'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.
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