2008
Herbie Hancock, Barbican, London, 19-11-08
19/11/08 18:30 Filed in: Gigs
"Jazz is the last refuge of the untalented. Jazz musicians enjoy themselves more than anyone listening to them does"
Those are the words of Steve Coogan, playing Mancunian outsider genius, musical pioneer and all round jazz-hater Tony Wilson, as spoken in the film 24 Hour Party People. I laughed at the line in the cinema and laugh each time I see the film – I remain impossible to offend in regard to my love of jazz. I see how other people perceive it and I understand their misgivings. It's music for people who are only interested in their own self-importance, their own ability to show off their musicianship. Yet jazz is a paradox. You can't get people into it in the same way you can rock music yet last night, while surveying the audience at the Barbican, I saw swathes of potential converts; people who had agreed to accompany a parent or partner to see one of the few true legends of the genre left. You could spot these people a mile off. Indeed, the young couple seated next to me were prime candidates. He, with geek glasses and Dazed and Confused threads; she with a bored look on her face rested her head on his shoulder looking for all the world as if she'd rather be in a Shoreditch bar. As the gig moved forward she opened her eyes and found herself unable to be unimpressed by the aural, visceral, sounds battering her ears.
My fellow gig-goers always catch the eye – the crowd was comfortably middle class, mostly middle-aged and, interestingly, the proportion of black concertgoers was higher than, say, when I saw James Brown a few years ago. Jazz is perhaps the greatest untouched art form of the 21st century – by which I mean it exists outside of the mainstream charts and radio almost in entirety. It's a perfect example of a genre only available to those 'in the know' but at the same time remains so varied that it's never inaccessible to those with open ears. The artist I saw, Herbie Hancock, can be defined in much the same terms. He remains an icon of unreachable cool for jazz lovers but is perhaps the artist who has gained the most commercial success of any of his peers. He can work with Miles; write with Wayne Shorter; effectively invent jazz fusion with his band The Headhunters; have a big hit record, Rockit, with its iconic video still played on MTV to this day; provide the crucial sample for 90s dance classic Groove is in the Heart; create 21st century dance music with album Future2Future and finally, last year, create a flawless set of Joni Mitchell covers with River: The Joni Letters. The latter album became only the second jazz album to ever win the Album of the Year Grammy (the first being Getz/Gilberto in 1965).
Surely he's the biggest jazz crossover artist of all time. And with that reverence well and truly in place he strode out onto the stage last night with his current sextet - Terence Blanchard, James Genus, Lionel Loueke, Gregoire Maret and Kendrick Scott. I didn't think the night was enhanced much by Maret – a Swiss harmonica player – but I appreciated the invention and bravery in putting him in the band. Still, there's a reason why the harmonica is not often used in jazz; it doesn't fit! Aside from that small matter it was a truly incredible night of hard, funky, experimental and, sometimes, delicate playing. The complaint most often directed at jazz is in regard to its perceived self-indulgence. On the contrary, if you understand it you can see that the music is ultimately selfless – that the players are stepping aside constantly, while keeping the groove going at all times, to allow the others to shine. In rock music soloing is seen as the perfect time to make an exit for the bar; in jazz it's not only a pre-requisite but virtuosity is greeted with appreciation and love from both the audience and the band members. The musicians last night were constantly smiling at each other, applauding each other, appreciating each other. You don't get that when a rock drum solo begins, you only get the guitarist nipping off for a smoke rolling his eyes. It's the ultimate form of collaborative music as the connection between those on stage verges on ESP at times.
So much so in fact that when I found myself watching the masterful Kendrick Scott on drums and the lumbering, genial, James Genus on bass I forgot the master was on stage at all. It proved that, aside from his own playing, Hancock's greatest gifts are of composer and arranger. He holds everything together while almost never making himself the centre of the show. That's what jazz is – rather than being the cliché of self-indulgence that detractors claim it is most often self-sacrificing. A remarkable section of the show was the solo spot by West African guitarist Loueke, who created sounds with his mouth, voice, guitar and an effects rack that had the assembled crowd gasping in disbelief. This was followed by a lengthy, thrilling, take on perhaps Hancock's most famous jazz composition, Cantaloupe Island. Finally, for the encore, out he came to take stage centre playing a gleaming white keytar. The night itself had taken on an almost mythic significance, as the music swirled around my food-poisoned being. Yes, even with a nasty bout of illness, which I contained, somehow, until after the show, bringing me to my knees it was an unforgettable three hour show in the company of an ageless 68 year old and his band whose energy powered me on from first minute to last.
...
Those are the words of Steve Coogan, playing Mancunian outsider genius, musical pioneer and all round jazz-hater Tony Wilson, as spoken in the film 24 Hour Party People. I laughed at the line in the cinema and laugh each time I see the film – I remain impossible to offend in regard to my love of jazz. I see how other people perceive it and I understand their misgivings. It's music for people who are only interested in their own self-importance, their own ability to show off their musicianship. Yet jazz is a paradox. You can't get people into it in the same way you can rock music yet last night, while surveying the audience at the Barbican, I saw swathes of potential converts; people who had agreed to accompany a parent or partner to see one of the few true legends of the genre left. You could spot these people a mile off. Indeed, the young couple seated next to me were prime candidates. He, with geek glasses and Dazed and Confused threads; she with a bored look on her face rested her head on his shoulder looking for all the world as if she'd rather be in a Shoreditch bar. As the gig moved forward she opened her eyes and found herself unable to be unimpressed by the aural, visceral, sounds battering her ears.
My fellow gig-goers always catch the eye – the crowd was comfortably middle class, mostly middle-aged and, interestingly, the proportion of black concertgoers was higher than, say, when I saw James Brown a few years ago. Jazz is perhaps the greatest untouched art form of the 21st century – by which I mean it exists outside of the mainstream charts and radio almost in entirety. It's a perfect example of a genre only available to those 'in the know' but at the same time remains so varied that it's never inaccessible to those with open ears. The artist I saw, Herbie Hancock, can be defined in much the same terms. He remains an icon of unreachable cool for jazz lovers but is perhaps the artist who has gained the most commercial success of any of his peers. He can work with Miles; write with Wayne Shorter; effectively invent jazz fusion with his band The Headhunters; have a big hit record, Rockit, with its iconic video still played on MTV to this day; provide the crucial sample for 90s dance classic Groove is in the Heart; create 21st century dance music with album Future2Future and finally, last year, create a flawless set of Joni Mitchell covers with River: The Joni Letters. The latter album became only the second jazz album to ever win the Album of the Year Grammy (the first being Getz/Gilberto in 1965).
Surely he's the biggest jazz crossover artist of all time. And with that reverence well and truly in place he strode out onto the stage last night with his current sextet - Terence Blanchard, James Genus, Lionel Loueke, Gregoire Maret and Kendrick Scott. I didn't think the night was enhanced much by Maret – a Swiss harmonica player – but I appreciated the invention and bravery in putting him in the band. Still, there's a reason why the harmonica is not often used in jazz; it doesn't fit! Aside from that small matter it was a truly incredible night of hard, funky, experimental and, sometimes, delicate playing. The complaint most often directed at jazz is in regard to its perceived self-indulgence. On the contrary, if you understand it you can see that the music is ultimately selfless – that the players are stepping aside constantly, while keeping the groove going at all times, to allow the others to shine. In rock music soloing is seen as the perfect time to make an exit for the bar; in jazz it's not only a pre-requisite but virtuosity is greeted with appreciation and love from both the audience and the band members. The musicians last night were constantly smiling at each other, applauding each other, appreciating each other. You don't get that when a rock drum solo begins, you only get the guitarist nipping off for a smoke rolling his eyes. It's the ultimate form of collaborative music as the connection between those on stage verges on ESP at times.
So much so in fact that when I found myself watching the masterful Kendrick Scott on drums and the lumbering, genial, James Genus on bass I forgot the master was on stage at all. It proved that, aside from his own playing, Hancock's greatest gifts are of composer and arranger. He holds everything together while almost never making himself the centre of the show. That's what jazz is – rather than being the cliché of self-indulgence that detractors claim it is most often self-sacrificing. A remarkable section of the show was the solo spot by West African guitarist Loueke, who created sounds with his mouth, voice, guitar and an effects rack that had the assembled crowd gasping in disbelief. This was followed by a lengthy, thrilling, take on perhaps Hancock's most famous jazz composition, Cantaloupe Island. Finally, for the encore, out he came to take stage centre playing a gleaming white keytar. The night itself had taken on an almost mythic significance, as the music swirled around my food-poisoned being. Yes, even with a nasty bout of illness, which I contained, somehow, until after the show, bringing me to my knees it was an unforgettable three hour show in the company of an ageless 68 year old and his band whose energy powered me on from first minute to last.
...
Oasis, Wembley Arena, London, 17-10-08
17/10/08 18:33 Filed in: Gigs
I have waited what seems like forever. It's hard to imagine why, after being a fan for 14 years, since I heard their first single, I could possibly have waited this long to see Oasis play live. They are, after all, considered one of England's greatest live bands. Their gigs, whether they be in clubs, theatres, arenas or stadia, sell out instantly. Perhaps I was on some level wary of the kind of crowd I might encounter. I'd heard horror stories of drunken thugs punching strangers, throwing bottles of piss around venues, a rowdy violent atmosphere. They seem to attract the most base of audiences. In many ways their gigs are like being at a football match - but I love football, attending matches whenever I can, and over the last decade or so no band has meant more to me. Maybe there is no real reason why I had failed to see them play until last night.
As a fan of many varied artists I find that only Oasis and Morrissey provoke the kind of blank hatred that I've been at the receiving end of recently. People really hate Oasis. For their shameless purloining, for their predictable musical style, for their unashamed arrogance. U2 aside, I often like bands who sell about eight records and are a well kept secret. Or bands who have long since ceased to be. Mainstream, the word and notion itself, is a profanity to me, pretentious as that is. But I just get this band and always have. I'm sure part of this is tied in with my dad, who gets them as I do. His record collection mostly contains artists no-one has ever heard of but, like me, Oasis are his concession to the mainstream. We get them together. Like our support of Man City, Oasis are our team. The football analogies hardly end there. The tribalism, the singalong, the joyful aggression were all there in spades last night. This band occupies an important part of the English psyche. This band matter to an entire generation in a way that no other English band of the last 30 years has. Their songs defined my teens and took me into my twenties. We support them like our football teams.
As I have gotten older I think I have become more emotional. I couldn't help but be consumed by the occasion and I can honestly say I've never been so moved at a concert by the sheer force of those around me. Most bands who've made a few albums have built up their catalogue and the audience's mood goes up and down depending on the setlist choice, the pace of the show and the newer material. Everyone waits for songs they know, songs that grew up with them. But Oasis still make albums that matter to their audience - having been to many gigs like this I'm accustomed to the crowd taking a breather or a drinks break when the new songs get rolled out. Sure, the older songs - Slide Away, Rock N Roll Star, Morning Glory, The Masterplan, Lyla - provoked hysteria but it's a fair assumption that virtually everyone in the arena owns a copy of the new album and has already started to learn it. Previous albums have had too much filler and everyone knows it, as evidenced by the fairly muted reception to The Meaning of Soul from the last album. This time the new songs fitted in just perfectly - I'm Outta Time, Shock of the Lightning, Falling Down - and were welcomed like old friends.
With Oasis, unlike any other band at this level, there is no show to speak of. There's some run of the mill lighting, four strip screens behind the band showing either them or nice enough, but not thrilling, psychedelic imagery. That's it. The songs sell the show, Noel knows they are strong enough to just stand there and blast it out. New drummer Chris Sharrock - former member of the Icicle Works, The La's and the Lightning Seeds - is perhaps the best drummer they've had. A combination of the complex but light touch of Alan White and the powerful but showy Zak Starkey, better suited to his current job in The Who, he played like he'd always been there even though he only made his debut in August. A guitarist on bass, Andy Bell, gives the band a live complexity they have never had but perhaps the unsung hero is the superb Gem Archer. You hear some solos and you think, Noel's playing great tonight. Then you realise it's Gem playing. Noel still seems a tiny bit subdued, not quite recovered from the broken ribs sustained in Toronto recently. But he's a tenacious, stubborn, determined man and didn't baulk from the business of his own vocals. He gave a tenderness to The Masterplan and Don't Look Back in Anger that reduced me to tears.
Liam, on the other hand, is as he always is. Love him or hate him he provokes a reaction. He stalks the stage like a caged tiger, saying almost nothing intelligible to the audience but his voice was utterly perfect. He's all attitude and he gets on people's nerves. But greeted like a working class hero, the offspring of Lennon and Lydon, there's no-one quite like him. England has a dearth of pathetic wannabes fronting bands like the Kaiser Chiefs and Kasabian. They worship Liam but they are mortals compared to him. He was born to do this. Well, this or robbing cars in Manchester.
Each song was greeted like an old friend. On many occasions I stopped singing and just turned round to see every single human in the place with rapturous delight on their faces, singing their hearts out. It was the very best kind of communal concert experience. People swayed and linked arms to Wonderwall, jumped and barged and clung on to Cigarettes and Alcohol. I can forgive the slightly bizarre exclusion of Live Forever, even. As the house lights came on and the beaming, sweaty masses made their way out of the venue I felt like a pummeled piece of meat, tenderised by the silver hammer of this proud band. Aching and happy, I limped out of the venue as the exit music played. A final smile spread across my face as I realised it was our - mine, dad's and the Gallagher's - football team's anthem playing. Blue Moon.
As a fan of many varied artists I find that only Oasis and Morrissey provoke the kind of blank hatred that I've been at the receiving end of recently. People really hate Oasis. For their shameless purloining, for their predictable musical style, for their unashamed arrogance. U2 aside, I often like bands who sell about eight records and are a well kept secret. Or bands who have long since ceased to be. Mainstream, the word and notion itself, is a profanity to me, pretentious as that is. But I just get this band and always have. I'm sure part of this is tied in with my dad, who gets them as I do. His record collection mostly contains artists no-one has ever heard of but, like me, Oasis are his concession to the mainstream. We get them together. Like our support of Man City, Oasis are our team. The football analogies hardly end there. The tribalism, the singalong, the joyful aggression were all there in spades last night. This band occupies an important part of the English psyche. This band matter to an entire generation in a way that no other English band of the last 30 years has. Their songs defined my teens and took me into my twenties. We support them like our football teams.
As I have gotten older I think I have become more emotional. I couldn't help but be consumed by the occasion and I can honestly say I've never been so moved at a concert by the sheer force of those around me. Most bands who've made a few albums have built up their catalogue and the audience's mood goes up and down depending on the setlist choice, the pace of the show and the newer material. Everyone waits for songs they know, songs that grew up with them. But Oasis still make albums that matter to their audience - having been to many gigs like this I'm accustomed to the crowd taking a breather or a drinks break when the new songs get rolled out. Sure, the older songs - Slide Away, Rock N Roll Star, Morning Glory, The Masterplan, Lyla - provoked hysteria but it's a fair assumption that virtually everyone in the arena owns a copy of the new album and has already started to learn it. Previous albums have had too much filler and everyone knows it, as evidenced by the fairly muted reception to The Meaning of Soul from the last album. This time the new songs fitted in just perfectly - I'm Outta Time, Shock of the Lightning, Falling Down - and were welcomed like old friends.
With Oasis, unlike any other band at this level, there is no show to speak of. There's some run of the mill lighting, four strip screens behind the band showing either them or nice enough, but not thrilling, psychedelic imagery. That's it. The songs sell the show, Noel knows they are strong enough to just stand there and blast it out. New drummer Chris Sharrock - former member of the Icicle Works, The La's and the Lightning Seeds - is perhaps the best drummer they've had. A combination of the complex but light touch of Alan White and the powerful but showy Zak Starkey, better suited to his current job in The Who, he played like he'd always been there even though he only made his debut in August. A guitarist on bass, Andy Bell, gives the band a live complexity they have never had but perhaps the unsung hero is the superb Gem Archer. You hear some solos and you think, Noel's playing great tonight. Then you realise it's Gem playing. Noel still seems a tiny bit subdued, not quite recovered from the broken ribs sustained in Toronto recently. But he's a tenacious, stubborn, determined man and didn't baulk from the business of his own vocals. He gave a tenderness to The Masterplan and Don't Look Back in Anger that reduced me to tears.
Liam, on the other hand, is as he always is. Love him or hate him he provokes a reaction. He stalks the stage like a caged tiger, saying almost nothing intelligible to the audience but his voice was utterly perfect. He's all attitude and he gets on people's nerves. But greeted like a working class hero, the offspring of Lennon and Lydon, there's no-one quite like him. England has a dearth of pathetic wannabes fronting bands like the Kaiser Chiefs and Kasabian. They worship Liam but they are mortals compared to him. He was born to do this. Well, this or robbing cars in Manchester.
Each song was greeted like an old friend. On many occasions I stopped singing and just turned round to see every single human in the place with rapturous delight on their faces, singing their hearts out. It was the very best kind of communal concert experience. People swayed and linked arms to Wonderwall, jumped and barged and clung on to Cigarettes and Alcohol. I can forgive the slightly bizarre exclusion of Live Forever, even. As the house lights came on and the beaming, sweaty masses made their way out of the venue I felt like a pummeled piece of meat, tenderised by the silver hammer of this proud band. Aching and happy, I limped out of the venue as the exit music played. A final smile spread across my face as I realised it was our - mine, dad's and the Gallagher's - football team's anthem playing. Blue Moon.
Dig Out Your Soul
14/10/08 18:35 Filed in: Records
I approach each new album with hope and excitement and finally, tentatively, it appears the faith is some way toward being thanked with their new, seventh, album, Dig Out Your Soul. The last three records have left my CD player faster than I would like. I didn't feel there was enough in there to keep listening; this time it feels different. Could they finally, say it quietly, have made a mature album? I never minded that they lacked depth, that their lyrics were poor, it was the songs that mattered. I can go through an album being lyrically unfulfilled if the songs dazzle. This time, there is more to let in. As I have come to expect, the album starts off at a blistering pace - strident, confident opener Bag It Up; The Turning, with its gentle Dear Prudence outro and Waiting for the Rapture, Noel-sung with its Doors Five To One intro and Beatles Revolution cadence, grab the attention immediately. Noel is bullish about the inclusion of his vocals but often I'm keen to get past them to the real rock voice in the band, as evidenced on frenetic stomper single Shock of the Lightning and its crashing Zak Starkey drums. But now Liam writes songs too so that is the balance, the exchange. Noel's vocals for Liam's songs. They are like the parents arguing over the map in the car while Gem Archer and Andy Bell are the children in the back watching the front seat annoyance unfold.
And then something surprising happens - Liam writes the sweetest, most charming song on the album, I'm Outta Time. Where this came from is anyone's guess. His live vocals might be a mixture of shouting, sneering, whisky and cigarettes but no-one can say Liam doesn't turn in some of the great rock vocals when it comes to the permanent record. This song is a real heartbreaker. To be unkind you might call it a Lennon pastiche. There's no attempt made to hide this - the song contains an Lennon interview sample from 1980. It's his love song to John, which has been coming for years. Frankly, Lennon would have been proud to have written it. Noel should watch out; especially since his next vocal (Get Off Your) High Horse Lady, with its Give Peace A Chance backing, marks the album's first average track. But then, at the point in the album where the songs traditionally start to sag, comes Falling Down - the final Noel sung song of the record and all is forgiven, all is returned, all is rescued. One can only be staggered by its power and beauty. Then, as I am used to, the album veers off course somewhat with a couple of poor tracks. The songs have a satisfying groove but aren't memorable - as songwriters, Gem and Andy, both former guitarists in their bands, Heavy Stereo and Ride, respectively, aren't quite there yet. On any other band's album they would be creditable entries but with the standard so high on Oasis records they don't pass muster. Still, the songs themselves are listenable for the music alone - with three guitarists in the band and no recognised bassist, as each of the three musicians swaps bass duties around, this certainly makes for an unusual atmosphere even on the songs that try too hard. It's a relief the band are able to move forward at all - without Gem and Andy, both excellent musicians, to drive the band along Oasis would be stuck in the mire, as they were before 2000 with game but hugely limited band members.
Later track To Be Where There's Life might be melodically unmemorable but its sitar and bass driven hypnotic quality takes it home. With the previous band members it would have been a muddy dirge, this time they get dangerously close to a jam, no bad thing. Penultimate track The Nature of Reality is a skippable mess but the Tomorrow Never Knows reminiscent album closer, the Liam-penned Soldier On, takes the listener out on a high. Oasis have made a mature album. For any other British band, ok is good enough. I expect more, need more, demand more from Oasis. If they can build on it they might become the band I've always wanted them to be.
...
John Waters, Hammersmith Apollo, London, 18-09-08
18/09/08 18:37 Filed in: Gigs
As nights out go it was hard to argue with its perfection. A lovely meal at one of the best vegetarian restaurants in London (The Gate), handily placed a moment's walk from the Hammersmith Apollo, followed by a flawless couple of hours spent in the company of John Waters. The man christened, if you'll pardon the pun, the Pope of Trash by none other than William Burroughs.
Before we, my flat mate and I, went to eat I had been sitting outside the venue reading the NME (I don't buy it usually, but Oasis were on the cover and I cracked) and, as I peered over my reading material, I surveyed the greatest collection of wonderful freaks in one place I'd seen since the Rubber Ball. This lot had it all: dykes of all shapes and sizes, tattooed burlesque chicks, Muscle Marys, effete skinny jean wearing indie kids, quiffs... the list goes on. And just when I thought I wouldn't see anything more surprising than this a fairly handsome young slim guy all in denim, looking like he'd walked out of the Suedehead video appeared in front of my eyes. Alex Kapranos, it was. I tried not to be distracted as, when we arrived at the Gate, we were seated next to what appeared to be the whole of Franz Ferdinand, no doubt they were Waters worshippers too.
Now, I must say at this point that the show was not completely new to me. A fair portion of it was taken from his recent DVD, This Filthy World. Waters tours America with this show, relating tall tales of his influences, inspirations and passions. But knowing some of the material in no way interrupted my enjoyment of the evening. We sat dead centre a few rows back surveying the simple but charming stage set: two large screens, black curtain, two gorgeous flower arrangements on pedestals and a carved wooden lectern stage centre. On he came, looking, self confessedly, like a paedophile hired by central casting. Tall and skinny, well dressed and with his trademark pencil moustache, the crowd welcomed him as a 'Filth Elder', if you will. Now in his 60s, Waters has had a new recent, and no doubt financial, lease of life with the extraordinary success of the stage play of the family film he made by mistake, Hairspray.
His delivery was flawless, smooth and well judged. There is no subject unbroached and no matter that will not be explored with an eye on the unusual and, of course, trashy. But what is purposeful trash? We know what accidental trash is - an Ed Wood film, a house furnished with bad taste by people with more money than sense, a reality TV show which trades in the humiliation of its participants. What Waters does is a world away from that. He seeks out the weird and wonderful and never once talks down to or exploits the undoubted strangeness of America and, most commonly, his hometown Baltimore, where all of his films are written, shot and set. He has love for the freaks of America, he has fascination for their lives and embraces them. Whether he's teaching in prison, done for several years in the 80s, inviting homeless crack addicts to star in his films or employing local eccentrics like Edith Massey he revels in outsider culture. He tells tall tales of his most famed performer, Divine, crawling through pig shit, wearing a gold bolero dress, in a farmer's front yard. They filmed for eight hours with no interruption: he surmises the owners were too afraid of the hippies under acid's influence to come out of their front door. Then there's Eat Your Make-Up, a tale of models kidnapped and forced to eat their make up and model themselves to death. "It's not as good as it sounds!" Its redeeming scene featured Divine dressed as Jacqueline Kennedy, recreating the assassination, covered in fake blood and wearing a designer dress, crawling backwards over the white car as they filmed outside his parents house. The neighbours were fairly offended, probably because the filming took place less than two years after it really happened.
His film life springs from his influences, the early horror directors and their gimmicks. William Castle, director of House on Haunted Hill, would put buzzers under the seats in the theatre, delivering electric shocks to the patrons at tense moments during his film. He would often arrive to his own premieres in a hearse and post an ambulance outside the cinema. On quiet nights he might put poisonous gas in the air vents so patrons would throw up and have to leave. That's where the ambulance came in. These strange but true stories are told with tremendous charm and humour. I didn't take my eyes off him all night.
Reality TV is the flipside version of all this - seeking out the strange and unusual in order to rip them to shreds. People watch the freaks on TV to feel better about themselves, to laugh at them and take advantage of their lack of intelligence and acumen. Waters joins them and takes you along with him, embracing their oddities, and you always feel like the right kind of voyeur watching these kindred spirits. He picks out, and is drawn in by, events most people would miss, like the fantastic New York Post headline last year reporting on the death of Ike Turner. He related the headline, to howls of laughter: Ike Beats Tina to Death.
Like much of the night, truth is stranger than fiction.
...
Before we, my flat mate and I, went to eat I had been sitting outside the venue reading the NME (I don't buy it usually, but Oasis were on the cover and I cracked) and, as I peered over my reading material, I surveyed the greatest collection of wonderful freaks in one place I'd seen since the Rubber Ball. This lot had it all: dykes of all shapes and sizes, tattooed burlesque chicks, Muscle Marys, effete skinny jean wearing indie kids, quiffs... the list goes on. And just when I thought I wouldn't see anything more surprising than this a fairly handsome young slim guy all in denim, looking like he'd walked out of the Suedehead video appeared in front of my eyes. Alex Kapranos, it was. I tried not to be distracted as, when we arrived at the Gate, we were seated next to what appeared to be the whole of Franz Ferdinand, no doubt they were Waters worshippers too.
Now, I must say at this point that the show was not completely new to me. A fair portion of it was taken from his recent DVD, This Filthy World. Waters tours America with this show, relating tall tales of his influences, inspirations and passions. But knowing some of the material in no way interrupted my enjoyment of the evening. We sat dead centre a few rows back surveying the simple but charming stage set: two large screens, black curtain, two gorgeous flower arrangements on pedestals and a carved wooden lectern stage centre. On he came, looking, self confessedly, like a paedophile hired by central casting. Tall and skinny, well dressed and with his trademark pencil moustache, the crowd welcomed him as a 'Filth Elder', if you will. Now in his 60s, Waters has had a new recent, and no doubt financial, lease of life with the extraordinary success of the stage play of the family film he made by mistake, Hairspray.
His delivery was flawless, smooth and well judged. There is no subject unbroached and no matter that will not be explored with an eye on the unusual and, of course, trashy. But what is purposeful trash? We know what accidental trash is - an Ed Wood film, a house furnished with bad taste by people with more money than sense, a reality TV show which trades in the humiliation of its participants. What Waters does is a world away from that. He seeks out the weird and wonderful and never once talks down to or exploits the undoubted strangeness of America and, most commonly, his hometown Baltimore, where all of his films are written, shot and set. He has love for the freaks of America, he has fascination for their lives and embraces them. Whether he's teaching in prison, done for several years in the 80s, inviting homeless crack addicts to star in his films or employing local eccentrics like Edith Massey he revels in outsider culture. He tells tall tales of his most famed performer, Divine, crawling through pig shit, wearing a gold bolero dress, in a farmer's front yard. They filmed for eight hours with no interruption: he surmises the owners were too afraid of the hippies under acid's influence to come out of their front door. Then there's Eat Your Make-Up, a tale of models kidnapped and forced to eat their make up and model themselves to death. "It's not as good as it sounds!" Its redeeming scene featured Divine dressed as Jacqueline Kennedy, recreating the assassination, covered in fake blood and wearing a designer dress, crawling backwards over the white car as they filmed outside his parents house. The neighbours were fairly offended, probably because the filming took place less than two years after it really happened.
His film life springs from his influences, the early horror directors and their gimmicks. William Castle, director of House on Haunted Hill, would put buzzers under the seats in the theatre, delivering electric shocks to the patrons at tense moments during his film. He would often arrive to his own premieres in a hearse and post an ambulance outside the cinema. On quiet nights he might put poisonous gas in the air vents so patrons would throw up and have to leave. That's where the ambulance came in. These strange but true stories are told with tremendous charm and humour. I didn't take my eyes off him all night.
Reality TV is the flipside version of all this - seeking out the strange and unusual in order to rip them to shreds. People watch the freaks on TV to feel better about themselves, to laugh at them and take advantage of their lack of intelligence and acumen. Waters joins them and takes you along with him, embracing their oddities, and you always feel like the right kind of voyeur watching these kindred spirits. He picks out, and is drawn in by, events most people would miss, like the fantastic New York Post headline last year reporting on the death of Ike Turner. He related the headline, to howls of laughter: Ike Beats Tina to Death.
Like much of the night, truth is stranger than fiction.
...
Leonard Cohen, the O2, London, 17-07-08
17/07/08 18:42 Filed in: Gigs
I haven't had an uninterrupted nights sleep in several days. I wonder if this is the half awake state of someone whose mind is not quite where it should be and whether that, in turn, means experiences are best seen under half sleepy eyes. I've also realised I write the kind of reviews for myself that I would not write for a magazine. The music takes me over and the reviews are not balanced. I know that. I don't choose to write in a detached way, I put it all out there. That's just me.
Most audiences are used to 9pm gig start times, often it's later. Last night it was 8pm and I sped into the arena only to miss the entrance of the Montreal troubadour by a mere moment. I remembered sitting in a field in Somerset a few weeks ago with the sun on my face as it set to the east and Leah turning to me and saying 'I hope he does Dance to the End of Love'. A moment later he made his entrance and started with that very song and we smiled in surprise and joy. As I emerged into the cavernous, but small compared to Glastonbury, O2 arena the opening verse of that song wafted across to my ears and I smiled again. Making my way to my seat, carefully down the steep concrete steps, the place was full to bursting, with not a seat to be had. I got to my row and saw a young dark-haired woman in white with an empty seat next to her. Smiling and contrite I politely asked the seat occupiers to let me pass through to my place. After the song was over I turned and the woman in white was gone. I thought I saw her sitting somewhere else but maybe I didn't, maybe she was a spirit guiding me to this synagogue of song.
I saw a small boy, no more than eight, being led by his parents to a seat. I saw a hunched over lady, in her eighties, nodding her head to the music. A middle class, middle aged crowd in a sterile grey venue surrounded me and I knew I would have trouble centering myself and my thoughts, feeling the hypnotic music as I had done in that field. It was almost like work at first. The music was not of the volume one is used to at gigs and certainly not like the housequake of Prince that I had seen on my last visit to the venue. It was sedate, not a rock concert by any stretch, and not just because the crowd were seated. And then I focused, on the cantor-like figure on the screen. An avuncular man in a pinstripe suit and sharp fedora, his kind open face smiling out to the masses, benevolently, with warmth and humility. Leonard Cohen didn't think this would be his retirement, having been led into performance by financial misadventure not of his own making. He surely couldn't have imagined the intense level of affection, reverence and appreciation that has greeted this current tour and at times seemed genuinely moved by the reception to his poetry set to music.
He has the songs, of that there's no doubt: from Tower of Song to So Long, Marianne, from First we Take Manhattan to Closing Time. And to Hallelujah, a song with its definitive version recorded by the son of a folk poet like himself. It takes a lot to quieten the noise of Londoners, that cynical breed. But you could have heard a pin drop when he recited, not sang, with sparse keyboard backing, Thousand Kisses Deep. To say he's a magnetic performer hardly does Cohen justice. Holding both hands to the microphone, going down on one knee to sing heartfelt lines, skipping off the stage; his creased wise face and silver hair sets him off as quite the charmer, even at 73. And that voice, it's all about that voice. Dylan gets on with it, rattling out song after song with barely pause for breath or admiration. He doesn't require worship, even though he gets it. Cohen doesn't require worship either but certainly leaves the spaces so they can be filled with respect and, even, laughter. He apologises for putting the audience out of their way 'geographically and financially'. He tells us he's 'not a man to keep things to himself'. That the last time he toured in 1994, aged 60, he was a 'young man making his way in the world'. All said in that rich, deep, hypnotic baritone, which envelopes you in sound from the minute you hear it to the minute he leaves the stage. He never missed a note or a cadence, never missed a cue nor a step. The nine-piece band were consummate and yet I had eyes only for him, like everyone else.
It's cruel, really. That I should get the chances to experience this so late in his career. Surely I won't have many chances after this? Not because he's infirm, far from it. He skipped offstage like a schoolgirl on several occasions and appears to be in great shape. Not touring for 14 years will give a man that wide-eyed enthusiasm for reconnecting with his audience. There's a certain weariness about some older stars, like the Stones. They do deliver but they've been on the road now with little break since 1989. That's longer than most bands entire careers. Hundreds upon hundreds of shows. Being away from it, taking in real life, being ordained as a Buddhist monk, as Cohen has been; it has made coming back that much sweeter for him. A standing ovation after Hallelujah, through my glassy tearful eyes, and the golden voice led us to the gate. It was a moving, profound evening, completely different to Glastonbury. That was an evening that defies description. A freeing experience outdoors with a breeze and a setting sun. Even in this cold, concrete venue, he reached out to me for those three hours and I took my place next to him for the rest of the journey.
Dance me to the end of love
The Future
Ain't no cure for love
Bird on the wire
Everybody knows
In my secret life
Who By Fire
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye
Anthem
intermission
Tower of song
Suzanne
The Gypsy's Wife
Boogie street
Hallelujah
Democracy
I'm your man
Take this waltz
First we Take Manhattan
encore
Sisters of Mercy
If it be your will
A thousand kisses deep (recitation)
encore 2
So long, Marianne
Closing Time
encore 3
I Tried To Leave You
Whither Thou Goest
...
Most audiences are used to 9pm gig start times, often it's later. Last night it was 8pm and I sped into the arena only to miss the entrance of the Montreal troubadour by a mere moment. I remembered sitting in a field in Somerset a few weeks ago with the sun on my face as it set to the east and Leah turning to me and saying 'I hope he does Dance to the End of Love'. A moment later he made his entrance and started with that very song and we smiled in surprise and joy. As I emerged into the cavernous, but small compared to Glastonbury, O2 arena the opening verse of that song wafted across to my ears and I smiled again. Making my way to my seat, carefully down the steep concrete steps, the place was full to bursting, with not a seat to be had. I got to my row and saw a young dark-haired woman in white with an empty seat next to her. Smiling and contrite I politely asked the seat occupiers to let me pass through to my place. After the song was over I turned and the woman in white was gone. I thought I saw her sitting somewhere else but maybe I didn't, maybe she was a spirit guiding me to this synagogue of song.
I saw a small boy, no more than eight, being led by his parents to a seat. I saw a hunched over lady, in her eighties, nodding her head to the music. A middle class, middle aged crowd in a sterile grey venue surrounded me and I knew I would have trouble centering myself and my thoughts, feeling the hypnotic music as I had done in that field. It was almost like work at first. The music was not of the volume one is used to at gigs and certainly not like the housequake of Prince that I had seen on my last visit to the venue. It was sedate, not a rock concert by any stretch, and not just because the crowd were seated. And then I focused, on the cantor-like figure on the screen. An avuncular man in a pinstripe suit and sharp fedora, his kind open face smiling out to the masses, benevolently, with warmth and humility. Leonard Cohen didn't think this would be his retirement, having been led into performance by financial misadventure not of his own making. He surely couldn't have imagined the intense level of affection, reverence and appreciation that has greeted this current tour and at times seemed genuinely moved by the reception to his poetry set to music.
He has the songs, of that there's no doubt: from Tower of Song to So Long, Marianne, from First we Take Manhattan to Closing Time. And to Hallelujah, a song with its definitive version recorded by the son of a folk poet like himself. It takes a lot to quieten the noise of Londoners, that cynical breed. But you could have heard a pin drop when he recited, not sang, with sparse keyboard backing, Thousand Kisses Deep. To say he's a magnetic performer hardly does Cohen justice. Holding both hands to the microphone, going down on one knee to sing heartfelt lines, skipping off the stage; his creased wise face and silver hair sets him off as quite the charmer, even at 73. And that voice, it's all about that voice. Dylan gets on with it, rattling out song after song with barely pause for breath or admiration. He doesn't require worship, even though he gets it. Cohen doesn't require worship either but certainly leaves the spaces so they can be filled with respect and, even, laughter. He apologises for putting the audience out of their way 'geographically and financially'. He tells us he's 'not a man to keep things to himself'. That the last time he toured in 1994, aged 60, he was a 'young man making his way in the world'. All said in that rich, deep, hypnotic baritone, which envelopes you in sound from the minute you hear it to the minute he leaves the stage. He never missed a note or a cadence, never missed a cue nor a step. The nine-piece band were consummate and yet I had eyes only for him, like everyone else.
It's cruel, really. That I should get the chances to experience this so late in his career. Surely I won't have many chances after this? Not because he's infirm, far from it. He skipped offstage like a schoolgirl on several occasions and appears to be in great shape. Not touring for 14 years will give a man that wide-eyed enthusiasm for reconnecting with his audience. There's a certain weariness about some older stars, like the Stones. They do deliver but they've been on the road now with little break since 1989. That's longer than most bands entire careers. Hundreds upon hundreds of shows. Being away from it, taking in real life, being ordained as a Buddhist monk, as Cohen has been; it has made coming back that much sweeter for him. A standing ovation after Hallelujah, through my glassy tearful eyes, and the golden voice led us to the gate. It was a moving, profound evening, completely different to Glastonbury. That was an evening that defies description. A freeing experience outdoors with a breeze and a setting sun. Even in this cold, concrete venue, he reached out to me for those three hours and I took my place next to him for the rest of the journey.
Dance me to the end of love
The Future
Ain't no cure for love
Bird on the wire
Everybody knows
In my secret life
Who By Fire
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye
Anthem
intermission
Tower of song
Suzanne
The Gypsy's Wife
Boogie street
Hallelujah
Democracy
I'm your man
Take this waltz
First we Take Manhattan
encore
Sisters of Mercy
If it be your will
A thousand kisses deep (recitation)
encore 2
So long, Marianne
Closing Time
encore 3
I Tried To Leave You
Whither Thou Goest
...
Lou Reed, Berlin
21/05/08 18:47 Filed in: Films
Once Dylan had shown the way, that you didn't need a sweet crooners voice to get records made and sold, artists like Reed found themselves with a future they could reach. In remaining true to himself and releasing the bleak Berlin, a tale of drug addiction, suicide and depression, a theatrical almost rock opera, he destroyed his own chart-bound career singlehandedly. Produced by Bob Ezrin - best known for his heavier rock work with Alice Cooper and Kiss - it was a shock to the system and, with reviews mixed and sales sluggish, Reed and Ezrin abandoned plans for a stage interpretation of the material. It was a forgotten record. At that time, Reed hadn't even visited Berlin. As years passed the maligned album was rediscovered and anointed a misunderstood masterpiece. Indeed, one can only imagine the effect it had on Bowie at the time who, three years after the albums release, fled to Berlin to escape his own addictions and found the inspiration there in person that Reed had found in absentia.
At the end of 2006, these dark, orchestral songs found their way out of the dust and into Brooklyn, Reed's birthplace. An idea to perform the entire album with the Brooklyn Youth Chorus, brass section, backing vocalists and a collection of acclaimed musicians had come to fruition. Over five nights at the tiny St Ann's Warehouse, artist turned film director Julian Schnabel filmed the performances, staged in front of his own set design.
The film starts with Schnabel's brief on screen introduction, welcoming the audience and Reed's mother and sister to the show. Then the band, including original album guitarist Steve Hunter, take the stage, as the lights swirl. Hunter sports a beanie hat, Zappa-esque facial hair, glasses and a crooked toothy grin that remains on his face throughout the film. His playing, perhaps the only mainstream aspect of the performance, dazzles throughout. The songs are staggering in both their complexity and simplicity. Behind the band is a screen playing the story of the album's protagonist Caroline, played by French actress Emmanuelle Seigner; beautifully shot by directors daughter Lola. The dramatic scenes linger over the music, overseen by original album producer Ezrin and Hal Willner, wrapping around the story. But the camera lingers on Reed - as inscrutable as ever, but allowing himself a few stolen smiles. Berlin might be his masterpiece and he knows it. This film is no Shine A Light. There are no rich bankers and their young girlfriends in the audience, whooping as they hold their sponsored beer holders aloft. The deep lines on his face are all that connects him with that world. He trades guitar lines with Hunter and vocal lines with perfect guests - backing vocalists Sharon Jones and Antony Hegarty.
This assault on your senses comes to an end with a searing take on Rock Minuet, from 2000's Ecstasy. Going further back than the film's subject, Velvets classic Sweet Jane plays out over the credits. This film is masterful; it puts you not only in Brooklyn on those December nights but also sends you to 1973 - where a future of certainty was rejected for something from the dark heart.
Berlin, opens July 25 2008.
http://www.berlinthefilm.com/
...
Shine A Light
20/04/08 18:58 Filed in: Films
In 1990, when I was 13, the same age as mum was when she saw them first, she took me to see the Stones at Wembley Stadium. As I gazed upon Keith's weatherbeaten Sid-James-looking visage I knew this band would be with me my whole life. I didn't anticipate growing up with them as mum had but that's what's happened. They are, arguably, now a better band live than they were 20 or 40 years ago. I put a fair bit of this down to the recruitment of the masterful and solid bassist Darryl Jones (born the year before the first Stones single Come On was released), who earned his apprenticeship playing with Miles Davis at age 22, which must have been quite a baptism. He gives the band a kind of grounding that they've never had before and Charlie seems more at one with this jazzman than he ever could have been with Wyman. I saw the Stones live again in 1993 but not since - I simply can't blow a hundred quid on a bad seat in a stadium, on finance and principle. I have a wealth of material at home on film, though nothing compared to a real Stones collector of course. But from 25 x 5 (VHS only, it's never come out on DVD) to the Double Door to Four Flicks, Bigger Bang, Gimme Shelter, Sympathy for the Devil/One Plus One, Cocksucker Blues and more, I've got the cornerstones of their career to hand, the visual markers by which one can trace their history. I will soon add to that the tremendous concert film Shine A Light.
There is no other filmmaker who understands the Stones as Scorsese does. Mean Streets, Goodfellas, Casino and the Departed all featured their music to great effect - Jumpin' Jack Flash in the first, Gimme Shelter in the others. And with his recent masterpiece of Bob, No Direction Home, he was the only choice to capture this small show at the Beacon Theater in New York. It's essentially a live concert film with a number of interwoven news clips of them being asked the same dull questions about how long they can keep on going for going back to the 60s. These clips are comical, provoking much laughter from the audience, especially in response to Charlie, ever unimpressed and nonplussed by the swirling circus around him. As you watch it you realise what odd lives these four extraordinary Englishmen have had and continue to have. Mick is the businessman, he was ever thus. Keith is on a constant quest to bring out the sincerity from his old friend, knowing that the real Mick is in there somewhere. He stops Mick from becoming too much of himself. All the while practicing the 'ancient form of weaving', as they call it, with Ronnie, always the most positive, excitable, force of togetherness in the Stones camp.
Scorsese does a magnificent job with the limitations of what I feel was probably not the best venue to set the show in. A fundraiser for a Bill Clinton sponsored charity the show takes place in front of the kind of corporate crowd you might expect - businessmen at the back doing a self-conscious head-bob to the songs they know while their 20-something trophy girlfriends swoon adoringly on the front rows at this grandfather on stage, his perfect washboard stomach pulling focus. Dad and grandad he may be but every woman in that theatre would go home with Jagger without pause. Surely a knight of the realm has never shaken his behind so much? Mick is simply extraordinary; cheeky and charming, his voice as strong as it was before I was born, his powers as a frontman undimmed.
Because of the size of the venue and the need to light it effectively, it almost has the feel of a TV show rather than a gig, which seemed to be the band's fear before filming started. Scorsese's previous rock concert film, The Last Waltz, was shot in the cavernous Winterland Ballroom in San Francisco, a venue wide enough to hide cameras in behind the band and, due to a spectacular set of chandeliers, easy to light without anything looking added or contrived. That was Scorsese's choice - you would only see the audience from the back of the stage for a few brief moments. Other than that, there were no audience shots at all, which put the viewer inside the gig. This Beacon show has altogether too much audience in it, though that's a minor quibble. What delighted me was the setlist. It contained, as it had to, some of the classics you'd expect to hear but also a fair few obscure album tracks. I jumped in my seat as All Down the Line and Loving Cup (the latter with a beaming and brilliant Jack White duetting) from Exile made their appearance. And the two ends - youth and experience - of the Stones spectrum made their bow too - exuding sex, as ever, was Christina Aguilera, doing a fine job on Live With Me. Their roots got the nod with the evergreen Buddy Guy on Muddy Waters song Champagne and Reefer. In the cinema I was surrounded by people my parents age, my age and kids in their early teens and younger. Their parents coughed nervously at "bring me champagne when I'm thirsty, bring me reefer when I want to get high" as I chuckled. I noticed the super filthy lyrics of Some Girls got a snip, which was to be expected I suppose.
Sheer energy carries the film along with considerable ease as band and filmmaker rise to the occasion and beat the venue. Mick in particular is on fantastic form, barely able to contain himself as he shows the trademark energy levels that put men a third of his age to shame. The camera spares no-one and rightly so - these men look in their 60s and they couldn't care less. There is no attempt to soften the lens, no careful shooting of the ravages of time. Every canyon-like wrinkle was proudly displayed on the 40 foot IMAX screen I was watching it on as the battle scars of decades of hard living came into view. Odd as it sounds, it's Keith's childlike joy that comes across clearest of all. On that famous face is a permanent grin, the sheer happiness and contentment coming from a man doing exactly what he wants with his life. A sensitive, passionate, warrior gypsy, Keith is the heart of both film and band. Against all odds, he is going to make a fine old man. His playing has hardly been better, as he says in an interview segment - "Both me and Ronnie as guitarists are pretty lousy but together we're better than ten others". Even the supporting cast have put in the years - sax legend Bobby Keys has been with the band since 69, keyboardist Chuck Leavell since 82, Darryl since 93, vocalists Bernard Fowler and Lisa Fischer since 89, keyboardist/guitarist Blondie Chaplin is the novice of the band having put in a mere decade of service.
In the 46 years since their first single, a Chuck Berry cover, they have seen off hundreds of bands and they are still standing. It's quite something when the definitive concert film of a band can be made when they're not at what is supposed to be their peak, the 1960s, but in fact when they should be collecting their bus passes. Mick once said that he never believed having a good time was something only for the young. But as they say, what else do they know how to do? Every few years the call that everyone expects will come and it's time to go on tour. Their back catalogue is unsurpassed and, as the sparks fly off in all directions, they can still deliver the best rock and roll show on earth.
...
Bjork, Hammersmith Apollo, London, 17-04-08
17/04/08 18:49 Filed in: Gigs
For some reason I'm reminded of a, possibly apocryphal, story that one of the suggested titles for Nirvana's In Utero album was Verse Chorus Verse. This was a comment on the formulaic notion of music at the time - but also a little nod to the quiet/loud/quiet/loud songs that Nirvana had become accused of writing. Bjork doesn't do verse chorus verse.
Going to see a gig can sometimes be predictable in content and style: big hit to start, a track from the last record, two new album tracks to force on the majority while the hardcore beam, another hit, another hit, obscure song, album track, album track, three big hits to finish the encore. That's how it goes, with all bands really. Last night was thrilling precisely because it was a challenging evening, musically, visually and aurally. The venue was the tatty old Apollo, location of so many legendary gigs. I've seen Bowie, Dylan and Rufus there myself, among others.
The lights flashed off and a cute female DJ appeared behind decks on the right. Then, and I shudder as I even think of this, the most horrendous, painful, noise came out of the PA system. What was this? Bjork's madness/genius is inspired, channelled and effortless. This was just bad DJing and it was disappointing to have to listen to it. The mixing was all over the place, that was when it wasn't simply a collection of noises. Two minutes of Bowie's Fashion was the only break from the hell of this so-called support act. The emperor wants his clothes back. I don't know who she was but it was the worst attempt at supporting an artist I've ever seen - and she wasn't even a musician! People put their fingers in their ears because, aside from being musically unlistenable, the PA system was far too loud. Now, I'm a metal fan of 20 years and have been to my share of loud gigs so I don't oppose being blasted. In fact, I've even been having a bit of a moan recently about gigs not being loud enough. But this was ridiculous. I feared ear damage, that's how loud it was. Was she put on to open our ears up and ready us for the voice we had come to hear? Was this a case of having an awful support act to make the main attraction look better? Whatever the aim was, it didn't work.
After what seemed like an eternity of pain, she exited the stage to cheers. Activity was imminent - spotlight operators climbed their ropes and took their place, vibrantly coloured flags appeared from nowhere at the sides and back of the stage and then, quite quickly, a ten piece, identically dressed, all female brass section walked onto the stage as the volume and energy levels rose. Three musicians - who all looked like they work in an Apple store - walked to their decks, Macs and a drumkit as a keyboardist, looking every inch the City gent in his suit, took his place on stage right. The insistent beat of Earth Intruders began and there she was - looking like a cross between Siouxsie and a demented geisha, in multi-coloured dress and huge headpiece wig. We realised quickly that we couldn't see - the floor of the venue is not tilted enough like Brixton Academy's, so we moved back 20 feet and suddenly the view was desirable. Watching her, listening to her, is more of a performance art piece than a pop concert.
We'd seen her at Glastonbury last year, following Arcade Fire, and I was too tired to fully take in what was going on. Normally at gigs, there's singing, jumping around, dancing and general merriment. For large swathes of last night's show, and it was the same at Glasto, it was just... not like that. You're in thrall to her as a performer, you want to watch her and not partake in the usual physical expressions of gig-going. There are moments, from half way through the gig or so, where it does become dance music and that provokes an automatic reaction from the audience - who do want to dance and find the beats in even the most complex songs. You find yourself being manipulated as an audience member in the most mesmeric way. She holds the attention of the viewer/listener with her very being - you realise that the whole show really is about her voice as an instrument, that the songs are merely vehicles by which the voice gives itself to the whole. There are concessions to the 'show' on occasion, as cannons of confetti shoot across the stage as a thunderous Army Of Me reverbs round the venue. That's as close as it gets to a regular gig. I could listen to Bjork's voice for hours on end. The way she uses her voice is unlike any other singer I've ever heard. You can only be in thrall to it, as you watch, glassy-eyed in admiration and astonishment. And yet, with all the unusual energy floating around there are simply magnificent audience pleasing anthems like Hunter, Hyperballad and, one of my highlights of the night, Wanderlust.
Perhaps my ultimate highlight though was Joga, the first song of the encore. The melody makes me want to cry, its beauty brings me to my knees. The expected finale of Declare Independence finished us off, it's a flawless set closer. Given that I go to a fair few gigs that exist in that verse chorus verse universe, it's a joy to see a live show that transforms and challenges your expectations. Only Bjork can provide it.
Earth Intruders
Hunter
Hope
The Pleasure is All Mine
Dull Flame of Desire
Vertebrae by Vertebrae
Desired Constellation
Army of Me
Who Is It
Cover Me
Bachelorette
Immature
Wanderlust
Hyperballad
Pluto
Joga
Declare Independence
...
Going to see a gig can sometimes be predictable in content and style: big hit to start, a track from the last record, two new album tracks to force on the majority while the hardcore beam, another hit, another hit, obscure song, album track, album track, three big hits to finish the encore. That's how it goes, with all bands really. Last night was thrilling precisely because it was a challenging evening, musically, visually and aurally. The venue was the tatty old Apollo, location of so many legendary gigs. I've seen Bowie, Dylan and Rufus there myself, among others.
The lights flashed off and a cute female DJ appeared behind decks on the right. Then, and I shudder as I even think of this, the most horrendous, painful, noise came out of the PA system. What was this? Bjork's madness/genius is inspired, channelled and effortless. This was just bad DJing and it was disappointing to have to listen to it. The mixing was all over the place, that was when it wasn't simply a collection of noises. Two minutes of Bowie's Fashion was the only break from the hell of this so-called support act. The emperor wants his clothes back. I don't know who she was but it was the worst attempt at supporting an artist I've ever seen - and she wasn't even a musician! People put their fingers in their ears because, aside from being musically unlistenable, the PA system was far too loud. Now, I'm a metal fan of 20 years and have been to my share of loud gigs so I don't oppose being blasted. In fact, I've even been having a bit of a moan recently about gigs not being loud enough. But this was ridiculous. I feared ear damage, that's how loud it was. Was she put on to open our ears up and ready us for the voice we had come to hear? Was this a case of having an awful support act to make the main attraction look better? Whatever the aim was, it didn't work.
After what seemed like an eternity of pain, she exited the stage to cheers. Activity was imminent - spotlight operators climbed their ropes and took their place, vibrantly coloured flags appeared from nowhere at the sides and back of the stage and then, quite quickly, a ten piece, identically dressed, all female brass section walked onto the stage as the volume and energy levels rose. Three musicians - who all looked like they work in an Apple store - walked to their decks, Macs and a drumkit as a keyboardist, looking every inch the City gent in his suit, took his place on stage right. The insistent beat of Earth Intruders began and there she was - looking like a cross between Siouxsie and a demented geisha, in multi-coloured dress and huge headpiece wig. We realised quickly that we couldn't see - the floor of the venue is not tilted enough like Brixton Academy's, so we moved back 20 feet and suddenly the view was desirable. Watching her, listening to her, is more of a performance art piece than a pop concert.
We'd seen her at Glastonbury last year, following Arcade Fire, and I was too tired to fully take in what was going on. Normally at gigs, there's singing, jumping around, dancing and general merriment. For large swathes of last night's show, and it was the same at Glasto, it was just... not like that. You're in thrall to her as a performer, you want to watch her and not partake in the usual physical expressions of gig-going. There are moments, from half way through the gig or so, where it does become dance music and that provokes an automatic reaction from the audience - who do want to dance and find the beats in even the most complex songs. You find yourself being manipulated as an audience member in the most mesmeric way. She holds the attention of the viewer/listener with her very being - you realise that the whole show really is about her voice as an instrument, that the songs are merely vehicles by which the voice gives itself to the whole. There are concessions to the 'show' on occasion, as cannons of confetti shoot across the stage as a thunderous Army Of Me reverbs round the venue. That's as close as it gets to a regular gig. I could listen to Bjork's voice for hours on end. The way she uses her voice is unlike any other singer I've ever heard. You can only be in thrall to it, as you watch, glassy-eyed in admiration and astonishment. And yet, with all the unusual energy floating around there are simply magnificent audience pleasing anthems like Hunter, Hyperballad and, one of my highlights of the night, Wanderlust.
Perhaps my ultimate highlight though was Joga, the first song of the encore. The melody makes me want to cry, its beauty brings me to my knees. The expected finale of Declare Independence finished us off, it's a flawless set closer. Given that I go to a fair few gigs that exist in that verse chorus verse universe, it's a joy to see a live show that transforms and challenges your expectations. Only Bjork can provide it.
Earth Intruders
Hunter
Hope
The Pleasure is All Mine
Dull Flame of Desire
Vertebrae by Vertebrae
Desired Constellation
Army of Me
Who Is It
Cover Me
Bachelorette
Immature
Wanderlust
Hyperballad
Pluto
Joga
Declare Independence
...
Radiohead, BBC Radio Theatre, London, 02-04-08
02/04/08 18:51 Filed in: Gigs
I consume music, every single day. It informs me and I feed from it. When a friend won Radiohead tickets and agreed to take me a sense of guilt set in. I didn't deserve this, there are real hardcore fans who have followed this band since day 1 who weren't able to go. I was a moderate fan, there was no embellishing that. I used to listen to the Mark Radcliffe show on Radio 1 in the early and mid 90s. He was a bit of a hero to me - a Mancunian DJ who refused to move to London, instead creating his magnificent 10pm show, with co-host Marc Riley (formerly of The Fall), from the BBC building on Oxford Road. Bands respected him and would happily travel up north to do sessions and interviews. He knew his stuff and he was a long-suffering City fan which only endeared me to him more. I saw him introduce Bowie on stage twice in 2002. Imagine my surprise when he appeared to introduce the band last night - I had to talk to him after the gig, tell him how I listened to him when I was younger. I had to shake his hand, which was the perfect ending to a rather unbelievable night.
As I've said, I felt some twinge of guilt that I had been allowed entry while some true fans had missed out - not that I haven't missed out on plenty of gigs I deserved to be at, most notably the recent Zeppelin reunion. Then I realised that my true love and appreciation of music, which cuts deep, meant I deserved my place at the BBC Radio Theatre. I knew exactly how lucky I was. We arrived and, as always with the BBC, spent an eternity getting through the door. I had thought the BBC had a certain system - as you entered your ticket was given a sticker with a number. This had happened at the Boosh filming the other week. They called out the numbers in groups, like when you board a plane - "People with tickets numbered 0-30 make your way forward". That kind of thing. It seems fairer. My ticket was 110, I was convinced the numbers would be called out in order, as had happened with the squealing Boosh fans who, I now realised, are harder to wrangle than a set of well behaved, but excited, Radiohead fans. After a quick trip to the loo we couldn't get back to our place in the overcrowded, tiny, waiting area so we just settled by the door. Some irate fans said they had been there for hours and were getting in first and I said I thought the BBC system was to call people in by the stickers - otherwise why put numbered stickers on there if you're not going to use the numbers?
I have a Bowie performance, his 2000 Glastonbury warm-up, recorded at the Radio Theatre. I don't know how they do it but the Beeb make their venues look huge even when, especially when, they are very small. The announcement to enter the theatre came and we walked calmly to the studio, round the brand new winding corridors. No-one was stopping us and arranging us by ticket order. As we walked into the tiny theatre I was struck by how much bigger it looked for the Bowie show. And then I realised that we were simply walking in, right to the front fucking row. Yes, one foot after the other and there we were - somehow, inexplicably, outrageously, front and centre. Two feet from the equipment filled stage. Three feet from the microphone. Was this real? Could I see one of the biggest bands on earth, a band who people stand in stadia to see, a band who headline Glastonbury with ease, as if they were playing a gig in my living room. Allison and I looked at each other openmouthed. How had this happened to us?! The gorgeous long haired indie kid to my left beamed at me and I beamed back at him. This was ridiculous, how could I have deserved this?
My eyes were wide open, taking in all the detail - the mountain of amps and effects racks, the row of guitars, the, smaller than I expected, drumkit and, soon enough, Radcliffe was on the one foot high stage introducing the band and out they walked, all boyish sneakers and tatty T shirts. Only Ed, handsome like a catalogue model, wore clothes that looked like they cost more than a tenner. The famed floppy Jonny fringe, the slightly hunched form of bassist Colin, the inscrutable visage of drummer Phil and finally, iconically, the awkward, twitchy, bedraggled Thom. They crashed into the first of seven tracks from In Rainbows, the fast and insistent Bodysnatchers. None of this felt real. I could hear the guitar coming out of the monitor within touching distance as the bass throbbed, with perfect clarity, through the room. My mind was racing - I must take this in, I was thinking. With no photos allowed the image of them in front of me was burning itself into my mind. This would never happen again to me. I have never been front row centre for a gig in my life, let alone one that was in the presence of one of the greatest bands on earth.
My eyes wandered all over the stage. They are about music, not drawing attention with daft outfits or mic-lead-twirling singers. This allows you to admire the sheer craft on show, the unspoken communication between these five men. It felt like I could not just hear them as a collective, hear the music as one entity, but see all of them at the same time. This is the 21st century, he sang. I was desperate to drink this in. As they started the achingly beautiful Nude I closed my eyes and allowed the song to travel around me, like sitting in my room between my big speakers. It sounded better than the record. I started to feel emotional, quite tearful, as Thom hits that big note near the end and I forgot where I was as I floated away. I opened my eyes to see this band standing in front of me playing the song in my head. All my life, I will never forget that moment.
I had come to hear In Rainbows but, in their matinee performance earlier that afternoon, they had played a couple from Kid A. To my delight, this evening show was getting something else - three songs from OK Computer. I gasped as they played Airbag back to back with The Tourist. Then caught my breath as we went back to In Rainbows before a double blast of Lucky and Kid A's Everything In Its Right Place. I'd been warned about this album, how experimental and inaccessible it was to to ear. It was one of the best songs on the night, I think the non-mainstream-rock-song side of this band is something I could easily fall for. I look forward to getting to know their more recent albums, I feel like I have great riches awaiting me. And then it was over, the live Radio 2 broadcast came to its end and the audience let loose, on their feet, howling approval as I caught my breath. I'd witnessed something so special I felt like never seeing the band live again because it could never match that - so many songs from such a masterpiece of an album, played within touching distance. Jonny, in his science lab corner, surrounded by effects racks, a keyboard and various mad professor looking contraptions, walls of sockets with plugged in leads by the dozen shooting off into every corner. His brother Colin, a fluid, expert bassist, always turned away from the crowd and towards metronomic drummer Phil. Ed holds it all together with sweeping tones of guitar, swirling towards the others, complementing the solid, but often spectacular playing and singing at the front. Thom's voice flawless, his charisma palpable and unusual; being so close to this mighty band was... there is no word that fits.
It had been a long day for them, as Thom had said, with a small sigh. But out he and Jonny came to perform Faust Arp, acoustic as on the album, before they made their exit. I took advantage of my proximity to ask a roadie for one of the neatly arranged guitar picks sticking up from Thom's pedals. "You don't want one of them, have this one that he actually used" he said as he picked up a discarded pick off the floor and handed it to me with a smile. Allison got one too. The people to my left and right got setlists. We filed out of the theatre feeling overwhelmed. An occasion like last night will never come again. Every time I close my eyes I am there.
Bodysnatchers
All I Need
Nude
Reckoner
Airbag
The Tourist
House Of Cards
Arpeggi
Lucky
Everything In Its Right Place
Encore:
Faust Arp
...
As I've said, I felt some twinge of guilt that I had been allowed entry while some true fans had missed out - not that I haven't missed out on plenty of gigs I deserved to be at, most notably the recent Zeppelin reunion. Then I realised that my true love and appreciation of music, which cuts deep, meant I deserved my place at the BBC Radio Theatre. I knew exactly how lucky I was. We arrived and, as always with the BBC, spent an eternity getting through the door. I had thought the BBC had a certain system - as you entered your ticket was given a sticker with a number. This had happened at the Boosh filming the other week. They called out the numbers in groups, like when you board a plane - "People with tickets numbered 0-30 make your way forward". That kind of thing. It seems fairer. My ticket was 110, I was convinced the numbers would be called out in order, as had happened with the squealing Boosh fans who, I now realised, are harder to wrangle than a set of well behaved, but excited, Radiohead fans. After a quick trip to the loo we couldn't get back to our place in the overcrowded, tiny, waiting area so we just settled by the door. Some irate fans said they had been there for hours and were getting in first and I said I thought the BBC system was to call people in by the stickers - otherwise why put numbered stickers on there if you're not going to use the numbers?
I have a Bowie performance, his 2000 Glastonbury warm-up, recorded at the Radio Theatre. I don't know how they do it but the Beeb make their venues look huge even when, especially when, they are very small. The announcement to enter the theatre came and we walked calmly to the studio, round the brand new winding corridors. No-one was stopping us and arranging us by ticket order. As we walked into the tiny theatre I was struck by how much bigger it looked for the Bowie show. And then I realised that we were simply walking in, right to the front fucking row. Yes, one foot after the other and there we were - somehow, inexplicably, outrageously, front and centre. Two feet from the equipment filled stage. Three feet from the microphone. Was this real? Could I see one of the biggest bands on earth, a band who people stand in stadia to see, a band who headline Glastonbury with ease, as if they were playing a gig in my living room. Allison and I looked at each other openmouthed. How had this happened to us?! The gorgeous long haired indie kid to my left beamed at me and I beamed back at him. This was ridiculous, how could I have deserved this?
My eyes were wide open, taking in all the detail - the mountain of amps and effects racks, the row of guitars, the, smaller than I expected, drumkit and, soon enough, Radcliffe was on the one foot high stage introducing the band and out they walked, all boyish sneakers and tatty T shirts. Only Ed, handsome like a catalogue model, wore clothes that looked like they cost more than a tenner. The famed floppy Jonny fringe, the slightly hunched form of bassist Colin, the inscrutable visage of drummer Phil and finally, iconically, the awkward, twitchy, bedraggled Thom. They crashed into the first of seven tracks from In Rainbows, the fast and insistent Bodysnatchers. None of this felt real. I could hear the guitar coming out of the monitor within touching distance as the bass throbbed, with perfect clarity, through the room. My mind was racing - I must take this in, I was thinking. With no photos allowed the image of them in front of me was burning itself into my mind. This would never happen again to me. I have never been front row centre for a gig in my life, let alone one that was in the presence of one of the greatest bands on earth.
My eyes wandered all over the stage. They are about music, not drawing attention with daft outfits or mic-lead-twirling singers. This allows you to admire the sheer craft on show, the unspoken communication between these five men. It felt like I could not just hear them as a collective, hear the music as one entity, but see all of them at the same time. This is the 21st century, he sang. I was desperate to drink this in. As they started the achingly beautiful Nude I closed my eyes and allowed the song to travel around me, like sitting in my room between my big speakers. It sounded better than the record. I started to feel emotional, quite tearful, as Thom hits that big note near the end and I forgot where I was as I floated away. I opened my eyes to see this band standing in front of me playing the song in my head. All my life, I will never forget that moment.
I had come to hear In Rainbows but, in their matinee performance earlier that afternoon, they had played a couple from Kid A. To my delight, this evening show was getting something else - three songs from OK Computer. I gasped as they played Airbag back to back with The Tourist. Then caught my breath as we went back to In Rainbows before a double blast of Lucky and Kid A's Everything In Its Right Place. I'd been warned about this album, how experimental and inaccessible it was to to ear. It was one of the best songs on the night, I think the non-mainstream-rock-song side of this band is something I could easily fall for. I look forward to getting to know their more recent albums, I feel like I have great riches awaiting me. And then it was over, the live Radio 2 broadcast came to its end and the audience let loose, on their feet, howling approval as I caught my breath. I'd witnessed something so special I felt like never seeing the band live again because it could never match that - so many songs from such a masterpiece of an album, played within touching distance. Jonny, in his science lab corner, surrounded by effects racks, a keyboard and various mad professor looking contraptions, walls of sockets with plugged in leads by the dozen shooting off into every corner. His brother Colin, a fluid, expert bassist, always turned away from the crowd and towards metronomic drummer Phil. Ed holds it all together with sweeping tones of guitar, swirling towards the others, complementing the solid, but often spectacular playing and singing at the front. Thom's voice flawless, his charisma palpable and unusual; being so close to this mighty band was... there is no word that fits.
It had been a long day for them, as Thom had said, with a small sigh. But out he and Jonny came to perform Faust Arp, acoustic as on the album, before they made their exit. I took advantage of my proximity to ask a roadie for one of the neatly arranged guitar picks sticking up from Thom's pedals. "You don't want one of them, have this one that he actually used" he said as he picked up a discarded pick off the floor and handed it to me with a smile. Allison got one too. The people to my left and right got setlists. We filed out of the theatre feeling overwhelmed. An occasion like last night will never come again. Every time I close my eyes I am there.
Bodysnatchers
All I Need
Nude
Reckoner
Airbag
The Tourist
House Of Cards
Arpeggi
Lucky
Everything In Its Right Place
Encore:
Faust Arp
...
Rufus Wainwright, Radio City Music Hall, New York, 15-02-08
15/02/08 18:59 Filed in: Gigs
I took my seat, 20 feet or so from the stage, and watched the place fill up with New York's trendiest. On came Sean Lennon. I enjoyed his set, he's an excellent guitarist and there's a gentle, ethereal quality to his music but I can't say I'd buy it. He's got more talent than I thought he did and his nervous, shy stage patter works well, to a point, but I couldn't say he impressed me hugely. His most stunning impact is that of a visual one, given his remarkable resemblance to his father. I suspected I might see him again later in the evening. A short break and just before 9pm the curtain went up and the familiar stage set had appeared - black and white Stars and Stripes flag, with brooches, two mirror balls and place on stage for 7 musicians. On they came, opening with title track Release The Stars. A roar went up as he walked on, wearing the loudest, actually luminous, yellow and black suit jacket and trousers, covered in brooches. The band were wearing similar, but not yellow, suits and brooches too. The show has become familiar but it's still very fresh and the songs filled the huge expanse of the venue, with its two mezzanine balconies, easily. Four RTS songs later and everyone was settled, he'd cracked a few jokes ('There should be a countdown machine in Times Square telling us how many moments to go til Bush is outta here!') and I loved every minute of it. Seeing him live is a singular experience. After a year of touring, worldwide, and gigs most days I was amazed at his energy level and his flawless voice. Not a note out of place, every big note high and strong, but with great tenderness on the quieter songs. The emotional quality to his voice is unlike anything I've heard before. I've never been in the presence of an artist who can make you weep with a song then laugh until you hurt with a bit of between song banter. Usually I get to artists when they're dead or ancient, or just starting. This time I've jumped in 5 albums in when he's hit his creative stride and is approaching his mid 30s. That's some impeccable, accidental, timing. He told us about a new annual environmental venture he's doing BlackOutSabbath, where the idea is for everyone to just switch off their appliances, heating, everything that needs electricity, for 12 hours in June.
Before the customary interval we had the last fan participation edition of RTS song Between My Legs. A fan, who sent in a video via You Tube, will take the spoken word bit at the end. Though moving stiffly and looking nervous before his bit, the guy who was up there came to life when the moment required it and delivered the lines like a Shakespearian actor. So far, so regular, but still thrilling, show. Second half began with the amazing, complex, Do I Disappoint You and some, what you might call, hits - Beautiful Child and two songs from his Judy show. During my favourite RTS song, Slideshow, we got, at the punch moment of brass coming in, two sets of pyrotechnics, which was a surprise and a visual treat. He hoped we liked them and they didn't look too ridiculous. After that it was a brave move to try Macushla, the Irish folk song, without a microphone. I'd seen him do it, with great success, in London but this was a venue twice as large. I was close but his voice went right past me to the back, if not to the balconies probably. A rousing, loud and hugely well-received 14th Street, about New York of course, closed the main show out. I was starting to get a bit sad that this was about to be over and it'll be goodness knows how long before I can see him live again. Fortunately, the encore was a complete blast and sent me off with a bounce in my step and a grin on my face that still sits there.
Out he came in bathrobe, to huge cheers, and, as I expected, on came Sean. They performed Across the Universe, as they had done so on that same stage a mere three weeks after 9/11 for a Lennon tribute show, and it was... I'm speechless. As a Beatles fan, it's hard for me to top that. A bearded Sean, playing guitar, with Rufus and not only him from family McGarrigle-Wainwright either - he brought out mum Kate and sister Martha to sing back-ups on it too. Unforgettable highlight. Then a folk song with just Rufus, Martha and Kate on guitar - Meducino, a song about New York state. The finale was approaching. He sat on the chair at stage front and got into drag before our eyes - as people howled, wolf-whistled and he winked flirtatiously at all and sundry. Earrings, lipstick and heels on and off we went into a mimed Get Happy. The band were joined by Kate and Martha in their ramshackle but, you could see, enjoyed choreography and all were dressed, not in tuxes as usual, but as nuns! It brought the house down. Then, finally, Gay Messiah. And he was covered with silly string from the band by the end as Gerry Leonard's daughter, around two years old and dressed in fairy wings and ear-protecting headphones, was hoiste up by her dad. The band took their bow as a rain of white pyrotechnic sparks rained down from the ceiling. A standing ovation and he dragged boyfriend Jorn up there for a bow and Valentine's kiss. His last act before leaving the stage, after a filthy joke about the silly string, was to slip over on the mountains of string, regain his balance, with Jorn's help, and bound offstage with applause ringing in his ears. I honestly can't remember *ever* having so much fun at a concert before. Just pure fun. I've had sombre, happy, thrilling, emotional, joyous, profound experiences at gigs. I've been squashed up against strangers more times than I can remember. But seeing Rufus is just tremendous fun.
...
Football Is Life
It might be the first soccer blog (to be called football from here on) I've ever done here but if one day deserves a bit of talking about it is yesterday.
It had been somewhat of a strange week in Manchester. With the services to commemorate the Munich air disaster 50th anniversary hanging over the proceedings like a grey, sad cloud the match almost didn't matter. But they still wanted it to be perfect, and so they should. Perhaps the occasion got to Man United a little - or perhaps saying that is just a way of taking some credit away from my magnificent team. A team I have been so rarely proud of like I was yesterday. I've spent my entire life being disappointed by my team, Manchester City. They have consistently failed to do anything matching our richer, more popular neighbours, Manchester United, for nigh on 20 years now.
You can trace the history and traditions of the city of Manchester through its football teams. In the 50s, when both teams were good and one was struck by tragedy. In the 60s and early 70s when both teams were excellent, as good as each other. In the 80s when both teams were pretty poor. And then, a turning point - September 1989. A Maine Road hammering of United by City, scoreline 5-1. The United fans shouting 'Fergie out' at the hapless manager. But from then it turned. They won the then Rumbelows Cup in 1990 and capitalised on that with the European Cup Winners Cup in 1991. And from that point City have descended while United have prospered. They have become the biggest, richest, best supported team on earth while City have struggled in the doldrums. Now, with new investment we have started to rise, very slowly, from the ashes. I can't say where it will all end. I'm quite sure we will never be as famous or popular as them and nor would I wish to be. They're welcome to their overseas superstores and lucrative Dubai trips. I care about my team first. I'm a City fan, not a United hater.
At first it seemed like having the Old Trafford derby the weekend after the Munich anniversary was a pretty poor idea. Both clubs had the chance to object and, for reasons unknown, didn't. Rumour flew that some City fans (not really fans – United haters first, City fans a distant second, I have no respect for those people) were planning to disrupt the minutes silence before the game. The machines of both clubs swung into action. Warnings were given to the fans from both clubs, the media and even, in a very ill advised and idiotic last minute attack, a United player (Scholes). City were under the microscope and I feared the worst. A few boozed up louts might shame us all. I half expected to hear a few lone yelps followed by a thud as the City fans surrounding the offenders gave them a well-deserved smack in the face. I had been dreading the game and it dominated my thoughts all last week. In recent years our home record against United has drastically improved. After that famous 1989 win we didn't beat them again until 2003 - in the last Maine Road derby before the stadium move, Shaun Goater scored his 100th City goal to beat United. In the list of great footballing days of my life it was right up there with the Cup win at Spurs (3-0 down with 10 men, won 4-3) and the 1999 play off final against Gillingham (still the single greatest City related day of my life). After that we'd beaten them at home in the first derby at our new stadium, 4-1. We'd even beaten them, undeservedly, earlier this season at home.
But away from home, at Old Trafford? No wins in 27 games. No win since April 1974. Yes, 1974. My parents had been married for only a few weeks then. We hadn't beaten United away in my lifetime. I have seen all kinds of derbies there - robbed by a ref's whistle a few years ago of a perfectly good Goater winner, the draw following thug Roy Keane's career-ending assault on City player Haaland, a thoroughly depressing 5-0 hammering and so on. It's miserable playing there and on the very rare occasions we have scraped a draw I've greeted it with happiness and relief. It's just not a place anyone wins. United lose about once or twice a season at home, if that. Even teams ten times better than us like Chelsea, Arsenal and Liverpool often come away with little or nothing from a trip there. They have a home record that is the envy of most clubs on earth. They expect to win every home game and so they should. With four important players, all suspended, missing (two each – Rooney/Evra for them, Corluka/Elano for us) I thought the playing field, Ronaldo excepted, was relatively even. Though an excellent player I knew Tevez would find it hard to outplay man mountain and club captain Richard Dunne. The tactics had to be spot on or we'd be on the receiving end of an emotionally charged beating.
I tried to walk calmly to the pub with my iPod on. I switched it on and grinned as Don't Look Back In Anger came on random play. Oasis are the City band, always have been. I was a nervous wreck. The stadium was awash with red and white scarves, specially made for the day and given to each fan. The 3000 City fans in one corner had the same scarves, though blue and white of course. The managers walked with wreaths to the centre of the pitch and laid them down in remembrance as I felt tears welling up. And then the moment came, the silence. I held my breath and stood up in tribute in my local, a sparsely populated Arsenal pub. I blinked away tears as the fans held their scarves high and the players stood immovably. You could have heard a pin drop. Some fireworks were let off outside the stadium during the minute, which briefly confused me, but no-one batted an eyelid. They knew what they had to do. One might say, why should fans get praise for behaving properly? To say that is to underestimate the hatred that has grown between United and City fans in the years since the Munich disaster, back when many fans supported both teams. That was the 50s, things were different then. A nasty, greedy, Thatcherite veil has come down across this country in the last 20 years. Mean-spiritedness is the norm at football games. As well as good natured banter there's a nastier edge to football now, which no doubt partially comes from the increased corporate image of the game. It started when fans stopped being called fans and became consumers.
Well not this time. In that stadium were 76,000 people who felt it together. As one entity, as one city united in grief. I feared the worst and my faith in the best of people was restored. That was really all that mattered yesterday, the silence. The demonstration that for one minute people could reach out to each other and hold hands when usually they would hurl abuse. Football became honourable and pure and untouched by corporate greed, local rivalry and mean-spiritedness in that moment. It was one of the great moments I've experienced and I only wish I had been at home with my dad to celebrate it. So with the blown whistle came the sigh of relief across the 1 million-plus Manchester inhabitants who knew the world was watching. And now the usual United win could commence even with United without Rooney, City without Elano - arguably the two clubs two most important players. In the first minute Ronaldo got the ball and no less than three City players surrounded him, snapping at his heels. The tactics were clear - stop Ronaldo, stop United. How simple is that? But my god, it worked. He barely had a kick - not because of his own bad play, because he was not allowed to play. Not given the room and space that other teams give him and live to regret. He was crowded out, pushed, harried and, every so often, kicked. His own frustration, which led to typical petulance, came bubbling to the surface a couple of times. He never had two yards of space around him. And thus, United were impotent.
Tevez and Giggs were shackled by the tenacious, determined and tough Dunne and Richards. Scholes was not at his best and was repeatedly embarrassed by the talented Swiss youngster Gelson Fernandes. In the first half the best United player on the pitch, Anderson, walked all over City's Stephen Ireland. In the second half that was reversed. Hamann, who I only wish was a decade younger, was in complete control of midfield, his brain working a hundred times faster than his ageing legs. United looked dangerous going forward as they always do. But they ran into brick walls time after time. And when they got past the hard working Ball or England U21 international youngster Onouha they bumped into his England U21 team-mate, keeper Joe Hart, whose decision making still needs work but looks the real thing. And leading the line, our new signing Benjani. This guy looks the real deal. Thank you Jermain Defoe - if you hadn't settled for an easy life in Portsmouth instead of fighting for the Big Four place your talent deserves Portsmouth would never have sold Benjani. He was powerful, intelligent, did the simple things well, didn't give the ball away and held it up like the complete 29-year-old striker he is.
The first half was even. United weren't allowed to get going so they struggled. One man's poor home performance is another man's great away display. In order to win at Old Trafford you have to take advantage of weakness and we smelled blood. With two wins in twelve games for us and United going for fourteen wins in a row at home the odds were stacked against us but something happened - we scored. A United style counter attack, a jet speed break up the field and, after a poor initial shot, Vassell fired the ball home and ran towards the barely believing City faithful in the corner. And then, we started to believe. From that point onwards, despite my palpitating heart which lasted until the final whistle, we were taking punches and hitting back. We were standing up to the biggest boy in his own backyard. They found limitless heart and strength on a day where United should have won easily. A minute before half time a wickedly whipped in cross from Petrov was flicked into the net by Benjani. How could I ask for more? A goal on his debut at Old Trafford. Half time. Dazed, I exited the pub to buy some fags to calm my nerves. My stomach was churning, my head spinning. It felt like I was asleep and having the footballing dream I couldn't imagine - 2-0 up at half time at Old Trafford. But I'm no fool. I remembered a mid 90s game where we went 2-0 up by half time, with a Niall Quinn brace, and lost 3-2 to a late Giggs winner. And that was at Maine Road, not even an away derby! No chickens would be counted.
I settled into my seat for a heart-thumping, nervy, hand-wringing second half. The Arsenal fans in the pub couldn't understand it. 'You're winning, you should be thinking of 3-0, you're so defeatist'. I attempted to explain that I had been kicked in the teeth so many times that I couldn't bear to assume anything. Emotional insurance, I call it. 'You're mad, that's why you never do well, you defeat yourself'. I took a breath and replied, 'When you've been in the third division tell me that again. It's called humility. It's something that hasn't reached the south yet'. He didn't reply. I hope, no matter what happens to my team, I am never like that. That sense of self-entitlement and arrogance is why I've never liked Londoners much. My mind was racing. We were holding them off and playing well but United are known for late goals. The crowd roared the team forward as the City fans, who could barely believe what they were witnessing, sung their hearts out. There was no complacency here, no certainty that we would win and no taking for granted how hard getting to the finish line would be. I bit my nails until they were invisible. I fidgeted and chatted distractedly with another Arsenal fan next to me. He told me to keep calm. I resisted the urge to glare at him. A little late for that I'd say.
With a few moments to go I started to relax and realised we might actually do this. As the clock ticked past 90 mins into 3 of injury time I allowed myself a smile - and then United scored. Just shows, you should never celebrate before the whistle. Talk about tempting fate. But even then, when the team could have had a last minute panic, they didn't. They stood firm and tall and batted away every desperately lofted ball. The goal kick sailed high into the crisp Manchester air and the whistle was blown. We had won at Old Trafford. I'll say that again - we had won at Old Trafford. I confess, I thought it was a day I might never see in my lifetime. There's nothing quite like breaking a decades old hoodoo. I felt like this when we won the last derby at Maine Rd/first derby at the COM stadium. I punched the air as a huge beaming grin spread across my face and I've been stuck that way ever since. I'm quite sure I've freaked out random passers-by with my plastered immovable smile today. I almost felt sorry for United, doing this to them on their most sacred of days. After the game their manager fled the country. No really, he did. A pre-planned trip to South Africa - but he left without a word to the press. He'd once confessed that when we beat them 5-1 all those years ago he went home, put his head under a pillow and didn't come out for 24 hours. He's a bad loser and all the best managers are.
United assistant manager Queiroz tried to blame the international call-ups the week before for the lacklustre performance, saying many of the United players had been tired. Perhaps he forgot that just as many City players were also called up and played 90 mins midweek for their countries? It wasn't like the home win in August when we were hugely fortunate to win. This time we deserved it - and not because United were bad, but because we were good. And once we scored we believed we could win. And when it comes to beating United, or indeed any team or foe better and bigger than you, belief is half of the battle. United were surprised to not have an easy derby game, like they have often had in recent years. We surprised ourselves. And we got our karmic reward for every single City soul in that stadium showing our respect to United and their loss in a very difficult emotional week for them. I walked on clouds out of the pub as the emotion overwhelmed me and tears welled in my eyes. When we win, I call home and shout loudly down the phone. This time I called home and my dad talked while I stayed silent for a while - I had no energy to speak. He told me he was drained. My emotional and mental energy had been sapped too. But hearing his voice, his glowing happiness over the phone, gave me my energy back and we talked animatedly about the players and the game. None of this felt real. I watched the highlights just to make sure it was.
It was.
...
It had been somewhat of a strange week in Manchester. With the services to commemorate the Munich air disaster 50th anniversary hanging over the proceedings like a grey, sad cloud the match almost didn't matter. But they still wanted it to be perfect, and so they should. Perhaps the occasion got to Man United a little - or perhaps saying that is just a way of taking some credit away from my magnificent team. A team I have been so rarely proud of like I was yesterday. I've spent my entire life being disappointed by my team, Manchester City. They have consistently failed to do anything matching our richer, more popular neighbours, Manchester United, for nigh on 20 years now.
You can trace the history and traditions of the city of Manchester through its football teams. In the 50s, when both teams were good and one was struck by tragedy. In the 60s and early 70s when both teams were excellent, as good as each other. In the 80s when both teams were pretty poor. And then, a turning point - September 1989. A Maine Road hammering of United by City, scoreline 5-1. The United fans shouting 'Fergie out' at the hapless manager. But from then it turned. They won the then Rumbelows Cup in 1990 and capitalised on that with the European Cup Winners Cup in 1991. And from that point City have descended while United have prospered. They have become the biggest, richest, best supported team on earth while City have struggled in the doldrums. Now, with new investment we have started to rise, very slowly, from the ashes. I can't say where it will all end. I'm quite sure we will never be as famous or popular as them and nor would I wish to be. They're welcome to their overseas superstores and lucrative Dubai trips. I care about my team first. I'm a City fan, not a United hater.
At first it seemed like having the Old Trafford derby the weekend after the Munich anniversary was a pretty poor idea. Both clubs had the chance to object and, for reasons unknown, didn't. Rumour flew that some City fans (not really fans – United haters first, City fans a distant second, I have no respect for those people) were planning to disrupt the minutes silence before the game. The machines of both clubs swung into action. Warnings were given to the fans from both clubs, the media and even, in a very ill advised and idiotic last minute attack, a United player (Scholes). City were under the microscope and I feared the worst. A few boozed up louts might shame us all. I half expected to hear a few lone yelps followed by a thud as the City fans surrounding the offenders gave them a well-deserved smack in the face. I had been dreading the game and it dominated my thoughts all last week. In recent years our home record against United has drastically improved. After that famous 1989 win we didn't beat them again until 2003 - in the last Maine Road derby before the stadium move, Shaun Goater scored his 100th City goal to beat United. In the list of great footballing days of my life it was right up there with the Cup win at Spurs (3-0 down with 10 men, won 4-3) and the 1999 play off final against Gillingham (still the single greatest City related day of my life). After that we'd beaten them at home in the first derby at our new stadium, 4-1. We'd even beaten them, undeservedly, earlier this season at home.
But away from home, at Old Trafford? No wins in 27 games. No win since April 1974. Yes, 1974. My parents had been married for only a few weeks then. We hadn't beaten United away in my lifetime. I have seen all kinds of derbies there - robbed by a ref's whistle a few years ago of a perfectly good Goater winner, the draw following thug Roy Keane's career-ending assault on City player Haaland, a thoroughly depressing 5-0 hammering and so on. It's miserable playing there and on the very rare occasions we have scraped a draw I've greeted it with happiness and relief. It's just not a place anyone wins. United lose about once or twice a season at home, if that. Even teams ten times better than us like Chelsea, Arsenal and Liverpool often come away with little or nothing from a trip there. They have a home record that is the envy of most clubs on earth. They expect to win every home game and so they should. With four important players, all suspended, missing (two each – Rooney/Evra for them, Corluka/Elano for us) I thought the playing field, Ronaldo excepted, was relatively even. Though an excellent player I knew Tevez would find it hard to outplay man mountain and club captain Richard Dunne. The tactics had to be spot on or we'd be on the receiving end of an emotionally charged beating.
I tried to walk calmly to the pub with my iPod on. I switched it on and grinned as Don't Look Back In Anger came on random play. Oasis are the City band, always have been. I was a nervous wreck. The stadium was awash with red and white scarves, specially made for the day and given to each fan. The 3000 City fans in one corner had the same scarves, though blue and white of course. The managers walked with wreaths to the centre of the pitch and laid them down in remembrance as I felt tears welling up. And then the moment came, the silence. I held my breath and stood up in tribute in my local, a sparsely populated Arsenal pub. I blinked away tears as the fans held their scarves high and the players stood immovably. You could have heard a pin drop. Some fireworks were let off outside the stadium during the minute, which briefly confused me, but no-one batted an eyelid. They knew what they had to do. One might say, why should fans get praise for behaving properly? To say that is to underestimate the hatred that has grown between United and City fans in the years since the Munich disaster, back when many fans supported both teams. That was the 50s, things were different then. A nasty, greedy, Thatcherite veil has come down across this country in the last 20 years. Mean-spiritedness is the norm at football games. As well as good natured banter there's a nastier edge to football now, which no doubt partially comes from the increased corporate image of the game. It started when fans stopped being called fans and became consumers.
Well not this time. In that stadium were 76,000 people who felt it together. As one entity, as one city united in grief. I feared the worst and my faith in the best of people was restored. That was really all that mattered yesterday, the silence. The demonstration that for one minute people could reach out to each other and hold hands when usually they would hurl abuse. Football became honourable and pure and untouched by corporate greed, local rivalry and mean-spiritedness in that moment. It was one of the great moments I've experienced and I only wish I had been at home with my dad to celebrate it. So with the blown whistle came the sigh of relief across the 1 million-plus Manchester inhabitants who knew the world was watching. And now the usual United win could commence even with United without Rooney, City without Elano - arguably the two clubs two most important players. In the first minute Ronaldo got the ball and no less than three City players surrounded him, snapping at his heels. The tactics were clear - stop Ronaldo, stop United. How simple is that? But my god, it worked. He barely had a kick - not because of his own bad play, because he was not allowed to play. Not given the room and space that other teams give him and live to regret. He was crowded out, pushed, harried and, every so often, kicked. His own frustration, which led to typical petulance, came bubbling to the surface a couple of times. He never had two yards of space around him. And thus, United were impotent.
Tevez and Giggs were shackled by the tenacious, determined and tough Dunne and Richards. Scholes was not at his best and was repeatedly embarrassed by the talented Swiss youngster Gelson Fernandes. In the first half the best United player on the pitch, Anderson, walked all over City's Stephen Ireland. In the second half that was reversed. Hamann, who I only wish was a decade younger, was in complete control of midfield, his brain working a hundred times faster than his ageing legs. United looked dangerous going forward as they always do. But they ran into brick walls time after time. And when they got past the hard working Ball or England U21 international youngster Onouha they bumped into his England U21 team-mate, keeper Joe Hart, whose decision making still needs work but looks the real thing. And leading the line, our new signing Benjani. This guy looks the real deal. Thank you Jermain Defoe - if you hadn't settled for an easy life in Portsmouth instead of fighting for the Big Four place your talent deserves Portsmouth would never have sold Benjani. He was powerful, intelligent, did the simple things well, didn't give the ball away and held it up like the complete 29-year-old striker he is.
The first half was even. United weren't allowed to get going so they struggled. One man's poor home performance is another man's great away display. In order to win at Old Trafford you have to take advantage of weakness and we smelled blood. With two wins in twelve games for us and United going for fourteen wins in a row at home the odds were stacked against us but something happened - we scored. A United style counter attack, a jet speed break up the field and, after a poor initial shot, Vassell fired the ball home and ran towards the barely believing City faithful in the corner. And then, we started to believe. From that point onwards, despite my palpitating heart which lasted until the final whistle, we were taking punches and hitting back. We were standing up to the biggest boy in his own backyard. They found limitless heart and strength on a day where United should have won easily. A minute before half time a wickedly whipped in cross from Petrov was flicked into the net by Benjani. How could I ask for more? A goal on his debut at Old Trafford. Half time. Dazed, I exited the pub to buy some fags to calm my nerves. My stomach was churning, my head spinning. It felt like I was asleep and having the footballing dream I couldn't imagine - 2-0 up at half time at Old Trafford. But I'm no fool. I remembered a mid 90s game where we went 2-0 up by half time, with a Niall Quinn brace, and lost 3-2 to a late Giggs winner. And that was at Maine Road, not even an away derby! No chickens would be counted.
I settled into my seat for a heart-thumping, nervy, hand-wringing second half. The Arsenal fans in the pub couldn't understand it. 'You're winning, you should be thinking of 3-0, you're so defeatist'. I attempted to explain that I had been kicked in the teeth so many times that I couldn't bear to assume anything. Emotional insurance, I call it. 'You're mad, that's why you never do well, you defeat yourself'. I took a breath and replied, 'When you've been in the third division tell me that again. It's called humility. It's something that hasn't reached the south yet'. He didn't reply. I hope, no matter what happens to my team, I am never like that. That sense of self-entitlement and arrogance is why I've never liked Londoners much. My mind was racing. We were holding them off and playing well but United are known for late goals. The crowd roared the team forward as the City fans, who could barely believe what they were witnessing, sung their hearts out. There was no complacency here, no certainty that we would win and no taking for granted how hard getting to the finish line would be. I bit my nails until they were invisible. I fidgeted and chatted distractedly with another Arsenal fan next to me. He told me to keep calm. I resisted the urge to glare at him. A little late for that I'd say.
With a few moments to go I started to relax and realised we might actually do this. As the clock ticked past 90 mins into 3 of injury time I allowed myself a smile - and then United scored. Just shows, you should never celebrate before the whistle. Talk about tempting fate. But even then, when the team could have had a last minute panic, they didn't. They stood firm and tall and batted away every desperately lofted ball. The goal kick sailed high into the crisp Manchester air and the whistle was blown. We had won at Old Trafford. I'll say that again - we had won at Old Trafford. I confess, I thought it was a day I might never see in my lifetime. There's nothing quite like breaking a decades old hoodoo. I felt like this when we won the last derby at Maine Rd/first derby at the COM stadium. I punched the air as a huge beaming grin spread across my face and I've been stuck that way ever since. I'm quite sure I've freaked out random passers-by with my plastered immovable smile today. I almost felt sorry for United, doing this to them on their most sacred of days. After the game their manager fled the country. No really, he did. A pre-planned trip to South Africa - but he left without a word to the press. He'd once confessed that when we beat them 5-1 all those years ago he went home, put his head under a pillow and didn't come out for 24 hours. He's a bad loser and all the best managers are.
United assistant manager Queiroz tried to blame the international call-ups the week before for the lacklustre performance, saying many of the United players had been tired. Perhaps he forgot that just as many City players were also called up and played 90 mins midweek for their countries? It wasn't like the home win in August when we were hugely fortunate to win. This time we deserved it - and not because United were bad, but because we were good. And once we scored we believed we could win. And when it comes to beating United, or indeed any team or foe better and bigger than you, belief is half of the battle. United were surprised to not have an easy derby game, like they have often had in recent years. We surprised ourselves. And we got our karmic reward for every single City soul in that stadium showing our respect to United and their loss in a very difficult emotional week for them. I walked on clouds out of the pub as the emotion overwhelmed me and tears welled in my eyes. When we win, I call home and shout loudly down the phone. This time I called home and my dad talked while I stayed silent for a while - I had no energy to speak. He told me he was drained. My emotional and mental energy had been sapped too. But hearing his voice, his glowing happiness over the phone, gave me my energy back and we talked animatedly about the players and the game. None of this felt real. I watched the highlights just to make sure it was.
It was.
...
Morrissey, The Roundhouse, Camden, London, 23-01-08
23/01/08 19:02 Filed in: Gigs
"I'd like to begin with a quote from Mother Teresa... don't let the bastards grind you down!"
Half an hour before I had been sitting in my aunt's house laughing and chatting, I had a little time before the gig started and decided to have dinner with the family before I left. I related tales of my two gigs so far. They think I'm mad. It's a quite lovely 10-15 minute walk from the house to Chalk Farm and I arrived with minutes to spare, found a spot beside the mixing desk again and off we went. It was starting to resemble Groundhog Day in some ways. Would it be Playboys or HSIN to start? Neither. A new song and a quote not from Mother Teresa. Probably.
I wondered if I would get yet another song I'd never heard before live and as if by magic the awesome Jack the Ripper was played. Then, somewhat bizarrely, the Kristeen Young vocal part, at the start of That's How People Grow Up, was played in sample form. Yes, I'm quite sure about that. But as he started to sing, his voice went. Hoarse and cracking I feared the worst, an early end to the evening. "Want to bet my voice is gone by song six?" But he's made of sterner stuff than that and came back to Camden with the best version of Stop Me... I've yet heard. Two days without singing at this point is probably a good idea but, with great relief palpable from all present, his voice stayed strong the rest of the night with only one slightly croaky vocal near the end.
I saw a review the other day remarking on how he has been working with guitarist and bandleader Boz Boorer for four times as long as he worked with Marr. We laud his old band but in years to come may well realise that *this* band is the best he's ever had. A world away from the precise but sparse indie pop four piece he used to front, this is loud, powerful and heavy and this set of musicians could not be better - Boz, drummer Matt Walker, keyboard/guitar/accordion player Chris Pooley, magnificent lead guitarist Jesse Tobias and new bassist Solomon Walker, brother of Matt, who, to be fair, is a hot skinhead but only a limited musician, in no way an equal replacement for Gary Day. The sound these men create whips around the venue, creating a cacophony of noise like I've never heard, and there's no song they play that doesn't sound better live than it ever has before.
'This song is dedicated', he announced solemnly, 'with love, to Heath Ledger'. Life Is A Pigsty. Shortly after, for the first time at these dates, he delivered a beautiful Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want and the audience let out a collective sigh. In one sense, you know what you get with Moz. He sings, 'Don't rake up my mistakes, I know exactly what they are' and while you accept the contrary, curmudgeonly side of him you also feel great love coming at you from the stage, as this is a man who appreciates his audience like no other artist I've seen. During a small break for a technical problem a young man appeared on stage, having made it past security. This happens often at his gigs - some launch themselves at him to plant a big kiss, some kneel before him, some, once they make it up there, don't quite know what to do and their moment of indecision is all security needs to haul them off. This young man held his hand out, which was met, and kissed the hand of the Stretford Bard. A grown man, almost cowed to his knees by this nearly 50 year old singer. He means more to people than anyone outside of this could understand. The hovering danger of his voice packing up again made this the best show of the three so far. There was a lull in the middle when I lost concentration and became distracted during a new song but he got me back again in no time.
I'm tired. Yes, finally. It's much more to do with trouble sleeping than it is the gigs but I feel somewhat dazed this morning. Three gigs in three days. If I'd been getting enough sleep I'd be able to do another tonight but as it stands, I'm quite relieved I have a night off - and I'm relieved his voice gets one too, since we're only half way there. Three gigs played, 25 songs heard. It barely scratches the surface of his back catalogue. Now it's time for a rest and then a sprint to the finish line. I've seen him from the back of the venue and now the barrier calls me to the front.
(LT note: never got to the front – the very next show, his voice went and, despite attempts at comedy from Brand, Ross and Walliams, the crowd was sent home with only 3 songs played. The remaining shows were cancelled. Six gigs in seven days was a bad idea, I could have told him that!)...
Half an hour before I had been sitting in my aunt's house laughing and chatting, I had a little time before the gig started and decided to have dinner with the family before I left. I related tales of my two gigs so far. They think I'm mad. It's a quite lovely 10-15 minute walk from the house to Chalk Farm and I arrived with minutes to spare, found a spot beside the mixing desk again and off we went. It was starting to resemble Groundhog Day in some ways. Would it be Playboys or HSIN to start? Neither. A new song and a quote not from Mother Teresa. Probably.
I wondered if I would get yet another song I'd never heard before live and as if by magic the awesome Jack the Ripper was played. Then, somewhat bizarrely, the Kristeen Young vocal part, at the start of That's How People Grow Up, was played in sample form. Yes, I'm quite sure about that. But as he started to sing, his voice went. Hoarse and cracking I feared the worst, an early end to the evening. "Want to bet my voice is gone by song six?" But he's made of sterner stuff than that and came back to Camden with the best version of Stop Me... I've yet heard. Two days without singing at this point is probably a good idea but, with great relief palpable from all present, his voice stayed strong the rest of the night with only one slightly croaky vocal near the end.
I saw a review the other day remarking on how he has been working with guitarist and bandleader Boz Boorer for four times as long as he worked with Marr. We laud his old band but in years to come may well realise that *this* band is the best he's ever had. A world away from the precise but sparse indie pop four piece he used to front, this is loud, powerful and heavy and this set of musicians could not be better - Boz, drummer Matt Walker, keyboard/guitar/accordion player Chris Pooley, magnificent lead guitarist Jesse Tobias and new bassist Solomon Walker, brother of Matt, who, to be fair, is a hot skinhead but only a limited musician, in no way an equal replacement for Gary Day. The sound these men create whips around the venue, creating a cacophony of noise like I've never heard, and there's no song they play that doesn't sound better live than it ever has before.
'This song is dedicated', he announced solemnly, 'with love, to Heath Ledger'. Life Is A Pigsty. Shortly after, for the first time at these dates, he delivered a beautiful Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want and the audience let out a collective sigh. In one sense, you know what you get with Moz. He sings, 'Don't rake up my mistakes, I know exactly what they are' and while you accept the contrary, curmudgeonly side of him you also feel great love coming at you from the stage, as this is a man who appreciates his audience like no other artist I've seen. During a small break for a technical problem a young man appeared on stage, having made it past security. This happens often at his gigs - some launch themselves at him to plant a big kiss, some kneel before him, some, once they make it up there, don't quite know what to do and their moment of indecision is all security needs to haul them off. This young man held his hand out, which was met, and kissed the hand of the Stretford Bard. A grown man, almost cowed to his knees by this nearly 50 year old singer. He means more to people than anyone outside of this could understand. The hovering danger of his voice packing up again made this the best show of the three so far. There was a lull in the middle when I lost concentration and became distracted during a new song but he got me back again in no time.
I'm tired. Yes, finally. It's much more to do with trouble sleeping than it is the gigs but I feel somewhat dazed this morning. Three gigs in three days. If I'd been getting enough sleep I'd be able to do another tonight but as it stands, I'm quite relieved I have a night off - and I'm relieved his voice gets one too, since we're only half way there. Three gigs played, 25 songs heard. It barely scratches the surface of his back catalogue. Now it's time for a rest and then a sprint to the finish line. I've seen him from the back of the venue and now the barrier calls me to the front.
(LT note: never got to the front – the very next show, his voice went and, despite attempts at comedy from Brand, Ross and Walliams, the crowd was sent home with only 3 songs played. The remaining shows were cancelled. Six gigs in seven days was a bad idea, I could have told him that!)...
Morrissey, The Roundhouse, Camden, London, 22-01-08
22/01/08 19:03 Filed in: Gigs
I'm getting better at this. Before these gigs started I made a promise that I would take it easy for the first three and hammer it for the last three. I made it to the venue in good time, chatted to the people I met on Monday and met some new people. I went to the top level and perched myself on a chair overlooking Camden, through a room length glass window. It was quite a beautiful moment. At 8.45 I strolled downstairs and entered the auditorium, ready to see that intro film again. I blinked and stopped as I realised he had come on early (stage time is 9) and was half way through International Playboys, the encore from Monday. Oops. That'll teach me.
The setlist was all mixed up and, given that I was fully prepared to get exactly the same songs as Monday, I was delighted to get three songs I'd never heard live before. Everything about the gig was better than Monday - the band were even tighter, the sound was better, he was clearly in a good mood and the crowd were a great deal louder and more excited than Monday's audience.
He was much more chatty than the first night, telling us Hillary Clinton is changing her name to Billary since no-one is sure who they're voting for anyway, her or her husband! He reiterated his support for Barack Obama, something he'd been saying every night on stage in the US last year. We had a thanks to XFM and Radio 2 for playing his new single - why he's still obsessed, after all these years, with airplay is anyone's guess. The crowd on the whole is mixed but knowledgeable. He's contrary so people coming to hear This Charming Man and Heaven Knows and other 'hits' are going to find themselves disappointed. But with those who love the Smiths, those who scrambled to get a ticket for these shows, they don't want or expect famous songs, they holler their approval at obscure album tracks like Death of a Disco Dancer. With the recent Mark Ronson cover still fresh in the memory he reminded us what a brilliant song Stop Me... is when *he* plays it.
Those present are more likely to nod in appreciation at a Vauxhall and I album track than Hand in Glove - as the reactions to Billy Budd and Your Arsenal's Tomorrow proved. Even for me, who owns his entire back catalogue, there are songs known less than others. In particular the gorgeous Stretch Out and Wait (from compilations Louder than Bombs and The World Won't Listen) is becoming a real discovery of these shows since I never knew it that well before. He keeps pulling these gems out from nowhere, like The Loop, available only on little known compilation the World of Morrissey - played with an upright bass it's as rockabilly Moz as he's ever gotten, reminiscent of songs like Sing Your Life.
The setlist is a treat, all told. A nicely balanced mixture of new songs, obscure solo songs plus the odd big tune (HSIN) and rare Smiths tracks. The biggest reactions of the night actually came not for Smiths songs but the pair from You Are The Quarry. Irish Blood, English Heart in particular, despite being only three years old, has been taken to heart by fans, it's overtly political lyrics are sung with conviction, a little anger and passion which makes it the most powerful song he currently performs. Much like going to a football match, seeing Morrissey live is a primal scream of an evening. A chance to bond together with others of a like mind - this may be true of any gig but having been to my fair share of concerts in the last 20 years I can say the frenzy, the passion is most concentrated at Morrissey shows, of all the gigs I've attended. Again, like a football match, it has something of the tribal gathering about it.
My abiding memory of last night is the huge roar as he changed the lyric in Stretch Out and Wait from 'it's the eskimo blood in my veins' to 'it's the Manchester blood in my veins'. Stupid as this sounds, he makes me feel closer to home a little. A Manc who, like me, hasn't lived there for many years - yet it's something that runs deeper than most things in my blood too.
One more show tonight then a night off tomorrow. In the 8 Morrissey gigs I've attended so far I have heard almost 50 songs. I could name another 20, at least, that I'd like to hear. Some bands don't even have ten good songs. This is quite the journey, I'm loving every second of it.
...
The setlist was all mixed up and, given that I was fully prepared to get exactly the same songs as Monday, I was delighted to get three songs I'd never heard live before. Everything about the gig was better than Monday - the band were even tighter, the sound was better, he was clearly in a good mood and the crowd were a great deal louder and more excited than Monday's audience.
He was much more chatty than the first night, telling us Hillary Clinton is changing her name to Billary since no-one is sure who they're voting for anyway, her or her husband! He reiterated his support for Barack Obama, something he'd been saying every night on stage in the US last year. We had a thanks to XFM and Radio 2 for playing his new single - why he's still obsessed, after all these years, with airplay is anyone's guess. The crowd on the whole is mixed but knowledgeable. He's contrary so people coming to hear This Charming Man and Heaven Knows and other 'hits' are going to find themselves disappointed. But with those who love the Smiths, those who scrambled to get a ticket for these shows, they don't want or expect famous songs, they holler their approval at obscure album tracks like Death of a Disco Dancer. With the recent Mark Ronson cover still fresh in the memory he reminded us what a brilliant song Stop Me... is when *he* plays it.
Those present are more likely to nod in appreciation at a Vauxhall and I album track than Hand in Glove - as the reactions to Billy Budd and Your Arsenal's Tomorrow proved. Even for me, who owns his entire back catalogue, there are songs known less than others. In particular the gorgeous Stretch Out and Wait (from compilations Louder than Bombs and The World Won't Listen) is becoming a real discovery of these shows since I never knew it that well before. He keeps pulling these gems out from nowhere, like The Loop, available only on little known compilation the World of Morrissey - played with an upright bass it's as rockabilly Moz as he's ever gotten, reminiscent of songs like Sing Your Life.
The setlist is a treat, all told. A nicely balanced mixture of new songs, obscure solo songs plus the odd big tune (HSIN) and rare Smiths tracks. The biggest reactions of the night actually came not for Smiths songs but the pair from You Are The Quarry. Irish Blood, English Heart in particular, despite being only three years old, has been taken to heart by fans, it's overtly political lyrics are sung with conviction, a little anger and passion which makes it the most powerful song he currently performs. Much like going to a football match, seeing Morrissey live is a primal scream of an evening. A chance to bond together with others of a like mind - this may be true of any gig but having been to my fair share of concerts in the last 20 years I can say the frenzy, the passion is most concentrated at Morrissey shows, of all the gigs I've attended. Again, like a football match, it has something of the tribal gathering about it.
My abiding memory of last night is the huge roar as he changed the lyric in Stretch Out and Wait from 'it's the eskimo blood in my veins' to 'it's the Manchester blood in my veins'. Stupid as this sounds, he makes me feel closer to home a little. A Manc who, like me, hasn't lived there for many years - yet it's something that runs deeper than most things in my blood too.
One more show tonight then a night off tomorrow. In the 8 Morrissey gigs I've attended so far I have heard almost 50 songs. I could name another 20, at least, that I'd like to hear. Some bands don't even have ten good songs. This is quite the journey, I'm loving every second of it.
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Morrissey, The Roundhouse, Camden, London, 21-01-08
21/01/08 19:05 Filed in: Gigs
The atmosphere at a Morrissey gig is highly unusual. Working class pint-in-hand lads with open-necked shirts stand beside delicate teenagers, couples who grew up on the Smiths stand beside bull-necked, tattooed heterosexual men with tears in their eyes desperate to touch the hem of his garment. I had a little trouble getting into the venue because of my refusal to bring my passport as photo ID - I had told the Roundhouse box office this on the phone last week and offered to bring my Glastonbury ticket from last year, since it has a photo on it, and was told that would be fine. I waited patiently in the long queue at the box office as arguments raged in front of me - many had not brought any form of photo ID at all, as stipulated on the confirmation email, and were getting increasingly irate at the jobsworth attitude of the Roundhouse worker in charge.
I got to the front, showed her my 'ID'. "Sorry, can't let you in with that". With some restraint, I said I had brought the email and purchasing card and clearly, that was a photo of me. I wasn't willing to bring my passport, given that I'm travelling to America in 3 weeks. 'Not my problem'. I took a breath, 'Clearly, you've had a shitty day and I appreciate that, you've been stitched up by Seetickets and SJM [the promoter] but I'm not a tout, I paid for my ticket, I've brought photo ID, such as it is, here's my card, it's on your system, let's have a bit of common sense here'. She took the card, looked at it and let me in, after having to put my fancy purple wristband on twice because it was too tight the first time, which she did with unconcealed irritation. 'If it comes off we won't replace it'. I thanked her and moved away. That was a touch harder than I had anticipated. I milled around, making friends - I approached a cute young woman with a tattoo of his name on her forearm. She was there with her husband and had travelled from Birmingham. We regaled each other with warmly told tales. 'I'm seeing all the dates on this mini-tour', 'This is my 40th gig!'. 'I saw him in America last year', 'I haven't seen him live since I had his lyrics tattooed on me'. Yes, one of those quotes is me ;-p
So we chatted and laughed and I remembered that, sometimes, Moz fans can be excitable and charming, rather than misanthropic and dour. The venue has an outdoor terraced balcony, a stroke of genius. I went out there for a smoke and got talking to a Dutch journalist, who was in London interviewing Mary J Blige and just got a ticket that day, about Holland and music and all this while overlooking the always busy Camden roads. He had interviewed Moz too, years before, and said he was charming but shy. He told him his music had changed his life and he replied, half sheepishly, half in false modesty, that he was embarrassed by that.
As the time passed I knew I had several days of this to go so I was surprisingly relaxed. I strolled past Keane's Tom Chaplin, who is surprisingly tall. It's ironic that his music is so dull when his taste is so good - he's on the Rufus Wainwright documentary DVD I have too. At 9pm I heard the intro music and entered the hall - as on the last dates I'd seen him play, the intro film was the same. A collection of clips - Bardot, James Dean, David Johansen and Vince Taylor. The curtain dropped to reveal three identical portraits of Richard Burton as the backdrop. On the band walked, then the man himself, to roars. How Soon Is now is not a bad show opener, not bad at all.
I positioned myself on an inch high metal step in front of the mixing desk, standing just behind film critic, 50s aficionado and all round hero Mark Kermode. His quiff attracts the eye when he's on TV. At this gig he fitted in just perfectly. I'd thought I would take it easy, tap my foot, sing along a little but the occasion overcame me and I was jumping around a bit, singing at the top of my lungs. He had played two French warm-up shows in the last few days and I had studiously avoided the setlist. The first show, incidentally, was in remote picturesque town Clermont Ferrand. An odd place to have a gig, one might say. But as soon as I saw the date announced I knew why - Clermont Ferrand is twinned with Salford. It's something I remembered from signs back home saying 'Welcome to Salford - twinned with...'. I'm quite sure Clermont Ferrand is a much prettier locale than Salford! All my intentions of taking it easy on night 1 went out of the window. I should also mention that very rarely at a show have I been reduced to tears but it happened last night as he played Why Don't You Find Out For Yourself, a real beauty of a song from his best solo record, Vauxhall and I. Having never heard any Vauxhall tracks live before I couldn't possibly have been happier to hear that and Billy Budd.
New songs were aired, the best of which is All You Need is Me, and the crowd were whipped into a frenzy by my highlight, the swirling and discordant Smiths song Death of A Disco Dancer. As you'd expect, there was some heckling which I couldn't properly hear. 'Say what you want, I can take it!', he winked. His voice was flawless so I was surprised when he said he had a frog in his throat, 'and I don't mean a small French person'. A man next to me chuckled, 'Ooh, actual racism'. It was a pleasure to hear a cathartic and audacious rendition of National Front Disco - it was quite something to hear 2000 people, from all over the world, sing 'England for the English' with big grins on their faces.
I'd seen him live 6 times before - last night was a delight and to put it in perspective, he played 20 songs and I had only heard 7 of them played live before. It was surprise after surprise and even if tonight's show is exactly the same I'll be glad to hear these new (to me) songs again. In particular, a cheeky, singalong version of one of my favourite songs, The World is Full of Crashing Bores, had me grinning like a fool. I'm doing it all again tonight and tomorrow. Then with Leah on Friday and Saturday - the last show is Sunday. I don't know what condition I'll be in but I guarantee I will hammer it until I drop.
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I’m Not There
14/01/08 19:07 Filed in: Films
In 1966 my dad attended the famed 'Judas' concert. He was 15 years old and saw the truth in front of him as Bob Dylan snarled 'Play it fucking loud' to his Band; years later this iconic footage was discovered and shown in Scorsese's definitive Dylan documentary No Direction Home. Now the definitive movie about Dylan has been made. As an 11 year old, I watched and re-watched that Rolling Stone video until it was worn out. It was responsible for my first visual sightings of artists I have since become devoted to - Beatles, Stones, Doors, Zeppelin, Bowie, Joni, Hendrix, Prince, Neil Young, U2 and more. Without fail, I have grown to love almost every artist featured in that tape.
Half way through it came the moment my musical life changed forever. In the middle of a section about increasing commercialism in music, the new power of record companies and the bloated self-indulgence of supergroups like the Eagles and Fleetwood Mac comes a cheeky piece of Hopper narration - "In the mid 70s, Dylan went his own way as usual". The screen flickered into a live clip I later found out was from 76's sprawling Renaldo and Clara (partially filmed during the '75 Rolling Thunder Revue tour). His face filled the screen, his sloping Jewish nose, the white paint (clearly a reference to shallow Kiss-style rock) covering his face, his sparkling green eyes, a wide brimmed hat and the voice -
Early one mornin' the sun was shinin',
I was layin' in bed
Wond'rin' if she'd changed at all
If her hair was still red.
Her folks they said our lives together
Sure was gonna be rough
They never did like Mama's homemade dress
Papa's bankbook wasn't big enough.
And I was standin' on the side of the road
Rain fallin' on my shoes
Heading out for the East Coast
Lord knows I've paid some dues gettin' through,
Tangled up in blue.
She was married when we first met
Soon to be divorced
I helped her out of a jam, I guess,
But I used a little too much force.
We drove that car as far as we could
Abandoned it out West
Split up on a dark sad night
Both agreeing it was best.
She turned around to look at me
As I was walkin' away
I heard her say over my shoulder,
"We'll meet again someday on the avenue,"
Tangled up in blue.
Two verses only, that's all it took to mesmerise that 11 year old. I couldn't hope to understand all he was but I hoped to learn, to try and delve further. Now 20 years later I see that not understanding completely, not being able to pin down exactly what or who he is is central to everything. That's the tack taken by I'm Not There, the new Todd Haynes film. By accepting that you cannot understand Dylan, you gain a great paradoxical understanding of the whole. Dylan once said that he has always been 'in the process of becoming'. Haynes takes that and creates a fantastical, but sometimes accurate, approach and weaves a tale unlike I've ever seen in a film.
I saw I'm Not There at Xmas, with my dad and his best friend, a rabid Santana fan. Without realising, we were booked into a subtitled screening. It was distracting yet helpful in many ways, especially when it came to the lyrics. Seeing them written on the screen enhanced their power even more. I saw the film again yesterday, sans subtitles this time. The power of the film had increased yet again and I expect that to continue upon subsequent viewings. The film is 'inspired by the music and many lives of Bob Dylan' and sure enough, not one of the actors present plays a character called Bob Dylan. The characters are composites of aspects of Dylan, his personality, his persona, his songs, his heroes and the strain felt by the expectations placed on him hovers over all proceedings.
Marcus Carl Franklin, a young black boy, plays Woody Guthrie. He represents the faker - the Dylan who told interviewers he ran away to join the circus when in fact he was having his bar mitzvah. In the film, Woody visits the real Woody Guthrie in hospital, something young Dylan did too. He's seen as a cute runaway, shilling the rubes with charm when he can get away with it. Christian Bale plays Jack Rollins, the Greenwich Village folk troubadour version of Dylan from 62-65 and then the Jesus loving Bob of the late 70s. Heath Ledger plays Robbie Clark, an actor who played Jack Rollins in a biopic but was taken over by the attention it brought - this character comes close to being 'family' Dylan, with his wife, the Sara (Dylan's ex-wife and the inspiration for Blood on the Tracks) of the piece, played by a delicate but resolute Charlotte Gainsbourg. He struggles with the balance of fame and family as his marriage crumbles and is portrayed as callous and self-absorbed.
Richard Gere, looking a touch too much like The Dude, plays Billy the Kid, as Dylan did in 70s western Pat Garrett and Billy The Kid. Ben Whishaw, a superb young English actor, appears talking to screen, facing possibly the draft board, and spouts the innocent, idealistic rhetoric of the 20 year old Bob in the name of Arthur Rimbaud.
Finally, in the flashiest portrayal, comes Cate Blanchett's twitchy, amphetamine-fueled Jude Quinn. The most recognisable of all the pieces of Zimmerman - corkscrew hair, shades, striped drainpipes, ever-present cigarette; in essence the Don't Look Back Dylan. The Newport Festival Dylan. The Judas concert Dylan. The Dylan under the most pressure, about to crack. Through the film, you realise that the weight on his shoulders would have been more than most could bear. While Dylan was not, by any means, the first musician to speak of social issues in songs, he was certainly the first pop star to do it. In a world of crooners and holding hands, his songs seared through the consciousness of young people on the cusp of a civil rights revolution and, as you might expect, that terrified the authority figures of the time. All the young men being drafted and the women watching them leave, who had been going to their deaths as part of the previously unarguable fate that befell generations before them, listened to this so-called protest singer with reverence. Dylan terrified the establishment, who had realised that a pop singer would and could have more influence on their children than any teacher, policeman, politician or parent.
As such, they set out to expose Dylan as a middle class mid-west faker who never believed in what he was saying - his abandonment of folk and embrace of electric instruments merely proved their point about the insincerity they were certain they saw in him. These detractors are created as a composite character - he's a journalist (Mr Jones, a manifestation of both the snooty English journalists in Don't Look Back and the eponymously named character in Ballad of a Thin Man) in the Quinn scenes and a sheriff in the Billy chapter (Pat Garrett, his famed nemesis) each time played by the same actor, the impeccable Bruce Greenwood.
Everyone wants something from these Dylan composites, more than they are owed. Those who dislike and fear him disrespect him. The fans expect too much; from the downcast folkies roaring their horror at electric Dylan (with a comic portrayal of the apocryphal Peter Yarrow story of chopping the power cables at Newport with an axe) to the wide-eyed teenagers seeing their Vietnam-scarred future as they glance desperately at him, hoping he'll show their path out. It's too much for one human being to cope with and the film splits him into the six distinct characters to recognise this. There is no Bob Dylan - he is a construct, a persona with many different aspects. In order to understand what is in front of you must accept that you can't understand him. You can absorb more from him if you deconstruct less. You must accept that, like the title, he isn't there.
It's one of the most audacious and ambitious films I've seen in a very long time. It was never going to be a Ray or Walk The Line. A piece like this allows each actor space to create their own version and vision of someone indefinable. In particular, Blanchett's Quinn is extraordinary. I expect her to be standing triumphantly on the Oscar podium soon because anything else would be a travesty. I am convinced that no other actor, male or female, could have inhabited this version of the man with such passion and knowledge. The music propels the film, as it should. The originals sit alongside covers by Tom Verlaine, My Morning Jacket's Jim James, Yo La Tengo, Stephen Malkmus, Calexico, Eddie Vedder and Antony and the Johnsons. Malkmus's wild mercury renditions of Ballad of a Thin Man and Maggie's Farm are worthy of particular praise.
I'm Not There is an overwhelming piece of work from first minute to last. For the first time you get a sense of the strength required to be Bob Dylan. A popular singer has never been more important, has never changed things so much and has never been required to be so saintly by the baying media hordes in order to be believed. It's impossible for one man to give as much as he is exhorted to give but no-one else was standing there on his level in the glare of the changing decade who had the ability, intelligence or vision to deliver. The establishment sensed cultural and political revolution and made Dylan their poster boy for it. And in a sense he was that figurehead since he fulfilled what both the journalists and his admirers wanted. They tried to tear him down but he is the one still left standing. He comes across as stubborn, dismissive, sometimes mean and sexist but above all he is unarguably a visionary, a great American icon but an imperfect person - with this film you feel Haynes has an understanding of Dylan I didn't think any filmmaker was capable of.
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