I am a lot like the “nowhere man” of Beatles fame. A true ascetic with a limited social life. Along with building quantum time machines and painting, one of my greatest passions is music, and particularly the post-punk neo-psychedelic bands which emerged in the early Eighties, and to my mind represented a massive renaissance in rock music, of which I wrongly and chauvinistically assumed would never be surpassed in human history.
This pantheon of rock gods include the obvious candidates such as U2, Julian Cope and The Smiths, but I also like also other bands such as the Chameleons and The Bunnymen which many less enlightened people might dismiss as pretentious, but are really too complex for your average Joe to process correctly. In fact in the case of the Electrafixion and Reverberation material the penny took a long time to drop, even for me, as to just what a work of genius these works are.
Believe me, I know what pretentiousness is- absolutely vile noodlings from Tangerine Dream and other prog-rockers in the Seventies, and fools on the Old Grey Whistle Test pretending to get some enlightenment from it-and I hate it.
I suppose given the massive ambition of both the Chameleons and the early Bunnymen-who can/could still wipe the floor with most modern bands on a good day-it would be pretentious if people who were normal musicians attempted such godlike hubris-Franz Ferdinand for example. More style than content. Whilst the Bunnymen had great style they had even better content-quite an achievement, and they are still a hit and miss cutting edge creative force at their best.
As for the Chameleons, their temporary reformation culminating in the flawless Ascension DVD (a massive advance on even their great early work) shows they could have ruled the world if they wanted to.
And then there are the people who have ugly inverted prejudice against genetic superstars with a nice pair of lips. Whilst it seems wildly improbable that a single person could be so gifted, the truth is the features, which denote genetic fitness all go together. What you see is what you get in the case of Mac (which sometimes these days is unfortunate) and also in the strange case of a lovely young girl called Rozi Plain. More about her later. When people try to depreciate these more rarefied bands I just laugh and feel really sorry for them. A blast from my media player with the Chameleons or The Bunnymen can put me on a high for a day. The people who can’t pull this neural trick will just have to comfort themselves with the more common pleasures of sex, drugs and drink.
Of course there are some “high art” bands that achieve their just rewards for greatness in the Post-Bunnymen era- The Verve, Radiohead and (Particularly) Elbow, a truly groundbreaking band. But the chances of a “critical mass” of bands changing the whole scene like in the Eighties seemed pretty small. One of the reasons for this could be that in the Seventies and even under Thatcher in the Eighties to a lesser extent, it was recognised that deindustrialisation and the outsourcing of good, well paid jobs to slave states such as India and China by the overclass (who were paid handsomely for facilitating this process) meant that large numbers of unemployed in the north of England had to be subsidised by the dole in compensation, otherwise social unrest or insurrection might take place. But this turned out to be a blessing in disguise. In effect it acted as a massive arts council grant for the young, who in return created a vibrant new culture and a music to go with it.
With False Labour now in charge and consequent criminalisation of the unemployed with form filling exercises as a means of detention (instead of the German high skill apprentice system) it seemed unlikely such a musical/fashion Cultural Revolution could take place again. The young are having their faces pushed too far in the mud to ever look up to the stars again. As for the old, they are being ruined by a poisonous combination of means testing and massively inflated property taxes, the most regressive form of taxation imaginable. And the Tories are even worse.
Another thing that is not helping matters is people nicking songs off the internet-though financially ruining students by exemplary legal terrorism for this “crime” is not the answer to the problem, and will create resentment. A sane government would subsidise rock culture instead of dead music and post-modern non-art to make up for this crisis.
And in the unlikely event that there was a cultural renaissance (perhaps like me they could get a part time job whilst they realised their true dreams) then it would probably be up North, and definitely not in a place like Bristol or a village in Scotland.
My reasoning is that the spatial deprivation of most of the housing and the bleak weather makes people create a fantastic world of imagination to compensate for this. Manchester, Liverpool and Iceland come to mind.
But then I had not heard of the Fence or Cleaner Collective…. Since the time John Peel’s tragically premature death, even if there was something absolutely marvellous out there, I and anyone else could not know about it even by using the web-from personal experience I know that its easy to be lost amongst the rest of the trash, a cacophony of no-hopers that drown out the gems … But I did not reckon on the Culture Show.
I was looking at this program, mostly so that I could sneer at the various nonentities claiming to be musicians, filmmakers and painters. I stopped sneering for a while when I saw Elbow with Richard Hawley but on the whole, thought the Sixties and the Eighties were the final hurrah in the decline of Western culture. The presenter’s witter away, but occasionally, as in the case of serious bands such as Elbow, Radiohead or Sigur Ros, or serious painters like Mark Rothko/ Edvard Munch you hear a subtle lowering of tone and pace, a sort of hushed awe which, like the calm before the storm, signal that something big or awesome is about to happen…
This was the case when James Yorkston, Pictish Trail and the rest of the Fence Collective came on with the wonderful “Tortoise Regrets Hare.”
But intrigued by the contribution of the shy looking girl with a heartbreaking voice drilling into my consciousness, and who remarkably, given her contribution they didn’t even name or interview, I set about what turned out to be a massive task of web browsing and found out about “The Roz.”
That having been achieved, after heaping praise on her on various forums and downloading every single article and photograph an the web, and deferring to download because I want a physical artefact such as a CD with sleeve notes (preferably signed), I then looked through the forthcoming events including her. I was perturbed that the gig over the holidays was a bit of a journey but also in a proper club. I tend to avoid socialising and normally attend conventional concerts. I seriously thought was I a bit mad at this time of year to drag myself all that way on the train (I am too nervous to drive) but the thought of the possibility that this strange creature held the key to something magical, was quite simply an itch that just had to be scratched. It got to the stage were I could not sleep, so I determined to get it out of my system. Having only a dial-up connection it was not possible to hear her other work intelligibly. I concluded that her work with Yorkston could not possibly be surpassed; she probably would not turn up for the gig, and if she did it would just be some form of pleasant folk with nothing close to the magic Yorkston and Pictish managed to weave, the fateful night I watched that program.
Even more pessimistically, I concluded that even if she were tolerable, the other acts would be mediocre. I had stumbled upon a magic grotto of music before by listening to Peel. No one else was going to find the way back for me. Why could I not be sensible, stay at home and listen to the something great instead? So I listened to EATB’s Flaming Red, but the start of the lyrics only reminded me of the singer. Enough. I dropped everything, packed a bag and walked to the train station like some religious maniac on a pilgrimage. The train to Bristol was packed worse than a cattle truck, and when I was extracted the other end I purchased a map and decided to walk all the way to get an idea of the city that was hosting this event. I’d managed to lose my own map but eventually I found the Croft, gingerly went inside the building and asked the bar girl who it was playing that night. She said that her shift was only in the morning so she could not tell me, but there had been a lot of line-up changes. I knew it, all that way on a British Hell concentration camp wagon for nothing- still, lets see what’s on offer! I checked into the holiday inn further down the road, attempted to reverse my dishevelled appearance and crashed out on the bed.
I woke up to find Farscape on the television, but went out for a sandwich and by the time I’d ate, it was ten minutes past seven and I set of to the club, walked in and sat on the settee next to a woman, who I asked what time the acts started. There was no sign of a the massive queue I am used to at Bunnymen and Elbow concerts, just some people near the stage entrance where rehearsals were taking place inside. Being vertically challenged I always get there early or I wouldn’t see much at the back. A small number of people started to queue and so did I, put my £2 in the box and was marked on the hand. The small number of people inside stuck to the walls in a u shape with respect to the stage, as if it was so intimate they wanted to put some sort of distance between them and the performer, though it also served to give everyone a good view of the act, and I was at the tip of the U on the right hand side. Good move.
The first act started, a blond woman who mentioned the line up changes and announced herself as Mary Chapman. Ah… of course, a replacement for Rozi as I expected, lets wait for a bad version of Steeleye Span then. Suddenly this massive, passionate voice comes out comparable to Sinead O Connor when she sung “Pictures of You” with Jah Wobble and the invaders of the heart. Bloody Hell. Perhaps it wasn’t a wasted journey after all. This girl could sing the telephone directory and be easy on the ear. The second song dips a bit, because whilst still in great voice, drama gives way to melodrama on an emotional and lyrical level-a very fine line and I prefer darkness to be insinuated rather than spelt out for me-I am a Bunnymen/Chameleons fan, so prefer things conveyed by atmospherics. On the next songs she ups her game even more, reminiscent of operatic Freddie Mercury’s upper range and finishing with a version of the (delightful) Rihanna’s “Umbrella” –one of my favourite songs, and she threatens to equal or surpass her vocally. Great, but for all her technical ability and talent, what she is doing is within the realm the normal. She is “just” a great performer and potential superstar, but being a greedy person I wanted something more strange and exotic.
She packs up, and a dark haired drummer gets on stage, and a smart and cool looking man in a white shirt a bit like Ian Curtis with but with a finer bone structure, and then, from the other stage an ethereal elf like beauty emerges half seen from the audience. Rozi Rozi Rozi! But I thought they had brought in Mary as a replacement-and what an act to follow- so this is going to be the comedown I have been pessimistically waiting for? How can she possibly top that? Things start a bit ominously, a sort of grating interference pattern of Rozi’s guitar and the other guitarist in the white shirt. Discordance? Hold on, this is not discordance, its something quite other, that dispenses with normal conventions of melody. Though completely different to what I am used to this immediately clicks with me and I remember the way the Bunnymen’s “No Dark Things” has a deliberately ugly introduction that twists round to make an unexpected turn, a divine revelation ending with a beautiful melody and suddenly making perfect sense in retrospect. We are witnessing something on that level- a band clever enough to arrange individually amelodic sounds to make something that transcends all melodic convention-and what a drummer into the bargain! This is a real band, and a great one. As the set progresses it something else becomes clear, Rozi’s achingly sweet, clipped tones are not the only string to her bow-to my surprise it is NOT a small voice but MASSIVE and she ROCKS both vocally and on guitar- no standing on the sidelines admiring technical skill or (sometimes) overwrought emotion here (sorry Mary) -she just sweeps you up and you lose control. I have never seen such a combination of vulnerability and passion in my life. Never! Then a bit like the previous singer, she ups the game even father! The sweetness along the lines of “Seriosity” allied to the darkness of “Venus in Furs.”- She is just going to lift you up and tear you apart emotionally. She attracts a constellation of talent that swirls around her like golden planets around a brilliant sun. Listening to her is like staring at the sun-so beautiful you almost want to look away before it sears you. She is a revelation.
Speaking of that constellation, I asked the name of the guitarist and shook hands with him and he was charming, though I expect if I had talked to Rozi she would have been even more so, but I might have gone weak at the knees. His name was Francois. I didn’t catch the name of the excellent drummer though.
They pack their instruments and leave the stage through the audience, without any superstar pretension, and a gangly and cheerful youth with curly light brown hair erects a solitary cymbal, some apparently lo-fi electronic equipment and he retroactively presents the names of the preceding acts (they really could do with a proper introduction, not least so that we know where to get the recordings)
Gangly youth starts fiddling with the instruments. Perhaps he’s the soundman mucking about. Hold on…. The apocalypse has arrived!!!
The lower register of a guitar used to the hiding place of seventies joke bands such as Mud, The Glitter Band and Status Quo. But today the normal rules do not apply.
I will have to resort to metaphor. It will sound dramatic, but in fact it will be an understatement. Nothing as grandiose, as powerful as this exists in the entire history of rock. Maybe Electrafixion come a small part of the way with “Timebomb”
In fact, rock NO LONGER EXISTS, that maniac has sailed in like the silver surfer and destroyed the entire history of rock before him. A bass clunk, like gears grinding a million bodies on the way to a fiery hell, pulses and rumbles, to a metronomic beat as the man smashes the symbol. It pulses through the audience, and his mania is transferred to all of us like lightening bolts. Audience Jerks. I start head banging and a girl next to me goes into a crazy voodoo dance. Sort of like when that alien artefact in “Quatermass and the Pit” makes everyone go crazy. This man is NOT a musician. He is a weapon of mass destruction! At the end of the set I demanded that he produce his recordings immediately. I need a fix, immediately, of this violently addictive musical drug he has created by some devilry. Like any good dealer, he duly complied and I paid up for his entire collection. I asked his name. He said it was Sam J Esau, but I am sure he lied; he is really the angel Gabriel creating the musical accompaniment to the end of the world.
Be afraid. Be very afraid, your sanity may not survive his violent, exhilarating anger, guts and passion. He seems totally normal when you talk to him; I just hope he hasn’t got any Kurt Cobain tendencies-though he makes Kurt Cobain sound like Cliff Richards and Keith Moon look like Linda McCartney on tambourine.
And that was it. The light starter was a great new voice in the form of Mary Chapman.
But the real meat was Rozi, Francois and that drummer. But Sam J Esau even topped that.
A simply massive advance in rock history. And then even more. Things will never, ever be the same, and someone should have been there with HD video cameras to record this historic event. There could be more like that in that town. I will seek these superhuman mutants out and study their powers. We have the devastating musical femininity of Rozi and the devastating musical masculinity of S.J.-who knows what other powers exist? I wish it had been captured on HD video. I’ll phone the BBC.
“…Wild eyed and sad and strange,” in the most beautiful way. Every one of them.
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