ISSUE 17
JULY 2006
�What is the good of being a genius if you cannot use it as an excuse for being unemployed?� - Gerald Barzan
For all those sick to death of the world cup and its� moronic, zombie flag-worshippers, this issue is by Mark Ritchie (hobbies - drinking, ignoring advice), Andrew Willshaw (Northern rock), Gary Simmons (friend of the Kray Twins) and Tom Quinn (the Queen of Alton Towers). If you�re a robot from outer space, you can also read �HY!� online at www.geocities.com/sniperglue
NIGHTS AT THE ROUND TABLE
We�re all friends here
though, deep down, we know we�re probably not even that.
More like shipwreck survivors,
turning to one another for comfort
because there�s nowhere else to turn.
Our meaningless conversation going nowhere.
This boring pleasure of drink and talk.
The strange stillness in our silences
as we look around the room at all this life going on �
the muted television,
the other people drinking, talking and laughing.
Everything and nothing exists
in this limbo between life and death,
this pit-stop on the road to� where?
The questions we don�t ask and the words we don�t say
are often as important as the ones we do.
Hours, days, lifetimes are passed this way,
as the evening slowly dissolves into another grey dawn,
bringing with it as many disappointments
as the last.
No memorials will stand in our honour
but we will live on in smaller, braver ways;
in the peeling paint and the fading newsprint,
in the faces etched with solitude and regret,
in the long, cold ring of the �last orders� bell,
in the loneliness hanging in the air.
TIMES LIKE THESE
At times like these, I begin to think they were right all along.
All those people who told me about the shining beauty of marriage and companionship.
They aren�t sitting in the dark corner of a basement bar drinking cheap cider.
They aren�t worrying themselves sick over half-forgotten friendships torn apart by drug and alcohol abuse.
No � they aren�t thinking about any of that.
They are planning their postcard-perfect summer holidays and their cosy Christmas-card winters,
huddled around warm fires of certainty.
School, college, job, death.
No tiresome distractions in between.
Music from Asda, opinions from the Daily Mail.
That�s what I wish I had, at times like these.
These desperate, dying times when the flame of the candle doesn�t even burn bright enough
to warm a single thought.
RED DEATH
Creeping up the wall is
a shadow, a contradiction �
a moment trapped in a
nightmare of blood and rain.
Jesus loves you
but addiction feels warmer.
The sky has forgotten
its� purpose
and the trees don�t remember
how to dream.
Questions go unanswered and
answers remain unquestioned.
How much slaughter does it take
to fill the belly of a whale?
The bearded man smiles,
raises his glass in a toast.
Taunting the world,
daring it to bring on the peace
of eternal sleep.
He smiles, but something
in his eyes betrays him.
He is waiting for a flood,
waiting for a downpour.
Waiting for the great
red death.
STROKE by Tom Quinn
I can hear the question but i cannot reply
I am locked inside myself
I can feel the needle pierce my skin but i cannot respond to its sharp steel point
I am aware of the blood entering and exiting my heart but i cannot stop it beating
I am alone inside a busy room willing myself to blink
I cannot
I cannot write this down you are implicated in my thoughts
I feel synapses implode and explode randomly as the vessels burst in my brain
I control nothing not even tears
I am being nourished by a tube directed to my stomach
I have no taste
I can smell roses and faeces
I can smell my disintegration
I want to evacuate from my memories
I am pulsing
I am in spasmodic torture
My eyes are dry
UNTITLED by Tom Quinn
They steal the sun with
faces to the sky,
swallowing love and light.
They burn skin, stay thin
and put silent knives in.
Like scorched wheat they
cannot yield.
A RESPONSE TO A MOMENT by Tom Quinn
Tears amount to nothing for the ocean.
Breathing skin is forever silenced by the earth.
Old paintings are just old paintings
Artists are ghosts in the ether as ash is ash.
Some of us collect memories in little books.
Some of us are just hooked.
Screaming in solitude for a response, any response.
At times we feel vast, expansive, exhausted by our own existance.
At times we know too well how it truly is.
Shadows dancing in our happiness,
Always finding darkness within the light,
Clocks on walls that are burning,
Blighted worlds turning
Skies watching the yearning, within the cold pages of our little books.
CDS
STUART A STAPLES � LEAVING SONGS (BEGGARS BANQUET)
Tindersticks were one of those bands you just assumed would be around forever. Instead, they have seemingly vanished into the ether because this is the second solo offering from their lachrymose singer Stuart Staples (I don�t know where the �A� came from or what it stands for or how it affects the world-at-large). To be honest, though, this may as well BE a Tindersticks record, because all the same elements are here � the epic opener, the lovely duets with female singers, the sweeping string sections and Terry Edward�s trumpet. However, the addition of lap steel guitar is a nice surprise and it adds a certain weepy gravitas to a couple of songs. �Goodbye to Old Friends� (that epic opener) is quite stunning and has been on �repeat� here for days, while the duets (sung with Maria McKee and Lhasa de Sela) both rank alongside previous �Sticks stunners like �Travelling Light� and �A Marriage Made in Heaven�. Stuart�s voice still conjures up images of rainy late-night streets and sorrowful goodbyes. He could sing �Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep� and make it sound like a mournful hymn of painful regret. But, beyond the surface, there�s actually a lot of hope and hard-won joy in these songs and this is a really fine album to file alongside all those Tindersticks classics from yesteryear.
MORRISSEY � THE YOUNGEST WAS THE MOST LOVED (ATTACK)
On the cover of his last single, Morrissey was splayed out across a train track, waiting for death. On this one, he�s clutching a bottle of beer, like he�s about to embark on a suicidal drink and drugs bender. While dressed as a member of the National Opera. Or something. This is an excellent choice for a single featuring, as it does, a children�s choir singing the radio-friendly chorus �There is no such thing in life as normal�. The extra tracks take a bit of getting used to but are actually rather good. �If You Don�t Like Me, Don�t Look At Me� has a breezy acoustic guitar intro and lyrics about a young man running �through the glen�. Hmm. WHAT does it all mean and does anybody REALLY care? It�s so hum-along-able that even Morrissey himself can�t resist (but that�s just probably �cos he couldn�t think up enough words). In �Ganglord�, there is lyrical cop-swiping (�Remember, the police can always be bribed�) and gangster glorifying (YET AGAIN! I bet �The Sopranos� is NEVER off the DVD player round at Moz�s place). Musically, it tries to sound a bit like �How Soon is Now?� but fails, of course. Actually, it sounds more like that Oasis song where they attempt an Eastern/mystical/George Harrison feel but it STILL manages to be good DESPITE that! �A Song from Under the Floorboards� is a rather pointless cover of an ancient Magazine song. Not that it�s BAD or anything, it just makes you wonder why he�s BOTHERING. It�s not exactly gonna send Howard Devoto�s entire back-catalogue rocketing to the top of the charts, is it? It�s a shame the �enhanced CD� didn�t work when I put it in one of my three (!) crappy PCs, either, as I�d have loved to give you all a critical appraisal of the video, but it�s probably just a mimed studio clip which cost about thruppence to make. As USUAL! Why does technology HATE me so?!
NEIL YOUNG � LIVING WITH WAR (REPRISE)
Thanks to the kind reader who sent me a CDR of this, thus saving me a tenner (which goes a long way in all the cheapo pubs that are springing up on Sauchiehall Street, believe me!) Neil may be not-so-Young anymore, and close to collecting his bus pass, but he�s still, y�know, ANGRY and stuff. About Bush, about the war in Iraq, about the ever-rising price of pork chops (probably). And he�s made an album to, like, PROVE just HOW angry he is, right? Recorded in about four minutes and sounding sloppy and rocky like he did on those well-loved Crazy Horse records from days of yore, the majority of this album could have been recorded at any time during Young�s eclectic career. It�s message is simple � like Boy George said, �War is stupid and people are stupid�. And Bush is a cunt. It�s the storm after the calm of Young�s previous release, �Prairie Wind� (see issue 8 for a review of THAT), and contains great songs throughout. There are rousing lump-in-the-throaters like �Families�, �Flags of Freedom�, �Roger and Out� and the title track, as well as the self-explanatory �Let�s Impeach the President� (which is like a Michael Moore film set to music). It ends with a rather strange and hysterical choir-like acapella rendition of �America the Beautiful�, which I suspect may just be there to quash any claims that this is somehow an anti-American album (Young has ZILLIONS of dumb redneck fans, remember). But doesn�t anyone remember that Neil Young is CANADIAN?! And doesn�t anyone realise that you can love your country without being a blinkered, jingoistic, war-mongering FOOL?!
STRAP THE BUTTON � WHAT KIND OF RAT-BASTARD PSYCHOTIC WOULD PLAY THAT SONG RIGHT NOW AT THIS MOMENT? / GOING TO JIB CHOONS (CHOONS FOR GOING TO JIB TO LIKE INNIT) (GOOD NAME FOR A RACEHORSE) www.strapthebutton.tk / www.myspace.com/strapthebutton
I REALLY wasn�t looking forward to playing CDs with SUCH wacky titles, but Strap The Button (an �experimentally minded instrumental six-piece� hailing from Wales) were a pleasant surprise to my cynical tendencies. The first CD starts with a good five minutes of what sounds like radio interference and far-off swooshings which slowly stray into plodding Pink Floyd-esque territory. Then the second track regales us with some nifty �pots and pans� style percussion and some bloke singing indecipherable stuff over the top (and getting a bit TOO excited into the bargain.. but he could be reading out his shopping list for all I know. And I thought this lot were an INSTRUMENTAL band?!) Track three (the rather marvelously titled �The Fully Grown Giant Otter Cannot Be Killed�) dips its� toes into the creepy nether regions of the universe, with guitars twinkling like far-off stars and oddly noised keyboards providing tiny slivers of light before exploding into a semi-psychedelic freak-out. �Mwynder� (I�m assuming that�s Welsh) reintroduces us to the radio interference and static hum and then mutates into something strange and floaty and ambient (with �2001� samples) before the obligatory psych-freak-out rears its� head once more. The final track leaves us adrift in seas of reverb and wah-wah and panting breathlessly for the second stupidly-named CD to be played. This is more of the same, but a lot longer (16 tracks with titles like �British Sci-fi Revelation� and �243 Seconds of Elvis Followed by a Scream�) and is like a Fish-less Marillion, a Gabriel-less Genesis (and I DON�T mean their later, shite stuff) and, yes, Pink-fucking-Floyd, maaan (with the occasional foray into noisy dissonance thrown in for good measure). I like Strap The Button. They would probably sound amazing if listened to while on drugs, in a tent, in the middle of nowhere, with some incense burning and a sexy �chick� floating about in a kaftan.
THE CERAMIC HOBS � FISHBREAD MIRACLE (MAN HAVE WANK) www.myspace.com/philreadsbooks
Summer 1986 � The Smiths release �The Queen is Dead�, I buy it in Woolie�s in Lanark and �The� Ceramic Hobs begin recording �Fishbread Miracle�. Time hasn�t been kind to any of us � it�s The Smiths who are dead, NOT the Queen, I�m an unemployed alkie loser and Ceramics Hobs are all �mad�. I may be wrong but I suspect that the Hobs were on some really good acid when they recorded these 22 tracks. Just take a look at those silly, Butthole Surfers-esque, track titles - �I Am God-Faced Verger Egg�, �Toast from the Piggy-Bank�, etc. Ker-RA-zee! This is an improvement on their 1985 release �Summer Hob Days� (reviewed in issue 13). It�s odd and disjointed, a bit like naughty children messing about with Captain Beefhearts� gear. Guitars noodle, vocals echo, everything�s cloaked in effects. It�s a twisted take on the kind of things most musically-minded folk do in their teen bedroom recordings, but there�s a surprisingly intelligent and somewhat disturbing undercurrent to Simon Morris� lyrical musings. For instance, a song entitled �Bob Holness Must Die� (which initially seems like a silly throwaway) has a serious theme and lines like �consumerism relies on the denial of death� and �in 100 years or so everyone in this room will be dead and rotting in a coffin�. �Where the Old Man Was Killed�, also, has a foreboding feel to it, with references to self-mutilation (before it was �cool� and proved you were �4 REAL�), the royal wedding and postal strikes. �A Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever� is the closest thing to a pretty tune here. It�s a three-chord wonder that sounds a bit like Half Man Half Biscuit covering The Velvet Underground with lyrics critiquing various TV adverts of the time (bringing back fond memories to sad cunts like me). The final three tracks are all called �Meat is Tebbit� (1, 2 and 3) and what can be said about THEM, except that they are very annoying/amusing indeed (depending on the intensity of your hangover)? Like a lo-fi Napalm Death tribute act. I felt slightly weird after listening to this CD. Like I needed a good wash. Some songs go on a bit, though, and the whole thing outstays its� welcome a little, but it�s still interesting to hear what other people were doing in �86 while I was shut inside my room listening to �I Know It�s Over�.
EVERCLEAR � WONDERFUL (EMI) / SEBADOH � BAKESALE (SUB POP)
Woke at 7.40am and ate a made-yesterday cheese sandwich. Watched 'Big Brother' and wrapped up Andrew's birthday gifties. There was a spot of what looked like blood on the bathroom wall.. Went out to Byres Road and got lots of 2-for-1 rice and pasta from Iceland and a few other things in Somerfield, including a reduced-to-70p pizza which I had for breakfast with a coffee. Read my TV mag. Saw Stuart out of Belle & Sebastian getting into a taxi that pulled up outside the flat. It�s alright for SOME! Walked into town in the rain. Andrew rang for about half an hour, on his lunch break. I walked past Dave's old halls 'cos there was a fire there last week but they didn't look damaged or anything. No one lives there anymore and they're doing the place up. Got a couple of CDs for 50p in a charity shop (the Everclear one is good - off an album I don�t have - and the Sebadoh one is something I've had on tape for years. 'Rebound' is a fucking brilliant song). I ducked into the Brunswick at about 2pm for a pint. Got a text off Gary saying Maggie's landlord found out he was living there illegally and he was going back to his parents place. Good job he's only very recently made up with them. Hung about in Waterstones for a while then bought a reduced-to-95p onion bhaji sandwich from Sainsburys (which was as disgusting as it sounds). Had a pint in RGs. The mindless herd was watching the football. Killed some time with a Bukowski book in Borders and then went to the Horseshoe for a couple. The football was nearly finished when I went in, thankfully. Then I had a cider in Failt�, served by the miserable bitch. The long-haired guy with the grey beard who drinks Guinness had had a drastic haircut. He looked really different. Even though it was still raining, I decided to walk back and hit a couple more cheap pubs. Ended up in the Brunswick again. The night bar staff were on by then and a band were setting up to play later. Went to Nico�s for a cider and yet another fucking football game was on. En-ger-land Vs Sweden this time. Yuk. The battery on my phone died after the usual zillion texts from Tom and wouldn't recharge when I got home (at 8.40pm) which really pissed me off. Realised that I've come to rely on my phone so much (and I used to HATE mobiles and the twats who used them!) I drank some of the 6 cans of McEwan's I'd bought, watched shit telly ('Big Brother', of course) and some of my Townes and Son Volt DVDs, but forgot about 'Big Mouth', so fell asleep without watching or taping it. Shame.
CASSETTES
2 GUYS WALKING DOWN THE STREET WITH 2 SHOVELS AND A RAKE � OUR IDEA IS BETTER THAN YOUR THESIS (PASTE ROOM)
1226 Burlington Road, Pine Bush, NY 12566, USA / [email protected]
I�m glad that people are still doing cassette labels in this digital age. I really admire anyone who�s continuing to fight that particular fight. Despite that, it�s a struggle to find anything good to say about this tape. According to the sloppily scrawled sleeve, �this is a great recording of the best noise band ever�. Well, if this is the BEST, I�d hate to hear the WORST. This is AWFUL. It sounds exactly like 15 minutes of someone doing the dishes. Actually, come to think of it, it sounds like it LITERALLY IS two guys walking down the street with two shovels and a rake! Ho ho! What a concept! These wacky twats probably REALLY DID hand this in as their thesis. I bet their Bush-voting parents are SO fucking PROUD the college fund was spent so wisely! Cunts like this should be lined-up in front of a firing squad the MINUTE they even THINK of such �ideas�. Luckily, it�s a limited edition of only 30, so if everyone tapes over their copy (which I certainly did � with SILENCE) the world will be free of this dull rubbish forever. Good luck in your future jobs working for daddy�s company, you CUNTS!
MY TV HURTS � CLICH� CASSETTE (PASTE ROOM)
Another hand-written sleeved cassette from Paste Room, but this time it sounds as if some THOUGHT has actually gone into the recorded contents (and the �manifesto� that came with the tape). I suppose this is �noise�, which I know next to NOTHING about, but this sounds somewhat like Duane Eddy duelling with the Clangers and two guys (perhaps the same �two guys� from the above cassette) reading bits out of magazines and making shit up to amuse themselves. The spoken word segments are quite funny in part but the rest of it gets pretty boring after a while. What do I know, though? This could be really shit hot �noise� but I seriously doubt it somehow.
BOOK
RICHARD YATES � REVOLUTIONARY ROAD (METHUEN)
Had to read this after enjoying Blake Bailey�s biography of the late, great Richard Yates so much (see issue 15 for review). This is his �classic� first novel about, as one character puts it, �the hopeless emptiness of American life�. Set in the 1950s, it concerns the suburban lives of Frank and April Wheeler, their nice little house on Revolutionary Road and their two nice kids. But, beneath the seemingly perfect exterior, there�s a whole heap of fucked-up shit going on. Botched abortions, mental illness, extra-marital affairs and dissatisfaction with day-to-day life in general. It�s a beautifully written examination of the human condition and is every bit as relevant today as when Yates wrote it. His characters are searching for something more than the dull ordinariness of their surroundings, but all they really find is booze, unhappiness and death. Not a laugh-a-minute then, but a truly brilliant book.
DVD
TOWNES VAN ZANDT � BE HERE TO LOVE ME (PALM)
�The Late Great Townes Van Zandt� was the name of an album released in 1973, although the man himself didn�t actually die until 1997, at the age of 52 (on new years day - the same day his hero Hank Williams also passed away). According to this fine documentary portrait, Townes never really felt like he was long for this world. The film is littered with tales of his suicidal urges (throwing himself out of a four-storey window �to see what it felt like�, playing Russian roulette, etc) which seemed to lend his life (plagued, as it was, by depression, drug addiction and alcoholism) a certain urgency. Friends like Guy Clark, Steve Earle and Emmylou Harris make up some of the talking heads here, but it�s Townes� kids who provide many of the most moving moments (when his teenage son talks about how he can�t get to sleep without listening to his dads� music, it�s really rather poignant). Thank fuck that cunt Bono doesn�t pop up, as he usually does in these kind of documentaries. (There�s no escape though, as his smug face appears on one of the �extras� � a trailer for an upcoming release from Palm Pictures. Aaaarrrgghhh! Why doesn�t he just GO AWAY with his stupid fucking sunglasses?!) It�s also great to see so much vintage footage of Townes playing and chatting. So, we get to see a sitting-in-the-kitchen rendition of �Waitin� Around to Die� which moves an old man onlooker to tears, as well as many other fantastic clips. The �extras� are also illuminating including, as they do, versions of several Townes songs performed by his son J.T, the completely bonkers Devandra Barnhart and, of course, the (sadly) late and (definitely) great Townes Van Zandt himself.
GIGS
LIGHTNING BOLT � BLACKFRIARS CENTRE, NEWCASTLE, 16TH MAY 2006 By Andrew Willshaw
Intrepid. Daring. I take back some clothes Anne bought weeks ago. �I bought these for my wife in Middlesbrough. I was wondering if I could bring them back.� I am not a transvestite. She refunds me. I ring Mark. He�s been trying to buy Bob Mould tickets, unsuccessfully. The afternoon passes by unremarkable. I don�t know what tonight will be like. I haven�t been to a gig in ages. I am starting to look forward to it, even though I�m fucking shattered.
Then it all goes wrong. There is no ticket. No promise that there�ll be one if I go. Anne says �don�t go�. Says I�m �more hyper, more wide awake than normal�, and why can�t I be just as hyper when I get home to a night in with her? I say �Stop being so sensitive�. I pour wine down my throat, pissed off. Sick of her sensitivity. Sick of her making me feel like shit. How much love have I given to her? How can she question my commitment? I don�t know what she thinks. My mind has been erratic this week, moving from one extreme to another. First I am �looking forward-to death�. A chance to explore Hades, below the World Tree. An experience; a wild and crazy scene. The one place that might hold all the answers I need. Answers to questions I am too scared to ask aloud. Second, I shed all desires, unclean thoughts, Magical incantations shouted out during grubby masturbation scenes over the toilet, seat down. �Hag soup! Feta bog!� I don�t even know what these things mean anymore. But that�s the point, isn�t it, I suppose. He washes his cock and his hands. He feels nothing. Neither good nor bad. All his art is an extension of his black magick wanking. One long jack off without end. One that he tries to apply meaning to, however lamely.
It has to stop! No good will come of this! His dreams have told him this, so he turns to God, the Upanishads. Begins to draw visual mantras. Arms. Hands repeated over and over again. Dispell the desires. The never ending dreams that lead only to destruction� don�t they? What a fucking shitty piece. What a fucking shitty writer. Useless. I could die. Is there nothing substantial on the horizon for me? My manic behaviour is getting worse. I cannot confide in you. You take everything so fucking personally. You look at me like you�re pissed off I didn�t go out. I try to pretend I�m not disappointed so you�re not fucked off with me. I drink some wine, make you cocoa. We go to bed at 11. You fall asleep. They�re taking cocaine in �The Fortress of Solitude�. I want to go back downstairs and finish the wine. Want to turn up at work with a hangover. Want to show Aly that I drowned my �sorrows�. I like going to work with a hangover. It makes it more hazy and bearable. Less important. I feel less arsed with a hangover� and who seriously gives a fuck about work? No one �makes a difference�. My laziness precedes me. They all know. None of them come to me for advice. Some of the students even call me names, when they�re not ignoring me. This will only get worse as I get older/more out of touch. Feel less than nothing. The black bag, the rubbish I use to symbolise God. This piece is so shit. I lie in bed, while Anne snores, wondering if Lightning Bolt set up in the middle of the floor instead of on the stage. Wonder how many poncey fucking Guardian readers were there? Wondering where to go�
MISS ATLANTA � BAR BLOC, GLASGOW, 29TH MAY 2006
Woke just before 9. Watched 'The Wright Stuff', made noodles and toast, bathed and went next door to say bye. Then I ate leftover madras and got the 12.50 bus to Lanark. This woman who used to work with my mum was making a scene and getting stroppy with the driver 'cos he was late (actually he WASN�T, considering it was a Sunday service, which the silly bitch didn�t even KNOW). Oh dear. I got the train to Glasgow, reading all the way. It was actually a nice day, which was weird considering it was a bank holiday. Looked in a couple of shops but the crowds were too much for my sensitive soul so I went and had a pint upstairs in the Goose, basking in the sunlight. Then I had a look at some book on the Pixies in Borders before going to the Horseshoe. James came in and we had a few lagers (though I also had a whiskey and Coke just before we left). Bizarrely, after we�d been there a while, Joe's parents came in for a post-shopping drink, so we chatted (a bit awkwardly, I thought, since I'm never sure what I'm 'allowed' to
say to them about Joe and Cat). I decided to hang about to go and see Andy M's band (he'd sent
me a text about it), so I went to both Virgin and Waterstones (to hang out a bit), only they shut earlier now, so I HAD to go to the Brunswick for a pint instead! Sat at the bar and the quiz started, so I had fun answering the first round of questions (in my head, at least. I wasn�t playing!) Then I was feeling a bit bagged up, so went to sit in Blythswood square for a while. Didn�t see any hookers, just a canoodling couple (unless SHE was a hooker! Don�t think so, though). Went to Bar Bloc at 9, had a pint of cider and saw Andy (who said his band weren't on till 10.30), so I fucked-off to the Local for a lager. Went back to the Place of Rock after that. (Please note: �professional� review now follows..) Bar Bloc�s clientele on this Bank Holiday Monday evening was a truly bizarre mixture of off-duty secretaries, resplendent in their Primark finery, and impossibly young indie-kids, squeezed into the tightest jeans imaginable. Miss Atlanta rocked this motley bunch to within an inch of their sorry, sad lives. Dressed all in black, like the newest, eagerest Hitler Youth recruits (with the singer sporting a rather nifty white belt and the bassist dressed to kill in spastic chic), their primeval rock/electro made me feel like I�d been transported, TARDIS-style, to some far-off planet where, within a whirling maelstrom of intensity, certain truths are revealed. I sat with my pint of cider at the bar and observed the herd, who were either spellbound or disinterested, depending on their clobber (the Primark crowd were probably chatting about who they�d like to shag on �Big Brother� and the skinny indie girls and boys were wide-eyed and worshipful). It�s a funny old game, this rock �n� roll lark, innit?! (Normal, UN-professional mode will now be resumed. Thank you for your patience..) Chatted briefly to Andy afterwards then walked back to Great Western Road and got a pizza from Barbeque Kings, speaking to the guy who usually serves me about all the murders that happened over the weekend. He said his cousin or mate or someone got slashed and needed 30 stitches. I was home at 12.15-ish and ate most of the pizza. It was very good pizza.
999 / DEVILISH PRESLEY � UNDERWORLD, LONDON, 11TH JUNE 2006 By Gary Simmons
We drank our cider on the bus to Scamden then our plans got scuppered coz the big Sainsbury�s there was shut so no more cheap cider. I hid my knife in the car park� it�s still there coz I was pissed and forgot it! The Devonshire Arms was open and looked inviting. TOO inviting� coz we went in and I got us a snakebite and black each. �6!! It was wonderful to be back so I went to the cashpoint, withdrew �20 and got two MORE snakebites. I had another one before that, actually. �15, GONE like that! Had a chat with a couple of people we know from our pasts (Gossips and Rubbery). Learned that the girl I worked for in the Rubbery, her partner committed suicide� it was �on the cards�, apparently. Then we met Arthur in the World�s End. Had a chat. Was strange to know him from that gig in Madrid� I feel in my mind that he belongs THERE! He came with M and me to the box office and got us in on the guest list� �17 saved, so it kinda paid for the �15 booze (plus the �1.39 Sainsbury�s cider). Arthur is CHARMING! One guy I know from a previous Devilish Presley gig gave me ONE of his spare tickets outside, so I had more than I needed� this was just in case Arthur didn�t show or couldn�t get us in. Can�t remember the name of the first band. They were OK. DP were good but I can�t help thinking all their old songs are the best. Classics! The new stuff seems like a half-inspired parody of themselves. 999 were funny! As we�ve said, it�s pub rock but M and I had a fuckin� BRILLIANT time, so what�s the problem with THAT? No problem AT ALL!! At the end of the gig I found a left pint so I had THAT, plus some OTHER left booze. A bottle or so. Tee-hee. Ended up getting the 134 to the dreaded Tally-Ho with Andy and Cat. They showed us their squat which, incredibly, is about a minutes walk from OUR dump! Had a boozy shit when we got back� it was long, soft and snake-like and had a reddy colour to it� from the snakebites and blacks! Lovely. Crashed into bed and woke at 6am feeling fuckin� awful but strangely happy and content. Not just coz of the brilliant time, but also coz there is now some hope that we can get the hell out of here and into a place of our own instead of me living like a stowaway! I feel bad about all the evil things I said about my parents. I had visions of my stuff being smashed up and thrown out. Well, how would ANYONE feel if they thought THAT?
BOB MOULD � LIQUID ROOM, EDINBURGH, 24TH JUNE 2006
Had about ten minutes or so to wait for the train at West Calder but it was sunny and nice and I�d taken an antihistamine so I wasn�t troubled with hay fever. The guard stopped collecting tickets JUST as he was about to get to me, so I got off at Haymarket station �cos I thought there would be no ticket barriers there. There WAS, but I only paid �1.60 (which was for one stop, so I saved a LOT). Could have made a bolt for it while the guy was taking other people�s tickets but I�m not THAT dodgy! He asked if I wanted a receipt but I said �No thanks, mate� and he just let me through the barrier and probably pocketed the cash. Good LUCK to him! Went and found where the Liquid Room is. Edinburgh is so confusing, with loads of twisty turny streets and steps and shit but my cousin�s directions were good (and I didn�t even write them down). She used pubs as landmarks �cos she KNOWS what I�m like! Went into Deacon Brodie�s Tavern for a �2.29 pint of lager. The place wasn�t too busy but filled up with men in kilts soon enough (going to a wedding, I assumed). After that, I went second-hand CD browsing in Avalanche (oddly, I saw CDs by Sugar and Nova Mob!) and Vinyl Villains. My fave chip shop, the Bronx, has shut down, so I went looking for food elsewhere. Went into the Standing Order for a pee. It was PACKED with twats watching the world cup. Eventually found a chippie on Nicholson Street and ate my chips (with brown sauce, natch) sitting on the grass in Nicholson Square. Then I had a �2.60 pint in Scotman�s Lounge on Cockburn Street (a very �alternative� street but the pub was quite traditional, really). They were playing Dean Martin when I walked in and, later on, Elvis! Then I had a �2.45 lager in Greyfriars Bobby�s Bar, which was large and spacious enough for me to scribble some thoughts down without feeling self-conscious. Then I went to a pub called Doctors (what a GREAT name for a pub!) Got a �2.40 pint of cider from the friendly barmaid and enjoyed the atmosphere. They played some Belle and Sebastian to make me feel at home. And I DID! Then I went to an Irish place a couple of doors down from the Liquid Room. It was called Finnegan�s Wake, like the place in Glasgow now re-named Failt�. Looking at the d�cor, I realised it must be a chain pub because it looks EXACTLY the same! It was pretty quiet in there and I had a �2.60 cider and then went to the venue at around 7.30. Quite amazingly, Dave and Eck were just coming OUT! They said it was totally empty so we went BACK to the Irish place for another drink (the guy on the door said �back again?� to me as we walked in). Turns out I�d accidentally rang Dave earlier in the day and he got two minutes of ambient pub noises! Must start �locking� my phone. I refused Eck�s offer of a drink as he was good enough to say he�d give me a lift home. He was admiring the barman�s dreadlocks, as he used to have them himself. They sound very high-maintenance! The football was starting and the place was filling up, so we went into the Liquid Room (I wasn�t searched, even with a bag) and I disappeared into the toilet to get my mini-disc ready to record the show. The support guy (a Yank with an acoustic guitar and one of those pedals where you play something and it repeats it on a loop) did a cover of John Martyn�s �I Don�t Want to Know� which earned him brownie points in MY book, at least. Bought two �3 ciders and moved nearer the front when Bob came on. The bootleg missed his opening comments about how he might stick around for the techno club after the show, as I was messing about with my mini-disc, trying to get it to start recording. It was a great set. Similar songs to when I last saw him in Glasgow (see issue 12). He appeared to be wearing the same T-shirt too! There was a bald guy right down the front who looked in heaven, singing along to songs. He looked especially ecstatic during �See a Little Light� which gave me that goose-bumps feeling again and put a big smile on my face. For all people talk about Bob�s songs being depressing, they never fail to leave me feeling brilliant. He did a couple of encores (he had to finish by ten due to the club starting) � �If I Can�t Change Your Mind� and �Makes No Sense At All� which the crowd chanted along to. A great gig, a fantastic day. We went and found Eck�s car, parked in the Grassmarket and he said he had �a surprise� for us � a can of Guinness each! Me and Dave drank those on the drive back, as Dave drunkenly called out to people on the street and showed me the video he�d taken of Bob doing �I Apologize�. We listened to a CD of one of his recent band practices and drove the 25 miles or so to Forth, where they dropped me off at my mum�s place around 11.15. Dave came in to use the toilet. I went upstairs to see my mum then had some cheese on toast and went to bed, listening to my recording of the gig. It�s listenable but the volume was up too high so it distorts a lot. Still, it will live on in the memory as another great Bob Mould gig.
THE ANGEL OF TIMES SQUARE
Her name was Beth. At least, that�s what she told me. Turns out that wasn�t her real name, of course, but I didn�t know that then. She came into the pub one Thursday night and sat on Jack�s stool, at the end of the bar. Well, Jack�s a miserable old bugger, so I had a quick word with her, told her to sit somewhere else. She got a bit stroppy at first but she calmed down when I offered to buy her a drink.
She said she was a nurse, just finished her shift. But she didn�t have her uniform on or anything. I�d never seen her in there before, so I asked if she was local. Turns out she�d not long moved to the area. Used to live in the Midlands or somewhere but you couldn�t really tell. I mean, she didn�t have an accent to speak of. She told me she was waiting for her boyfriend but, to be honest, I wondered if she was maybe just saying that. You know, in case she thought I was chatting her up or whatever.
Have you ever had the kind of night that, no matter what you do, you still feel so unfulfilled and just� I don�t know� empty? Just so incredibly empty? Well, that�s how I was feeling that night and I just wanted somebody to talk to. You know, somebody different. Not the same old folk I usually end up talking to in that place. Sometimes I get sick of talking about what I�ve seen on the telly or the football results.
She asked me a bit about the area, how long I�d lived there. Asked me why the pub was called Times Square, so I showed her the photo they have up on the wall near the gents, the one with Tommy - he�s the owner - in New York. He�s obsessed with the place, goes about two or three times a year and that�s what made him change the name of the place when he took it over from his dad.
Anyway, she never mentioned the boyfriend again, which made me think that maybe she wasn�t really waiting for anybody at all. We had a few drinks � she could really knock them back � and then I had to get off home. I said I�d probably see her around.
It was another couple of weeks before I saw her again. She came in on a Monday night. It�s usually pretty quiet on Mondays and she came and sat next to me right away, which I thought was a bit unusual. I don�t know why, exactly. She looked pretty rough. You know, like she hadn�t slept for a day or two. I asked her what was wrong but she didn�t want to talk about it and I didn�t push it. I mean, I hardly knew her. So I just bought her a drink and then she seemed to feel better.
We were talking about all kinds of stuff. Normal stuff, like our jobs, you know. But then she started going on about the people who lived upstairs from her. She was saying how they�d stay up all night, playing their radio and talking about her. Well, I thought that was a bit weird. I mean, how could she hear what they were talking about if they had their radio on? So I said to her, �How do you know they�re talking about you?� She just looked at me funny and said something like, �I can tell. That�s all�.
I saw her a few more times after that. She�d always come in on her own and sit next to me. She never spoke to anybody else. We�d be talking away normally and then she�d start rambling on about these neighbours of hers�. I�d just sit and listen. I mean, what else could I do? I thought maybe it would help if she got everything off her chest. But I suppose it didn�t.
I recognised her right away, when I saw her picture in the paper. I was shocked, of course. Still am. I mean, you don�t expect something like that to happen right on your doorstep. And she really didn�t seem the type to go and so something as horrible as that. Stabbing that old man. That�s why I decided to come forward. To let you know that she really wasn�t a bad person. She just seemed lonely and a bit confused. I think when the hospital sacked her, she must have flipped or something. At least that�s what I think. I�m no expert or anything, but a person needs something in their life to take their mind off their problems, don�t they? I don�t think she had anything to think about apart from whatever was going on in her head.
What I�m trying to say is, I hope she gets some help, whatever happens to her, because I don�t think she deserves to be just locked up, even after she did what she did.
Anyway, that�s about all I can tell you, officer. Do you mind if I go now? I�ve got to go and pick my daughter up from school.