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The Art of Fiction

The Art of Fiction was a famous essay by Henry James, from 1885. This blog is written by Adrian Slatcher, who is a writer amongst other things, based in Manchester. His poetry collection "Playing Solitaire for Money" was published by Salt in 2010. I write

Last Build Date: Mon, 11 Dec 2017 03:11:16 +0000


The Neglectful Poet

Sat, 18 Nov 2017 17:35:00 +0000

I am a neglectful poet. At the end of a busy week, after a busy month, I've collapsed this weekend, and staying in. I'm missing a poetry reading at the Whitworth this afternoon, and I realise I need to find some time to write up my own poetry. I've not stopped writing - far from it - snatched poems have been all the creativity I've managed in the last few weeks of travelling around the UK and Europe, but they're scribbled in my notebook - or in a few occasions direct to the computer. I'm not the sort of poet who write sequences so every poem is its own world, every blank page could turn into any kind of poem. Its only when I put them together, start looking at a number, that I maybe have an idea where I'm up to as a poet, what my concerns are, or how my style is developing. Every now and then over the last month or so Facebook has popped up to remind me of a few lines of poetry I wrote a few years ago, in most cases I don't remember the poem. It must be there on a computer file somewhere, I guess. A little poetry admin is required. Partly its because despite still going to a number of readings I don't think I've read poetry live this year - or wait, I read a single poem at a friends event impromptu - but certainly not a full set or group of poems. Neither have I been sending much off or having much published, so its easier to forget I'm sometimes a poet than not. Most poets I know have their neglectful periods, times when they stop writing or life gts in the way. I'm luckier than most in that I usually write poetry in an ad hoc way, and its rare that sees a full break. But I am a neglectful poet, and need to stop being, else the year will just fade out.

The Man in the High Castle by Philip K. Dick

Mon, 06 Nov 2017 19:15:00 +0000

Over the years, "The Man in the High Castle" has gone from being an obscure novel, to the book that people mention when discussing Dick's greatness. More recently, it has been the inspiration for an Amazon TV series of the same name - now on its third series.Clearly, one small book needs to be changed a little to become a repeating series - but TV and film adaptions of Dick have long been known to dip into his ideas and his invented worlds and transpose their own casts and characters.Written in 1962, barely a generation after the end of the second world war, and noticeably, at the time of the cold war's highest tensions, "The Man in the High Castle" reimagines a world where the Axis powers won the war - and as a result, Germany rules the world, but Japan is now in control of the Western United States even as the Reich has spread to New York and the Eastern seaboard. We learn that the terrible price that the Jews had to pay, continued, but spread further as the Germans exterminated most of Africa. At the same time, the old joke (probably a new joke in 1962), that the Americans won the space race because "our German scientists were better than their German scientists" is inverted in that the Nazis are colonising Mars, and that rocket propulsion allows privileged Germans to cross the Atlantic in less than an hour. These fantastical trappings are talked about matter-of-factedly, as Americans have gotten used to this new world. In California, where most of the novel takes place, the Japanese are reasonably benevolent conquerors, bringing with them a decorum and a sense of proper behaviour that even the brash Americans are beginning to take on board. The gradations of "favour" that an inscrutable Japanese businessman is aware of would take a lifetime for an American to learn, so of course, some follow the Japanese and become regular users of the i-Ching as a way of organising their life - the gnomic utterances of the oracle providing the wisdom of history rather than the rashness of individual decision.Against this backdrop a more mundane tale is taking place. Bob Childan makes a living selling Americana to rich Japanese who are fascinated by the Old West. Frank Frink is a Jew who fled the East coast Reich and now works in a factory where they partially make fake Colt 45s made to look like genuine antiques. His ex-wife Juliana has disappeared into the unconquerable middle America which acts as a buffer zone between Japanese and German conquests, and he regrets losing her. In the Japanese areas there is a surprising new bestseller, an alternate history where the Germans lost the war.  The author of "The Grasshopper Lies Heavy", Hawthorne Abendsen lives in Wyoming in "the high castle" protected from potential marauders by its isolation. Amongst the Japanese, Tagomi is a high ranking trade official waiting for a visit from a "Swede" Baynes who is due in from Europe to talk business.These somewhat unpromising plot points provide the "action" whilst a wider tableau takes place off screen. Hitler is alive, syphilitic and mad, with various factions of the Nazi high command still jostling for position - and part of that factionalism is at the heart of the story - with a plan being considered to wipe the Japanese off the planet, as also non-Aryans. When Juliana meets Joe, a truck driver, he suggest an adventure - to meet Abendsen. Nothing is quite as it seems. Joe is not the Italian he purports to be, but a German spy, and Baynes is also a German, passing on information about the planned destruction of Japan by certain Nazi factions. The antiquity market is a slightly strained metaphor for what is happening in America - for the "real" America that we know hasn't happened: the post-war boom, the American dream, are stunted, never happened. There's some similarities with Ayn Rand's "Atlas Shrugged", with Abendsen the equivalent of the mysterious John Gaunt, and the concentration on the American production line - Frink is manufacturing jewellery, but the Japanese suggest it could be better being mass-produ[...]

City of Literature, Get in!

Wed, 01 Nov 2017 09:50:00 +0000

Yesterday, during UNESCO's annual conference, Manchester was named as an UNESCO City of Literature. Get in! The hard work for this started best part of a year ago as far as I remember, with Manchester Literature Festival, University of Manchester, ManMet (aka MMU), and the city council agreeing a bid. Lots of legwork from Kate Feld, who went to pretty much every live literature night in Manchester (rather her, than me!) as well as speaking to writers, publishers and others with an interest in Manchester as a literary scene. Jewels in our crown are old buildings - namely our four great libraries, Chethams, John Rylands, Portico and Central (our local libraries, like Didsbury, are gems as well) - and places for dead writers, namely the very undead Anthony Burgess Foundation, and the lovingly restored Elizabeth Gaskell house; as well as publishers such as Carcanet and Comma press.

It's an honour rather than a pot of money, but its great that this not only sees our two universities working together (a shame we still can't mention the S-word to make it 3!) but puts literature at the heart of the Mancunian regeneration story, when its often been well behind sport, music, architecture and the like. Anyway, not any more. The considerable assets of the city are of course its writers, who are many and plentiful. Last night I was at The Other Room, where James Davies and Scott Thurston, made rare appearances at their own night. Other Manc-based writers of note in the room included Neil Campbell, John G. Hall, Tom Jenks, Matt Dalby, Amy McCauley, and my good self; not a bad subset for a cold Tuesday night competing with Man Utd v Benfica, Jeanette Winterson and Rebecca Solnit elsewhere in the city, and of course Halloween.

Manchester's writing scene has been very grass roots and thrived outside of much civic interest or involvement - that will hopefully now follow. We are definitely needing some kind of writers' development programme, as well as more opportunities for writers to work, perform and publish in the city. All of which myself and others fed into the submission to the City of Literature application.

The official press release is here and my previous thoughts on Manchester as a writing city are here.

As a civic bauble its a nice one to have, and I've long been an advocate of us joining the UNESCO creative cities network, as I'd seen what a brilliant thing City of Literature had been for Norwich, and also how music cities like Ghent and Bologna have benefited, but of course, the hard work starts here: taking Manchester's many literary assets and promoting them as something other than history, but as a key part of our radical, working class, multicultural, intellectually stimulating past, present and future.

A Noble Prize for Ish

Sat, 14 Oct 2017 10:41:00 +0000

The Nobel Prize for literature is always a surprise. Though people still get surprised by it, wondering why, for instance, a slight, but popular novelist like Murakami hasn't won it. I don't know why Murakami keeps coming up, perhaps as a Japanese novelist with a worldwide audience, but if there's a British equivalent (there isn't really), then its certainly not Kazuo Ishiguro, who shares heritage and a Japanese name but little else.Ishiguro is the first British recipient since the British-Zimbabwean-Iranian Doris Lessing. Unlike Lessing, Ish grew up in the UK, as well as coming of age in the early eighties and quickly becoming part of its literary establishment, albeit off in a side room somewhere, rather than front of house. A graduate of UEA, he was always mentioned as a second to McEwan as an outcrop of it's famous creative writing course; and a Nobel prize of course puts that to bed - and gives the UK's first city of literature its own Nobel laureate.I recall reading "A Pale View of Hills", his debut, in the mid-eighties and enjoying it alot, though it did feel a somewhat slight, thin book, and I need to re-read it. "Remains of the Day", his third novel, didn't sound at all like my sort of thing - that default position of the English novel - a nostalgia for a country house past. I probably saw the film at the time but only read the book years later. Of course its much more than that. Ishiguro had found a perfect subject to match his interest in the unsaid, the understated, the dignity and otherwise of repressed feelings, yet one that was not set in Japan, but in England, albeit a version that was already much gone in the early eighties. It was of course a brilliant move, as it's a book that is both about the English establishment, and critical of it, and it is also a sad, human love story. Its fascinating that this would be the book that he would write. I've always wondered if McEwan, who actually comes from a very stratified British background, looked at the success of "Remains of the Day" (and later "Birdsong") and led to his own exploration of the upper class reticence that we find in "Atonement.""The Unconsoled" - again a book I read along time ago - was my favourite of his at the time. It was another about turn. A sign that this novelist was wilful in his choice, not just of subjects, but of styles. Here we have the opposite of his Booker winner, instead of specific place and character, we have an unknown country, an unnamed protagonist. Ishiguro has never been a prolific novelist - the books seem to all come out as surprises, presumably after working on them for a few years. Perhaps this explains their diversity of theme and style. They have been popular around the world. I remember one interview where Ishiguro mentioned that he would make his language simpler, aware of the role of the translator; so he's not a writer unaware of his standing, but I was disappointed to hear this from a writer. In some ways this indicates his strengths and weaknesses. There are few writers able to build up such an accumulated atmosphere, from small moments, yet it isn't the prose that does the work so much as the accumulation. I always thought his next great success, the dystopian novel about children harvested for their genes, "Never Let Me Go", was a novella or a long story extended to novel length unecessarily. For me, the decision to set it in a fictional time place - a world that is deliberately anachronistic - was its real weakness; a sign of a novelist unable to quite deal with the contradictions of his ideas. The private school the characters are at is as if from the 1950s, and the echo of fifties Wyndham and other dystopian writers, is there, yet it is set in a notional seventies and eighties. Technology has gone on a different track, an alternate past, rather than alternate future. It makes for an odd read. Yet the humanism of the novel comes through in the end and what turns it into a great book; though I found so much of the set up unco[...]

The Sheltering Sky by Paul Bowles

Sat, 07 Oct 2017 11:29:00 +0000

Perhaps it was the idea of the film that had put me off reading this novel previously. In the 1980s there seemed to be a whole range of slick adaptions of 20th century literary classics – mostly from Merchant-Ivory though “The Sheltering Sky” was Bertolucci – and Bowles’ debut novel probably got tainted by it; though I’m pretty sure I’ve not seen the film either. Port Moresby is with his wife Kit on an escape from a devastated post-war Europe. His father has died leaving him the money to do as he pleases – anything other than work – and he insists that he is a traveller rather than a tourist, though he always carries too much luggage, speaks only European languages, and insists on staying in the best hotel wherever he is. They are joined on this trip by the younger Tunner, an amiable adventurer who has fallen in love with Kit, but truthfully, is in love with them both in some way. The style of the book shifts in terms of sympathies – written often as not in a localised internalised third person, only zooming out every now and then, a technique that creates the quiet claustrophobia that sets in from the very first page. They are in Northern Algeria, but Port is unhappy there. His relationship with Kit is now sexless and they have adjoining rooms. He wants, more than anything it seems, to be away from everything, to be alone, but he can’t quite manage that true adventurer’s calling, and has dragged her and her luggage – and at the last minute, his friend Tunner – along for the ride. Port hates the world he has come from, hates Europe, America, and civilisation, but he also dislikes the colonial French, and more than that he loathes the Arabs and other indigenous populations, whilst being drawn into the potential excitement of an unmediated world. Kit, on the other hand, is there because she is scared of losing him – though in many ways he is already lost – and because her fear requires her to have someone to hang on to. Tunner’s puppy love asphyxiates her and she just wants time spent with Port, but when they are together they argue, or worse, fail to communicate. His very seriousness – his existential consideration of where he – they – are going is in itself something that Kit finds hard to take seriously; it as if the very emptiness of his life, and of his dreams, is now so obvious that she can only be drawn along with it. Her vibrancy is an affront in some ways to Port; who does as much as he can to hurt her, and in doing so, to double up on the hurt he feels himself.He might be devastated to know she has been unfaithful to him, but before this happens, he thinks nothing of going off into the town and finding a young woman prostitute, who then steals his wallet. He is an American out of sorts in a world that is still in bits, and yet he is enough of an American to resent the theft, to want to use his money as more than currency – hating the haggling of the Arabs he meets, but at the same time wanting to always buy more than just a good or a service with his money. He at one point sees a blind woman dancing in a bordello, and is desperate to have her, but she is gone before he can make it happen. He is certain he has lost the chance of love. The book is nevertheless one of stories told. The famous story of three girls who go to have tea in the Sahara, and are found with only sand in their cups. The great desert is always on the corner of the tale, until, as they head further south into it, it also becomes the tale, and in the third part of the book, becomes Kit’s very existence. Along the way they keep bumping into an English con man and his mother/wife, who they try and avoid, except when it is expedient to take a lift with them. By separating himself from Kit and Tunner as he goes south with them – leaving them to take the train – Port seems to be willing the action to happen; yet he doesn’t find out about the betrayal (his betrayals of Kit are the greater.) The[...]

20 Years Ago

Sun, 17 Sep 2017 10:35:00 +0000

This weekend sees the students returning to Manchester and local kids giving up their summer jobs to head to other cities. It suddenly struck me that twenty years ago I was also starting at University of Manchester, for my M.A. in novel writing.In truth, I'd been prompted to memory by the documentaries about Princess Diana's death. I'd left my job in Croydon the previous week, with a short break before starting at University. My dad had taken almost all my stuff back up, leaving me with just a suitcase for my final week in London in a now spartan bedsit. I'd woke up on the Sunday morning to be told that Princess Diana had died in a car crash in Paris. "Oh, really?" I probably said, and rolled over and back to sleep. Diana was only a vague presence to me in 1997 - she'd left royal life, and all the soap opera that came with her marriage breakdown. I'd never had much time for her, but had a vague respect that she'd done some good work recently around land mines and AIDS; but tabloid Diana, with the tacky boyfriends and paparazzi followers was something that had passed me by. I'd been living in London for a year, and I'm pretty sure she'd not been a presence in the city during that time - the dog days of John Major's failed minority government and the triumphalism of Tony Blair's electoral landslide. At the same time I was listening to an eclectic mix of music - the Britpop overflow of rubbish like Stereophonics etc. that came along in the wake of Oasis's regal success and overbloated third album "Be Here Now" only just giving way to the more cerebral pleasures of Belle and Sebastian, Spiritualized, the Verve and Radiohead. I'd write about a lot of this - music, politics, art - in the novel I was beginning to think about.I went back to London for a week, and the indifference to Diana was hard to hold, given the hysteria that took hold of the country during that week. Alone in my bedsit I found myself drawn to the rolling coverage and even to some extent drawn in. On the morning of the funeral I meant to get up early and join the throngs on the Mall, but then I must have stayed up late, overslept, and watched it on television - or more likely saying my goodbyes to the city that had been my home for just less than a year, glad to be returning to Manchester.Before I decided to go back to college I'd been seriously writing for several years. The old "bottom drawer" novel had been followed by one that I'd written in Manchester in 1994-5 in between the day job, called "Lineage" which got shortlisted for the Lichfield prize, the first time anyone outside of friends and family had given me any approval. Until then, I didn't know if what I was doing was "real" writing, or, like my music, I was just an enthusiastic amateur. Going down to London I'd at least met a few writers and other creatives. There were a group of poets who used to meet up in a pub in Brixton, scabbing drinks, and not, as far I could see, writing all that much. There was the odd journalist or novelist I'd meet at a party, either rich, drunk, debauched or more often than not a combination of the three. In London I'd tried to begin a literary life: I'd had a few things published, a few poems in little magazines, whose titles I noted down when I visited the poetry library. Who knew that Smiths Knoll, the Frogmore Papers, the Rialto, Other Poetry, Iota, Fire et al, were where the action was happening? At the same time I was visiting art fairs at Exmouth Market, foolishly failing to buy Tracey Emin postcards as the YBA ship began to sail. I attended a poetry group once or twice at the local library but the room - or the poets, it was hard to tell - smelt of wee, and I didn't go back.  I also started a quirky magazine called "Bananas from the Windward Islands". Quirky because I didn't put the poet's names on the pages of the poems, as I wanted them to speak for themselves. I got it photocopied at a local print shop. Somehow I also[...]

Day of the Locust by Nathanael West

Fri, 25 Aug 2017 17:43:00 +0000

"Day of the Locust" is a novel that I've always been meaning to read, and despite its short length never quite got around to. A novel about Hollywood, by one of American fiction's sharpest literary observers, it didn't disappoint, though it wasn't the novel I'd been expecting.

For in "Day of the Locust" published in 1939, this is not the Hollywood of the winners, but of the losers, the no hopers. The "hero" of the piece is Tod Hackett, a young artist who has been brought out to Hollywood to design scenes for the movies. He's by nature then an observer, rather than a major participant. In his own time he is painting a large nightmarish tableau of Los Angeles in flames. Set during the great depression, Hollywood is both a promised land and a chimera. It is the escapism for the masses, but also, for those who flock there, like a gold rush - full of promise, but with few benefiting by hitting a seam. Into this millieu Tod falls for the beautiful but talentless actress Faye, and through his pursuit of her, comes into contact with other characters - a cowboy extra, Earle, a dwarf, Abe, and Homer Simpson (!) a lonely man who has moved to Hollywood for his health and becomes embroiled with Faye's circle.

It is a dark, noirish book, that reminds one of Jim Thompson or other noir writers as much as Fitzgerald for instance. The difference with Fitzgerald is a telling one - for in his unfinished "The Last Tycoon" Fitzgerald, as always, is fascinated by power - the powers that make Hollywood happen; whilst West finds himself looking at the ordinary people, the joes with the unmet dreams. For this is a novel about Hollywood's dualism - the characters are all there because of the "Hollywood dream" but are clearly living it as nightmare. For the beautiful Faye, she is treading the boards on the way to some low level prostitution, sleeping with clients to pay off the costs of her father's funeral. Her father is an ex-clown who now sells polish door-to-door. Homer Simpson is living off - and lets Faye live off - his earnings from a scrupulous life as an accountant; he is incapable of becoming anything other than Faye's victim, the more he takes care of her, the more she despises him. She refuses to sleep with Tod because he is neither handsome or rich, so he tries to take revenge through fantasising about raping her. Everyone in West's Hollywood is dirtied and tainted by the town.

There's a brilliant scene where a wild party kicks off at where Faye is staying at Homer's. Earle and his Mexican friend are breeding fighting cocks, and Abe, the dwarf, and Tod's scriptwriter friend Claude want to see a cock fight. The cock fight is vividly portrayed, violent and bloody, and the blood lust that leads to the cock fight seems to feed into the atmosphere of this pivotal evening - where Simpson will see Faye's lies for what they are, and she will leave him - her future unknown, but predictably grim.

Unlike Faulkner and Fitzgerald who went to Hollywood as famous writers, West was an unknown, and his Hollywood career was hardly anymore illustrious - yet out of it came this great novel. It's style is a mix of the real and the impressionistic and it is the latter that makes the novel flow so effectively. The Hollywood of the dream and the nightmare come together at the end where there is a film premiere taking place, and crowds of people turn into a virtual riot in which the novel's characters get caught up in. The title - "Day of the Locust" - echoes the Biblical plagues, and it is this frantic final scene where it appears that Hollywood falls in on itself.

A fascinating and original novel that I'm glad I've finally got around to reading.

7 Towns in 7 Days

Fri, 25 Aug 2017 12:06:00 +0000

There's an oft used cliche about southerners never venturing north of Watford, but there is, of course, the corollary to that, the northerners who've never ventured much further south than Euston. Take a look at the map of England and there are whole chunks at the edges, we're a geographically bulbous nation, and each of those bulges is a potentially unvisited land.So it was, that I went to Kent for the first time last Friday. The initial impetus had come from my writer friend, Adrian Cross, who, alongside Richard Skinner, who runs Faber Academy, had been involved with the wonderfully named "Margate Bookie" - a literary festival taking place each August in the seaside town. He'd told me some time ago that they were hosting a Vanguard reading there, and I should come down. With this "hook" I decided to extend a weekend into a week and visit Kent - or at least as much of it as I could manage in the time, and via public transport. Growing up, our next door neighbour was from Kent, so it was a county which I had a vague idea about, if nothing more. Mike had a "posh" accent (though it might just have been southern) and God knows how he ever ended up in the rump end of Staffordshire. I'd read Canterbury Tales, and more recently Graham Swift's "Last Orders", and new Tracey Emin had grown up in Margate, but that was pretty much my mental mapping of the "garden of England." Independent travel is supposed to be easier these days, with the internet, but I struggled to find a room in Margate for this August weekend. Eventually a phone call to the Tourist Information got me a place, a rather delapitated but grand old hotel in the Cliftonville area of Margate, where for years London boroughs have been sending their asylum seekers. Margate is a town on the up, or trying to be, but it still has a nice mix of the seediness which Emin so graphically depicted, its historical role as a favoured seaside destination, and a newly arrived "hipster" class, opening art galleries and coffee shops. Yet, Swift's use of it in "Last Orders" still seems appropriate; it not quite East End on sea, mine was one of the few more northern accents, just as my trip to mid-Wales last years saw me surrounded by holidaying Midlanders. The weather was a little temperamental over the weekend, with the sun coming in and out as the clouds hovered in and out of the sea. The Turner Contemporary, the city's flagship arts venue, a beautifully realised building, so named because Turner was a frequent visitor and painter of the town (as was Paul Nash), looks out on the bay, and this weekend was a heavily used venue with a bookshop for the festival as well as hosting various events.  The gentrification of the place is a little overplayed - on the Friday night we stopped off in two small pizzerias only to find that both were fully booked, and ended up in an adequate but traditional curry house. A wonderfully named Wetherspoon's (The Mechanical Elephant) and two Costa coffees are the chains along the seafront. On the Saturday I caught the circular bus that runs between Margate, Ramsgate and Broadstairs, and got off in Ramsgate. This is more harbour than seaside resort, though there's a small beach. It did the job however, as I managed to get a pot of seafood for £3.50, whilst watching the world go by. I also found, two stops off the bus, Michael's Books, a great little warren brilliantly priced, which was worth the delay in getting back to Margate. In the evening, in the Sands hotel, Vanguard readings saw six novelists present from their very different books, before a small literary quiz led by David Quantick, the music journalist, who now lives in Hastings, down the coast. Several of the writers were based in and around Margate, as it becomes, thanks to better train links easier to get to from London.Finally going round the Turner Contemporary, the main gallery[...]

Last Days of the Midland by Adrian Slatcher

Sun, 13 Aug 2017 14:01:00 +0000

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Filling the Creative Space

Sat, 05 Aug 2017 10:34:00 +0000

As is my wont, I have been sidetracked from one of the many projects  I should have been finishing, into a new little project that reached up and grabbed me last weekend. I started recording a long instrumental using just my Roland Juno 6 Synthesizer, and it ended up as a 25-minute piece reminiscent of the multiparted Tangerine Dream influenced electronica I recorded (with pretty much the same setup, give or take an effects processor or two) in the mid-80s. (e.g. here and here).  This has now morphed into a new quickly recorded album which I'm expecting to finish just over a week after starting.As ever with a new project its not as simple as just the music or the writing - there is the whole stuff around it. What is it called? What is it about? (Given that the instrumental has no words...this is important). How do I present it? (On its own? As part of an album of contemporaneous stuff?) And each of these decisions creates more decisions. I've long wanted to call an album "the Return of the Juno 6" as both a factual description of my much beloved synthesizer (though its never entirely gone away), and as a bit of a spoof western title. Who are or were the Juno 6? I guess like Magnificent 7 or Hateful 8 it depends on who you're talking to and at what time. I like the idea of the "Juno 6" being like Neil Young's Crazy Horse, coming together when the need arises then going their separate ways. Yet there's just me here - so the "six" is that imaginary band that I've never quite got together - and probably as much about different versions of myself as anything else - or maybe its my influences.So with the music almost completed, a title and a cover concept in the works, I find that the graphic art on the cover lacks something. It needs some kind of image for the centre piece - but what is it? Stringing together pictures of influences was my first idea.Here we have Vaughan Williams, John Denver, Robert Southey, Delia Derbyshire, Pierre Henry and a teenage version of myself, all with some oblique influence on the words and music within. (And it is oblique: there's a John Denver sample on a track I don't think I'm going to use or finish, whilst Robert Southey told the first story of "Goldilocks" which relates to a single line of a particular song.) But that doesn't feel right either. I'm going to go for something more abstract - some collage. I've always loved Frank O'Hara's poem "Why I am not a painter". where the poet visits his friend, the painter Mike Goldberg. Its as good a description of the creative process as you'll find. "It's got sardines in it", says Frank, "yes, it needed something there," tMike replies. He visits again. The sardines have gone. "It was too much," says Mike. When the painting is exhibited its called Sardines. Of course, they are no longer there, but they were there, during the process. It is enough. But its as much that first thing: what was there during the process - that need for something there.I think any artist will recognise it. You've wrote a piece, or painted something or made a collage, or a piece of music, but its just not yet itself. Whereas Michelangelo could see the finished piece in a piece of marble, the blank page is multifarious, it could become anything. Why and how it becomes this rather than that is what is part of the process. So my cover for "Return of the Juno 6", even though its unimportant, needs something in it, and its not a collage of famous influences. It wouldn't surprise me if it takes me longer to get this sorted than the writing and recording of the album itself, yet in some ways its the same process. The beauty of writing instrumental rather than lyric music is that the something you need has to come from the music, whereas its always possible to scat sing your way over the top of an otherwise uninspiring bassline[...]

The Big Names Booker

Sat, 29 Jul 2017 06:09:00 +0000

This year's Booker prize longlist will no doubt please the booksellers. No small publishers (just big indies, Faber, Bloomsbury, Canongate; majors and imprints) - lets hope this is just an anomaly, not a trend - and most of the "big" names who released books that qualify, find themselves on the list - mammoth books by Paul Auster, and past-winner Arundhati Roy, alongside Zadie and Ali Smith, and acclaimed story writer George Saunders for his first novel, and probably favourite, Irish historical novelist Sebastian Barry. More interestingly perhaps, Jon McGregor makes an appearance with his new novel, "Reservoir 13" - his first for seven years - and Irish writer Mike McCormack's prize winning "Solar Bones" arrives a year late, after finding a British, as well as Irish publisher.

First thoughts on the Booker since it let in the Americans has been that they do a bit of cheese slicing, a third British, a third Commonwealth, and a third U.S.  It does seem increasingly an arbitrary list. In the past the Booker was notorious for longlisting books still in manuscript, so the general reader couldn't get to read them - this year both the Saunders, McCormack and Colson Whitehead's acclaimed "The Underground Railroad" feel like they've arrived here last on a very long tour. I guess we're all  a little fluid on when books are published these days. Naomi Alderman's "The Power" which won the Bailey's Prize is nowhere to be seen, surprisingly. As ever, the longlist is a little bit of a distraction - often it seems a little bit of a sop to newer writers, giving them a bit of time in the sun, this time its the bigger writers who may not make the cut.

There will be a couple of months for the longlist to get attention before the shortlist is announced. There's certainly enough interesting books on this year's list to make it potentially a break with the past but as Booker shortlisting is mostly about horse trading between several judges I wonder how that will manifest itself.

Our three big arts prizes - the Booker, the Turner, and the Mercuty, also released this week with a mix of Radio 1 pleasers (Alt-J, Ed Sheeran, Blossoms), and grime (Stormzy, J Hus) - seem to be struggling for relevance in an age where on the one hand the "game" is very much controlled by a non-pluralistic media, and on the other hand, where the best work is happening far away from the mainstream with little interest in being co-opted into "safe" spaces.

A Creative Mini-break

Mon, 10 Jul 2017 09:35:00 +0000

As a friend said, Manchester International Festival offers a "holiday in your own city" and to my shame the last couple of times I've hardly taken advantage of it: two years ago, I was busy with work and away for half of it and two years before I was recuperating from an eye operation and not feeling like excitement of any kind.

This year I took some time off, checked the schedule and decided that this middle weekend would be the perfect time for a creative mini-break. Life intervened as it always does, and a friend's 50th in London took me away for 24-hours. But, still, I feel like I've experienced a bit of MIF this year, and with a week of it still to go, it aint over yet.

A week before I'd gone to see New Order and attended the public event "What is the city but it's people?" a wonderfully life affirming piece of public art/theatre. Then this Wednesday it was the Manifest fringe arts festival launch - where the city's small galleries, pop up spaces, studios and project spaces come together for a city wide art tour. I saw a mesmerising performance from Ruby Tingle in Chethams on Wednesday before an impromptu MIF "gig" - minimalist composer William Basinski - at Festival Square. All of this and more I talk about in my new forum for everything arty and contemporary - my new Interesting Drug podcast which I hope to publish every three or four weeks for your listening pleasure. Its on Mixcloud so I can include music in the podcast - and its about 15 minutes of chat for 45 minutes of talking.

On Thursday night it was "Available Light" at the Palace Theatre, and tonight I'm going to "Returning to Reims" at HOME. During Friday I took advantage of the Manifest programme and visited a range of galleries and project spaces. Manifest is over for now, but some of the shows that are featured in it go on for a few days and weeks yet so check them out if you have the chance.
The swift trip to London was meant to include some more art but it was such a lovely day I just mooched around Russell Square, and dropped £50 on magazines and books at the LRB bookshop. London does sometimes seem to be a different city culturally as well as in every other way - there's simply not a bookshop in Manchester that matches LRB, Foyles, Tate Modern or a number of others unfortunately.

So last day of my cultural mini-break and its now raining - ah, Manchester, so much to sodding answer for indeed - so I'm going to write up a few poems, send a few off, and head into town later before the play at HOME. Next weekend as MIF comes to an end I'm seeing Lets Eat Grandma on Sunday afternoon before heading to Ceremony the final event near HOME/Bridgewater Hall.

My Life With New Order

Sat, 01 Jul 2017 09:01:00 +0000

It may seem ridiculous now, but at the time - 1982, 1983 - I had only the vaguest sense of the connection between Joy Division and New Order. I came to the former via the posthumous outtakes album "Still" - a life changing moment - but in those days the only way you found out about music was the weekly music papers, and they were not prone to nostalgia. That Ian Curtis had died, I must have known, but I don't think - coming to Joy Division after his death - that I knew what he looked like. Today, a large picture of him smoking a cigarette is the centrepiece of a new exhibition at "True Faith" the Manchester International Festival exhibition featuring work inspired by Joy Division and New Order at Manchester Art Gallery.In the mean time, my friend Dave said that New Order were the new band that had formed after Joy Division. Their first single, "Ceremony", did sound like the same band, though the vocal was tentative and back in the mix. In the mean time, the album, "Movement", looked unobtrusive with its blue abstract cover, and the music inside sounded equally tentative. The song I most liked, an outlier (as Peter Hook shares the vocal), was "Doubts Even Here."Yet over the next couple of years New Order became far more than the band that had come out of the tragedy of Joy Division. "Everything's Gone Green" with its obtuse title and slight dance feel, was good, "Procession" - its B-side - was as majestic as its title, but it was "Temptation" that glorious northern attempt at new wave soul, "oh you've got green eyes, oh you've got blue eyes....", that was the record I adored. It was - I think - the first single I bought with my own money. Going into the record shop....wait....going into John Menzies, the newsagents in Walsall, I asked behind the counter, I think, for the 12" but they only had the 7" in stock so I got that version and took it home and played it to death.Oddly enough New Order weren't the band who I loved most over the next few years. I tended to tape their records off Dave, who would religiously pick up each new single as it came out. He'd got a job at 16 after his YTS ended, so had more disposable income than me, staying on at sixth form, and then going to university. Yet along with the 3rd member of our group (and we were briefly a group - Damn the Visual - as well as a group of friends), Dan, we went over to Birmingham Powerhouse to see them. This must have been about 1984. By this time they'd released the seminal 12" "Blue Monday" as well as its follow up (which briefly I preferred) the out and out disco record "Confusion." "Blue Monday" was seminal to me in a number of ways. At a 5th year disco the girls danced, the boys didn't. No hardship, to a soundtrack of Wham! and Culture Club. Then on came "Blue Monday." "Come on guys," I said. "Let's dance." I danced. How I danced. If hearing "Still" had been the thing that freed up my ears, then that first dance to "Blue Monday" freed up my body. I danced. I danced to the beat. To the rhythm. People stopped what they were doing and watched. Over the next week I walked the corridors of the school to sounds of ridicule, and occasionally praise. I dared to break some kind of code that I didn't even understand. But I did understand the music. "Blue Monday" was modern music. In January 1984 I would take ownership of my beloved Roland Juno 6 synthesizer, a relationship that continues to this day, though without a drum machine or proper recording equipment the pristine modernism of "Blue Monday" was never achieveable.I seem to remember "Power, Corruption and Lies" being a bit of a disappointment - especially in relation to "Confusion" and "Blue Monday." The only pure electronic track - "586" - was sort of an early version of "Blue Monday" - the[...]

The End of Cultural History

Sun, 25 Jun 2017 22:09:00 +0000

When Fukuyama wrote about the "end of history" in 1992 he was prompted by the fall of communism in 1989. taking the intellectual gamble that the "cold war" and its ending was a defining moment. Debunked somewhat since - not least by 9/11 - there's a certain sense-making that went into that declaration. The short twentieth century would be one that began with the shooting of the Archduke Ferdinand and ended with the fall of the Berlin wall. Had she been of the persuasion to argue with cultural commentators, my grandmother (1904-2000) might have found a problem with such neat boundaries.It is in our nature - or at least it has been - to package up the past into manageable historical chunks. Whereas history follows the flow of political and economical upheaval, culture is both more malleable and more troublesome. We teach culture through its epochs, we exhibit it according to a timeframe, as a new show at Liverpool Tate - covering Weimar art 1918-1933 - again shows. Here a political boundary frames the cultural boundary; ending with an abruptness that we know from our history books - and from, say, Isherwood's "Goodbye to Berlin."I picked up an educational art book this week - "Modernism in Dispute" - which came out in 1993, and traces modernism throughout the 20th century. Its final chapter, through concentrating on the sixties, does include art up to a Richter picture from 1989, very close to the time of writing. Yet the 1990s seems the last point that we have a clear view of the cultural world with an obvious cut off point (the millennium), even if it is only now that we are beginning to historify those movements - YBAs, Britpop, grunge. A recent comeback by TLC, has seen some quick flicking through the cultural history books to anoint the original incarnation as the start of a process that continues unabated through Beyonce, Rihanna and the rest. Yet even the nineties seems under, or un-documented in some way. You'll look in vain for a book on the "nineties novel" for instance - though it can be argued that it was the high water mark for that form; and as for poetry any discussion of "modern" or "contemporary" poetry seems to stretch way back - the deaths of Hughes and Heaney hardly being enough to put them on the history shelves.I think part of the reason for this is that cultural lives are so much longer now than they used to be; with a demographic audience bulge - the baby boomers - refusing to give up house space (literally: they own all the houses) to the younger generation. So a venerable poet like Sharon Olds or Michael Longley can be shortlisted for contemporary prizes, not as a long service award, but on the merits of their work. (I won't comment on the merits - but it would an unusual poet to write their best work so late in their career.) The music industry is even more prone to this. At Glastonbury, at least one eighty something - Kriss Kristoffersen - was making his debut, whilst headliners included Barry Gibb, Chic and the Jacksons, which would have seemed historical in 1980. In this context the member for Islington appearing to rapturous crowds seemed positively youthful. Not that I'm not unaware of my own creeping years - with nineties icons Foo Fighters and Radiohead headlining two of the days, it could be argued it was a line up made for people now in or beyond their forties.The other reason we don't seem to have much cultural era-defining these days, is that the "end of history" was closely followed by a new year zero: with the creation of the world wide web. Someone somewhere should be doing a PhD on the relative "online" presence of cultural materials pre- and post- the web. From the mid-90s onwards, the breakdowns between eras has been stopped by us [...]

Manchester: City of Literature

Sun, 18 Jun 2017 18:46:00 +0000

On Thursday I attended the official launch for the bid for Manchester to become a UNESCO City of Literature, part of its creative cities network - an excellent initiative that sees cities worldwide networking and creating partnerships and exchanges through their mutual love of different art forms. I was at the launch a few years ago in Norwich when they announced their bid - and let's hope we're successful, and also, that it kickstarts a more wider understanding of Manchester's role as a literary as well as a sporting and music city. The full press release can be read here. It seems only appropriate, since its something I don't think I've blogged about directly before, to consider my own take on Manchester's literary history. On a personal level, if its true that I first came here for the music, I actually came back for the literature, specifically to study on an M.A. under Micheal Schmidt (who was there on Thursday) and Richard Francis at the University of Manchester.But outside of the personal, I think Manchester's literary history is undoubtedly tied up tightly with its political and economic history. Though the city goes ways back - to Roman times - the modern city is Victorian, though, arguably, we can see that over the last twenty years, its moving to a post-industrial architecture that sits along the Victorian, and it is the late twentieth century - of a declining urban centre - which is being erased. But one of the great things about books, of course, is that they can last much longer than the edifices that possibly inspired them. In a cosmic game of paper > scissors > stone paper outlasts stone more often than not; though Manchester's history has it both ways - a first folio of Shakespeare sitting in the gothic splendour of the John Ryland's library - one of the 4 libraries, alongside Chethams, Portico and Central - which sits at the heart of the Manchester bid.English literature casts long shadows, and its sometimes hard for newer trends to overthrow them. Its fulcrum remains London, of course, with its many publishing houses, and its multitude of writers. As the centre of political power it was always the centre of cultural power as well. Our poetry - rarely urban - nonetheless is centred on the capital, our most lauded writers, Shakespeare and Dickens are both umbilically linked to there. Yet, our literature when its mapped out - there are plenty of literary geography's of Britain - tends to be elsewhere: in the shire counties, in the market towns, particular of the English Midlands and later, at the political fringes, in Scotland, Wales or Ireland. In this context Manchester might seem a literary backwater: yet by the 18th century, with the industrial revolution in full swing, the burgeoning middle classes - made wealthy through this new industry - were creating the cultural institutions in the city that stand to this day: from the Lit & Phil, to the libraries, to the University. Yet, its not wrong to say that Manchester's literature was intrinsically linked to the age of enlightenment: where political tracts from Chartists to Marxists to Left book Club members sat alongside scientific literature, economics, and moral works from non-conformists preaching to the working classes.In such an age, imaginative literature sometimes seems an indulgence, and if there's a core failing in the city's literary figures, it might be this: that we are too drawn to realism. Yet that too has its advantages. Our earliest figurehead, Thomas de Quincey, is most famous for his "Confessions of an English Opium Eater", and the most interesting works about Manchester in the 1990s were Jeff Noon's "Vurt" and "Pollen", psychotropic cyberpunk fa[...]

Cop Hater by Ed McBain

Wed, 14 Jun 2017 18:31:00 +0000

I don't read that much detective fiction but when I do I've always liked the hard-boiled or the noirish. Oddly I've never picked up an Ed McBain before, despite being a big fan of one of the writer's other pseudonym's Evan Hunter, whose 50s jazz noir "Second Ending" is even more a favourite than "Blackboard Jungle" (the template for the notorious "Rock Around the Clock" film.) I picked up "Cop Hater" as its the first of his 87th Precinct novels. In an introduction to this reissue he talks about how he had the idea to write a series of books about a group of cops rather than a single cop or detective - and how any "murder" story tended to be a bit fake when the protagonist was anyone other than a cop - e.g. a private detective.

"Cop Hater" has the same clipped style I remember from the Hunter novels, but though a genre book, its not all about the action. Starting with the murder of a plain clothes policeman, this novel puts the precinct at the centre of the action - as the various cops we are introduced to are all potentially lined up as the next to be killed by the "cop hater." Yet McBain moves out of the precinct and into the homes of the men who have to keep the city safe. They are all individuals with their own personalities and home lives. Steve Carella and Hank Bush are the duty detectives who go out to find out why the first cop was murdered in cold blood. They find the smallest of clues: half of a footprint. First of all they think the answer must be in the files - particularly when the partner of the first cop is also killed. Yet they can't find any examples of motive.

The city - a city like New York in its size and ethnic mix, with a river running through it - is as much a character as any of the cops. Its the summer of a heatwave, and the heat makes everything seem hard work. The city newspaper, a scandal rag, is desperate for an angle, and wonders if its teenage gangs who have killed the cops. One journalist, Savage, starts taking things into his own hands, acting as an agent provocateur, leading to another cop being injured with a zip gun from one of the teenagers.

Carella is in love and his girlfriend, Teddy, is a deaf mute. He has promised to marry her, but like all cops' wives and girlfriends she fears for him not coming home. Meanwhile Carella can't get out of his head images of his partner Bush's descriptions of his florid wife, Alice, who always wears black lingerie. This is a book that is determined to be a raw and edgy read, and that kind of edge is what makes the book still highly readable so many years on. The 87th Precinct stories would continue throughout McBain's long career, all set in the same district of this imagined city.

It's been a really refreshing read - McBain's approach influencing later police dramas like "Hill Street Blues" whilst at the same time taking inspiration from "Dragnet" but taking things in his own gritty direction. I'm sure I'll look to reading some more after finally getting round to this "debut" episode.

EEK! by EEK! - new electronic music

Sun, 11 Jun 2017 11:12:00 +0000

EEK! by EEK! is a new project of electronic instrumental music. 8 tracks of jittery electronica taking in old school techno, acid and trance, and mixing with contemporary dubstep, glitch, its ideal for Sunday morning listening or Saturday night jigging around.

My first release for six months - this is a 30 minute side project that harnesses the digital sounds of the Korg Volca FM with the analogue Korg Monotribe, ably assisted by my venerable old Roland Juno 6.

Just over 30 minutes - across 8 instrumental tracks that are free to stream or downloadable for 25p each or £2 for the album. ENJOY THE EEK! 

The Sympathizer by Viet Thanh Nguyen

Sun, 28 May 2017 10:08:00 +0000

In this Pulitzer Prize winning debut novel Viet Thanh Nguyen tells the story of what happened after the Vietnamese war to the diaspora of his people, through the effective telling of its narrator, a Captain in the South Vietnamese army. From the start we know that the Captain is telling the story as a confession to the Commissar, and that he is was a spy on behalf of the Viet Cong. It is this retrospective telling, and the Captain's dual role, as being an intimate of the American-supported forces in Saigon, as well as an undercover agent, only known as such by his childhood friend Man, his "handler", that gives the tale its power. For here we have a classic unreliable, but compelling narrator, in the vogue of Tristram Shandy or Huckleberry Finn, a witness to events, but also, because of his "mole" status, a morally compromised one.Nguyen has said in an article that the novel was a long time coming and one can imagine why. The Vietnamese writer was born in 1970 and so is not the generation of the older captain, but finding a way of telling this story, one that has been so co-opted by the America that he went to and grew up in, cannot have been easy. The Vietnam war is perfect for there to be a "double agent" or a "mole". The Americans were always uncertain which Vietnamese could be VC. The Captain is also another kind of "double" for he is an outsider amongst his own society because of his parentage. The "bastard" son of a catholic priest and his much loved Vietnamese mother, he had grown up as someone unaccepted - until he discovers two close friends, Man and Bon, who become his blood brothers.The first scenes of the novel are both comic and filled with tension as we are in the last days of Saigon, and as the "fixer" to the General, our narrator is sorting out  a plane out of Saigon, arranged by the Americans, knowing that if they are left behind they will surely be massacred as Saigon gets sacked by the VC. Here is the conundrum of the spy. He is at the heart of the operation doing things to defeat an "enemy" who he actually supports. His job is to report back, it is his "handler" who has to decide what to do with the information. Suitable bribes are paid but its still a chaos at the airport as they escape and amongst those who don't make it are Bon's wife and child who are cruelly shot as they run for the replacement plane. Amongst the three friends, Man is the communist, Bon is on the side of the Americans and the Captain is in between, his other loyalty to their friendship.He gets out and to America and the General, his supporters, and their families are now in California, taking jobs in restaurants or as menial workers after once being part of the ruling class in their home country. The Captain seems happiest here. His ability with the language landing him work, and he even finds a lover through his job, an older woman at the university. It is a transactional relationship, which suits the spy. In America though, the General begins to develop the counter-revolution, wanting to build a force to send back to Vietnam, and begins soliciting support and money from American politicians. Through this an opportunity comes for the Captain to go to the Phillipines as an adviser to an auteur who is making a film about the Vietnam war. The novel begins feeling very much like a picaresque at this point, as these scenes of the post-Vietnam life are held together by the Captain's presence there. He is supposed to be there to make a more sympathetic portrayal of the Vietnamese - but this film is a fictionalised version of "Apocalypse Now", and the Vietnamese - extras pull[...]

A Sadder Manchester

Wed, 24 May 2017 20:03:00 +0000

I woke up in the early hours of Tuesday morning, and got up to get a glass of water. Checking my phone I saw that some people had declared themselves safe in Manchester - the Facebook application it uses during terror attacks. It couldn't be, could it?Of course, we now know that a murderer walked into the entrance of the Manchester Arena (still known as "Nynex" or "the M.E.N" depending on your age) and blew himself up in the most crowded area - as parents waited for their children to come out of the Ariane Grande concert, or were leaving quickly themselves. There are 22 dead, including the murderer, and a large number seriously injured. The home made bomb made to inflict the most damage. The youngest dead is an 8-year old girl.On the Monday morning I had been at a session with the leader of the council and the new chief executive, where the discussion had all been about planning for the future, and - despite all the cuts the public sector has faced since 2010 - a sense of hope and optimism. 24-hours later their agendas will have been upended, as the worst terrorist attack since 7/7 bombing in London, and the worst loss of life in Manchester since the second world war had taken place.A pop concert is the "softest" of targets of course, but along with football matches and shopping centres, its long been realised that this is the nightmare that we hoped would never happen. Its impossible to find the right words of course. On Tuesday the office was preternaturally quiet, as the need to get on with the mundane daily work was a relief from thinking too much about what had happened. By the evening their had been the announcement of a vigil outside the Town Hall. It was short, inclusive, poignant, with an absolutely on-point poem by my friend Tony Walsh aka Longfella Poet.There was hardly a space outside the Town Hall on the most gloriously sunny night of the year so far. The crowd though was a young one. The young of Manchester drawn from their daily business - work, school, college - knowing that there's nothing unusual about the rite of passage of a concert at the Arena, that it could have been any one of them there - not just the unlucky few amongst the 21,000 crowd. Afterwards I went for a beer with my friend, and then walking back an hour or so later, the square was still busy, as if people needed somewhere to be. The city hadn't shut down, the people hadn't cowed with fear, rather they had come to show they cared, they had a need to be part of something collective. I suspect part of the youth of the crowd was because older people - those with families - would have wanted to rush back to be with their own, to hug them tighter than before, to be with the ones they loved.I had tickets to see White Hills, a U.S. psych band, who were playing to less than a hundred people in the Soup Kitchen. A world away from the Arena, but connected as well - and they recognised how important it was that we'd still come out. Not an act of bravery, I think, more an act of confirmation - to our lives, to art. On the tram home there were Simple Minds fans from a gig at the Bridgewater Hall, whilst the Arena had cancelled, inevitably, that night's Take That concert.Manchester has been here before of course: though in the all the reminiscing about the 1996 I.R.A. bomb it suddenly dawns on us how lucky we were that it was a bomb aiming to destroy property, not to kill people, remarkable that nobody died (though a previous I.R.A. bomb had killed.) Time will tell how different this feels. It does seem a different world, but despite the pessimistic views of the right w[...]

In Favour of Artistic Failure

Wed, 17 May 2017 20:40:00 +0000

 Rovio published 51 games before it came up with "Angry Birds," Pulp had been going for a dozen years, releasing a stream of singles and albums, before "Common People" was a hit. In the "start up" and entrepreneurship field, the phrase "fail faster" is used to encourage a culture of constant reinvention, and in literature, of course, there is Beckett's ever useful line: "Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better." Yet when I think about artistic failure I don't think these really cut the mustard. Those games, those albums, are the finished article. They are perceived failures, but they were created with the idea of becoming a success. This year we've heard about the Swedish "Museum of Failure" with a corporate mis-steps such as Colgate Lasagne. We can learn more from failure, says its founder.Ah, this is getting closer. The thing about artistic failure is that it is more noble than success. The success is always, paradoxically, a failure in some way - for it is at a point of completion that is good enough to succeed, it is all it will ever be; whilst the artistic failure is still possible...the unwritten or unfinished possible. So we are intrigued by the film that was never completed, the song that has never seen the light of day, the work curtailed by death. "The Pale King" may never be as successful as "Infinite Jest" but it has one advantage over the earlier novel, because Foster Wallace died before it was completed it joins that list of might have beens. We can see the flaws in even a masterpiece like "The Great Gatsby" but in "The Last Tycoon" - unfinished at Fitzgerald's death, and with the completed parts as good as anything he'd written, we have the tantalising hope of what might have come. It's why "Sgt. Pepper" or "Pet Sounds" may never quite satisfy us as much as the unfinished - and belatedly completed "Smile". What might have been? In music we are seeing a sense of "completeness" - where we now have access to ALL of the recordings of "Like a Rolling Stone." We know that one we know so well is the work of genius, but seeing the versions that fell short, or may have gone in a slightly different direction is a fascinating stretch of history. Because however "perfect" the final rendition, these are still the works of man. A "live" creation on a particular day, or over a particular week or month, where a myriad choices lead to the finished work. What seems obvious now - when you listen to the mastertapes, was a result of chance, of serendipity - of Al Kooper happening to be in the studio and playing the organ that way... If the contemporary boxset reissue fascinates its less about this "versioning" I think - and more about the tantalising sketches that could have become something else. On The Police's last but one album they had a number one hit with "Every Little Thing She Does is Magic" a song that had lain unfinished from early in their career. This is not uncommon. We are finding out that Prince's back catalogue was a composite - similar to Neil Young, or even David Bowie at times - finding songs from earlier periods that "fit" and then completing them. Of less interest are the demos without the band of Robert Smith, or Fleetwood Mac. Those versions feel like templates of the more famous versions. I've been playing and compiling some old and new music of late, and in both cases, as I try and work out what is "the best" - or what tracks should make it onto my new album, I'm also drawn to the ones that didn't work out. I've got a natural sympathy fo[...]

Literary Friends

Sun, 14 May 2017 17:53:00 +0000

I'm pleased to say that two of my literary friends, both of whom I'll be performing new stories alongside at Didsbury Arts Festival on 1st July (book tickets here - more info later), have - coincidentally - book launches next week.

I say coincidentally, since whilst David Gaffney's novel "All the Places I've Ever Lived" has been out a few weeks, Nicholas Royle's collection of short stories, "Ornithology", is not officially out till June.

Nonetheless, if you're in Manchester this week, you'll have a chance to hear both authors read, and, yes, to buy copies of their lovely new books.

Nicholas Royle is reading with the other Nicholas Royle (he has a thing about Doppelgangers) at Anthony Burgess Foundation on Tuesday 16th May - free, but book your place here.

David Gaffney is reading at The Wonder Inn, on Shude Hill, on Thursday 18th May - with support from poet Tom Jenks, and the sprightly (and literary-inclined) guitary-pop band Hot Shorts.

 Circle those dates in your diary RIGHT NOW.

Archiving My Music

Sun, 14 May 2017 08:42:00 +0000

As some readers will remember, I also write and record music, mostly electronic, usually, though not always, vocal. I began recording in 1982 when I was 15 and just had two tape recorders, one to play in the background whilst the microphone on the other picked this up as backing and I would play and or sing over the top. I recorded pretty much constantly until the late 1990s, first on 4 track cassette and then belatedly to digital - though never directly to the computer - though from 1998-2007 it became very much an occasional hobby. On getting a new 8-track in 2007 I decided to take it seriously again, and have over the last 10 years recorded 8 albums and a wide range of E.P.s and singles mostly available online under the name Bonbon Experiment. My website contains these in order pretty much from "Vertical Integration" through to last year's 3 "Test Pressing" recently I've been archiving the period 1985-90, a prolific period, between the age 18 and 23, when I recorded 14 cassette albums and many more side projects under a range of different names. Its a massive amount of material. This was the period when I first got a 4-track cassette recorder, until I started using a reverb unit in 1991 which changed my sound quite considerably. I've managed to squeeze this period into 7 "CDs" which alongside the 2-CD nineties compilation "Nineties Sell Thru" and "Digital-Analogue" which mops up the period up to "Vertical Integration" in 2007, creates a 10-CD archive collection of sorts.LINKS are as follows -:The 4-Track Years Vol.1. 1985-6 Part 1The 4-Track Years Vol.1. 1985-6 Part 2The 4-Track Years Vol.2. 1987-8 Part 1The 4-Track Years Vol.2. 1987-8 Part 2The 4-Track Years Vol.2. 1987-8 Part 3The 4-Track Years Vol.3. 1989-90 Part 1The 4-Track Years Vol.3. 1989-90 Part 2Nineties Sell Thru (1990-8) Vol. 1Nineties Sell Thru (1990-8) Vol. 2Digital-Analogue (1998-2007). Compiling the past is an endless job of course - but hopefully this means that the majority of the music that I'm happy to keep is now online - though of course the original albums all have their own "charm" - for anyone who has at least a passing interest in what I've been doing over the years, or is interested to see my progression - or lack of - as I work within a pretty familiar sonic palate, of synth, drum machine and vocals. The task of "compiling" is never over of course, and I'm sure I'll do a compilation of the last ten years at some point, but its usually good to do it at a "pause" and this year alone I'm expecting to be releasing two new albums in the forthcoming months, so probably now's not a good time.As someone who continues to make music into his fifties, I can't help but notice that the 4-track years in particular are very much a "young man's music" - there's a yearning, for life, for love, for music itself. My "talent" if I have one in this area is not that of a musician or a singer (though I'm impressed by what I've done with my limited voice over the years) but an interest and an ability to create sounds, and songs from a recording set up that's not that pretty much remained a "bare minimum". There are songs here I wish I'd taken more time over, sloppy lyrics, glitches in recording and performance, but its "outsider" music in some sense. It's also a bit of a time capsule - listening to the 4-track albums in particular I've been taken back to exact time, place and circumstance, not always that happily, and these songs act as some kind of audio diary. That said, the autobiographic[...]

Classical Music Today

Wed, 10 May 2017 20:48:00 +0000

Ex-ACE head Alan Davey is now at the steer for Radio 3, the BBC's classical music station. He writes an interesting piece in the Guardian that posits classical music's future as being about having a "counter cultural place in society." There's much to agree with in the article - but I'll comeback to that slightly startling statement later.Growing up, classical music hardly impinged on my life at all. My dad had the usual Mantovani and other Readers Digest boxsets, but whereas I explored his Beatles albums, I don't think these ever came out of the box. Music in school was staid and horrible; focused on teenage string players, and a mix of light classical and show tunes. When I did start obsessing about music, the idea that pop and rock were anything "worthy" was never ever considered. My sister, a diligent musician, ended up playing in the Staffordshire Youth Orchestra, and the establishment nature of that world - concerts in cathedrals, formal dress, a repetoire of pre-20th century composers - was something that I was aware of, but wilfully ignored.Where "classical music" came into my life it was in some of the more dramatic pieces used in films - particularly Carl Orff's atypical piece that was used in "The Omen."By the time I was at University, I had an understanding that there was another classical music - the experimental and 20th century repetoire - and Philip Glass soon became a favourite via the film "Koyanisquatsi" and his album "Glass Works". But the big pop cultural hit of the early 80s was the risible "Amadeus" movie, which took Mozart's life and rewrote it at baroque soap opera. When I got a CD player, cheap CDs from Naxos, tempted me to build a small classical collection - "Night on Bare Mountain", "Symphony Fantastique", "The Four Seasons" - but little more.Aged 50, I'd almost rather go to a classical concert than a rock gig these days. But this hasn't been that traditional mellowing of taste - rather a sense that the "complexity" that Davey talks about is exactly what I'm looking for in the modern classical tradition. Alex Ross's superb "The Rest is Noise" gave me an "in" to 20th century repetoire that I read alongside listening to the downloads of the tracks he talked about. More recently I've been picking up classical vinyl, figuring (correctly), that these old records will have been either well looked after or hardly played at all.Yet my classical interests are primarily 20th century - and even into a liking for the living composer. I'm very excited to be finally seeing a John Adams piece in Manchester as part of this year's Manchester International Festival  (what took you so long MIF?); had a great night at the Red Room Sessions in Salford a month or so ago, tempted by the BBC Phil performing of Darius Milhaud, and on Saturday I go to Liverpool for a unique performance of Pierre Henry's Liverpool Mass, in the Roman Catholic Cathedral, for which it was written fifty years ago.Younger classical musicians know that repetoire is critical - and that expanding the repetoire beyond the "crowd pleasers" of Mozart, Beethoven and Bach is important for both their own art, and the artform. Yes, as Davey says, there is classical music in pubs and bars - and there is certainly a thriving experimental music scene whcih is likely to be "classical" in inclination as to incorporate jazz, folk and rock noises. Yet I'm not sure to what extent Radio 3 reflects that in its regular programming. Riskier that Classic FM it maybe, b[...]

The Fast Year

Sat, 29 Apr 2017 10:17:00 +0000

I had ten days off at Easter/ Time enough to catch up with a few things, but I didn't even get round to reading a book. The last two novels I've started haven't really grabbed me - both contemporary novels they seem sluggish and unengaging. I'll plough on, but wonder if its these particular books - minor works by writers I've previously enjoyed - or something in my patience these days. Maybe I only have time for good books, brilliant books, original books.... but how to find them?

It does seem like the year is moving at apace. Somehow we're back in election cycle again. Maybe this is the new barometer of economic activity? Have more frequent elections with all the costs, all the nonsense, and then see what happens? Anyway more on that another time perhaps.

There have been a lot of cultural things going on. I'll mention a few in case you've missed them, or simply to say thanks.

Mystery Tubes - not an event, but an initiative from Islington Mill as part of its innovative fundraising methods to match fund the public money to restore and expand provision at this amazing building. For £25, a tube with original art contained within from a range of contemporary artists who've contributed to help fundraising for this unique venue. There's a Heath-Robinson style vending machine in Fred Aldous art shop in the Northern Quarter.

Making Space by Sarah Tierney - though its hard to believe its so long ago, I first met Sarah Tierney as she studied on the same creative writing course as me but a year or two after. She's always worked as a journalist and had a few things published over the years, but "Making Space" is her debut novel - and was launched at Waterstones last week. An unorthodox love story that covers mental health, urban living, Whalley Range, growing up in your twenties and hoarding - I'm looking forward to it, although a friend read a bit about the "hoarding" and said "is this you?"

All the Places I've Ever Lived by David Gaffney - plenty of anticipation for David Gaffney's 2nd novel, and maybe his sixth or seventh book - a novel set in West Cumbria, that not so much mixes genres as leaps over genre-distinctions without a second thought, I read and enjoyed parts of this as it was being written - and you can hear it in and around Manchester in the forthcoming weeks with a launch event at the Wonder Inn on Shude Hill on Thursday 18th May with support from rock 'n' roll-literary types Hot Shorts and poet, man-about-town Tom Jenks.

All The Sins - this is an online magazine going from strength to strength and I'm pleased to have two poems "Artist Pop" and "Joni" in its latest edition.


Sat, 15 Apr 2017 07:31:00 +0000

Bank Holidays - the Easter one in particular - should be a time for reflection. The endless UK winter suddenly seems to have given way to nights that stretch past eight o'clock, and with the usual "delays for rain", even some sunny days.I finished work a day and a half early - time owed from end of March - though fitting holiday time in at the moment has been a challenge. Twas ever thus.On Wednesday I'd planned to go to see some countryside - perhaps heading to Todmorden or Hebden Bridge but it was the kind of endless rain thats fine weather only for the ducks. Instead I headed down to Macclesfield, which, despite passing through on hundreds of occasions, I'd never been to. I didn't get to do any sort of Ian Curtis pilgrimage (that rain again), but had a wander round the small market town, and found an excellent second hand record shop, as well as the usual charity shop trawl which came up with at least one gem. a UK first edition Tom Wolfe. I was a big fan of "The New Journalism" back in the day, finding the hyperbolic prose and the counter-culture subject matter equally enthralling.Coming back into Manchester there was a launch for the new edition of  "The Modernist" magazine - this time to coincide with the exhibition at Manchester Central Library of GALT TOYS.   I'm not sure I ever had any Galt toys, though there was a vague familiarity about the designs. Maybe I was just a little too young, or more likely, Galt toys were a bit outside of our price bracket.On Thursday I had agreed to help out the Manchester music archive with some testing of a redesign of their website which will be launched in June alongside their next real world exhibition. I've been involved with the archive since it began and it remains - like the Modernist Society - one of those Manchester-evolved gems that has come from genuine need and genuine passion.The city's buildings-led arts regeneration would be just a series of empty boxes without these voluntary led initiatives. Rushing straight from that HOME, the point was brought home, in that they're increasingly putting on side-events and providing local showcases, alongside the main theatre, art and cinema offering. A large marquee outside has been programming bands, musicians and DJs, to coincide - however tangentionally - with the Viva! Spanish film festival and the new art show, La Movida. On all weekend if you're looking for something to do. I didn't get much of a chance to look in detail at the show - the usual preview curse - but pleased to see there's a new commissioned film about Savoy Books by my friend Clara, as well as appropriate archive work from Derek Jarman and Linder amongst others. There's a lovely irony that the Lord Mayor of Manchester was there at the opening of a show which is merciless in its criticism of "God's Cop", James Anderton. It struck me that the "culture wars" of the seventies and eighties have been replaced with something different - about money, austerity, globalisation - and the sexual politics inherent in a show like this (echoing the Spanish post-Franco "La Movida" movement) might appear to be a mere historical moment - (and then you read about concentration camps for gay people in Chechen, Russia's assault on minorities, the repression of much of the Islamic world of LGBTQ, religious and female freedoms...and think, maybe not.).Outside of HOME, the marquee provided a warm place on a cold evening, and[...]