Culture....
It’s
been an age since I last culturally blogged; June 25th to be
precise. Obviously, I didn’t intend to leave it so long, but things happened,
and other stuff got in the way, meaning I needed to write about different
subjects at different times than I’d intended to, but here we are at last. This
means that certain experiences have become hazy in my mind and, in a few
instances, I’m seeing the recent past through a glass darkly. You know, I
really should ensure I take my notebook with me everywhere I go. This is
certainly the case with gigs, as I can’t remember anything pertinent relating
to The Proclaimers at the Mouth of the Tyne Festival back in
early July at Tynemouth Priory. I do
know that it cost £37 to get in and, astonishingly, it was still sold out. I do
know that the following nights saw Beverley Knight and then the unspeakable
Paul Heaton as the headline acts, so we gave those a swerve. I do remember
Shelley and I walking down Front Street on a chilly Thursday evening, feeling
like a by-election candidate, shaking hands with numerous friends and
acquaintances, some of whom I’d not seen in years, while others I’d been in
contact with only days before, as I ran into them.
Roddy
Woomble
supported, but I think he’d finished his set by the time we were in position,
with a big bag of cans, outside the back of The Gibraltar Rock. Not only
because they are Hibbees, though that does help, I’ve always had a very strong
affection for The Proclaimers since I first heard Letter from America
and Throw the R Away on The Tube in early 1987, followed almost
immediately by their Janice Long session containing the same songs.
Indeed, in 1987, I must have seen them 5 times; including getting royally
smashed backstage at The Duchess in Leeds in November of that year. Of
course, the initial splendour of their acoustic work wasn’t maintained once
they’d picked up a band and turned overly commercial, but I’ve always held a
kind of candle for them. It was great to hear all the old hits tonight,
especially the Hibernian FC anthem Sunshine on Leith. Sadly, we didn’t
really see them, but the sound was good, and it was an enjoyable evening.
Especially for nowt.
I
think my next gig was about a month later, on Thursday 3rd August,
when I took my pal Flanners to see the very wonderful Shunyata Improvisation
Group away from their 2023 adopted home of The Globe, at the Brinkburn
Street Brewery. Augmented by the peripatetic polymath John Pope on
double bass, this was a superb set by the region’s foremost free
improvisational acoustic ensemble, despite it seeming at one point that they
were doing a cover version of Bela Lugosi’s Dead, much to the subsequent
post-performance embarrassment of the performers. It was also an incredibly
comfortable gig, as the whole room was full of comfy armchairs and overstuffed
sofas; ideal for relaxing over a few bevvies, while your mind drew circles in
the sky. Shunyata Improvisation Group are one of the greatest musical
discoveries I’ve made over the last decade. If you haven’t seen them yet,
please try and do so as a matter of urgency.
Of
equal importance to my discovery of Shunyata Improvisation Group has
been my discovery of TQ magazine, and especially the live events curated
by its founder, Andy Wood, though I have to say how much I enjoyed the Feelin’
mini-CD that came with double issue #62/63. It’s a lovely, chaotic experience
of random instrumentation and found sounds. However, let’s get back to the live
experiences; having called the Lit & Phil home for the last year and
a half, times and circumstances have changed, meaning that The Globe is
the new base for TQ live events, with the first one taking place on
Friday 18th August. It featured a typically eclectic line-up, with Namke
Communications, Peonys and Pettaluck treading the boards this time.
Arriving
at a venue that appears to be The Broken Doll rebuilt from what was left
in the skips when they tore that dive down, I was dismayed to hear a truly
terrible, sludgy ska punk teenage troupe shouting their dreadful wares to very
few onlookers. Pausing only to reflect on the veracity of the lyrics to Losing
My Edge by LCD Sound System, I ascended the stairs, suffering badly
from OCD, and into the latest No Audience Underground happening. As
ever, the beautiful people from the Tyneside experimental music scene were
conspicuous by their absence, meaning only those who were there for the music
and not to be seen in all the cool places, were present for a proper treat of
an evening.
First
up were Namke Communications from York, which involved half an hour of a
diffident middle-aged bloke in specs messing about on an iPad and
twiddling few knobs of his pre amp. It was canny, and certainly a billion times
better than the tripe on downstairs. A slow, doomy vibe was overlayed with
unidentifiable snatches of speech that made the whole thing eerie and
intriguing. The only problem was the lack of visual stimulus associated with a
solo performer, farting about with some gadgets. The experience is great if you
get into the zone, but otherwise things can get a bit dull with nothing to gaze
upon. I was lucky to be able to look at trees at the start of Scotchy Road
distantly swaying in the breeze through the picture window. More aesthetically
pleasing that the Arena’s unchanging roof through the other window.
As
regards aesthetics, Peonys have them by the bucketload. Rumours that TQ
are part of the movement to destroy guitars are totally unfounded; not only is
there the Reynols exhibition starting later in November to look forward
to, as well as the utterly fabulous Reynols Live in Mechelen mini
CD that came free with issue #64, but
the debut performance by a scintillating guitar and drums combo who provided
loud psychedelic prog of the very finest 67-71 vintage rebottled and remodelled
for these times, blew everyone in the room away. Peonys reminded me of Cream,
which was fitting as Geoff Firminster’s strange brew was red wine for a
change. Sean Urquart said they were like Gallon Drunk meets the
Pink Fairies and I couldn’t disagree. Telepathic, tearjerking musical
demolition work. Absolutely fucking wonderful. They played a second gig on
Friday 20th October at Bobik’s but I couldn’t get there
because of a family birthday. I really advise you to look out for them.
Top
of the bill was Southend’s Emma Reed, who plays as Pettaluck. Despite
the awful racket from downstairs crawling up through the floorboards, I was
immensely impressed by her charmingly idiosyncratic set that recalled everyone
from Lol Coxhill to Ivor Cutler to Essential
Logic. Predominantly a flautist, she was also a body percussionist and singer,
with looped sounds and interesting percussion, some of it played by Andy
Wood. It’s great to see TQ evenings moving away from a steady diet
of synth navel gazers, especially as Emma fought so hard to overcome
technical issues that blighted much of her set. I loved Snake Oil about
long COVID, which reminded me of Lene Lovich and was delighted to swap
products with her at the end of the evening and cannot recommend her cassette Pass
highly enough. Get it from her Bandcamp page. She even played Abattage from Bartholomew cusack’s Dresden Heist CD
on her radio show, so giving Pettaluck some positive words on
here is the least I can do.
I
reviewed Pettaluck’s Pass tape on this site in the blog http://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.com/2023/10/57-varieties.html where I also mentioned
the Meredith demo tape from 1992. Phil Tyler saw this and,
graciously, dropped off a copy of Blindspot, a compilation CD of Meredith’s
complete demo tapes that came out in 2019. Meredith, featuring Phil
Tyler on guitar, came to my attention in the very early part of 1992.
Indeed, I recall them visiting my house in Spital Tongues on Sunday 8 March of
that year so I could interview them. I presume it is around then that I came
into possession of their tape. It’s got 4 tracks listed on it, though there are
actually 5 songs performed. The two particular highlights were the opening Falls
and the closing Footsore Four, which both showcase the excellent
musicianship, especially Phil’s guitar, and Kay’s remarkable voice.
I loved their frigid, glacial indie sensibilities that reminded me of
Edinburgh’s The Flowers. I’ve no idea what they did after this, though I
obviously know what Phil is up to.
Another
excellent artistic organisation I must give a shout-out to is Wormhole
World. Purveyors of a magnificent array of experimental music on CD, they
often host clearance sales and that is how I came across the cheerfully
monikered ensemble Sound Effects of Death and Horror and their rather
impressive paean to aged portable telephones, Mota Rolla. Analogue
synths are staging quite a comeback and these lot know how to wield them. They
describe themselves as producing “ambient, electronic, darkwave and experimental
music influenced by The Radiophonic Workshop, Tangerine Dream, Kraftwerk and
John Carpenter,” which is a far better way of putting it than I could ever
come up with.
While
I’ve a lot of time for analogue virtuosos like Sound Effects of Death and Horror
and the superb TSR2, I must admit to feeling left cold by the trendy
sounds of Warrington Runcorn Newtown Development Plan. Having shelled
out for their Moonbuilding CD from the zine of the same name, I was
utterly underwhelmed by what seemed to be a reanimation of Vangelis or,
more closely, Jean Michelle Jarre. It is staid, plodding and lacking any
desire to explore the more experimental side of electronic music. Frankly it’s
more Robert Miles than Robert Rental, so I gave them a swerve
when they played The Cumberland on Friday 15th September.
However, this was also because Shelley and I had tickets to see I, Daniel
Blake at Northern Stage on the same night. Like the film, the stage
version is incredibly upsetting. The stressful inevitability of Daniel’s death
as he tries to do good, while fighting against the monolithic benefits system
would bring a tear to a glass eye. Thankfully, COVID and the ensuing lockdown
put paid to so much of the fascist inflexibility we saw in this play. Of
course, the events portrayed serve as a reminder as to the sheer evil of the
state apparatus and what it is capable of.
It
was certainly a more focussed and credible version of the text than the strange
production of Macbeth we got to see at Northern Stage on Thursday
5th October. Set in a modern penthouse flat, with Scottishness
hinted at with cans of Tennents and a female Malcolm singing a barely
comprehensible version of Yes Sir, I Can Boogie, this production
featured some nice actors we met in the pub afterwards and some decidedly odd
directorial choices that I didn’t agree with. Still, for a fiver, you can’t
complain too much I suppose.
Rewind
two days from our first visit to Northern Stage to find Ben, standing in
for the unwell Shelley, and I was watching The Bevis Frond at The
Cumberland. Despite Nick Saloman fronting the band since 1986, I’d
never seen The Bevis Frond and had only ever heard one song by them; the
heart-breaking He’d be a Diamond that Teenage Fanclub covered so
lovingly. I was so pleased to see them finally; proper prog rock wig-outs
alongside psychedelic 60s pop anthems, with every song extended to the longest
possible degree. They played about 8 songs in almost 2 hours, which shows what
they’re about. I was very pleased they did He’d be a Diamond as well. I
was so impressed I treated myself to their What did for the Dinosaurs
CD, for a bargain fiver. Here we get 9 songs in 72 minutes, showing these lads
like to give value for money. I really want to know more about this band.
Apparently, there’s a new album slated for 2024, so I’ll be having some of
that.
Talking
of Teenage Fanclub, their marvellous new album Nothing Lasts Forever
came out in September. As the title might indicate there is a sense of taking
stock and perhaps that is not surprising as it is over thirty years since the
band formed. Rather like catching up with an old friend, listening to Nothing
Lasts Forever has the comfort of familiarity. Those jangling guitars,
melodies with catchy hooks and harmonies are still all there. But as summer
turns into autumn so those Teenage Fanclub hallmarks sound richer,
bathed in a deeper, russet light. With that changing of the season comes a hint
of melancholy too but not in a despairing way, more a sense of acceptance, of
moving on. Nothing Lasts Forever is a deeply satisfying
listen.
Teenage
Fanclub’s
writing remains firmly in the hands of founders Norman Blake and Raymond
McGinley. As honest as in their song writing neither leaves any doubt as to
where they are now and what they write about. As well as where they are
personally, where the band made the album is deeply imprinted on Nothing
Lasts Forever. Though Teenage Fanclub did the vocals at home in
Glasgow, they accepted an offer to record everything else at Rockfield Studios.
The only catch was they had only ten days and the deadline stimulated a lot of
new ideas.
Foreign
Land opens
the album in the finest Teenage Fanclub style. A single note wrung
through with feedback sounds very familiar but the acoustic riff that emerges
blending into a swirl of harmony brings those youthful sounds right up to date.
If reflectively mellow, there is also a determination to move on. Tired Of
Being Alone adds some echoing folk to the mix: “Come with me, watch
the seasons go/Summer nights with the sky aglow”. A slightly fuzzy electric
guitar solo blows through bucolic harmonies and acoustic breezes. Already that
notion of togetherness makes itself felt as drummer Francis Macdonald,
bassist Dave McGowan and Euros Childs on keyboards become as one
with the guitars and vocals of Blake and McGinley.
The
theme of light is a recurring feature. I Left A Light On sombrely
looks back at a love gone forever. Atmospheric pop layers shine what might have
been a guiding light but in the end reality prevailed. Similarly, gently
paced, See the Light looks forward with hope. That hope
for better times burns through Back to the Light, where acoustic
and electric riffs surge with life and love on the road. Musing about the past
and future inevitably involves much introspection. Despite a jaunty piano line,
Self-Sedation has Norman turning into William Blake, “Some
are born to endless night/ I’d say my namesake got that right”. McGinley
looks beyond the harm caused by today’s increasing polarisation in the anthemic
I Will Love You. The phrase Nothing Lasts Forever is a
truism, but we must hope Teenage Fanclub continue to create music for
many years to come. These ten songs show how.
Live,
TFC appeared at The Glasshouse 2, which used to be Sage 2,
on Thursday 9th November, which Shelley, Ben and I took in, but
we’ll talk about that next time.
Another
band Ben and I ticked off our dad and lad bucket list were Gang of Four,
which I think only leaves Cornershop and My Bloody Valentine on
the must-see list. Having seen Wire, TFC, The Mekons 77, The Pop Group, The
Raincoats, Penetration, Mogwai, GY! BE, The Fall and Lee “Scratch” Perry
over the years, it must be said that Gang of Four outstripped every one
of those acts with a blinding performance at The Grove in Byker
(hahahahahahahahahahaha…zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz). They were incredible; the power
and solidity of the Hugo Burnham and Sara Lee rhythm section, a
virtuoso performance by David Pajo, in place of the late, much-missed Andy
Gill (and I have neither insight nor interest into the sad fissure between
the erstwhile guitarist and the rest of the band) and an incredible feat of vocal
clarity and astonishing energy by the incomparable Jon King. A near two
hour set, from the opening Return the Gift to the closing encore of Damaged
Goods, hit every high spot of the bands early career. I was delighted to
see both Solid Gold and several singles and b-sides getting an outing.
Obviously, Ether, I Found That Essence Rare, What We All Want and To
Hell with Poverty tore the roof off the place, but even minor classics like
We Live as We Dream Alone and Paralysed were acclaimed furiously.
An incredible night featuring an incredible set by an incredible band.
Finally,
can I recommend the album Songs for T, available from Katpis Tapes
on Bandcamp. My dear friend Richy Hetherington lost his son Thomas
last year and this compilation is a tribute to him, involving many of the acts Richy
organised to play at his Sunday afternoon, NME endorsed Happy Sundays
events. Featuring many lo-fi acts, including local lad Nev Clay and Richy’s
own Lovable Wholes (a name I suggested to him), not to mention Tot’s
favourite artist Jeffrey Lewis, this is a gentle CD that is packed full
of warmth and love. Please buy it, even if you hate that sort of music, because
all profits go to Kidscape and Papyrus. Each purchase will help
to keep our kids alive.
Books:
The
most important, and best, book I’ve read since I last posted about my cultural
life, is James Ellroy’s magisterial The Enchanters. In this
latest peerless slice of LA Noir, we are transported back to August 1962, with
nods also to events in 1937, 1948 and 1956, wherein defrocked LAPD operative
and subsequently black-balled Private Eye, Freddie Otash, of Ellroy
novels passim, untangles the events that led up to Marilyn Monroe’s
death. As you’d imagine the Kennedy Brothers, Jimmy Hoffa, as well as a tranche
of LA high-ranking lowlifes, such as Chief of Police “Whiskey” Bill Parker and
City Mayor, the egregious Sam Yorty, feature prominently throughout. The plot,
as is compulsory in Ellroy novels, is convoluted to the point of being
labyrinthine, though at least at the end of this one, you know what has
actually happened, despite the tale being told by the most unreliable narrator
imaginable.
Plot,
structure, dialogue and characterisation are all at an impeccable standard and
it seems Ellroy, aged 75 and aware his formidable contemporary Cormac
MacCarthy passed away earlier in 2o23, has a cleared the path for future
Otash novels, explaining his dealings with the one and only Richard Milhous
Nixon. This is a surprising artistic twist, as nothing has been mentioned about
the third and fourth instalments of the Second LA Quartet, that has been
on hiatus since the somewhat preposterously plotted This Storm appeared
in 2019. All we can do is wait and anticipate Ellroy’s next journey into
the heart of the enormous darkness that is US mid-20th Century
history.
Shelley
and I often partake of ales in the sophisticated nitespot that is New York
Social Club. One great aspect of this juke joint is the huge store of free
books that are there for the delectation of imbibers to read at their leisure.
From the first time we went in, I’ve tried to avail myself of these treasures,
which means several books I’m about to discuss came from there. Firstly, mainly
because it was a hardback, I took the esteemed ham actor Valentine Dyall’s
Flood of Mutiny, a title taken from Shakespeare’s Julius
Caesar, which is an account of seaborne insurrections from the famed events
on The Bounty to the Spithead Rebellion, then on to the Potemkin rising.
All rattlingly good stuff, told in a censorious, pro-Establishment tone that
leaves you in no doubt Valentine is happy to see them all hanged. Although Dyall
comes across as a spokesperson for the Woke Generation when compared to Neil
Samworth, former Strangeways screw and author of the pulp autobiography, A
Prison Officer’s Story. It’s the usual 250 pages of self-serving
hagiographic justification for battering nonces and tea leaves in their cells,
with cod psychology profiles of hard men and career crims and the usual tough
love approach to drug use (cold turkey anyone?) that probably touches a nerve
with disenfranchised former UKIP voters looking for a peg to hang their hatful
of hatred on. Utter rubbish.
There
is someone who drinks in New York Club who I’d love to buy a rake of pints for,
as they have passed on three Ian Rankin books (two novels, Naming of
the Dead and the most recent one, Heart Full of Headstones, as well
as a short story collection, The Beat Goes On) to me that have piqued my
interest in Rebus to the extent that I’m keen to read the whole series. First
up, The Beat Goes On: The Complete Rebus Short Stories is an anthology
of every Rebus short story, plus the novella Death Is Not the End. Published
in 2014, it includes two new stories, set around Christmas 2014, after the
central character’s retirement, ranging back to the opening story, “Dead and
Buried,” which is set in the mid-1980s when Rebus was learning the ropes at
Summerhall Police Station. The twelve Rebus stories in A Good Hanging and
Other Stories included here, cover a chronological year in Rebus’s life,
which is the kind of exhaustive character, location and plot delineation that
has made me fall in love with Rankin’s work. He tells you so much about
Edinburgh, current events and invented characters that seem so real.
The
Naming of the Dead
is the sixteenth Rebus novel. It is set in Edinburgh in July 2005, in the week
of the G8 summit in Gleneagles. The book opens with Rebus attending the funeral
of his brother Michael, who has died suddenly from a stroke, at the same time
as the parents of Detective Sergeant Siobhan Clarke arrive in Edinburgh as part
of the protests that surrounded the G8 summit at Gleneagles. Clarke defied her
anti-establishment parents by becoming a police officer, but now wants to feel
like a daughter. Rebus is nearing retirement and sidelined until the apparent
suicide of an MP occurs at a high-level meeting in Edinburgh Castle. At the
same time, a serial killer seems to be killing former offenders, helped by a
website set up by the family of a victim. Clues have been deliberately left at
Clootie Well in Auchterarder, a place where items of clothing are traditionally
left for luck.
Siobhan
Clarke is placed in charge of the investigation, although she is outranked by
Rebus, and finds herself having to compromise with Edinburgh gangster Morris Clafferty
in hunting down the identity of the riot policeman who apparently assaulted her
mother at a demonstration. Cafferty is also getting older, though his
insecurity is balanced somewhat by his having had a biography ghost-written by
local journalist Mairie Henderson, who has been enlisted by Rebus and Clarke to
help solve the crimes. Rebus and Clarke pursue their investigation, against the
background of the 31st G8 summit, seen from both the police side and that of
the protestors; among the events referred to are the 7/7 London bombings, the
2012 Olympic bid and George W. Bush falling off his bicycle whilst waving at
police officers.
By
the end of the book, Clarke realises that she has grown closer than ever to
understanding Rebus and increasingly fears that she is becoming more like him: "obsessed
and sidelined, thrawn and distrusted. Rebus had lost family and friends. When
he went out drinking, he did so on his own, standing quietly at the bar, facing
the row of optics."
This
book has been called Rankin's finest novel and while it is a great read, I
would like to consume more of his work to be able to pass comment on such a
judgement. That should come when I
plough through a trilogy that comprises: Black and Blue, The Hanging Garden
and Dead Souls, which comprise Rebus novels 8, 9 and 10. By which time,
there is hopefully a follow up to the 22nd and most recent
instalment, Heart Full of Headstones, whereby Rebus, retired since 2007,
DI Siobhan Clarke, and DCI Malcolm Fox all pursue their own investigations,
though the cases come together around a policeman named Francis Haggard,
stationed at Tynecastle nick.
The
three of them frequently exchange information or ask each other for help.
Clarke is at first working on the criminal aspect of Haggard's domestic abuse
of his wife, which has resulted in their separation; Clarke interviews Haggard
and also the wife, Cheryl, and her sister Stephanie Pelham, who has taken
Cheryl in. Haggard is threatening to reveal the police corruption at Tynecastle
unless the case is dropped. Then Haggard is murdered, and Police Scotland sets
up a Major Inquiry Team (MIT) which includes both Clarke and Fox.
Clarke
and Fox, along with the rest of the MIT, gradually trace Haggard's last day,
using phone records, CCTV footage, and file boxes full of old investigations of
the Tynecastle police station. Clarke is successful in identifying the
murderer, and Fox informally promises her a promotion to DCI. Rebus, however,
tries to pursue his investigation with a crowbar, and it does not end well. It
is why I’m so keen to read the 23rd novel in the series.
Rankin
tends to use quotations from song lyrics and / or titles to name his books, but
he hasn’t specifically written about music, unlike his fellow Scot, the genius
that is David Keenan, whose first novel This is Memorial Device,
told the story of the greatest band you’d never heard, who were the main
figures behind Airdrie’s post punk scene in the late 70s. Before his
brilliant debut novel, there was the fascinating biography of three of the
actual post-punk scene’s most arcane and enduringly fascinating acts; Coil,
Current 93 and Nurse with Wound and the personalities behind them.
Keenan’s experience as a performer in the alternative and experimental music
milieu, when running Volcanic Tongue records, gave him the ideal exposure to
acts featured in this lovingly curated and endlessly fascinating account of
some of the most challenging music imaginable. While I am a devotee of Throbbing
Gristle, I never really got Coil, partly because of their grindingly fierce
undertones and backbeat. Reading this book, I’m vindicated that I’ve made the
right decision to swerve them. Jhonn Balance may have been an inspired
and tragic artist, but Sleazy Peter Christopherson was simply a
scatological bully and boor whose work I can live without. David Tibet lived
in Benwell in the mid to late 70s when he was doing his degree at Newcastle University;
I bet he fitted in well with the locals. I have to say I’m not entirely
familiar with his oeuvre, but he comes across as a right pretentious simp in
this book. I should really find out more of his work. The same is true of the
magnificent Steven Stapleton, as I’ve loved every note I’ve heard by Nurse
with Wound, as well as being enduring fascinated by the world and manner in
which he lives, almost off grid, in County Clare. Fair play to the lad.
Talking
of Ireland, as you’ll well know, we headed over there in August for our
holidays, on the very day the comprehensive and utterly essential Utilita
Football Yearbook 2023/2024 popped through my letterbox. I’ve got all 54
editions and use them on almost a daily basis.
Anyway,
whilst over there, I got hold of a couple of books that I thoroughly recommend.
Picked up from a charity book stall in a supermarket, Donal Ryan’s
elegiac semi-tragic love story, All We Shall Know, is both poetic and
sad. The narrator, Melody is 33 and has just informed her husband that her
unborn child is not his. A 17-year-old Traveller named Martin Toppy, whom she
taught for more than a year, is the father. Melody is an educated woman who has
written poetry for the local newspaper. She has also written articles on assistance
for asylum seekers and abortion.
However,
this is purely exposition. In the narrating of her life, we get no sense she
has an opinion on abortion other than one fleeting mention of London while she
considers what to do with her pregnancy. Nor do we get a sense of her feelings
about class issues or discrimination against Travellers other than correcting
her father and husband for using derogatory terms. The reader is left on the
surface of her psychological landscape, unable to delve into what should be a truly
interesting character. Refreshingly, Melody refuses to be a victim, but as if
to offset this denial of easy sympathy, every other character becomes weak and
needy. Within the opening 40-odd pages, everyone (other than Melody) cries:
Melody’s husband on hearing about the pregnancy, Martin Toppy when he first
arrives to be tutored, Melody’s father at the kitchen table, her childhood
friend, Breedie, and a young Traveller woman, Mary. The tears are unrelenting.
To
his credit, Ryan does attempt to give voice to the Traveller community. The two
teenage Travellers in the novel are illiterate, though 19-year-old Mary has the
“taste of a vision” and is something of a mystic. Martin’s father is a famous
bare-knuckle boxer and Martin himself will follow suit. Here, the novel follows
a well-worn path of violence between Travellers, with shootings, slashings,
family feuds and scores being settled “one on one”. For a writer of Ryan’s
obvious talents, it seems like a missed opportunity for an underrepresented
community to be portrayed in such a negative, cliched way. Certainly, it lags
far behind Eamonn Sweeney’s superb Waiting for the Healer in
terms of dealing with this vexed issue. Additionally, the moral consequences of
Melody’s actions, seducing a boy of 16 over the course of a year, could have
been examined in more depth.
The
sharpest moral compass in the whole of the Six Counties belongs to Glenn
Patterson. Author of the celebrated Fat Lad, he uses his rapier
intellect in the essay collection Lapsed Protestant to point, jab and
puncture the hypocrisy of both sides of the political divide in the dangerous
days after the Good Friday Agreement, when peace was more of a concept than a
state of being. Obviously, some of the events and cultural references that date
back more than two decades need researching, but by and large, time has shown
him the wiser. I’m looking forward to sourcing the follow-up Here’s Me Here:
Further Reflections of a Lapsed Protestant.
