at Purvis Park. It was a 7-2 defeat at Wark the following year that led me to take the plunge and abandon my season ticket at St. James’ Park, so I suppose you can call me a glory hunter.

Whilst being involved with Percy Main, I had the pleasure of visiting every Alliance Premier Division ground, with the notable exception of Blyth Town, as well as more than half of those in the first and second divisions, not to mention clubs who are no longer with us, like Wark, Chopwell and Newcastle East End. Win, lose or draw, I found within the Alliance a camaraderie and unity of purpose among all clubs that includes just about every single person I’ve had the pleasure of dealing with, on a casual or formal basis, to be superb company.

At times, it was very hard work being involved, especially when we were short-handed because of holidays or illness, or worse when personalities clashed as they often did at Purvis Park, but I never begrudged a minute of my time and never once received a word of thanks for anything I did; though nor did I expect any. It was just as well I had such a tolerant attitude to giving up my time, because we were talking noon until 6 on a Saturday or 4 until 10 when we played midweek at the end of the season (no floodlights you see). Until the very end, I remained 100% committed to Percy Main, as I am now to Heaton Stannington; indeed, as I approach my 50^th birthday, I simply can’t envisage my life not involving my devoted obsessions of: ultra-left wing politics, cycling, Real Ale, obscure indie music at gigs where the bands outnumber the audience, writing articles for esoteric magazines and websites and, best of all, non-league football, with specific reference not just to Heaton Stannington, but to Percy Main Amateurs, whose results I will always look out for.

Jesus Fucking Krist

 

When looking for a silver lining while evaluating the incredible (in the literal sense of the word) appointment of Joe Kinnear as Director of Football at Newcastle United, I suppose I could make a case that this nonsensical turn of events, provides me with ample material for this week’s blog. Rather than being obliged to hammer out an uninspired, innuendo-laden piece, by stringing out the non-story of Cabaye’s alleged transfer to Monaco (impossible before July 1st, of course) over 3,000 words plus, with reference to how the Francophobic element of our support have taken time out from preparing their Gouffran voodoo dolls and are presumably dancing up and down The Corridor of Hate (aka Pink Lane) at this news, as this gets them off the hook for spreading the appalling untruth that St Mirren are charging more for the visit of NUFC Under 21s on July 30th than they do for an SPL game. For the moment though, we’ll leave that in abeyance as I’ve sorted that dreadful cross-border embarrassment out, by apologising to our buddies The Buddies on behalf of all Newcastle United fans for the way they’ve been mendaciously traduced, as well as forming the Tyneside-Renfrewshire Society for Mutual Friendship and Understanding. I’ll let you know how it develops.

 

However, I would be lying if I claimed any good would come of Ashley’s latest obtuse and seemingly vindictive decision. Let’s be completely clear about this; there is absolutely no positive angle to the appointment of Joe Kinnear to a senior role that means he is effectively second in command at Newcastle United, even when it is contrasted with the unmourned departure of the loathsome Llambias, or Lambezi as he will forever be known. From all he has said and all he has done, not just since the news broke on Sunday night of his return, but in his initial tenure as Newcastle United’s interim manager in 2008/2009, it is my opinion that Joe Kinnear has shown himself to be: a fouled-mouthed buffoon, a seemingly inebriated clown, a slurring, malapropistic idiot, a blustering, cantankerous fool. In short, however long his health or future events allow him to remain in post (and I’d wager his 3 year contract will not be honoured), Ashley’s effective deputy is both a disgrace and an embarrassment to Newcastle United; although, we’ve had plenty of those in the past. One of whom, Freddy Shepherd, has had the temerity to poke his head back above the parapet and give his unasked opinions on the current situation; frankly Shepherd’s audacity even trumps the egotistical chutzpah exhibited by Graeme Souness when offering Pardew tactical advice while things were going wrong last season!!

It needs to be pointed out however that to lambast Kinnear simply because he once had a go at The Daily Mirror’s Simon Bird in a press conference is a foolish thing to do. Lest we forget, as an elected Labour representative for the Denton ward, Simon Bird has been party to Newcastle City Council’s ruling Labour group actively enforcing the Coalition’s savage programme of austerity measures by ruthlessly cutting spending on social services and local amenities for the very working class people who make up a considerable section of Newcastle United’s support. Frankly, those who are prepared to bow to the will of the vile, rapacious Condem government in such a supine fashion are not deserving of our sympathy. Also, Simon lobbed me from 35 yards in a Bobby Robson Charity Foundation game at Hebburn Town last year. Never forgive; never forget. Incidentally, I’d quite like to hear Kinnear having a quiet word with Luke Edwards, but that’s by the by.

Similarly, to denounce Kinnear simply because he gets players’ names wrong, hideously embarrassing though the endless incidences of this was on the atrocious interview that coincided with the first and last time I’ll ever listen to Talk Sport on Monday just gone, may be absolutely correct; but if that is all we do, then we fail to grasp the significance of his appointment. Remember, Bobby Robson used to get the players’ names wrong all the time and, other than when NUFC fans showered him in hockle in September 1982, no-one had a bad word to say about him. I take no pleasure in pointing this out, but I sense that the eventual conclusion of what seemed to me to be childish, personal petulance by large numbers of our support, who demanded Pardew be removed last season as the team so painfully underachieved, has had some part in the last farcical turn of events at SJP.

Those who called for the manager’s head, without giving a second’s thought to who could credibly take on the role of Newcastle United manager, were not stormy petrels among our support, but belligerent teenagers with low concentration spans and an absolute inability to view things from a long term perspective. Let us hope that they have learned a painful lesson about the folly of placing any trust whatsoever in capitalist owners of football clubs. Kinnear’s appointment may partly be the result of bad tempered bairns screaming Pardew Out in the direction of Ashley, either on line or in print, but that is not the full story. Ashley may not have dismissed the manager, but he’s made Pardew’s position at best a compromised one and, if the manager had any balls, an utterly untenable one from which he ought to walk away now. The fact that, at the time of writing, radio silence has been maintained (the club only got round to belatedly confirming Lambezi’s departure and Kinnear’s arrival on Wednesday morning), other than to mention the manager will be remaining in current post, simply shows that Kinnear has had the unique effect of making Pardew look dignified during this whole affair, which takes some doing it has to be admitted.

Being charitable and less censorious, I do recognise that it may not actually be the fault of certain sections of the fans that Kinnear has been appointed, as the other element to this decision, other than a renaissance of the abhorrent cronyism that brought the club to its knees in 2008, is Ashley’s pathological need to have a useful idiot doing his dirty work in the football club; Kinnear is basically Ashley’s own Lavrentiy Beria.  Sadly, for whatever reason, we now have Kinnear on the payroll, an event that may be regarded as a new low water mark in the turbulent history of Ashley’s ownership. Such brow beating and navel gazing may be necessary, but there is a more pressing requirement for our thoughts. In analysing the implications of Kinnear’s appointment, the question that needs answering more than any other is; what precisely are we fans of Newcastle United are going to do about it?

While I can understand the deep frustration and sense of despair many supporters now feel, it is wrong to throw up our hands in frustration and say that we can’t do anything. Tactics, so vitally important on the pitch, have an equally compelling place among our support as we seek to make a principled stand. Do not despair; if we supporters work together, we are no longer weak, isolated voices crying in the wilderness; we will be strong, coherent, effective and we will be listened to. However, and this is of the utmost importance, we must  work together; egos, personal spats and historic feuds, need to be put to one side and every concerned Newcastle United fan, whether they are in the NUFC Fans United and toon talk camp, on the fence with Black & White Daft and nufc.com or failing to grasp the nettle with The Mag and the painfully ineffectual and utterly discredited NUST, or even if they’re unaligned and railing in fury and impotent anger on message boards, Twitter or blogs, has to come together as a broad and inclusive alliance, formed from the grassroots up, with the intention of reclaiming our club from the clutches of evil, rapacious capitalists who seek to serve only their own interests at every possible opportunity. What has gone on in the past must remain there; again, the time is right for all supporters to work together to express our collective fury and contempt at this decision and, hopefully, the desire to move the club forward by taking control of it ourselves.

However, it is abundantly clear to me that any supporter-led organisation needs to be very clear about principles and tactics from the outset. WB Yeats claimed The best lack all conviction, while the worst/ Are full of passionate intensity; while I do not necessarily accept this to be the case with our fans, it is of paramount importance that the Newcastle United support transforms itself in to a mass, democratic movement of all supporters, based on unshakeable principles and clear tactics, rather than being born of high minded intentions, but degenerating in to a shouty self-perpetuating vanguard of opportunists with little knowledge of and even less affection for Newcastle United. The danger of the future potential primacy of a cadre of inflexible ideologues using the travails of Newcastle United as a Trojan horse for their own ends, is that our fans will see through this and, rather than being inspired by their rhetoric or empowered to argue their own case, assume once again the depressing cloak of cynicism and the embittered shrug that is the keynote of so much of our recent history and attempts at engaging supporters for change. Were that to be the case, all motivation and enthusiasm for change will be lost.

As an example, look at the scorn and abuse NUFC Fans United engendered for being involved in the replacement of the Leazes gates. Yes I know they weren’t the iconic Gallowgate gates and it was a disgrace they’d somehow ended in possession of Wynyard Hall, like so much that belonged to the club in the 1990s, but surely denigrating the efforts of those who acted in the best interests of supporters to have a small slice of history replaced was not the conduct of self-serving egotists or people with a personal agenda to pursue. As supporters, we need to get over this and we need to work together.

 

 It is my fervent and unshakeable belief that what needs to happen to Newcastle United is that the club is eventually owned 100% by supporters of the team, whether they be born within a goal kick of the Gallowgate End or whether they are part of the worldwide Geordie diaspora and run in the interests of the support, the community and the good of the game as a whole. Am I talking the FC United of Manchester model? Indeed I am. Am I talking the FC Barcelona model? Indeed I am. Whether Newcastle United compete at Northern Premier or Champions League level is, in a sense, immaterial; what matters more than anything else is that the club is run on open, democratic, accountable and honourable lines. Of course I accept that there is a debate to be had and an argument to be won that playing football at six levels lower than we are now is good for Newcastle United, but I relish the challenge of making that case. Repeatedly.

For the moment, the important thing is to start the debate. There is a conduit for anger and for a meeting of all interested parties to try and find a way to work through this. NUFC Fans United have organised a meeting at the Labour Club on Monday 24^th June, 6.00pm-8.30; if you care about your club, please make every effort to attend.

 

 

 

Sound & Vision III

Circumstances will no doubt dictate that I return to the subject of football by the end of the week, but for the minute let’s just ignore NUFC and have our bi-monthly delve in to my cultural activities instead…

Music:

If you read my blog of June 4^th (http://payaso-del-mierda.blogspot.co.uk/2013/06/up-for-bit.html), you’ll know I’ve dealt with The Pastels live in Glasgow and their glorious new album, Slow Summits, so I’ll not mention them here, other than saying I’m sorely tempted to head over to Preston on July 26^th to see them there.

My last music blog (http://payaso-del-mierda.blogspot.co.uk/2013/04/sound-vision-ii.html) was uploaded a few days before 2013 Record Store Day. Like many things, I was late to the party on this moveable feast, only getting involved last year because the very fine Snowgoose were playing Reflex records in town. This year I didn’t even make it to town, sending Ben instead as he’s becoming a bit of a vinyl devotee of late. Instead of giving him a quid for going, I bought him British Sea Power’s 7” release of Machineries of Joy / Facts Are Right, which he loves because it’s brilliant. Incidentally, I must just massage my own ego as a parent, as he’s got me a ticket to see Wire at The Cluny in September for Fathers’ Day, which shows what a wonderful person I must be.

My proxy purchases on RSD 2013 included Vic Godard’s 7” Caught In Midstream / You Bring Out The Demon In Me, which sees the certified genius and postman continuing to reinterpret his early career 30-35 years later, while simultaneously releasing high quality new product, by successfully laying the ghosts of his monochrome, angst punk 77-79 period and embracing his torch song, crooner era, with a couple of jazz and swing tinged numbers, that are drenched in organ and soul percussion. It’s an excellent slice of good time power pop that takes me back to the summer of 1981 and the parallel narratives of positivity from Orange Juice and introspection from Josef K. I recently discovered Vic has booked his annual return to Newcastle for late autumn, which is great news for all concerned.

Last year, The Wedding Present celebrated RSD 2012 with Quatre Chansons, including 4 numbers from the (then) newly released Valentina sung in French. Musically it was great, but vocally David Gedge seemed to be a little less than convincing in the old Charles Aznavour stakes. However this year’s Vier Lieder is an altogether more successful affair, though also a 10” on clear vinyl the same as last time. It isn’t so much that the songs chosen are stronger, including as it does my favourite and least favourite moments from Valentina, namely You Jane and Girl From The DDR respectively, it’s just that the German language seems to suit Gedge’s delivery more than French does. He simply sounds more convincing. Either that or I’m just desperate for more Weddoes material. One consolation is that they’ve booked a Newcastle gig for October 28^th, which is half term and means I’m definitely considering a trip to Liverpool for their show there the next night.

 

 

Tame Impala are big and heading towards massive. While they’ve a reputation for being the great new hope of Stoner Rock, I detect enough melody and subtlety in their work to appeal to my jangly pop sensitive ears and consequently I’m able to view them as the mid-point between Dinosaur Jr and Teenage Fanclub, which is pretty high praise indeed. Their re-released debut EP was probably the first 12” single (on blood red vinyl no less) I’ve bought new since Swervedriver’s Rave Down, which is another decent reference point. Regardless of influences and similarities, the fact is that Half Full Glass of Wine is the best thing they’ve done or are likely to do. With a stunning mixture of laconic vocals, a powerful bass riff and a closing drum solo, this one ticks all the classic rock category essentials from Led Zep to the present day and back again. Whether I investigate Tame Impala further is a moot point; this lot are shoo-ins for headlining stadium gigs within a couple of years and I don’t think I’ll be following them in the flesh, unless they can guarantee songs of the quality of Desire Be Desire Go frequently.

I alluded to The Pastels’ personalised mixtape, Insane Energy Drop, in my blog about them; well, it has 2 Scottish cousins that I’ve come across recently. Released on RSD 2013, but donated to me out of friendship by Bill from Pop Klubb was a sampler from Mogwai’s own Rock Action Records and simply stunning it is too, full of eclectic aestheticisms culled from the label’s 5 year history. Moving effortlessly from glorious, uplifting ambient post rock anthems by Mogwai, Remember Remember and Envy, to angular, shouty pieces by The Yummy Fur and Afrir Ampo, it is a superb 80 minute journey through the record collection of true connoisseurs of anti-commercial excellence. To borrow a phrase from ATP, Mogwai have truly curated a textbook of tunes that deserves a wide audience.

The flip side of the coin is to be found on The Barne Society CD; assembled by Marco Rea and Stuart Kidd from the gorgeous The Wellgreens, this release is as organic and heterogeneous a collection as I can remember since Pillows & Prayers, as well as being what I gave Bill in return for Rock Action Records 3. This is contemporary Scottish west coast pop, with the coast in mind being California and the era being 1965 to 1968 or thereabouts. The fact that many of the songs are similar sounding is actually one of the greatest strengths of the release, as this house sound is exactly what I love to hear. Particular highlights are the achingly sad Endless Lullaby by Robbie MacInnes and the equally heart rending I’ve Been Mad for Fucking Years by Picture Houses. Retailing at only a fiver, this is a great bargain and a yin to RSD’s steep prices; £12 for Tame Impala indeed.

My final purchase from RSD 2013, albeit slightly belated as I got it mail order from Norman Records in Leeds was The Fall’s 7” Sir William Wray / Jetplane / Hittite Man; all 3 tracks, as well as last year’s Fall RSD Victrola, which I only managed to get hold of as a download, appear on the latest Fall album Re-Mit. Having just checked, I believe it is The Fall’s 30^th studio album and of course I’ve got them all. 2011’s Ersatz GB didn’t last long on the iPod, with only Nate and Happi Song remaining now. On that release MES sounded like he’d lost his false teeth, with his unintelligible mumble punctuated by bizarre whistling at the end of words, but that wasn’t a bad thing. What really made it so dull an experience was the bland uniformity of so much of the music on there that made many of the tracks interchangeable and indistinguishable. Re-Mit is a massive improvement, possibly because of the familiarity I approached it with; of the 12 tracks, 2 are versions of the same song (No Respects) and the 4 mentioned earlier have been released before.

Das Gruppe consists of the superb band MES toured with last time, as well as this year even if he missed Newcastle from the itinerary. His lads churn out a series of intriguing, quality numbers that veer between no-fi Krautrock workouts, like Jam Song, Noise or Kinder of Spine to almost rockabilly, stripped down hellraisers, like Sir William Wray, which ironically sounds the spit of Teesside Fall impersonators Shrug’s Hood Street Gyratory. The absolute standout is the brilliant, multi-lingual narrative Jetplane that combines arcane, yet compelling lyrics with minimalist backing and could have been on either Hex Enduction Hour or Room to Live; yes it’s that good. Indeed, this is a very intriguing Fall album; perhaps the fact it is tame, well-rehearsed and properly executed means they’ve released something they can be proud of and that MES won’t be disowning it in 6 months’ time. Certainly I’d imagine it’ll stay on my iPod for a while yet.

 

 

The same cannot be said of Camera Obscura’s Desire Lines, which is an eminently pleasurable, unchallenging listen, but far too polished and sparkling for my tastes. In fact, it is decidedly mainstream as they appear to have moved on from sounding like a pastiche of Belle & Sebastian to Sheena Easton fronting Scouting For Girls; that’s bad isn’t it? Well, yes it is if you like an element of humanity and a large dose of independence of thought and method to your pop music; perhaps something akin to what The Pastels produce, for instance?

Let’s be honest, there’s nothing wrong with Desire Lines and it will remain a distinctly comfortable listen that is certainly a few notches above most of the mainstream, but it is awfully clean sounding and basically two dimensional. Perhaps Camera Obscura want to be famous pop stars; certainly their gig at Northumbria University on June 8^th showed they’ve invested an enormous amount in this album as they played it pretty much straight through. Sadly, the audience didn’t seem all that familiar with the new release and the gig just didn’t catch fire until the twin show stoppers Tears for Affairs and Are You Ready to be Heartbroken? Obviously, with Tracy Ann being 6 months pregnant the gig was never going to be a stage diving, slam dancing festival of fun, but it seemed to me that this was a desperate last hurrah by a band who want to be massive, but who’d produce better music and be happier in themselves if they slowed it down, lost the silly flamenco flurries and played music they believed in. You really have to believe in what you do if you want to sustain your creative power and vital force, which brings us to the life defining night I spent in the presence of Neil Young.

Being too young to connect Prelude’s After the Goldrush with its author, my first actual exposure to Neil Young was via The Old Grey Whistle Test in December 1977. A best of year compilation featured a live version of Like a Hurricane, which was music the likes I’d never heard before; a tortured, operatic vocal and blistering, aching guitar beauty than wrung blistered tears from every note, spread out over 8 and a half, beguiling minutes. I still see the check-shirted Young, wreathed in sweat, his lank hair plastered across his face by the on stage wind machine, eyes closed in concentration, wrestling more and more impassioned sounds from his guitar; I was the one getting blown away.

Seven months later, in a basement in St. Etienne du Rouvray, across the Seine from Rouen in Normandy, I came across Heart of Gold for the first time and simply choked up at the beautiful simplicity of the song. As a Dylan devotee, I understand exactly how two parallel, contrasting, divergent musical styles could happily coexist in the work of an artist. For 35 years I’ve loved Neil Young, but had never had the opportunity to see him live. When he announced this tour last December, it provided a rite of passage opportunity for me and for Ben; for me, it was Fathers’ Day and for him an early 18^th Birthday present. At £53 a ticket, it was the most expensive gig I’ve ever been to, but it was worth it and, being realistic, it is highly unlikely I’ll get to see the 67 year old Mr Bernard Shakey ever again. So, from the perspective of a week’s distance after the event, all I can say is that it was one of the seminal, musical nights of my life.

It was wonderful to wander around the Arena foyer and catch up in the time before the gig started with 40 or 50 blokes in their 40s and 50s that I bumped in to, who I knew from all aspects of my life: music, football, work, wherever, who were all as excited at the prospect of this momentous event as I was. In the aftermath, text messages and social media updates show they’ve almost all given the evening an incredibly positive thumbs up, so here’s to: Nella, Craggzy, Mike, Neil, Davey, GWL, Malley, Paddy, Richard, Calla, Paul and Carol, Rob, Pauline and Alex and everyone else I saw there who was there and who loved the night, but have been missed off this list. We’ll just ignore Richyy’s trademark eeyoreism as a by-product of his new, healthy regime. However, aside from him, there was one drunken moron who did his best to ruin the evening for Ben and I, but ended up with his tail between his legs.

The bare facts are these; on stage at 8.48 with A Day in the Life, followed by the bizarre sight of Neil Young and Crazy Horse standing to attention for God Save the Queen (I wonder if Glasgow had the same song? Or whether Dublin was treated to Amhrán na bhFiann at the start of the night not the end?) and eventually off stage at 11.13 after a set that consisted of -:

1. Love & Only Love

2. Powderfinger

3. Psychedelic Pill

4. Walk like a Giant

5. Hole in the Sky (Unreleased)

6. Comes a Time (Solo acoustic)

7. Blowin’ in the Wind (Solo acoustic; Bob Dylan cover)

8. Singer without a Song (Unreleased)

9. Ramada Inn

10. Cinnamon Girl

11. Fuckin' Up

12. Surfer Joe & Moe the Sleaze

13. Mr Soul (Buffalo Springfield)

14. Into the Black

ENCORE:

15. Rockin' in the Free World

It was around the time of Walk like a Giant that our would-be party pooper came to my attention, screaming “play something proper you lazy Canadian cunt.” Now while I’ve a great love for Cripple Creek Ferry and Coming Apart at Every Nail, I was aware this was a Neil Young and Crazy Horse gig; the accent would be on volume and guitars, rather than harmonicas and harmony. This was obviously lost on the moustachioed mackem in the K-Swiss white, Velcro trainers, BHS chinos & Jacomo polo behind us, who missed most of the superb newie Hole in the Sky, returning from the bar with 2 pints and a bottle of wine for his wife, who reminded him she was driving and asked just why he’d bought so much drink. His intelligent reply was; “So I can put up with this fucking shite.”

Admittedly he did quieten down during Comes a Time and Blowin’ in the Wind, remarking “that’s better after each one,” but he really started to kick off during the unreleased Singer without a Song, which admittedly was the weakest part of the set, complaining about “gullible twats lapping up this shite,” which made me turn round. He pulled himself up to his full 5ft 7 and tried to stare me out; it is pretty hard to take being menaced by someone in bi-focals seriously, so when he asked me if I had “a fucking problem pal,” I smiled and told him I was just enjoying my son’s 18^th birthday celebration.

The wonderful Neil Young setlist site www.sugarmtn.org reveals that the last time Neil Young played Newcastle, was at the City Hall on 9^th November 1973, when he played -:

1.       Tonight’s the Night

2.       Mellow on my Mind

3.       World on a String

4.       Speakin’ Out

5.       Albuquerque

6.       New Mama

7.       Roll Another Number

8.       Tired Eyes

9.       Tonight’s the Night

10.   Flying on the Ground is Wrong

11.   Human Highway

12.   Helpless

13.   Cinnamon Girl

14.   Southern Man

15.   The Losing End

16.   Don’t be Denied

A link to a review, from almost 40 years ago, mentions that “while most of the crowd were enthusiastic and appreciative of the varying styles of music Young played, there were certain of the audience who were distinctly unappreciative of the electric rock parts of the show.” Some things never change eh? I bet you Velcro trainers was one of them at the Albert Hall in 66 screaming “Judas” at Bob Dylan. 

At the end of Singer without a Song, Ben and I decided to move forward as I wasn’t prepared to endure a worse view of proceedings because of that meathead. As we went to move, unknown to me, he attempted to trip Ben up; at which point Ben turned round and used his 4 years’ experience as a prop forward to bang him in the chest. Tough guy, who had taken his geps off ready for a pagga, staggered back and announced “I’m going to knock you two out at the end.” He didn’t, of course; he actually scuttled off through the opposite exit, presumably having been humiliated by a 17 year old lad being enough embarrassment for one night. Now, if he was hating the evening, I can understand his frustration at having lashed out £100 on tickets, but if it was me I’d have either cleared off, or gone for a pint to calm down, before coming back for a song I liked. If he didn’t want to hear anything by Crazy Horse, why buy the tickets in the first place? He could have sat at home, like the conformist populist he undoubtedly is, and watched some shite documentary on the military on BBC2.

 

Thankfully, he was out of our hair from the minute we moved forwards, to within 20 yards of the stage, from which position we were as blown away by Neil as I’d been that winter night of 1977 watching The OGWT Christmas Special. Personally, I have to say that my adoration of the evening is tinged with sadness that Like a Hurricane wasn’t the last encore, but this is tempered by the fact that Ben’s favourite Neil Young song is Rockin’ in the Free World and I’m glad he got to hear that; equally none of the British or Irish dates included Like a Hurricane, though Birmingham got Heart of Gold, as did Glasgow and Cortez the Killer too, which also appeared in the Dublin set list. It’s all quid pro quo with Neil though; he has a 45 year career to try and cram in to one evening. He’s included 2 new songs, something from his earliest recorded output, a cover version of a song that influenced him and several crowd pleasers. The man is a fountain of arcing creativity and he thinks deeply about what he does; I can’t praise him highly enough.

To be picky, the 40 minute version of Walk like a Giant could have been shorn of the 15 minute Arcweld feedback coda and Fuckin’ Up of its singalong, crowd participation section, to allow for a few more songs, but you have to remember Neil Young has released a whole CD of Sonic Youth inspired feedback and likes to make his guitars work for their money. I am satisfied that I was in the presence of genius that night, especially during the glorious highlights of Powderfinger, Ramada Inn and Into the Black, where the guitar sounded like an amplified avalanche and the floor actually vibrated.

Leaving the gig, we were both on a massive high. In fact the adrenalin meant I didn’t sleep until after 2, while Ben reckoned it was nearer 4 when he finally dropped off. What an experience.

Books:

I’ve been busy at work with marking and stuff since Easter, so reading has been on something of a back burner unfortunately, though I’ve still managed to get through a whole shedload of new fanzines; see last week’s blog for details. As far as books go, well I’ve made slow progress. The first book I read was Billy by Pamela Stephenson, which was trumpeted at the time as a harrowing, deeply intimate portrayal of a tortured genius. I certainly didn’t get that from reading it. Indeed, Connolly simply came across as a star struck egotist who had less quality control than Michael Caine and really ought to have stuck to what he was good at; being funny. Obviously the Glasgow tenement humour had long passed him by, but the observational stuff could still crack anyone up. Sadly, we learn more about Pamela Stephenson than Connolly and frankly she’s not exactly an endearing figure; a talentless groupie with a Ph.D, utterly without a concept of confidentiality and providing less insights in to The Big Yin than many of the glamorous, Hollywood high rollers he hob nobs with. A dull and disappointing read.

 

The other book I’ve finished is Cormac McCarthy’s Border Trilogy, comprising the novels All the Pretty Horses, The Crossing and Cities of the Plain, which tell of the parallel lives of John Grady Cole and Billy Parham, a pair of contemporary cowboys, living marginal lives both sides of the Rio Grande in the years after World War II. Unlike the grandeur of Blood Meridian or the taut fatalism of No Country for Old Men, the three novels exhibit a wistful, elegiac quality that puts them closer to Suttree in terms of McCarthy’s oeuvre.

In All the Pretty Horses, Cormac McCarthy begins his Border Trilogy with a coming of age tale that is a departure from the bizarre richness and mysterious violence of his early novels, yet in many ways preserves the mystery and the richness in a more understated form. Like Blood Meridian, this novel follows a young man’s journey to the regions of the unknown. John Grady Cole, more heroic than the protagonists of McCarthy’s earlier novels, confronts the evil that is an inescapable part of the universe as well as the evil that grows out of his own ignorance and pride. His story is told in a style often restrained and simple, embedded with lyrical passages that echo his dreams and memory. All the Pretty Horses is a hero’s quest without a neat resolution, a book in which the strange light of mythic struggle shines through the quick-paced adventure.

 

The Crossing is the initiation story of Billy Parham and his younger brother Boyd (who are 16 and 14 respectively when the novel opens). The novel, set just before and during World War II, is structured around three round-trip crossings that Billy makes from New Mexico into Mexico. Each trip tests Billy as he must try to salvage something once he fails in his original goal. On both his first and last quest he is reduced (or perhaps exalted) to some symbolic futile gesture in his attempt, against all obstacles, to maintain his integrity and to be true to his moral obligations. This novel explores such issues as guilt, the acquisition of wisdom, heroism, and the crucial importance of stories. The novel ends with Billy symbolically weeping after he has abusively chased away a pathetic, crippled dog that had “howled again and again in its heart’s despair.”

Cities of the Plain binds together the separate tales of John Grady Cole and Billy Parham to create a more realistic Billy and a more mythic John Grady. Within the confines of a relatively spare 293 pages, the classic all American cowboy John Grady devotes his life to saving every hurt or wounded creature that crosses his path, a noble and impossible task that leads ultimately to his own destruction. The tragedy of his failed rescue of the epileptic prostitute Magdalena makes a martyr of the near-faultless John Grady, yet McCarthy stubbornly refuses to let the novel backslide into blubbery melodrama. Told in both McCarthy’s signature lyrical style and his dead-on ranchero dialogue, Cities of the Plain ends the trilogy at the height of McCarthy’s storytelling skill.

The epilogue takes place fifty years after the main narrative, as a 78-year-old Billy rests under an overpass in Arizona and talks with a nameless, mysterious stranger. In an intricate and intensely lyrical dialogue, the man tells Billy the story of his dream of a traveller and the traveller’s own dream of death by pagan sacrifice. The conversation weaves in and out of alternate realities and dream worlds, which Billy struggles to understand and make sense of. In the final scene, he tells a woman who gives him a place to sleep that he understands neither his identity nor his purpose; the woman, with the voice of a kind listener or a reader coming to the end of a long tale, assures him that she knows both very well.

 

Now, I’ve read everything Cormac McCarthy has published; all I can do is wait for the film he’s written the screenplay for, The Counsellor, to be released this autumn. It is a wait, like that for the new Teenage Fanclub album that leaves me intensely impatient and nervously expectant.