I missed the Sleaford Mods - it's O.K

I missed the Sleaford Mods last night  – but bought a ticket for Stereolab today – but it’s not like seeing the Sleaford Mods.

I just listened to Kebab Spiders- I love that pure honesty of what the fuck and this and that – but it’s the craft of Fearn that’s getting me – there’s the scowl and undertow and all that rah rah rah – but the tunes become more sublime everytime – hit hit hit – penny shove gone crazy and paying out non stop for the masses. Making la la sounds and bringing you in. I haven’t heard the rest of Eton Lives  – but this is good.

This makes it even more fucking gutting that I missed it.

But I’ve been missing lots

I got put out my job sometime back – making it large over December days – you know smiling and all that whilst walking through some fucking shit mire not knowing.

So back to the Mods. We are the mods. Always.

I’ve been clean living in dirty times all my life.

I haven’t written a thing  for a while. The last time I saw the Sleaford Mods was at the The Roundhouse in Camden. 

I nearly bit someone’s throat out.

Well I didn’t bite it out. I wanted to. Not sure if that was a Sleafords Mods reaction or down to the medication I was on at the time - it can get you like that at times - send you off kilter. It was for my chest by the way - antibiotics.  But it was a worry. Mods shows and all that weren’t punctuated with violence – everytime I had seen them there was an air of beauty – people getting along  - listening and grinning.

At the Roundhouse – I had experienced something different. Now I am a middle aged man – I’m 47. Can you say I was too close to the front. I paid the money – it was free standing  - I made my way down to the first couple of rows  – I didn’t push nor shove I was close – maybe not a close as I wanted  but I was near the stage.

I enjoyed the set – there was an element that felt removed and the audience weren’t as into it as they were at Brixton before. Some movement happened – people got lively. Ok by me.  I felt water on my head. Liveliness. Yet it felt calculated. Looked around and this person was ready to try it again. I think it he mst have got caught up in the heady nature of the event. 

I am a 47 year old man.

I mean you no harm.

I meant no one any harm.

I carried on my evening – it was close to the end. The Mods had been good. Not quite connecting. Wetness on the head  - again. Clearly it was intended. Yes I had shuffled around a  little. I had caused no harm. 

I ventured to leave.

I was kicked.

I was kicked again.  On purpose.

Looked around. Same members of the audience who had spilt a pint on my head. Older than me by my reckoning. What kind of fun is all that? 

I came to do no harm. 

But I was ready for a rumble. I told him. I told him I would wait outside.

He did not wait outside.

I would have been a 47 year old man rolling in the Camden gutter.

It didn’t happen. I was waylaid by my friend who bought a t-shirt. A cautionary move to calm the whole thing down. This is the friend who offered to get tickets for the 100 Club last night.

He didn’t get tickets.

I thank him. If the crowd is turning into a freak show of wannabe fighters and scrappers then I can leave it for a while. Best to. Let them drift away on the next 'difficult album'. 

We will go again to see Sleaford Mods. 

I will be friendly.  As I always am. My friend knows this.

Girl on a train: Sleaford Mods whilst the city never sleeps

I hadn't planned on being at this concert, gig, shindig - I was bought a ticket from the other half - a birthday treat as her birthday fell the very next day after it - late night outings and present opening mornings. She knows how much I love a rant - a rave - she know how much I love her - she lets me out - because this I guess this is what i'm about.

So it was with coughs and shakes that I made my way to the forum - to see 'em - to be with the mods again. To be honest - i was late to the key markets push - I hadn't listened as intently to this long player as much I should have. So with minimal plays in Zafira journeys I wasn't fully accustomed to the blast and rhetoric- the fucked off 'avin it - and downright funk of it. It was sitting there on the old itunes - not yet settling in the brain - but tonight I was going to see them live tonight.

Through phonecalls and garbled texts I let myself in to the venue without companions - zipped up parka and stares - grey hairs and semblance of attitude - with 4.80 a pint and a scant smile for the trainee bar staff.

I didn't want to waste the moments of big city life.

I hadn't been in the Town and Country club since god knows when - probably Ultra Vivid Scene or Buffalo Tom in the early 90s. Things still remained the same - but i wasn't bothered. 

Being there as the hall filled meant I got to witness York's finest (Iggy) pop - in the shape of Mark Wynn - all grapes and blouses and skinny black trousers. Not a Fall rip off ( even though he played Psychomafia )- a Formby punk warrior with tales of Claire ( if only she wore a name badge) from charity shops and doctored Bowie struts and grapes - 300 quid and we paid for the privilege - he felt so fucking modern - but reminded me of my youth - an absolute fucking trooper - wit and words and shapes and moves. 

Performance punk poetry. 

I wasn't expecting it - you know he basically danced - randomly recited poetry - ate grapes. It was good - but you know - I couldn't hear the words properly - it was hard to make out. (This is meant ironically - just go and see him - it's worth it) 

Steve Ignorant - heartfelt (like a moonlight shadow) all warrior folk and gesture and musical number - it wasn't getting me - but the guy's got pedigree - so you know - we'll see. Arch ranting over tinkling  - hand gestures and industrial language - because we matter - we are fucking human after all.

Before the wonder of Wynn - I had managed to have a brief chat with Andrew Fearn - all gentle and humble - not that I expected him to have gone all diva and not cared - after all we (the audience) were there for this bunch of cunts (Jason's observation). We talked of Nottingham - I asked why Beeston never gets a mention - mainly because I'd been a resident of Nottz (with a Z you...) and a part of that Beeston shuffle - apparently it's too posh - although I have witnessed the Sleaford Mods lyrics being played out on Beeston streets in real time - do you get me?  Anyway I left Andrew alone - he was with a couple who were telling him that the Mods music was right - for these times - right for right now.  I bet he gets that a lot these days.

And then at 9.30 - on came the Mods - straight up and no fuss - in your face and filling the space with fans and sweat - bile and gutteral soul searching about this nation's saving grace - it was ace. Jason and Andrew - prophetic proto punk poetry and rhythm delivered in bombast and bass - it was ace.  

It didn't seem as frenetic as last time - I think that might have been down to the fact I was ready for it - the first time was a fucking blast - this time I kind of knew what was coming. New songs peppered the set Bronx in a Six, Face to Faces, Giddy on the Ciggies, Arabia- Jason contorting and sweating - if he hadn't brought on his No.1 fan (an actually fan) then I think he may have lost all the fluid in his body. You get a workout from this band. A proper session - of self expression. As I said previously my friend - who was there (live) tonight -thinks they'll become all acceptable - used in adverts at some point. He may be right - this certainly felt like that step up - a big hall and playing to the balcony. I guess the bigger the venue the more likely you make sure it's a show. 

And it's always a good show. Let's be honest no else is doing this.

The bass is set to low - the crowd just wobble, wobble, wobble - united in the words of Williamson - crack headed garbage talk - inarticulate rage ranting - the mundane made magical in repetition and riotous commands. Whenever Williamson screams 'sack the manager' it sends the hairs on my neck soaring. There's something incredible in his ranting.

A modern day ranter - perhaps?

Now, if you look up the definition of a ranter from medieval times - you can see the straight up link to the Mods movement (if two people can be called a movement) Here it is: The Ranters were one of a number of nonconformist dissenting groups that emerged around the time of the English Commonwealth (1649–1660). They were largely common people, and there is plenty of evidence that the movement was widespread throughout England, though they were not organised and had no leader.

Do see what I mean?

What the Mods have done is wrap that discordant sound of modern living - that background fug - bass and (rowche) rumble - frustration and fuckery - into a set of songs that document both the past, present and the future. These repetitive bass thumpers - expertly handled from Fearn's fingers - allow laptops to connect with the oldest sound in the world - the voice.

This is modernism.

I'm getting older - and so are the mods - but the crowd is growing - young minds being opened by words from older guys. I can completely understand how Sleaford Mods came to exist - but every time I hear them - and in this case see them -I can't help marvel at the ingenuity of it all.  It's like they just came out of nowhere but perfectly capture - well - rupture the fabric of modern times. There's a wonderful line in 'Rupert Trousers' about Blur. They don't play it tonight. They don't need to get into those sort of fights - but they point a finger at the pomposity of pop life - they prick it and reveal it as the banal it actually is.

I hope this rise to super stardom doesn't diminish the wit and insight of Williamson or alter the relentless drive of Fearn's beats and bass and flickered melody.  I hope it doesn't come to an odd end.

I don't get in the mosh pit tonight - although I stand on the periphery.  I always did - and that's where the Mods are tonight - still on the outside looking in - or perhaps pissing in and causing a fuss.

And with that the show ends - tight - thumbs up and thank yous and I'm off to be a zombie and tweet ,tweet, tweet about it. It's what us London teds do.

So making my way home I arrive at Charing Cross. Sly fag outside the station. Suddenly approached. Blond hair and eyelashes. Off guard. A girl (well a woman) trying to find her way home - all lost and confused - taxi ready but just pissed up and unsure - she was working for Goldman Sachs- wedding in April - man in Munich - pissed up beer festivals and lost connections  - it gets like that - she drinks at Somerset house whilst we listened to rants and the diatribe of Williamson and Fearn - in the same city - different dreams and all that - all on the same train  - same place but thinking differently.

I didn't tell I'd just been in a room with the invective and froth from two top fellas. I didn't tell her that our worlds were probably quite different.  I didn't tell her that the man is a wanker - and that it don't get much better. She can find all that out for herself. 

She can find that all out when she stumbles across Sleaford Mods on the radio. 

It's going to happen soon.

Picked her up on a Friday Night.

It had been the first term of teacher training – through the help of Colin I was still on the course – his cash injection had not gone up my nose – I had spent wisely and paid the rent. Bought sausages – frozen – they go further and had somehow managed to turn into Top Valley each day with a smile. To be honest I was quite enjoying the change from the drudgery of the post office.
In some ways Scunthorpe was out of my system – I’d had my friendly visit from the girl in the office. But it had been fumbles and disinterest that had put a stop to that. I couldn’t quite muster the enthusiasm as we had sat in a small local public house as men played darts and the jukebox played Foreigner.


And over those weeks – she had came into my senses – a glance at a table – a face in the crowd – a stomp up the hill. All green coat, cigarette and boots. I was still living the modernist dream – on the cheap – clean living in dirty times – well cleanish living. When I arrived in the midlands mayhem I wasn’t necessarily looking to fall in L.O.V.E...love. I thought I was going to hang around a little – get the script on the teaching lark and run to the warm embrace of Leeds or Sheffield. Back to the panic on the streets and [yeah, yeah] industrial estates. What little did I know. So with borrowed lighters and nods and small talk about this and that I realised I was smitten – bitten. No real conversation had passed our lips. But we had bonded over awkward moments in public forums– and that sort of ‘ting.


And the cold dark nights came rushing in. I had spent that first term in the company of LTJ Bukem, Andrew Weatherall, The Charlatans, Elvis Presley and The Small Faces. I would spend many a night with the company of her and The Small Faces. It was a Friday – dogtooth check flat fronted trousers, a red check button down shirt – it was a late 1970s one – could possibly have been the start of the eighties – purchased in the RSPCA charity shop on Ashby High Street. The scene of numerous special finds – through book, shirts, jackets, vinyl and cassettes. And a denim jacket – press stud fastening – deep blue and fitted.


I’m the face if you want it – a fat face .


So with some trepidation I rocked up from the Rylands to the campus block – past Ula’s – the site of white cider purchases and 10 silk cut/ number 1s – depended upon who was smoking the most to Helen and that northern lass’s birthday/ Christmas bash. Not hoping – just partaking. She was there – I was pointed out. Promptly felt and fell into broken conversations. Harvey was there too – what sort of a bloody girl’s name is Harvey – Hello I’m Harvey and I’ve come to give you gip – I’ve got one of these for you sonny Jim – I’ve got one of those for you – my name is Harvey.


All the while the disco rattled the bass cones – these fragile bones - as I tried to engage in serious conversation with a frivolous edge. So well and truly picked up on this Friday night I walked her home – with the northern cuddle – and tales of crisps and brothers.


And every time I hear that guitar – not distorted but ringing with its opening to love and adventure and Marriot rasping those lyrics I get carried back to those times and i know everything is gonna be alright. And that’s what music can do – the power to transport and move. It’s just a swirling mass of energy – the rush of new love and it catching fire right down to where the story ends – when we invited just a few close friends. Simplicity. You see this is the real r ‘n’ b wrapped up in style – with content – there’s a difference see [which clearly wasn’t noted during the Britpop era – menswear anyone?] These are genuine soul artists – veering on the heavy. The stomp of the tiny feet that create a much larger sound – much like my two boys in the morning as they find ever more elaborate things to throw onto the floor as they charge around the upper deck.


This is a gang – man.


It might not be my favourite faces tune – I think You Better Believe It could be the one – but it chimes with the times and it chimes with us. Sha la la la lee. It’s all those Carisbrooke times and Peveril Road walks rolled into three minutes or so. It’s a taking back and looking forward feeling – it’s walking up to meet her by the Beeston Man [I think they’re wasps] – and feeling on top of the world [if attired in the get up of a Likely Lad]


It’s feeling like there’s some kind of possible.


It where modernism takes you.