Seafront bus shelter poets

Huddled Marlboro warm
Tennents Super soaked
buried winter deep
in the seafront mire

waiting for the number 3
that left Cherry Gardens
a long time ago...


http://www.andrewfranks.com.au

The Fall

The first time I heard them was on 'City Hobgoblins', the b-Side of 'How I wrote Elastic Man'. I can't recall how come I'd managed to by the single in the first place. It must (almost certainly) have been via John Peel.

Spiders know these things 
Gremlins know these things
Tap, tap, tap, tap
You think it's the pipes
But who turns on the lights?
Our city hobgoblins
Our city hobgoblins
Ubu le Roi is a home hobgoblin 
And at nights all ready
Our city hobgoblins
Our city hobgoblins
Infest my home at night
They are not alright
Ten times my age
One-tenth my height
Our city hobgoblins
Our city hobgoblins
Buzz of the all-night mill
Ah but evil
Emigres from old green glades
Pretentious, eh?
Our city hobgoblins
Our city hobgoblins
They'll get yer
So Queen Victoria
Is a large black slug in Piccadilly, Manchester
Our city hobgoblins
Our city hobgoblins
And they say
We cannot walk the floor at night in peace
At night in peace

They have been a part of my life ever since then. On and off, off and on. For a fortnight once a year, every year, I only listen to The Fall. Friends, family and neighbours know to give me a wide berth during those two particular weeks.

I own pretty much every studio album they've made (and they have made a hell of a lot). I've seen them live a few times. In fact they've played twice in Sydney in the last 18 months and... This is the point I suppose I'm trying to make. I am worried, I'm always worried...

The Fall played at the Metro Theatre here in Sydney on Wednesday night and the core band were great. Greenway is a brilliant guitarist and the rhythm section are astonishing. Elena on keyboards took her coat on and off a few times, played a few neat riffs but was so low in the mix. However, that all paled behind my concern over Mark E Smith. Of course I know better than to expect, "and here's the title track off our latest LP" etc but he just seemed so utterly shot. I hope it was a combination of jet lag and one lager shandy too many but I suspect not.

But anyway...

It was unforgettable all the same.

No Respects / Venice with the Girls / I'm Not from Bury / Wise Old Man / Dedication Not Medication / First One Today / Hittite Man > Junger Cloth / Pledge // Theme from Sparta F.C. // Auto Chip 2014-2016 // I've Been Duped (w/o MES)

31,000 and growing

What can I say but thank you and I can promise a lot more new stuff to come....

Sobriety

There was a day, a night, a week, a month, when sobriety stalked the highways and byways of the land. Nobody knew who he was or where he came from. But they were grateful for the blessed relief he brought with him.

Flashback #1 - The best of the Crouch End Tiger

Lunchtime in Frankfurt, leaning gently into a second bottle of crispy white. The old town streets full of Mexican families lapping up the sun, Paraguayan supporters demolishing the biggest pile of chips that you ever did see and English fans scurrying from bar to bar determined to drink another German city dry.

This is the World Cup Semi-Final day and 8 hours from kick-off and the tension is starting to build. Guido, the Italian waiter mutters "Forza Italia" under his breath at every opportunity, whilst Hans his boss urges us to support the hosts. Tiger feigns impartiality with the dreaded words "We are just fans of World football mate!". Both seem happy as Tiger discharges the remnants of the last glass of the third bottle of a cheeky little Chablis and head back. In the car bets are taken.

At the Hotel one of our party is missing, confined to his bed with little more than a wet flannel to save him from a raging fever. Sympathy abounds, our taxi awaits and with Mehmet (Turkeys first ever GP driver) at the wheel, we're off! Dortmund here we come!!

Ten minutes later, allowing for a couple of wrong turns (Mehmet's Co-pilot was not the smartest of chaps), we arrive. The Co-pilot pays the man and then spends four hours haggling over where to meet after the match. Whilst this great meeting of minds takes place, Tiger takes in the moment. The stadium surrounds are awash with thousands of home fans enveloped in newly liberated Bundesflagge. Pockets of Azzurri survey the scene like a fox outside the chicken run. A smattering of delightfully trollied sons of Albion weave their way through the crowds like Peter Crouch through a Brazilian defence (i.e. barging straight through, falling over and being stared at in utter disbelief).

It has to be said that Tiger is not a complete stranger to the world of corporate entertainment. However, even Tiger was staggered at the oppulence of the FIFA corporate village (more like a futuristic space settlement). Is a jacuzzi really necessary? Does every discerning footie fan really need a casino on site? As for full scale flight simulators, well we ask you? Despite all of this frippery, they did serve a fine array of food and more essentially the WW oppoprtunities were plentiful.

After a swift replenishment. Into the impressively long-named stadium and to our seats, which we proceed to stand on for the whole 120 minutes. From kick-off to final whistle the quality of the football is astounding. No aimless hoofing to the 'big fella up front', no misplaced passes or bad first touches. Just quality control, intelligent running and beautifully finessed passing and probing attacks. All at extreme pace. It was a display of real verve and style by both sides and the referee was even better! Ballack (supposedly unfit and slated by the press) gliding between his own defence and the Italian back four prompting the Germans forward. Whilst in response the Azzurri were driven on by the gutsy Gattuso and the peerless priceless Pirlo (Gawd bless ya Mr Keating!).

Penalties looming and a frenzied Italian surge leading to the sublime moment. Lehmann (of the big hands, big head and big ego) kept his team in it until the moment that silences the length and breadth of Deutschland. Fabio Grosso curled a wonderful shot around the outstretched grasp of the despairing Gooner. Cue large scale in-take of breath in the stadium and a small scale explosion of delight in block 2, row 7 seat 136. The true blue colours of the Crouch End Ultra exploded in delirium. "You're not singing anymore...", "I'm going home in a German ambulance", "Come on you Blues" all muttered underneath the breath a la Guido. The Routemaster goal (i.e. wait ages and two come at once - I refuse to call it The BendyBus goal) is driven home by Del Piero. The Italians go wild, the Germans go home and Tiger goes back to the bar .

Following much post match analysis, the handing over of many Euros to the Ultra and a smattering of crispies. We depart to find Mehmet (who is fresh from breaking the Frankfurt-Dortmund land speed record). Despite the fine endeavours of the Co-Pilot, Mehmet is missing, presumably negotiating his next Indy 500 drive. Tiger retires to a Budweiser sponsors party - Well, to tell the truth, Tiger distracted two of the surly bouncer chappies, diverted attention as the team plunged into the midst of the wake. After a couple of Budweisers the need for an alcoholic drink came on strong. Fortunately, Mehmet arrived and before we'd done our seatbelts up we are back in the relative safety of our hotel bar. One more for the Strasse and then off to bed.

Tomorrow has already begun. The sun is already starting to peer round the corners of the curtains in the spartan bedroom. Sitting on the bed Tiger nurses a gentle Italian whilst trying to work out how to get BBC 24 on the tv. All these subtitles are ruining the plot. What a day, what a night, what a match. What on earth are we going to do with the dead body in room 512?

About the Young Idea

I was delighted to be back, albeit briefly, in London and even more delighted to be able to pop into Somerset House to see the 'About the young idea exhibition' which chartered the rise, fall, rise and ultimate end of The Jam.

From the first glimpse of the stage set (Bingley Hall) to the dazzling array of Rickenbackers, posters, stage clothes etc I was transported back to the days that three blokes from Woking defined a way, a look, an attitude for a generation.

Life is timeless, days are long when you're young. Used to fall in love with everyone, any guitar and any bass drum...

TTIMAE - Favourite Football XI

Over the next twelve months we are running a vote for our favourite football players. Starting with our favourite goalkeeper. Please vote on the panel to the right to register your favourite all time 'keeper!

Poll Results - Bands you'd like to reform

1. The Smiths
2. The Jam
3. The Clash (?)
4. Haircut 100
5. The Style Council
6. Oasis

Corner Shop Credit

'Times were so tough, but not as tough as they are now' (Thick as thieves - The Jam).

Dark in the heart of the Thatcher years when the dole was being cut, jobs were hard to come by and the quaint notion of ' Forced Austerity' hadn't been so daintily articulated, times were tough too. £35 to last 2 weeks just wasn't going to happen. Of course cash in hand jobs were taken, deals were done and various nefarious took place!

The only problem then was cashflow. The banks were too rigid and the family was too disappointed to send forth aid (other than the use of the washing machine). So, apart from splitting dole cheques to help budget, the largesse of the local corner shop was the sole means by which people could keep their head above water. The steady supply of Sunblest, anchor butter, newspapers and Marlboro lights was only sustained by the corner shop. Goodness only knows how much money they lost but without them so much more could have been lost....

Albums no self-respecting gentlemen should own #1 - Bruce Springsteen 'Darkness on the edge of town'

It is 1978, English music has just experienced a schism unlike anything since the Trad v Modernist Jazz wars of the early 60's. On the one hand were the long-haired flare wearing prog championing sixth formers who were still desperately clinging to the crushing tedium of triple album concept artists and the namby-pamby nonsense of 'musicianship'. On the other were the snotty nosed third years whose only desire was to hear songs with swear words in that didn't last more than 2 mins 30 seconds. 

By now The Sex Pistols had been ripped apart, The Clash were navigating their way past their stodgy second album and The Jam had finally found the direction/action/creation they'd been striving for since Weller first heard 'My Generation'. 

Into this mix of discomfort came the lumpen bleatings of a true (according to his fans) blood and guts performer from New Jeresy, namely Mr Bruce Springsteen. Dressed like a cutting room floor reject from Starsky & Hutch. Springsteen shed a touch of 'real(!) realism' with his breakthrough album 'Darkness on the edge of town'. It was touted as true blue collar rock and roll, the middle way through the path of decimation left by the warring Punk & Rawk factions. 

In reality it was (and still unsurprisingly is) one of the most tepid 'significant' albums of the last century. The bag of a fag packet portraits of real life only ever appealed to the emotionally limited grammar school suburbanites who associated everything American as being real and everything else as being somehow substandard. The music was/is truly dull. Springsteen's muscular (read clumsy) approach was justified by the fact that he could play four hour sets. Four hours of the same song. God give me strength! 

In short, 'Darkness on the edge of town' is an over-hyped and under-powered collection of average songs by a distinctly average musician. He may well be a nice bloke but quite frankly who cares.

This album has no place in your record collection!

Johnny Langney - Feb 2015

When the Labour Party stood for something of substance...

“At a certain point in their historical lives, social classes become detached from their traditional parties … The particular men who constitute, represent, and lead them, are no longer recognised by their class (or fraction of a class) as its expression.” 

- Antonio Gramsci

Just sayin'