My resolutely unromantic Valentines Day playlist this year consists of:
- Robots in Disguise, ‘Chains’
- Einstürzende Neubauten, ‘Jet’M’
- The Bush Tetras, ‘Too Many Creeps’
- The Slits, ‘I Heard it Through the Grapevine’
- Amy Winehouse, ‘Back to Black’
- Pulp, ‘Bad Cover Version’
- Magazine, ‘Permafrost’(apocalyptic version off one of their Peel sessions)
- Super Furry Animals, ‘Juxtapozed With U’
It can be listened to here on 8tracks, if you like.
I’ve had coalmining on my mind recently. Contra last week’s Metro, I don’t think it’s accurate to say ‘the world looked on in despair’ at events at Gleision Colliery – in fact the story was predictably underreported and largely unremarked upon by my usual social media circle, until the story became a self-evidently human tragedy, whereupon it was hardly engaged with at any deeper level than that. Anyway:
As the admittedly lame title of this blog suggests, the coalmine for me is bound up with a certain sense of national identification, but also, if not more so, with class and regional associations. I feel that I have more in common with someone of my age from a post-industrial area in (say) south Yorkshire, than I might with someone from rural west or north Wales or indeed the great bright-lit sprawl that is Cardiff and the Vale. Weighted against this potentially mawkish shoulder-to-shouldering with other unemployment blackspots is the knowledge that this landscape as a functioning entity, as something that defined one as part of and in relation to a certain workforce, as the sum of one’s labour, has (been) altered out of all recognition and what it tends to be seen as generating now is dysfunction. But the mine as a symbol of shared frames of reference carries an inescapable emotional weight. Continue reading
So I liked Owen Hatherley’s piece on Pulp, and I knew reading the comments would spoil it all, but reader, I read them. The majority were bafflingly wet-blanket in nature, wildly and wilfully missing the article’s point, if studded with bits of valid and interesting discussion. Specifically, though, I was surprised to encounter in both the article and the responses a lack of any mention of Manic Street Preachers. Surely you can’t reach back into the 90s, grasping for lines to describe the sociopolitical here and now, without burning your fingers on the white-hot irony of ‘A Design for Life’?
‘We don’t talk about love,
We only want to get drunk
And we are not allowed to spend
As we are told that this is the end’
If Pulp were the last art-school band (and I’m by no means convinced of that), then surely the Manics were the last artistic gasp of a certain breed of late 20th-century industrial working class? Continue reading
Everybody asks your name, they say we’re all the same
And it’s “nice one, geezer” -
But that’s as far as the conversation went.
Last weekend was notable for a mass rave held in the heart of London’s West End, in the shadow of Trash’s last resting place. Inevitably, this ended up breathlessly reported in the Guardian as having marked ‘the return of rave culture’. Did it bollocks. Rave culture is, like the poor, always with us, and free sub-legal gatherings are scattered over the country like the unspeakable flakes shaken from a white boy’s dreadlocks.
Last Saturday has, like several other online-organised mass Doings of Cool Stuff, both social and political, set an interesting precedent for the relative power of a sufficiently large group of citizens to dodge, outstrip or overcome police opposition or obstruction through the power of social networking. But that’s as far as my positivity can stretch. I was dubious about the article’s claim that it marked the return of alternative culture – specifically, the free party – as a channel for political opposition, and perversely heartened by the similarly-minded cynicism swamping the comment section. The article has things arse-backwards: a confrontation between the law and people having a good time is a side-effect of the event, not its objective.
As shown by Emma Goldman’s frequently misquoted maxim and, I’d like to think, this blog in general, music is inherently political. Any song retains the imprint of its conditions of production, and you’d be a fool and a Ramones fan to think otherwise. But the question of whether a particular form of music and culture is inherently radical or revolutionary is much murkier. Continue reading
I’d be failing in my daytime duty as a till-jockey if I didn’t let you all know that peerless proletarian Sunderland sensation Lauren Laverne has branched out into the book world. I don’t know what kind of book I’d expected her to write – possibly a Jackie Collins style bonkbuster set among the highs and lows of Britpop, with a severely metaphorical cover depicting a swirl of glitter round a bathtub plughole – but what she’s actually come up with is the first in a series of children’s books, Candy and the Broken Biscuits.
No, I haven’t read it. But the title made me smile for what I presume is a reference to Pulp’s ‘Mis-Shapes’, a song which cushioned every fall of my adolescence. The series’ title itself, less happily, brought back repressed memories of Bis, who only had one good song, and it wasn’t this one. I guess you can take the girl out of the 1990s but you can’t take the 1990s out of the girl.