I recently befriended Alan McGee
on Facebook – you know were not friends – I met him a couple times – sold him
some fanzines at a House of Love gig - took
him to the Gardening Club after an Adorable gig – all taxis and handshakes –
and now he’s on facebook - it’s a social medium – you can distribute
information and to be honest – McGee’s always been an entertaining fucker at
the best of times. Anyway he took to
posting ( and he likes to post) about Shaun Ryder some weeks back and it just
chimed with what I’ve said about him and reminded me what a character he is - Shaun - not McGee - i'll write about that later.
Ryder is a genius. I don’t think
there’s anyone in the last thirty years who can touch him. You can tell me who you think matters – I’m
prepared to listen – but right now I’m writing this about Shaun and those
twisted insights into living and surviving that he gave us.
I never saw the Happy
Mondays - never saw The Roses
either. I was baggy just not into the
whole gig spectacular. I’d fixated on tunes on 12 inches being played by DJs in
warehouses. I never took my top off but I was wide eyed to it all. And
throughout this The Mondays would be in the background – twisting my melons man
– talking so hip. I first heard about them via the music press – pressed up on
a Record Mirror 7 inch vinyl or talk of John Cale mixing it up with these youth
from estates in Little Hulton - that was
probably 1987 – I wasn’t quite ready for the screech and funk of it then. My
Manchester passion was still miserable and maudlin - you’ve got to blame Morrissey for that – or
even The Pistols – because without that legendary Free Trade Hall gig – blah
blah blah.
Listening back to those early
tunes on possible the best titled album of all time’ Squirrel and G-Man Twenty
Four Hour Party People Plastic Face Carnt Smile (White Out)’ it’s got the funk
and reference to the nu-soul scene of the early eighties but played by lads
with knocked off gear and tracksuits forming indie bands to get inside clubs
and deal more drugs. Yet within the cacophony you can already hear Ryder just
teasing out the stories of what it’s like to be working class, dispossessed,
having fun and the constant grind of daily life. There’s a work ethic to this album. You don’t just turn this out on a night – do you get me? The Happy
Mondays wanted to be big – wanted to be famous – there’s not much point
otherwise. Don’t misunderstand me – this
isn’t social realism – it’s picareseque hyper realism – bending boundaries and
minds.
But just that opening line from
24 Hour Party People,
How old are you?
Are you old enough?
Should you be in here watching
that?
Already there are images conjured –
connections made – there’s deviance and pleasure – it’s late night – or it’s
early morning – either way – should we be here listening to this – are we old
enough? Home truths writ large in
Manchester tones – that’s The Mondays. And I do like (the Happy) Mondays –
shall I tell you why?
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Shaun Ryder is underrated. He
doesn’t always give ‘good interview’ – he coarse and wired, grumpy and tired –
bongoed and bouncy. He’s all eyeballs and grins (oh wait a minute that was Bez)
There’s a great deal out there on the internet about this Shaun and that Shaun.
And references to lyrics and poetry and W.B Yeats and Whitman. And I ought to
be careful here – because whenever you attribute knowledge and intellect to
anything you also get people thinking you’re being sarcastic or being playfully
postmodern with your wit – trying to catch someone out. There’s an article on
the website sabotage times about Ryder and poetry and all the comments merge
into a diatribe about people not understanding the author was taking the piss. Which
I don’t think he was – and if he was – why? You shouldn’t be ashamed to make
comparisons and discuss – and if you don’t want to do that – you’ve still got
the tunes.
I don’t buy that dumbing down of
the working class intellect. You know Ryder wasn’t a nine to fiver – he wrote
lyrics for a band – he crafted words and depicted life – he wasn’t playing you
as mugs he was authenticating the voice of an addled and e- generation – the product
of education systems in the seventies and eighties that would rather hit you
than fill you full of awe. You had to find that yourself – and that meant traipsing
through the mire of part time love and infatuation, heady times and edgy vibes.
Shaun pulled this stuff from his head – not because he wasn’t (stinkin’)
thinkin’ but precisely because he got the script.
‘Oh son I’m thirty – I only went
with your mother coz she’s dirty - And I don't have a decent bone in me - What
you get is just what you see yeah.’
I haven’t got the space or time
to do this post justice – and to be honest you’d be better off just reading
Shaun’s lyrics and listening to the tunes.
I once sat in a bar with Shaun Ryder
– the only time I’ve met him – this must have been 1992 – The Mondays were on
self-destruct and Black Grape had yet to be realised. Ryder was early afternoon
barflying – Guinness stockpiled and alone.
I was with a great mate at that time – Phil Fisk – I’ve mentioned him
before he’s a photographer – he takes pictures of people – they appear in
newspapers and that – he didn’t have a camera on that day – he wasn’t a photographer
quite then.
We didn’t want miss an
opportunity to say hello. So we did.
Ryder was welcoming, funny, open
and honest. We talked about the post office, music and this and that. He looked
older than his years – the monkey was still on his back – but he was good
company – you know the living dead don’t get a holiday. I had to leave – meet lost
lovers and all that – but I left him and Phil – he didn’t shuffle off – he was
into conversation.
And you see that through his
lyrics – all part conversations with figures we can’t see. It’s there in Wrote
for Luck – the opening line ‘I wrote for luck – they sent me you.’ And there’s nothing wrong in recognising the
simplicity in the work as being on par with this poet or that one.
Its words after all – why are our masses so
scared of thinking that others might think that we think?
You know the working class have a
brain to – they use it a lot – they free think in hard times. And Ryder’s had plenty
of hard times. It’s good to see him back – all new teeth and eating well – he was
always going to come out the other side. He’s escaped his roots by taking a
route through life differently to some of those other chancers on estates all
over our ‘green and pleasant land’ – this wasn’t just a northern thing – let’s
not forget Liam from Flowered Up – yet
his mind still stands firmly there on the concrete stones of Salford streets.
So I’m celebrating the lyrics – I’m
raising them up to high art. I always was a pretentious arse at the best of
times – some things don’t change. Shaun
is a product of his times –speaking truth in simple rhymes – but they stick –
they take root. I know that Shaun William Ryder has laid down beside ya –
filled you full of junk. Junk of the highest quality. He’s articulating the
inarticulacy of the then and now. He’s putting words to the stuttering
thoughts, clenched fists and fried brains of the Thatcherite revolution – you could
say he was creating ‘banter’ before it became a catchall for loose talk and
ignorant opinion. He tapped into the
terrace chanter and pavement talk - all
unifying but keeping out the mainstream. (There’s an interview in The Guardian
where the journalist translates ‘you’re twisting my melons man’ for the readers
– it was a joke – but you could sense he thought he had to) and this is continued through the sublime work of Black Grape’s first long player.
‘I don’t read – I just guess –
there’s more than one sign – but it’s getting less’
Ryder appropriated, regurgitated
and ran with thoughts, he took from others and re-presented yet made the work
his own. I remember the utter wonder of
Lazyitis – when he drafted in Karl Denver – he's taken a phrase – one you hear in
every home – my mother would often accuse one of us as having contracted the
lethargic bug – but here’s Ryder melding Ticket to Ride, Sly and Essex into a
repetitive delight. It’s that appropriation coupled with his flair and wit that
make it his song - his set of lyrics.
‘And I hope I don’t come top of
the class, Got
no brown tongue lickin ass, can't do what he's asked
Won't do what he's asked’
Won't do what he's asked’
This is by far one of the longest posts -
and I don’t feel like I’ve even half started. You on the other hand have
probably had enough. I just need to mention the line that sticks with me most –
from the epic Stinkin Thinkin - I need
to write a post on the underrated ‘Yes Please’ album – the crack and coke fuelled mighty Factory fuck up - that produced one the most fraught and
fragile long players of the 90s. It wasn’t all big guitars and mod haircuts. It
was much, much, more.
But when Ryder sings and Rowetta repeats ‘A steady job in a
small town, guaranteed to bring you right down, guaranteed to take you nowhere,
guaranteed to make me lose my hair’
It chimes and reminds me.
Why I got out.
You know Tony Wilson compared Ryder to Yeats
– I’m havin’ it. Even if some of you won’t.
