Anticipation has a habit of setting you up. After releasing one of the best albums of the past few years, the triumphant The Trials Of Van Occupanther, it seems almost impossible that Midlake could live up to such high expectations on this mini-tour showcasing new material.
This gig had been sold out for months, and bears testament to the fact the Texan’s new album, The Courage Of Others, is one of the most eagerly awaited of the year so far.
Support comes from Sarah Jaffe, a fellow resident of Midlake’s hometown of Denton, Texas. She beats a noisy crowd into submission through the sheer strength of her bellowing vocals, and some lovely, yet simple, songs of heartbreak and romance.
The set is perhaps overlong for a support act, but a jaunty cover of Loudon Wainwright’sOne Man Guy is a delight, and sees Jaffe accompanied amiably onstage by Midlake guitarist Eric Pulido.
The cold, dank and dripping Williamson Tunnels may not be the most comfortable of places on a snowy night in Liverpool, but the unique venue lends a sense of intimacy, occasion and excitement. Indeed, Joseph Williamson, the eccentric 19th Century tobacconist and original owner of the Tunnels, was a mysterious character who wouldn’t be out of place in a Midlake song.
As the beards and band piles on stage, having extended from a five-piece to a magnificent seven, there is a tingle in the air. Their new album is a significant departure from … Van Occupanther, with the chooglin’ keyboard-driven funk being replaced by a drone- raga take on classic English folk – although it is equally devastating.
It’s surprising how, played live, the beautiful and delicate harmonies of The Courage Of Others are given a muscular edge, by the wall-of-sound assault of the four guitars, without losing any of the original magic. This may be down to elegant use of the flute, which dominates tonight’s set.
Winter Dies opens the set, and frontman Tim Smith’s lyrics about the redemptive powers of nature and the destructive influence of man (a reoccurring theme of the night and the new album) are extremely poignant.
On the even more heartfelt Acts Of Man, Smith takes the idea to its logical apocalyptic conclusion. “When the acts of man cause the ground to break open/Oh let me inside/let me inside/not to wake,” he mourns.
Smith keeps up his morose exterior throughout the set, not once does the rapturous applause rouse a smile, and he barely utters a word, preferring to let the music speak for itself. And it certainly does that.
The level of musicianship is astounding, with every one of the seven members an integral part of the whole. Not one note is wasted. Extended jams at the end of songs threaten to break out into free-jazz odysseys. McKenzie Smith’s drumming is exquisite. His velvety percussion is reminiscent of the influential session musician Kenny Buttrey, who played memorably on Bob Dylan’sBlonde On Blonde and Neil Young’sTonight’s The Night.
For all the brilliance of the new material it’s clear it will need a while to bed in before it commands the level of admiration of …Van Occupanther. And it is here we find the night’s true highlights. Roscoe is pure liquid music, with the playing becoming fluid and joyful, Bandits is gorgeous, the encore of Branches is a fitting end to the night and Van Occupanther is filled to the brim with pathos.
Overall, Midlake just about live up to the heights expected of them, with moments of absolute delight sprinkled throughout.
The set draws to a close with a rousing Head Home, and ensures that no one in the room could possibly go there without a spring in their step and a grin fixed firmly in place.
*Originally published on Purple Revolver website here. *Photos courtesy of Mark England a.k.a The Eyeball Kid.
According to chaos theory, complexity can spontaneously form out of simplicity. And so Midlake spin a dense and intricate web with awe-inspiring ease on their third album. The Texans should be treasured for following the peerless The Trials Of Van Occupanther with a record that’s indebted to traditional English folk music, yet still wholly and uniquely their own. The immediate funk of Roscoe may be missing but The Courage Of Others is brimming with somnolent harmonies and inventive, yet uncomplicated, instrumentation; and, best of all, it’s built to last. The warm, enveloping, hypnotic spell it weaves may well be the perfect sound to hibernate to, but come the spring it will still be on The Idiot’s stereo. And in the summer, autumn, winter and spring again, for that matter.
4.5/5
* Originally published in the February 2010 issue of The Fly and can be viewed here.
If ever an album was aching for a bland endorsement from the Jo Whiley Edith Fearne Cotton brigade, it’s Tourist History. The lolloping rhythms, anthemic choruses, frenetic beats and spiky guitars are a Radio 1 listener’s wet dream. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. The debut from the Northern Irish trio Two Door Cinema Club – the surprise package of the BBC Sound Of 2010 longlist – is crammed with three-minute pop nuggets. And at 32 minutes it zips by enjoyably enough. However, there’s a nagging all-too-familiar feeling, with more than a nod to Foals, Bloc Party, Franz Ferdinand, Editors, Vampire Weekend and The Futureheads – and even a dash of emo. In the end it may only be a pastiche, but at least it’s a pretty decent one.
3/5 * Originally published in March 2010 issue of The Fly, out now.
Duke Ellington said there are only two genres of music: good, and the other kind. He wasn’t wrong. Mastodon aren’t merely a metal band, they’re simply one of the best rock ’n’ roll bands around today.
The slow grinding chords of Oblivion, the first song of the set, and the opening track of Crack The Skye, their most recent album, are greeted with an orgasmic cheer. Brann Dailor’s drumming getting gradually more intense, building a sense of impending doom, before the eventual release when the track bursts into glorious life. The all-consuming noise is so mesmerising that only a small mosh pit forms, with everyone else left slack-jawed in awe.
The rest of the record follows in its entirety. It’s heavy, daring, progressive and downright adventurous music. The songs are complex and densely layered, but what stands out is they are, ultimately, wholly listenable, accessible and deeply satisfying. As well as being aurally sating the night is a visual feast, with the eyes greedily gobbling up everything on offer. Brent Hinds’ playing is stunning; mixing dizzying picking and soaring melodies, as his and Bill Kelliher’s dual guitars unleash hell. Troy Sanders vocals are guttural, yet crystal clear, but it’s Dailor’s propulsive, polyrhythmic percussion that is the blazing highlight, keeping the whole performance watertight, and ballasted.
Above all this, a huge screen shows a bizarre film telling the story of Crack The Skye. You know, it’s the classic tale: paraplegic boy has an out-of body experience, flies too close to the sun, his spirit being summoned to Tsarist Russia by Rasputin before he’s assassinated (Rasputin, not the boy), leaving him to find his way back home.
The Last Baron is insane; the high point in a gig full of them. It closes the set with a 15-minute odyssey that changes tempo and time signatures with abandon.
After a couple of minutes Mastodon return to the stage and plough through their back catalogue, with songs from Blood Mountain and Leviathan rattling by at break-neck speed. As nerve shattering as they are, it also shows how far the band has progressed, and hints at the future. The possibilities are frightening.
*Photographs courtesy of Frank Ralph, used with permission
*Review originally for The Fly and can be viewed here.
After a grim decade of addiction and prison, the man who is said to have influenced a whole generation of hip-hop artists is back with a new album of covers, samples and fresh material.
It's quite slight at just under 30 minutes, but is extremely accesible after only one listen. I'm New Here is a collection of poems, spoken-word pieces and songs, with some grimy, minmalist beats.
Best known for political themes that tried to get under the skin of '70s and '80s America, such as The Revolution Will Not Be Televised and B Movie. I'm New Here (the song of the same name, an interesting Smog cover) concentrates on Scott-Heron's personal demons rather than anything overtly political.
Initial highlights are: Me And The Devil, an electronic soundscape is an modern reworking of Robert Johnson's Faustian pact; and New York Is Killing Me, a new Scott-Heron composition with some complex handclaps.
Battling a crack-cocaine addiction Scott-Heron was approached, while in New York's Rikers Island Prison, by XL record label boss Richard Russell in 2006. I'm New Here is the result and can be streamed in full at Scott-Heron's website, or just below the break. And below that is an interesting interview with Scott-Heron by Mark Coles on the BBC World Service.
Breaking news from America where the Memphis musician Jay Reatard's autopsy results have been released. From the Memphis Commercial Appeal: "Autopsy results released this morning in the death of Memphis musician Jay Reatard reveal that he died from 'cocaine toxicity, and that alcohol was a contributing factor in his death,' according to Shelby County Medical Examiner Karen E. Chancellor."
The 29-year-old Reatard - real name Jimmy Lee Lindsey Jr. - was found dead January 13 in his home.
You can't beat the Scandinavians for straight-up weirdness. Here is Swedish nutter Karin Elisabeth Dreijer Andersson (a.k.a Fever Ray and one half of The Knife) accepting an award. What for is anybody's guess? Answers on a postcard please.
Guardian journalist George Monbiot has put a bounty on the head of the Reverend Tony Blair (former vicar of St. Albion's) for crimes against peace. Well, not literally on his head, but by making a citizen's arrest of the former PM, for waging an illegal war and the murder of countless thousands, you could bag yourself a hefty sum of cash.
Since Monbiot's column in yesterday's Guardianthe money donated so far has reached an impressive £9,000 (at the time of writing). Anyone who attempts to arrest Blair, and meets the terms set out on the websitelaunched by Monbiot, will receive a quarter of the money collected, at that point.
Since we all know where Blair will be this Friday, it seems a sensible time to bring this unrepentant criminal to justice. Unfortuantely I won't be in London, and heaven knows I could do with the reward - I could even show the Dept. of Work and Pensions that I'm taking solid steps toward finding work as a vigilante.
“What the hell is this,” asked my mother. “It’s disgusting,” she continued in abject terror, “turn it off. NOW. I’m not joking.” From that moment on Captain Beefheart’sTrout Mask Replica was banned in my house.
It’s a common reaction to the atonal, wilfully abstract madness that has yet be matched by anyone in popular music. Forty years on from its release in 1969 it sounds as impenetrable, and intimidating, as it must have done then. Maybe more so.
Upon first listen it is a frightening experience. The guitars clash and fight with every other instrument, melody is a, seemingly, foreign phenomenon. It causes your whole body to squirm and your brain to recoil in horror. The temptation is to shut it off before the opening track ends. This is exactly what I did when I first bought the album aged 19. There I sat perched on the end of my bed wondering what in the name of all that was holy was happening. I remember it vividly, I will never forget it.
It was like opening a door to hell, and immediately slamming it shut before the demons had time to claim your soul. In reality it was far too late for that. It was many months before I dared to climb back onboard the Captain’s demented ship.
It’s a record that will never grow old, or dull, and will yield something previously unheard on the thousandth listen. In short, if forced to pick just one record to take to a desert island it is the only sensible choice.
Despite the physical reaction it causes, and the repulsion it inspires in many people, it was voted at 58 on Rolling Stone’s 500 greatest ever albums. It may very well be the musical equivalent of Stephen Hawking’s book A Brief History Of Time, everybody owns it but nobody has actually read it. It just sits on the shelf daring the cowardly listener to press play. And in the days of vinyl, when the album’s 28 songs were spread over four sides of a record, it must have taken a superhuman feat of willpower to get up and turn the record over three times to get through to the end.
The story of its recording is as terrifying as the music (for the full, disturbing details see Mike Barnes’ excellent biography Captain Beefheart). Don Van Vliet (the Captain’s given name) held his Magic Band captive for nine months in a dilapidated house in Topanga Canyon, California where he subjected them to brainwashing sessions and enforced sleep deprivation, and much more besides.
The music itself may sound like a group of mental patients bashing their instruments against sheet metal but every last note was composed, and to Frank Zappa’s amazement (he produced the album) the musicians played each song exactly the same way, no matter how many takes they did. The polyrhythmic drumming by John 'Drumbo' French is some of the best ever to be committed to record.
They lyrics showcase Van Vliet at the height of his poetic and humorous powers. “A squid eating dough in a polyethylene bag is fast and bulbous, got me,” is just one example. There is an obsession with nature, as the Captain shared an affinity with all things ecological. He showed his green credentials, 40 years before it became fashionable, by hiring a tree surgeon to check on the health of the trees in the garden. It seems he was worried that the strange vituperations emanating from the house might have frightened them.
Like the horrifying image on the cover the music held within will continue to enthral and perplex anyone brave enough to take a second look.
(Aye Aye Captain: Ice Cream For Crow. So, it's not from Trout Mask Replica, but any excuse for a video by the good Captain.)
*Lastly, on the news front, John 'Drumbo' French, the beleaguered Magic Band drummer, has written a mighthy tome (Beefheart: Through The Eyes Of Magic) about his experiences with Captain Beefheart, including the harrowing abuse he suffered at Van Vliet's hands. Not had chance to read it, and I'm unlikely to for a while, as it's bloody huge and my reading list is unmanageable as it is, thank you very much. Here is a link to a decent interview with the author by the Sunday Times. And reviews I've read in Mojo and Uncut have been very positive.
We Were Promised Jetpacks
Manchester, Roadhouse, November 25, 2009
Another abysmal wet and windy Mancunian evening. Cue a squall of guitars and thunderous drums. Adam Thompson belts out impassioned lyrics about being born and keeping warm, and suddenly the weather outside doesn’t seem so bad. Accidental anthem Quiet Little Voices is dispatched early, allowing We Were Promised Jetpacks to concentrate on the stream of excellent songs from debut These Four Walls. Short Bursts brings the set crashing to an end and leaves The Idiot steeled to face the still raging storm.
We Were Promised Jetpacks have had a hell of a year since leaving university. They released their debut album, These Four Walls, in June, and received unexpected praise from all quarters. The pummelling drums and ferocious guitars coupled with some introspective, and melancholic, lyrics made for one of the best UK debuts this year. And with Quiet Little Voices the band stumbled across an accidental anthem.
The Glasgow-based Jetpacks formed when Adam Thompson (vocals, guitar), Michael Palmer (guitar), Sean Smith (bass) and Darren Lackie (drums) were at school in Edinburgh in 2003. For a band of such tender years (they’re all 22) they’ve achieved a fair amount this year, culminating with a huge US tour over the summer with label mates Twilight Sad and Frightened Rabbit.
The Idiot spoke to the lads, as they neared the end of their current (and biggest to date) UK headline tour, about their album, hip hop, New Year’s resolutions and that band name.
How long have you been together and where did you all meet? Adam Thompson: We played a show at our school and in the morning of that gig we asked Michael to be in the band. And that was in March 2003.
You must get asked this all the time, but where did the name come from? AT: We had diarrhoea together and shat it out [all laughing]. Michael Palmer: Can we say we don’t give a shit about it, and move on? Sean Smith: It’s not a statement or anything. AT: Sometimes it’s good because it gets people to notice our name. But other times I think being in a band isn’t about the name; it’s about the music.
How’s the tour going? It’s your biggest headline tour of the UK so far isn’t it? AT: It’s okay, yeah. We toured Europe and the US before and it’s quite strange because they’re such nice places to visit. When we pull up and we’re playing at the Botanique in Brussels it’s quite a contrast to Sunderland on a Saturday night. It’s difficult to adjust because we play smaller venues here. But it’s been nice to play lots of places.
How’s it compare to the big US tour you went on in support of your label mates Twilight Sad and Frightened Rabbit? Is it difficult to get motivated? AT: It sounds shit to say but sometimes it is. You just have to adjust. Sometimes the best nights are the little venues. Darren Lackie: And some of the best nights here have been when it’s been really quiet and some of the worse nights have been when it’s been sold out. AT: If we knew exactly what the formula was for a great night we would be doing it all the time. But it’s great as a UK band to be touring the UK.
Has it been surprising how successful this year has been for you? AT: We always knew our band wasn’t going to be Arctic Monkeys style, but I think we’re doing pretty well for where we are. We’re getting to tour lots of places. DL: And we don’t have to get a normal job. AT: That’s what our goals were so it’s quite pleasing to have achieved it straight from university. When you talk to your aunties and uncles they think it’s not that great because you’re not on Top Of The Pops, or whatever, but it’s just the way it is for so many bands.
Every review you read about We Were Promised Jetpacks seems to mention every Scottish band that ever formed. Why is that do you think? AT: It’s stupid because you could do that kind of thing with every single band ever, and it’s just strange because we come from Scotland. I don’t understand it nor do we particularly care anymore; what does it matter? DL: You just get used to people comparing you to bands, that I don’t think we sound anything like, just because they’re Scottish. AT: Wow, we’ve got guitars and a slightly Scottish accent. We must sound like The Proclaimers then.
Do any of you have completely different musical tastes to the rest of the band? DL: Not really. Mike likes a lot more electronic music than the rest of us, but I think that’s as crazy as it gets. We like a bit of rap; it’s mostly rubbish but there are a few good albums. SS: Dr. Dre 2001 is one of our favourite albums. AT: It’s quite odd when people see us all rapping it together. It’s just a good, fun album. DL: It’s amazing when it comes on because these two [Adam and Sean] know every word.
What are your favourite albums from this year? MP: Animal Collective; by about a thousand miles. AT: I really liked Humbug. I’ve always admired Arctic Monkeys but I’ve never been that in to them. I didn’t own any of their records but I got the new one and it’s really, really good. I think they’ve done brilliantly. MP: The Longcut album was another good one. AT:Bill Callahan’s Sometimes I Wish We Were An Eagle is put together beautifully. [Starts singing with a Bill Callahan baritone] ‘How much of a tree bends in the wind.’ I don’t know what he looks like, or who he plays with live, I just really like that album.
Bill Callahan - All Thoughts Are Prey To Some Beasts live at Union Chapel, London
When you recorded These Four Walls [the band’s debut album released in June] did you have a statement of intent or were the songs just thrown together? AT: We were talking about this the other night. Our next album feels like it’s going to be our first album. These Four Walls feels like it was just songs we’d always been playing up until that point. The next one feels like we’re going to make it an album, and it’s going to sound exactly how we want. Whereas the first one, because we’d had the songs for so long, we couldn’t really change it. DL: All the songs were made to be played live and then our label, Fat Cat, said they wanted us to do an album so the nine or ten songs we had ended up on it. We’ve been playing a lot of them for more than a year so it’s hard to add things to them in the studio. AT: It’s part planning and part luck.
How important is it to have a supportive label as a young band? MP: We don’t really know anything different. AT: We never really talked about labels that much, but we did say that Fat Cat was the kind of company we wanted to work with. SS: And at the time we didn’t really know any other small labels either.
Quiet Little Voices has become your big song. It was a Q Track of the Day and is always the song that is mentioned in the press. How tempting is it to escape that tag and release something completely different, like heavy metal? SS: That song is the oldest song we’ve got and we’re getting further and further away from that as we naturally progress. MP: It’s not conscious, at all, but I think we are definitely slowly moving away from that song. AT: It’s just a fun, little, catchy pop song. It’s funny that people still like it when we play it live because it’s quite old for us. It’s not like one of your mates saying to you, ‘I quite like that Voices song by the way’. It’s a good feeling. DL: I remember at one point we were thinking about dropping it because it was our least favourite. AT: It is quite fun to play, though, because it’s really upbeat and people sing along. MP: It was great when we played the Bowery Ballroom in New York and the audience was singing it back at us.
What inspires the lyrics of your songs, they’re quite melancholic with the pleas to ‘keep warm’ and ‘stay young’? DL: Adam sits in his room with his curtains shut [laughs]. AT: I like lyrics like that. I’ve never really sat there with pen and paper and thought, ‘this is my message’. We usually write the music and then I’ll write the lyrics on my own at my house, and I’ll think of a phrase, or something. I remember with Ships With Holes Will Sink we played the music and then for some reason that phrase came into my head, and I based the song around that. If I sang stuff about my actual life the song would be, got up, ate breakfast, sat about for ages, tried to find something to do, maybe went to the cinema… MP: Tried to write a song today. DL: Walked to my house at 11 at night. AT: And played Tigers Woods on the computer with your Mum.
Do you feel any pressure with the next album? SS: I’m sure there will be but we’ve not thought about it. AT: We’ve gradually just been excited but the thoughts of, ‘wow, what if nobody likes it’ haven’t started yet. It’s more, ‘shit, I would hate it if we had to stop doing this’. It would be terrible if we couldn’t do this anymore.
What are your thoughts on the side of the music industry who haven’t really got any patience with bands? If the second album doesn’t do as well a lot of bands get dropped. MP: We’ve not had any of that. We’ve not really been told by the label, ‘you’ve got to sell this many copies or else’. I’m sure they would like us to come up with new material all the time but they’re really supportive. SS: I think our first album sold slightly better than we expected, and they expected as well. DL: It’s not like it’s even sold an amazing amount, it’s just more than a thousand [all laughing]. SS: More than just our families buying copies, anyway.
Finally, have you got any New Year resolutions yet? AT: This one’s got a big resolution [points to Sean]. SS: I want to have my overdraft paid off by next November. MP: That’s his dream. DL: That’s the dreams of modern rock stars these days. SS: We’re all going to go round to mine and play Monopoly, and get drunk. It’s going to be amazing. I’ll lose; but I don’t care [Laughter breaks out]. And also we want to record a really good album that we really like. DL: Record an album that we’re happy to sit and listen to.
“Fante was my God,” so wrote Charles Bukowski in the preface for the 1980 edition of Ask The Dust. “One day I pulled a book downed and opened it, and there it was. I stood for a moment, reading. Then like a man who had found gold in the city dump, I carried the book to a table… And here, at last, was a man who was not afraid of emotion. The humour and the pain were intermixed with a superb simplicity. The beginning of that book was a wild and enormous miracle to me,” Bukowski says describing the glimmer of light he found in a Los Angeles library.
Bukowski was so enamoured that he was known to scream in bouts of drunkenness, “I am Bandini,” in tribute to Fante’s creation; the highly strung, ebullient Arturo Bandini.
Indeed, if it wasn’t for Bukowski, a cult writer and poet in his own right, the works of John Fante may of been lost forever.
Published 70 years ago in 1939 Ask The Dust tells the story of Arturo Bandini, a young Italian-American from Boulder, Colrado who moves to LA to become a writer. One moment insanely confident, dreaming of the day when his immense talent will be recognised, and the next wracked by self-doubt and shame as he chastises himself as a charlatan. It is the ultimate portrait of the artist as a young man.
The novel itself tackles the great themes of literature but does so with crisp, spare writing of short, punchy sentences with not a word going to waste. It is a novel about identity and the absurdity of existence, about love and loneliness, about religion and death, about poverty and ambition.
At the heart of it is Bandini’s relationship with a Mexican waitress Camilla Lopez. She forces him to confront his own ethnicity, a source of much pain for him, and he hates her for it. The resentment and bitterness of the exchanges between the pair is still shocking seventy years on. He craves real experiences from which he can draw upon when writing ‘the great American novel’. But confronted by the naked beauty of Camilla on the beach at night he desperately searches for his passion, but finds it lacking.
Fante presents the penniless artist striving towards recognition as a noble struggle. But it is life itself that is the ultimate struggle for Bandini. He is a young man in search of himself. He is well read, pompous and a raving misanthrope. He feels above people, touched by greatness he sees them as contemptible morons. He considers himself, “a freak, an outcast from the world of man, neither fish nor fowl, nor good red herring”.
God is a major character in the book. “Almighty God, I am sorry I am now an atheist, but have you read Nietzche? Ah, such a book,” he says in prayer. Later on he castigates the creator for the ugliness in the world. “You miserable, unpardonable prankster…a contemptible skunk,” he screams.
He is a complex character of questionable morals and is at times a callous neurotic brute. But the books most poignant moment comes when in the height of his cruelness he realises on the empty streets of LA, during the wee, small hours, that all living things are tied to the same fate; death.
At the time of its release Ask The Dust received mixed reviews, and suffering from poor sales quickly fell out of print. Fante's career as a novelist was largely over and he was forced to become a hack churning out screenplays for the Hollywood ‘dream factory’.
He died in 1983 aged 74 but lived long enough to see the book reprinted and gain respectable acclaim, following Bukowski’s proclamations of the book’s greatness.
It is a book to be read, ideally, whilst you are young enough to appreciate Bandini’s kicking against the pricks. But age need not be a barrier to prevent any reader from identifying with his inner turmoil, and his growing sense of the absurdity of life. And, like Bukowski, if you let Fante into your life, he may very well end up as the only higher power you need.
“Condoms were very difficult to obtain those days in Ireland. They smuggled them in inside crates of heroin.” So ends one of the night’s many anecdotes. It’s difficult to ascertain whether we are watching a stand-up comic or a spoken-word poetry performance. John Cooper Clarke is standing up and the near-capacity crowd is laughing, so it may just be a question of semantics.
Having turned 60 this year, and considering his less than healthy past, it may surprise some to see John Cooper Clarke in such quick-fire, and stylish, form. His trademark birds-nest hairdo is perfectly feathered. His rakish frame, supported by the obligatory drainpipe trousers, is propped up with the ever-present Chelsea boots. He is dishevelled but in the most elegant manner. The red-tinted sunglasses, which may be more for prescriptive rather than style purposes, checked-tweed jacket, dandyish scarf and polka-dot shirt complement the time-worn wandering-minstrel image.
Advancing years and inevitable decay is clearly on the wordsmith’s mind. “I may never live long enough to be as old as I look”, Clarke drawls in his thick-Mancunian accent. “I’m so old the Dracula Society has been in touch. They have an annual event in Whitby.” It is typical of the surreal humour that, seemingly, comes easily to the Bard of Salford.
The raucous Preston crowd is an even mix of old and young and greet Clarke with a reverential roar as he takes to the stage. One over excited member of the audience decides the gig is a personal question and answer session and repeatedly interrupts. All well and good, if only the buffoon in question could actually formulate a sentence. “I wouldn’t mind if I didn’t need a translator to understand you” comes Clarke’s acerbic put down.
During the 90-minute set Clarke only performs about ten poems. The rest of the allotted time is given over to dealing with a boisterous crowd, reciting long, stream of consciousness tales or spitting out furious one-liners. “If Jesus was Jewish why the Spanish name?”
The crowd-pleasing highlight comes when Clarke begins a well-rehearsed tirade against, Preston’s arch-rival, Burnley, where he will visit later in the tour. “Burnley is Darwin’s waiting room. I met a guy who was his own father and he was the town intellectual”, he says sardonically, “he mastered the art of breathing with his mouth shut.”
He recalls staying in a hotel where they stole his towels. The audience laps it up, loving the chance to feel superior to their Pennine neighbours. “I’ll tell you once and I’ll tell you firmly, I don’t ever want to go to Burnley, What they do there don’t concern me, Why would anyone make the journey,” Clarke recites from his tatty, well-thumbed ring binder.
The show comes to a close with his most well-known poem (it was used on the end credits on an episode of The Sopranos), Evidently Chickentown. A gloriously foul-mouthed, splenetic treatise on dead-end English towns. “The fucking pubs are fucking dull, The fucking clubs are fucking full, Of fucking girls and fucking guys, With fucking murder in their eyes.”
John Cooper Clarke has, unbelievably, not released a record since 1982 but this has not stopped him appearing on popular culture’s radar numerous times in recent years.
Alex Turner, lead singer of the Arctic Monkeys, has identified Clarke’s poems as a massive influence on his own brand of acerbic, quick-fire lyrics. When Mojo magazine gave Turner carte blanche to choose an interviewee, there was only one choice on the Monkey’s mind. Clarke has even penned an original ode for the sleeve notes of Arctic Monkeys single Fluorescent Adolescent. The poem Out Of Control Fairground inspired the single’s chaotic video with lines about a “homicidal clown shacked up in the mirror maze”.
Does this kind of publicity from popular artists have an effect on his popularity? “I’m sure it’s had a massive effect that I can’t even begin to know the extent of, you know what I mean. Someone with a high profile like Alex. Great songwriter, fabulous guitar player, they are a terrific band, end of. Just sensational. He did my stuff at school for his GCSE’s,” Clarke explains matter-of-factly.
If that wasn’t enough, his expletive-laden epic, Evidently Chickentown, adorned the end credits of one of the last episodes of television’s magnum opus, The Sopranos. “It can’t do any harm. I’m well chuffed being a massive fan. Mega-fan. That’s as good as it gets. After The Simpsons. The two Ss. Simpsons and Sopranos,” he says beaming.
Often described as the Bard of Salford, after his home town in Manchester, he found a modicum of fame in the late-70’s as a punk poet. He supported numerous artists who flourished in the new-wave scene including the Sex Pistols, Joy Division, Buzzcocks and The Fall.
His sense of style is much the same now as then, feathered bouffant, polka-dot shirts, sharp suits with drainpipe trousers finished off with Chelsea boots and ever-present dark sunglasses. Not your average punk then?“Well they [the safety-pin clad audiences] were a bit hairy at first. But me, I was doing this before punk and when punk came I just speeded everything up. Hit and run really. By the time they find out they hate it I’m out of town,” he quips.
He released four albums on Columbia’s label, CBS, in the late 70s and 80s full of inventive wordplay and scabrous humour about the degeneration of small-town England. The magnificently-titled Twat features a series of bilious insults. “Like a death at a birthday party, you ruin all the fun. Like a sucked and spat our Smartie, you’re no use to anyone.”
The Day My Pad Went Mad even manages to get in a curry-related rhyme. “The kitchen has been ransacked, ski trails in the hall. A chicken has been dansacked, and thrown against the wall.”
Touring the country with, now, legendary punk bands, Joy Division and Sex Pistols, was a long way from his early profession of gravedigger.
“I was never a gravedigger. It was a Rod Stewart line. I thought that sounds like a fascinating previous occupation, I’ll have that. But it’s bullshit. Gravedigger me? It’d kill me. If I dug a six-foot hole I’d fall into and someone would shovel it back on top of me,” he says shaking his head.
He found inspiration, and a love of the spoken word, while at school in Salford. “We had a good English teacher. We used to do all that old school stuff. Charge of the Light Brigade, Dick Turpin’s Last Ride. Real boy’s own stuff you know what I mean. Epic, adventure poems. He managed to instil a love of poetry to everybody in our class and it was only a secondary modern but teachers were great then”, he explains before adding the caveat, “… well some of them were anyway.”
During gigs he makes a point that the more he finds out the less he knows. Does he have a philosophy he lives his life by? “No, not that I can think of. Things change, politics change. It’s a whole new set of values now”, he explains. “Do to others what others do to you, only do it first. How about that? Elvis said that in Jailhouse Rock. Elvis wasn’t wrong about very much,” he asserts laughing, his gold teeth glittering under the fluorescent eco-friendly lighting.
He does have a philosophical question of his own, though. “If a man does something and there aren’t any women around, is he still wrong,” he asks.
Even at 60 years of age he still looks every inch the rakish dandy of his youth, give or take a wrinkle or five. And he still has his fingers on the pulse of modern music. “I like Kate Perry. ‘I kissed a girl and I liked it’. I can relate to that. In fact I can relate to most lesbians.”
Well, it's been quite a while since I thought the idea of writing a blog was a good idea. The blog was forced upon me as part of a Digital Journalism module on a masters course in Preston. We were encouraged to maintain it long after the project finished, but I am afflicted by a crippling idleness, especially when it comes to obligations that appear to be pointless. A case in point is a blog. Most blogs are interminably dull, ego-centric drivel by talentless morons spouting off about nothing in a sea of bubbling piss, that is the internet blogosphere. 'There are many brillaint blogs that make 95 per cent of the rest of the bilge on the web completely redundant so why add to the noise', was my thinking. This is essentially me talking to myself as nobody is reading this, which was the reason for not bothering in the first place.
But seeing as I'm living on the good graces of Gordon Brown's welfare allowance, and hopelessly looking for a job in journalism, I thought it couldn't do any harm to keep sharpening my writing and getting a bit more digitally inclined in the process.
So what follows will be a lot of old gig reviews that were published elsewhere until I get cracker-lackin' on some new material. First up an exclusive interview with quick-fire Mancunian poet John Cooper Clarke. Onwards and upwards. Ah fuck it, let's go bowling.
A rambling man on the lost highway.
This blog began as a project for a journalism masters course at the University of Central Lancashire. It is now a collection of published and unpublished work, and a forum for some idle ramblings of an idiot. Feel free to leave a comment.
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