I got a letter this morning.

There’s a long history of rock and the post office – a long history.

I had returned from university and found myself temporarily in charge of a red framed bicycle and post bag. My degree had been in Sociology and Communication Studies and wandering back into Goldsmiths’ to pick up my ‘award’ for best UK animation etc and explaining to my previous tutors where I was currently at I was met with the line – ‘well it is a form of communications I suppose – the post office’.

Yes thank you for the support – it was reminiscent of Casper receiving his careers advice. Still I had to leave the capital [Exit this Roman shell] at that time – I had those empty pockets and I couldn’t afford the beer.

I used to sing to myself when I was on the post round. Post rounds have that kind of freedom. I was living out a Bukowski phase of my existence. The round was a means to an end – the round was clouded in the rounds I’d had the night before.

Bagging up and off into the emerging morning – sometimes wide eyed from the night before or tired eyed from the weekend – that sense of camaraderie and then emerging isolation all thrown into one. Shouting out inanities as letters were thrown in racks and bandied up in elastic and then just you and your bike – riding to deliver the good, the bad and the ugly.

I used to get a whole heap of things through the post.

Having attempted to write [insightfully] about music on the page – and then thrust it on unsuspecting bowl headed youth at gigs and concerts – somehow my late night ramblings as to the power of The Impossibles to change the world or how the next Clouds release would bring down western capitalism had broken into the ether and people would scrawl letters and sellotape fifty pences to card asking for a copy from all over the world.

Letters with suggestions of bands and sounds – places to visit and voices that chimed with mine. It was an indie scene see? All wrapped together with staples and photocopies. It was the Post Office uniting minds and [teenage] dreams [so hard to beat] so that we felt part of a gang – a movement – a wave – even if we walked our sodden towns’ streets alone.

I didn’t by the way – I had friends – real ones.

But postmen – like me - would have to deliver these letters with scrawls about ‘that’s love ba ba ba ba’ or ‘see it glow and paint a rainbow’. Our own S.W.A.L.K as we borrowed Stephen Pastel’s words to give our ideas a voice. It was fun really. And inside these delicate envelopes came outpourings of independence – of fight and fury as we rallied against the world with our band allegiances proudly displayed on our [t-shirt] sleeve or in my case [my college folder – lever arch maaaan] You had to wait for a letter – a correspondence between two minds – feverishly trying to drop a new piece of indie news into a letter. Have you heard Dolly Mixture? Here’s a tape of my band – a friend’s band – my dad’s band. It was counter to all the NME blurgh – it was social networking without technology. It was different. We didn’t ‘like’ one another’s page see – we wrote letters to each other – if we disagreed – we either worked it out in ink – or stopped writing. No flaming or trolling for us. So sounds emerged slowly, with less fanfare. You could argue that it gave everyone time to make a decision about music – about selecting and rejecting – living with the listening rather than flipping and shuffling. You had a cassette from someone – they’d taken some time to tape it – it deserved a listen – a real listen – you were going to have to write back.

I ‘liked’ a page on Facebook this morning – and then had a quick skip through a ‘deep house session’ on Soundcloud that I was directed to from the page and haven’t really given any of it my attention. I left with little opinion. But when Stephen from Middlesborough wrote and asked again what it was I didn’t like about the tape he sent – I had to return and listen - form judgements and write down my reasons – perhaps this naïve correspondence of hurt feelings and the race to impress shaped my thinking processes – perhaps I just pause for thought sometimes.

You have to take a breath to read - to listen.

Which brings me to this – a simple song – that I discovered through a shared love of anoraks and bowlheads – or should that read rock n roll and anger. And of course Paul’s recommendations too. There wasn’t anything twee in digging The Pastels - it was about the real rock in roll. There’s that simplicity in all The Pastels songs – chugging guitars and heartfelt responses. Melodies that linger and race around your brain.

Stephen and Aggi making beautiful noise and shared cassettes and memories scrawled down on paper making connections.

They’re raising the price of the post. No more time to pause then.

Put away your pens.

Sounds from the overground - solitary rants from the listening man No.3

I have heard the British Eurovision entry by Englebert Humperdink


I played my children a selection of advertisements – including the mighty Opal Fruits jingle – made to make your mouth water


I read about Steve Marriot and felt that utter despair as he crawled into the airing cupboard and not out the front door. However, I did read that he rocked the denim look from 1974 onwards after having put it into the public domain supporting The Who at Charlton Athletics’ Valley stadium.


I watched a documentary about Public Enemy and sang loudly to Fight the Power.


I searched the internet for references to Hard Times in Mirfield and ended up downloading a set by DJ’s Tom Wainwright and Miles Holloway.


I have continued to write lies about George Harrison


I played a selection of live tunes by Echo and the Bunnymen from the early eighties.


I found a load of old set lists from Pale Saints, The Razorcuts, The Pixies, The Siddeleys and The Rosehips.


I read some letters posted to me in the 1980s


I contemplated buying a ticket for The Primitives in May


I found some old photographs of The Housemartins at the Scunthorpe Free Rock Festival.


I uploaded all the Velvets and Lou Reed albums to itunes – I didn’t have the John Cale ones.


I played Metal Machine Music to some students.


I played No bed for Beatle John again.


I downloaded some Andrew Wethearall and Carl Craig sets


I read a Spiritualized review.


And I listened to this after finding it again on a CD in Cancer Research. It is simply an acid grower and it samples Marshall Jefferson. Simple really.

I think I can help you get through your exams

It has been one of those endless swirls of fatigue and the refusal to sleep. Of [high] tension [lines] and mis-directed thoughts as men with suits swamp corridors and judge. It has not been one to relish. And in between all that a daughter growing older with cakes and ponies – so much more real than ideological battles over assessments and attainment.

When I was younger – and was schooled rather than running tings. I rushed heady into the exam period with a fevered joy that Summer lay ahead and I was coming of age – a more positive Kes you could say. I still had an anorak but no bird of prey. There had been a soundtrack to my waking and dreaming hours that had got me through good times and bad – and those periods of indiscriminate nothingness that teenagers have.

I once had a photograph taken with a bootlace tie and my Rock n Roll singles – Paul took one of his Adam and the Ants 45s. A passion he and now my children have today – not taking photographs but Adam Ant. So it will come as no surprise that I had rituals and ways of getting things done.

I would play the same song before every exam. It helped like that. These simple rituals and superstitions. I am an athesist – I have no belief in a God – or an afterlife – but I do get reassured by ritual. It makes no difference – what difference does it make? I had rearranged the ‘dining room’ – sounds grand but it wasn’t – fold out table, sideboard, redundant chairs and nets at the window – into where I would do my revision. I was revising – learning stuff to pass examinations – it’s how you get ahead [I couldn’t get ahead] and I would secrete myself behind the door – fold out table part folded out and work through notes and ideas and thrust myself back into lessons and learning.

Music [and girls] provided the breaks in study. I would let myself play a Sea Urchins song or a Mary Chain screech to satisfy the rebellious spirit I had sort to engender along the final months of the fifth year. I have seen photographs from those final years – it’s as if the teachers felt the weight of the very steel of the town and simply allowed us to be who we wanted – to give us an out. Not regiment and force our compliance – rather let us be – whilst singing words of wisdom from the old wooden desks at the front – let it be. Revision was punctuated by sun and walks and songs and words. It’s what gets me through the day these days. I wasn’t really viewing the revision as a means of acquiring the stuff I needed to answer the papers rather as a reason to treat myself to a tune.

And before each exam I would take the trusted walkman – I think it was a Boots one – it recorded as well -and play Handsome Devil so that Morrissey would ‘help me get through my exams’. Marr direct guitar matching the bursts of knowledge stored in my brain – all ready to come tumbling out in ink and showed workings when I sat at those lonely seats with just me and the paper and pen in my pocket. This tradition continued through my A-levels and most possible my degree – but I was wrapped up in fog and fury by that time.

But I still had my walkman.

There is more to life than books you know – but not much more.

At this stage in my life.

I had somehow gotten on to the stage – and was awaiting my turn to jump off.

As I have stated previously – I am not a friend of the mob but here I was indulging in sheep like behaviour. A push and a shove and the stage is ours. But here I was – on stage – well I had stepped up a foot or so as the crowd had surged and shook to the twin guitar action from Blake and McGinley and everything flowed into that moment of bewilderment and sudden realisation that I was amidst the group. Not performing but most likely ruining some else’s enjoyment. To feel self conscious at this point – does not make for a good exit. To catch the eyes of your friend and be certain that this was not what we ‘did’ only added to the awkward nature of it all.

I once tried to get onstage whilst Morrissey sang of our adolescent ills – but was harangued and prevented by burly Scottish men in shiny bomber jackets. It wasn’t that the bomber jacket had taken off as a fashion accessory de jour in Scottish cities and streets – this was Showsec and boots and snarled faces and grimaces.

To be fair they saved me the embarrassment of stumbling on stage and dancing awkwardly – or attempting to strike up a conversation whilst Johnny jangled to the left all white demin jacket and seaman’s cap.

When I was younger and what was then a regular concert goer – as ticket stubs seem to testify - there was a hardly a week without some live action. You get me? And without fail there would be a moment of sloppy looking youth jettisoning themselves from stages into the arms of the crowd – in an endless tide of arms and holed jumpers. I never really had the urge to want to do this – to impinge myself on proceedings in that way. I was more with the Keith Richards school of thought – get off my stage you fucker – and understood why you would use the telecaster to keep them at bay.

There’s a thing about the stage. Its openness and space – where performers come to share their wares with easily excitable audiences. Unwritten rules that say that you can look but don’t step up front – this is not where you are welcome. Those moments when you heave yourself up and glance at the setlist for the night – knowing what’s coming next but enjoying it even more because of that dramatic irony. Or shout at some roadie to pass the list to you after the lights have come on and revealed the stage as a mess of leads and dust – no glamour just organisation.

But here I was caught in a moment of youthful exuberance – as Snub TV cameras filmed the chaos. It had been one of those oddly organised bills – the Manics opening – all sprayed shirts that made them look like militant darts players – as me and McGee talked about the Clash and honesty. I didn’t appreciate the Manics at that point – it turned out they were an honest bunch. Then Swervedriver - another band with guitars and voices. I can’t remember Swervedriver if I’m being truthful. I saw them several times – none of it sticks. Finally the Fannies making music with harmonies and guitars. Slowly igniting a change in the right direction for all independent [bowl]heads.

Whatever happened at that concert resulted in me somehow bridging the artist and audience divide. I have a friend who talks about his brother’s love of The Specials and how they transcended the whole rock ‘n’ droll thing of performer and those to be performed at. How Terry Hall would simple have a look that reinforced that there was no difference – that The Specials were both me and you – and we were all welcome to a moment in the lights. Norman Blake didn’t exactly welcome us on the stage – but he didn’t kick me off either – I just sort of shuffled my way back –to the beer sodden floor and where I felt I belonged. I do remember watching Iggy Pop – on television – simple work the crowd into a frenzy – a unit – a platoon that he commanded. It was one of those supercharged moments where you could see the 60s Iggy in his eyes – all confrontation and hostility. But it resulted in lots of middle class white kids – kinda bopping with boots to Asheton’s guitar growl. All off kilter and really knowing they were ‘part of something’ – you know like it was a Glasto moment and Kitty and me were like soooo near Iggy and …and…..and.

The crowd wouldn’t spit on them in 1969. But Iggy handled it. Inviting them on. Stopped the show. Told them to get off. Which they did. You know you’re only visiting the stage. It’s not yours.

In some ways I still cringe about that moment. I had gone to the concert with James – I returned with James.

We did not discuss the stage incident – it would never repeat itself.

Teenage Fanclub: Everything Flows with me somewhere in the audience.

I’ll play mine if you play yours.

The snow came tumbling down last month. I was out and about getting wet, wet, wet as the metropolitan city ground to a halt and I ended up staying over at a top soul brother’s residence.

Not getting home to the kids.

I guess there’s a presumption that because it’s the city you can get straight home – that somehow the snow won’t wreck the plans of commerce and pleasure. But it does and it will. So stood drinking and discussing George Harrison’s Electronic Sound and the reverb set ups created by Larry Levine – we didn’t notice that the snow was settling that little bit faster and traffic was slowing up and coming to a standstill – The Pineapple can have that effect. It’s a wonderful public house The Pineapple – a stone’s throw from the Imperial War Museum.

Back in Scunthorpe – getting home meant a walk if it snowed – wet trousers and cold feet – falling over and falling in love as you negotiated the ice around Britannia Corner and over the railway bridge. Through bends and drifts hands held and helping hands. Here it was wet concourses and low level announcements – basically a mild apology but a certainty that you’re not getting home.

No headphones – just cold ears and the beers that I’d drunk swishing inside – well cider – you know me – I am a cider drinker.

But as we were wont to do in that flat – we played music. Not overly loud – you know we’re in our forties – we get on with our neighbours – we’re not a bunch of ravers – diddlee di di sharing tunes and experiences late into the night with brandy and cigarettes. Over the years I have found myself in rooms with friends playing songs that cheer the heart as the head begins to hurt. Those morning moments that lead to a find that stays with you forever – where once it was 7 inch singles revolving on stereos or 12 inches on 1210s – it’s mostly digital digging that we’re doing – but with the same outcomes.

Richard played me Nilson. I played him Euros Childs.

We marvelled at the simplicity of music to bring us to our knees. It seems that music has a habit of running at you head first in the dark – when it’s different outside – when the curtains are drawn and you know you should be sleeping. It’s that hazy appeal as your head fights the inherent tiredness creeping into your bones but you feel alive as the tune brings a rush of energy sweeping through those old [and in this case cold] limbs. And this post could be about so many of those late moments – in cars, in clubs, on tapes and vinyl as people played tunes that would you would never tire of listening to.

But this one is about the mamas and the papas.

Paul and I used to travel to Leeds and other northern towns in search of heady inspiration. And as we would often be found waiting – after Kaleidoscope Pop had shut its doors – for a milk train to take us back to the old town we would sometimes end up at kind soul’s house. Two Scunthorpe waifs and strays – avoiding the return to the industrial streets and skies. That house was invariably on Harold Avenue – the home of pop – past the menacing streets of Sutcliffe’s stalking to inviting cups of tea – or take out bottles and Big Star’s Third or Dinosaur’s first. We sat and talked with like minded fellows about this and that – as tiredness crept in but the tunes would flow and somehow I knew I would make it in on time to college the next day – because I had heard ‘Kangaroo’ and that would keep me going – as it still does.

But Ian of Pale Saints placed a simple greatest hits record on the downstairs dansette – and out of the speaker came that simple strum and build of Twist and Shout. Yet this wasn’t the cacophony of Lennon and company in full leather and volume. No this was all delicate chiffon and corduroy and harmony and yearning. I don’t think at that point I had quite got the mamas and the papas – but in that sleep deprived moment – it worked. And I haven’t been able to escape it since.

The simplicity in slowing it all down and turning that twisting and shouting into romance and wanting – as John Phillips tells us that she’s got him going – like she knew she would. And the harmonies build and fall and lap over one another until we’re wrapped right inside the song. That walk for the train as the dawn exploded in Leeds was a joyous one as Mama Cass rang in our ears and our hearts.

Whenever I’m stuck as to what should come next on a compilation tape [ok – CD – we don’t make tapes anymore or should it be some sort of ‘playlist’] then this seems to worm its way on to it. Too be honest it’s obvious why. Those late night moments hang around – I find I can’t do them anymore. I mean it took days to recover from my night ‘on the town’ with Richard and small children waking in early hours means that listening in daylight can be hard enough.

So here’s to the beauty of one person playing something different to another. It’s called sharing and the world is a better place for it.

Reformation time [Part One]

My brother and my sister have tickets to see The Stone Roses. They bought them when they were announced. They didn’t buy me one. Now this in itself is no bad thing. When I read in the pages of The Guardian that Ian, Reni, John and Mani [sort of has a ring to it – but it’s no John, Paul, George and Ringo] were calling all the hating off and journalists started writing up fawning pieces on how the late eighties witnessed the coming together of tribes and the roses as the ones who united to save us all through their fusion of funk and fucking attitude.

I started to worry that I wouldn’t recognise the crowd – the feeling in that place. That big open space in Manchester.

Now there are many bands I have not seen – in fact I think I have written about that somewhere on here – but I never had the chance to see the Roses. Emma has. She saw them at Spike Island. This was before we met. And Rob saw them – he told us about them – he’d seen them in Coventry – at the university. All jangles and attitude – saw the light – the second coming [geddit?] But I remember that sudden shift – there’s talk that it was all down to that TOTP Mondays / Roses edition – but that certainly is after the event. Besides the North suffered a temporary blackout on that Thursday back in the late 80s – the signal just stopped and the television went off.

We didn’t see it. I think we went to the pub – instead.

But there was a change a comin’. We wanted to dance [and have some fun] and you couldn’t do that to Lush and MBV. You could shake your head – possibly jump up and down – but you couldn’t dance, dance, dance. The Scream had gotten close with Sonic Flower Groove – they would pretty much rewrite it all with Screamadelica – but this was still in its infancy. The Stone Roses were all swagger and style – seemingly arriving out of nowhere and setting the pace.

It was everything a band should be. A gang. The Stooges and the Family Stone all rolled into one.

There were walk offs, and chart show clips, front covers and interviews – but it seems that good old conversation pushed the Roses into our consciousness. And here they are again – back in the press and we’re talking about them.  I remember a trawl uptown – early days in the city – Lewisham to the last stop – and a wander up Charing Cross road – and there was Mani, Reni and John – carrying a massive boxed ghetto blaster – all cardboard and heaviness – they were the other side of the road – where The Marquee used to be. Taking a breather and looking around for something. And they just looked so different – you eyes were drawn to them. But I was crossing the road – so I looked away – straight into Ian Brown’s eyes – that simple acknowledgement that he was a star but also one of us. A nod – half smile – reciprocated and moved on. The Stone Roses taking up both sides of the road. Totally assured and utterly hip.

Will they be able to it again? I guess they have to – it all ended fairly messy - in missed cues and notes – ramblings and ramifications. I have to be honest – I think I’ve played The Second Coming more than the first long player – it’s got this real heavy groove at the heart of it. Yes, I recognise there’s indulgence but even the build into Breaking into Heaven works – so it’s reminiscent of the opening to Welcome to the Pleasure Dome [Liverpool did it first?] – but the whole long player is done with finesse – all riffs and rolls – building to Love Spreads  - well The Foz actually – but lets say it ends at Track 12 and not Track 90. And in between this band of brothers unite to take this small nation under a groove – from burning south swamp rock and blues – where the devil will give you all the best tunes and through the feral funk of Begging You – with it’s repetitive loops and Hey Bulldog bass lines mixed with a Brown at his in your face Lydon scowling best – into Good Times [my friend]– that shouter of fun , falling into hate and bitterness with How do you Sleep which simply documents the fragility of friendship, of six string relationships and strung out nights –until they ultimately spread some love around.

Which they will again

And all that energy is still there – it took five years to get there through courts and concerts, much like that other reforming troupe – The Beach Boys. Two decades of pills, writs and heartache to be united around the globe in slacks and shirts and Love’s baseball cap – I’m hoping that the Stone Roses will be wearing better gear.

And so it goes

If one band reforms then they all come crawling out the woodwork. Although Shed Seven have seemingly never gone away – nor the Bluetones if I come to think of it. But there’s a reformed Mondays playing the clubs [rocking the pubs] and the Inspirals and even the fucking Farm playing Spartacus ‘in its entirety’. It’s as if we are returning to Thatcher’s E fuelled end of the eighties were nothing much mattered apart from dancing and getting one over the police. Whilst I welcome a roses revival but aren’t going to go to it – and I’m feeling embarrassed at the thought of Love offering fake platitudes to Wilson in concert halls as bank balances burst – but I’ll be sitting in the front row helping that circus along – I’m not sure if a nostalgia filled landscape of musical highs from our youth and our parents youth will help this ‘pop’ thing along.

I hope that it inspires some youth to think that all of this is from an another era – its Jurassic – you know Dinosaurs and all that – like it did the three Johns from Kilburn. I hope it does – like the landscape at the time of the Roses when being a fully-fledged star was seen as somewhat arrogant and certainly not in keeping with the independent tradition. 

Sometimes you can be in the right place at the right time.

I hope that field in Manchester will be it this Summer. The past was theirs and now the future’s ours – or something like that. 

Jimmy Saville is dead and the Velvets never played TOTP

There is a constant need to elevate Top of the Pops to mythical heights – a programme that could supposedly bring about cultural and political change because ‘acts’ had done a ‘turn’. The power of television to transform and shape our futile existence. And they’re turning up ‘lost footage’ of glam rock and putting it on the news last month – not the fact that Thatcher was going to let Liverpool rot after the mines closed down. Bowie’s better – see. The six o’clock news. You know all those talking heads – it was like Bowie was speaking to me – just me – and all that because he appeared on TOTP. It resonated and reverberated in homes across the country – sparking revolutions in the bedrooms.

They never say that about The Roxy do they?

I remember The Fall on The Roxy – not on TOTP.

Did it alter what I was doing on Scunthorpe streets – probably not – but it was good to see Hit the North on television – okay I admit that TOTP was important – and at times it felt incredible – but it was just performance and further acceptance that bands where dancing to the industry shilling. I was a watcher – a viewer – one of the fifteen million regulars. Waiting with my brother or sister to witness the The Teardrop Explodes or The Stray Cats pound through their tunes and offer a glimpse of decadence and difference. I’m not totally negating its influence – but let’s not rewrite history here. Jimmy Saville played some records once –started presenting a pop programme – was distinctly odd and thankfully fucked off our screens – he was not a ‘national treasure’ nor a purveyor of the underground – The Last Poets did not appear, nor the MC5.

The 1970s was a bleak time – the eighties made it worse. There were teachers in schools who fought on the beaches and Boy George in the living room. There was no ironic post modern twist – life was throwing up some odd alignments back then. Minds were thinking. Was it challenging the system? Unlikely. Not that it vowed to be political or even analytical – it was simple singers and fancy pants [let’s dance, dance, dance] We only had three channels to choose from. It was bound to happen. And of course there were performances that moved me - I can remember appearances from The Jam, Frankie goes to Hollywood, Adam Ant – the list goes on. All etched quickly into young minds. But I forget the disappointment and the horror of the filler and formless bands and singers who tried [and they failed] to entertain us. It seemed like another world – because it was one – but a dull one – in bright knit ware and hairspray.

I was listening to Sister Ray by the Velvet Underground sometime last week or month – this chugging fug of ferocity and feedback and it is clear that ‘DLT’ would never have introduced this – in a throwaway link and a smile at the ‘sisters’ in the house. I didn’t get into The Velvet Underground because of Pan’s People – I think I read about them. We [that’s Paul and me] bought a compilation, a long player in Woolworths. It had on it Run, Run, Run, White Light, White Heat and Beginning to see the Light. It intrigued and it delivered. I guess I’m torn here – I want TOTP full of the freaks and oddities yet have come to realise that this run of the mill programme was never going to change things – it might give you a few ideas.

Sometimes Top of the Pops had a moment – a spark. That glorious performance by New Order when I coveted the keyboards that helped send Blue Monday down the charts. It’s a beautiful performance – all nerves and electro squeals. But it fits into the whole picture. New Order existed outside of all that in the first place. Perhaps I’m doing Bowie a disservice – that arrival of the alien to mainstream houses for some would help shape and form experiences and ideas. But if I’m honest – I remember my granddad just laughing at Culture Club – because it wasn’t threatening, or challenging – it was just a bloke in a dress. Should I have felt liberated as my mum sang along to Karma Chameleon? Probably not.

I think I did when Divine sang Think You’re Man – but that’s different – that is counter cultural and you could sense it. I’m not certain why that ‘found’ footage has got me so wound up – I think it’s because I feel a rush and push and falling back in time. There’s a riot goin’ on – but like the track it’s just silence – being lost in the mawkish and reminiscence of when things were good – looking back instead of letting us push things forward.

Much like the writing in/ on here.

When Simon Reynolds met the World of Twist they said they wanted to build a gulf between the audience and the band. We want superpop back I guess but  Bowie’s footage seems so contrived – so obviously different – and  listen to the chug chug chug of the song. It grates after a while.

There are so many bands that didn’t play TOTP.

There has never been a revolution here because of television. There has never been a revolution here.

The Fall on The Roxy. It changed nothing.