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

Knifey Spoony

London Fields # 54
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 16 July 2008
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here

On the streets of London there is a steadily growing sense of rising resentment and bubbling aggression that is becoming almost palpable. Perhaps it can in part be attributed to the current “credit crunch”? (Whatever you do, don’t dare call it a recession!) Families can afford less as salaries fail to keep pace with inflation, and prices of basic domestic necessities have risen drastically. For many years, the price of supermarket goods seemed to have been dropping year-on-year, but recently there have been sudden and dramatic increases, with certain items going up 20% overnight.

In this market, houses remain unsold; vendors see their prices falling, and some reports say there is only one buyer for every ten properties. For the buyer, mortgages are harder to get, and the interest rates are much harsher than even a few months ago. So while property prices have fallen over 10% in the past few months, it seems as if no-one is brave enough, or can actually afford to buy in this uncertain climate. This in turn results in a great shortage of rental accommodation, which allows landlords to push their prices up rapidly as demand exceeds supply.

I was recently speaking to an ‘old school’ real estate agent – one who’d been in the game long enough to have been through the last major downturn in the early ‘90’s. He said that many of the current players didn’t know how to handle this situation at all. “These guys are used to putting a ‘For Sale’ sign on the front, showing a few people round, and then selling it within a few weeks. They have no idea how to actually sell”. He also predicted that they’d be many casualties in the coming months. And he was right – already I’ve noticed some former estate agents are now up for let as they’ve gone to the wall, and this so-called “crunch” hasn’t really started to bite yet.

But this depressing picture could also be linked into the one story that’s dominated London news recently - the alarming rise in lives lost in knife crime in the capital. Last Thursday alone, there were four fatal stabbings in London in the space of sixteen hours, taking to twenty the number of teens who have died in knife-related incidents in the year to date.

There’s a certain way to walk London streets. You don’t look directly at other people; you more sense where they are. Almost automatically you find yourself ceding the footpath to one group, and walking through the middle of another. Because not standing aside, or giving way when you shouldn’t, or even meeting someone else’s eyes can be seen as a challenge to the street code of “face”. Some would say it’s about “respect”, but really it’s more akin to “cock of the walk”, or animals making themselves look bigger when threatened. Whatever its origin, it is an unspoken language and code of conduct which is difficult to learn. You have to trust your instincts, and sometimes repress your wish to respond as regretfully it seems to be the only way to walk the streets without confrontation.

However if you’re a teenager, getting it right can be even more difficult, especially if the other party is looking for trouble. Put blades into the equation, and a simple altercation can leave a deadly outcome. A doctor from the Casualty Department of Homerton Hospital claimed that there had been a big change had been in the type of wounds inflicted – slashing has been replaced by stabbing attacks. With the number of vital organs located in the torso, this has led to a huge rise in fatalities. Some other figures claim that the overall number of violent incidents has remained much the same, with the rise in knife incidents reflected in a fall of firearms-related ones. But you can’t buy a gun at your local supermarket, and the laws to stop real life games of Crocodile ‘That’s not a knife – that’s a knife’ Dundee prowess seem to be completely ineffectual.

Now I’m wary of being too pragmatic about this subject; grieving families have lost loved ones over the most minor of disagreements. And I’m also lucky as this hasn’t really touched me. But I’m also a feared about how it’s possible to use this as a blunt instrument for political gain without due consideration. When Conservative candidate Boris Johnson launched his bid for London Mayor last September, he advised Londoners to “tackle a thug” as the chances of being stabbed were “microscopic”. Now he’s won the election and has the job, he been forced to make a massive volte-face on those statements in the light of these events, now advising you NOT to intervene in disagreements, lest someone is tooled up.

Sometimes I feel that we moving towards the dystopian future of V For Victory. When a climate of fear is used to push through a law allowing terrorism suspects to be held 42 days without charge, perhaps there are others at fault? Yet the media is more likely to tie this into the spate of 17 seeming unrelated teen suicides in the Bridgend area of south Wales during the 13 months up to last February, and ask “What is happening to youth of Great Britain?”

Perhaps they’re a reflection of what they see?


© James McGalliard 2008

Dispatches From The Moshpit

London Fields # 53
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 18 June 2008
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here

One of the troubles with seeing so many live acts is finding time to write about them. Individual reviews need to have a reason to stand on their own, and sometimes you may only have scribbled a few rough thoughts about the evening before life intervenes. This month I thought I’d share an assemblage of rough thoughts on some of my recent live experiences, which never quite became full reviews.


Rest Now, Weary Head, You Will Get Well Soon is easily one of my favourite albums of the year, but I wasn’t sure how well a meticulously assembled one-man studio project would work live. But only a few seconds into a recent show at Bush Hall, any fears were allayed as a seven-piece Get Well Soon launched into Prelude, its a cappella opening bursting into a full band roar. This was quiet/loud as an art form, and rarely have I seen it performed with such grace and skill. This was swiftly followed by the mariachi horns of You/Aurora/You/Seaside, and the dark brood of If This Hat Is Missing I Have Gone Hunting. I was left in awe at the sheer skill and mastery of it all, and time and time again deep shivers of joy ran down my spine. In this band I hear what everyone else sees in Radiohead. The live act jumps from brash cymbal crashes, to soulful violin or piano accordion, through keyboards, to massed singing. It also has one of the best drummers I’ve seen in a long time, perfectly able to keep up with the extremely eclectic nature of Konstantin Gropper’s compositions. “Are you ready for some nu rave?” was the jokey introduction to his inspired redux of Underworld anthem Born Slippy, but most heartbreaking of all was Automatic Heart, where everything was stripped down to a whisper, until the full band retook the stage for the song’s finale. Seriously brilliant!


Elegies To Lessons Learnt was one of the great disappointments of last year for me; it felt too singularly paced, and it seemed as though iLiKETRAiNS had failed to meet the potential they’d shown with their earlier material. But live it all makes glorious sense – these songs are reflections and tributes to those who have passed before. Ashley Dean’s projections create a travelogue through the losers and losses of history - sort of a weird skew-whiff history presentation. While it could so easily be pretentious, it isn’t at all. It’s a good spirited affair with plenty of banter between band and audience. New song Progress Is A Snake (“A snake can shed it's skin but never change”) turns out to be one of the highlights of the set, and from there the second half is riveting. They can rock like a mother too – so hard that during set closer, Spencer Perceval, frontman David Martin accidentally smashes his guitar. He laments “It’s all very well being rock and roll, but we haven’t any money!” The encore sees a beautiful change of pace, by following the preceding deluge with the sublime instrumental Joshua and slightly upbeat Before The Curtains Close Part 2. Their heyday is yet to come.

The Veils also work on a deeper emotional level. After a major shake-up, they really found their stride on Nux Vomica. They’re in the middle of a residency (above a small pub in Camden) roadtesting material prior to recording the third album, which they hope will be out by January. The new songs sit nicely along old standards like Jesus For The Jugular, which gets an airing tonight. I want to be moved by music; I want to be excited - and nights like this do it. It’s great seeing an established band play with this drive, coming to grips with arrangements which are still fresh to them – seven of the ten songs played are new. The highlights are Someday All This Will Be Yours, and the gentler (and band favourite) Sit By The Fire. There’s a different dynamic without the keyboards, but the barer sound seems to bring out different aspects of the songs, and the band feel harder and more intense than ever.

Another album I’m looking forward to is Simple, which is due out next month from Andy Yorke. His London show saw him struggling with a throat infection, but there’s something I can’t quite put my finger on that makes his music deeply affect me. Is it the way that the melody of the songs glides, or the way the cello occasionally cuts through, or cedes to a Spanish guitar? I’m not sure, but my love of him also led me to discover Frank Turner who he was supporting that night. And Turner is another great find of 2008 for me. I mean how can you not love someone who preludes his set with an acoustic verse from AC/DC’s Rock 'n' Roll Singer, or who introduces himself “I am the Jason Donovan of punk”? Frank Turner’s album launch at the 100 Club was a euphoric singalong from the get-go, of punters finding something that spoke to them, lyrics that touched on a common cultural experience “Yeah, England’s still shit and it’s still raining”. It’s a rare knack to have the great and the cool dosey-dohing, chanting, hugging, and losing their voices by the end of the night, and Turner proves himself a master.


© James McGalliard 2008

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