Issue 20 / Rocktober 2006
It�s October 2006 and humanity has been reduced to a mindless, munching herd, kept servile by multi-channel TV and vacuous pop music. Mainstream magazines are nothing more than glorified adverts for the latest �18 reissues of albums you already own (but digitally re-mastered and with EXTRA tracks and multi-media shit you can play on your posh computer). It�s all a CON. You don�t NEED any of that dull-boy tosh. All you really need is a good old dose of Hiroshima Yeah!, the monthly zine for messed-up new romantic rude-boys, bi-polar bears, disco dollies and beautiful losers everywhere, coming at you this month from the pens and the penises of Mark Ritchie and Tom Quinn. You can gaze longingly at back issues online at www.geocities.com/sniperglue.
TRICKLE
It trickles down
through the years,
this melancholy feeling.
It pours from the clouds
and seeps through the fabric
of your life
seamlessly.
You don�t even notice
it�s there at first,
but gradually it enters
your head �
as a dripping tap,
as a faded photograph,
as another 4am half-death
with only the ceiling shadows
for company,
as the lonely radio DJ
plays requests for all the
ships that have sailed,
their only cargo your suitcases
filled with regrets.
THESE DRINKS
Thanks for your concern,
but if it wasn�t for these drinks,
I wouldn�t be able to write any of the words
you claim to admire so much.
If it wasn�t for these drinks,
I wouldn�t be an agreeable
social companion,
merely a cardboard cut-out.
You may as well be chatting to
an empty box of breakfast cereal if
I didn�t have these drinks swirling
around within me.
These endless glasses of lager and cider,
wine and vodka,
whiskey and gin.
Liver destroying,
friendship destroying, you say �
and, even though you�re right,
I need to let you know
that when you�re sipping cocoa with
your feet cosy in your favourite slippers,
watching another dull TV re-run,
I�ll be out in the dark and dangerous world,
spinning around the lamp-posts,
losing but laughing,
shaking hands with passers-by,
grinning at the big, beautiful, endless sky,
DARING the world to take me,
as it takes us all in the end.
Without these drinks, what would I be?
Perhaps I�m too scared to find out
but, some day, I suppose I will.
One way or another.
EDEN UNCOVERED by Tom Quinn
In amongst the tired concrete, designed to house drunks, day-dreamers and screams,
A little bit of Eden was uncovered.
Nobody knew it was there,
Nobody cared.
It had been encased within the walls of a dead industrial unit
Safely enveloped in grey.
Through death it was discovered on a mundane yet tragic night,
A boy fell through its rotting roof
And was crucified inside the garden's hidden light.
Wonderful plants and flowers had blossomed there for years,
Tended by secret gardeners,
Lovingly irrigating the leaves and buds,
Keeping them from prying eyes.
Now that this little Eden has been discovered it has had to be closed down,
It would seem it is far too dangerous to keep such light around.
CDs
GUILLEMOTS � THROUGH THE WINDOWPANE (POLYDOR) by Tom Quinn
Having been introduced to this band through frequent airplay on Virgin Extreme (a station favoured by your reviewer as they limit shit advertising and play vintage tracks) I was immediately hooked. Unfortunately vintage suggests that this listener is �vintage� too, especially as it defines music made between 1983 and 1990! Although I shudder with the stark realisation that possibly one of the greatest albums ever to be recorded, �The Queen is Dead�, is 20 years old!!! I digress. The Guillemots debut album offers 12 very different tracks, experimenting with sound and utilising an array of instruments from double bass to giant clothes pegs. The front man Fyfe Dangerfield (an incredible name) conveys emotion sublimely and his vocal presence suggests an almost erratic urgency coupled with an eccentricity that is sadly lacking in most contemporary music. However, to suggest that the Guillemots are �contemporary� would be misleading. �Redwings� opens with a mournful horn section before delivering lamenting and beautiful lyrics about lovers sharing whisky and discussing �oceans of sky�. The emotion throughout this track is palpable. In contrast, the superb �Trains to Brazil� uplifts the soul, celebrates life, and has the most memorable tune that you can�t escape from for days. �Made-up Lovesong #43� has a playful quality coupled with almost nursery rhyme like lyrics. Nevertheless, all delivered with a genuine sincerity that encapsulates this band. As a rule I loathe jazz and the pretence that it alludes to. However, the Guillemots experiment with this �free jazz� form and get away with it. A difficult band to pigeonhole (no pun on bird reference intended) I really have discovered an ensemble who transcend categorisation at this stage in their career. A stand out track for me is �We�re Here� possibly due for re-release as a single, again this suggests that this band are not one trick ponies. Echoes of the early Manics lurk within this song (seriously) and Dangerfield�s vocal dexterity is yet again evident. This album greatly deserved nomination for the Mercury award and although they lost to the monkey lads, hopefully their inclusion as nominees will serve to highlight their profile. It�s always refreshing to hear an innovative group of musicians who avoid jumping onto bandwagons and remain unique and true to themselves. But what are the songs really about? I will leave that question to the Guillemots themselves. As they say on the inner cover �words can�t express what it means�.
TOM WAITS � MULE VARIATIONS (ANTI/EPITAPH) / THE BLACK RIDER (ISLAND)
Tom Waits is like Neil Young in the respect that I seem to be constantly �discovering� songs he�s had out for years that make me think �THIS is THE best song EVER written!�
1999�s �Mule Variations� has several such songs, mixed with demented blues like �Get Behind the Mule�, �Cold Water� and �Filipino Box Spring Hog�. �Hold On� is simply one of the most beautiful and evocative long songs I�ve ever heard, while �Picture in a Frame�, �Georgia Lee� and �Take it With Me� are all aching piano ballads, the type that made me fall in love with Waits in the first place. There are other great songs here too. �House Where Nobody Lives� is a lovely lament for an old derelict building, while �Pony� sounds like something a lost and lonely cowboy would sing around his campfire in a vain attempt to keep out the cold winter chill. �What�s He Building?� takes neighbourly paranoia to a whole new level with a classic Waits spoken-word vocal reminiscent of earlier tracks such as �Frank�s Wild Years�. 1993�s �The Black Rider� was written for a stage play in Hamburg and, in amongst several instrumental pieces, it has some damn fine songs on it, such as �November�, �The Briar and the Rose� and �Just the Right Bullets�. This being a Tom Waits album, there are also plenty of oddities too � from the bizarre title track, sung in a terrible faux German accent to perhaps the weirdest thing here � a song called �T�ain�t No Sin�, featuring the late Beat writer William Burroughs on �vocals�.
DRIVE-BY TRUCKERS � DECORATION DAY (NEW WEST)
Who CARES about the Mercury Music Prize? Everyone KNOWS Richard Hawley should have won it over the Arctic Monkeys. And, with that in mind, out of the three GREAT albums I�ve heard by Alabama�s Drive-By Truckers, (the other two were reviewed in issue 18 of this rag), this 2003 release scoops the glittering prize of The Very Best, while Song Title of the Month is awarded to �Hell No, I Ain�t Happy�. There�s some masterful storytelling going on in these songs � tales of jilted brides and suicides, family feuds and bad attitudes - AND this is the most country-rock sounding album DBT have done (as far as I know � I�ve still to explore their back catalogue further). There are banjos and pedal steels and fiddles all OVER the place, adding flavour to these distinctly Southern songs. �The Deeper In� is an everyday tale of brother/sister incest, while the heartbreaking �When the Pin Hits the Shell� tells of a friend�s suicide. These boys have plenty of Stones style rockers up their sleeves too, like the brilliant �Marry Me�, only this band are WAY better than the Stones, in my opinion. There�s not a duff track on this and it�s packed full of tunes you�ll find it hard to get out of your head. As they say in TV shows such as �The OC�, it�s �like, awesome!�
THE TRIFFIDS � BORN SANDY DEVOTIONAL / IN THE PINES (DOMINO)
Ah yes, I remember The Triffids. Anyone who listened obsessively to John Peel�s late night Radio One shows in the 1980s would. Trouble is, I didn�t think they sounded much cop at the time and that feeling pretty much stayed with me over the years, despite a whole host of people telling me how great they were and how their timeless music deserved a special place in my heart. Well, this year saw the 20th anniversary reissue of the two Triffids LPs which I keep hearing described as �classics�. Considering I didn�t believe the hype the first time round (er, not that I think there WAS much hype about them back in 1986), I certainly didn�t fancy splashing out any dosh to hear these songs. Luckily, though, one of HY!�s loveliest readers sent me CDR copies of both these albums, for which I am very grateful indeed. My first impressions were that David McComb�s voice sounded like a cross between Cathal Coughlan (of Microdisney/Fatima Mansions) and Lloyd Cole, with a little bit of Nick Cave thrown in for good measure. It�s an honest, warm voice that draws the listener into the stories behind the songs. Much like my beloved Richmond Fontaine, these albums need to be given a few listens to fully grasp the beauty of the extraordinary lyrics and expansive musical landscapes on offer. �Born Sandy Devotional� rewards such repeated listens with an album full of scorched-earth classics. Opener �The Seabirds� is an intriguing, beautiful song and is allegedly the true story of a drunken suicide attempt by McComb (who died for REAL in a car accident in 1999). Anyone who can write such wonderful lyrics (the line �Are you drinking to get maudlin or drinking to get numb?� is my favourite on the whole album) has my eternal, undying admiration. The closing line, repeated six times, �Where were you?� is a haunting way to end this little miracle of a song. �Estuary Bed� runs with the beach/sea theme and bathes the listener in lovely washes of steel guitar while �Chicken Killer� is an upbeat tub-thumper. Keyboardist Jill Birt takes over lead vocals on the next track, �Tarrilup Bridge�, a spooky song about suicide and stardom, with Birt sounding eerily like Moe Tucker of The Velvet Underground. �Lonely Stretch� is dark and brooding (and also manages to incorporate a line from the theme song to �Minder�) but then gives way to the more expansive �Wide Open Road� which has some of the icy textures of Joy Division and is quite magnificent, as is the free-wheeling �Life of Crime�. �Personal Things� steals the tune of Nick Cave�s �Where the Wild Roses Grow�, even though it was written about ten years before Cave�s song (sue me if you must, Cavey boy � it�s almost IDENTICAL). Fittingly, the next song is �Stolen Property�, which is fucking BEAUTIFUL - a slow swim through warm waters of synth and steel guitar. This would have been the perfect closing track but we�re not done yet, because �Tender is the Night (The Long Fidelity)� closes the album with another lovely song with Jill Birt singing lead. This seems like a distant cousin of the final track on the third Velvet Underground album, the Moe Tucker sung �After Hours�. Yes, it would seem that �Born Sandy Devotional� really IS a bit of a classic, after all. How could I ever have doubted old Peelie? There are nine extra tracks on the reissue too. Of these, �Convent Walls� is a really good, countrified ditty which sounds a lot lighter (and, dare I say it, COMMERCIAL) than anything that appears on the album PROPER, while the alternate take of �Tender is the Night� is actually BETTER than the �official� version, a church organ duet between McComb and Birt that fades into the ether, leaving only memories of a fantastic album in it�s wake. �In the Pines� is, if anything, an even MORE immediate sounding release, drawing as it does on more traditional folk/country music. It was recorded on �an eight track tape machine in a shearing shed 600km south-east of Perth, Western Australia� meaning it has that earthy �band in a room� feel to it and the songs are more sparse and stripped-down than those on �Born Sandy Devotional�. �Suntrapper� is another addictive opener with mysterious and beguiling lyrics then the album�s title track blusters in, nicking a couple of lyrics from Leadbelly but turning out to be a great song in it�s own right, set to a tune reminiscent of eerie carousel music. �Kathy Knows� is another ominous one. This Kathy chick sounds like a bit of a nutter, to be honest, sticking her fingers in people�s soup and shit. Stay clear, mate! �25 to 5� is great, yet ludicrously short at only one minute seven seconds, leaving you wanting MORE, which is better than leaving you wanting LESS (actually, four songs here clock in at under two minutes � maybe they were running out of tape or something). The reverb-athon �Do You Want Me Near You?� has someone called Alsy McDonald on lead vocals, while the uproarious drinking song �Once a Day� (a cover of a Bill Anderson tune) is sung by the band�s pedal steel player �Evil� Graham Lee and sounds like it was recorded live (you can hear what I imagine to be hoards of thirsty sheep-shearers whooping it up. Excellent!) �Just Might Fade Away� is a creeping creeper which revisits the dark spaces previously inhabited by The Birthday Party but the mood is then lightened by �Better Off This Way�, a 1950�s style croon-along number which Roy Orbison would have been proud of. �Only One Life� has some uncharacteristically hopeful lyrics and a jaunty tune and is so spartan that it sounds like a demo. �Keep Your Eyes on the Hole� recalls The Violent Femmes in it�s acoustic Gothic splendour. The magnificent �One Soul Less on Your Fiery List� has the pedal steel to the fore and �Born Sandy Devotional� (which, rather oddly, was left off the album of the same name) is a sweet love song, though truncated here for some reason. The closing song, �Love and Affection�, is a dead ringer for the Velvet�s �Sweet Jane�. I�ve been playing both these albums a lot lately and it�s really nice to �discover� a band you�d previously overlooked.
FRANK SINATRA � MY WAY � THE BEST OF FRANK SINATRA (WARNER REPRISE)
Walked into town, feeling in a pretty good mood, despite the rain. Bought a double Sinatra CD for �3 and a LoudBomb CD for �2 in a charity shop then tried to get money from an ATM which promptly swallowed my card! I went into the bank but the guy said, because I wasn't one of THEIR customers, they weren't allowed to give my card back - it would be destroyed! So, I walked back to the flat to get my Halifax card (I had no other money on me). I also found the phone number for lost and stolen cards, so I rang that and they said they'd send me a new card out within 2-4 days. Got a subway back into town (as I was sick and tired of walking about in the rain) and my mum rang (I had phoned her earlier as I didn't think I had the number to ring about my bank card). Took out �200 from my Halifax account, telling the teller my woes as she tried to get me to 'review' my account and sell me a mortage (ho ho!) Got some stuff for mum's birthday then had a much-needed pint, upstairs in the Crystal Palace. It was pretty empty. Went round to have a look in Missing but it's moved to underneath the Hielanman's Umbrella. The new shop is tiny. Had 4 pints in the Horseshoe, at the bar. The young barman said he almost didn't recognise me without my glasses. 'I'm in disguise', I said, but really it's just 'cos it was raining and I didn't want my specs steaming up. Had a couple of ciders in Failte, reading a paper standing at the bar. This weird-acting guy stood next to me. He gave me the creeps yet never said a word. Went to Sainsbury's for 3 litres of their cider and then got a subway to Great Western Road. Got a pizza from my 'mate' in BBQ Kings and was back in the flat at 8. Ate most of the pizza, drank and listened obsessively to The Triffids. Went into the room next door for a nose and the Romanians had left stuff lying all over - coins (probably about a quid's worth), passport photos, masking tape, even a cheap digi-box, which I tried on my TV. It works but there is 'no signal'. Kept the window open and enjoyed looking out at the rain and the traffic and the people going by, as the music played. The Sinatra CD doesn�t include his GREATEST weepers but is still chock full of gems (plus some awful dross like �America the Beautiful� which sounds like a hysterical Nazi-fied Disney soundtrack. Bizarre!) Frank WAS one of those people who COULD sing ads from the Yellow Pages and make it sound effortlessly cool, though, and you can�t really go wrong with songs like �Send in the Clowns�, etc. Bloody BRILLIANT for �3 too!
LOUDBOMB � LONG PLAYING GROOVES (COOKING VINYL)
Bought the same day as the Sinatra CD reviewed above, this is Bob Mould�s dancey side-project. Released in 2003 and sold only via Mouldy�s website, I wasn�t intending to EVER buy this, but when I saw it for a mere �2, I really couldn�t resist. I�d thought it would be all instrumental �dope beats� � the sort of thing I despise. In fact, it�s NOT like that at ALL.. well, it is a BIT, but it�s nowhere near as bad as I�d expected. Mould�s recent dalliances with loops and beats have grown on me quite a bit once I got over the initial shock. I don�t really have anything to compare this to (the only other dance music I own is a CD by Red Snapper which someone gave me a few years ago), but it�s GENTLE dance, not the kind of shit you hear blasting from bubblegum-chewing teen�s iPods (what IS the attraction of all those �songs� that sound like they�ve got Pinky and Perky on vocals ANYWAY?! I know, at the age of 34, I�m not SUPPOSED to get it.. and I DON�T!) There are some nice tunes here, especially the opener �Theme (It�s a Perfect Day)� and �Devil v. Angel�, which sounds like some 1970s disco classic. While I can�t say I�ll be playing this anywhere NEAR as often as Bob�s PROPER solo stuff (or his incomparably excellent work with Sugar and Husker Du), I have to admit it�s really pretty good.
PATTY HURST SHIFTER � TOO CROWDED ON THE LOSING END (BLUE ROSE)
I�d been searching for this one for a while, so imagine my surprise when I found it nestling snugly in the �country� section of Virgin. What the FUCK it was doing there, I don�t know, because this is ROCK, man! Certainly, it has some country influences but no more than, say The Rolling Stones, and you wouldn�t expect to see THEM in the fucking �country� section now, WOULD you?! It just goes to prove that the people they have working in these palaces of corporate-cocksucking know BUGGER ALL about music. To say that Patty Hurst Shifter sound a bit like Whiskeytown is not really a massive surprise considering that two ex-Whiskeytowners had a hand in this (namely, the wonderfully-named drummer Skillet Gilmore and the honey-voiced Caitlin Cary). Specifically, this is rather reminiscent of the �town�s brilliant 1997 album, �Stranger�s Almanac�, although there is less light and shade here, with perhaps too much reliance placed on mid-tempo rockers (as loin-stirringly good as they may be). Certain songs, however, such as �Break Everything�, �Acetylene� and ESPECIALLY the final, secret track (which, for the sake of argument, we�ll call �Sincerely�, because that�s the chorus) recall the bruised beauty of late period Replacements.
VINYL
TOM T HALL � PLACES I�VE DONE TIME (RCA) / COUNTRY IS (MERCURY) / EVERYTHING FROM JESUS TO JACK DANIELS (MERCURY)
The decorators arrived at about 8am so I was kind of 'up' about then. Bumped into John in the hall. He was going to the hospital for a check-up. I said if he fancied having a drink this week to let me know but he said he was feeling like shit. Watched a Joan Rivers thing I'd taped last night as well as �The Wright Stuff'. Walked into town and hung about in shops. Ate. Drank. Bumped into Grant in Avalanche and we went to Ottaker's 'cos he was looking for a new Nirvana book written by Everett True. It wasn�t there. He told me about some new 'experimental' record shop in Finnieston called Volcanic Tongue that's run by the guy who used to be in Telstar Ponies. He said he'd bought a Neil Young bootleg there for �50! Then we walked down to St Vincent Street and he had to go back to work. I went to Missing 'cos Grant had told me they had a few Tom T Hall records for a quid each. It took me ages to find them, but find them I DID, and I bought three of the four they had (I had the other one already). Then I nearly got run over by some twat who obviously didn't know the meaning of a red light. Cunt. That pissed me off, so I went and had a pint in Cairn's (any excuse will do!) then hung about in Waterstones for a while before going to the Crystal Palace for another pint. After that, I went to the Horseshoe for three sitting at the bar pints. Drunken Eyes was in. Had a cider in Failte after that then went and got �6 noodles and some cider and walked back. Was in at 7.55pm. Drank and watched a great documentary by Stephen Fry about manic depression then listened to Mark Radcliffe on Radio Two because I'd heard The Handsome Family were in session. They weren't. Went to bed just before midnight. (Note � if, in the unlikely event you want to know something about Tom T Hall, please refer to an earlier piece I wrote, which can be found at www.geocities.com/sniperglue/hall.html. Thank you.)
ZINES
NOVA FEEDBACK issue 6
[email protected]/velveetaheartbreak.blogspot.com
Cute wee zine featuring the �out there� artwork of Mike Bowman, head honcho of Semper Lofi Records and main man (er, ONLY man, actually) in the fab pop group Velveeta Heartbreak (see last two issues for reviews of their fine, fine wares). The word �acid� pops up on a couple of pages, which may provide some clue to the �inspiration� behind these engaging black and white drawings. However, when Mike goes full colour, he really IS the dog�s bollocks. This is borne out by the fact that I have a few of his colourful postcards propped up on my bookcase. What more of a recommendation do you NEED?!
DOLE BABIES issue �1
[email protected]/myspace.com/theonlymaggieponce
First, I smelled and pawed the cover, like a dog that had been deprived of food. I wondered if this lovely item before me was real or merely a drunken mirage. It was the usual Monday night, post-pub shit, only having a new issue of �Dole Babies� slid under my door was most certainly NOT �usual�. This is the third issue (the first was issue number MINUS 3. Keep up) �cos Maggie Ponce likes to take her time and make sure everything�s JUST RIGHT (whereas I prefer doing the EXACT OPPOSITE!) It all starts with a brilliant piece on the closed-minded nature of the gay scene that segues seamlessly into a story about myspace (I keep meaning to start up my own myspace page � so I too can be �a popular cunt�, as Maggie puts it). Then there�s a hilarious slagging of the Bratz dolls and TV series (�spiteful looking ponies� would be a GREAT name for a band! Or maybe just �spiteful ponies�) and extracts from Maggie�s �moaning diary�, in which she gives both barrels to useless �Big Brother� �celebrity� Chantelle, old people and.. well, just PEOPLE in general. It all ends with the continuation of a real-life horror story about working in a Virgin Mega-Snore, with MORE to come in the NEXT issue. I, for one, can�t WAIT!
ABOUT AVERAGE issue 34 / [email protected]
Andrew Willshaw is not only one of the best friends a person could wish to have, but he�s also a really great writer/artist and his work should be on the National Curriculum. This is a shockingly positive issue of THE best monthly zine in the UK (the ONLY monthly zine in the UK, as far as I know, apart from �Hiroshima Yeah!�) This issue sees Andrew saving the world from alien invasion with the help of some �Star Wars� figures and a Guardian Angel. There are also the usual very fine drawings (one of which looks like Mr Blobby!) and musings about this and that. Grab yourself a copy.
GIG
RYAN ADAMS & THE CARDINALS � CARLING ACADEMY, GLASGOW, 22ND SEPTEMBER 2006
Woke at about 8.05. Cat phoned, sounding drunk, said she'd tried to ring me earlier, to wake me up and annoy me! She put me onto Joe, who said he was going to try and get a ticket for the Ryan Adams gig. I told him to try the box office at the Academy, as they'd be passing there anyway on the bus. The decorators were painting the hall today. I walked into town, stopping to get take away coffee and a potato scone roll on the way. Spent some time in Waterstones reading a new book about Johnny Marr. Joe rang while I was in St Enoch Square. They were in the Crystal Palace, nearby, so I went to join them - Joe, Cat and her 15 year-old son (who looks completely different to when I last saw him). The place was packed 'cos it was the first day of the September weekend holiday. Joe stood in the long queue to order our food and drinks, and it took ages for the food to arrive. I was surprised to see Cat�s son drinking a pint of lager. After we'd eaten, we went over the street to the new Matalan store, where cat took ages to find a black top for her work. We went to the Goose after that and had a couple of jugs of lager (again, Cat�s son joined us - he was going on about drinking and doing drugs, although he only mentioned the drugs when his mum wasn't there!) Then we left and he got a bus to meet his mates and Joe put Cat on a bus home. We went and had a couple of pints in the Imperial Bar. It was pretty quiet, which was a blessed relief after the business of the other two places we�d been. Amazingly, Joe noticed his old workmate John G sitting at the bar, so he joined us and, after a catch-up chat, we walked up to the Academy. One of the security guys said there'd only been four tickets available at the box office but I overheard some girl with purple hair saying she had an extra one, so Joe bought it for �23 and we went inside. Got drinks from one of the bars near the stage and watched the end of Neal Casal's set. I luckily managed to use the ridiculously small men's toilet before it got flooded. Phew. Ryan came onstage at around nine � with immaculately tousled hair, lovely Batman T-shirt and a great pedal-steel player, who augmented most of the songs beautifully. They played a lot of songs off 'Cold Roses' as well as two or three new ones. I went to the toilet and the bar during two of these - long, slow songs which Joe kept saying were really like his beloved Grateful Dead. He nearly had a seizure due to the strobe lights and had to kneel down and cover his eyes. I was concerned and had my hand on his back for a lot of the time. Had four too-expensive pints in all (though John bought a round). Some girl threw a pint of lager towards the stage and most of it went right over me, but I didn't really care as i was quite happy standing there with my cider. 'This House is Not For Sale' was a highlight of the two hour set for me. Ryan didn't say very much at all to the crowd apart from when he came on and said 'Hello Scotland' and (I think) 'It's great to be home' and 'Goodbye'. There was no encore. We were out of there at 11pm. John said bye and vanished into the night and me and Joe stood chatting for a while then hugged and kissed goodbye. I went and got a subway back to Kelvinbridge. Bought a roll on chips and was in the flat at 11.40pm. Was in bed half an hour later, my ears still ringing from the ROCK.
THE LAST DAYS OF SMOKEY JOE�S
I can actually feel the alcohol working as a depressant. Usually it gives me a light, airless feeling, like I�m surfing gigantic waves inside my own body but, here in this soulless city centre pub, surrounded by a gaggle of lightweight weekend drinkers, I feel no joy. I�ve got to get out of here. I gulp down the remainder of my pint of cider and walk out.
The rain�s gone and a peaceful, early evening glow bathes Union Street in soft blue light. I do my best to ignore the identically-clad hooded figures milling around, trying to look �hard� in a variety of poses as they slouch against bus shelters and shop windows. In a couple of hour�s time, they�ll all be lost somewhere in the chaos of the night, but I don�t want to think about that right now. I�m not in the mood to feel threatened. All I want to do is get pleasantly drunk and drift off somewhere. Not to a real, physical location, but to some place in my mind where I can be free from all the fear and anxiety I usually feel. I just want to calm my nerves, that�s all.
I realise that the place I usually go will be mobbed tonight but I�m in such a shitty mood, I decide to go there anyway. The building has been sold to some pub chain and will be closed down within a few weeks, so I may as well make the most of it. It�s only a few minutes walk away, in the heart of the Merchant City, and is pretty cheap considering the posh area. Being on the dole, I can�t afford to drink anywhere too expensive.
I walk into Smokey Joe�s and am greeted by a few raised heads and stares. Even though I�m a regular, going there about five times a week, nobody ever acts over familiar. That�s one of the reasons I like the place. Another reason is the long wooden counter in the middle of the room which has a few barstools around it and acts more-or-less as a second bar. That�s where I like to sit and read the paper or just stare blankly around the room at all the other patrons.
It�s not as busy as I�d thought. Old Jim is in, sitting in his usual corner, smoking endless cigarettes and going up to the bar every ten or fifteen minutes for another pint of lager. I don�t think I�ve ever seen him talk to anybody, except the odd grunt here and there. I spot Nancy, too, who looks like some faded beauty queen or a fortune-teller escaped from a circus. She always wears cheap gold jewelry and is usually with her boyfriend, Billy, who�s extremely thin and cracks terrible jokes. He seems to spend his whole life in this place, as well as in the bookies next door. But he�s not in tonight, so Nancy�s sitting chatting to a young couple who have obviously stumbled in off the street and look desperate to get away. Drunken Eyes is also here. He�s a guy who always drinks four or five pints in under an hour, standing by the door, looking out onto the street. I don�t know his real name but I call him Drunken Eyes because, though he generally looks sober enough, his eyes tell a different story altogether. I don�t recognise any of the other customers, who total around twenty or so.
It takes me a while to notice the sign on the wall behind the bar.
�This pub will close on the 11th of August. All drinks will be half price. Thank you for your custom over the years � The Management.�
I check the date on my newspaper. It�s the 9th of August. I feel strange, like I�m going to start hyperventilating or something. My favourite pub will be gone in only three day�s time. Shit.
Nobody else seems remotely concerned. Perhaps to them it�s just somewhere to go for a few hours every week. To me, though, it feels like much more. There�s a plaque on the wall next to the toilets saying the pub was opened in 1972, the year of my birth, and that�s always made me feel like I belong here, somehow. Makes me feel that the place is MINE.
I settle down to read my paper, alone and anonymous, just the way I like it. I�ve become part of the place, blending in with the jukebox music and with the static hum of the air conditioner.
*
The next day, I�m there at noon. Much earlier than usual. It�s too early for most of the regulars but Bill and Nancy are both here, gabbing away in a corner about visiting Australia or something. Another pipe dream, I think to myself. This place has always been great for that; for people talking about big plans and schemes that never seem to materialise.
I order a pint and pretend to read my paper, though really I�m looking around me, trying to memorise everything; the faded photographs hanging in cheap, nicotine-stained frames, the old-fashioned posters advertising Guinness. I wish I could take a photograph that would capture the ESSENCE of the place, but I know that�s impossible. Photographs don�t even come close to capturing the real spirit of a person or place. They�re only technicolour shadows.
I�ve arranged to meet my friend Jeff, who�s been for a job interview. He�s one of the few people I know who likes Smokey Joe�s. Most of my other friends think it�s a dive and don�t understand what I see in the place. But Jeff seems to understand.
He�s a few minutes late, as usual, and dressed uncharacteristically in a suit and tie.
�They let you off the murder charge, then?� I say, as he walks up to where I�m sitting.
�Funny cunt,� he says. �It was a nightmare. They put us into teams and we had to try and sell all these different products. It was full of kids as well. I was the oldest one there. Do you want another pint?�
�What do you think?�
Jeff goes to the bar and orders a couple of pints then sits on the stool next to me, unfastening his tie.
�So, did you get the job?� I ask.
�They want me back for a second interview. There�s three interviews in all. If you pass the third one, you get the job.�
�Fuck me, all that just to work in a shitty supermarket?�
�I know, it�s crazy. When�s this place shutting, then?�
�Tomorrow night. Didn�t you see the sign behind the bar?�
�Never noticed it. My head�s up my arse. I really need this beer.�
With that, he takes a large gulp, draining almost half the glass.
�Didn�t you have a quick one before your interview?� I ask, taking a sip of my own pint.
�Well, I usually would, but I was skint. Had to borrow a score off my mum this morning. I bought a travel card.�
�The world�s your oyster, then?�
�Oh aye,� Jeff says. �I wonder what exotic location I�ll end up in.�
�Probably just Jamaica Street�, I say, and we both laugh.
�You coming here for the last night?� he asks.
�Well, it�s half price drinks, so I suppose so. You can join me if you want.�
�Can�t. I�ve got to go to my uncle�s wedding reception. It�s in some fancy hotel in Edinburgh.�
�Sounds like fun.�
�Does it fuck, man. But I�ve got to go.�
We fall silent for a while and I notice Two-Minute Man walking through the door.
�See that guy?� I say to Jeff. �Watch how fast he drinks his pint. It�s amazing.�
Sure enough, the middle-aged man, dressed as always in a smart suit and tie, orders a pint of lager, downs it in one or two gulps and is then out of the place, all in less then two minutes (which is why I nickname him Two-Minute Man.)
�Impressive,� Jeff says. �Does he come in a lot, then?�
�Oh yeah. Though it�s usually later on, around five or six. This is the earliest I�ve ever been in, too.�
�Maybe that guy works round here and comes in all through the day,� Jeff says. �You know, just for a quick one.�
�I never thought of that. Maybe you�re right.�
�So, where will you go after this place shuts?�
�I don�t know,� I tell him. �I�ll miss coming here, though.�
�Aaaahhh,� he says, putting his arm around my shoulder. �Why don�t you nick an ashtray or something, as a souvenir?�
�Don�t be daft,� I say.
I don�t tell him, but I�ve actually thought about it.
*
I stay away from Smokey Joe�s on the day it closes. It�s too sad. I want to remember the place as it was; as a living, breathing, vibrant entity. That place where everything and nothing�s happened to me over the years. I want to retain that sense of things going on all around me, of life being LIVED. The chatter and the laughter. The poetry of people. I can�t bear to think what the atmosphere might be like. Will it be like a celebration or a wake? Neither one seems appropriate. And I can�t bear to think that the occasion might loosen people�s tongues; those people I never even spoke to but who I saw more often than anyone else in my life. The fact that they kept turning up there, in that dark and dingy bar, day after day, week after week � it was a testament to the power of humanity�s will to endure. It made me feel less alone.