The Crunchy and The Smooth

London Fields # 52
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 21 May 2008
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here

“If you hate the place so much, why have you lived there for the best part of twenty years?” This question arrived by e-mail in response to a recent column, and played on my mind for days. Was I portraying such a negative viewpoint, or merely being actively and critically aware? And if I did indeed hate London, why have I chosen to make this large, cold, distant and potentially dangerous city my home for so long?

Over the past few weeks, I’ve been watching a pair of magpies build a nest outside my office window. But I can no longer see it or them. For in the course of three days Spring arrived, and a tree of bare branches became so thick with foliage that the nest was lost from view. Now with this sudden change of season came the pollen, which for the past three years has blighted the capital with itching, eye irritation and other allergies. Even if you see it all though teary eyes, how can you not love a place that goes troppo the minute there is sun and temperatures over 20? The change in people’s personalities is astounding too, like that old episode of Star Trek where the townsfolk’s demeanour changed as the clock struck twelve. So too, the Londoners shed their winter hides and suddenly exchange scowls for smiles - there’s a latent friskiness in the air. At lunchtime, London Fields was awash with sunworshippers, and the turnstiles of the recently opened lido (outdoor swimming pool) clicked incessantly. It can be these little things that make you cherish a place so.

The London pub is a special place, and the old style establishments are becoming rarer all the time. Many have been converted into flats, or ‘upgraded’ to gastropubs and dining rooms. Yet they can still be found, and in a local boozer on a Hackney estate, they quickly learn your name, and remember what you drink. In this very pub recently a mate (London born and bred) commented on how hard it was to make friends here, but friendships you do make are exceedingly strong. So while it is harsh for the newcomer, there are rewards for staying longer term. For a place is as much about people as it is about architecture, and so London has become more an International city than a British one, as a true reflection of its shifting multicultural population.

Although folks moan about it, public transport in the capital is pretty amazing considering the sheer numbers it has to cope with. And living in a city so large means that it can take hours to get to a gig, but the sheer variety and number of acts means it’s hard to keep it to less than two nights a week. Bands from all over the world play here, and the local scene is better than it ever has been. Melbourne is so far away; here I see bands that have never made the journey there, sometimes because their Australian fanbase simply isn’t big enough to make a tour financially viable.

While it’s by no means perfect, the National Health Service (NHS) remains amazing, simply by surviving all the cutbacks. It may be underfunded, but is staffed by dedicated professionals who provide a high level of healthcare. You may sometime have to wait a while, and you’d be lucky to build the same bond that you had with your Australian GP, but I never fail to be impressed by a system that provides care to all, regardless of income or private insurance.

Another publicly funded jewel, the BBC, is an absolute gem. I may not entirely agree with its direction of travel, but find myself watching its five main television stations, listening to four of its radio stations, and using its comprehensive website daily. Really it is unmatched anywhere in the world. And it’s all commercial-free! British newspapers, from the popular red tops, to the ones given out free at train stations, to quality papers like The Independent and The Guardian are also wonderful. Without them, I feel disconnected from the wider world in a way that even the SBS News can’t fill.

I miss Cherry Ripes, and being able to say ‘Morning’ to people I pass in my street, and having a peer group with a similar background. But for the time being this will continue to be my home. I like that bands are finished by 11pm, so I can get to work the next day without too many ill effects. I love being embedded in history, from local place names, through to contemporary pop references.

I think what it all comes down to is that some time into a relationship, you realise that your chosen partner isn’t perfect. You see their faults, yet still love them. For if the things you love outweigh those you don’t, you stay. My eyes may wander, and my heart may desire more, but for now I’ll continue my relationship with London. Melbourne was my first love; and your first love remains with you for your whole life. I have no desire to be here when the Olympics arrive, and London is increasingly a city for the young. But for the time being at least, London is the one I’ll come home to each night.

© James McGalliard 2008

Gypsyfolkpunkrock

London Fields # 51
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 23 April 2008
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here

There are some interesting developments in indie UK music away from the generic ‘Carling Indierock’ that seems to be widely exported. There’s a growing unquiet, which is finding its expression not through radio-friendly unit shifters like The Enemy, but via singer-songwriters. While you could say that some of these were following in Billy Bragg’s footsteps, and others from a folk rock tradition, each is saying something different in a vibrant way.

I suppose the most long-standing one of these artists is Chris T-T. His early records were very London-based – The 253 album was named after a bus route (which ran from Whitechapel to Euston via Hackney, Finsbury Park and Camden). In October 2005 came his furious protest LP 9 Red Songs, resulting in some media attention and a live session with Tom Robinson on BBC 6Music. I caught him play a mid-afternoon set on the main stage at Truck Festival last summer, and was suitably impressed with his personality, his wit and his songwriting. He’s just released Capital, which completes the London triptych he began with The 253. Sharing a label with Chris T-T, and having recently toured in America with him, is Frank Turner. Like Billy Bragg, he came from a punk background, in this case as frontman of defunct punk rock band Million Dead. Turner has just released Love Ire and Song, his second album as a solo artist. It’s a more political beast and perhaps not as endearing as its predecessor, Sleep is for the Week, which dealt more with personal relationships. Yet both albums share a refreshing honesty and candour of music and lyrics which distinguish him from the run of the mill. For both artists are making strong statements in a time when much of the music that is broadcast is mainly apolitical and homogeneous.

On The Ballad Of Me And My Friends, Frank Turner sings of playing ‘another Nambucca show’. Tom Hull, aka Kid Harpoon, started his London career living above, and playing regularly at that very north London venue. I first caught Kid Harpoon as a solo artist, opening the bill for shoegazey folk-rockers Fields. Accompanying himself on an acoustic guitar, he had a great presence, and a strong set of songs. But the crowning glory was his blistering take on Leonard Cohen’s First We Take Manhattan. Since then, he’s recruited a band, The Powers That Be, and I’ve seen them several time before, but nothing prepared me for the joyous explosion they created recently at a show at Dingwalls. For in an age when gigs can be over-regulated, they showed people it was possible to have fun without being ejected from the venue. From the people who ran onstage and planted kisses on Tom’s cheek, to the crowdsurfers, and those who stayed onstage to sing along the chorus of The Milkmaid – all were left alone to get on with it and no-one was hurt or evicted. With the full band, the music is sorta gypsy folk punk rock, showing the transparency of all those post-Libertines acts. For what Kid and The Powers have created is a musical timewarp, an age when you could let it all go at a gig and have a fantastic time without fear. And it’s still early days; he and his band are still finding their way and learning just what they can achieve. But the most startling thing is the way Manhattan is now his song, just as much as John Cale or Jeff Buckley can lay claim to Cohen’s Hallelujah.

Although not folky in any sense, but like Kid Harpoon another of my picks for 2008, there have been great leaps forwards by Exit Calm. When I first saw them I loved the music but was unsure of their singer. But now Nicky Smith has all the swagger of Ian Brown and the menace of a young Liam Gallagher, but his throaty rasp is all his own. The only thing that may stand in their way is the volume of Rob Marshall’s guitar, which at a recent show at The 100 Club threatened to destroy anything within a 400’ radius of the stage.

Speaking of loud, there’s been a huge shift in the world of The Twilight Sad - they’ve added a fifth member. Now the Sad were my favourite act of 2007; each show was special and unique. And it’s unfair to make a judgement based on a single show, but their London showcase at The 100 Club was the first time they didn’t blow my proverbial socks off. Dok (from Aereogramme) is the newcomer, and he fills out the sound with keyboards, loops and some additional guitar. Alas, it was a case of more is less. For there was a purity about the four-piece – the contrasts between the fury and the ebb. The impact of this has lessened with the expansion, as all the spaces are filled. Afterwards the band tells me this addition is permanent, as they felt they needed some new input. I’ll tend to trust them and wait to see how it all turns out as they’ve been right in so many ways before. Oh, and the new stuff sounds just grand…


© James McGalliard 2008

Paperweight

London Fields # 50
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 26 March 2008
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here

I’m often baffled at which stories Australian newspapers choose to republish from their UK counterparts. It sometimes means that weird creatures, such as the lesser-spotted celeb become known in Melbourne, when the TV show that made their name hasn’t been screened overseas. Perhaps more interesting are the stories that don’t get reprinted; maybe they seem too English, or simply not relevant. But these can paint a disturbing picture of the land in which I live.

Concerns about ‘youth run wild’ help to fuel fear (and to sell newspapers). So tabloids became obsessed with a spate of teenage suicides in the South West, even claiming links to social networking sites. Closer to home, London teenage gangs are said to be aping their LA equivalents in a war over territory and colours. Last year, 34 were killed; this year 7 have died so far. In Camden, a fast food chain is hiring bouncers as the late-night shenanigans of post-pub punters are getting out-of-hand.

The race for London Mayor ahead of the forthcoming elections on 1 May has lead to debates about everything from bendy buses to the future of live music venues. On 11 March, following the publication of the This City Is Built For Music report, current Mayor Ken Livingstone launched an initiative to try and halt the closure of so many of London’s music venues. Yet three days later, it was announced that The Astoria was to be demolished (to allow a new station to be built), following in the footsteps of the Hammersmith Palais and the Spitz. While we’re promised that a new, larger, swankier venue will replace The Astoria, the future of Camden’s Electric Ballroom is still undecided. But why should this be of any concern to someone that doesn’t live here? If London becomes end up a city of larger super-venues, the variety will suffer, as a wave of hyped or generic bands that can fill the larger spaces become the mainstay. Meanwhile, over in Shoreditch, some of the former YBAs (Young British Artists) are creating opposition to the demolition of a pub to build a twenty-five-storey tower, which they feel will destroy the character of the area.

One thing that may strike any visitor to London is the lack of public loos. Across the UK, over five thousand have closed over the last ten years, for reasons including cost, vandalism, safety, cottaging and drug use. There are some French-style Turdises about, but these are often out-of-order or unusable. And with pubs being closed and converted into flats, there really is literally nowhere to go.

Smokers have had a tough time of it here. The ban in public places was one thing, but some live venues continue to have a No Passouts policy. A smoker told me that last week’s three hour plus gig by The Cure at Wembley felt even longer than a long-haul flight as he couldn’t duck out for a ciggie! Now there’s talk of removing cigarettes from visible sale, so they’ll literally become under-the-counter items. But there’s more; Health England wants to introduce smoker’s permits - without one of these photocards you won’t be able to purchase tobacco at all. I suppose it’s all down to the lack of tax on the illicit, but a report last week stated that a line of coke is now cheaper than a London pint.

If a smoker’s ID card sounds a bit Orwellian, then what about the introduction of new UK national ID cards? Non-European Union nationals will be issued with compulsory ID cards later this year. Then, almost by stealth, it will roll out to security staff, and then students will be encouraged to apply as it will ‘assist’ them to apply for a loan, or to get served in a pub. Anyone applying for an UK passport from 2011 will automatically be enrolled. There are fears of how secure our data will be. We may shred our bank statements, but government officials seem to almost have developed a habit of leaving CD-ROMs full of personal data lying around. But at least an ID card is an invisible marker.

David Cameron, the Conservative leader of the opposition, has an idea about how to deal with overcrowding in British jails (asides from building new ones). He wants those on Community Service to wear a uniform so that they can be easily identified by members of the public. I’m not sure if he wants them to wear pink stars or yellow triangles as an additional form of identification. Yes, that comment is in questionable taste, but is it worth noting that he launched this idea a mere ten days after describing government support for visits to Auschwitz as a "gimmick"?


© James McGalliard 2008

TV Club 18-35

London Fields # 49
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 27 February 2008
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here

In the UK it’s not your 8 cents a day, but rather your £135 a year to fund Auntie. The compulsory TV Licence funds 75% of the BBC’s costs, from TV & radio to the news-gathers & websites. There’s huge pressure to show that this revenue is being used wisely; and the biggest visible shake up recently has been to digital station BBC Three. It’s aimed at the 18-35 market, is the UK home of Man Stoke Woman and The Mighty Boosh, and has just gone through a major revamp. With the BBC cutting back on its news services, questions are being asked about how the licence fee is being spent. Some may say the station is fighting for its very existence.

Spearheading the re-launch was Lily Allen and Friends, a chat show that was sadly awkward and uncomfortable to watch, and not because of the host. Elsewhere, the ‘light’ documentaries, which may cover serious issues, but tread a fine line with reality TV, continue as a mainstay. These have included the series Freaky Eaters, Sex With Mum and Dad and Can Fat Teens Hunt, and one-offs like My Big Breasts And Me, My Small Breasts And I, Me And My Man Breasts, Dawn Goes Naked, Dawn Goes Lesbian… Yeah, I know these sound made-up – sadly they’re all real.

Amongst all this mire, Being Human - the tale of a ghost, a werewolf and a vampire sharing a house in Bristol - shone. Although it had its light moments, it was no comedy. While it is post-Buffy, but in some ways it feels more like it could be a successor to the fabulous Ultraviolet, the 1998 series in which the Vatican were out to stop vampires (referred to as Code Fives or leeches) from creating a nuclear winter to claim the earth. The vampires of Being Human also feel that they’ve been living in the shadows for too long and, under the leadership of Adrian Lester, things are going to change. At a gathering he chillingly uses a little Blake to question whether evolution gives man any superiority: "Did he who made the Lamb make thee?" I couldn’t wait for the next episode; sadly at the moment they’re isn’t one. Hopefully the powers that be at the Beeb will see sense and commission this as a series. It was written by Toby Whithouse, who has also written for Doctor Who (the one with Giles, K-9 and Sarah Jane at the school), and for Torchwood.

Yes, Torchwood is also back, but it’s been rebooted so savagely you can almost see the tread-mark on the face. While the first series was almost Doctor Who without the Doctor but with added sex and swearing, the new series is about relationships. It’s like when James Bond briefly became a one-woman guy in the aftermath of AIDS. There’s romance, but very little sleeping around – it’s more about the yearning. The series began with the addition of James Marsters (Spike from Buffy The Vampire Slayer) playing, well, Spike from Buffy, except in name. It really doesn’t quite know if it’s Arthur or Martha. Speaking of which, Martha Jones has jumped from the TARDIS to appear in it too. There is an underlying story that a major invasion is underway, but as a story arc it’s suspiciously absent. So far it still fails to involve me; it’s lacking the emotion range of the revamped Who. But I’m still watching.

Over on ITV, Primeval returned, and it too has gone through a major reboot, this time by taking the central conceit of Ray Bradbury’s time-travel classic A Sound Of Thunder. For stepping into the past has changed the present, and only Cutter knows things are not the same. This has allowed the makers to tweak with the story elements, while keeping the core. But the problem with high concepts is that they can wear out rather quickly. The second season of Life On Mars showed strain, but sequel Ashes To Ashes has broken the towrope. This time it’s Keeley Hawes as DI Drake - sent back to London 1981 with a bullet (literally). It’s lacking the charm of its predecessor, kills any ambiguity of the conclusion of Mars in the first few minutes, and just feels forced. Sure it’s fun to visit the Blitz club, but would Steve Strange (playing himself) have worn ear monitors fronting Visage in 1981? But there’s a way out - it’s not the real 80’s, but Drake’s idea of it. But who do we blame for the squandering of the wonderful character of Gene Hunt? Or the soundtrack that feels trowelled on? And, worse of all, for it being dull??

Thanks then for Channel 4’s 18-35 channel, E4, and the second season of Skins. The first series went from the humorous to the very dark, but managed to maintain reality. Its high concept was the weekly baton changing of the focus of the unfolding narrative. The second season is darker, and so far has been telling character’s stories in doubles. If the arc of the first season was the fall of Tony, maybe the key to this one is his rehabilitation? Bill Bailey (complete with his dancing dog) appears as Maxxie’s father (continuing the theme of parents played by comics, mostly in non-comedic roles), while the school is presenting Osama The Musical. Once again, it’s a joy to behold intelligent programmes that don’t talk down to their audience. Why can’t all drama be like this?


© James McGalliard 2008

A Seasonal Catch-Up

London Fields # 48
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 30 January 2008
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here

The end of the year is always a rush when you’re writing about music. There are writers’ polls to complete, the need to summarise the year just gone, and to make tips for 2008. And in the UK, the period prior to Christmas is a mad time for gigs. Along with pantomime season come tours from The Pogues, and from Madness. It would be a shame to let some of the great performances in this period get lost in the constraints of obligation and deadlines. So now that 2007 is finished, and 2008 previewed, it’s time to look back at some of the wonderful acts I saw as the year ended, but had no time to write about until now.

Just as Christmas comes but once a year, recent years have seen The Blue Aeroplanes gather in Bristol in December for annual shindig. Who you ask? Along with James they were the great English live act of the early 90’s that never toured Australia. They were creating literate artrock before Pulp had got their act together. They had a dancer before Bez had dropped an E. There were never keyboards – they’d add another guitarist - but you could always hear their separate playing. There have probably been forty members in the band’s history, but through it all Gerard Langley, a poet more than a vocalist, has declaimed thought-provoking ideas over the whole joyous maelstrom. This gig managed to recapture that special spark that made me an instant covert from the first time I saw them live. For much of tonight’s gig there were four guitarists on stage, jumping to six for the encore. Being a long term ‘Planes fan can be a bit like taking part in a veterans day parade, as each time there are fewer and fewer of us who swing our arms over our heads to the lyric 'let those arms rotate like helicopter blades'. Sadly, unlike those parades, there is no younger generation taking the medals and replacing those who have fallen. On the basis of their live glory tonight, that’s a loss for all of us.

Coming back to London, I caught Spiritualized Acoustic Mainline for the third time in the year. It’s a real shame that this version of Jason Spaceman’s act is about to be retired, especially as it never got to Australia. Each time I’ve seen them and loved it more, and in the candlelit environs of the Union Chapel, it found its perfect setting; the cross between hedonistic and religious was simply divine. Jason was joined by three gospel singers, a string quartet and long-term collaborator Doggen on keyboards. There was a Daniel Johnson cover, some Spaceman 3 material and even Oh Happy Day all reworked for the strings and the singers, and lead by Jason’s acoustic guitar. I lost count of the magical moments, but as Goodnight Goodnight segued into a beautiful, traditional reading of Silent Night, the spirit of the season descended. Or when Ladies And Gentlemen… melted into Elvis’ Can’t Help Falling In Love, the gospel harmonies complementing and lifting hearts. It’s so rare to come away so stunned and elated – it was a special night indeed.

The Union Chapel has always been one of my favourite places in London to see certain bands. On one occasion Mark Almond performed here in a cassock; on another John Cale played the best of the many shows I’ve seen him play – the natural resonance of the church adding a special edge to a spine tingling take on Hallelujah. But it is a functioning church, and a few years ago the governors decided that there was a conflict of interest between the sacred and the profane, and the gigs stopped. It’s so great that they reconsidered, and now it’s reopened to live music, with the proviso that alcohol is only consumed in the bar outside.

But it was doubly special in December, as it was the chosen venue for the first public performances in over ten years for the Penguin Café Orchestra. In fact, the night I went marked the tenth anniversary of the sudden death of PCO founder Simon Jeffes. Yet this was no wake, but a celebration of the music he had created. PCO had its own particular dynamism and rhythm – I’ve always thought of it as being a little like a bicycle with slightly square wheels – it rolls along and its speed varies, but the tempo it keeps is all its own. The setlist was based on the Concert Programme CD, so was effectively a greatest hits live. Most of the musicians were the same people I’d seen perform on numerous occasions through the ‘90’s – the big differences were slightly less regimented playing, and that they were speaking between the songs. You’ll have heard PCO, perhaps without knowing it – on ads, or the film Malcolm; even My Friend The Chocolate Cake's style owes much to them. But it was great to hear these tunes have the chance to live again – the audience was unfeasible warm on a bitter night. But there was a sense of elegy too; that that maybe this would be the last time that these songs would be played live by these people. But then again, is there a better place to contemplate transience than in a church?


© James McGalliard 2008

Three Seasons In One Year

London Fields # 47
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 26 December 2007
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here

If you look at the news cycle, it was as though nothing of note happened in the world in 2007. Blair may have abdicated and passed the throne seamlessly to Gordon Brown (the invisible PM), but things seem mainly unchanged. Yep, there may well have been wars and disasters, but most of our attention was seemingly drawn to Celebdaq-style events.

Amy Winehouse may have ended the year Back To Black as the best selling album of 2007, but sometimes it was hard to remember that she was a musician (except when it came to odds on whether she’d show up at her own gigs). Pete Doherty, who must have been well aware of the pattern, then became part of the Winehouse saga when he paid her a visit. Earlier in the year the vexed question of whether the various z-listers had been racist came from the misleadingly named Celebrity Big Brother. And the year ended with outrage that Fairytale Of New York had to be censored for play on BBC Radio 1, but they soon backed down from their immovable stance. Were these all distractions from the real news?

Over on TV, Spooks has spent the last nine weeks preparing us for the breaking of ties with America, and Iran gaining nuclear capability. Is this TV drama preparing a complaint public for possible futures, a production trying to be gritty and edgy, or just another distraction? The TV networks have been a news story in themselves this year, with rigged results from premium rate phone lines. While this has spared us the late night horrors of Quiz Call and The Vault, over at Aunty it’s caused the BBC to suspend all competitions. Their studios must be overflowing with promotional tat, as they’re not allowed to give any of it away.

While some got hooked on Heroes, it faded into insignificance next to Battlestar Galactica, which, after stumbling slightly in the second season, came back with some of the tightest drama on screen this year. Summer Saturday evenings meant Doctor Who, which returned with a very strong season, marred only by a messy(anic) final episode. But the great British public were obsessed with reality shite like I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here, talent contests like The X-Factor, or worst of all, series to cast West End musicals (Grease and Joseph And His Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat). Yeach! Only The Apprentice seemed to rise above the mire, but even it had been dumbed down in its move from BBC Two to BBC One; its repetitive formula saved by the candidates and Sir Alan Sugar himself. Charlie Brooker continued to relentlessly dissect the medium in his weekly Screen Burn column for The Guardian, and on his own show Screenwipe on BBC Four. However the best thing on TV this year was Skins – proof that drama can be innovative, involving and original, even if its target is ‘only’ adolescents.

Summer was a lukewarm washout; Glastonbury was a mud bath, July’s Truck Festival was washed into September, and other festivals were postponed or cancelled, while some went bankrupt. In the high street, record shops went belly up, or were bought out, sending us back online to buy specialist items. There were some great songs this year, but few great albums. Many of the previous hopes released lacklustre second efforts; only Bloc Party produced an inventive and mature follow-up to their debut album. Similarly Devastations may have alienated some with Yes, U, but it was the most rounded original and consistent work of their career. But The Twilight Sad was easily the highlight of 2007; their debut album displayed a new original voice and their deafening live shows were each special, different and unique.

The introduction of a total smoking ban was the biggest change for gig goers, and caused problems in venues with a strict No Passouts policy, particularly where this was more a matter of protecting their high bar prices rather than anything else. A continuing pattern was the firework career arc - acts get too big too quickly, and may sell out large shows but can’t satisfy the crowds they draw. This hype also plays into the hands of the scalpers - and prices go up, and gigs are full of idiots who have no interest in the music. These large gigs then become a chore, so I’m almost glad that some acts never broke big so I can still see them in smaller venues. While iLiKETRAiNS’s debut suffered from being too much at the one pace, their live show is still great; Fields are another band that sadly didn’t cross into the big venues, but put on a great live show. Sadly no-one but me picked up Apartment’s The Dreamer Evasive and it seems that they’ve now gone into indefinite hiatus. But some of the best bands of 2007 were an older generation, raging against the dying of the light - James, Grinderman, The Blue Aeroplanes and Gallon Drunk.

2007 was the year summer never came; the year Tony Wilson died; a year that we focused on the wrong things; and a period when BBC 6Music lost many of the presenters that made the station special; a time that dumbing down seemed to be the order of the day. It was a year with few highs or lows. Yet some of the new acts I’ve seen recently at least give me more hope for 2008.


© James McGalliard 2007

Sex In The City

London Fields # 46
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 28 November 2007
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here

At this time of the year, the autumnal northern sun hangs low in the London sky. It’s not a light you ever see in Australia; this bright yet diffused ball of light sits right in your eyeline. For a pedestrian this makes crossing roads particularly perilous - sometimes you just squint and plough ahead, hoping for the best. You need sunglasses now more than you do in summer, but the days are so brief and it’s a strange look on the cold streets. The world is all around you but in silhouette – it’s there, but you can’t actually look at it. You see only your immediate surroundings, which is a good analogy of living here. For sometimes, you only see glimpses of other lives through arts or the media.

Recently the British public has been taken into the life of the sex worker in London via two glossy adaptations of working girl’s memoirs. And it’s gotta be said, I know very little about prostitution. I know that the seemingly glamorous world presented in these shows has upset some groups, notably The Women's Institute. I also know that if I watch a current affairs show, I’ll see stories of human trafficking. But these adaptations are meant as amusing titillation, not high art or sweeping social comment.

In 1748, John Cleland wrote Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure, better known as Fanny Hill, a fictional account of a country lass happily falling into prostitution in the London of his day. Now it has been adapted for arty, mature channel BBC Four, by the near ubiquitous Andrew Davies, as it seems no work of historical literature can be adapted by anyone else. The original book helped its author out of debtor’s prison, and this recent adaptation broke viewing figures for the digital-only station on which it was broadcast. It’s not a morality tale – despite Fanny’s changing fortunes she is untarnished; even her rape in a back alley leads indirectly to her happy ending. In the Beeb version, it ends with her aside to camera “As to the moral of my story? Must stories have morals? It seems to me life is very complicated and we must all get through it as best we can. Virtue is always preferable to vice, but we can’t always choose can we?”

Meanwhile, on the other side (ITV), Billie Piper is currently a long way from the TARDIS. Having first appeared as another literary Fanny – Fanny Price of Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park, she’s now starring in a present day role as Hannah / Belle in Secret Diary Of a Call Girl. It’s based on the reportedly true-life book (and blog) of “Belle De Jour”. To my cost, I’ve found the consequences of buying Belle’s book for ‘research’ for a potential column via Amazon. Once you put something like The Intimate Adventures Of A London Call Girl in your shopping basket (particularly alongside Abby Lee’s blog turned book), the future recommendations become a page that isn’t safe to open at work. Like Fanny Hill, this was broadcast on a digital-only channel (ITV2), and it also broke viewing records for the station. The TV version was unsure of what tone to adopt, and veered wildly from week to week.

Yet these shows had more in common that the profession of the central protagonist. In both the fourth wall was broken with looks and discussions straight to camera, to allow the actual words of the original text to come through. And their stories do connect on a deeper level, as both Fanny and Belle are searching for that one true love. For London is a city that keeps you at a distance and makes this seemingly impossible. It’s against the rules to talk to people on other tables in the pub. You might see someone you’d like to talk to, but approaching him or her directly is brazen and not done. The worst is public transport, where it is deemed safest not to be even capable of focussing on anyone else. Not everyone follows these rules of etiquette, but they are seen as a nuisance or even threatening. So it’s easier to meet people on the internet than in real life, which explains the large take-up of internet dating and other methods of meeting.

Back on TV and in the final episode of Secret Diary, Belle quits her agency, becomes a courtesan, and then finds she’s bored with that, and so goes back to a world of many clients, but on her own terms. But it’s all OK her closing narration tells us, if certain things are in place: “In London you can keep secrets. You can be anonymous. You can be whoever you want. But as long as someone knows you entirely and loves you still, it’s the best place in the world.” But the other side of that narration makes me recall The Cure’s Other Voices - “But I live with desertion and eight million people”. It was written 26 years ago; today you may find that a relationship has ended via Facebook before you find out in the real world. Maybe sometimes it’s best not to be able to see too clearly?


© James McGalliard 2007

Food For Thought

London Fields # 45
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 31 October 2007
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here

We found ourselves sat huddled and shivering in a local beer garden after work the other week. The practical ramifications of the smoking ban (which was introduced in the summer) are now really making their presence felt, as the clocks go back and the long nights close in. We sat there so that the few smokers in our party could continue as they always had.

There’s often talk here that the welfare state has evolved into the nanny state, but the health of the UK does give cause for concern, particularly in the light of some recently published reports. The nation is drinking far too much, and some of the largest problem drinking levels were found in average middle class areas. This will get see a huge rise in liver and heart disease, and a subsequent strain on the NHS as a result. Even now casualty departments already have a pretty rough time of it with the drink-related injuries and incidents every weekend.

Now the garden we were sitting in was equipped with gas fires, but sadly these weren’t turned on. I’m aware that these are a hugely inefficient form of heating at a time we’re being asked to be much more aware of our environment. But in recent weeks the health secretary Alan Johnson has said that the people of the UK face a threat to rival global warming, and that is obesity!

According to the Foresight Report, the UK has the highest obesity rates in the European Union with 24.2% of adults now classed as obese. The predictions given by for 2050 are even more startling and alarming; mainly that 26% of children, 50% of women and a staggering 60% of men will be obese by this date. The health service is struggling with this already, and they’re not alone. In Lancashire, the fire brigade is wondering if they’ll have to impose fees on helping to move very heavy people. This is not a joke – some people can’t get out of the house without a crane. In North Wales, they’ve has an obese dummy weighing over 26 stone especially built to give their emergency services practice with something they’ll experience more and more often.

Harry Enfield returned to the BBC in April after a long absence with Ruddy Hell! It’s Harry and Paul. Enfield may not be well known in Australia, suffice to say that The Fast Show grew out of characters rejected by Enfield for his own show back in the ‘90’s. Anyway, some sketches were based around two enormous teenage children, known as Jamie and Oliver, whose life only moves from one take away to another fast food joint, only stopping for some chocolate on the way. Although never stated, perhaps it is a factor that crisps and chocolate are so much more available and affordable than fresh produce? And while Jamie’s School Dinners did actually achieve some success, our supermarkets (one of which Jamie advertises) can’t agree a standard labelling on displaying dietary information. Looking for lunch last week, I put the macaroni cheese back after seeing this small tray represented 110% of my daily allowance for saturated fats.

English cooking has improved over the years; so the lard-heavy recipes of Two Fat Ladies tended to leave a reactionary and slightly sick taste in the mouth. But now it seems that Nigella Lawson has jumped into the frypan with her latest series, Nigella Express. This new series sometimes seems one step from how to take the ready meal out of the freezer and pop it into the microwave. Nigella smiles and tosses her hair as she boasts that the only exercise she ever does is to skip to the fridge. Then she uses half a kilo of chocolate to make 12 "therapy" cookies, and I feel fatter for just watching it. Later she fries bread and rolls it in sugar for instant midnight gratification, and then shovels it down. Now the Daily Mail has started a whole thing about Nigella’s weight, but that’s not the real issue here. Rather it’s about responsibility to a populace that is rapidly heading towards avoidable diabetes and early death. Although on one level it’s simply a matter of less food, less saturated fats and more exercise to avoid this, the British mindset also has to be overcome. After a long day, it’s hard to resist the affordable temptation of three supermarket pizzas for three quid.

Whilst in that pub beer garden, one of the blokes their related the story of when his Italian flatmates cooked a "traditional English breakfast" for him. It was gorgeous he said. But they’d used some delicatessen sausage, and a lot of it was grilled. So the next day he resolved to cook it for them properly, with cheap snags, value baked beans and fatty bacon.

There’ll always be an England. But between size zero and XXXL, there may be very little middle ground left. And its people may no longer live as long as their neighbours…


© James McGalliard 2007

What Was That About A Free Lunch

London Fields # 44
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 3 October 2007
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here

A visit to London’s record stores is often an integral part of a music lover’s trip to the English capitol. Berwick Street, immortalised on the cover of Oasis’s (What’s The Story) Morning Glory?, was once the centre for this. There were indie specialists Selectadisc and Sister Ray, mainstream stockist (but cheaper than the major stores) Mister CD, and pre-loved delights on CD and vinyl at two branches of Reckless Records. But it’s been a tough period for music retailing in the UK, and only Sister Ray continues to trade.

Nationwide chains are experiencing troubles too. Despite the fact that the UK still purchases a large amount of music on physical formats, HMV saw a massive drop in sales. Meanwhile, Richard Branson decided that Virgin will withdraw from retail altogether; he has sold the Virgin stores to Zavvi, and their digital download service will cease later this month. Of the larger operators, the saddest loss was the collapse of Fopp, which had started as a small independent retailer in Scotland, but had grown (perhaps too quickly) into a national chain. Fopp’s flagship store on Tottenham Court Road had a licensed café that doubled as a live venue, which meant you could enjoy an instore with a pint rather than being cramped against CD racks. It was well-stocked, offered near internet prices, music-loving staff, and changed the way that other stores priced and sold their music. The only bright light has been the opening of the Rough Trade superstore on Brick Lane in East London.

So in the age of downloads and online sales, should the loss of so many outlets be a concern? In smaller communities, the local independent record store was where people with similar interests met, ideas and music was exchanged, bands were formed and so new scenes grew. In modern Britain the music press is unchallenged by rivalry, and unchallenging in its narrow field of vision. Sometimes record retailers would be bringing new bands to a scene’s attention, in a way MySpace can never replace.

But there’s another major shift taking place as this column goes to press. Over the past few months there’s been a lot of talk here about issues surrounding giving away music. Mike Oldfield was reportedly pretty miffed when Tubular Bells was offered free an incentive to purchase a particular Sunday newspaper. Then there was a big hoo-hah when Prince offered his new studio album free with The Mail On Sunday. Most recently, Travis effectively gave a greatest hits package away with one of the Sundays. But all these pale into insignificance compared to the plans unveiled by Radiohead and The Charlatans.

Radiohead are currently without a label, and have decided to release their next LP, In Rainbows, via their own website. For £40, you get the deluxe package, with vinyl and CD versions of the album, as well as a bonus CD of other material. With the download, you set your own price, meaning you can grab the album legally for a song. Now this strategy may render the record ineligible for the charts, as it’s not going through a recognised retail outlet. Incidentally, a physical CD via a conventional record company is expected to follow next year. I suppose this isn’t really a first. Newcastle act Greenspace released their debut album on vinyl only, but if you sent the band a photo of yourself holding a copy of the vinyl album, they’d send you a free CD of it.

More radical still is the alliance that Alan McGee has set up between commercial alternative station XFM and The Charlatans. The band next two singles and subsequent album will be offered as a free download via the station’s website. McGee has said that they decided to do this after seeing the deal offered by Sanctuary. I suppose it has nothing to do with the closure last month of the recording arm of Sanctuary Records UK?

So why give away music? A friend who was involved in the early careers of some now famous acts thinks he knows the reason. Gigs are extremely popular now, and getting more expensive all the time. So instead of touring up and down the country, playing small venues, you can build up a following so that you skip that stage and go straight to larger venues. Or ultimately give up touring altogether and play week long residencies in enormodomes where people have to travel to from around the country if they wish to see you. Not forgetting the associated merchandise sales.

It seems my friend was on the ball, because a few days later McGee issued a statement saying the future of music was in gigs, merchandising and advertising. If my friend is right, be a little wary or maybe the days of the intimate gig will soon be gone…


© James McGalliard 2007

Runaround Getaround

London Fields # 43
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 5 September 2007
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here

There have been many changes to the live scene in London over the years, but one of the largest occurred in the past month. The Mean Fiddler Group sold virtually all its remaining venues, and even its name, to Mama, the company behind the Barfly group of venues. They had already sold The Forum (formerly The Town & Country Club) to them, and the latest package added The Borderline, Camden’s Jazz Café, the original Mean Fiddler in Harlesden and The Garage at Highbury. This seems good news, especially as both Harlesden and The Garage have been closed for some time, but staff I spoke to were uncertain of their futures. Reports say that Mama is also in talks to grab the Academy venues, which if successful would mean a virtual monopoly on larger venues in the capital.

Personally, I prefer the smaller places, especially the award winning The Luminaire in Kilburn. A full house is 275, and that includes bands, staff and guest list. All around the venue are signs telling you to shut up during performances, or leave. Wonderfully nearly everyone respects it. Seeing Mark Eitzel previewing the work-in-progress material for the next American Music Club LP with only an acoustic guitar was special indeed – even bar orders were whispered, and tills closed quietly.

Things were a little different as I ventured deep in the deepest heart of the East End to catch Evi Vine. The venue turned out to be a squatted community centre. It was like the days of illegal raves - folks were smoking inside; the bar was a bloke with a household fridge, and the toilets had been cleaned sometime last year. Yet it was alive and vibrant and filled with a desire to take music back to the people (except for the high door charge and beer prices). I left about 1am, but the bands played on for several hours afterwards.

I also spent a splendid afternoon at one of the summer Sunday barbecues held at The Windmill in Brixton. While not the best place to see bands, the afternoon was great value for money and tremendous fun. Witter were having fun (as were we), as they did a set entirely of BritPop covers - from Popscene to Common People, from Menswe@r to Suede. Later in the day came The Victorian English Gentlemens Club, the karaoke pop of Tim Ten Yen, and the day ended with Hot Puppies, whose vocalist is a modern Martha Davis, and whose joie de vivre was infectious.

Which was a marked contrast to the inaugural Field Day in Victoria Park in Hackney. Two understaffed bars could not cope with the needs of 10 000 punters, and after queuing over an hour for a beer, you then had a 30 minute wait for a loo. The large number of bands playing meant that each was restricted to a mere thirty minutes. Worst of all were the sound restrictions, which saw Archie Bronson Outfit shut down before even finishing their allotted time. The only acts to survive this environment were the Archies, an incendiary finish from Liars and Kid Harpoon, who has added a band to create Pogues-style mayhem. The day was a great idea, but a mess in reality.

The ramifications of the smoking ban are still being felt. At The Barfly in Camden, outside smokers became rowdy and aggressive as a fire escape door remained closed, meaning they had to walk 20 metres to get back in. Club nights at Koko (the former Camden Palace) have taken things to further extremes. In order to pop outside for a ciggie, smokers are first electronically fingerprinted. They then have 7 minutes to be back inside, supposedly to stop them grabbing a drink elsewhere while they’re out. With the drink prices at Koko, I’m not surprised that this time limit incentive is needed.

But if you think that’s an invasion of civil liberties, it’s lucky you weren’t at one of the V Festival in Staffordshire last month. Like something out of John Carpenter’s They Live, police employed a spy saucer which even at a height of 100 metres is invisible to the human eye. Originally designed for military use, this drone was equipped with high-resolution cameras and infrared capability, but for now not actually used over the main arena, for fears of injury should it crash into the crowd. And you thought zipline cameras were a nuisance…

Last month I wrote about the return of the ‘70’s with Palladium. Better by far are Pirate Casino – imagine Paul Weller covering Bob Seger‘s Nightmoves and you’ll get an idea. Here guitar solos are shameless – and the band is seamlessly professional. While not my scene, I can see them going far – look what pastiche did for Jet and The Darkness! But most interesting is that these ‘70’s-inflenced acts are bringing something truly wonderful to London’s Indie scene – some racial diversity. Usually the exclusive preserve of white middle class kids, both Palladium and Pirate Casino are attracting a black audience to the white enclave. And that can only be a good thing.


© James McGalliard 2007

Here Comes The Flood

London Fields # 42
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 8 August 2007
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here

While no one thinks of England as a warm, bright, sunny country, this non-summer is getting beyond a joke. Already the days are getting shorter, and each week presents another cloud-filled long-range weather forecast. On the few days the sun has shone, the pollen count has been sky-high, which has been great news for manufacturers of antihistamines, and other allergy relief, but awful for the rest of us.

I’m sure the flooded areas of this country will fail to see any humour in a poorly timed release of a film where Steve Carrell has to build a second ark. People have died; families lost their homes. The Truck Festival was washed out, and will now take place in September. Lodestar was cancelled, and the site of the Reading Festival is under inches of water.

But is this lack of a summer making folks gruff and moody? I don’t know if it’s sun depravation, pollen allergies, irritation at the smoking ban, or just something in the water, but I keep witnessing scenes of unprovoked sheer bloody-minded behaviour. Like the mindlessly aggressive bloke at the recent Grinderman gig – although he could have just been drunk.

Grinderman have grown and progressed from their live debut at All Tomorrows Parties back in April, and you shouldn’t miss the chance to see them when they tour Australian in October. What they do is dark and primal, but it’s the palpable menace that makes it so good. Live they are the house band from the Titty Twister of From Dusk Till Dawn – a band for which cage dancers would seem right and just! While Get It On and No Pussy Blues are obvious standouts, the opening Grinderman instantly sets the mood, the maracas sounding like a rattlesnake preparing to strike.

For Go Tell The Women, Nick Cave struts along the front of the stage, holding his guitar like an assault rifle, picking out the three note riff as though he was an axe god. This is visceral, energetic and vital. This is about living dreams – during the encore Cave momentarily becomes the vocalist of Suicide. While Marty Casey’s bass is the glue that binds it all together, this is the sound of a unified purpose, but not one lacking in humour. Yep, they were so good that even an aggressive idiot who made me disappear to another part of the venue couldn’t detract from the evening.

Meanwhile, at a recent show at the Barfly, I came across the worst audiences I’ve experienced gig-going this year. Like the woman who pinched inside armpits as he drilled her way though, followed by an ‘excuse me’ over her shoulder. Or the coiffeured idiots talking really loudly during the quiet support act. Oh, hang on – those insensitive chatterers are the headliners – Palladium. There’s always a risk in seeing a band blind. Now Palladium have already had coverage in national papers, even before their first single is released. Even though the band is on a major label, this first single is a limited run of 500 on 7” vinyl only. This technique in generating hype was spearheaded by The Bravery, and makes your first release rare even before it’s released, and hence worthy of attention.

But that precedent should have been warning enough. A mate who regularly attends gigs with me bailed by their third song. Hoping for a glimmer of light, I resolutely stayed until the end. It’s a great idea to mine the path of the big rock of the late ‘70’s and early ‘80’s – think Supertramp, think the theme from Cagney & Lacey. But while this could be so good, the band has forgotten to write any tunes. What you’re left with is rock - Alan Partridge style! Yet they already have a devoted following and maybe a great producer will even manage to find a seam of gold amongst the quartz (though they’re going to have to be bloody lucky).

However this month both the biggest disappointment and the greatest joy came while seeing The Blue Nile close the Manchester International Festival. At times this was heartbreaking, like watching a prize racehorse run lame. Maybe after some perfect shows previously, my expectations were too high? But the live mix was bass heavy, with the vocals and guitars mixed down, and the drums way too high in the mix. Which only served to emphasise some unnecessary business by the man behind the kit, which distracted and detracted from the whole. There’s an old joke that runs “the difference between a drummer and a drum machine is that you only have to punch the beats into a drum machine once!” Maybe they needed to punch a bit harder? Still, it was a joy to hear Stay, and the rendition of Family Life, with Paul Buchanan’s outstanding voice complimented by a simple piano accompaniment, was an emotional and musical highpoint, and easily my gig highlight of the year so far.

© James McGalliard 2007

A Craic In The Clouds

London Fields # 41
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 11 July 2007
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here

Ostensibly my reason for travelling to Dublin was to catch one of the "rehearsals" that R.E.M. held over five nights at the Olympia Theatre there. "This Is Not A Show" stated the projection behind them, and in many ways it wasn’t – the idea was to road test new songs for their partly recorded next LP. But it did provide an opportunity to catch one of the biggest bands in the world in a comparatively intimate venue, and the trip overall provided me with an unexpected reflection of life in London as well.

The last time I was in Dublin was in October 2001, in the aftermath of September 11. This trip coincided with the attacks on London’s West End and Glasgow Airport, which insured lots of shenanigans getting through security procedures, as it had nearly six years earlier. But the city has changed so much over the period. Like London, the influx of workers from Eastern Europe has had a visible aspect, both in the rise of specialist shops, and in those employed as waiting and cleaning staff. It seems as if the divide between rich and poor has widened too; there are far more beggars on the streets. Near Parnell Square I see a bottle shop where the worker is behind bulletproof glass with a small bank teller like window to distribute the booze. Making the purchases are a couple of scangers, the Irish version of the chav.

I catch up with an old friend, someone I met on my first trip here in 1990. He’s a musician who has toured the world in an award-winning band. He tells me that although rental prices in the city have increased astronomically, the average income has not followed suit. Rising rents means that many of the beautiful old bookshops near Trinity College have had to close, or move to cheaper premises elsewhere.

The one thing Dublin has retained, and possibly its greatest tourist attraction, are its many bars. It’s such a contrast to London, where those remaining pubs that haven’t been closed and converted into flats are often nearly identical, as part of large chains. There a very few places in central London where you’d be tempted to have more than a swift one on your way somewhere else. In Dublin, it never more than a stone’s throw to the next pub, but they’re actually places you’d want to stop and spent time in. The Stag’s Head is probably my favourite, even seamlessly absorbing the after show crowds from the nearby Olympia Theatre.

The biggest change to Dublin’s pubs has been the rise of the "beer garden" following the introduction of the smoking ban a few years back. Often these are little more than a small covered area for smokers to huddle into, and while the pubs seem quieter, but they still have retained the atmosphere without the smokehaze. But land values have risen so much that there is talk that even the famous Guinness Brewery at St James’s Gate may be up for development as luxury flats, such is the value of the land in the current climate.

My old friend also worries about the lack of variety in the Dublin music scene. While their rock industry bible HotPress celebrates its 30th Anniversary, and the Oxegen Festival is national news, he tells me that while the scene is buzzing, there a few acts not aping what they see as the current "NME taste". In fact, the only newish act he could recommend had just called it a day. Which is all the sadder as HotPress has retained some of the more in-depth journalistic pieces that the present-NME abandoned in favour of a Smash Hits-style presentation.

It was on my last night that I saw R.E.M. and they played an uberfan’s set – asides from the new material, it was all early IRS-period material with Harbourcoat and the entire Chronic Town EP. Some things are the same everywhere, like the couple who elbowed their way beside me just before the band began, and then spent the first two (new) songs nattering about how exciting it was to be there, her pausing only to yell "We love you Michael" repeatedly. But two things told me I wasn’t in London at the gig. Firstly the amazingly well-run bar, and secondly no one would choose London audiences as a testing ground for new material. While London is seen as old and set in its ways, Dublin is still perceived as somewhere willing to embrace the new.

© James McGalliard 2007