Some of the interviews withun the pafes of The NME are incredible encounters. This week Don Watsin goes out on a mission to beet Mark Stewart once leader of The Pop Group. He's a highly paranoid fellow. Watson goes to talk to him in his terraced house in Bristol. Stewart talks about the Mayans, The Romans, The Druids. Occult technologies of power.Stewart says 'There's a lot of people disappeared recently.'
The kind of record that inspires people to gargle whisky and get a vulgar and inadvisable tattoo when the relationship is doomed to crash within days.
Rock & Roll lore has any number of seams of untold narrative to travel down. Rabbit holes. Pipelines. Whatever you will. Or else snakes taking you to the lake. From there take another snake to the foothills of a vast mountain range. To sunlit streams. Forest glades. Music is particularly fertile territory for the imaginitive potential of maps and legends A means of exploring other worlds. Galaxies.
Check out Rock Dreams. Julian Cope's stuff. Any number of Rock related novels and films. It's always been the stuff of dreams and transportation. Fantasy. From the moment you start watching Top of the Pops, cross legged on the family hearth. Listen to Yellow Submarine. Listen again and again with your mum to her Carpenters and Seekers records. Slack jawed and google eyed to the wonders of the universe.
Now decades down the line, there are any number of happy trails to follow and that's what I try to do on It Starts With a Birthstone. I've been kept active and engaged here on a daily basis I hope not repeated myself too painfully for twelve years now and don't worry that I'll dry up of inspiration any time soon.
Every time I pick up a music magazine I find some new source of inspiration. A point of departure. Ariadne's Thread. If that fails me I just need to go into a record ship and start flipping through the racks. Have a coversation with one of the guys behing the counter. Those guys are a font of knowledge They set you off on another journey if duscovery
I bough Perfect Teeth, the third and final album by American underground legends in Monday. From Beatbox. The record shop acriss the road from where I live. I've been playing it ever since. It's a sensational record.. 4AD records. They're such gorgeous artistic objects . You feel like stroking your cheek across its sleeve
The rerelease is in honour of Perfect Teeth's 30th Annuversay. Let's face it this was a record that was barely noticed at the time of its release though listening to it now it damned well should have been . It's 'a guitar in excelsis' record. Was recorded in Pachuderm Studio in Cannon Falls Minnesota days after Nirvana completed the sessions for In Utero in the same studio space.Just listening to the album set me off on a journey of discovery. That Rock & Roll for you.
Unrest formed at Wakefield High School in Arlington Virginia, not far from Washington D.C.. They named themselves after a Henry Cow record, an early indication that they had no plans to drive down the main highway if life. Be stuck in the slow lane.
Unrest's sound on Perfect Teeth is the sound of rolling guitars and spaced out vocals. My Bloody Valentine. Meet Lush. Meet Pale Saunts at Wakefield High School in Arlington Virginia, not far from Washington D.C. And have a picnic And plan a seance. And then a revolution. Lovely stuff. Harmonious. Solendid.
Perfect Teeth has an arresting sleeve with a wonderful picture of Cult Mancunian journalist Cath Carroll. Shot by Cult photographer Ribert Mapplethorpe. The subject of Patti Smith's memoirs Just Kids whuch focuses on their formative love affair in the early Seventies. Mapplethorpe was famously gay inclined but his relationship with Patti was certainly a love affair. Patti had any number of fundamental love affairs across the course if her life which informed her work and sensibility. With Mapplethorpe. With Sam Shepherd. Jim Carroll. Tim Verlaine. Alain Lanier. Fred Sonic Smith
Someone once saw Unrest play at the Duchess of York in Leeds and they played for so long that the cleaners started sweeping the place up during the encore. This is a nice way to remember a band that were barely noticed at the time. But should have been.
Curious marketing. WEA have a singer they'd like to introduce to the British record buying public. They've just signed up distinctive European singer. They keep it simple. The ad reads as follows; 'Mathilde Santing is a singer. She comes from Amsterdam with an LP just released. 'Water Under The Bridge' and a single Too Much. She hopes to come and play live in London soon. Her LP is available on WEA Records' There's something incredibly charming and appealing about this approach. FYI. The album is wonderful. Well worth tracking down.
I remember beung slightly dusappointed with this. The productions. The choice of songs. The need to uit the singles on when elsewhere there were Jeane, Wonderful Wimen, This Night Has Opened My Eyes. Accept Yourself. These Things Take Time It still sounds slightly inert. As if The Smiths have had their springs confiscated.
Generally I assocate this record with four songs Reel Around The Fountain. You've Got Everything Now, Still Ill, Suffer Little Children. That will more than do. Else there were missteps.
April. Come she will. And has. And I wake up with 50 albums that I've liked so far already on a playlist. A couple of months and I'll be able to start a tentative rundown of 200 albums that I've liked in 2025 without a clear idea of where it's heading. Well. We all need a hobby and this seems to be mine.
And this is my fiftieth album on this playlist, Anither good one. Grear Grandpa, a band from Seattle who seem aware and mindful if that great city's musical legacy. One who experienced trying times during Covid bur regrouped and stayed together.
New album Patience, Moonbeam is the legacy of that. It's a powerful Indie Chamber peace which appealed to me in darkness late last night and I'm finding charming as the sun rises in the heavens again the heavens this morning.
Life is a struggle sometimes. There's no point pretending otherwise. Patience, Moonbeam grits its teeth and heads unto the coming gale. It's a determined, and frequently inspiring album..
'accelerating from zero yo sixty rock's embrace of of one of its long estranged parent genres.
Yesterday, while I was preparing myself for the working week, I listened through on and off to Hannah Cohen's Earthstar Mountain. It was an album that I initially regarded as generic and slightly nondescript. But as the day went on a spell was cast and I was charmed.
So I'm listening to it again now on Monday morning as I ready myself for the 8.15 to Dussledorf Teams Link to carry me away to class as we sweep towards April.
It's a record that seems to set itself an inreresring remit for itself. Aldous Hardung meets Sheryl Crow at a Fleerwood Mac Convention on The Astral Plane. Sometimes the right co-ordinates and intentions are sufficient to ensure half an hour if plain sailing as we make our way into the breeze of the coming day.
Penny Reel reviews about 80 singles this week. Respect to the guy. Given the task he's set it's no wonder things don't get a proper hearing. That Petrol Emotion's incredible debut Keen is dismussed as a Beatlish durge. James fabulous Village Fire EP gets described as laboured. and 'more concept than content'. Furniture are 'six piece Sweet'.We get Bleak Industrial dance from Dewsbury.
Nothing really lights his fire. Mostly things sound dull. You get the impression it might have been more worthwhile for him to have pucked a few things that excited him most and written about them at greater length. But this is the NME we're talking,
We can't help but be dictated to by the times, the age we are living through. It would be naive of us to think otherwise. Specks of dust in a vast and bewildering universe. We need to orient ourselves to things to help us make sense of what we're going through. I love my partner. I need a lover. I'll focus on my work. I'll listen to that record. Watch that fim. Read that book. Get drunk . Often the alternative is too genuinely bewildering. 'And you may ask yourself. Well how did I get here.' .
The times we are living through are particularly bewidering. Look at our leaders. Look at our media. Music for me remains a still, comforting centre to anchor my day around. I'm up with the larks ready to start my day. Looking for a new record for my Song of the Day on here. A record for me to play while my bath runs. To prepare me for what lies ahead..
I'm teaching online these days. German businesspeople in Dusseldorf, Hamburg and Berlin.That's my primary focus. Don't get me wrong. I care about Gaza. Human Tragedy as a Real Estate opportunity for the one percent. Bundle them off into another space so we can tear it all down and build holiday homes and resorts for elites. 'Now I want a holiday in the sun...' Nothing ever changes. Power just shifts it shape and finds a new way to fleece the masses. You've got to laugh. Or else you'd cry.
Anyway. Where was I? Oh yeah. My bath. My lessons. I spin Stereolab's Emperor Tomato Ketchup while I prepare for my day. I try to avoid comparisons generally when thinking about and trying to write about music. But in this case screw that! Oasis ?!? You must be joking. Why would anyone listen to Oasis when they coud listen to Stereolab. Or Kraftwerk for that matter
Why would anyone listen to a pair of self obsessed bowl headed coke fiends from Burnage who care not one whit for anything but themselves. Then and now. I know I'm not kind when I talk about that band but they started it folks. They decided to go for a career in music rather than just carrying on signing on or roadying for the Inspiral Carpets for the rest of their lives. I know it's worked out well for you lads but what about the universe? Wanton cruelty pure and simple.
Anyway. My students. I've got a sub today for South African Jessica. I don't know exactly what Jessica is up to right now but I've been parachuted in and asked to prepare a lesson on Business Meetings. It's a fun one. One of the best things about my job is meeting new people / students and trying to keep them happy . Make them feel They're getting something out of the experience.
Anyway I like Elena and Sandra and I think they like me. We find out about each other and then I try to help them with their Business Engish and their grammar and vcobulary. That's all there is to it. Plenty of people might try to overcomplicate matters but after 35 years of doing this I'd be fairly insistent.
That's all you need to do. You need to have a certain amount of researching and planning and then you need to teach. Entertain and educate and be educated and informed. Ask questions and encourage them to ask questions to each other. Listen and react. Then do the paperwork to keep the middle managers happy.
That's what I do with my reguar 11.30s too.The conversation goes a different direction to talk a bit about the world outside and what Germany should do about it given that there's a General Election coming up in a few weeks now which I imagine the whole world will be watching with intent concentration. Me and my 11.30s don't come to any great conclusions and bid each other farewell.
I've got a few hours to kill. So I call mum and text friends and play records. KC & The Sunshine Band, Associates and Blondie if you're keeping notes. Which I imagine you are. Darkness falls and it's time to head out to Digital for Amelia Coburn and Hamish Hawk.
When it comes time to go I don't feel like going really. It's cold out and the sky looks forbidding. The thought of staying in and watching The Magnificent Seven yet again is tempting. But I put my coat and hat on and I'm off out into the night . It has to be done. This is why we're alive.
The Digital night club is five minutes from my flat. Across Times Square. Just before the Discovery Museum. Digital has changed since I first went there. To see Sunflower Bean and Big Thief years ago now. It used to be a small venue with a bar and a small stage. Now it's expanded and transformed into a dark and sleek club. Soaking up the audience and the bands and events which used to feature at the Riverside. On erm Newcastle Riverside.
I'm not sure I like Digital as much as I used to, The staff are friendly, the sound system. is great. The crowd are affable too. Slightly older than previously. It's all a bit more corporate. Yeah like so much. Sleek and smooth and slightly faceless. If you want the alternative in Newcastle go to the newer Cooperative ventures. The Cobalt Studios. The Lubber Field. There you'll get value for money. Somewhere to sit. There aren't actual seats here. Just bars and booths where you can check your phones or chat to company.
Stil, I'm here to have fun. New York Dolls and Eurythmics are playing on the sound system and Amelia Coburn is shuffling onstage with her band. Amelia is really the reason I'm here, I don't know headliner Hamish Hawk very well.BBC 6 Music is the key here. I've stopped listening to BBC 6 Music recently. It used to fill my musical horizons. But something changed and now my Record Player and Spotify do that for me.
If asked to narrow things down further I'd mention Wet Leg. A few years ago when I tuned in I found they were invariably playing Wet Leg. I mean I like quirkiness as much as the next person. I have a Lene Lovich record. Plastic Bertrande. But I don't listen to them non stop. I got tired of Wet Leg after 3 listens to each song rued 6 Musics decision to make the best djs at the station Marc Riley and Gideon Coe do a show together to give more radio time to John Peel's son. No John Peel. Let's put it that way.
Anyway Amelia is plucking away at what looks like a mandolin and her band are tucking into choice cuts from her rather wonderful debut album Between The Moon & The Milkman,. And I'm happy. Edging into a space a couple of rows away from the stage and texting to an old school friend. I don't care what my mother says. I can multitask as well as the next person.
Amelia Coburn exemplified for me exactly the kind of artist I'm most interested in. She's articulate and ambitious.Draws on a set of influences that are interesting and broadly inspiried and bode well for a long and productive career. I recognise Jacques Brel, Jake Thakeray and she speaks in interviews of literary inspirations Graham Greene, Romanticism. The Brontes. Victorian Fiction,She's made for my tastes frankly
Between songs she mentions minging lovers she's discarded. Well she is from Middlesborough, Valentine's Day is a couple of days away. She talks about Vinegar Valentines .and suggests it might be an idea to bring them back. In Far From The Madding Crowd Bathsheba Everdene sent a mischievious Valentine Card to William Boldwood and it led him inadvertently to the gallows. Don't do it kids. Be nice !
But the half hour with Amelia is as good as I could have hoped for, Her songs are twisting and nuanced. Fascinating. She's one to watch. I retreat to the bar taking care not to actually walk into a pillar or fall over anybody. It's too dark in here for my liking. I don't care if this place gets an award. It might also attract ambulances.
Hamish Hawk I don't really know though Amelia says he's fab and a friend whose taste I trust has said he's good. He must be on a 6 Music Playlist. Hamish. Not my friend. I'm not quite sure what to expect. When he and his band head onstage I make my way through the crowd and get a decent view of the Hawk experience. I take a couple of close ups of Hawk and his band on my Smartphone to send to others and to record the moment. I wouldn't have dreamed of doing this when I first started going to gigs in the Eighties. But hey, I can go with the times.
I'm not sure about Hamish and his band initially but I'm drawn in. The key to this seems to be persona. Persona used to be a great guiding principle of Art inclined British music. Bowie, Roxy, John Lydon, Edwyn Collins, Bily McKenzie, Morrissey, Brett Anderson. I imagine you can keep the list going if you're that way inclined.
The key reference to Hawk's persona seems to be to be Howard Devoto. He's a suaver and less alien and angular Howard Devoto. An incredibly confident and outgoing performer. Throwing shapes and namedropping to demonstrate his broad reading and education. His cool. It's never annoying and frankly quite impressive. I'll get to know his records better because he's good.
But I've got my money's worth and this is a school night so I'm on my way. Keep an eye on Amelia and Hamish because they'll do well. To BBC 6 Music Playlists and beyond !
I won't give you a blow by blow account of my Sunday. I'll cut to the chase. The gig in the evening.My day was spent having a slight fall out with a very important friend which I'll let lie for a while, get back to and ensure we resolve it at a later date to both of our satisfaction.
Some friendships are important. Fundamental. Sometimes it's important just to let things rest for a while intil the dust settles and you can talk rationally together. This will happen.
Otherwise I prepared for a Monday where I was very busy. Teaching throughout the day. A bit of preparation. A bit of preparation for the paperwork I need to do to keep those slightly above me on the food chain smiling.
I called mum and by half six darkness had fallen and I thought it time to make my way across the Quayside to Cluny 2 as I had a ticket to see Tapir!, a band I rate playing at Cluny 2 on the Ouseburn Valley in Newcastle. A venue I love.
I didn't feel like going out if I'm honest. It was cold and dark. And I had a cold that seems to have settled on my chest. All the way down the cold Quayside and up the stairway to the busy ring road and the slow descent into the Ouseburn Valley.
I find myself muttering to myself, 'Do I really want to be here. Wouldn't I rather just be at home watching Godfather 3?' Not the best of the series but at least you get to see how right Sophia Coppola was to go into film directing rather than perservering with the acting thing.
'But what good is sitting alone in your room ?' as someone sang once. It's better to try to do stuff than curling on your bed into a foetal ball I reckon. , Anyhow I find myself at the door of Cluny2 where I've seen Courtney Barnett, Aldous Harding, Bill Ryder Jones, Dream Syndicate and other completely terrific fare down the years, It was entry time but the doors weren't open.
A cute young Chinese girl who seems to work for the venue, with a camera round her neck shuffles up and we have a brief chat about how good Tapir! are. I ask the standard question 'What kind of music do you like?' It's a stupid question. An impossible question.
We have a great chat. It's nice when this happens at a gig. And it happens at gigs in Newcastle a lot. It's why I love being here so much. She mentions Fletwood Mac. I know immediately she means the Stevie / Lindsay incarnation. They're a band that seem to mean a lot to a lot of young people.
In return I talk about what Peter Green means to me. I grew up in Richmond and Teddington. And Green was homeless and living on the streets. Lying in disarray in deep sleep in long coats with long dirt encrusted fingernails. The greatest Blues guitarist Britain ever produced. Clapton ? PLEASE !?!
She's interested. It's a nice chat. Downstairs I get myself a coke and sit in the front row of shallow amphitheatre rows at the back of the square Cluny 2 venue. Look at my phone. Wait for the support.
When they shuffle onstage and I prick up my ears immediately. I've been to a lot of gigs down the years. Listened to a lot of music. I know instinctively when something is playing which wull return investment and focus. Don't we all.
Ardent, for it is they. No not Argent ! That was something else. Only their third gig but they make a fine noise. Shoegaze meets Grunge Lite. Some muffled banter between songs. A certain diffident charisma which in time could become swagger, Ones to watch. .
Turnout is good. Though its not a sellout. Tapir ! Have taken strides forward since I saw them supporting The Golden Dregs on a fine night a couple of years back. Since then they've released an excellent debut album on Heavenly and toured extensively raising their profile, winning friends and influencing people.
I take a place bu the side of the stage so I've got a good view. Tapir! shuffle on and start to play. they're a rather lovely band in many respects. The first is that they've talked together about what they want to do. Plenty of bands don't and as a result don't make much of an impression.
But Tapir! have. They have an image that seems to me to be based on the mythic. Their influences are not easy to trace and that's unusual. They talk to the audience and they play a charming set that makes you think they're craftsman of an ancient and treasurable stripe.
Then they hang around at the merch stand afterwards to talk some more. Now how do I make up with that friend of mine. I head off for my bus.
'Everybody's busy nowadays...'
Alright that's not the Buzzcock lyric. I know. But it's a good expression for the way we live these days. Perhaps it's always been that way.. That's the way they want us. It keeps us distracted. I'm convinced.
I'm up with the larks. I'm not best served for birdwatching where I live. I'm unconvinced there's a ready supply of larks around the building where I live. I live in Central Newcastle. There's certainly a ready supply of seagulls. Swooping and shrieking outside my window most mornings. Pigeons. Urban vermin. Sometimes you'll get to witness a seagull's pecking on a pigeon's innards if you're unlucky. Don't be convinced by the veneer of civilisation. It's a war out there. Wherever you look.
Never mind. I've got a Dean Wareham album to listen to. A couple of lessons to plan. I go down and prepare the lessons I think I've got. I'm into a routine now. Friday is generally a busy day. But two have already been cancelled. On Time which means I won't get paid for either of them. Oh well. Swings and roundabouts. I'm getting increasingly phlegmatic nowadays. I have a decent supply of lessons coming in these days. I'm paying the rent.
I get my lessons planned and send them off to the students in advance. I often don't use them or at least all of them. But it keeps my bosses happy. Everybody deserves happiness. Even middle managers I'm insistent. More on that later. I listen to Dean Wareham's album That's The Price of Loving Me. It's rather lovely. Wistful. Dean's a master.
I wish I'd seen Galaxie 500. I remember gazing at a copy of Galaxie 500's This Is Our Music. In a shop window in Turin, Christmas 1990. My heart was breaking. Any band or man that soundtracks the moments in your life when your heart is breaking deserves your eternal gratitude and attention. Dean has mine. He's just released another beautiful record. I commend it to you..
I'm ready for my half seven with a Biotech and Biomedical organisation. My branch and students are based in Dussledorf. I listen to Kate Bush's The Dreaming while I dress and get sustenance from my pantry. Quality time with Kate. Mark E. Smith was very dismissive of her.
Bloody Mark E. Smith a peasant from the village. I like some Fall records but the cult of reverence for the man is beyond me.How can you possibly not appreciate what Kate brought to the table. It's the culture of envy and gracelessness. 'Don't follow leaders. Watch the parking meters.' That's more to my taste.
At half seven I click on Google Calendars Teams link, wait outside the classroom for my Biotech and Biomedical class but am not admitted. There hcve been some cancellations but the class is still going to happen as far as I can make out. At quarter to eight D***** lets me in. D***** is something special. The existence of women like D***** give you faith for the future of the world.
We have 45 minutes together. I love what I'm doing now. She's inspiring. She has to leave at half eight to go to her next meeting. I do the paperwork to give her areas of language which I hope will help . Jot it all down on a feedback document and post it. To keep her on the road to her next destination. Also to keep the middle managers happy. They'll never be completely happy I suspect. I see that I have another lesson cancelled. Too late this time. So some more Euros will get tipped into my bank account in a couple of weeks.
I consider myself early retired. I think I can do this until I need to stop working and probably beyond. Teaching motivated students doesn't feel like work. It's something I've done all my adult life and know that I'm good at. Always room for improvements mind. Anyway. The day is mine. What shall I do.
I put on Buzzcocks Singles Going Steady while I shave and pack my trusty St Michael's Carrot Bag with library books to be renewed, a towel and swimming trunks. It's a lovely sunny day in Toon. What to do. I know !!!
Anybody who knows me to any degree will know a few basic things about me. I like early R.E.M. I'm a decent teacher. And I have a certain amount of mischief about me. OK. I'm a bloody wind up merchant. I'm going into the place I used to work for fifteen years. I left my workplace a year and a month ago now. Fifteen years of heavy mental labour. .I had a very unhappy time there for the most part. It's a common story. It was a corporate hellhole with a very unenlightened approach. In most respects. Any number of people behaved terribly badly. It was the overriding culture..
A number of people have warned me to keep away from there. Wash my hands. But knowing myself better than anybody else I'm paying no heed. Every time I go in there I feel better now. I have nothing to be ashamed of. Some people who still work there should feel ashamed. I'm not a vindictive person. But it's quite good for people to be reminded sometimes. Perhaps they will learn something and behave a bit better.
So I put my coat on. My battered pork pie hat. Pack my shades. Take the brisk fifteen minute walk back to my former workplace. I see a handful of people there that I like a lot. I joke with them that this is an external inspection. Do they have their passports? This is important. I might have to come back in and close the place down next time. . I assure them I'll let them know when the inspection is finished and I've submitted my report who it's from. We've got to have some fun. That's why we're alive.
I see one person there who I'm less fond of in the lobby. Who I came to realise was ridiculously arrogant and full of himself. Who didn't behave very well towards me for no reason except his own slightly unmerited high opinion of himself.. He doesn't meet my eye. It's what I'd expect. Like I said, it's a war out there. Seagulls know. But I'm not a seagull. I try to be nice when I can..I'm not interested in feasting on anyone's heart.
I've had my fun. I say my farewells and I'm off down Northumberland Street to the library to renew my books. I should really stop renewing these books and actually read them. I've got nothing to do this weekend. It might actually happen today. I won't be going to the big parade for the arrival of the first domestic football trophy to arrive in these parts for seventy years later on today. I'm very happy to be here. I love Newcastle and its people but I'm not kidding myself that I'll ever be a Geordie even though I've been made to feel .incredibly welcome here.Football has a secondary place from now on in.
I turn into Clayton Street West a man on a mission. My mission to find some decent, cheap records in the charity shops second hand record sections . I find gold in Amnesty International. A five pound copy of Jeff Wayne's War of the Worlds Soundtrack from the Mid Seventies. It sends me spinning back in time to a golden memory from my youth. Reminds me of a person who's not here anymore and is missed by many. I'll write about that fully in another post here. I bag the record. Exchange some pleasantries wuth the nice gents who work there.
Memories are important and I love these portals that allow me to access moments of my life. Music can do this better than anything else I find. So I take War of the Worlds home , Put it on my player. The record spins like silk. Immaculate condition. I revel in the moment and the sound and voices. The narrative.
The memories whuch fill my flat like the swirling ghosts at the finale of Indiana Jones. . It's important I think not to be trapped by memories but sometimes it's good to doff your cap to the past and remember those no longer with us. These people make us what we are. The dead are owed their due.
But so too are the living. I head for the Fitness Centre. The pool is busy and the jacuzzi fenced off. I have five minutes in the sauna and head for the exit after a little back and forth and banter about the state of the world with Dave and Adam at the service desk. There's never a dull moment at The Royal Station Hotel Fitness centre. It deserves a blog of its own. But It Starts is not it. At least not today.
From there I go back and fix myself some tea. I make at least a bit of an effort today. Jacket potatoes sure but I also fry up some mushrooms and boil some chunks of sweetcorm. Fanny Craddock eat your heart out! I listen to Revolver, make a point of listening until Tomorrow Never Knows has it's say.
That track is less than three minutes long but is probably the greatest example of compressed expression I can think of. The meaning of within. More birds. Ctying for humanity. Cheer up Bruce! I'm ready to go. I'm off into the night. On my way to The Cluny
I'm 'listening to the colour of my dreams'. Walking back. To the future. The Quayside feels still. Even on a Friday evening. I'm heading up the hill to the Ouseburn Hills. Up the hill and down the slope. To the doors of Cluny 2. Into the venue. Down a couple if narrow staircases and into the venue. There are like minded souls gathered inside. It's a bit too dark for me this venue.
I chat to people about the significance of the night. The guy at the merch stand. A lovely guy in de rigeur breton striped top. I promise him I'll be back. I chat to a lovely couple about the state of the world. They live in Alnwich. He's from Chicago. they know the band from back in the day. Bobby Gillespie. Alan McGee. The birth of Creation Records.
These were the days when The Loft were considered the band to watch. Before Jesus & Mary Chain arrived to steal their thunder and Alan's attention. Before they split up onstage at The Hammersmith Palais in a fit of fury, resentment and rage. Pete Astor the singer and Dave Morgan the drummer went off with several of their best songs to form the Weather Prophets.
Onward to Elevation Records. Almost Prayed, their should have been hit single. Andy Strickland The Loft's firebrand guitarist and Bill Prince their bassist simmered with youthful resentment. A week is a long time in Rock & Roll. This is now almost forty years. Time it seems has healed raw wounds of youthful rage.
Chris from Prancey Dog, who's put this event on is here. He like me I suspect is distracted by the thought of seeing this great 'should have been' band. They've regrouped, miraculously recorded and relased theur debut album, Forty years after the event. More stoical about their place in the scheme of things but happy to have this second opportunity to show off theur wares. Make a statement about what a great band they were and are.
Nev Clay the Geordie Leonard Cohen wuth additional mental health concerns and admirable fury about the state of play and welfare cuts, has been drafted in at the last minute. He plays another splendid set. But he's aware that he is not the main event tonight. He's looking forward to catching The Loft as much as everyone else is.
I breach the stairs and strike a match and watch it burn against the night in the company of Dave Morgan. Drummer of The Loft . But also of the Weather Prophets and The Rockingbirds. He rages, not so much against the dying of the light as at Pete's youthful temper, arrogance and ambitious if foolish ego.
He goes into a flight of fancy about the drugs everybody did back in the day. Cocaine. A blizzard. I tell him about when I caught The Weather Prophets at The Hammersmith Clarendon in 1987. With Pop Will Eat Itself, The Sevants, and remarkably The Happy Mondays in support. Those boys were like sniffer dogs. They hoovered up a bus oad or two of Colombian Marching Powder in their time.It has to be done. This is Rock & Roll.
But now it's time. I take my place as The Loft gather onstage by the side. Where I've got a good view of proceedings. Can take some photos on my trusty smartphone and appreciate their thing. It's the best vantage point. They play a golden set. Strickland, Astor and Prince a golden, greying frontline making guitars sound they way god intended them to sound. A brilliant, considered intensity. Morgan providing the artillery.
If the hair is grey the guitars are golden and the lyrics thoughtful, poetic and frequesntly divine. Indie Divinity.They play a greatest should have been hits set and are incredubly drilled. Strickland genuflects and fires out glorious guitar sparks. Duels with Astor like a Home Counties Verlaine and Lloyd.
The Television comparisons are inevitable with these boys. They play Richard Hell's Time early. An immaculate and heartfelt cover. Astor jokes that it's many people's favourite song of theirs yet they didn't actually write. it. 'The past is a tangled knot.' They're comfotable in the skins. Or as comfortable as you ever get.
The Beatles are also there. Unmistakeable. They don't miss a beat and the crowd are in their palm. A modest gathering. Not what they deserve. But I imagine the band are happy with appreciative glow nowadays. There's full on banter. Only Prince keeps his own counsel. Bonhomie.
We get the songs that matter. Choice cuts from the latest record. Up The Hill and Down the Slope. Why Does The Rain. Still as potent as the day it was written. Existential poetry. 'Why when the sun start to rise. Do people wake and catch the morning train?' Why indeed. Because we have to, Songs like these are written to help us.
Thanks to The Loft. I get my t shirt and I'm iff into the night. Up another hill. To catch the late night bus. Sated.
My life goes from day to day. That's a great way to live. I recommend it. An Existential approach. . I woke up on Thursday and took the stairs down from my bed to my living room in darkness in preparation for my working day. At my desk on my laptop to my surprise and delight there was a message from a fundamental and central friend of mine waiting for me..An important person. There aren't many such people in anybody's life. I hadn't really heard from her for many years.
She told me she had got a divorce a couple of years back and she would be in London in April with one of her beautiful daughters. That she was happy. Should we meet? I hadn't really known she was unhappy but the news didn't really surprise me. I met the man she married. Was at their wedding. I'd been surprised at the time. Puzzled. I replied that I would love to see them both. Suggested tea at The Dorchester. Mentioned Budapest where we had spent the best Christmas together. Possibly of my whole life. Twenty years ago.
That has been the emotional backdrop for my last couple of days. This seems to be the world we live in now.Living in the present. Dwelling on the past. Thinking of the future. Outside there's a climate of fear. Every time you look at the news. Turn on the TV or the radio. Look at the front pages. Read the headlines. . A plane has just crashed into water near Washington DC. An American president is eager to blame others rather than taking charge and clearing matters up so we can all sleep in peace. Life is and remains stranger than fiction.
Never mind all that. I have lessons to plan and teach. It's a great way to spend my days. Teaching German business students online. People who are probably waking like me. Glancing at the news.Putting it to the back of their minds and thinking of the day ahead and the task at hand. Children off to school. A pecked kiss for a partner. No time to worry about a German parliamentary election. An important one surely. Just a matter of weeks away.
Meanwhile the music plays. I like to make my own soundtrack. My life has been great in that respect since I left a stale and hostile corporate office space a year ago and became self employed. In my flat as I bathe and dress, The Goon Sax's debut album Up To Anything spins. Insouciante, irrepressible youth, First love, first friendship, first heartbreak. We may not realise it at the time But the heart is a remarkable organ. Resilient. Durable. It heals. We go on towards the coming day
I check my emails from work. Text to friends. No more time to delve further into the news. It cares not for me. It would do no one any good for me to weep at my desk. I take off Up To Anything. Put on Lou Reed's New York. A lament for his home town. From 1989. Lou is gone. But New York goes on. We must go on. 'Fly, fly away. From the Dirty Boulevard.'
I've got a sub to teach first. I love sub classes. Melissa, the group's regular teacher needs to take a week off. So I've been parachuted in with a basic roadmap. I click on the Teams link and am admitted into a virtual classroom where four IT businesspeople await me and we sail into the lesson.
I always feel like teaching is a breeze. An opportunity to immerse myself in the now. Sub classes generally demand that you meet people, find out the basics keep them entertained and hopefully help them in some way. Teaching is a noble pursuit. At least that's the way I look at it.
This class is fun. The students are funny. They know each other well and I warm to them increasingly as the ninety minutes proceed. We talk about different kinds of humour. They have good senses and feelings for it. We laugh and I hope learn something together. Time doesn't lag. They give ad hoc presentations, demonstrating their ability to describe their working processes in English. Switching between active and passive voice when required. Like professional footballers with two good feet.
Half an hour later and I'm into one of my regular classes. I play this one by ear, I have a powerpoint but subject matter comes up from the group and I pursue it. We talk about the property market. Compare what goes on there and what goes on here. As with pretty much everything I've learned about Germany since I started this a year back it strikes me that they have a saner approach and that we might do well to learn from them. An astonishing idea. 'Learn from Johnny Foreigner.' Perish the thought.
I'm done by 1.15. Do my paperwork, tidy up a bit and the day is fine. I've decided I'm going to a bash in the Cobalt Studios in Ousburn tonight. I've hardly been out since I got back to Newcastle a couple of weeks ago and it's time I did so. I don't wish to become a hermit.
I stop off at Beatbox Records across the road for a chat with Sam of No Teeth. They're probably a syndicalist commune or something of the sort but franky Sam is in charge whatever anyone tells you. We chat for a while. Sam is good and rolls me a tab for good measure and I'm on my way.
I pop in at The Telegraph to see if Amy's in. She isn't so I chat to the young barmaid who has a Nirvana T Shirt on. We chat about Nirvana and I say I was in Dortmund at the time of Grunge when Cobain died. I witnessed events unfold one Friday afternoon. A highly memorable event for me. It was genuinely upsetting. Cobain and Nirvana seemed to matter to a lot of people.
The barmaid is amiable but I get the impression that she isn't particularly interested. In what I have to say or actually in Nirvana really. It's just a t shirt she chose from her drawer. Nothing wrong with that. I go to the jukebox put on some songs that remind me of those days. Drink my cider and I'm on my way.
I like the idea of choice these days. It gives my life rhythm, The Bridge? Nah not this time. Down the winding steps to The Quayside and the Crown Posada. One of the ultimate pub destinations in Newcastle. Or anywhere else for that matter.
I buy my non alcoholic beer. Sorry I'm a dull man these days. It was time to show the alternative to non alcoholic beer the door. A young group of people come and sit next to me. They seem perfectly OK but get engrossed in a never ending chat about a sad psychotic who murdered some poor young children recently.
I'm sorry but I avoid discussion of things like these because I find it can lead to string 'em up conclusions. Or general unhappiness and confusion.I want and need to be happy. I make my way as inconspicuously as I can past them and back to the bar. I read an article about the fine new Dylan film instead. Then I'm off into the night..
The Quayside is glossy and still. Ink black. Bible Black. As somebody with more poetry in his soul would have it. This acts as my exercise for today as I'm giving the Fitness Centre a break for a while.
I'm into the Ouseburn Valley and I spot Alan at the doors of The Cluny. One of the best baman of my lifetime. An avuncular, friendly Viking of a man whose hobby is beng a viking. Staged battles and talks for the kids. I'm pleased because I've had a solitary day and it's great to catch up with someone I haven't seen for a while. Newcastle's wonderful for that.
I invite him to my 60th Birthday Party. We chat about common acquaintances. Then I'm off into the Ouseburn night . It's one of the best parts of Newcastle. Up the hill towards The Tanners. Turn right under the bridge to Shieldfield. Past Ernests, a community art space and I'm at the doors of the Cobalt Studios. One of the clutch of venues in Newcastle that offer cheap, affordable artistic nourishment in difficult times.
There's a young man at the counter. He's got one of those inadvisable half hearted attempts at a moustache which seem quite current. He seems angry but friendly. For some reason I think of Dexys Midnight Runners Kevin Archer.
He asks if I've bought a ticket. I say no, I'd like to buy one now. He says 'You'll have to wait for food' A nourishing meal in with the price, usually curry, rice or salad is one of the best things about Cobalt Studios Thursday nights.I'm not bothered about the food tonight.
I'm just glad to be back in the Cobalt Studios again. It's just a nice space to be in. Rows of chairs. Tables. People of all ages chatting together. Likeminded people. It's all quite idyllic actually. Artistic. the word has got out about this place. It's pretty much full. People smile at each other.
Not taking the food option doesn't bother me. I don't bother with it tonight. I'm just happy to be here and have already promised myself that I'll come back in company soon. This is an interesting project. A project for troubled times,
A band come onstage. Four or five players. Wingbeats. Nu Jazz according to the flyer. It immediately ticks all boxes. Not corporate ones perhaps but emotional and spiritual ones. They play a graceful, languid set. The mood is mellow and positive.
I have a chat with the young guy next to me. We agree that places like these are important in times like these. Inclusive ones. He's a medical student and he talks about where his course of study is lacking. It's all about the money. Isn't that what's wrong with the word now. Isn't that what needs to be critiqued and challenged.
Places and spaces like the Cobalt Studio might be a part of the solution. An alternative. I like the place very much.I don't need to stay for the headliners. I've got three classes tomorrow. I thank the young medical student and head for the doors.I say goodbye to Kevin Archer and thank him too. I'll be back.
'Sometimes the bear will eat you. Sometime you'll eat the bear. And I am eating the bear.'
Joan Armatrading
I wake up with a trapped nerve. At the base of my spine. It's uncomfortable and I'm in slight pain and considerable discomfort. I know I've got a gig tonight in the Ouseburn Valley and I'm wondering how I'll get there. Whether I'll need to take a taxi. I've been in economy drive for the past year and avoid uneccessary expense whenever I can. I'd prefer to walk.
I get up and attend to my blog posts. The central organising component of my day, weekdays and weekend. Good to have an organising principle to orient the ship now. I see It Starts as a seafaring exercise . A vessel on a vast, mysterious ocean. The one great territory still relatively unexplored and open to us all remains the human imagination. 'I wish that I'd sailed the darkened seas. On a great big clipper ship. Going from this land to that. In a sailor's suit and cap.'Thanks Lou. I catch your drift. You keep your heroin mind.
I finish the R.E.M piece which I'm proudest of today and post it, both on the blog and on social media, just after eight. Then I have my bath. I'm not completely happy emotionally either. This is just being alive I realise after almost sixty years, I don't really believe that anyone is ever wholly happy. I'd say as human beings we pretty much experience the whole gamut of emotions in pretty much an hour. Never mind a day. I adopt a positive mindset at all times if I can though.
The morning is ticking by. I breakfast and think about the pool. But I decide I'll try something different today. I fancy a massage. I live near Newcastle Station. In Pink Lane there are a number of places advertising Thai and Swedish massage. There are any number more in the Streets of Chinatown which lie at the back of the building.
When you think of and mention places like these you cannot but think of slightly more earthy and less salubrious pursuits and pleasures than assisted exercise and treatments for aches and pains. I've never been to one of these places previously. but I think it might be a good idea now. On the way to the pool.My whole back feels trapped frankly.
So I pack my treasured St Michael's open bag with carrots illustrations on it. Make my way down Pink Lane. Knock at the door of the Thai Massage establishent not exactly sure what to expect. I get a 30 minute massage with a very nice Thai woman called Joy, It is all entirely above board and we have a great chat. About all kinds of things,The massage itself is beyond description. Sometimes we forget that we have bodies and it might be an idea to keep better care of them. Joy gives me a gentle and occasuionally not so gentle reminder of this basic truth.
She is so strong that I get the impression that should she could snap my back at an instant should she choose. But Joy is clearly lovely and I'm sure wouldn't dream of it. As I head up the corridor to the stairs she puts her palms together in the traditional Thai gesture of farewell.. Next time I'll treat myself and go for the full Monty. I'm not talking about taking all my clothes off folks. I mean the full hour experience.
I wander down to The Royal Station Hotel and tell Dave and Adam, behind the desk at the Fitness Centre desk about it. There is some eyebrow raising but I bring the subject back to the experience and recommend it. I do my circuit hour. Jacuzzi, Pool, a brief visit to the sauna. A chat to the regulars and then I'm heading home.
I find a record that suits my mood. King Creosote's From Scotland With Love. The Highlands call. Rousing, I chop up some plump mushrooms, heat them up. Plop them on toast and eat them while the record spins. Then I have a nap on the sofa. Call mum and get the bonus of a quick chat with my nephew Michael who's off to LA shortly to see his beloved. It's coming up to six. The bleak sun is still in the sky. I shave. Put on a pullover and my coat and scarf and I'm out. Into the Newcastle evening.
I'll spare you of the gory details of my walk to The Cluny. The elements are against me. Let's put it that way. I'n walking into driving rain for 25 minutes. The contagious mood of Saturday night in the Toon rouses me. The determined drive of everybody to have a damned fantastic time whatever the odds is frankly like nowhere else I've ever been so I'm resolved to stay here if I can. I want more of it. Can you blame me?
But as I move away from the crowded Quayside and into The Ouseburn Hillside I feel momentarily like a Dickens character, abandoned and tipped into desolation, despairing of ever reaching my destination.Oliver Twist. Halfway to London. Of course I do get there, Our minds can play tricks on us. Suddenly I'm broaching and descending the slope. I'm reminded of the idea of getting back to hearth and home. 'My you're soaked. Let's get you out of those wet clothes and I'll fix you your tea in front of the fire.'
In the main Cluny building a Smiths tribute band are playing and the dining and drinking areas are packed. They're sold out. But I don't want to see second hand Smiths. Tribute bands have never appealed much to me. I want to see something current and vital. So I turn on my heels and make my way back to Cluny 2. Where down the years I've see Courtney Barnett, Bill Ryder Jones, Aldous Harding, Dream Syndicate and now I'm looking forward to catching Welsh Indie Mavericks Melin Melyn
Walter of Wandering Oak of course is manning the ticket desk as he generally is for every second gig I get to in Newcastle these days. He's fast approaching local legend status. And with him is Chris of Prancy Dog, that other stalwart of the Newcastle Indie circuit.
Chris comes across as I enter the venue and we have a great chat. About gigs past. Lives past. Parents. Childhoods. Jobs. Retirement in his case. Essentially early retirement in mine in that I've broken free from stultifying office space and will teach online from now on from my flat or as a digital nomad.
We discuss attractive destinations. Chris is off to Chile and Argentina, I'm more focused on what Europe has to offer, He tells me about his life. Growing up in Aylesbury. Moving to Newcastle. We exchange so much in fifteen minutes. The Indie crcuit in Newcastle is so fundamental for this. Chris puts records out Nev Clay is the latest. And gigs. House Of All is today. I'm taking today off. The Loft coming to Cluny 2 on Friday. He says he'll see me then and rushes off to the front of the stage to see the support. We've exchanged the story of our lives and a friendship is cemented.
The least said about the support band the better . I can't find their name to warm you off them but frankly you'll see and hear them coming. Indie Funk Dance. A ghasty category which should have been smothered at birth in the interests of all concerned 'Alright Newcastle ' comes up the cry. 'Are you having a great time!' 'Well actually seeing as you ask I'm not actually. I seem to have lost my Internet connection. Is it your fault. You remind me of Shakatak. Please vacate the stage and my life.' Eventually they do. Thankfully.
There's a long wait for Melin Melyn. Half an hour I'd estimate. Melin Melyn are a six piece and Cluny 2 stage is a small space. They have a windmill god at the head if the stage who is referred to in their set. I know I'm one to moan about labels buy I'm equally prone to them myself. I'm anticipating Super Furry Animals for those who missed them first time round. I won't be unhappy with that, I'm in for a delightful surprise. My expectations are confirmed and wonderfully surpassed.
When Melin Melyn gather and kick off I get up from my seat in darkness and try to find a place in the dense Indie scrum to watch their set. I have some issues. The crowd is too thick for me to get a good view or take the obligatory photos to prove I was there. A modern disease. Eventually I find the happy solution. There's room at the side of the stage at Cluny 2 which is delightfully people free where I'll get a great view of the band and their set. Immediately I realise they're quietly sensational.
Six men in matching overalls..Caps. A front line of guitars, bass, and a hanging sax for the leadman to honk occasionally. A two man seated midfield of steel pedal and keyboards. A drummer in shades. A concept. They are millers at the mill. Fighting corporate greed. Fantastic Mr Fox. It's definitely Wes Anderson. Devo meets Teletubbies.C&W. Merthir Tydfil and Memphis. Childhood television. Camberwick Green and Trumpton.
Impeccable stage banter from the front guy. He chatters between songs. Gives the band's narrative. 'Is Alan Shearer here. This is our first time in Newcastle. This is the band. This song is from our first EP.' Consumate charm. A narrative to buy into. I see an elfin sprite in the crowd. Pretending to be a tree. Twisting her branches. The crowd are slain. .
I spot Chris at the other side of the stage at the front of the scrum. He's beaming ear to ear. This is why we still come to gigs at our age. Because it's worth it When I was young I used to have a silent inner dread of Saturday nights in. Val Doonican. Val, Vickty and Lavinia. I'm still not ready for Saturday Night in front of my TV with Michael McIntyre. Even if I'm still suffering some back pain. This is still worth the effort.
I make my way home before the end. My bus deposits me in the city centre. It's still spitting. Newcastle is in happy dissaray..I look forawrd to The Loft on Friday.
'You've been reading some old letters. You smile and think how much you've changed. All the money in the world, wouldn't buy back those days.'
Live in the now. That's never the worst idea. Doff your cap to the past. Luxuriate in it occasionally. But don't let yourself get dragged down a rabbit hole. There's danger in the past. Meanwhile plan for the future. Keep feathering your nest, But live .... in the now. 'Gee thanks Grandad! Why don't you stick to the music and skip the philosophy. ,'
I'm not a grandad. Nor a father. I've no regrets on either front.Yesterday I'm awake at six.I lie in bed looking at social media. There's a post from a friend that takes my fancy. About a band advertising themselve a Neurodivergent Post Folk. This confuses me in any number of ways.
Why would anyone want to be Post Folk, even if they could be. I won't go into the 'and how can this process be Neurodivergent bit. When exactly do we get to the 'Post' Folk Label stage and how can this be a desirable thing. Perhaps I should just keep out of this altogether. Everyone else seems to enjoy this state of affairs.
When I was growing up om the Eighties Folk was something you recoiled from in horror or gazed on in uncomprehending stupefecation. Why would you want to grow a beard that appeared to have living matter in it. Go to a bar and sing hey nonny noe when you were still in your twenties. Times changes and things come back. Best to go with the times, the flow of history if you can. There's a time for every purpose under heaven .
I get up and put Lankum's Livelong Day on my headphones as I plan my lessons and prepare for the coming day. Prepare my powerpoints. Send them to my students in advance of my lessons. I'm settled in a nice routine now, a year into doing this.I'm in flow motion, Know how I need to prepare. Cut and paste, make sure the date and the company logo are correct and I'll be ready when the time comes and I need to click on Google Calendar, adjust my backdrop and prepare myself to be admitted into a virtual classroom in Dussledorf, Hamburg or Wuppertal.
I'm relaxed now. I smile and think how much I've changed. My day is becoming more natural to me with every passing week. Unwittingly I get involved in a Social Media conversation with a good friend from my university days which drags me momentarily back to the most traumatic days of my entire lifetime. My university days,.Boy, those were experiences. I cry a bit but this isn't a problem anymore. I've learned to cope with it, been helped to cope with it by a very good friend who I'll always be grateful to. Anyway, time for that bath.
While I'm in the bath I think of what record to play. This is important. I have a cover class at 10 this morning but regardless of the time I like to listen to an album in its entirety before I start my working day. When I was very young I had a bedtime story. Now I'm, err 'old', I'm at least entering that vicinity, (60 later this year) I have a morning album.Nothing stands between me and it.
I try not to repeat myself but I look for something to set the tone for the day. I generally attempt to settle on something in the bath but its open to late change if I flick through my albums and something takes my fancy at the last moment. I don't like to conform to a script. Least of all my own. This morning it's Cat Stevens Mona Bone Jakone I put it on. Lady D'Arbanville, that dented dustbin on the sleeve. Good old Cat. He's one with more than nine lives.
I'm dressed and breakfasted. My blog posts are posted and I'm bright and bushy eyed when I go to my cover class at ten. There's always a moment of suspense when I click on Google Translate and am sent to the virtual waiting room and then I wait for admittance. I love this moment. Of indesicision and anticipation. Who will let me in. If it's one of my regular groups will it be Rainer, Or Patrick. Barbara. Or Axel.
If it's a new group who will I teach. I wonder what will they be like. It's much better than teaching a class in the flesh I've come to realise. There's enornous potential, possibility just in the distance, Those teachers who cling onto the face to face teaching are often struggling with control issues I suspect.This is the Post Lockdown world. Get with the beat baggies !
Suddenly I find myself in a room wuth R*****. She works for Deichmann, the German shoe guys. She works in Dussledorf and is in her fifties I'd say and it is immediately obvious we have ninety minutes together as no one else in the group seems likely to show. Get in.! She's a charming, lovely lady with big glasses, great English and a big smile.She trained as a Fashion Journalist. It's immediately clear that I will learn more than I need to teach. I just need to tweak the paperwork to keep the surveillance middle managers happy.
How should I put this, surveillance middle managers are never happy and you can never keep them satisfied. They hate their jobs and often hate their lives. Their emails often come across as cries for help. Distress signals. They will blame you for things whenever they can. Never mind, I have the best of the deal right now. I have 90 minutes with R****.
We talk about Sicily. We talk about the differences between the Italian and German mindset.We talk about fashion. We talk about the Zeitgeist. We talk about Vladimir Nabokov. She's been reading Lolita. I recommend Pale Fire. I recommend Mad Men.
She tells me that Influencers she suspects are on the way out.You heard it here first. In return I talk about the Unreliable Narrator. Vladimir Nabokov, Gunter Grass. The Catcher in the Rye. We end with Breakfast In Tiffany's. Marilyn Monroe was originally cast for this role but then she died and Audrey Hepburn made it hers.
Good thing all round we decide given what Holly Golightly did for a living. Something that is artfully glossed over. Both with the book and the film. With Marilyn it would have been difficult to gloss over so artfully. And frankly might have made for a much darker cinematic. experience too.
The ninety minutes speed by like the intercity from Dussledorf to Cologne. We say , 'see you next week.' I put Scary Monsters on and make myself a cup of tea wondering at how I get paid for this and hope that this turn in the road can continue on straight open highway until I retire and beyond.
My next class, some lovely regulars is more smooth driving. We talk about driving accidents. I realise I need a business twist in the lesson for the pen pushing surveillance prison warders who check my work records for crossed 't's and spotted 'i's. With this in mind I get the students to describe work processes so I have something that will make them think I'm doing what they have told me I need to do. They don't realise that I'm half way through the tunnel and on my way to the beach, Good luck to them on their own tunnels. I can't help them with those I'm afraid.
My teaching is done and once my paperwork is too I'm off to the pool. Every day if I can. Sam is there at the desk. He's not happy because Newcastle United have won their first domestic trophy for 70 years and he's from the Sunderland area.A Mackem. Mackem's are not happy. They haven't been for a while now. And I suspect never will be again really. I can't do anything about that either..
I do my lengths. Have some time in the jacuzzi and sauna and make my way home. I still have a couple of hours to kill. So I put on Michael Clayton and heat up a pizza. There's something really satisfying about watching a film you love for the umpteenth time. And they don't get better for me than Michael Clayton. George Clooney fighting for truth and the little man. Tom Wilkinson running naked through a parking lot and buying lots of French bread. Tilda Swinton being a psychotic corporate witch and getting her comeuppance. Those horses. Sorry for the spoiler. Why haven't you seen it?
Once it's done. I'm off. Downtown. The twenty minute walk down the hill to The Quayside and The Crown Posada, the most atmospheric pub in Newcastle. There are plenty of wondrous pubs in Newcastle but The Crown Posada is the most atmospheric. No need for further discussion.
To take a liberty with Television's Venus, one of the songs for me, 'Newcastle looks so Medieval. It seems to flap, like little pages.' Newcastle is some gorgeous city. There's no other description of it. Especially in the early evening as the days lengthen and Spring approaches on a daily basis The way the light falls on the gorgeous Georgian fronts as I make my way down Grey Street. You can have that London Put it in your pipe Stick it.... Let's leave it at that.
I get myself a non alcoholic Erdinger and take a place in the front bar, under the paintings. An elderly couple come and take a seat next to me and chat together in happily married communion. I text nonsense to friends and enjoy my beer. As they get it up to go he elderly man gives me a glassy look, leans across to me and confers. 'They'll all be wanting to sit next to you before too long you know.' I nod back and smile. In a short moment this encapsulates exactly what I love so much about this city,
My beer is sunk and after a brief trip to the gutter I'm off round the corner to Zerox. Mt.Misery will be due soon. Zerox is pretty in pink but crouched in scaffolding. :Like a pretty teenage lass in intensive braces. It's better in the long run.. I head inside, head up to the Shooting Gallery.
Walter is there at the door of course. Walter is pretty much always there. He's a fixture of cool events. He checks my name on the list, waves me in. It's early doors. There's plenty of room. And plenty of appreciation for Mt. Misery. Hartlepool's finest. Hartlepool may have many greats band but Mt Misery will always be its finest in my book.
I've seen them a few times. They're nice lads. A tight quartet with jobs to maintain but who just love doing this. They're between albums one and two. They're tight as newlyweds , they jangle like it's 1981 and Postcard Records are still putting out singles. They sing about love and they have a lovely sound. Shame the sound desk at Zerox is so poor and the distortion approaches dangerous levels.I need some earplugs.
I leave before they're done. I enjoy the set but hey my ears! My health. I need a break. A cool Scouser comes past my table downstairs. He's come down from Edinburgh where he works just to see them though he's staying from the rest. He's in the process of rolling a tab. I ask him if he'd mind. Hey, I know I'm a bad person. Don't worry, plenty have told me. He obliges and we go out. Not really for fresh air but to attend to a bad habit. A taste for poison.
I don't get the guy's name but he's a lovely bloke. We talk about Glasgow V Edinburgh. Everton V Liverpool. He's an Everton fan. I sympathise with him. This is blokes talk. I'm sure women's conversations rarely follow this pattern. We chat a bit to the Mt Misery guys who are out for the same reason as we are. R.E.M. Vs The Smiths. I tell them that I saw R.E.M. Several times. Very early on. Not only am I a bad person. I'm a dull one. Hey! Sue me.
Back upstairs Stannington the main support are on. Their reputation proceeds them. At least to my ears.They're a local five piece and they're sloppy in the way that support bands were back in the day and I think always should be. The lead singer is wearing a ragged, lived in blue pullover that seems in danger of untangling and wraps the microphone so frequently arounnd himself you wonder whether it might be prudent to call 999.
Yes folks! He loves Morrissey. The rest of the band don't seem to mind The Smiths either. They're not quite the finishhed article. But I expect they'll blossom and bloom in the coming seasons. They're ones to watch.
Two bands down and one to go. I'm starting to wane. Hey. I've had a long day. I go and plonk myself in the dentist's chair opposite Walter as the Shooting Gallery fills up. Word is out about The Tubs. This can still happen, even in 2025. Their's is a wave building and they're clearly preparing to ride it.
I hear shrieks and scowls and twangs from iside the darkened Shooting Gallery. The Tubs are doing their soundcheck but I also suspect they are highly inebrietad. Stannington's vocalist was swigging from the bottle when not attempring to aspyhxiate himself with his microphone cord. It's so confusng being young. Anyway, more drinking onstage I say. Putting on a a show is something more bands should aappreciate and take responsibility for. These are tough times lets face it.
As soon as I get into the Shooting Gallery I realise I will not be here for the whole set. The Tubs are clerly a formidible proposition. Muscled, boisterous and extremely exhuberant and committed. Richard Thompson fronting the Smiths with Mission of Burma and yes early R.E.M. to boot.
But the room is close, the sound is problematic and I'm tired. The Scottish drummer is absolutely shitfaced. Although he keeps time and is very funny, his diatribes between songs trying to encourage us to buy merch get repetitive as drunks always do and he starts to embarrass his bandmates increasingly. Anyway I've seen enough to wonder whether The Tubs might indeed be the future of Rock & Roll. If such a thing is possible in 2025. Some things were simpler in Bruce Springsteen's youth. I head home.
