The Mutineer

You may have saved yourself from the sea, but I'm going to make you pay.

The sound of the Central Belt.

(Source: Spotify)

Great synthpop song about the atomic bomb.

(Source: Spotify)

I think I would prefer… Red.

If I wasn’t a massive Liverpool fan I would have stopped reading Red or Dead a good while ago. Indeed it is because I know that the book ends with a particularly rosy period for the club that I am willing to skim through page after page in which David Peace writes short sentence after short sentence describing how Bill Shankly lays the breakfast table. “Bill put the marmalade on the table. Bill went to the cupboard and took out the milk jug and put it on the table. Bull went to the fridge took out the milk and poured it into the jug.” Honestly, a whole page of this stuff, every 20 pages or so. It is balanced with the repetition of training and the repetition of matches. Each season is prefaced with the same description of the first training event. Driving out to Melwood. Running. Ball control. Stylistically interesting; ultimately tedious.

I was a huge fan of The Damned United in the way it captured both the claustrophobic intensity of English football and the individuals who had the genius and drive to take that on and turn the game into a greater experience.  He captured Brian Clough at the nadir of his personal battle against the violence and the tribalism of the sport (represented by Leeds United) in favour of flair and individualism. (Amusingly Peace still enjoys laying the boot into Leeds again in Red or Dead). He portrayed the demons at work on the man in a very short but intense period. The book on Shankly sprawls out over his whole time at Liverpool and as such the attempts at using language to hammer home an effect, rather than y’know describing it, are ultimately unsuccessful. Shankly was a funny guy. Reading the words “Shankly laughing, Shankly joking” repeatedly is incredibly frustrating. Tell us what he said. Give us some ruddy examples.

Peace has proven himself elsewhere incredibly adept at using language as a battering ram. GB84 his book on the miners strike particularly contains moments of stomach-turning poetic force, as Peace enacts the violence of that period as much as he evokes it. However the way in which Peace pummels at way at one idea:  Shankly prioritised training, training, hard work and training, plus a reductive mimicking of his speech patterns makes for a style that is easily parodied. (The repetition in the book. In the book. In a manner of Shankly’s speech. The repetition in the speech of Bill Shankly.) In playing out an effect instead of describing;  in showing rather than telling, Peace does not place much trust in his readers, which is a shame given that his subjects greatness came from his faith in the average punter.

6Music Makes We Want To Smoke Crack

Remember the campaign to save BBC 6Music from being cut? How all the socially networked 30 somethings gathered together to save the BBCs flagship digital only radio station… After the inevitable reprieve was announced a friend of mine said, ‘can we stop listening to it now then?’ I remembered what he had said a couple of days ago when I realised that quite naturally I had stopped listening to it about 6 months ago without ever being aware I was doing so. I deliberately listened to it again last week and realised that isn’t actually that good. Not only that, but it had been dining out, as much of so-called independent music has on past glories. *cough* John Peel Sessions *cough*.

Because when you listen to for a whole day, as I did again, having done so before I realised that despite the changes in line-up, at core, 6 Music is fundamentally a eerie replica of the dreaded Radio 2 albeit one that plays Love Will Tear Us Apart slightly more often. Of course, there are good bits that you can go back to but they are all too rare on a station which is supposed to be catering for my every whim. Sean Keaveney is funny and Marc Riley actually plays music that he is committed do, that you won’t hear elsewhere and that is oftenchallenging. But then this is all to rare. The rest of it is like the audio equivalent of Q magazine. Remember: this is the station that employed Phil Jupitus to tell us how much he liked ska. Every morning. For 3 years.

6Music before 6am and after midnight sounds just like a university radio station (Not an American university radio station by the way. An English one. No. A Welsh one.) Its star DJs are not much better. Indeed the rosta seems to be taken from a TFI Friday line up in 1996, Lauren Laverne (Kenickie) talks as if she is already a character in the Guardian Weekend magazine column she will one day write. Huey Morgan (Fun Lovin’ Criminals) doesn’t actually exist. He was created by computer. People leaving a screening of Con Air at a Cineworld in Hereford in 1996 were asked to imagine what someone from New York was like and a computer-generated personality was created in the image of their collective Pespi-soaked imagination. Jarvis Cocker - needs to be pinned to the back of his first class seat on the Eurostar heading back to cold dead Paris and be forced to watch his own farting-at-Michael-Jackson mime on endless repeat.

The problem stems from its every origins. 6Music was set up as a cyncial means of getting early adopter tech-friendly 25-35 year old blokes to buy DAB radios and in the BBCs mind its linked as the poor relation of BBC 2. That’s why it had Bob “Not Just Wrong About Roxy Music But Everything Else” Harris on it when it started. It is why it has Mark Radcliffe and Stuart Maconie on it now - working together or as is now more common in tag team formation, one of them churning out off-hand remarks on the wireless while the other one puts in a shift writing a book about being a northerner and / or growing up in the 70s.

In fact listening to 6music during the day is effectively like listening to an evening show on Radio 2. It’s one fucking step away from having a show on it dedicated to organ music. Stuart Maconie playing prog-rock on a Sunday evening? No. I refuse. It is the radio equivalent of Last of the Summer Wine. This is a station which is gently preparing your pipe and slippers for you before you slip into ISA-purchasing insanity. Resist it.

Shuttle Gherkin by Luca Lardera 

Shuttle Gherkin by Luca Lardera 

(Source: lucalardera)

There will be no miracles here. Although miracles occasionally happen in this city. 

There will be no miracles here. Although miracles occasionally happen in this city. 

(Source: gothical, via pew-peww)

The First Great Album Of The Year

Would that the word ‘rock’ had not become so debased when describing music. Whilst bands, critics and fans are still inclined to embrace the description ‘pop’, ‘rock’ is definitely out. Pop remains to a degree fluid, it means whatever is in the charts; already commercial it can be no other. Rock on the other hand took itself way to seriously in the late 70s, commercialised itself in the 80s (hair metal) and institutionalised itself from there on. The Hard Rock Cafe. The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. The only way that rock lives on is in the “can’t think of a better way to describe it” appellation ‘post-rock’. Some people though want to save rock. 

The 1989 Slint album Tweez set the standard for how to: jazz-tinged prog rhythms, sparse, electronica-esque finger-picked guitars; quiet bits, loud bits. The album was big in Glasgow, a British city that is more likely to tune in to what’s happening in Chicago as it is London. The album created the template for the best Scottish band performing today: Mogwai. Amidst the folk-y inclinations of their stablemates at Chemikal Underground records they stood out as progressive: unabashedly ambitious for their music. Their own label Rock Action is a determined attempt to rescue guitar music from the wreckage of “rawk” and it now acts as a breeding ground apart from their former stable mates. 

Released on that label, the Errors 3rd studio album Have Some Faith in Magic is not a rock album. It’s not even a post-rock album. You could call it post-pop if you wanted to write for the NME. Eschewing the jazzy-y qualities of It’s not Something.. and the noodle-y Boards of Canada quality of Come Down With me, it’s a long sinuous melodic work in which the rhythms are basic four-four, with the bpm just beneath the danceable in the manner of early New Order. On Pleasure Palaces they are very M83 (no problem with that) whilst the rest of the album is an atmospheric washed-out take on 80s synth pop. Vocals are indistinct, weaving in and out of simple synth melody lines and joining great atmospheric shoe-gazing washes. A great Glasgow album. A great album.

Crises? What crises?

Picador are certainly jumping the gun by releasing a 40th anniversary edition of White Noise today (February 2nd 2012). Don DeLillo’s White Noise was first published in 1985, the year in which it also won the National Book Award. Perhaps it is accumulated prescience of the book that is urging the publishers to celebrate its release. Certainly we are only beginning to appreciate the importance of a book which manages to give a portrait of an American academic and his relatively happy family in such a way as to depict the deep crisis in modernity. Martin Amis went someway to acknowledging its power when in reviewing the later book Underworld in the New York Times in 1997 when he referred to White Noise as “that beautifully tender anxiety-dream”. 

Given that it portrays a society on the verge of collapse, how can the book still be pertinent (nearly) 40 years later? Because, of course that society never collapsed. DeLillo is one of the first writers to instinctively understand that instability, quixotically, is a condition of an affluent society that has no collective understanding of its direction: a sense of imminent collapse is the result of the material foundation of modernity suddenly being questioned. Diane Johnson in her review of the book also in the New York Times says that the book prefigures Bhopal. It does no such thing. Bhopal was a real disaster, the ‘airborne toxic event’ in in DeLillo’s book is a disaster which is being managed as if it was a simulation. (You have to read it to understand why.) The book is more influenced by the oil crisis of 1976 that preceded it than any environmental disaster to come. 

Why? Because the oil crisis prompted a profound questioning of the modern project. Social programmes in the West until that time were predicated on a steady improvement in material wealth, mobility and technological advance. The Oil Crisis threw that in to question. Rather than directing criticism at the unequal distribution of the benefits of modernity, from this point on, social criticism began to be directed at the pernicious effect of modernity itself.  This is what the airborne toxic event that dominates the book represents. It is telling too that the American family takes the full-weight of this anxiety in the book. Although the children are smart and relatively content, their parents worry repeatedly about their own pernicious influence on them. Utterly distracted, they are unable to reflect on the values they own and share with others.   

The book is still pertinent, ever more pertinent, because anxiety about collapse takes many forms, it morphs and moves from one threat to the next. DeLillo a satirist in the Chekhovian mode gives us the whole shooting match and asks us to laugh at it. 


An End to Psychogeography. (Please.)

Teju Cole’s debut novel received several hat-tips in the Books of the Year in 2011, apparently pushing even further the cultural capital of psychogeography, particularly the pessimistic variety put about by WG Sebald into the mainstream. The book, an apparently straightforward account of a year in the life of a lonely academic; meanderings through New York and, Jesus wept, Brussels (in winter!), it is more than it first appears. But, in the words of Morrissey, not much more.

Cole’s book is almost an explicit response to the self-discoveries of Sebald’s Austerlitz who escapes on the kinder-transport. As Austerlitz ruminates on the migrations of the Jew, so Cole considers during his haphazard sorties through the two cities upon the African experience in North America, pulling at the threads of some interesting ideas.  However, this is interspersed with much lazy theorising upon the nature of art.  

Cole’s character drops the names of novelists and musicians with all the discretion of a waiter falling down a flight of stairs with a tray full of empty glasses. The book is otherwise a relentlessly polite, well written discourse on a variety of passingly interesting subjects. Islamic fundamentalism and the modern age. The nature of memory and art… and some other stuff which I forget. 

And yet apparently this prodding at the fabric of the city, is just that a fabric. At one stage Cole’s narrator meets an immigrant who tells his story of getting from Western Sahara to the USA. It is a rare riveting moment; the intimation of a book you want to read, but it is fleeting and only occurs because because the narrator has undertaken a charitable visit to a holding pen for illegals in order to impress a girl. It is the first hint - as if all the mooning around cities hadn’t warned us - that the narrator is a bit of a shit. It isn’t really confirmed though until very late.

And when it is, we suddenly think: all this semi-interesting discursive stuff we have been reading, it is just an elaborate set-up to make a trite point; something that we know already; that being cultured doesn’t provide a moral foundation. Should I listen to what this guy has just said about Mahler? Or not? The deliberation on the photography of Munkacsi ,the operas of Judith Weir? Is this what psychogeography has become? The latter-day equivalent of why realist novelists describe rooms in extensive detail. It is just a means of convincing us that the novel is REAL. 

Who wants a novel that is REAL? Who wants a novel that accepts the narrow academic readership that novels are supposed to have? (Or appears to have in the press). Not me. 

Why Sherlock is better than Doctor Who…

I have had enough of trying to like Doctor Who. The recent three part series of Sherlock proves that the problem with the critical failure of the revived of Doctor Who has nothing to do with the writers involved. Russell T Davies’s facile exploration of the sexual politics of Doctor Who is at least over. Yet Steven Moffat’s - script for Sherlock has outstripped anything he’s done as Davies’s successor in charge of Who. The question is Why?

Largely because the alternate reality and time-travel of Who is ultimately a distraction, turning the programme into a tiresome game of metaphysics. Whilst Sherlock, particularly the last episode, had a convoluted plot, game theory applied to Victorian melodrama, it was based in a fundamental reality. The audience is asked to believe that Sherlock is alive in our time and is happy to agree, if it means, in turn, they are given a flawed superhero with amazing mental powers; a problem-solver rather than Who, who flits about in time, creating anomalies with his every contrived eccentricity; who spends half his time working out the own contradictions of his creation; who is distracted by his own supreme power.

Sherlock focuses on the social function of a superhero, generating humour and insight; Doctor Who on the other hand is trapped in a well-trod labyrinth of time-travel conundrums. (River Song; murderer, wife, mother, or… yawn.) The Doctor has lost the ability as he had in the Peter Davidson and Tom Baker years to explore societies and new worlds. Doctor Who is just about Doctor Who. Sherlock is about Sherlock, the society he lives in and why we love him. (Plus Cumberbatch is a better actor than Matt Smith and Martin Freeman is better than any companion Who has ever had.)