Midyear Malaise

London Fields # 66
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 24 June 2009
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here

In the northern hemisphere, as well as being the longest day of the year, the solstice is considered to be the first day of summer. Hence the beginning of the northern summer also marks the halfway point of the year, and I’m finding myself a little out-of-step with 2009. The temptation to spend an evening at home, rather than out watching music gets ever stronger. Nothing would persuade me to go to the Glastonbury Festival now (even though some friends have flown over from Oz just for it). It’s just too large now; smaller events like Latitude or Truck are far more tempting, as you can actually see the bands. While I can keep up with developments in music via MySpace and YouTube (and Glasto is on TV anyway), nothing matches the experience of a live band on the right night. On those nights I’ve been glad I got off the couch, or even went further a field for the experience.

At the Deaf Institute in Manchester, My Latest Novel played their first English show in several years. Selecting material almost exclusively from their yet-to-be-released second album Deaths And Entrances may have been a gamble, but I was both entranced and transported by the spirit of the band, their musical progression and the sheer joy of the inspiring music they created. Similarly, when I Like Trains played at The Luminaire for the launch for a Belgium Festival, most of their set was work-in-progress, some still without titles. The change to a four-piece has seen a shake-up their world view, and the new songs premiered showed that they are writing material of a different hue than they have so far released.

The innate experience and skill of The Bats shines through whenever they perform (as does their charm). They effortlessly recreate their sound in the basic set-up of The Brixton Windmill, and there are lots of older songs sprinkled amongst most of The Guilty Office (although sadly no Trouble In This Town or Made Up In Blue). Promoters (and label) Club AC30 can always be relied upon to provide gigs of quality, and The Bats supported Crystal Stilts for them at The ICA the following night. But a far more impressive show came at another AC30 show early the next week, when Stephen Lawrie used Doncaster three-piece 93MillionMilesFromTheSun as a backing band to perform a set of Taste-era material of his band The Telescopes. The result was punishingly brutal, but brilliant!

It doesn’t always go so well. I bought a ticket for The Gaslight Anthem mainly to catch their support for the tour, Frank Turner. Now I’ve seen Turner triumph at small gigs, and win over large festival crowds, but this middling-size audience proved a tough size to crack. Still, he did better than the headliners, whose repetitive songs seemed honed for audiences who wanted Bruce Springsteen 1978-85, without any of the slow ones, but with added ‘indie’ cool. I didn’t stay for the whole show; neither did I make it through all of doves on their recent tour. Before they hit the encore, I hit the pub next door – only to see rafts of attendees who hadn’t lasted as long as I did. And although I waited until the end of The Longcut at The Luminaire, things didn’t get much better than they began. The live sound was messy, and the band failed to find that elusive groove.

I’ve no interest in the daily reports of Blur (PLC) playing ‘secret’ show after ‘secret’ show. I don’t understand why White Lies end up on high rotation and brilliant releases like that by Joe Gideon & The Shark remain unnoticed. Over at the Enterprise, I catch Kid Harpoon, playing again as a solo performer. It makes me sad that music as fresh as vibrant isn’t being heard as it should. Since I last saw him, he’s recorded an album, scrapped it, re-recorded it and had Nambucca, the venue he lived about, and called home, burn down. Tonight sees him playing a piano-led paean in his memory, whilst older unreleased songs like Colours and Late For The Devil draw a strong response, and I fear the bouncing floor may give way during a rousing version of The Milkmaid.

Sometimes it feels like a lone battle against mediocrity. There are some great acts out there, and concepts like Bandstand Busking offer some hope. But is it enough to ward off the repercussions of five years of unthinking cover versions from TV talent shows? Just when I feel I may be losing it all, I run into someone who has worked with many of the bands I rate or care about. Over the next few hours that we end up chatting, on numerous occasions he stops and hugs me, merely for the opinions I express. So then I start to wonder, is that I am off the ball, or is just that most of the current music is just dull and unimaginative? Let me know…


© James McGalliard 2009

South By South East

London Fields # 65
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 27 May 2009
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here


While most of Great Britain sat inside to see how Graham Norton handled Terry Wogan’s Eurovision crown, I found myself wandering the lanes and seafront of Brighton seeking another type of music entirely. The Great Escape festival is a three-day event combining music conference and showcase spread over thirty Brighton venues. Perhaps partially a UK response to South by South West, it’s now in its fourth year, and draws around 3000 delegates and press and over 10000 punters. This particular weekend Brighton was literally overrun, as it coincided with the Brighton Festival, and its accompanying Fringe events, as well as ‘Heroes Run’ on the Sunday morning after the final night.

But it’s not just about seminars and performances, there’s networking as well. Outside the Thistle Hotel I run into Andrew Todd, the guitarist of The Boxer Rebellion. There’s a big announcement to be made regarding the band very soon, but for the time being they’re being very tight lipped about it. However if things go as planned, Andrew may well get to play his Adelaide home as part of a large touring summer festival in early 2010. The Australian presence was a little muted and understated this year; certainly there was nothing to rival the New Zealand showcase which saw Die! Die! Die!, Connan Mockasin and The Veils amongst the acts performing on the pier on the Saturday afternoon, although their twenty-minute sets were a little restrictive.

As the evening’s events began, so did the inevitable clashes. Torn between I Heart Hiroshima and Yves Klein Blue, we end up at the latter as it’s closest to our next destination. While you couldn’t fault their confidence, I kept waiting for one song to pull me up and make me pay attention; sadly it doesn’t appear. Maybe I’ve become too British in my tastes, but they sounded like 2004, and seemed to be lacking cohesion in what they were trying to do.

The next decision was a difficult one. Two of my favourite bands were playing at exactly the same time, but seeing either one of them ruled out seeing School Of Seven Bells, British Sea Power or Idlewild. However as Joe Gideon & The Shark have a London show next month, we opted for I Like Trains (formerly iLiKETRAiNS) at the large Concorde 2. There’s a disappointingly small crowd, which is a shame as iLT put in a first rate show. Keeping nothing back they open with Terra Nova, with a Rickenbacker bass you feel as much as hear, and the band silhouetted in dry ice in slowly rotating spots. It’s an old school approach but it works brilliantly. It’s hard to see why this band found themselves without a label; the new songs indicate that the next album is likely to sidestep the pitfalls of their ambitious yet flawed debut, and they are a great live act. While there are times it’s not quite gelling, it all comes together for the epic closer Spencer Percival, where the brooding menace which has been building up over the preceding eight minutes explodes into an apocalyptic cataclysm that is literally jawdropping.

Word reaches us that Patrick Wolf’s show is completely full, so do we see whether British India can justify their full page ad in that week’s NME, or go catch Gang Of Four? It’s not a hard choice. With the previous act running vastly over time, Gang Of Four have only fifteen minutes playing time before the curfew sets in, so they make the best of it. Jon King is one of the most brilliant and confrontational frontmen around. There’s a steeliness to him, whether conveyed by his impassioned wail, or the systematic destruction of a microwave with a baseball bat. He and Andy Gill are constantly moving between the three mikes, weaving like some deranged dervish. Their energy can barely be contained. Losing one of the best rhythm sections around is a cruel blow, but Mark Heaney is a strong presence on drums and Thomas McNiece nicely replicates those immense bass lines. While they may not cause structural damage like Allen’s did, it suits the band well. Gang of Two? Nah, they’re still firing on all cylinders.

Then there’s another long walk, trying to catch Dark Horses, Lisa Lindley-Jones new act which for these shows featured guest vocalist Emiliana Torrini. Sadly they’re done by the time we get there, but we do see a relaxed Patrick Wolf walking down the road tucking into chicken and chips. A midnight street conversation sees us at Audio, where I lose my friends to the packed throng on the dance floor. By now it’s nearing 1am and alone I catch the end of the set from one of the last acts performing, The Shiny Brights from Adelaide in the small downstairs bar of Jam. Singer Wolfgang brings some genuine frontman pizzazz to proceedings, and while not quite my thing, there’s a joyous energy here that is somewhat infectious.

The next morning I’m recovering in the Hove sunshine, watching hundreds of people dressed as superheroes trying to break a world record for the largest number of capes ever assembled in the one place. It’s a surreal end to a great experience. Next year I’ll be back for all three days. I only hope they get more extended licensing, or begin shows earlier so that the bands that have travelled so far to be here may be able to play for longer.


© James McGalliard 2009

Memories In Future Tense

London Fields # 64
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 29 April 2009
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here

When was the last time you walked on St Kilda Pier? Or took a stroll through the Botanical Gardens, or a gander at Cook’s Cottage? When you live in a place, you tend to take the local attractions as part of the background. There’s no imperative to see them, as they’ll always be there (as perhaps may you). So you get on with your life, tied up in the patterns of the daily commute, where to get lunch, and what housework probably needs doing but you can put off for just one more day. lf both life and work are based in suburbia, you can become so absorbed in all that entails that you lose sight of where you actually are.

This is true of adopted homes too. On a glorious autumn day last week, I travelled down to Brighton to catch Ultravox on their Return To Eden tour, which sees the commercially successful line-up of the band playing together for the first time since Live Aid some 23 years ago. Getting out of London can prove difficult, and once you do it’s still a long way to any beach, but seeing the sea made me wonder why I didn’t more often. While Brighton did have a pretty dingy period of faded glamour in the nineties, now its myriad streets of small and varied shops seems a world away from the recession-hit capital where the only new outlets seem to be bookies, pawn brokers and money lenders – some taking over the abandoned offices of real estate agents. Yet prices are steep down on the Suffolk coast – even a simple round of drinks was more than I’ve ever paid in London.

I had temporarily forgotten it was St George’s Day, until a labourer-philosopher on a nearby table in the pub started to lecture his mates on the subject (this just after his lengthy diatribe on the particularly outstanding qualities of the breasts of that day’s Page 3 girl). Now every English pub will have one or more of these chaps, and today’s outrage centred on how he wasn’t allowed to celebrate being English; especially as all these foreigners got their special religious holidays (obviously he’d momentarily forgotten that four-day Easter weekend a few weeks back). So here he was, wanting to celebrate a Roman soldier born in Turkey who may never even have existed. And while England should have a national holiday to match Ireland, Scotland and Wales, some nasty racist factions have appropriated this flag as England for the English, so it’ll be a difficult balancing act to get right. Maybe April 23 should be celebrated as Shakespeare’s birthday instead?

I’m glad to say Ultravox weren’t a disappointment; Midge’s voice is still outstanding, and it was joyous to see onstage the one reformation I feared would never happen. I still remembered every lyric, and was glad I was in a place and time I could see this limited reformation. Recently it’s been hard to know what decade this we’re living in here. The reformed Spandau Ballet are appearing on chat shows, ABC just played the entire Lexicon Of Love album with an orchestra, and lame Life On Mars sequel Ashes To Ashes has returned for a second series, set in a imagined 1982. Meanwhile, highbrow digital television station BBC Four commemorated the 25^th anniversary of the miners’ strike with a series of documentaries. The heavy-handed response by the police at some of those pickets is still shocking today, and while you’d hope such things are remnants of a dark past, the kettling tactics and assaults on some people in the vicinity of the G20 protests is a sad reminder that the world has not progressed as much as you’d hoped it had.

Anyway, so the train pulled into London Bridge from Brighton late at night and I had about twenty minutes to make the connection to Liverpool Street, which involved crossing the river that really divides the city in two. The Thames is not a sedate meanderer like the Yarra; it’s wide, turbulent, fast, and unpredictable; it’s unlikely you’d survive if you fell in. To my right I saw Tower Bridge for the first time in a few years, and it struck me that I was living in a place I had seen nightly on TV programmes on the ABC as I grew up. Unreal city indeed. Off to the left the huge dome of St Paul’s was still dominating the skyline as it has for hundreds of years. With so much despair around, it can be difficult to see the simple beauty that surrounds us. This floodlit colourful vision snapped me out of my reverie and left me vaguely awestruck, a feeling which as clung to me for several days. As the late Grant McLennan once sang, “If you spend your life looking behind you, you don't see what's up front”.

© James McGalliard 2009

Decalogue

London Fields # 63
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 1 April 2009
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here

There used to be simple rules of gig etiquette that everyone knew and understood. Recently these seem to have slipped by the wayside, and so the experience of being part of a large number of people crammed into a very small and poorly ventilated space is often an ordeal rather than any kind of pleasure. Now some of these codes of conduct have changed, or no longer apply. The conceit of never wearing a t-shirt of the band you are seeing seems to have passed into obsolescence. The smoking ban has relegated several others, but at outdoor events and guerrilla gigs erratic dancing can still result in cigarette burns in a neighbour’s clothing, or worse still, on their skin. While you may now come home from a gig without reeking of stale tobacco, the absence of smoke has revealed other odours that used to lie hidden in the haze. Principally is the seemingly new phenomenon of gig farters. We’ve probably all been quaffing away happily for many years – the difference is now you can smell it, and it can be overpowering. Indie gigs seem to be the worst – notable recent eye-watering instances have occurred at gigs by The Wedding Present, Wavves and The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart. Although you can’t really suggest Thou shalt not fart, the relentless onslaught throughout the performance sometimes makes me fear for the gastrointestinal health of those around me. I know I’ve written about gig talkers before, but they really are the bane of all but the loudest gigs. Put simply, they just show a complete lack of respect for both the performer and everyone else who has paid to hear the artist. There are other verbal annoyances, like the moron who yells out for a particular song after every song. Nick Cave has the best riposte to this “Yes, we’ll play anything you yell out. As long as it’s on that list (points to setlist). And in that order”. Yet some talk is good – like asking Excuse Me, rather than roughly barging a way through, But don’t use excuse me so that someone makes a space for you to squeeze through, only to stand in the space that was made for you as a temporary concession. Neither should you expect to find an easy road to the front if you arrive at the last minute. And if you want to be right against the stage, you may have to forego some other things. If you need to make six trips to the bar in ninety minutes then perhaps you should stand nearer the bar, so you don’t have to disturb people twelve times on your travels? Once you get to the bar, show some good grace. We’ve all had to queue for drinks, and we’re all missing something as we wait to be served. But when people push in, it just leads to aggro. At the front respect the rules of the mosh pit. If someone goes down, you stop and get them up, and out, if needed. Don’t go running full pelt into the periphery. We’re here to hear music, not to get into argy-bargy with someone spoiling for a rumble. Speaking of space invaders - take off your bloody backpack! You have no idea how many drinks you’re spilling, and people you’re bumping. If you must have your bag with you, then take it off your shoulder and put it on the floor. Or at least wear it on your front so you can see where it’s swinging. The final one shouldn’t even need to be stated, but sadly it does. Don’t steal - from other punters, or the venue, or the band. Piney Gir, in a recent MySpace posting, made a list of all the things that she’s had nicked from off stage in recent gigs, and it paints a pretty horrible picture of the state of play. Now I’m not for rigorous adherence to rules per se, and have probably broken many of them at some point (except the last). At one gig I was bailed up for talking. When I challenged this, he said that he couldn’t actually hear my commentary himself, but the microphone with which he was bootlegging the gig could. Another time a friend complained that the couple in front kept canoodling, and each time their heads pressed together, it blocked his view of the stage. Easy - you just move. Drink plays a factor in all of this, and there’s nothing worse that someone who’s drunk and obnoxious (unless they’re leery as well). But the loss of these abiding principals seems in some way to reflect a growing contempt of other people. So rather than a list of commandments, let’s keep it simple: don’t make your enjoyment of the gig result in ruining someone else’s. It’s simple - the tall bastard will stand in front of you just before the band come on, some idiot will spill your drink, or spill his over you, someone will yell out inanities, and someone else will treat you like crap. Yet sometimes the experience transcends all of this, and it is for these magic moments that we persevere. But if your pleasure is at the cost of someone else’s enjoyment, something’s gonna break. © James McGalliard 2009

What's In A Label?

London Fields # 62
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 4 March 2009
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here

Last week marked the 15^th anniversary of the death of Bill Hicks, and while watching a headline band recently I ruefully recalled his ‘Play from your heart’ routine. While not every live show will have his bubble of blood on the nostril, I hate watching someone onstage looking as if it’s a boring day job. One band that always meant it was Seafood, so I was excited to learn of a performance and screening in a small South London pub. Because while a band going quiet doesn’t necessarily mean they’ve just gone, it can do. But when the introductions start that night, I realise I’ve come unknowingly to a wake; this great act have sadly called it a day, without so much as a farewell tour or performance. Before the film, they screen some old videos and I’m struck by just how much better these songs and this band are than most of the current British indie fodder that receives recognition and airplay. The film, Where Have You Been, follows the band around Europe on what was to be their last ever tour. For director Ben Hall it was a labour of love, and while overlong, it is a wonderful insight into the joys, japes, and sheer tedium that is the life of a touring band; punctuated by the thrill of getting those vital minutes on stage, despite all that is against you. It also made you aware of how much of an uphill battle even established bands face; and how not giving up must be the toughest part of it all.

Yet even the ‘biggest band in the world’ can appear to struggle. U2 have been unavoidable this week, with blanket coverage across the nearly all stations of the BBC’s radio and television network; even BBC News 24 who showed their performance from the rooftop of Broadcasting House live. Yet even all this wasn’t enough to place comeback single Get On Your Boots in the Top Ten. The Boxer Rebellion used to share a label with U2, but they were dumped a fortnight after the release of their debut album Exits in 2005. Over the next three years, the unsigned band called in favours, and played shows between day jobs, determined to carry on and record a follow-up. This “was funded partially by the guys and partially by a Japanese promoter who fell in love with the band after seeing them perform live in Tokyo,” their manager Sumit Bothra tells me. Money that may have gone towards a physical release was spent on getting the final mix and mastering just right. The resultant album, Union, was released as a download only in January. Sadly, despite outselling Coldplay and Kings Of Leon, they were ineligible for the album charts, as The Official Charts Company only include download sales if there is an accompanying sanctioned physical release. While an official chart-eligible CD release may yet follow, for the time being there will be a limited edition run of 1000 copies for fans to be sold only at shows.

The full repercussions from the release strategy of Radiohead’s In Rainbows are yet to be felt. Geoff from Portishead, writing on the band’s MySpace described themselves as ”free of a deal and free of commitment” and asked “if you lot have any bright ideas of how we should sell our music in the future let us know”. Perhaps it’s no wonder that many bands, especially those who have been through the corporate mill before, are now taking matters into their own hands, for being Idlewild is selling their next album via their website before the recordings are even finished. But fans who pre-order it will receive a limited edition of it months before the official chart-eligible release. This allows them to part-fund the project, and makes fans feel part of the whole process, as their names will appear in the accompanying CD booklet, and allows the band to remain in control of their music. without a label can give them freedom to change the rules.

Spc Eco has also released their new album 3-D themselves, but at this point it’s only available as a high-quality download from their website. Dean Garcia has been through the business once before, with his previous act Curve. He explained it to me thus: “The upside is you can do exactly as you wish and retain full control and rights of the work. You can if you wish also license to individual territories (where you get the best of both worlds) like we have just done with Quince Records in Japan.” He notes that the downside is lack of funding for a market blitz, so the important “thing is to be able to somehow stick out from the crowd.”

An artist self-releasing music is independent in the truest sense of the word. But then there’s another band I know who are effectively in limbo. Their label has their finished album, but has decided not to release it at this point. So while labels can support an artist, and put them on a guaranteed wage, they can also slowly suffocate their charges. In many articles it’s been claimed that record sales were only a small part of band revenues now, and that the real money was in ticket sales and merchandising. But sometimes you have to wonder, is illegal downloading killing music, or is the industry killing itself?

© James McGalliard 2009

Live And Let Live

London Fields # 61
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 4 February 2009
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here

There are venues you love and cherish, others you go to only to see a band, and those you avoid no matter who is playing. The London Astoria, which closed for demolition last month, probably fell into that middle category for me, and I found it hard to be too upset about its demise. However it was loved by many, and playing there marked a significant stepping stone on a band’s career from playing club shows to the really large venues like Hammersmith or Brixton. Admittedly I did see some pretty special performances there, most notably Hope Of The States, and U2’s back-to-basics launch for All That You Leave Behind. Along with his sister venue, LA2 (formerly The Mean Fiddler), and The Metro in Oxford Street, it’s being pulled down as part of the long-awaited Cross Rail project, and its various late night clubs will struggle to find other suitable venues.

The economic downturn is causing other casualties. The Charlotte is Leicester has gone into administration, and even the efforts of local lads Kasabian may not be enough to save it. Both The Garage in Highbury, and Ocean in Hackney remain closed, despite mumblings that both may be going to reopen at some point soon. There are other threats lurking in the wings Various bands have posted MySpace bulletins urging their fans to sign a petition on the 10 Downing Street website against introduction of “…laws insisting anyone applying or re-applying for an entertainment license must have a noise control device fitted to the venue.” When this petition closed on 23 January, it had collected 86,281 signatures. Musician Warren James, who started the petition out of a concern that these devices would be made mandatory, has since issued a statement on his website that this never fear came to fruition. Interestingly, local authorities already have the power to introduce them if they so wish.

But there are major issues with noise levels at live shows. I’ve been to gigs where sound limiters cut all power the minute a snare drum was hit, and to city-based festivals where their volume levels were capped at such a ridiculously low decibel level that the person talking next to me was louder than the band. And that for me is a much greater noise problem - gigtalkers. I wish more venues followed the example of The Luminaire, where signs around the room make the situation unmistakably clear: “QUIET. IF YOU’RE TALKING WHEN A BAND IS PLAYING, WE’LL TELL YOU TO SHUT UP.” Sometimes volume can be an answer, but if the mix is too loud then the music can be lost; too few gigs recently have had brilliant live sound. But really all this is just a way of venues avoiding litigation. At their reunion shows last year, My Bloody Valentine issued complimentary ear plugs beforehand - but not every act can get away with playing aircraft landing loud.

The very first column I wrote for this paper, some five years ago, was about the introduction of the Licensing Act 2003. Hidden behind the much-needed relaxation of drinking hours were some clauses that could have horrendously affected any venue putting on live acts. It felt was a little like that episode of The Simpsons where Lisa has her airline fight path bill passed as it was paperclipped onto an innocuous and wanted legislation amendment. But there is a much more insidious piece of paper than the imagined threat of compulsory noise reduction devices. It also has a petition against it on the Downing Street website, started by Jon McClure of Reverend & The Makers; sadly this legislation is not imagined. The petition reads, "We the undersigned petition the Prime Minister to scrap the unnecessary and draconian usage of the 696 Form from London music events. So what is Form 696? A police form for event promoters which not only asks for the names, aliases, dates of birth, addresses and telephone numbers of everyone playing, but also about the audience likely to attend. In December they revised the form, halving its length and removing the most contentious questions about the ethnicity of performers and audience. Yet this question remains: Music style to be played / performed (e.g. Bashment, R’n’B, Garage). Somehow I don’t feel it’s white indie kids they’re interested in. Elsewhere it asks about the make-up of the patrons. This form needs to be submitted 14 days in advance or else fines and possible imprisonment could follow, and applies to 21 London boroughs but could go countrywide if successful. At the time of writing only 15,025 signatures had been collected opposing it – particularly interesting as its Facebook page has 26,385 members!

Now I can understand the police wanting to be able to prepare for possible problems. You could tell when there were ‘interest’ acts appearing at one East London venue because they’d be metal detectors on the doors, and the entrance was screened from the street, perhaps as a deterrent to drive-bys. It may all be down to thinking a watched pot never boils, but actions like this are more likely to create an ethnic pressure cooker.

© James McGalliard 2009

Future Retro

London Fields # 60
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 6 January 2009
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here

Sometimes you need to look into the past to see the future. I was trying to predict trends in the UK music scene for the next year, but realised it would be rather pointless to simply write about acts that are going to be bigged-up or fawned over by the broadsheets or music press. Concentrating on personal favourites ho may never even get around to releasing a single song commercially would perhaps be even worse. Yet a great deal of what’s happening here now comes from two places – the early eighties and the mid nineties.

For in the early eighties, synthesizers became affordable, and these cheaper keyboards opened a door to music, like an after echo of the DIY manifesto of punk. Today the sound of those old analogue instruments is ever more sort after, and some of the groundbreaking artists of this era are receiving recognition by a generation who weren’t born when these records were first made. In the mid nineties, the current eighties revival first began - The Human League toured on Octopus, Heaven 17 played live for the first time and Martin Fry put on the gold lame suit gain, embracing his past with ABC.

Last month saw The Steel City Tour, when all three of these Sheffield acts played together for the first time. And not cabaret-style with a house band – this was three fully independent groups. It was a great idea on paper, but I’ve seen all perform better in the last decade; it was also hugely disappointing that Martyn Ware and Phil Oakey didn’t collaborate. December also saw Simple Minds on a 30th anniversary tour, which involved them playing the entire New Gold Dream in the middle of their set, while 2007 saw Orchestral Manoeuvres In The Dark taking Architecture and Morality around the country.

But is the live arena the place to replicate music designed to be listened to at home, specifically by playing a ‘seminal’ album in its entirety? When Gang Of Four brought their Entertainment LP to Don’t Look Back, they pretty much kept to the same set of songs as at other shows on their reunion tour; I’m not sure if every track was actually played. As curator of the Meltdown festival, Patti Smith organised a showcase of the entire Horses album, in order. Yet in the excitement of performance, she forgot a track, which she later slotted into the encore. Now these were seated gigs, in formal concert venues, with an audience there for one act only. Yet when you take this concept to the festivals, it becomes more questionable, for it breaks the cardinal rule about playing known songs to seduce music goers who have never seen you live before. Yet at Primavera Sound in Barcelona the other year, there was Sonic Youth announcing “And now here’s side two, track 2”, as they track listed their way through Daydream Nation. Following a record’s running order slavishly not only takes away the spontaneity of the live environment, but it also ignores that a totally different sequence of tracks may be needed to keep a audience’s attention than is right for the passive listening of a studio recording.

There are other pitfalls of this too. At the same festival, Dirty Three had a valid complaint about performing Ocean Songs - “How are we meant to play an album that lasts over an hour in a forty minute slot?” asked Warren Ellis quite reasonably. Now I’m not necessarily against these things – I’ve paid to see a quite a few of them myself. But do we risk tainting our memories, and do bands risk ruining their reputations? Sometimes these events involve bands reforming, and that raises the tricky question of whether to write and perform new material? James are one of the more successful examples of this, but their 2008 album Hey Ma failed to capture the magic of the live rehearsals that took place during its recording. When they do work, it can be very special. The Blue Aeroplanes launched their deluxe re-release of the brilliant Swagger by playing the album in order, including tracks that had never been played live before.

So why the backward glance? Well, one look at the BBC Sound Of 2009 longlist is enough to make you despair for the future. It was only a few years back that The Bravery won; this year we have White Lies, who sound like The Bravery performing The Teardrop Explodes in the style of The Killers. Other ‘hopes’ also seem to be pillaging the past, and it looks as if there’s going to be a belated attempt to break some Electro into the UK mainstream.

It’s hard to see where 2009 will actually go. There are yet more eighties acts on the way - Blancmange is quietly working together again, and April will see the hit-making version of Ultravox bringing their arpeggios and flanged notes back on stage for the first time since Live Aid. But while the acts of the past were innovators, innovation seems largely absent today. Personally I can see two things – a new wave of C86 influenced acts from the USA, and this ceaseless digging bringing forth a BritPop revival. You have been warned.


© James McGalliard 2009

Boom and Bust

London Fields # 59

First published Inpress, Melbourne on 29 December 2008

NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here

But you really don’t care for music, do you? Isn’t it more than a little ironic that the debut single of this year’s winner of The X Factor is a cover of Leonard Cohen’s classic Hallelujah? The fastest selling download in UK history was released just after the final, so it’s fair to assume that all the late contenders recorded their own karaoke rendering of the same arrangement. The sheer commercial hard-headedness of it just fills my heart with seasonal glee. Saturday night telly is where the BBC and its commercial rival ITV battle it out in audience-voted talent quests, the modern day equivalent of variety shows. Even Peter Kay’s one-off piss-take Britain’s Got The Pop Factor And Possibly A New Celebrity Jesus Christ Soapstar Strictly On Ice spawned its own single, and it seems nothing will stem this tide of bilge passing for entertainment.

Pop may well eat itself, but television feasts on its own entrails. Literally in Charlie Brooker’s Dead Set (E4), which focussed on a microcosm of refugees hiding in the Big Brother house whilst the world outside fell to zombies. Brooker was also behind Screenwipe, an informative, cruel and bloody funny show about television. On ITV, the award-winning TV Burp saw Harry Hill take a gentler ramble through the previous week’s viewing, replete with some lovely running gags. While BBC Four had a series of biopics of famous comedians and their bloody depressing lives, it wasn’t a vintage year for TV comedy. New sketch shows failed, Pulling improved but wasn’t recommissioned. With the exception of Peep Show, the brighter lights were the newcomers, like No Heroics, or The Kevin Bishop Show. 2008 also saw the serious decline of the documentary. reality TV and lifestyle challenges had already done damage, but the new decline was evidenced by ‘mission’ shows. Even Horizon turned mental illness into a game of Spot The Looney.

Dramas prepared us for the end of the world. Spooks saw a Russian sleeper planting a nuclear device in central London, and the ropey Spooks Code 9 was set in the aftermath of a nuclear attack by terrorists at the 2012 games. Survivors (a remake of Terry Nation’s 1970’s original) began with a pandemic wiping out over 99% of the earth’s population, and next year we’re promised a new version of The Day Of The Triffids. While I suppose anything is more entertaining than Hole In The Wall or I’m A Has-been, Restart My Career, you start to wonder if we’re being slowly prepared for a new, tougher world, one where you can only hold onto what is yours by force.

In the real world of London’s streets, 28 teenagers died violently and gangs fought post code-based wars. Britain talked its overvalued housing market into a crisis, and we all just watched helplessly as the credit crunch inevitably became a recession. For sure, someone made a nice profit out of the misery of wrecked lives. Every day a further 350 Londoners lose their jobs; unemployment stands at 1.8 million, the highest since 1991, and predictions expect this to rise by another million by 2010. But the most telling sign of the downturn has been the loss of an integral part of British life and one of the country’s retail giants - Woolworths. Perhaps actually closest to the long-gone Coles Variety stores, Woolies modern Australian equivalent would be Target or K-Mart. Yet Woolies wasn’t an outer suburban megastore - with 807 stores they held a place on every high street. Nothing has felt less like Christmas than watching a wake of buzzards descend upon the 27 000 soon to be unemployed workers, to pick clean the carcass of the dying beast, all to the sound of piped Christmas songs. Ironic also as this was where many a single of Christmas Past was bought.

My catch cry of live gigs this year seems to have been ‘Oh, maybe it was just a bad night’. Hence Robert Forster was dull and uninspired and Nick Cave at Hammersmith seemed a little out of love with The Bad Seeds, perhaps wishing he was playing Grinderman instead. The exceptions to ‘bad nights’ were wonderful. My Bloody Valentine joined the rare echelons of acts whose reunion was a good idea, and Edwyn Collins, who I was a little scared to see after his stroke, proved bloody great, both musically and spiritually. The baggy workings of Working For A Nuclear Free City hinted at a possible return to Madchester, and Frank Turner’s enthusiasm and sheer joie de vie made every show special. Get Well Soon as a full band surpassed their excellent debut album, and Fuck Buttons dark rave provided an exhilarating contrast to boring Carling rock acts.

With Top Of The Pops gone, and only very large stores carrying any physical singles at all, does the singles chart really matter any more? Railing against bad cover versions, I feel a little like Alex DeLarge, strapped into a chair, my eyes clamped open, screaming “It’s a sin!” Yet as I write, the campaign to get Jeff Buckley’s cover of Hallelujah is gaining momentum. Perhaps there is some hope for the future after all?

© James McGalliard 2008

Scapegoating

London Fields # 58

First published Inpress, Melbourne on 3 December 2008

NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here

Righteous indignation seems to be favourite pastime of a disgruntled populace. Fanning the flames of anger helps to sell newspapers, so it’s become the backbone philosophy of certain British tabloids (or Red Tops as they’re known) and perhaps their lifeblood. Deliberately provocative language is used to heighten emotions, and the manipulation may also make you seethe with rage.

They need things for you to be angry about, and while there’s nothing new about making news out of nothing, this rebel-rousing feels like the work of the Ministry Of Truth. You’ll find stories of how youth are out of control, or how Britain is not as great as it was, or how foreigners are taking away British identity. And this sort of piffle perpetuates the vision of a decaying nation and opens the door to politicians that play on dreams of sovereignty and jingoistic nationalism.

The British believe strongly in justice. So when someone was voted off The X Factor is questionable circumstances, Ofcom (the broadcasting standards council), was besieged with complaints. In this instance, people actually watched that show, and made complaints themselves before it became a news story. But that’s not always the case.

I’m not sure how much of BBC’s Manuelgate permeated the Australian conscience, so here’s a brief précis. On a Thursday night, comedian Russell Brand was pre-recording his Saturday night show for BBC Radio 2, along with special guest Jonathan Ross, a near ubiquitous BBC presenter and talk show host. They unsuccessfully tried to contact Andrew Sachs (Manuel from Fawlty Towers) for a phone interview. As he was unavailable, they left four explicit messages on his answerphone, centring on Brand’s dalliance with Sach’s granddaughter, the burlesque performer Georgina Baillie. Perhaps the presenters felt no need to curb their exuberance as the show wasn’t being broadcast live, so anything too risqué could be edited out later. Sachs was contacted about the messages and content prior to actual transmission. Here, accounts vary; certainly some material was cut, and the show was approved by station management and broadcast, claiming an audience of 400 000. Two of these listeners complained - about Ross’s language, not the content itself. More than a week later, The Mail on Sunday picked it up as a story, and from there it snowballed into front page news, and stayed there for weeks, going on to become one of the most complained about broadcasts in the history of the BBC. Ross was suspended without pay for three months, while Brand resigned, as did other high ranking BBC staff, including Lesley Douglas, the controller of BBC Radio 2 and BBC 6Music. Georgina Baillie hired publicist Max Clifford, and was the centre of a Channel 5 documentary called Russell & Ross: What the F*** Was All That About?

There are a number of key questions raised by it all. Do people in public life have a right to privacy, or has the world of gossip magazines and paparazzi taken that away? Was anyone hurt by it? Was it funny? And what does it mean for comedy? Adrian Edmondson (Vyvyan of The Young Ones) writing for The Independent, and the brilliant Charlie Brooker (whose television programme about television Screenwipe has recently returned to BBC Four) in The Guardian questioned the effect there might be on comedy if producers were so worried about reprisals and recriminations for allowing material which pushed the boundaries.

The real thing that was called into question in all this is the BBC’s role as a public broadcaster. Yet perhaps the reason for the story was envy – of the sexual proclivities of Brand, and the enormous pay packet of Ross (£6 million a year). Can an organisation which is funded by the public afford to pay commercial salaries? It probably wasn’t helped by Ross’s quip about his income at last years British Comedy Awards - "I'm worth 1,000 BBC journalists". Personally, I’ll pay the licence fee just for Doctor Who. Incidentally, this story almost buried the news that David Tennant is stepping down from the central role in Doctor Who at the end of next year. But it did allow former Doctor Sylvester McCoy to suggest on GMTV that Sachs and Baille could take the show back to its roots, with the Doctor as an old man, accompanied on his travels by his granddaughter.

A few days after newsagents were left with unsold newspapers with Brand or Ross on their covers, Barack Obama was elected president, and these papers were all sold by lunch. Brits care about a lot more than their television. The short sad life and circumstances surrounding the death of Baby P was indeed a tragedy, and one that caused genuine feelings of revulsion and sadness. But the prurient humour of two adult schoolboys knocked the government’s huge bail-out of British banks off the front page; and made us forget that the US election wasn’t taking place in the UK. Britain hoped too when it had a major change in 1997, and I don’t think it will ever forgive the Blair government for what followed. One can only hope that Australia and America are not similarly disappointed in their respective new golden ages.


© James McGalliard 2008

A Tale Of Two Cities

London Fields # 57

First published Inpress, Melbourne on 8 October 2008

NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here

So I’m sitting in a bar in Swan Street, Richmond, briefly back home in Melbourne, and I’m attempting to communicate over the noise and the alcohol some of the almost invisible differences between Melbourne and London life. When two societies are so close in so many ways, it’s the simple differences that can cause such misunderstanding and havoc. Even simple abbreviations can be treacherous, as a shortened version of Pakistani is an even more offensive racial slur in Britain than an abbreviation of Aboriginal is in Australia, yet the latter is a term which the Brits seems to use casually and without thought.

In the UK, a pedestrian has no right-of-way at a zebra crossing until they have walked onto the road, and even then you have to hope that that car will actually stop. But anyway, I’m trying to illustrate the unwritten rules which underlie social order in the British Isles. I explain that in a London pub it would be wrong in normal circumstances to strike up a conversation with a neighbouring table (subject to regional variations), hence the popularity of events like pub quiz nights, where these rules break down. Meanwhile, the effects of the smoking ban were more clearly visible in Melbourne both as evidenced by a chain of burning rubbish bins throughout the CBD from poorly-extinguished cigarettes and by the evenings spent huddled with the smokers in freezing beer gardens. In the UK, smokers duck outside for a few minutes, and then try to slip seamlessly back into the conversation.

I think I’m still fairly Australian, but when I use the expression ‘taken umbrage’, I am pulled up for being far too British. It’s a relief that the culture of fear than permeates London’s streets is fortunately yet to make major inroads in Melbourne. For in London you need to be very careful in offering assistance to strangers lest your motives are misinterpreted or taken advantage of. An offer of help can be seen as more than a threat than anything else, so the friendly Aussie soon learns to walk on by. But some things are not better in the Lucky Country. I was shocked at how expensive Australian groceries had become – the cost of a weekly shop is markedly higher than in the UK. And these rising prices seem to be leading to a new class divide – the haves and the have-nots, perhaps most easily distinguished by the home brands in their shopping trolleys. At least the recession is yet to hit, as the property market is buoyant compared to that in South East England.

While in Melbourne I caught The Wreckery play the first hometown show in twenty years. It was great to see them live again, and offered a chance to show that their legacy was a lot more vital and vibrant than reflected in the silly joke names that have dogged them for years. Even more refreshing was the fact that a large percentage of the audience were too young to have seen them the first time round, meaning that their sound, which has dated very little, has the potential to find a whole new listenership if they continue. Less than a fortnight later, I’m at the Royal Albert Hall to watch Echo & The Bunnymen, accompanied by an orchestra, celebrate their 30^th anniversary by playing the entire Ocean Rain album. The difference between the gigs was marked; the average Bunnymen fan was well over forty, and I didn’t see younger fans at all. Of course, that may in part have been due to the high ticket prices, but could it also be that younger Oz punters are more interested in what they missed? Sadly The Bunnymen were mostly underwhelming and lacking in the sense of occasion, which made the occasional moments of brilliance all the more frustrating, as it showed how great they can be still.

So it’s a few weeks later and I’m standing in a small venue in Hoxton watching a short but brilliant set from Frightened Rabbit. They finish with one of the best songs released by any band this year, Keep Yourself Warm, and I’m thinking that it’s a little like a modern take on Throw Your Arms Around Me. But “we may never meet again, so shed your skin and get started” has been replaced by “I’m drunk, and you’re probably on pills; if we’ve both got the same diseases it’s irrelevant girl”. So is this the change from 1984 to 2008, or is it Australia verses the UK? I’m not sure I know the answer to that.

Now I’m no anthropologist, so while some of the above may be a version of participant observation, I probably fail to maintain sufficient distance and become involved, making me prone to more than a little field blindness. But I think it is fair to say two things. Twelve days is barely enough time to find your feet again, let alone make value judgements. And that there is that risk in travelling – while trying to find a place that feels like home you may lose whatever one you thought you had in the first place.

© James McGalliard 2008

Just a little off The Fringe

London Fields # 56

First published Inpress, Melbourne on 10 September 2008

NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here

For three weeks every August, Edinburgh visibly groans as patrons of the various festivals add to the already considerable weight of the tourist horde. Even though The Fringe had one of its worst years ever for ticket sales (leading to the resignation of its director Jon Morgan), rooms remained hard to find and expensive. On the Royal Mile, there’s fierce competition from leafleters to street performers for your attention and patronage.

Most striking was the way the city was tagged EVERYWHERE, with stickers, specially printed t-shirts, postcards and beer mats proclaiming This Belongs To Lionel Richie. Such inventiveness led me to see the flagship of their five show assault This Sketch Show Belongs To Lionel Richie. This seven strong team kept things brief, rattling through 25-odd sketches in an hour, meaning little overstayed its welcome. It also didn’t rely on the constant repetition of characters which seems to be the current industry standard, and it had almost TV-like speed in its switches between scenes. Special mention must go the sketch featuring the misguided attempts of using Radiohead’s Thom Yorke to advertise mini chicken kievs (Pay whatever you like, or nothing at all, or get them in a deluxe boxset for £40…No Thom! Cut!!)

There was a strong Australian presence at the Fringe as well, from small free events to Circus Oz’s 30th anniversary show. Brendan Burns, the winner of last years IF award (formerly the Perrier) was a hot ticket, as was Tim Minchin, particularly after a feature of the BBC2’s special Edinburgh edition of The Culture Show. Also featured on the same programme was The Scottish Falsetto Sock Puppet Theatre, which was my personal highlight of my time there. It’s a one man two-hander (three if you count the invisible Emo sock), featuring a playful reworking of Johnny Cash’s Walk The Line with a guitar-playing sock, a five minute King Lear, a dissection of Abbott & Costello’s Who’s On First routine, and a improv song from cut-outs of Kraftwerk in a cameo appearance. Of course it’s a little naff, but knowingly so, and so good natured you can’t help but love it. And on top of that all, it’s extremely funny, even (especially?) when things go a little wrong. I hope that someone from the Melbourne Comedy Festival sees sense and brings this show out next year.
Over in The Spiegeltent, My Friend the Chocolate Cake returned for their first UK shows in over a decade. With no London shows booked, their appearance was the deciding factor making the trip north. With a short 70’ set, perhaps they didn’t pick the best material to showcase themselves, and some sound issues early on didn’t help. But then it all came together, and was over much too soon. Theirs was a relatively small crowd the night I went, and it made me a little sad to see the queue around the Spiegelgarden for the late show, La Clique, which through word-of-mouth became the must see show of the Festival.


In the Balcony Room of the Gilded Balloon, the subject of Damian Callinan’s show mmm… they’re small proved a bit much for some audience members, who walked out once it became clear that it was gonna be an hour of balls, or at least about them. Perhaps it was an error in judgement for the flyers not to explain that the show is his journey of self-discovery about infertility and relationships, both interpersonal and with his testicles. There were many ways this could have gone, and for me the mix of high and low humour, pathos, education, knob jokes, Catholic references and role playing just didn’t hang together. It felt more like a work in progress, lacking both laughs and a deeper emotional level. While Callinan remains an extremely likeable performer, this didn’t really show his best side.

Then again, it is the contrasts that make the festival so interesting. Simon Kempston and Friends, a trio of guitar, cello and bodhran, stitched through with his unique otherworldly voice, provided a lunchtime moment in St Giles Cathedral. On the street outside, David McSavage’s routine consisted of harranging passers by with very funny short musical ditties (although one day someone will twat him, as some of these were a little on the sharp side). On South Bridge Street there’s a queue outside an unassuming café called The Elephant House. Inside are more people sitting alone with their laptops than you’d think possible. For it was here that a certain Joanne Rowling sat each day to write the first Harry Potter novel, so other aspiring writers pilgrimage here hoping that a little, ahem, magic will rub off on them.

But perhaps the most surreal moment of the whole Festival occurs late on a Sunday night as I walked across The Meadows after catching some free Finnish stand-up (don’t ask). For coming from the nearby marquees was the distinctive sound of ex-Fringe favourites The Doug Anthony All Stars. Yep, The World’s Best Kisser graced the Fringe once again, this time courtesy of The Ladyboys Of Bangkok. Oh yes, I hope to be back again next year.

NB: This column does NOT belong to Lionel Richie!


© James McGalliard 2008

Going To The Dogs

London Fields # 55

First published Inpress, Melbourne on 13 August 2008

NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here

Londoners often tend not to know what they’ll miss until it’s lost. So when one of the first initiatives of new London mayor Boris Johnson was to ban the consumption of alcohol on all public transport, wags used Facebook to organise a number of giant booze-ups on the Circle Line for the last night of legal drinking. Predictably, it all went awry, leading to chaos, closed lines, and arrests.

A few weeks later, waiting with my shopping for a (now booze-free) bus outside Walthamstow Central station, a family of rats frolicked playfully around my feet. You can’t live in London long without someone helpfully reminding you that you’re never more than fifteen feet away from a rat in central London, but the exuberance of this lot was something else. As I got off the bus in the middle of the local estate, I was greeted by the all-too-familiar sound of a police siren. I looked up and down the street, as did others also waiting to cross, but there wasn’t a cop car to be seen. Then we realised that the ‘siren’ was emanating from ten year old lad, sitting astride his BMX. This junior Michael Winslow’s rendition was so uncannily accurate (including the switches in tone used to get through heavy traffic) that people looking for the police car broke into hails of laughter as they realised its source. Like a bowerbird imitating what it hears, this lad had captured the sound of the London streets.

While a wail of a siren is a modern soundtrack, so many symbols of the old East End have disappeared from the streets. Some changes are a reflection of its changing emigrant culture; others are due to financial pressures. It’s been many years since I heard the ringing school bell and cries of “any old iron” from the scrap metal man, and even longer since I last saw (or heard) the clip-clop of the horse and cart of the rag and bone man (as immortalised by Steptoe and Son). With a large influx of followers of religions which shun alcohol, many of the smaller local boozers have closed and been converted into flats. Very few pie and mash shops, which sell the traditional jellied eels, remain. Greasy spoons are one of the remaining stables of the East End, but the price of a fry up has risen 15% in the past year, according to a report in The Sun.

And next Saturday, Walthamstow Stadium, an iconic landmark and a centre of greyhound racing in the capital for 75 years, will close its doors for the last time. Last May the Chandler family, who have owned and run the track since it opened in 1933, sold the 8.1 acre site to developers for the construction of new-build flats. So I spent last Saturday night at the dogs. This is not the world I usually inhabit; in the bar they’re playing Phil Collins’ Against All Odds and Chicago. Sitting in the seats of the grandstand around me are four generations of the same family, brought together by something that will soon be another lost relic of the old East End. It’s a real mix; young couples on dates, old couples, children, Hoxton haircuts - all gathering as an era ends. The stadium also has a place in rock history, as all the photographs of Blur’s breakthrough album Parklife were taken here.

No matter what happens, the beautiful neon frontage, the East London equivalent of the Nylex or Skipping Girl Vinegar signs will be saved, as it was listed by English Heritage last year. But it will become a façade with no heart behind it. The closure will also mean the loss of hundreds of jobs for local people. While there are two rescue packages on the table and a big protest march planned for the lunchtime on Saturday, at this stage the only hope seems to lie in the developers fretting over the slump in the housing market.

For The Stow, as it’s affectionately known, is one of the few places of entertainment in this impoverished ‘Olympic’ borough. Waltham Forest remains the only London borough without a cinema, since the local Odeon closed early this decade; it now lies rotting as they decide what to do with it. And the horrible giant 3.7 metre TV screen that the council have just installed this week in the Town Square, to show both the Chinese and 2012 Olympics every day from 7am to 11pm, is no replacement.
Even local MP, Neil Gerrard, a former greyhound racer himself, can’t really see the council opposing the development, reports the Waltham Forest Guardian, as it fits into the social housing agenda. But he also said, “We don’t need housing at the expense of everything else, especially the biggest leisure facility in Walthamstow”. Over twenty greyhound stadiums have closed around the country in the past ten years, but The Stow was the jewel in the crown. Next week, London will only have tracks remaining at Wimbledon, and in Romford, Essex. While the opponents of greyhound racing may applaud its closure, there’s a part of me that’s very sad about it. For this is another part of London that will be irretrievably lost, and once again, people may only realise what they had once it’s gone forever.

© James McGalliard 2008