Headonism

With gigs on the horizon by Wire (3^rd November) at the Riverside, Penetration (4^th November) at The Cluny, The Flatmates (17^th November) at The Bridge Hotel, Euros Childs (25^th November) at the Mining Institute and Vic Godard with The Band of Holy Joy (8^th December) at The Cumberland Arms on the horizon, I thought it appropriate to have a quick cultural snapshot of recent activities before returning for an end of year summary. This is especially important as I’ve recently become the proud owner of a pair of releases that will give Alex Rex’s Vermillion a run for its money in the Album of the Year stakes, as well as a 12” inch single I’m delighted to own.

Music:

I had feared that the greatest tragedy in contemporary music is that a person could only experience Godspeed You! Black Emperor in the flesh for the first time once. How could the second exposure to the all-out aural assault by the Quebecois post-rock nonet possibly have the same impact as the initial encounter? Thankfully, the answer, most definitely, is that it can. Two years and one day since GY!BE played the Sage in October 2015 following the release of Asunder, Sweet and Other Distress, they returned to Tyneside, this time to The Boiler Shop behind the Central Station, with Luciferian Towers on the agenda.

Unlike the last 2 albums, Luciferian Towers is without the contemplative drone tracks that allow listeners to draw breath and take stock of the punishing sonic vortex into which they’ve been cast. Instead, the four tracks or two movements that hard core fans had taken to calling Buildings and Trains remain at full-throttle intensity from start to finish; however, the endless coruscating crescendos, swoops and explosions are as uplifting and harmonic as anything they’ve ever done. Undoing A Luciferian Tower is almost chart single material at a mere 7 and a half minutes of joyful intensity, while the sheer majestic, brutal power of Bosses Hang is as emphatic and uplifting piece as they’ve ever done in their career and the equal of Mladic, which I’d long held to be their unsurpassable meisterwerk. The pastoral, almost symphonic, Fam Famine is lightly coaxed along by violin and cello interplay, while disturbing prepared guitar and intense percussion hint at a dystopian underbelly to the surface fragility. The deceptively simple minor key guitar patterns of Anthem for No State give way to a hulking, brutal sonic sermon and statement of war against the evils of this world. Breath-taking in scope and execution, Luciferian Towers continues to highlight a band that operate far beyond the realms of mere mortals; to quote Vic Godard they make guitars talk information.

Live, the experience is immersive and intoxicating; the audience literally drowns in sound. It’s not Whitehouse level of volume or even Children of God era Swans bleakness. This is something altogether more beautiful and affecting, with the calming Hope Drone as an opener, the 9 of them hit their stride and take control; this is a telepathic performance. It is the art of noise. An instrumental cri de Coeur. Taken as a whole, Luciferian Towers reaches stratospheric levels of import to the accompaniment of grainy images of abandoned buildings that give way to desolate shots of vast empty plains of telegraph poles, snow and mountains. The Canadian Tourist Board would probably not choose GY!BE to produce their publicity material.

At the end of Luciferian Towers, we’re an hour in and the pressure relents slightly, so I grab a piss and a pint (£4.90 for Wylam!!!) as the set takes an earlier turn with Moya and then BBFIII; 1 hour and 50 minutes for 7 (for want of a better word) “songs” of the very highest quality in what appears to be one of the best big venues in the area. Two bars, pricey but with a good selection and decent quality ales, big and easily accessible bogs, with a minimal, low key security presence. It is as far from the fetid swamp of the Riverside as one could imagine. I intend to return, and I can only hope that I live long enough to see Godspeed You! Black Emperor many more times.

Over the past 35 years, I’ve had only a vague knowledge of the activities of gifted Liverpudlian singer/songwriter Michael Head. I recall seeing The Pale Fountains on either The Tube or The Whistle Test, I forget which, in around 1982, but nothing of the music other than the fact is was pleasant, summery indie pop. Shack passed me by entirely, as have Michael’s more recent adventures, though I knew from Twitter he had a small, fiercely loyal and intensely protective fan base. The Head narrative in the MSM appears to be a predictably voyeuristic tale of skag and bevvy robbing a genius of his talents, though in every interview I’ve read Michael appears utterly without ego or self-pity. I’ve taken as my text the overwhelming adulation of his followers on Twitter and acceded to peer group pressure to buy a copy of newly released Adios Senor Pussycat. I’m so glad I did.

Adios Senor Pussycat is a majestic, melancholy masterpiece. Thirteen succulent slices of the choicest Byrds and Love suffused beauty pop. There is a wistful 60s feel that overarches the whole project, combining perfect, understated instrumentation, beguiling half familiar melodies and back of the mix vocals that tell stories of far greater import than such uplifting, happy music ought to import. Immediate stand outs include Overjoyed, Queen of All Saints, Josephine and Adios Amigo, but after owning it for just over 48 hours and having played it 6 times straight through in total so far, it seems clear that a real sense of love and protection is being engendered by this record. I’m even thinking of the logistics involved in heading to Liverpool on 16^th December to see Michael Head in the flesh, but if that proves impossible there’s another 7” available from his website.  

The other record I’ve got my mitts on is The Mekons 12 incher Still Waiting, performed by the original 1977 line-up and the 2017 line up appearing to pay homage to the 1987 line-up on How Many Stars Are Out Tonight? If there was one festival I wish I’d been able to attend in the summer just finished, it was Mekonville, though sadly the timing of the last weekend in July, starting the day of Ben’s graduation, made it simply impossible to get somewhere near Stowmarket in time. Thankfully, this is the next best thing; a joyfully tuneless stumble through their rediscovered DIY aesthetic on the A side and an affecting recreation of the early years of their Nashville inspired Americana period. Also, the labels are very humorous parodies of the old Fast Product and Sin Records logos. Very pleased to have picked this up.

Books:

I wouldn’t say I’ve conquered my recent bibliophobia, but at least I’ve read a couple of tomes since we were last here. Roddy Doyle is one of those writers, like David Peace, James Ellroy or Irvine Welsh, that I instinctively react to when a new title is published. In this instance, it’s Smile that grabbed my attention. There are many of the usual Doyle elements here; a recognisable North Dublin setting that had me visualising Killester DART station and Harry Byrne’s pub from the opening page. Smile is narrated by fifty-something recently divorced failure Victor Forde in his local, where he is accosted interrupted by Fitzpatrick, an old friend that Victor doesn’t remember. Fitzpatrick cajoles memories of their shared youth at a Christian Brothers school. “What was the name of the Brother that used to fancy you?” he asks, and his apparently innocuous question leaves Victor immediately hostile. “I wanted to hit him,” he tells us. “I wanted to kill him … I hated this man, whoever he was.”

Victor finds the pub to be a place of safety; he goes there evening after evening and slowly ingratiates himself with the other regulars. His loneliness is profound, but the drink loosens him up enough to consider the things that he has lost: his ex-wife, Rachel, who has become a media celebrity through her television show, and his own music journalism career, which began with great promise but somehow never took off and has now finally ground to a halt, but it is a broken, troubled childhood whose traumas have been buried deep within Victor’s psyche for decades where the story lies. The reason for the novel’s title is revealed early on. Brother Murphy, a small but violent teacher, had always left Victor alone, his explanation coming in eight words that would define the boy’s schooldays and make him the object of scorn among his peers: “Victor Forde, I can never resist your smile.”

Throughout, there’s a sense that Victor is going through a breakdown, taking responsibility for his actions while finally allowing himself to explore the ordeals of his youth. All of this is done in the pub, but there is none of the hilarity of the two grumpy old bollixes from Two Pints here; Victor and Fitzpatrick are combatants from the start and the atmosphere of tension that lingers over their conversations is palpable. There is a brave and complex ending to the novel, one that will leave readers astonished. The devastating and comfortless finale, in which Doyle conjures up a mind-bending narrative swerve, jolts the novel out of everyday realism. A sad and impressive novel that gives us little to smile about.

Meanwhile, The Wedding Present fan project I sent my recollections to last year, has finally surfaced in a whopping 450-page, full colour hardback book. With an introduction and commentary from David Gedge, Sometimes These Words Just Don’t Have to Be Said is a collection of over 400 fan memories interspersed with contributions and insights from fellow founder members Peter Solowka and Shaun Charman. The book contains stories from a host of collaborators from throughout the band’s career, including former band members and producers, including Chris Allison, Steve Albini and Grammy Award winning Andrew Scheps.

From David Gedge’s school days through to concerts in 2016, the book is packed with full colour images including many from David Gedge’s personal archive.  It contains stories from a host of celebrity fans including Gaz Coombes, Mark Burgess, Martin Noble, Emma Pollock, John Robb, William Potter, Rolo McGinty and many bands who have performed at David’s annual At the Edge of The Sea festival. Other celebrities who have contributed to the book include Hot Fuzz actor Nick Frost, Game of Thrones actor Ben Crompton, broadcasters Marc Riley, Shaun Keaveny, Andy Kershaw, Andrew Collins and Robin Ince, journalists Mark Beaumont and Ian Gittins and celebrated writers Ian Rankin, Mike Gayle and Peter Bowker.

While it’s nice to read the thoughts of celebrities, the ordinary tales from ordinary fans work best; from daft, drunken teenage pranks in the late 80s, to middle aged American fly drive holidays, everything is there. There’s laughter and tears; some fans died, and others lost their way in life. This book gives an insight into what it’s like to attract, or become one of, a loyal band of passionate fans who have followed the group since the beginning. Many have fallen in love with, and to, the band’s music. As one fan describes it, ‘they have been the sound-track to my life,’ which is as good a quote about the band as I could imagine, though I’ll leave you with the august John Peel’s words, 13 years after his death; ‘the boy Gedge has written some of the best love songs of the Rock ’n’ Roll era. You may dispute this but I’m right and you’re wrong.’ RIP Peely. All power to Gedgey.