On The North Lancs Streets

Preston is a strange place. I couldn't think of any reason why you'd want to visit unless you were a student there (as I nearly was) or your football team were playing North End. Nothing wrong with the place, I guess, just nothing of interest to be found.

Except, perhaps, a gig by Go-Kart Mozart, one of the very few to support their recent album On The Hot Dog Streets. A chance to see their leader Lawrence in action on stage was not to be sniffed at. 

In somewhat typical fashion, the gig had a last-day venue change. Which I didn't know about until arrival and required a somewhat desperate series of asking total strangers where we had to be. Initially it looked like we'd be late, but in a further misadventure, it was all running late anyways.

Support bands, then. Hot Vestry are a bunch of late teens types from Macclesfield who dress like they want to be in the Paisley Underground and have hair that makes mine look good. They also sounded fairly anonymous to these ears, despite some decent work from the drummer. Not that it matters, as they've already got foots on the ladder of the Manchester music scene via endorsement from Tim Burgess and a support slot with New Order. How did they get the latter? Well, it's always nice to have the right connections.

Next up were the Oreoh!s, which is a name that really needs to go. There's a difficulty in trying to be objective here, as the three of them look like they have a combined age of 40 and you don't want to be too mean to a band who are all young enough to be my children, which is in itself a depressing thought. Their set trundled along harmlessly enough, with nothing of any note to stick in the mind bar the fact the guitarist held his instrument like Bernard Sumner, and even looked like a younger version of the man. Like Hot Vestry, I'd imagine a lot of work has to be done down the line before they'll be headlining any decent sized venues on their own steam. Time is on their side, at least. My own suggestion would be that the singer ditches the bass playing and focuses more on fronting the band.

There are enough words written about Lawrence out there already - some of it due to me. On the night, he isn't happy about the venue change, states the stage lights are too bright and he has a bad cold. Despite the sparse audience, the band put on a great show. It helps to have a guy with a huge assortment of keyboards to produce all manner of sounds, and major kudos has to go out to the man behind them to some top-notch playing. The rhythm section (this version of Go-Kart Mozart is minus guitar) also do their job in solid fashion.

What Lawrence has that very few others have too is that all the songs he has written since 1980 are clearly identifiable as his, whether it be in the style of jangly indie (Felt), stomping glam rock (Denim) or novelty electro-pop (now). It's easy to say the guy deserves a hit, but he's always made even his most "mainstream" music just slightly off-kilter enough so that you won't hear it on radio. West Brom Blues from his most recent album On The Hot Dog Streets is a perfect example.

It can't be said enough that the guy is a total one-off, and worth even a night in Preston and a train journey home surrounded by Man City fans. The "tour" as it is (four gigs in four months) continues in a hometown gig in Birmingham next month, then Oxford in December and Hebden Bridge (work that one out) in January.

Summertime in a Stadium

Point One
I hate stadium rock gigs. I hate the idea of them. Tens of thousands of people crammed into somewhere not designed for music, and therein lies the problem. Too many people, which isn't a great environment for a misanthropic miser like me.

Yet there I was, last night, in Hampden Park, Glasgow, surrounded by people, some of whom had quite clearly been on the piss all day and were refreshed to a great degree. A lot of them weren't happy with their position in the crowd and tried to force their way past others. Naturally, this created tension and security were needed on several occasions.

Point Two
All of the above becomes irrelevant when you're at a Bruce Springsteen concert, because he is The Boss and that negates any bad vibes.

Point Three
30 songs over three and a half hour is a lot of work for everyone. But the man himself states that we, as the audience, will leave with our feet and backs sore, our throats hoarse. He's not wrong.

What you find is the day after, when you weigh up the whole experience and look for negatives, is that he didn't play a few of your favourites. Where was Hungry Heart, Bruce? Where was The River and Born in the USA? He can't please everyone though, can he? What he did do was provide a strong mix of his life's work, sticking with what he'd recorded with the E Street Band (I don't recall anything from Human Touch or Lucky Town, for instance) except for two tracks from his wonderful acoustic album Nebraska - but even Atlantic City and Johnny 99 were re-imagined as rockers, the latter revved up into the kind of thing you'd expect from Jerry Lee Lewis.

There were no encores of any of that shit. The band - now including a four piece horn section, backing singers and a percussionist - come on at half seven and don't stop till eleven, when they all leave the stage so that the man we're here to see can do a "rock and roll lullaby" that is Thunder Road acoustic, with the crowd singing the sax solo at the end.

Point Four
Clarence Clemons and Danny Federici are gone, but their band leader keeps their memories living on. Clemons' nephew Jake now plays in the band, which is a cool touch and at one point, during Dancing in the Dark, Springsteen grabs a girl who had a sign saying "I want to dance with Jake" and lets her do so. In the spirit of Courtney Cox, naturally.

What this does show is that the man seems to, at least, give a fuck about us punters. You hear nightmare stories of Dylan, for example, being a surly sod all through his gigs, never playing the hits. Springsteen appears to demand of himself that he has to guarantee everyone who bought a ticket a classic night out. The man does not stop throughout. When he does Twist and Shout and you think his voice is about to give way, he steps it up for one last time and blasts out Shout. If rock and roll needed a single representative to explain it to an alien race, this is the man.

Point Five
There's a story that when Elvis Costello was asked about whether he'd ever had a religious experience, he answered that he hadn't, but he had heard Al Green sing. In the same way, Don Draper once stated that Jesus is "either lives in your heart, or he doesn't". Jesus has never lived in my heart, but when I see Bruce Springsteen do his thing, giving it all he's got like it's his last gig ever, then I think that's I'd take the Boss over JC anytime.

The White Noise Revisited

It's entirely my own fault. When possible, I try to stand right at the front at a gig - in the main part, this is because I like having the barrier to lean on, so I don't get a bad back from being stood in one place too long.   I also like feeling close to the music, and the people involved, observing their playing techniques and the like. Tragic as this sounds, this habit also allowed me to shake hands with Morrissey once, a moment that rakes in my all time Personal Top Ten.

Attending a gig last night, I did the same. But I wasn't watching Joan Baez or the Durutti Column here. No, I was stood right in front of Bob Fucking Mould! And that means noise. A lot of beautiful, fast noise. As a result, my ears are still ringing.

Nevermind. Bob has long been a strong proponent of the power trio, starting with Husker Du, then with Sugar and now teaming with up bassist Jason Narducy and drummer Jon Wurster to record Silver Age and embark on this current tour. The album is a return to Mould's vein of fast rock music with power-pop references thrown in. My advice would be to go listen to it if you liked the last few Husker Du albums and most of what he did with Sugar.

Prior to the main attraction, support act North Atlantic Oscillation did their 30 minute set. From Scotland (a clue being one member having the St Andrews cross on his forearm), their music is interesting enough, with enough electronic effects that you feel it must take hours to set up all the wires, their main issue is that they lack any kind of on-stage personality. I can imagine they come across a lot better on CD.

Then the main attraction. Yes, so Mould is 52 years old and looks like Alexi Sayle's skinnier brother, but that doesn't mean he still can't rock like a bastard. The band jump right in by playing the entire first half of Sugar's Copper Blue album. Another album you really, really need to hear if you haven't done already.

As stated at the start, they were loud, with pretty much no let up throughout. Mould has made albums with an acoustic or electronic slant, but this is pure power trio rock, with no slowing down throughout. If it at times the volume seems hard work for the audience, the sheer hard work the three put in up there on stage puts it in context. I don't think I've ever seen a band sweat so much - it was dripping from the guitars, the drummer's shirt was drenched by the end and Mould's glasses actually had perspiration congealing on them by the end, so that it looked like they were covered in milk.

Alongside the Sugar material, there's a fair chunk of the new album and a healthy amount of Husker Du classics. So, so what if the ringing in my ears might keep me up for a few nights? I saw Bob Mould do what he does best.

When the Soul Rebels Grow Up

Everything comes back round again, they say. Such it is for the critical verdict on the career of Dexys Midnight Runners and their unique leader (and only constant) Kevin Rowland.

Starting out playing soul music with a Midlands slant in the post-punk years, Rowland managed to antagonise just about everyone he could (record label, bandmates, the press) over three albums in the first half of the 1980s. The last of those, Don’t Stand Me Down, managed to kill stone dead a career that just a couple of years prior had seen them top of the singles chart both here and the States.

What followed was a spell in the wilderness for Rowland, personal issues not helped by a crippling drug habit. When he finally got it together to record a fine album of covers of songs that held special significance to him, he shot his chances down in flames by insisting on promoting it while wearing clothes generally seen on women. Legend (doubtlessly incorrectly) has it sales of My Beauty were counted in the hundreds.

In the new century, several “greatest hits” type tours under the Dexys name helped pay the bills and the media decided to grant both the debut Searching For The Young Soul Rebels and Don’t Stand Me Down the genius label they deserve. Come On Eileen, meanwhile, remains the wedding disco standard of all time.

A new album, therefore, was always going to get plenty of attention, especially with Rowland deservedly becoming a icon of English (Irish) eccentricity of sorts. On Some Day I’m Going To Soar, he’s teamed with Mick Talbot (ex-Style Council) and veterans of the Young Soul Rebels line-up Pete Williams and Jimmy Paterson. Talbot was originally in the band long enough to play on a chart-topping single (Geno) back in 1981.

With an album tends to come a tour, with the Manchester stop being at the Bridgewater Hall, more suited to Dexys’ more theatrical stylings. Prior to the band, we’re treated to a burlesque show, to which I was a bit ambivalent. Perhaps that’s just me living in the post-internet age where you can see all manner of naked flesh in a heartbeat, so the idea of mild titillation left me reading a magazine instead. She was a fine looking woman, no doubt, but perhaps I was additionally disconcerted when the act was performed to the theme tune from Perry Mason.

Then the band itself, now called just "Dexys" for some reason, and the larger part of the gig is set out as blasting through the whole album in sequence. The material itself works better on stage: Williams, who played bass on the album, gets someone else to do that job and instead takes the role of Rowland’s foil, reacting to his lyrics and throwing in the odd line/backing vocal himself. It’s all a bit like a show by James Brown or Bruce Springsteen – Williams taking the Bobby Byrd role and Jimmy Paterson being like Clarence Clemons, the “Big Man” whose solos (there’s more on stage than on the album) get some of the biggest receptions of the night.

As a concept, the music works well: middle aged man questions his life, gets infatuated with a lady, proclaims his love, which is then returned. Unfortunately, he then decides he’s “incapable of love” after all, leaving her somewhat annoyed. Nothing too new, perhaps, but Rowland does it well. The whole package may well bring heckles of “self-indulgent”, but Kev has never been one to shy away from such matters: after all, he has that ultra-conviction going back over 30 years from the days he was belting out covers of Northern Soul tunes.

What certainly is self-indulgent is getting a young lady to play his love interest for the music. Although Madeline Hyland may look the part, the bottom line is that she’s not a great singer and it’s just as well the most she has to do is engage in some dialogue.

Once she’s gone, the rest of the album (both on album and stage) does fade away a tad and the night doesn’t pick up again until the encore, when they blast through Tell Me When My Light Turns Green, Come On Eileen and This Is What She’s Like. The second of those was drawn out to perhaps too long a length, and I'd rather have had them give us Let's Make This Precious instead. But nevermind, a great gig and always nice to see a band make an effort with presentation.

Coping Well

I can't confess to being a huge Julian Cope fan, though the Teardrop Explodes remain one of my absolute favourite bands of the post-punk era and I've enjoyed bits of his solo work. Despite his penchant for the weird, the guy can write a very good pop song when he feels the need.

Even so, I probably wouldn't have even known he was playing in Manchester if a friend hadn't seen him at the All Tomorrow's Parties festival a few months ago and told me he was playing at Band On The Wall. I'd never been to the venue before it was shut for several years, but the general feeling from those I spoke it who had was that it was "grotty". Obviously they must be looking to go for a new vibe, as it all seemed a bit more upmarket to me.

Anyhoo, what Cope is also known for aside his tunes is his storytelling. His two autobiographical books Head On and Repossessed are well worth reading for anyone who hasn't, and the Cope of 2011 (dressed in leathers, shades and biker cap, looking like Marlon Brando from The Wild One after a heavy night on something stronger than pints of Old Peculiar) can still spin a yarn. Early on, he goes on a rap about creative experimentation. Turns out for his 50th birthday a few years ago, he dropped acid for the first time in ages and followed it up by trying some new substance that left him unable to drive for four months. All of which inspired a song called Julian Cope and the Underworld.

In one of his between-song muses, Cope reflected that the last time he played here, on one of the Teardrop Explodes early gigs, he was frequently heckled by scencester Jon the Postman shouting 'Louder!'. When it turned out someone in the crowd had the guy's number, Cope tried to call him up only to be put through to his answering machine.

Following this, he decides to play a very early Teardrops song, All I Am Is Loving You, which was the b-side to their second single, Bouncing Babies. Explaining that as the band's first keys player Paul Simpson (later to become leader of the wonderful Wild Swans) could only play two chords on the keyboard, he would now play the song with the third chord as he had originally written it.

Asides from the humour, what I take away from the night is that JC has always been a top songwriter, an aspect perhaps overseen by many for his previous (current?) appetite for adventures of the chemical kind. Stood up there alone for all but the encore, he's got great stage presence and still looks a star. That his voice was never particularly strong even 30 years ago has worked in his favour now, as it hasn't had the chance to decline in a way that has happened to some of his contemporaries.

A great night out then, thanks of which to go to Julian H. Cope. And yes, when he did Sunspots my friend and I did sing "Indeed! It goes away!"

On The Wall

As mentioned a few weeks ago, I'd decided to check out Suzanne Vega when her current tour made it to Manchester, hence finding myself at the Hard Rock cafe last Friday.

It being my first time at the venue, I couldn't help but chuckle at the Oasis lyrics painted on the balcony. Little bit sad that somebody thought that Wonderwall somehow symbolised all that's good about Manchester music.

Such is my insistence on getting anywhere for the time displayed on the ticket, a stupid habit I know, but I'm always worried of missing something, that it meant standing around for the best part of an hour or so when we could have been over the road at Sinclair's enjoying cheapo pints of Samuel Smith's Best Bitter. Getting there early did mean seeing the support act, a local called Sarah Dixon, who has apparently only been playing guitar for a year. She showed off some impressive finger-picking techniques and vocal skills, but perhaps could do with a songwriting partner to hone down lyrical ideas that often drift into cliche.

Following an auction of stuff signed by the main act (this being a gig in support of a breast cancer research charity), on came the woman herself. When I saw her back in 1997, she was armed with a full band - this time it was just her and a guitarist armed with a selection of effects units. Setting the tone for the night with Marlene On The Wall, the room got just about all the most well-known numbers from Ms Vega's back catalogue. Perhaps two reasons for this: first of all, it was a charity gig, so it's natural to stick to the classics. Secondly, she's recently put out two albums of acoustic re-recordings of older songs, so it makes sense to play them in such a style here.

To my recollection, we got songs from all albums bar Days of Open Hand, with half of Solitude Standing getting an airing, presumably it's her best seller over here. Having the best part of 30 years doing this singer/songwriter lark behind her, Vega's a pro at the between song banter game, telling us that Gypsy was inspired by a boyfriend from Liverpool she met while teaching folk singing and disco dancing (!) at a summer camp in the late 1970s.

One lark, preceding a song about her hometown of New York, sees Vega asking the audience what kind of person their own home would be. Manchester, it would see, is a miserable old man...

Two things spring to mind throughout the night, those being that Suzanne Vega is a fantastic songwriter and that she's an equally talented guitarist. On this instance, her backing fellow had a few tricks of his own, using loop, delay and other effects to very good effect. On Tom's Diner, he managed to create a rhythm track of sorts that put it more on the footing of the DNA remix than the acapella original. By the end of the night, I was insanely jealous of Suzanne Vega for having such a guy to play music with, when I could do with somebody like that myself.

An entertaining night, then, despite the venue not being to my liking all that much. To round it off, I found out that the Comsat Angels are playing more shows after their top gigs from last year. Superb!

Murder, Misery and then Goodnight

The day prior to flying across Europe, I jaunted down the M62 to Liverpool to check out Kristin Hersh at the Academy 2, accompanied by the always charming Nickyxx.

Whilst not a huge fan of Ms Hersh's work like my good friend, I have enjoyed several Throwing Muses albums and checking out a gig by her other band, 50ft Wave, six years ago provided a top night out. So making the effort to negotiate Liverpool's one-way system didn't seem too much of a hassle in return.

Once inside the pretty soul-less venue, it's a surprise to see the large amount of emo kids knocking about. It would be nice to think that they'd been checking out the 4AD back catalogue, but the truth revealed itself in the first of the two local support bands. The Kill Joys wander on stage and their various friends all crowd down the front to root for them.

A four piece with a combined age of what looks about 75, they bash through their set with gusto. Shame that their moves are all taken from the Big Book of Rock Cliches. They clap their hands above their heads during a drum breakdown and the bassist in particular seems to really want to be a star, with his foot permanently on his monitor. Fine musicians all, especially the propulsive drummer but a real lack of actual, y'know, tunes that you can remember.

Which is pretty much the same problem our next bunch of contenders have. Frankincense moved through their set competently, but failed to stir my interest at all. Over a week later, my main memory is the dreadful haircuts of the guys playing guitar and bass. But what do I know? A quick google check would suggest they've been approached to have their music on some American TV shows.

Then finally, the main attraction. We're pre-warned by a guy that I assume is her manager/husband that Kristin "doesn't talk much", so he explains her new album is taking the form of a book. Presumably, you buy the book, which in turns allows you access to download the actual music.

Unlike my only previous sighting of her, in a pretty much full-on rock gig, Hersh is solo and acoustic here. I've seen this set-up fail many times, but as an excellent guitarist with a voice capable of carrying songs with little backing, Hersh doesn't need to worry. Though I don't recognise most of the songs, it's an entertaining show that passes by with a strange kind of dream-like quality.

Hersh does actually talk between some songs, explain origins of the odd number. It's strange to think of someone so shy being able to do the whole touring and performing gig for so long, but her stories are amusing, especially the one about a neighbour who named both his sons Errol Flynn.

Trooping back to the car afterwards, though, Nicky expressed a feeling of disappointment over the gig and reckoned Hersh was well off her game, even to the point where she wondered whether this would be the last time we'd see her on the road in these parts. Would be a shame if so, as I still really hope to see a Throwing Muses gig, ideally complete with returning Tanya Donelly.

On the Factory Floor

The Chameleons were a band I came around to too late to see in person. Though they initially split in the late 80s, a reformation happened back in the early part of the last decade which also produced a pretty good album. However, it all fell apart again a matter of months before I got hold of a copy of their Strange Times album, becoming instantly smitten.

Since then, I've seen Burgess do several solo concerts where the main focus has been on his extensive solo career, with a few Chameleons highlights thrown in, and I've always enjoyed the shows. He’s a natural frontman with plenty of charisma and energy and at a charity show in Middleton Civic Hall, I was lucky enough to see him play through a version of Alternative TV’s Splitting In Two (a feature of the old band’s set) with both John Lever and Reg Smithies. Reg, incidentally, looked pretty much exactly as he did in 1982.

More recently, drummer Lever elected to start doing a set of Chameleons’ songs with his current band. Certain fans grumbled, but a guy has to make a living and those are his songs as much as anybodies. A gig at Manchester’s Roadhouse saw Burgess join in – I was there and it was an excellent night, so when the chance to see the same line-up (now billed as Chameleons-Vox) at the new Fac251 club came up, it was a no-brainer.

Firstly, the venue itself is no great shakes. Tiny bars and narrow stairs would seem to be a recipe for disaster, but perhaps that the clientele would mostly be student types, the potential for aggro is low. The Factory motif is central to design (portrait of Wilson by the door, as with the Hacienda, the typeface on all signs) and the sound wasn't too shabby either.

On entry, we’re pointed to the upstairs bar and a pathetic range of drinks. After sitting through England bravely battling to a draw against the States, everyone troops back downstairs and politely watches the support band trip through a set of Joy Division/Sonic Youth type riffs. A glance round the room shows a fair mix of ages: plenty of those who saw them first time round and a number like myself, who've discovered them after the fact. For us, we know this may well the closest we get to seeing the full band for ourselves.

When they do finally get on stage, it’s to a loud reception. Burgess somehow manages to not sweat bricks in his Doc Martens and jacket, though it still looks a bit weird seeing him on stage without a bass. From the off, it’s pretty much full on: In Shreds powers along, fuelled by Lever’s drums – he’s worth being here alone and he’s not lost any of the stamina or skill that made him one of the best of his generation.

The rest of the band does their job ably. The guitarists may not be in the league of Smithies and Dave Fielding, but not many are. The set maintains its early peak, running through all your favourites are more: personal faves would be Nostalgia (appropriate on such a night), Perfume Garden and Signing Rule Britannia (While The Walls Close In). As ever, Burgess peppers his own songs with grabbed lyrics from others: Get Back, Break On Through (To The Other Side) and White Riot are make their way in, somehow, while men in their late 40s energetically mosh away with people who could be their own children. An interesting sight.

The main set ends with Second Skin, with everyone singing the synth parts. Then it’s all back on for the run through Swamp Thing. We all go home happy as the kids outside line up to enter the club night that will carry on till the early hours.

At one point in the show, Burgess made a point that while some people have criticised the rebirth of the Factory brand, it’ll work until we find something better. As I left Fac251 to a room of students bouncing to Happy Mondays and Stone Roses, I wondered later just when the Manchester music scene will finally find something to help lift the weight of the past.

Rock Music

I've always been keen to tell anyone that would listen that British Sea Power are, to me, the only band to really strike any kind of chord with me from the last 10 years. Without doubt, the best of the first decade of the 21st century.

Whenever possible, I've tried to catch them when they pass through town, hence finding myself again at MohoLive last night. Originally, it was to be a Friday night but for whatever reason, it was shifted to a Monday. This was a bad thing. I'm sure I'm not the only one who feels a bit dead on their feet after the first day back at work.

Also, the venue itself is a dump. Crap beer, crap sound and throughout the gig, the lighting was producing seizure-inducing headaches and at points, I had to stare at the ceiling to alleviate the irritation a little while.

It wasn't their fault I didn't really enjoy the gig nor, in all honesty, the fault of the venue. The evening had started with me getting upset and frustrated, questioning just what my ethical stance is on certain matters and whether I'm a good person or not. (answer: uncertain but not looking likely)

The band mined their first and third albums for their set, throwing in what I assume are a few promising new numbers (or b-sides I haven't heard). Eventually, at the death, they cleared my mental mugginess by thrashing through The Spirit of St Louis and I smiled for the first time that day.

British Sea Power remain the only band out there now that really matter to me. I hope next time I see them, it's in a better venue and I'm in a better frame of mind.

Splitting Off Into Small Groups

I've seen Idlewild twice before, in 2002 and 2005. The latter occasion, they were supporting REM at Old Trafford Cricket Ground, the former was at a fair-sized arena venue with the band at their commercial peak, teenage girls screaming at them.

It was at this time I'd got into them myself. Years earlier, in my first year as a journalism student, one of my friends raved constantly about them. Listening to the first album, it seemed a bit teenage to me, and I was looking to leave that behind along with all my other small town habits.

Yet their second/third albums showed (to me) more focus and the gig in 2002 was enjoyable. It wouldn't have been a surprise if they'd stepped up to Coldplay-levels of popularity, but either by choice or circumstance, it didn't happen. Which is why, in 2010, they're playing to a few hundred people in a cramped club in Manchester.

A friend of mine told me he was going, did I want to tag along? I figured it could be a laugh, so why not? As it turned out, it seemed to would be a nice way to end an enjoyable weekend and an excuse to take a Monday off work.

It turned out to be a nice enough time, though not as exciting as I would have hoped. This wasn't the fault of the band, who played with gutso and energy, but somehow I felt entirely detached from what was going on. A few years ago, I would probably have lept into the fray along with the others, emerging covered in sweat, beer and bruises.

Now, I stood back from it all at the bar, drinking crappy over-priced beer from a plastic cup and wondered if bands do get frustrated when the audience react so much more to 12-year-old songs than those from their current album. Maybe I'm just annoyed they didn't play These Wooden Ideals or Let Me Sleep Next To The Mirror. Of course, it could be just that I'm not a hardcore fan and was in a room full of them. A bit like being a vegetarian at the National Butchers' Convention. Or not.

So, I did the obvious thing: drank too much and woke up feeling like crap, meaning half my day off is lost to feeling sorry for myself and the constant reminder that I can't hack it like I was 21 anymore.

I haven't been to many gigs in the last 12 months: Morrissey in Tallinn (good, but too short), Wild Swans twice in Liverpool (excellent both times) and this. In a week, I'm seeing British Sea Power and I really hope I can summon up a bit of enthusiasm for it.