New Reviews

This is what I've read & listened to so far in 2024... 

Music:

Thus far, not being in a position to lash out £40 on a single ticket to see Slowdive, the only gig I’ve seen in the opening 2 months of 2024  was the TQ Live event at The Globe back in mid-January. Even then, Shelley and I had to leave early to attend a retirement do. The sole live act we saw was Shunyata Improvisation Group, who produced their usual hypnotic, spellbinding, ethereal soundtrack to a philosophical dreamworld. As ever, I lost myself in their beguiling incantations of guitar, flute, cello and gentle percussion. I’m looking forward very much to hearing them next at Cullercoats Watch House on March 8^th.

Somewhat strangely, I’ve also been to the pictures this year. Considering I can’t shut up and sit still for 2 hours normally, it was quite an ask to go and see Poor Things at ODEON Silverlink. However, it was an absolutely brilliant, amusing and erotic slice of magic realism, which appealed to me after I’d heard it was based on an Alistair Gray novel. It was also great to see Matty Longstaff at the pictures at the same time, though he was escorting his lady friend to a screening of Wonka. Shelley and I also watched Saltburn on Netflix. What a bloody wonderful pisstake of Brideshead Revisited that was. It was like homoerotic Ealing Comedy. I’d recommend it unquestioningly.

As regards the music I’ve listened to this year, first I must remind you that there is the small matter of the earth is flat by a certain ian cusack. My first solo CD is a noise / experimental /avant garde piece that is available from my Bandcamp page for £3 plus postage; for £5 plus postage, I’ll also send you a copy of my chapbook, Violent Heterosexual Men. PayPal payments to iancusack@blueyonder.co.uk please!

Moving on to stuff by other people, I’ve so far accumulated a CD single, a pair of 7” singles, a brace of cassettes and a quartet of CDs. First up, I got myself a couple of good old fashioned Irish traditional singles; Dermot O’Brien’s 1974 take on Spancil Hill. Now, as everyone knows, the all-time greatest version of this classic ballad was the one Christy Moore and Shane MacGowan did on The Late, Late Show back in 1996. This version can’t hold a candle to that, though if Showband schmaltz is your thing, then you’ll probably appreciate the fact it has been turned into a waltz. I don’t. However, my other piece of Irish esoterica is of far greater importance; the still extant nonagenarian Sean O’Se’s brilliant interpretation of The Boys of Kilmichael will have you donning your balaclava and cursing the Saxon invader when in your cups. Well, that’s the affect it has on me, anyway.

We had a quiet New Year at home, but we did see Jools Holland’s programme. Bearing in mind Viz Comic’s legendary top tip; “persuade your friends you are Jools Holland by walking quickly round your house, listening to any old shit,” I did see a tremendous act on there. Donegal teenager Muireann Bradley is undoubtedly the contemporary queen of the Mississippi Delta Blues. Taught this music by her music obsessed father almost from birth, she eschewed an early interest in kickboxing in favour of an acoustic guitar and interpreting songs from a century ago. Drunk and astonished by her version of Candyman, I searched to see what was available online. Her debut CD, I Kept Those Old Blues, was sold out on Bandcamp and the vinyl far too expensive, so I bought the cassette. Frankly, I’m delighted I did, as versions of Vastapol, Stagolee, Green Rocky Road and Freight Train make this a wonderful experience. I do wonder where she goes from here? Further mining of a seam of old classics? I’d prefer that to her turning into another average singer songwriter or perish the thought, leading a dreary electric pick-up band.

One electric band I do love are Glaswegian trash post-punks, Dragged Up. They were kind enough to send me their new single, Missing Person. It’s another superb, slouching slice of screeching ennui and attitude. Even better is the remixed B-side, Machine Person, which reminds me so much of Y Records era Slits, such as Animal Space or Man Next Door with proper Prag Vec deadpan vocals.  A truly brilliant release and I’m desperate to see this band in the flesh. Apparently a new album is ready for release, which fills my heart with joy. If Dragged Up are the sound of the 70s turning into the 80s, then Peony are the soundtrack of a decade previous. Their first CD release, Live at TQ Live, was recorded in The Globe on a chilly Friday night last August and it is a marvellous document of a debut live performance that sounded like Cream meets Amon Duul II meets the Pink Fairies. This is hard and heavy music, but with zero pretension or histrionics. I’m agog for their next moves. These two bands are the only ones I’ve invested in who have released stuff in 2024 and I’m hungry for more.

Neil Young released his 45^th album last December. Shelley bought me Before & After for Valentine’s Day and I’m extremely grateful to her. It’s acoustic revisits to 13 items from his back catalogue; as you’d imagine, the likes of Heart of Gold or Helpless don’t get a look in and, though the choices aren’t always the road less travelled, the versions are. Solo readings of Buffalo Springfield classics Burned and Mr Soul are fascinating asides, though the two absolute standout tracks are Comes a Time, which is the nearest you get to a crowd pleaser on here and, denuded of any Pearl Jam influences, I’m the Ocean. This is a wonderful album, if you can stop from gagging during the saccharine Mother Earth, and so laidback I thought I’d started toking again. All in all, it’s amazing a bloke a kick in the arse from his 80^th birthday can still work so hard and produce valid, vital music like this.

I was delighted that Bandcamp provided a full release for The Mekons’s 2016 album, Existentialism. Despite not coming with the booklet that accompanied the original limited release, this is an absolutely stunning set and almost certainly their most eclectic since the criminally ignored F.U.N. 90. This is proper Mekons as well; everyone of them contributes wonderfully to the workload, with Jon Boy, Tom and Sally on top form. I’ve got the download first, which waiting for the CD and my laptop tells me this is the most played album I’ve got in a digital form, which tells me exactly how important Existentialism is to me. Really looking forward to seeing Jon and his band at The Central on May 18^th.

Along with the latest issue of TQ, I was delighted to be one of the lucky recipients of Any Love is Good Love. This is a compilation CD, raising money for teenage LGBT+ projects in Manchester, which was curated by Emma Reed, aka Pettaluck, and it contains some gems on there such as Sailors by Das Wanderlust. In fact, it’s a great listen from start to finish, providing you skip the Lovely Eggs contribution. 

Books:

Thus far in 2024, I’ve read 18 books, though I don’t propose to discuss 12 of them in this blog. The relevant titles to be ignored are: Let It Bleed, Black & Blue, Knots & Crosses, The Hanging Garden, Westwind, The Complaints, A Cool Head, Tooth & Nail, Standing in Another Man’s Grave Rebus’s Scotland,, The Flood and Watchman. All of them are by Ian Rankin, with 6 of them being constituent parts of the Inspector John Rebus series and the remainder an array of different works of fiction. Once I’ve worked my way through the remaining 14 Rebus novels and 9 miscellaneous books by Rankin, I intend to write a blog dedicated entirely to Rankin’s oeuvre, but not just yet.

This leaves 6 other books for me to discuss: the first of which is John King’s London Country. Once I’ve ticked Rankin off the list, and worked my way through new titles promised in 2024 by Roddy Doyle, Paul Hanley, Michael Houllebecq, David Peace and Irvine Welsh, I intend to complete my reading of John King’s collected works as, having religiously made my way through the first 6 of his novels, I somehow missed out on Slaughterhouse Prayer, The Liberal Politics of Adolf Hitler and The Prison House; a gap I am keen to plug. London Country seems to tie up the loose strands and characters from both Human Punk and Skinheads. Set in Slough, though a long way from the admin department of Wernham Hogg, it takes us through a demi monde populated by numerous radical, independent thinking punks, elderly soul boys and semi-retired ravers, whose adherence to their own code of morals and ethics, vehemently opposed to the accepted ideologies of left and right, means they really don’t give a fuck. In the past, some of King’s work has strayed perilously close to the kind of suspect thinking shown by the likes of the Football Lads Alliance but, though there is clear joy at Brexit coming to pass, it is from a Lexit, proletarian standpoint that eschews any suggestions of racism, crude nationalism or xenophobia. You like these blokes; they might be a bit keen to use their fists to get their point across, but we’ve come a long way from The Football Factory’s mantra of punch first and ask questions later. I enjoyed London Country a great deal and remain deeply grateful to John for publishing my work in his Verbal magazine.

I’ve previously blogged about the madcap world of the novels of Magnus Mills, and his 2023 self-published instalment, The Cure for Disgruntlement, is another fine slice of his surreal Weltanschauung. This is the story of a boatload of immigrants who arrive at an unnamed English seaside resort after a perilous journey by boat. They are met with rudeness, hostility and aggression, which it seems is caused by the miserable mindset of the indigenous population who are, by turns, lazy, cunning, exploitative and stupid. The narrator and his pals soon find work on the margins of society, making a huge killing, before settling in to do the kind of ordinary humdrum jobs the locals are either too lazy or lacking the skills to do. Unsurprisingly, this involves running the benefits system, which the locals ruthlessly exploit, and the incomers refuse to adhere to. Funny and deeply depressing; I love Magnus Mills.

I have to say I’m a little frightened of former Sonic Youth bassist Kim Gordon, on the basis of a single unpleasant encounter with her, when I conducted a telephone interview with a tetchy Ms Gordon about her Riot Grrrl project, Free Kitten, that she’d formed with ex-Pussy Galore guitarist Julia Cafritz. I thought at the time, and still do now, that the Free Kitten project, especially the debut album Nice Ass, was an ill-disciplined, self-indulgent mess. I wasn’t the only one to express that opinion, which Gordon was all too aware of. Presumably this is why she slammed down the phone on me after half an hour of small talk that studiously avoided reference to her new project, when I asked when Sonic Youth would be getting back together. Thankfully this incident doesn’t get a mention in Gordon’s excellent 2015 autobiography, Girl in a Band, though in its pages, she still bristles at the reception Free Kitten got. Good job I didn’t make mention of her Harry Crews outfit who released a steaming 12” pile of ordure in 1989.

Some important facts to consider: Kim Gordon and Thurston Moore married in 1984, had a daughter Coco in 1994 and precipitated Sonic Youth’s public disintegration in 2011 when their marriage ended in highly acrimonious circumstances after Moore left Gordon for Eva Prinz, who he is now married to. Last year, Moore published his autobiography, Sonic Life, which is a very different beast to the one his ex-wife released 8 years previously, both in terms of content, approach, and attitude. In some ways, you’d think the two books are talking about a completely different set of experiences, rather than a shared, if disputed, narrative.

It was always a nagging regret of mine that I’d not read Gordon’s book, which had been released to universal critical acclaim. That regret became an unquenchable thirst once I’d got about halfway through Moore’s tome. Her book is 273 pages long, concentrating on her childhood for about the opening quarter of the book, but focussing mainly on her and Moore’s partnership, both from a personal and a musical perspective, with considerable emphasis on their daughter and her impact on their life. I know the cliché that time is a great healer, but back in 2015 both Kim Gordon and her daughter were absolutely decimated by Moore’s desertion of the two of them. Girl in a Band features an unflinchingly honest account of the sudden disintegration of a previously happy, if not perhaps idyllic family circle, and how badly it affected both mother and daughter. In contrast, Sonic Life is 480 pages long, spends the first couple of hundred pages cataloguing all the records Moore loved in his early teenage years, then the gigs he and his best friend Harold drove to in New York City from their home in suburban Connecticut, before he found a place to live in the Big Apple and formed Sonic Youth. From that point, we get an exhaustive, though completely fascinating, account of every album and tour the band embarked upon. In only the last chapter, barely a dozen pages in length, does Moore give his guilt-free account of how he turned his life round 180 degrees, in a matter-of-fact way that is astonishing for its lack of both emotion and insight. Frankly, I simply can’t understand how such selfish, narcissistic actions can be validated by Sonic Life being awarded the accolade of Rough Trade’s Music Book of the Year for 2023.

I’m glad I read both books and I certainly won’t allow the revelations, or otherwise, gleaned from either publication to influence my attitude to Sonic Youth’s extensive back catalogue, though I’m certainly more interested in investigating Gordon’s soon come album, The Collective, than anything Moore may release in the future.

Once we get into March, my thoughts will turn to indoor nets before the start of the 2024 cricket season, which will probably be my last as I turn 60 in August. Indeed, I’m holding my 60^th birthday party at Tynemouth Cricket Club on Saturday 10^th August. Everyone is welcome, apart from supporters of Heaton Stannington FC, who will not be admitted. In a couple of weeks, I’ll publish the playlist for the night; one song from every year, 1964 to 2024 inclusive. Not all of them are by Teenage Fanclub either. Anyway, back to cricket and another book I must read is Beyond a Boundary by CLR James, who posed the famous question; “What do they know of cricket who only cricket know?" The contention of Duncan Stone, author of the impressive Different Class, is that James failed in his writing to effect any kind of change to the domestic, recreational game of cricket in England. Stone himself is a recreational cricketer, from the Workers Republic of Surrey, who may also refer to himself as a Marxist. His brilliantly argued thesis is that recreational cricket in England was hampered in the south by the refusal of many cricket clubs, run along the lines of the sort of golf club Jerry Leadbetter from The Good Life would feel at home in, to play anything other than friendlies until 1968. Consequently, the institutional bias south of The Wash is both class-based and racist. While Stone does not explicitly state this, I’d imagine the LGBT+ community have been made less than welcome in the leafy lanes of Home Counties South. Before the Northern fraternity can start looking smug, the racism scandal that continues to bedevil Yorkshire cricket is a clear sign of the distance still to be covered before the greatest game can be regarded as fully inclusive. With the ECB still in control of cricket at all levels, it may be a cold day in hell before that happens.

Also, on the subject of cricket, my dear pal Harry Pearson, passed on a couple of issues of The Nightwatchman, Wisden’s quarterly journal of long form cricket writing and bloody great they are too, especially Scott Oliver’s exhaustive account of sundry Minor Counties putting one over the big boys in the Gillette Cup and B&H Trophy back in the day. Once I’m retired, I can see myself collecting and devouring the first 42 issues of this fine publication.

Goodness, I hope I don’t go blind. Or deaf.

 

Working Your Notice

Newcastle United 2024; the first of an occasional series...

Sunday 11^th February 2024. I am exactly 59 and a half years old. As per the regulations, I email my pension provider, giving them six months’ notice that I intend to retire on my 60^th birthday, so they can do the necessary calculations and split my bit into a lumper and a modest monthly. This is presumably done to stop me squandering the coin intended to keep me solvent in my declining years on trips to Scottish lower league grounds, Cornelius Cardew CDs and Harry Crews first editions.

Rewind to Thursday 1^st February 2024. After an uncomfortable month on Tyneside, the Premier League transfer window draws to a close without any of the rumoured departures, supposedly necessitated by a requirement to comply with the Financial Fair Play rules that are set to relegate Everton and Forest (though not Man City; heaven forfend), of Miguel Almiron, Bruno Guimares, Alexander Isak, Joelinton or Callum Wilson from the already stretched, shattered and underperforming Newcastle United squad coming to pass. Pausing only to consider in passing the asinine mindset of innumerable Newcastle United fans who appear to regard the Profit and Sustainability Regulations, as we must now learn to call the FFP rules, as inherently “biased” as they seem set to prevent NUFC from buying their way to success in the way Chelsea and City have done so in the past, it should be noted that probably the best way to ensure the Magpies never win anything seems to be keeping Eddie Howe in situ for the foreseeable.

I think it more than coincidental that the only incoming signing round Gallowgate way in January was a former Man City academy graduate midfielder, by the name of Alfie Harrison, for less than peanuts. I know nothing of him and, rather like the mythical trio of Harrison Ashby, Garang Kuol and Yankuba Minteh, I don’t imagine that will change any time soon. In terms of players we were linked with, it was much ado about nothing at the end of the day. The Ruben Neves rumours were nothing other than press-inspired waffle; a whole lot of hot air that linked our Saudi overlords with a player currently playing his trade in their country, with considerably more professionalism than Jordan Henderson; a man who, in his vile and unseemly scramble to feather his own nest at Ajax, revealed himself to be as much of a supporter of the LGBTQ+ community as Graham Linehan. Meanwhile, as Kalvin Phillips continues his one man mission to get David Moyes his P45, it becomes ever more apparent that the reluctance of the House of Saud PIF to open the purse strings in that instance may just have been an astute decision, though I believe this to have been made for different reasons than parsimony, despite the fact that the Tonali ban has really come back to bite us up the arse. Our 2023 marquee signing’s absence, as well as that of Joe Willock and Joelinton, has left us desperately shorthanded in midfield, resulting in Lewis Miley doing the sort of backbreaking double shifts we’ve not seen bairns forced into since the 1842 Mines Act stopped kids grafting underground.

In the same way I’m mentally preparing myself for clearing my desk in the next few months, I can’t imagine Eddie Howe has any illusions that he’ll be the boss on Barrack Road much after the end of this season. Sad to say, but the main reason our owners haven’t given him any money to spend is that they simply don’t trust him to use it, or any resources he is presented with, in a wise or effective fashion. As the feeble cries of “look where we were two years ago” begin to die out, January and the first half of February have proved to be another baffling period in an already contradictory season, marked by tremendous highs and dreadful lows, where predicting what happens next has become an almost impossible task. The only thing we can take for certain is that Howe is allergic to both team rotation and tactical substitutions.

The statistics show that in 2024, our league record is: played 5, won 2, drawn 1, lost 2, goals scored 12, goals conceded 14. Despite two comfortable away wins in the FA Cup, these are not the kind of figures you’d expect from any team with any pretensions of European football. Many scapegoats have been identified by NUFC’s seething fanbase as being somehow to blame for the fact we’re not running away with the title. Firstly, Dubravka. Now he may no longer be the keeper we were once thrilled by when he made his rock solid debut at home to Man United, but he’s no Karl Darlow or Matz Sels. Admittedly that dart off his line for Forest’s opener may have been a rash decision, but he was superb at Anfield when conceding 4. That game seems an aeon ago, when we brought in the New Year by having a farcical penalty awarded against us. We didn’t deserve anything from the game as a whole, certainly not being punished for non-existent fouls. If there was no rub of the green that night, there was even less when Man City came to town. I only saw the highlights of this one, having been on a Scottish jaunt to Kelty Hearts 1 Annan Athletic 1, but again there was that awful feeling of despair at the concession of a late winner. This is one area where Howe and his coaching staff badly need to tighten up. Far too often the latter stages of games have seen us look out on our feet, ridiculously open and prone to errors caused by exhaustion rather than concentration lapses. We need to get the basic psychology of closing a game out instilled properly, otherwise we’ll be forced to accept the tag of gallant losers forevermore.

This is, sadly, where Howe has to take responsibility for hanging Dan Burn out to dry, though the fans who’ve turned on him in the ground should be ashamed of themselves. Crying on social media may be a way for them to work off their anxieties, but they need to keep it buttoned in sight of the pitch. As regards BDB, I love the lad, who is undoubtedly the greatest Northern Alliance player you’ll never see, but Tino Livramento can do his job with more pace and zero fuss. Hell, we could even see Dummett, Krafth or Ritchie doing their bit at the back when times are really tight. At this point I’m going to take the fifth when discussing Lewis Hall as I don’t have a clue what is going on with the kid, but I doubt he’d have suffered the kind of torture Burn endured at Villa when Leon Bailey came on. However, and let’s be clear about this, we were bloody sparkling for the opening 75 minutes of that game, but the warning signs about Burn’s lack of confidence were not learned after that night, which is a negative mark against Howe, as Luton repeatedly exposed his limitations, in that crazy game the Saturday after. Now you’d have to say, conceding 4 at home to the favourites for relegation should ordinarily be a reason for howls of derision among the support, but nobody in town that night (I’d been to Newcastle University 2 Billingham Synthonia 2 at Prudhoe Town) was complaining too much, as the game was an entertaining one, which perhaps gives me hope for the future.

The Forest victory was an important one; not only was it our second away win in a row, but it was also a thoroughly absorbing contest. Bearing in mind that we’ve got to the last 16 of the FA Cup after two comprehensive away wins and have a game we should win away to a lower mid-table Championship side in the shape of Blackburn Rovers, why don’t we all stop stressing about getting European football from our league position and just enjoy ourselves? There are 14 league games left. The Champions League has gone, which is a pity, but not the end of the world. If we repeat the pattern of the first encounters in this last trimester, we’ll accrue 26 more points, which would have us finishing the season on 62. Last year, that would have seen us in 6^th spot and qualifying for the Europa Conference League. I don’t know what that is, but it sounds alright doesn’t it?

Let’s cheer every win and brush off every defeat. The time for rebuilding and doing something about the physiotherapy arm of the club that seems to strike down half the squad with niggling muscular injuries week in, week out, is the summer. Postpone all inquests, savage recriminations and the search for reliable strikers with a decent fitness record until then. Who knows, with a favourable headwind, we might just fluke a win in the FA Cup that could save Nice Guy Eddie’s job. Mind, a good chasing at Ewood Park and the chances of him still being in post at Easter are slender to anorexic.

the earth is flat

 

On a gloriously sunny afternoon back in May 2022 Andy Wood, Tyneside experimental music paterfamilias and editor of the wondrous TQ magazine, introduced me to Chris Bartholomew, genius composer and electronics wizard. This meeting, which involved a passionate discussion of the life and works of Cornelius Cardew, resulted in an agreement to collaborate on sounds and words that gave birth to two live performances, at the Lit & Phil in August 2022 for a TQ Live event and The Lubber Fiend on Easter Saturday 2023 (attendance: 2), as well as the Dresden Heist CD and a track on the Wormhole World Christmas 2023 CD compilation, under the moniker of BARTHOLOMEW cusack. We recorded the tracks for the CD in Chris’s back bedroom, my front room, and his studio space at the John Marley Centre. While I proved the words and guitar noise, Chris did the real heavy lifting, creating electronic soundscapes and producing the final edit of a CD that, amazingly, sold out. It is a period of my life that I look back on with tremendous fondness and a real sense of achievement, inspiring me to further creative endeavours.

My previous musical career was both brief and inglorious. For Christmas 1976, aged 12, I was given an acoustic guitar. Having just fallen in love with Bob Dylan’s Highway 61 Revisited, I was delighted by this gift. I taught myself a few chords, but never, ever learned to play any songs, mainly on account of my utter inability in any accepted sense, but that didn’t bother me. Christmas 1978 saw me up my sonic assault strategy when I received a Woolworth’s telecaster copy and a beaten-up amp from Santa. It was time to form a band, which I did with friends Chris Dixon (guitar) and Rob Gosden (bass), augmented eventually by Andrew Wilkie (drums) and Carol Rushbrooke (voice and occasional saxophone). After initially calling ourselves The Modernists and Panic in the Park, we settled upon Pretentious Drivel as our name. During our 3 years of existence, we wrote a series of songs that reflected our evolving post-punk influences, from The Mekons and Gang of Four when we formed to Orange Juice and The Bunnymen when we split up but were mainly dull and derivative on the whole. Andrew and Rob were brilliant musicians, but the rest of us weren’t, which is what eventually drove us apart. Sadly, I have lost touch with them all. I hope they have had happy and productive lives.

After this, I was in a couple of short-lived experimental noise outfits that never went anywhere, before heading off to University in 1983, where I spent 3 years making a terrible racket in Exodus of Farmers, with Maggie Donnelly (bass), Roy Ballentine (drums), Eunice Patterson (keyboards) and subsequent Cassandra Complex and That Petrol Emotion bassist John Marchini (saxophone). When, with graduation looming, we called it a day, saying our goodbyes with a riotous version of The Velvet Underground’s We’re Gonna Have a Real Good Time Together in The Derry Hotel, Portrush one Friday in mid-June 1986, it subsequently occurred to me that there was no point in me continuing to play guitar in any conventional way. I simply didn’t have the ability to be a “rock” guitarist so, with a couple of minor recidivistic episodes, I eventually gave up, sticking my guitar in the back of the wardrobe and concentrating on listening, voraciously, obsessively (that will never change) and writing, sometimes about music, but sometimes not.

I wouldn’t say I rediscovered an urge to compose, record and perform, as such ambitions never went away. Even during the 35 fallow years that followed the demise of Exodus of Farmers, it remained a longstanding dream of mine to eventually get back involved with music, at some level or other. I even bought myself a cheap bass and amp from one of my son Ben’s pals to mess about on, as I harboured a desire to somehow release a 7” single. As yet, this has not happened, but following the completion of the BARTHOLOMEW cusack project, I knew I had to record a solo album, which is why, 45 years to the day since I formed The Modernists with Chris Dixon on the 87 bus from Eldon Square to Newbiggin Hall, I have released The Earth is Flat. I’d like to tell you something about it.

Being in awe of Chris’s stunning array of gadgets and technical knowledge, I thought I’d need to invest in some new hi-spec gear to record it at home, in the shape of an iPad, pre amp, Shure mic and stand, not to mention the full Garageband programme. A quick skeg on line made me aware that I was talking the thick end of a grand for these new toys, which nearly knocked me sideways. A couple of quick conversations with my musical mentors and firm pals Paul Flanagan and Lee Dickson put my mind at rest. All I needed was to record stuff on my phone (I am the last known Blackberry user in the world) and download Audacity to mix the stuff, so that’s what I did. As a result I’ve made a no-fi, experimental noise album containing 9 songs and lasting 50 minutes that, while it could be better, is something I’m quite proud of.

1.      they killed my hair: Recorded in my back bedroom, this one dates back to memories of a forced haircut in February 1979, when the lyrics were written. I performed this on a broken toy ukulele that was put out of its misery with a hatchet and burned on Lee Dickson’s open fire in December 2023. I’d love to play this one live. 

2.      universe of life: The words for this piece were written in 1998 and published by Jim Gibson in Hand Job magazine in 2013. I came up with both the guitar and bass parts in 1982. Andy Wood hates one, but I think it’s my favourite on the whole album.

3.      where is bryan connors? Bryan Connors is a pal of William Florio, but I don’t know either of them. This piece was written in 2020, as a parody of the kind vacuous pretentious bollocks that passes for press releases in the New York art world. The backing was me messing around with the sound of a musical doorbell from my late parents’ old house on Audacity.

4.      richard richard richard: A friend of mine from my postgraduate days, the late, wonderful Steve Potter, was a cut-up obsessive. He’d do it with words and, latterly, with sounds. The words here came from an unknown Radio 4 play, broadcast in May 1988. I’ve no idea when I wrote the bassline, but it could have been back in 1981. My step daughter Chloe loves this one.

5.      usa: Thanks to Paul Flanagan for this one. He rescued the original loop of my voice and the opening bars of Springsteen’s Born in the USA, which I’d committed to cassette in July 1988. I spent an enjoyable Sunday manipulating this on Audacity.

6.      francis robson: Francis Robson is a musician, painter and cricket afficionado, living out in the back of beyond down the Tyne Valley. He composed, arranged and performed the music for this piece, and I augmented it with a Minions fart gun toy. Being honest, I wish I’d left it off the album for another piece, Words are Dead, but there you go. I sincerely hope to collaborate with Francis again in the future.

7.      tri amhran: The title is Irish for “three songs,” which is what this piece is supposed to be. Andy Wood loves this one. A musical backing of bodhran, lilting and Amhran na bhFiann slowed down and stretched, accompanies my attempt at sean nos versions of Wexford, Rocks of Bawn and Spancil Hill. It’s dedicated, with love and respect, to Pecker Dunne, Joe Heaney and Shane McGowan.  

8.      women: Other than Bloody Revolutions, this was always my favourite Crass song. I don’t regard this as a cover version per se, but as an interpretation of or homage to the original.

9.      you are my sunshine: My partner Shelley has a beautiful voice. Here she is demonstrating this at the end of our Christmas Lunch. Sorry I join in to spoil it.

So, there you go. If you’d like a copy it’s £5 via PayPal to iancusack@blueyonder.co.uk or you can get it from my Bandcamp account, https://bartholomewcusack.bandcamp.com/album/the-earth-is-flat - if you add an extra couple of quid, I’ll send you a copy of my poetry and fiction booklet Violent Heterosexual Men as well.

What I’d love to do next is play live. Getting gigs has been almost impossible since I started making noise again. I also intend to do another album at the end of this year (I turn 60 in august), which will feature field recordings and AI voices.

Thanks for reading, now please buy the thing…

Nancy Whiskey Lied To Us

I went to Kelty Hearts 1 Annan Athletic 1 with Big Gary last Saturday. Football was rank, but we had a decent day out -:

As any serious ground collector knows, it’s the final furlong of the chase that is the toughest part. I’m sat here in the knowledge that I’ve still got 2 Alliance clubs to visit, down from 3 at the season’s start and the same number in the Northern League, which is unchanged from August. Climactic conditions, bus strikes and a lack of motivation have scuppered my efforts thus far to tick off Prudhoe Youth Club Seniors Reserves, Westerhope United, FC Hartlepool and Boro Rangers, but at least I’ve found my way into the final trimester of SPFL grounds. The only thing about the 14 I had remaining, ignoring the sole West of Scotland outlier of Stranraer, is that the ones accessible by train, other than St Johnstone (Perth), Dundee United, Arbroath and possibly Montrose, are impossible to get back from in one day. I think Ross County, Inverness Caledonian Thistle, Elgin City, Peterhead, Cove Rangers, Aberdeen and the almost impossible to visit Forfar Athletic, who play at Station Park even though the Beeching Act ripped up the tracks round there in the early 60s, will have to wait until after my retirement for my patronage. By a process of elimination, I’m left with two pieces of reasonably low hanging fruit: East Fife, in the less than salubrious coastal hell that is Methil, and neophytic Kelty Hearts, formed as recently as 1975, both gettable via a train to Waverley and then a bus into the dark heart of the Kingdom of Fife.

A helpful fixture list that saw Percy Main play Burradon and New Fordley on Friday 12^th January, at the same time as Benfield were beating North Shields, gave Gary and I a free Saturday for further Caledonian bravery, after our pre-Festive trip to Bonnyrigg Rose against Peterhead. This time, our destination of choice was the SPFL League 1 encounter between Kelty Hearts and Annan Athletic; two sides whose places in the professional game may be regarded as having as much to do with the incompetence of their local rivals Cowdenbeath and Gretna, as with their own sporting prowess. Gretna went bust in 2008 in the litigious aftermath of former benefactor Brookes Mileson’s death, to be replaced by Annan, and Cowdenbeath lost their place in League 2 after losing a play-off against Bonnyrigg in 2022. To be honest, once East Stirlingshire took the tumble, the Blue Brazil were inveterate lanternes rouges in the basement division.

Since Scottish football embraced the concept of a pyramid a decade or so back, former SPFL clubs East Stirlingshire, Berwick Rangers, Cowdenbeath, Albion Rovers and a reformed Gretna have ended up in the Lowland League and Brechin City in the Highland League. This has seen Bonnyrigg Rose, Cove Rangers, Edinburgh City, Spartans and Kelty Hearts gain admittance to the SPFL. As Cove, Edinburgh and Kelty have all been promoted at least once, it shows that the pyramid is generally working well, though none of the relegated sides have shown any inclination to return to former glories, which is sad. Then again, the likes of Albion and Cowdenbeath, despite storied histories, play in shambolic grounds, largely unfit for purpose.

Gary and I boarded the largely deserted 09.46 Newcastle to Waverley express, intending to catch the X56 to Kelty at 12.15. Everything was on course until, just before 11.00, the train pulled to a shuddering halt in Drem, a rural, semi commuter station in the environs of North Berwick. A goods train had broken down ahead of us, blocking the route to Waverley and all we could do was wait until a replacement engine arrived to tow it away. This took over an hour, proving that Nancy Whiskey told us a pack of lies all those years ago, but it did mean that the train tickets would be refunded in full of course. For no readily apparent reason, our delay was exacerbated after a change of trains as ours headed back south and we embarked upon the next one. Plans were hurriedly ripped up and, with minutes to spare, we caught the slightly delayed 1.15 X56, heading north across the Queensferry Bridge into the Kingdom, skirting Dunfermline, whose home game had been postponed because of a waterlogged pitch, surprisingly enough, as it was a dry and breezy day, before dumping us in the two-street former pit village of Kelty a little before 2.30. We still had time for a pair of pints, Tennents of course, in The Kings Arms, before paying a hefty £16 to enter the tidy and well-appointed New Central Park, where we took our places in a crowd of 422; fewer than had been at North Shields 1 Benfield 2 the night before.

One of the reasons for the low gate could well have been the abysmal standard of football on display. Mid-table Kelty were expected to dismiss bottom side Annan with the minimum of fuss. Ironically, the one thing that had decided us upon Kelty, namely the 4G surface that pretty much guaranteed a game during the wet months of Winter, was what spoiled proceedings. A overly bouncy pitch and a swirling wind meant neither side could control the ball effectively, endlessly surrendering possession cheaply and seeing it roll harmlessly, if frustratingly, into touch on a far too regular basis. This didn’t seem to bother the 30 or so Annan Ultras who were having a fine time, and engaging in sporadic singing, while the home support shivered beneath their overcoats and seemingly ubiquitous maroon scarves. A desultory cheer rang out from the home terraces when Alfie Bavidge won and converted a penalty, awarded for a clumsy trip, in the 16th minute. However, this was not a signal for an improvement in fortunes, as the game was as frustrating as our train journey had been. The Club Shop offered little solace either. I’d wanted to get Shelley a Kelty snood to keep our the chill during our Sunday walks, but none were available, so I bought some of last season’s socks, which seemed the best option available. I think I left them on the X56 when I got off at Edinburgh, sadly.

We nipped into the Social Club for a half time pint where, if we’d been able to see the pitch from such a vantage point, we probably would have stayed. Of course, you can’t drink alcohol in sight of the pitch in Scotland, so back out into the elements we went, watching Annan’s Benjamin Lussint controlling the game and helping to bring about a smartly executed equaliser by substitute Tommy Goss in the 73^rd minute. This was greeted with hysterical joy in one small corner of the ground and mute acceptance in the rest. The rest of the game saw Annan well on top, but no chances worth mentioning were forthcoming and so the game ended in less than satisfactory stalemate.

Our return journey was a breeze; a punctual X56, pints in The Guild Ford, a carry out and a punk rock singsong on the deserted 20.00 from Waverley saw us back in town for 21.30. We’d known Newcastle had lost late to Man City, but not seen it. The long faces of moping, semi-drunk punters meant we didn’t inquire further as to the course of the game, then headed home knowing, as Teenage Fanclub so sagely pointed out on Pet Rock that I’ll never pass this way again.

Outside Right

There's a new issue of View from the Allotment End out now, which you should buy. I've got this piece in it, explaining that, while it is nice to see Luton Town doing well, they do have one of the worst scumbags on earth as a fan -:

I can’t say I was exactly jumping for joy after Luton Town won promotion to the Premier League by beating Coventry City on penalties in May 2023’s play off final, although I do confess to grinning broadly when they’d knocked out Sunderland at the semi-final stage. To be clear from the outset, it isn’t Luton’s current players, management or ownership that I have a problem with, though I do recall them reducing me to tears aged 8 when they won 2-0 at St James’ Park in the FA Cup 4^th round in 1973 (my first game ever in a seat, as the East Stand opened that day). However, I will admit to a historical grievance against them. Not so much for Kenilworth Road’s appalling plastic pitch, which was even worse than the one at Loftus Road of the same era, but for the evil doings of Thatcherite slug David Evans, who was both The Hatters’ chairman and Tory MP for Welwyn Hatfield in the awful decade that was the 1980s.

Not content with publicly proclaiming that The Birmingham Six were murderers, for which utterance he paid out almost a million in damages for slander, or claiming that young black men were responsible for 99% of rapes in the Greater London area, Evans compounded his repulsiveness by willingly putting Luton’s name forward as guinea pigs for Thatcher’s disgraceful football ID card scheme, whereby only home fans who carried a membership card could gain entry to the stadium and all away fans were banned, ostensibly because of Millwall fans rioting after an FA Cup game in March 1985. It took the Taylor Report into the carnage of Hillsborough for the Tories to abandon this scandalous scheme that sought to criminalise ordinary, decent football fans, for the supposed crime of wanting to watch their team play away from home.

Aside from Evans’s malfeasance, most people associate Luton Town with Eric Morecambe in the directors’ box, David Pleat dancing an eccentric jig of joy across the Maine Road pitch after relegating Man City in 83, turnstiles granting entry to the ground via a back alley in between a load of terraced houses, or a 30-point deduction that saw them relegated from League 2 and eventually, perhaps unwittingly, lit a spark of defiance that precipitated their return to the top table after a scarcely believable 4 promotions in less than a decade. All great stuff, but what about their celebrity fan, who is the main reason why I find it impossible to celebrate Luton’s renaissance?

Stephen Christopher Yaxley-Lennon, aka Tommy Robinson, a violent, racist criminal and convicted felon, with numerous convictions for assault, stalking, threatening behaviour, and many other forms of intimidation, never lets any soundbite opportunity go by without mentioning his allegiance to Luton. Apart from the fact this inveterate liar and serial fraudster has long sought to present himself as a serious political journalist and cultural commentator, despite the nefarious crap he regularly espouses, it really does stick in my craw that Yaxley-Lennon has artfully manipulated some of the least civilised terrace habitues into becoming his personal poorly educated, drunken street fighting rabble. Whether we’re talking the discredited BNP, dissolute EDL or risible FLA, Yaxley-Lennon and his acolytes, in snide versions of chunky Italian knitwear, have been front and centre of any marches and confrontations, ostensibly to defend English culture.

Cards on the table. I am a Marxist. I am a lifelong Socialist. I am further left than almost anyone you’ve ever met. I don’t believe for one second you can keep politics out of sport. That said, I have dedicated my life to keeping ultra-right wing scumbags away from the game I love. I’m not being hypocritical; I am simply standing up for what I believe in. Make no mistake, I will fight fascism until the day I die, as I do not believe the interests of the working classes, which is still the social construct from whence the overwhelming majority of football supporters are drawn, are served by the aims and objectives of right wing politics, whether that be the Tory Party or the gangs of far right thugs seeking to brawl on the streets of London with anyone whose religion, skin colour or sexual orientation they don’t approve of.

To clarify, it is entirely possible to advocate more than one ideological position at the same time. To be in favour of an independent Palestine, as I am, and to be opposed to Israel’s response to the Hamas offensive, and Zionist expansionism in general, is not to be Anti-Semitic. However, to be both vehemently Islamophobic, as Yaxley-Lennon and his associates have long publicly proclaimed themselves to be, as well as repeatedly being filmed making Nazi salutes and carrying flags with Swastika emblems across them, simply does not compute. If you can tell me how thugs who deny the Holocaust happened, praise the ideology of 1930s Germany and claim Capitalism is run by an international Jewish banking cartel, have any place on a march against Anti-Semitism, please explain your thinking to me. Yaxley-Lennon wasn’t welcome at the November 25^th, 2023, march against Anti-Semitism and, having got his grid all over social media, ended up in the nick for affray. No doubt he sees being lifted as another example of the Woke Conspiracy against English Culture. The moron.

The very minute it was suggested by Yaxley-Lennon’s lickspittle apologists that “football lads” were welcome to join the counter demonstration to the Palestine Solidarity Campaign march for peace on October 14^th, 2023, my heart sank. What has being a football fan got to do with popularising a far right ideology that has race hate as its core value? Each and every weekend, hundreds of thousands of ordinary supporters, up to the thick end of half a million people, attend games, not to mention watch them in the pub, and manage not to embark upon incidents of mindless violence with complete strangers. Why should a tiny percentage of ordinary football supporters take it upon themselves, drunk or not, to abuse ordinary people in Waterloo Station, on account of their perceived religious and cultural background? It’s because they’ve been cheated, fooled and hoodwinked by the right wing media and the spreaders of hate speech on social media, into thinking that they should be doing Yaxley-Lennon’s dirty work for him.

Looking at it in the cold light of day, it is insane, and it seems preposterous to suggest that normal, rational followers of the game will take up arms for a wannabe dictator. However, we must remain vigilant; when (British) Sea Power released the joyous anthem Waving Flags, to welcome those citizens of the 2004 EU Accession States who had made Britain their home, the very idea of Brexit was a farcical one. How do things look 20 years later? Do not be so complacent as to believe the likes of Yaxley-Lennon won’t make further repeated attempts to recruit hard of thinking drunken hotheads to be his Stone Island clad Sturmabteilung for the race war he wants to provoke.

Then again, I’m not opposed to all football violence. On January 6^th, 2018, just before Newcastle United knocked The Hatters out of the FA Cup, a vociferous, petite Luton Town fan was put on his arse outside The Forth pub on Pink Lane by a broad-shouldered, well-built and morally impeccable Socialist football fan. We’ve not seen Little Tommy in these parts since and he tends to gloss over this event, which is a shame because the Hull City follower who did the deed, is a Humberside-born Asian lad who has lived on Tyneside for almost 4 decades now. Well done that man!!

Last Words

2023 saw me read 46 books, acquire 31 pieces of music in various formats and attend 20 live performances. Here's a list of them & a consideration of those I came across during the last 2 months of the year -:

Music obtained:

Husker Du	Don't Want to Know if You're Lonely (12")
Molar Crime	New Fun (CD)
BRB Voicecoil	Dissolve into the Now (CD)
Culver & Cathal Rodgers	Terra Incognito (CD)
The Fall	Live @ Newcastle Riverside (CD)
Stephen Evans	Songs for TQ (CD)
Yo La Tengo	This Stupid World (CD)
Bartholomew	Moorbound (CD)
Gidouille	Zineogenesis (CD)
Wedding Present	Flying Saucer (7")
Wedding Present	No Christmas (7")
Swell Maps C21	Polar Regions (LP)
Wedding Present	24 Songs (CD)
Shunyata Improvisation Group	Aesthetics (CD)
Brume	Reality Is Not Enough (CD)
Deaf German	Mute Whore (CD)
Warrington-Runcorn New Town Development Plan	Moonbuilding (CD)
Sound Effects of Death & Horror	Mota-Rolla (CD)
Feelin'	TQ Zine (CD)
Pettaluck	Pass (Cassette)
The Bevis Frond	What Did for The Dinosaurs (CD)
Teenage Fanclub	Nothing Lasts Forever (CD)
Various	Songs for T (CD)
Reynols	Live in Mechelen (CD)
Meredith	Blindspot (CD)
Dragged Up	Hex Domestic (Cassette)
Tibshelf	Understander (Cassette)
Wedding Present	Huw Stephens Session (CD)
Various	Half Century, All Heart (CD)
Various	A Wormhole Xmas 2023 (CD)

 Performances attended:

Culver, Firas Khnaisser, SGERBWD	Lit & Phil	Jan-20
Mogwai	Sage 1	Feb-12
Theatre RE: The Nature of Forgetting	Northern Stage	Feb-17
National Theatre: Othello	ODEON Silverlink	Feb-23
The Agarfinger Inexperience, Nagrushka, SGERBWD, David De La Haye	Lit & Phil	Mar-03
Banners	The Cluny	Mar-04
Bartholomew	Little Buildings	Mar-09
Big Road Breaker, TSR2, Gidouille	Lit & Phil	Mar-31
Unthank Smith, Alex Rex	Wylam Brewery	Apr-02
National Theatre: Good	Jam Jar Cinema	Apr-27
UT	Lubber Fiend	May-27
The Vaselines, Jon Langford	The Cumberland Arms	Jun-25
The Proclaimers, Roddy Woomble	Tynemouth Priory	Jul-06
Shunyata Improvisation Group	Brinkburn Street Brewery	Aug-03
The Bevis Frond	The Cumberland Arms	Sep-13
English Touring Theatre: I, Daniel Blake	Northern Stage	Sep-15
Gang of Four	The Grove	Oct-02
English Touring Theatre: Macbeth	Northern Stage	Oct-05
Teenage Fanclub, Sweet Baboo	Sage 2	Nov-09
John Garner & John Pope	St James URC	Nov-14

Books read:

Bob Mortimer	The Satsuma Complex	Fiction
Steve Pringle	You Must Get Them All	Non-Fiction
Glen James Brown	Ironopolis	Fiction
Various	Songs from the Underground	Fiction
Cormac McCarthy	The Passenger	Fiction
Cormac McCarthy	Stella Maris	Fiction
Gerard Brodribb	Next Man In	Non-Fiction
Mike Brearley	On Cricket	Non-Fiction
Desmond Morris	The Soccer Tribe	Non-Fiction
Peter Carey	Jack Maggs	Fiction
Various	Granta 45	Fiction
Various	Perfect Pitch 3	Non-Fiction
Various	Perfect Pitch 4	Non-Fiction
Magnus Mills	Mistaken for Sunbathers	Fiction
Stephen Powell	Love Me Fierce in Danger	Non-Fiction
James Ellroy	LAPD '53	Non-Fiction
Hugh McIlvanney	On Football	Non-Fiction
James Ellroy	The Hilliker Curse	Non-Fiction
John Arlott	Basingstoke Boy	Non-Fiction
Ian Rankin	Saints of the Shadow Bible	Fiction
Various	All the Songs Sound the Same	Non-Fiction
James Ellroy	Destination Morgue!	Non-Fiction
Harry Pearson	No Pie, No Priest	Non-Fiction
Miguel Pinero	Short Eyes	Play
Valentine Dyall	A Flood of Mutiny	Non-Fiction
Ian Rankin	The Beat Goes On	Fiction
David Keenan	England's Hidden Reverse	Non-Fiction
Neil Samworth	A Prison Officer's Story	Non-Fiction
John Anderson	Utilita Football Yearbook	Non-Fiction
Glenn Patterson	Lapsed Protestant	Non-Fiction
Donal Ryan	All We Shall Know	Fiction
Ian Rankin	The Names of the Dead	Fiction
Ian Rankin	Heart Full of Headstones	Fiction
James Ellroy	The Enchanters	Fiction
Anthony Clavane	Promised Land	Non-Fiction
Michael Keenaghan	Smiler with Knife	Fiction
Various	Never Work Anthology	Non-Fiction
Howard Falshaw	From Despair to Delirium	Non-Fiction
Thurston Moore	Sonic Life	Non-Fiction
Jon McGregor	Even the Dogs	Fiction
Enrico Monacelli	The Great Psychic Outdoors	Non-Fiction
Julian Barnes	Metroland	Fiction
Iain Banks	The Steep Approach to Garbadale	Fiction
Ian Rankin	Exit Music	Fiction
Fleur Hitchcock	Waiting for Murder	Fiction
Nige Tassell	Whatever Happened to the C86 Kids?	Non-Fiction

 Music:

 

The last time I blogged culturally was Monday 6 November (https://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.com/2023/11/he-fills-his-head-with.html ). Three days later, on Thursday 6 November, Shelley, Ben and I went to see Teenage Fanclub at Sage 2, or The Glasshouse as we must now call it. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen them in an all seater venue; that was Whitley Bay Playhouse in November 2016, nor was it the first time I’d seen them since Gerry Love left the band. That was at Leeds Beckett University in April 2022. These two factors did not detract one iota from how much I loved watching them play. Without trying to sound controversial, I think I prefer The Fannies without Gerry. Sure he wrote some classic songs, and it really is a shame not hearing Don’t Look Back or Sparky’s Dream, but Norman’s work is as steady as ever and Raymond has stepped up to the mark, with his work getting better with every album, to the extent that I find him to be the chief songwriter in the band. Also, Dave’s bass and Euros on the keyboards, not to mention Stephen Sweet Baboo Black helping out on reeds, are all of a sublime quality, helping to lift the band to hitherto unexplored heights. Seriously, a whole set of Gerry songs would just be too sickly sweet and C86 oriented for my palate; I prefer Norman’s rhythmic rock and Raymond’s obtuse angularity. However, unsurprisingly, the song that had me up and pogoing, against the stated house rules, was the closing Everything Flows. I think I will react like that for the rest of my life whenever I hear that song played live.

The last gig I saw in 2023 was at a new venue for me, St James United Reformed Church, just by the City Hall. I was the first one there for a lunchtime performance by Shunyata Improvisation Group’s violinist John Garner, who was accompanying peripatetic double bass player John Pope. The crowd eventually grew to 23 punters, a couple of whom I knew. The set, lasting about half an hour, was a calming set of short pieces, featuring interpretations of compositions by the likes of Carla Bley, Ornette Coleman and Alice Coltrane. In short, the originals were jumping off points for where the Two Johns took things to. It was a charming and educational experience. Nice surroundings as well, if a little too Calvinist and cold.

My renascent love for cassettes saw me buy a couple of Cruel Nature’s recent releases. Of especial merit is Hex Domestic by Dragged Up, who are a fine combo of scuzzy Glaswegian fuzz popsters; part Stooges, part MBV, part Runaways, I came in search of them as Simon Shaw, ex of the magisterial Trembling Bells has swapped bass for axe with this gang. One of my big hopes for 2024 is seeing this lot live, which should be the case in early May, fingers crossed. The other tape I purchased was the highly recommended Understander by Tibshelf. Apparently, this sort of sound collage is called “plunderphonics.” Interesting, but I’d call it plagiarism, pure and simple, with some of it, such as achingly dated sections of dialogue lifted wholesale from Withnail & I, lacking any kind of artistic merit. It would take me quite a lot of persuasion to listen to such tosh again, I must admit.

However, there is nothing wrong with a good cover version and The Wedding Present are skilled exponents of the art of reinterpretation and, courtesy of Hatch Records having a flash sale, I got hold of the band’s 2015 Huw Stephens Session EP for buttons. It’s an eclectic mix, featuring their takes on Cilla Black’s Step Inside Love (which I used to think was actually called Step Outside Love, which imparts a considerably less romantic message), a fabulous run at the Minnie Ripperton classic Loving You, where David Gedge doesn’t quite hit the high notes, The Go-Betweens / Fun Boy Three standard Our Lips are Sealed delivered in fine fashion and, bizarrely, an almost enjoyable stab at Take That’s Back for Good. A hidden gem this one, but not as obscure as the Argentinian band Reynols, who had an exhibition dedicated to them at High Bridge Gallery in November, curated by TQ media mogul Andy Wood.

It was a fascinating insight into a band I knew almost nothing about, although I did find a track by them on the TQ 50^th edition anniversary double CD, Half Century All Art that I picked up at the exhibition. There are a couple of superb Faust live tracks on there as well, plus plenty of other noise from the No Audience Underground. Indeed, I’d recommend a good browse round the website https://tqzine.blogspot.com/ where there are plenty of obscure gems on offer, including the current brilliant issue about The Canterbury Scene and a back issue dedicated to Reynols. You might also have a skeg at the ever wonderful https://wormholeworld.bandcamp.com/ who recently put out a 3 CD festive present, A Wormhole Xmas, on which I’d proud to say BARTHOLOMEW cusack’s My Name is Diana plays a minor part. If there are any left, grab one, even if the Saturnalian songs are not what you feel most inclined to listen to during damned, dry, dreary January.

Books:

The first book I read in this past while was Promised Land by Anthony Clavane, a writer I’d met through David Peace in Barnsley back in August 2012. David is a Huddersfield Town fan, but Anthony is Leeds through and through. Despite having lived away from his home city since he went to university, Clavane is passionate about the tale he has to tell, of the influence on the civic and sporting history Leeds of the waves of Irish, then European Jewish, then Asian and currently East European immigration. Written back when The Loiners were barely sentient after the almost irreparable damage of the meltdown morning after the Ridsdale Era, it is a bleak tale of financial and political malfeasance at every step of the way. Brilliant and depressing, it is a compelling read from start to end.

Similarly, the brilliant London Irish writer Michael Keenaghan, whose debut novel London is Dead was raved about on this very site in 2022, has an incredible series of depressing vignettes set in West, North and North East London, in his collection of short stories, Smiler with Knife. Some of these have been published in the past, a couple in my own Glove lit zine, but that matters little as old and new material sits cheek by jowl, telling terrible tales of the nightmare dystopia parts of our capital city has become. I urge you to buy this book.

I’ve read a couple of quality music books of late, though the first thing that the studied naivety and gaps in the narrative that Thurston Moore’s Sonic Life prompted me to do, was get hold of a copy of his ex-wife and bandmate Kim Gordon’s own memoir, Girl in a Band, which I’ve been shockingly remiss in not reading. As that’s on the to read pile, I’ll get back to you about that one, but I’d wager it will be more engaging than Italian cultural theorist Enrico Monacelli’s highbrow take on lo fi, The Great Psychic Outdoors. Of course, the artists a writer chooses to discuss are a personal choice, but I didn’t learn much I didn’t know about Daniel Johnston for instance, in this churn of pointy headed, jargon rich academic prose. Given the choice, I’d recommend David Keenan’s England’s Hidden Reverse every time. In fact, I’d also recommend the anthology of the Marxist art zine Never Work that Difficult Art and Music put out. While I don’t wholly agree with their Leninist advocation of Revolutionary Art, I did get the point behind their raging at the machinery of state. You might be able to get a copy of it from https://difficultartandmusic.bandcamp.com/merch

The music book I liked the most was Shelley’s Christmas present to me; Nige Tassell’s Whatever Happened to the C86 Kids? If you’ve ever suspected Bobby Gillespie is a tool, then the opening pages of this lovingly researched tome will prove you are right. I can’t urge you too strongly to get this book, to read about the sad stories of Bogshed and The Shop Assistants, as well as the life-affirming tales told by The Soup Dragons, The Servants and, especially, The Mackenzies. A wonderful book.

If you like happy endings, From Despair to Delirium, my old mate Howard Falshaw’s story of following Carlisle United for two seasons, post-retirement, culminating in promotion at Wembley is well worth dipping into. A story of hard miles on the motorway, his teenage son’s unblinking devotion and his own cynicism being worn away by positive play, is an engaging read. Check out more at: https://toomanythoughtsleftover.wordpress.com/ but don’t look too hard at the current League 1 table, unless you want your dreams to be shattered by the cold, hard reality of a relegation battle.

Additionally, I’ve made my way through 5 novels. Jon McGregor’s Even the Dogs is a desperately depressing reverse narrative about an alcoholic dying alone in his filthy flat, while his various addict friends succumb to the impact of extra pure heroin on the streets of Nottingham in the week after Christmas. Well written, but hellishly difficult to get through. Fleur Hitchcock’s teen mystery, Waiting for Murder is a rattlingly good read and any reluctant reader with an interest in sleuthing might just love this book. I’m happy to pass it on, if anyone has an interest. Ian Rankin’s Exit Music is about Rebus getting ready to retire and, like every book of his I’ve read, I couldn’t put it down. Loved it and don’t care that I’m reading the series out of sequence. The Steep Approach to Garbadale is top quality Iain Banks; grim, hilarious and jaw dropping by turns, the usual convoluted plot knots are masterfully finessed by a scintillating denouement. I rather wish I hadn’t read Metroland by Julian Barnes. Published in 1980, it comes across as an awful load of self-indulgent sub Kingsley Amis style chauvinism that would not be tolerated these days. It portrays women in a way that would make Joey Barton blush.