The Days Are Much Too Bright

Listen to this week’s playlist on Spotify.

There are a few benefits to the strange nocturnal lifestyle I lead; making lots of nice Australian friends on the interwebs, being able to shop when no-one else does, seeing lots of infomercials and obscure sports.  Then of course there’s the general behaviour of a character in a Buchowski novel – when you arrive in a bar at 3am, you have a whole different perspective on life.  There’s some pretty good stories found in the late night dens of iniquity.

Chief among the, admittedly scarce, advantages is being able to see the city streets empty.  There’s a very beautiful incongruity in the sight of a street usually bumper-to-bumper being totally deserted.

These were taken on my walk home the other night, with mist hanging over the streets and ‘New Grass’ by Talk Talk in my headphones.

This looks like a country scene from some twisted Czech animation.

I love the blending of colour here, and how the street light looks like a full moon.  Incidentally, we might be seeing a lot more of this building…

This isn’t the yawning portal into another dimension.  It’s my back garden. 

 

I am Power!

Listen to this week’s playlist on Spotify

I had a look at a venue the other day; an old school gym,latterly a car wash that’s been sitting empty for years.  Essentially derelict, but there’s a lot of potential; sprung floors, plenty of space, and most importantly, going for buttons.

There is one major downside to it, which is the close proximity to Cessnock underground.  Because the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that Cessnock underground is actually the Hellmouth.

Let’s look at this for a moment.  It isn’t a place: there is nowhere called Cessnock.  It’s just a station.  For a place that doesn’t exist.  You can’t get to it by car.  There seem to be no roads that lead directly to it.  There are no working cash machines within the radius of a mile or so – clearly due to some kind of demonic interference. 

It also doesn’t look like any other subway station; no bright orange livery or bathroom tiled exterior.  Almost as if it came from somewhere else.  And it always seems to take that bit longer between stops to get there.  All those fleeting shadows and tunnels careening off into the distance.

What there is though is an unusually high concentration of religious institutions.  Churches of all denominations, a mosque, a Sikh temple, and more than a few Masonic Halls and Orange Lodges.   I’m sure if you draw a line connecting them all you’d get a pyramid, or a pentagram, or a line drawing of Jeremy Spake’s fucking face. 

If all this wasn’t enough to convince the unsuspecting traveller, then it can be compounded by the sheer mentalness of the place.  That handful of streets has one of the highest concentrations of pure mainline lunacy available without a private education.  It’s one of the few places left where you’ll see nine year old girls in school uniform buying a half bottle ‘for their stepdad’ or Kappa-clad warriors openly comparing weapons.  Grown men leading a stereo by the flex like a dog.   The hardware store seems to have been fashioned from the same material as the TARDIS and there’s a shop called Mister Sandwich that doesn’t sell sandwiches. 

The other day I was passing on the bus when a tiny African woman in traditional costume got on.  Settled herself near the front without too much fuss, until the next stop where she leapt out of her seat and pointed an accusatory finger at the people getting on.

“I AM POWER!  WHERE IS YOUR CAR?!”

And back down again as if nothing had happened.

This happened at every single stop, until she got off at Tradeston yelling at the driver to remember to buy his teeth.  She seemed  happy, right enough.  I suppose it must be  good,being Power and all.

I’m definitely going to go back and look at that gym again; it’s a great space and an absolute steal.  But if I see Anthony Head lurking about I’ll be out of  there like a shot.

Depending on Circular Motion

Listen to this week’s Spotify Playlist.

The Glasgow North by-election is on the horizon; wherein various political schills and the blind guy off of Big Brother pretend to give a tuppeny fuck about an area that has been largely ground into the dirt by the well-shod heels of a couple of centuries worth of capitalist oppression.

An inevitable side effect of the nation’s television cameras being pointed at the denizens of Shettleston and Springburn is that journalists convinced of the truth of Glaswegian stereotypes will doubtless drag the toothless and insane in front of their microphones in the hope of an amusing soundbite.  Now admittedly this particular corner of the city won’t be winning any Unesco grants anytime soon; its only claims to culture being Red Road – Andrea Arnold’s rape, revenge and CCTV laugh-riot – and sundry snatches of James Kelman, but to paint the whole place as a whirling vortex of pissed-lift high-rises and heroin dealers claiming disability is unfair.  New York in the late seventies and early eighties was probably one of the most derelict and dangerous cities at the time, yet it’s where Woody Allen produced his gentlest works – Annie Hall, Manhattan, Hannah and Her Sisters.  Glasgow has those stories too, not just the smack’n’stab of popular mythology, although it jangles to The Pastels and Teenage Fanclub rather than grooving to Gershwin.

 

It’s not an obviously pretty place – not iconic like Edinburgh or quaint like Inverness but there’s a beauty here.  It’s in the faded grandeur, the merchant’s halls reclaimed as galleries and nightclubs, the metropolis broken by the bright scar of the motorway, Caryatids and Telamon over chip shops and taxi ranks.  Mostly though, it’s at night.

By the way: for what it’s worth, my money’s on Smeaton…

Pffffffffft.

Today was not a good day.

Yesterday’s creative optimism brought crashing back to reality.  A combination of professional disapointment, exitstential malaise and living in the only city where ‘glass’ is a verb.   I can’t even be bothered going into it to be honest, except to say that I’m now even more determined to make this Zodiak thing work.  Fuck having bosses.

Sometimes the only thing that can cheer you up is some good old nostalgic gansta rap:

And this handy flow chart.

Don’t worry, I’ll snap out of it; Kurt Vonnegut, a glass of Rioja and a haircut should do it.  That and a phone call to the letting agent for that place I was on about yesterday.  I saw another venue today actually; an old gym out in Ibrox.  Almost totally derelict, but it put me in mind of the fire station from Ghostbusters.  Lots of potential, and a nice wee nostalgic quality.  It would be a whole lot of work, obviously, but all it would take would be a decent montage…

See, I feel better already.

Oh, here’s this week’s mix.  Enjoy! 

A New Zodiak.

Listen to my Kosmisches Musik playlist on Spotify

I’ve had something of an epiphany.

So, after a very lovely dinner on Sunday – a crisp, peachy Gruner Veltliner from Laurenz V, and entirely forgettable Macon-Villages and a lovely fresh raisin scented Manzanilla, since you asked – I settled down with the laptop on, well, my lap to watch Krautrock: The Rebirth of Germany.

Whilst it wasn’t without it’s faults – an overreliance on the ‘greatest hits’ of the genre; Can, Neu!, Faust, nary a mention of Guru Guru or Agitation Free, a tendency to lapse into ‘look at the funny Germans’ and an attempt to legitamise the whole thing to Q Magazine readers by concluding with Bowie and Eno rather than Einsturtzende Neubauten and Detroit Techno – it was still a pretty inspiring piece of television.  It’s always good to see Kosmiche Musik taken seriously; it always seems to be treated as a bit of a niche market, which I find a little incongrous considering the iconic status of Kraftwerk and Can.  Last time I saw Holger Czukay was in an audience of a couple of thousand people at the Tramway. 

There were even actual girls there.  Dancing and a’thing.

Incidentally, if you’ve had your curiousity piqued by this, you could do worse than read Julian Cope’s excellent Krautrocksampler, or Ed Pinsett’s very thorough if slightly obsessive Krautrock Kompendium (Free to download here).

But I digress. 

So, somewhat predictably a couple of glasses of wine and an hour of teutonic drone take their toll and I spend the rest of the evening banging arythmically on various household appliances and wondering if Faust are looking for any new members.  It’s not until the next morning that the logical side of the brain kicks in to do something constructive with all of this.

See, inasmuch as any kind of ’scene’ existed in this wave of late sixties German experimentation, it seemed to be centered on Zodak Institut, a West Berlin cafe where Rodelius, Cluster and various other luminaries would meet and expiriment infront of an audience of polo-necked beatnik types.  It occurred to me, in the shower as these things often do, that most revolutionary movements in art have had a similar epicentre.  That there isn’t really one at the moment.  That all it would really take to create one would be someone with some premises, a basic knowledge of the running of hospitality business, a welcoming attitude to experimental nonsense and a willingness to turn a blind eye to the stricter elements of Glasgow’s somewhat draconian licensing law.

Hold on.  That sounds like someone I know…

The more I think about it – and I have been for a couple of days now – the better an idea this seems.  It wouldn’t need to be anywhere glamorous – in fact a little bit of deprivation seems to stand these kind of places in good stead; think of the Factory at The Russel Club or CBGB’S.   There’s a lot of premises lying derelict at the moment, all advertising substantial incentives to fill them.  A couple of units in Tradeston that I pass on a daily basis have been sitting empty for almost a year; I’m fairly sure there would be Arts Council or Lottery money about to fill them in the name of urban regeneration. 

So, that’s that bit taken care of.

What we need is people to fill it  – artists, musicians, people who’ll DJ with sandpaper and jelly, standups and performance poets and anyone with something to say who needs a venue in which to say it. 

Which is where you lot come in.  I reckon we can throw together a couple of nights in the 13th Note or Mono, see what kind of response that gets and take it from there.  Anyone interested?

Maskinen

Sorry it’s been a while, dear readers.  Busy month.  In order to make up for my prolonged absence, I’ve got a new find to share with you.   Maskinen – a Swedish band who describe themselves as Techno/Hip-Hop/Showtunes. 

They’re currently in Sao Paolo recording their debut, with some high profile collaborations promised.  More as I know it. 

Official website (in Swedish).

Embracing Technology, Part Two.

I’ve created a playlist on Spotify for some of the stuff I talk about on here.  Here it is.  I’ll keep adding to it when it’s relevant, but I’ve left it collaborative so youse can send me recomendations.  And Rick Astley songs, you crazy intertubes kids…

Captain Beefheart vs Oral Surgery

I just had three teeth taken out.  You know you’re in trouble when a hardened Glaswegian dental nurse covers her mouth and yelps ‘Oh my God’ as a small bespectecaled man presses his knee on you  chest.

For some reason, with a mouth full of medical equiptment and three peoples hands, face half paralysed like a stroke victim all I could think of was Captain Beefheart singing ‘Upon The My Oh My’.

Try to ignore the smug presenters at the start.

It’s A Wonderful Life: Christmas, Capra and Communism.

It has become a Christmas tradition: George Bailey’s existential crisis and a glass of mulled wine are as much a part of the festive ritual as turkey and double-fare taxis.

On watching it this year, the contemporary relevances seem more apparent than ever.  Runs on banks and mortgage foreclosures had seemed a sight confined to Stienbeck novels and the films of Preston Sturges, but with the Northern Rock/ Bear Stearns (delete as geographically appropriate)  fandango earlier this year, Lionel Barrymore’s odious Mr. Potter seemed all too real a villian.  It feels like once again the decisions of the handful of people who finance the banking system are deciding on the futures of the rest of us.

Do you know how long it takes a working man to save five thousand dollars? Just remember this, Mr. Potter, that this rabble you’re talking about… they do most of the working and paying and living and dying in this community. Well, is it too much to have them work and pay and live and die in a couple of decent rooms and a bath?

Pretty radical stuff for 1946.  While it’s not exactly Battleship Potemkin, this is pretty left-wing for post war Reds Under The Bed America.  People over profit?  The masses working together?  Well, it’s near on Communist.

I’m not the only one who thought so.  In 1947, the FBI considered this chunk of Christmas cheer to be dangerous pinko propaganda.  Here’s the original memo.  (Thanks to Will Chen for the transcription.)

To: The Director

D.M. Ladd

COMMUNIST INFILTRATION OF THE MOTION PICTURE INDUSTRY

(RUNNING MEMORANDUM)

 

There is submitted herewith the running memorandum concerning Communist infiltration of the motion picture industry which has been brought up to date as of May 26, 1947….

With regard to the picture “It’s a Wonderful Life”, [redacted] stated in substance that the film represented rather obvious attempts to discredit bankers by casting Lionel Barrymore as a “scrooge-type” so that he would be the most hated man in the picture. This, according to these sources, is a common trick used by Communists.

In addition, [redacted] stated that, in his opinion, this picture deliberately maligned the upper class, attempting to show the people who had money were mean and despicable characters. [redacted] related that if he made this picture portraying the banker, he would have shown this individual to have been following the rules as laid down by the State Bank Examiner in connection with making loans. Further, [redacted] stated that the scene wouldn’t have “suffered at all” in portraying the banker as a man who was protecting funds put in his care by private individuals and adhering to the rules governing the loan of that money rather than portraying the part as it was shown. In summary, [redacted] stated that it was not necessary to make the banker such a mean character and “I would never have done it that way.”

[redacted] recalled that approximately 15 years ago, the picture entitled “The Letter” was made in Russia and was later shown in this country. He recalled that in this Russian picture, an individual who had lost his self-respect as well as that of his friends and neighbors because of drunkenness, was given one last chance to redeem himself by going to the bank to get some money to pay off a debt. The old man was a sympathetic character and was so pleased at his opportunity that he was extremely nervous, inferring he might lose the letter of credit or the money itself. In summary, the old man made the journey of several days duration to the bank and with no mishap until he fell asleep on the homeward journey because of his determination to succeed. On this occasion the package of money dropped out of his pocket. Upon arriving home, the old man was so chagrined he hung himself. The next day someone returned the package of money to his wife saying it had been found. [redacted] draws a parallel of this scene and that of the picture previously discussed, showing that Thomas Mitchell who played the part of the man losing the money in the Capra picture suffered the same consequences as the man in the Russian picture in that Mitchell was too old a man to go out and make money to pay off his debt to the banker.

There’s no evidence to suggest that Capra was a Communist, although the Savings And Load model of banking is certainly a lot more communal than the current system.  It does sometimes strike me as a bit odd that the western belief system paints a method of government where everyone is looked after equally as somehow evil. 

As we tumble impotently into another recession/depression/downturn/whatever we’ve decided to call it this week, let’s hope that we can be a bit more George Bailey, and a bit less Mr Potter.

Attaboy Clarence!

Merry Christmas!

Black Friday.

‘Tis the season to be abusive, falalalal lalalala.

There are a few names for today in the trade, and none of them positive, but by far the most common is ‘Black Friday’.  The last Friday before Christmas and traditionally the busiest day of the year, this is office party central.  It generally fills up around mid-June.

Buisiness in itself is not the issue at heart here though.  We’re good at busy: we’ve been preparing for this for months: the bookings sheet is fine tuned, the staff briefed and filled with Pro-Plus (it’s gonnae be at least a fifteen hour day), every available inch of fridge space has been filled with blanched potatoes and pre-peeled sprouts.  What makes the thought of Black Friday enough to make ten-year veterans talk about getting a job in a call centre is not the volume of customers, but the type.

I’ll be succinct.  The folks that eat out today, they, well… don’t get out much.  Today we’ll see people who haven’t set foot in a bar since this time last year.   Who have no idea what their capacity for alcohol is, or their reaction to it.  That when you order six different cocktails it might take a couple of minutes to make them.  That – and this is a big one – they are not the only people in the restaurant.

It doesn’t help that the mercenary opportunists who run the trade can spot a sucker from twenty paces, meaning as soon as Christmas hoves into view prices double.  Well, goes the logic, we scrape by for eleven months of the year and if there’s profit to be made we’ll get it when we can.  This engenders in the once-year-drunk a certain sense of entitlement.  Used to paying a tenner for a bottle of supermarket vodka, faces redden when I ask for nearly a fiver for 25ml of Belvedere and a splash of Ocean Spray.   The righteous indignation soon evolves into a belief that they can behave in whatever manner they see fit - which usually means sexually harrasing the more attractive staff, and slurring abuse at the rest of us.

Now I’ve said this before, but it bears re-iteration.  The worst drunks are not young.  They are not ’neds’ or ‘chavs’ or ‘pikies’ or whatever your idiom of choice for barely disguised snobbery is.  It is the middle-aged middle-class.  People who can’t distinguish between ’service’ and ’servant’.  Last week a woman with a striking resemblance to my mother drank so much Veuve Cliquot she was sick on my shoes - after calling me a ‘jumped up little cunt’ when I suggested that she might, perhaps, consider a soft drink.  I’ve had torrents of abuse from people because they’ve waited ten minutes for a taxi (you should’ve booked…), or just because they don’t want to tip and are looking for an excuse.

So, be kind to your waiter tonight.  He’s put up with a lot this month, and he’s just trying to get through today without climbing a clocktower with an AK-47.