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.

I want to hear some hip hop

I wouldn’t recognise the stars of the hip hop world these days – the status and credibility of the artist. I would only hear the sounds of their spittin’, the beats they be rhyming over and the samples peppering the track. I have no idea who’s cool and who isn’t – I have no idea.

There was a time when the hip hop beats were a constant thud in the inner brain y’all. When the latest beats were spun on the ones and twos. This is not the life I lead at the moment. It may be the fact that I have this young family – these innocent and creative minds and I am yet to fill it up with the magic of the gravediggas and NWA. That time might come – it might not. I can’t really say what they’ll listen to and I’m certain I won’t know how they’ll listen. You can’t tell ‘em what to like. It doesn’t work like that – I might have to leave a few Velvet Underground records lying around – but you certainly can’t tell them. It’s safe to say that my parents were not as excited by the latest Sha la la flexidisc from Remember Fun, than I was. I couldn’t see my Dad marvelling at the wonder of Phuture’s Acid Tracks as much as I may have done. We were family – but we had different tastes. It should be like that really – although I hope that my children dig The Beach Boys – you know right through their whole career – not just the hits, hits, hits.

I was talking with a class of mine about the music press – it already sounded antiquated and old in this world were the stars and the gagas tweet to audiences larger than Brazil – who needs a Paul Morley, Julie Burchill, Steve Sutherland or Alex Petridis to tell them what to like or think? You know Morrissey wouldn’t know where to send his letters anymore – saying that he’d probably have a tumbler account. All borrowed shots from the sixties, scraps of poetry from Yeats and few choice words about meat eaters. I might set it up actually. It may get more readers than this.

But it was good to have gatekeepers – you know – it was good that someone was doing some of the filtering – it’s fucking hard to find out anything these days. We’re drowning in sound – not waving. So this brings me back to my dilemma – this age thing maaaan. I have forgotten how to find new sounds and where once I had claimed on here that it was no nostalgia rides – it seems that the modern world may just have got the better of me.

I’m seeking out those old school beats. It’s by the far the simplest thing to do.

I like my hip hop with a touch of honesty and humour rather than misogyny and glamour. I can’t do sunglasses indoors, helicopters and furs, ‘I'm sick of bitches shakin' asses, I'm sick of talkin' about blunts,

Sick of Versace glasses,

Sick of slang,

Sick of half-ass awards shows,

Sick of name brand clothes.
Sick of R&B bitches over bullshit tracks,

Sick of swoll' head rappers

With their sicker-than raps

Clappers and gats

Makin' the whole sick world collapse’

But there was a student I taught back in the Midlands. Quiet. Piercing eyes but utterly enthralled to the underground. You could tell he was a music fan. You could sense it. He was soaking it all up and mixing it all together in his head. I can spot them a mile off – the ones who listen with prejudice. He felt the intensity of music and bands and sounds and styles. It has to be at that age – to catch a fire – to light the fuse. Otherwise you may as well keep on buying the NOW CDs and claiming you like a little dance now and again.

You could tell he’d get into a debate about whether Bulhoone Mindstate was by far a superior long player than Three Feet High and Rising. Which it is by the way – but we can talk about The Daisy Age another day.

Because taking sides – weighing up the odds - thinking about this and that – and hoping it has worth lends itself to critical thinking – acts of choice and not being part of the flock (of seagulls). He still thinks about sounds now – about layering this with that – scratching that needle back and forth, back forth –because out of that student emerged Beatmasta Bill. A Nottingham DJ of distinction – a warrior on the 1210s running the gamut of groove to provide a soundtrack for your waking hours. I’ve never heard him playing in a club – I should have really – but it wasn’t to be – see – I moved down here and these things happen – plus I was his teacher and you know hanging out with the kids – getting down in the street – well that just ain’t fly – I don’t need to tell you why.

But we are both older now and he still spins the records. I remember when he and his brother and another student tore into Bring tha Noise in a school hall. There was that sense of freshness and just trying things out – that’s what you get with Bill -a sense of freshness and trying things out. So it was a pleasure to hook back up with those sounds through fibre optic cables and late night searches. There is a sense of adventure and play in all of his mixes and remixes – a knowing nod to the source and a twist of the (odd) future. There's a wonderful hip hop scene in Nottingham - it gets called UK rap - but its different from city to city. It seems to turn up this eclectic approach to things. The Midlands is like that - it's far from water.  

So listen to the end. It changes – it prompts different reactions.It is good music. It is good music selected by Beatmasta Bill for you to listen to.

When it became embarrassing to talk of Funk

I am a heavy admirer of the super heavyweight sounds of the US funk scene – but somewhere over the years it became a cliché. A north London DJ route that’s all open sandwiches and jazz bars. I blame ACID JAZZ – I shouldn’t I know - but the whole music got wrapped in a soul boy styling when we should have just been sharing the tunes not trying to dig so deep in the crates that every record played was a one-off – a unique slice of soul that no one had heard but made you hip because it was rare – man – really rare.

I‘ll tell you what’s rare – Polar bears they’re rare.

Anyway, I once was a deejay – for a night sometimes – not as a career choice – dropping 45s of funk as we warmed up a room ready to go wild for the drum and bass – right in tha face at the end of an evening. And those nights were fuelled with our chemical beats for all those speed freak – northern soul stompers making way for the hardcore partiers in tha house. I loved finding a funk 45 that had been sampled and dropping those tunes – the essence of the hip hop scene – distilled in a bass line and a drum break that would make you stop in your tracks [which of course is ironic given we were playing tunes to make you dance]

And clearly I spent many years safe in the notion that I had the funk. But somewhere amidst the James Brown hollers and the loose booty of the family stone a barrier was built. So I’m trying to figure this out. You see I was trying to make a compilation the other day/ night and I’m the selector – so it’s about my choices – I control the flow – ya’ know – but I take a walk in the park and right by the Johnny Pate selection, WAR don’t get a look in, I’ve got reasons for not selecting Mary Jane Hooper and I’m [Humpty] dumping the Vibrettes.

Why is this?

It’s not that I don’t like the songs – it’s as if something has crept in beside it and sullied it and part of me feels it was the sudden rush to funk up the 90s and the noughties that killed it for me. Throughout those youthful years – before wrinkles and weight would make me weary – I would happen across a gem – a diamond – a belter of a tune. In a car boot cardboard box [Slaughter’s Big Rip Off soundtrack by James Brown for 50p], or stall in Greenwich [Richard and I carving out the cash to purchase Me and Baby Brother by WAR for four pound] or in a handful of scuffed and scratched records in SCOPE on the high street [Memphis Soul Stew on an Atlantic 4 track ep] or PDSA near Sainsbury’s in Beeston [that’s Nottingham folks - where I would purchase funk delight after funk delight as animal lovers offloaded vinyl by the cartload]

Mixed in with these finds would be the scraps of information picked up in reviews, interviews, or conversations with older folks, hip hop headz and soul boys. Scouring the sample clearance information on Three Feet High and Rising to see where that Potholes beat came from – which of course is the mighty Eric Burdon & War’s Magic Mountain – listen for yourself at whosampled.com – it’s easier now to find this and that.

No one was taping their records for the internet generation. Not that I’m against it – it’s wonderful to tap right in – drill on down to the sounds that inspire the underground that go overground for us all.

But the funk scraps we were fed were tantalising. I remember a wonderful friend of mine’s brother – Carl he was called, a true funk and soul aficionado – crafting columns for Blues and Soul, starting up his own magazine and building up a collection that rivalled any North London wannabe – this was real NORTHERN soul – brother. And he gave me a box of records – stuff he wasn’t hip to – for a small fee – early Mo’Wax, compilations, Acid Jazz, Grant Green and Mick Talbot’s solo album. But there on side two of a nondescript funk album was Jimmy James’ Root Down – soon to be sampled by The Beastie Boys – this huge ever pulsating tune from the centre of the Funkiverse – building from bass through drum roll and organ swipes – setting the funk up for the day ahead. I lived with these tunes – the market find of Black Ceasar in the Loire Valley while we camped – the Quest sample album picked up in Selectadisc on the way home from work – or the random 7inch from The Five Stairsteps [ok – I know it’s soul – but it’s a little funky – their bassist used to hang with the family stone – you’re bound to let that rub off on the fretboard] thrust into my hand by the owner of a lovely yet incredible messy store on Lee High Road [that’s Lewisham folks]

Mixed with that came tales of legendary films with Dolemite and Coffey Brown – or watching The Mack on video through a find from Chris – Carl’s brother and all round wonderful bloke – lost touch with him but fondly remembered in these parts - discovered in a discounted bin in a shop in Ridings [that’s Scunthorpe folks].

So what changed?

As I said I think the ubiquitous use by advertisers to sell us the carnal and exotic became demeaning – divorced the fury from the funk and rendered it solid – commodified through hot pants, knee socks and bubble blowing girls – forgetting the struggles that funk had endured. Rendered in vibrant colours to represent that 70s swing – they were burning records back then – they were burning lots of things back then – including the cross. And now it’s a photoshopped urban image with a day-glo vibe shifting tunes that spoke volumes about circumstance and opportunity. Check the Chi-Lites For God's Sake Give More Power To The People for want of anthem about being oppressed and depressed. But those off the peg fancy dress – let’s ridicule a style – appropriate the hate and laugh at the threads of sub cultures fighting for a corner kind of made me wary of the whole thang. Whilst Tarantino told us how hip he was in his blatant ripping off of film making by directors who were never given a chance with mainstream audiences.

Somewhere in all of that – I stopped listening and starting skipping the tunes.

It is not funk’s fault that it got sold out. I should stop being embarrassed and remember to listen more because when the bass and guitar and breaks connect – it makes me want to dance. And I have always loved dancing – you can’t do that to Brian Eno’s Music for Airports – you can do it to The Meters.

'cause when I need a friend it's still you

I used to live in Nottingham – arriving there to become a teacher – to train – to aspire for something else other than the sad Scunthorpe existence that i had been carving out – one of intense self pity and futility descending into drunken shambles and idiotic behaviour. To be honest – i’ve always been an idiot – but those latter days back up north were ones that i needed to leave [them ] all behind. I had been to Nottingham several times – journeys in cars on motorways as we floored it and hit those top top speeds.

I first heard Dinosaur on John Peel – most people hear most things on John Peel. Well they used to. Now i think you have to download some DJ on iplayer to hear the new finds or switch to DAB and roll into the 6mix excesses. You knew were you where with four stations – pop music, different pop music, classical, talking. It was as simple as that. Now you find me listening to the four and the three – the middle class angst and cosying in and the beauty of Bach and Beethoven – all horrorshow indeed.

But generally as a teenager you would start with Janice Long, possible the Kid and then go round Peelie’s – see what he was playing. You know- the big kid in the know – the one in the gang who was working and had more stuff than you did – be it beers, crisps, clothes, fags or records. Things panned out like that. John Peel would discover them and then you would – and over radio waves allegiances were formed – friends rallied and music taped [my home taping as yet has not killed music]. There was something beautiful about a song on Peel that you fell in love with. You had a few opportunities to catch it – because after a week or so it was gone. Far too much to play you see – ephemeral pop music – pop pop pop.

That simple fuzz of overdriven guitars.

It does it every time. I bought myself an i-rig for the i-phone [oh yeah – I’m one of the nerd guys – shopping at Autism R Us] just to recreate that Marshall sound – this one goes up to 11.]  Dinosaur could do that – that Seattle throttle – that Jaguar jolt as we all joined in their freak scene. There was a moment when we suddenly became swept up with this lethargy – contradictory I know that we worked ourselves up to sit down. But the Seattle thing seemed like a PuNK thing back then. It was discordant drones for abnormal youth – the teenage riot of America offering kids the alienation they needed from the last throes of Thatcher’s Britain. If you play your guitar loud – perhaps it doesn’t matter that there aren’t any jobs, opportunities or even [teenage] dreams.

And guitars were played LOUD in the 1990s.

J Mascis was this freakbeat guitarist – laconic and laid back as the strings of his Fender Jaguar contrived to ring out our teenage frustrations whilst Lou Barlow provided the beast of the bass to hang our troubled times. And Murph hit the skins and we headbanged our frustration away. Suddenly this rock was not rawk – it felt authentic and heavy – moving me away from the anoraks and simple chimes – getting older see – getting that little bit angrier.

It was time for a change.

Graham from Pale Saints sent me [okay – me and Paul] the first dinosaur album – and we would listen to Mountain Man on repeat – feeling its anger but laughing at the redneck nature of it all. But those guitars still rocked man. And then Bug came along – all pop and racket and suddenly there’s a scene – a whole scene man – it had to be a scene – the NME said. There wasn’t a scene when I first ventured to Nottingham Polytechnic – only the Freak scene [gedditt?] And we waited an eternity for the dinosaur onslaught – Mascis mucking with the mix of the pedals – those endless pedals – phase this distort that and chorus nothing. But we waited – anticipated and all of that. To be honest Paul and I were recovering from the sheer rock attack of the Lunachicks – this was Russ Meyer with guitars – pure unadulterated heaviness. I would later fly from the Marquee stage wearing an elephant cord anorak as the ‘chicks pounded and throbbed through Sugar Love – but as i said elsewhere – that is another story.

And then it happened – guitar, bass and drum driving down to simplicity. This was my Seattle scene – my SUB[mersion] in POP. I remember when Nirvana came along I thought they were interlopers – and James asking if I wanted to go to the Astoria to see them – and I couldn’t be bothered – feeling I had my fill of electric guitars – oh – well some you miss – but I was glad to see Dinosaur at this point. Before it imploded.

I jumped, I shouted – I may even have played air guitar. Utterly thrilled. I even managed to interview J for the fanzine – fifteen words in fifteen minutes – still on some micro tape wedged in a draw in a Scunthorpe house no doubt.

So here’s to loud guitars and not much else.

It seems there are mighty wrangles over who owns the copyright to this track and you can't find the original video. So here is a live version from 1988.

we queued and we danced

Waiting in a queue for a club or a concert is something that I seldom do these days – my queues are in Sainsbury’s now. Trollies pushed with purpose. But many a night had started with a queue – the anticipation building the teeth grinding and the chatter starting. The queuing was preceeded by a drive out of the industrial to somewhere more pretty and rewarding, the latest mix from Daryll keeping it four to the floor as we kept time with the [strictly] rhythm and began to feel that urge to dance – you’re going to dance and have some fun.

We used to park up in Nottingham city centre – this was before the move – already building this affection for a city that would ultimately shape my ways – all of it so familiar in my head now – but at the time it seemed so sprawling – so lit up by late nights and underground sounds. We used to go to Venus. This small club in a small street full of large characters and lots of love. Later – Emma and I would see a rat there in the street – by the fish and chip shop – but this hadn’t occurred yet and the street was still a magical place. It was the second, third, forth Summer of Love – whatever the mixmag or The Face had decided to label it.

We called it music. Still do.

There are a thousand tales to tell about nights out in the company of house music – in the company of Daryll. There’s another one I should have stayed in touch with – but late nights make you jumpy and off it – so we drifted. I see a pattern emerging here – I see what the root [down] cause is – I just don’t want to admit.[because if I say I am I’ll get it] Upstairs bar – coat off – drink – swaying to the garage sounds and hi hat clicks – then down the stairs to false light and fags –as the guest dj began their spot. Andrew Weatherall was always a revelation – always special in that tiny room. Dropping Rez by Underworld for the first time and taking us to a frenzy as Koenig Cylinders blasted our ears and all we could do was grin. Because beats and repetition go hand in hand as we drank Red Stripe and grooved. Or Dimitri dropping 1000 by Moby – a 1000bpm in a windowless room in the centre of the city.

Then at two o’clock that was your lot – out into the open air all wide eyed and delirious with joy – because music does that to you.

There was always a thrill to the club scene – the banter, the chatter, the open eyes and open arms. When Venus closed for a while and James moved the operation over to the Rockadero – we queued again – this time for Pirate TV and the Sabres of Paradise live – Weatherall rocking the spot from the stage this time – all of it leading to good times and fun. So I guess this should be about Weatherall – but I’m not ready to write that yet. And I think when I started writing this morning I was thinking of techno – of electronica – of dance music – of music.

But what filled my head was Sandy B – Feel like singing – and then suddenly it was the Nervous Track by New Yorican Soul and now I need to write about that repetition – its build and its release – all energy and soul and fat sounding keyboards. A guaranteed floor filler – tearing it up. There’s this sense of the never ending about it – just rolling and rolling onwards catching us all dancing in its net.Percusion and a horn stab - and feet just start moving. 

I long for that simplicity in music.

I long for simplicity like this. 

They sold them and they played them

I used to live in Nottingham. It was a place I had escaped to from the confines of a small northern town that was guaranteed to bring you right down. Guaranteed to take you nowhere. I remember being deposited there by Mark and Anna – it was a Sunday. A car ride to Beeston Rylands – to Leyton Crescent – a car ride to the beginning of all of this.

The thing I liked about Nottingham was the fact it was run through with record shops – second hand, independent, the big chains all sat side by side – shipping out the vinyl to the streets – to the bedroom DJs, the newly formed bands, the rock obsessives , hip hop headz, pop tarts and dub troubadours. And I liked to browse - that simple feeling of flicking through piles of records and finding a spark, a name, a title or a photograph that grabbed you and forced you to look that little bit closer. Pull out the record, check it for marks. You know the drill. We don’t really change – although the autist in us all will have to evolve the ritual to include the wait to see if i-tunes can return the search.

You see that’s what fucks me off – I was getting ready for Christmas here – it’s always busy - the boys have their birthday on the 27th. And I happened to be getting something out of the cupboard – some secreted gift. When I was drawn to a pile of records - a pile of records I was definitely going to have a look through – suddenly off task. How can that happen when you have a list – already in order on your i-pod? You can search and find – search and order – search and sequence – the playlists of the mindless – it can sort it for you – it’s ‘genius’ like that. Now don’t misunderstand – I have tried to order my records from time to time. I have listed them and moved them around and put singles in genres. But as I have moved house at least five times whilst having them it’s safe to say that I have forgotten what I own and where to find it. That is I would love to play the second Razorcuts album or Caveman or the white label Electronica album from Fat Cat but would not be able to find it – easily. In fact I know there are two boxes of vinyl sitting in the garage – slowly warping and eroding.

And buying records was something I did a lot of in Nottingham.

I worked across and out of town – in a village called Radcliffe – in the school there. It was a wonderful place to learn and work. Free of responsibility and willing to take risks – sometimes the best things happen in the classroom when we’re not obsessing about the progress and attributing arbitrary levels to performance – and instead indulge in telling kids about stuff and getting them to use that stuff to make their existence that little bit richer. Anyway – I don’t want to rant about education. I got my education.

But working in the sticks meant I had to head across town to catch the bus to Beeston – just outside the library. Angel Row gallery – Nottingham was thin on the gallery ground in the late 1990s – now everyone has an institute of modern contemporary art. Actually I remember a series of canvases in the Angel Row gallery that depicted classic concerts – realised through simple dots – the band on stage – one was Joy Division represented by four white dots and the audience – represented by a hundred or so dots – all about 2ft by 4ft. Simple and effective. The artist had also made replica album covers on wood and left them stacked against a wall – inanimate objects – redundant images without the sounds - but somehow providing the rush of excitement when you came across an album you owned. So catching the bus home rather than taking a lift from Hutch [a wonderful Science teacher – a roll up in one hand driver – I once drove the wrong way up Electric Avenue with Hutch – but that as they say is another story] meant I could record shop in the centre of town. Again free from responsibility – not rushing home not wanting to stay out – it was a simple as that – I had time. Time has changed now – in a good way – but time has now changed. And of course Emma worked in the city – so I would meet her.

I would alight from the L3 [I think] at Broadmarsh bus depot and shopping complex – Alders, H&M, a Bookworks and all of that. HMV was just outside – opposite the ‘jacket spuds’ stand. A quick glance – a shake through the vinyl racks and then up to Virgin Records on the corner of Slab Square – that beautiful centre to a Midlands city. Civic and open – a genuine welcome for / from the people of Notts. In the city there’s a lot of things I want to say you. More rack raking – a possible purchase of a reduced CD and then up to Selectadisc – the big one – I would do the small one on the way down for some reason and Rob’s if he was open.

Selectadisc has closed now.

Sometimes cities lose the things they most need. I remember turning up to the first listen of Hello Nasty by the Beastie Boys at a Selectadisc – a 6 o’clock airing with bottled beers and bass – I was wearing a suit from work but you could do that in there – no one really judged you – the staff where there to help – source and recommend. Not like the staff at the selectadisc on Berwick Street – the one on the What’s the story cover – a great deal of the staff in there were twats. London/ Nottingham thing duck.

That Selectadisc is also closed.

The staff played records. They sold them and they played them.

Downstairs general / new releases – CDs that sort of thing – upstairs vinyl. A race up the staircase. The change of sound systems from the push of independent alternative strains to repetitive beats and twisted grooves – upstairs was the hipper cooler older brother – downstairs was rockin it – but upstairs knew that little bit more. And so to the racks – I would start with the latest hip hop releases – move into the new releases – possible over to the sales rack – back into the psychedelic or reggae area – maybe the sixties or just stand and listen to what was playing.

So I grabbed a handful of vinyl and had a look. Because that’s what vinyl obsessives do. Not that I am one now – the fatherhood thing means you spend real time doing real things. Although today – I just found myself moaning. But there you go – no said it was going to be easy. Once I had grabbed the 12 inches – I was hoping that Loop by LFO would be in there. First heard on an epic Weatherall Essential Mix – a bleeping builder – with repetitive beats – 303s sounding out the sounds of the underground – all K-holes and trance like states. I’ve been looking for it for a while – trying to track it down on the ‘net’ – but I can only find the LFO vs FUSE version. That is not the one I want. Funnily enough it was right in the pile – tucked into the Orbital Mutations record. And I was taken back to Nottingham – that moment of discovery as the hand flicked through the covers – or in the case of the second hand shops – the actual records. Also if you liked the look of a record – or recognised a producer etc they let you have a listen. Like Danny did in Record Village.

I haven’t mention Rob’s Records. It deserves a little more than a few sentences. But suffice to say I think it’s still open – and that’s got to count for something. I once sent Emma into Rob’s – in her lunch break – I wanted a copy of Shirley Ellis’ The Clapping Song – he had several copies – some more scratched than others – it cost three quid. A guaranteed floor filler. That ride cymbal introduction – into the rhyme as the r’n’b funk begins to bring the whole thing together – and the horns get hornier and by the end we’re all clapping and back patting and slap slapping. It’s finds like this that exist in record shops. Real record shops. My copy of that single smells a little – like it’s been hanging around a while.

But now it is found. I can clap my hands for that.

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.

We are not hippies: Kill all hippies

So Friday and Saturday came and went. The heavy excess of the Primal beat recapturing, remodelling and representing those ‘delia’ moments.

I was not there. I tend not to be there much these days. Echo and the Bunnymen, The Primitives, Teenage Fanclub, Pixies, The Zombies – the list goes on and on la did da dee da.

And now I wish I had been there.

There’s something sad in recreating the past – about nostalgia for the now. But there’s also something in the Scream Team that is very hard to capture without feeling that you want to be part of it. And in a way I had been – those teenagers moments spent with Innes, Gillespie and Young. Those hours in the company of older, wiser, rocking and rolling men with their rammalamalamma ways and musical prowess that far outshone my own.

I own half my record collection from Innes little chats – little recommendations – the passing on of pop knowledge. I think to some extent that sits with me today. I want to stop caring about the sounds [of the underground] but I just keep thinking about The Pastels or Euros Childs or Weatherall and then that bounces me off down a new avenue – a new way of experiencing sounds and I’m hooked again. I want to write again.

Sometimes I need to write a list of those tunes, moments , experiences and highs down for my children to read, hear and groove to. Because sometimes I am far too harsh with them – my moaning, my wanting a quiet moment – sometimes I need to remember they are the kids – and once I wanted record companies to do it for the kids. The kids are revolting and that’s a fact – and I want my kids to be revolting – always.

So let’s get back to the scream – this pure independent rock n roll band. We had travelled south and still playing our brand of 4AD/ Blast First and Creation rock had bored audiences to tears as they waited for the glamour and soul of that old rock n roll from the glasgae boys. And boy did they get it – dripping in that MC5 swagger and open spirit [mainly vodka] the scream were able to command an audience’s respect – as we punched the air to their she[er] power. And rolling to our final destination and final ‘gig’ of our respective mini tour – friendships had cemented and minds had been expanded. Loaded was being recorded and before you know it – the scream where rocking the clubs [the dance ones not the working men’s] and those heady screamadelic months would follow.

It was ‘Come Together’ that did for me – the Terry Farley mix – white label in a shop on Loampit Vale in Lewisham – obviously not there now – but you could buy records then in small shops – actually you could buy records in Lewisham shopping centre – not a shop just a stall in the shopping centre – I remember Lee [another old friend lost to the mercies of not talking] buying Chime there – before Orbital signed to FRRR.

I think the reason Come Together resonates is that it is still a scream record – one that has the essence of the past merged firmly with the future. That jangle riddled with soul and swagger – real dance music – or as i said in an early post – I just call it music. That trumpet blast – and a call to come together [because we know when we come together we have power] Gillespie provides that languid feeling – that hope that together we can not only party – we can change things. I’m not one for hands aloft moments in rock n roll – i don’t like stadium filling shit – but at the Marcus Garvey Centre in Nottingham in 1990 – we all just came together – holding hands – it was beautiful [really beautiful] – mind you were already feeling europhic. I think Ian [former band member and genuine top rogue] had already secreted himself in a bass bin as Dr Alex had supplied the dub madness. But in that one moment of pure ecstasy we came together – en masse – to music I know but it was a moment filled with possibility as the guitar descends and Gillespie asks – ‘kiss me – won’t you, won’t you kiss me?’ Come Together is an honest and open call to arms – something the Scream have always dealt in. We are not here for the hippies.

And the night turned wilder and weirder, Douglas Hart with his video camera – I often wonder what happened to all that footage – it never made the Screamadelica tape that’s for sure, Nightingale ‘organising’ proceedings and the music just flowing. Somehow we made it to Claire’s house.

Because when we come together – we have power – we are unified – we are together.

For some reason I can't find an audio copy of the Terry Farley mix - Sony have locked down the video onthe Screan channel. So here is the original speech which Weatherall lifted for the epic dub version.