Music Manager Review: Paul Harrison

It’s a scientific fact that Chemotherapy patients’ hair falls out because; what with the enormously complex goings-on in their body, God hasn’t got enough memory to render it. Similarly singers, despite their Genius, are so preoccupied with aurally manifesting the metaphysical, that they often rely on a secondary brain to tackle the hurly burly of the business we call ‘show’.

Talent alone is all good and well, but if that isn’t exploited to the maximum and monetised, it’s nothing. The Music Manager is the true artist at work, the conduit through which God speaks to us. Yet he gives himself selflessly to the cause of his client, knowing that the greatest of successes could result only in his replacement.

There’s a scene in a film which perfectly expresses the metaphor I’m looking for, but I haven’t seen it, so I’ll make one up:

We had the good fortune to go tete-a-tete with Paul Harrison, Manager of up and coming Salfordian chanteuese Ren Harvieu, who was possibly upset at Sir Ian Morgan’s Heron-Centric grading scale, and its application to Ren’s new single ‘Through The night’ which yielded only 5 Herons. Though most likely he was enraged by Sir Ian’s dissection of the ludicrously grandiose Bio he had written for her, seeing it as a brazen attack on his man(ager)hood. 

Given the fate outlined in that excerpt from the screenplay for 'SWEFFORD TAFT: FUTURE SQUAD', we expected the snarling back-alley savagery of a cornered and cornholed Honey Badger, but never could we have reckoned on the cerebral subterfuge that ensued...

The night the article was published, a man called ‘Paulo’ contacted us, someone who coincidentally shares the same email address of ‘Paul Harrison, Manager of Ren Harvieu’ (We found this out by having our team of haxxors run said email address through a computer-tool called ‘Google’). Our correspondence was as follows:

Paulo paullus2000@hotmail.com                         Jan 31

Hello,

I'm putting a piece together about the northwest's best and realest

blogs/websites/zines and think The Mancunia should be featured for it's

intelligent, articulate and biting writing.

Would you guys be up for an interview?

*According to Urban Dictionary ‘Realest’ is a real word:           

  

Were we in danger of inadvertently starting a Trans-Irwell turf war with Salford’s Suge Knight?

Meanwhile, in the Twitterverse, Ren Harvieu herself was applying her own Avian grading system to Sir Ian's review (we got 1 duck.).

                       

to Paulo                                                   Jan 31

Dear Phallus2000,

How's it going, y'alright cock?

Would love to do a meet-up, give you the skinny on our mission. We've been languishing out here in the recognition-wilderness, for too long. Thanks for inviting us in from the cold, you can give yourself a little pat on the back for that.

What I was thinking is our local, Billy Greens in Collyhurst. I know the manager, and if we get in for about 10:30, he'll give us some time alone while the bar keeps ticking over.

It's funny you should write as this time, call it serendipity if you will; we were just talking about writing an exposé on the formidable intellect of music managers.

Let us know what's good for you.

The Mancunia

To which Paulo (or PAUL HARRISON, as his email identified him) replied…

Paul Harrison paullus2000@hotmail.com                                                Feb 1

                       

Thanks for getting back to me.

That sounds good.

In order to prep could you give me a little background on your writers please? Age/town/musical tastes/writing inspirations/a short background please?

Thanks

The Mancunia
to Paulo


Hello.


Herein lies the information procured on your behalf to assist the coverage of our magnificent website.


Call us silly geese if you will, but for one bonkers moment, we forgot to ask which publication you're writing for?


I assume whatever the name of your publication, its efforts are sterling, and its penmanship renowned globally, I'm sure.


If we failed to provide you with the information you require, we are always available via email.


Mancdaciously yours,
The Mancunia

DREW FOLEY

Currently entrenched in his bunker near Moss Side, a suburb of Manchester, Drew Foley, born in 1984, does not fit the mould of the normal Mancunian, mainly because he isn’t from Manchester, he just found himself here.

A youth spent with a keen interest in public affairs and learning card tricks set the young Drew up for high school where academic achievement was put aside in the quest for musical pleasure. Passions for political literature, as well as religious opinion sat side by side with stand up comedy and professional wrestling. He is also the inventor of his own professional wrestling finishing move, The ‘Original Sin’

Thinking that the fun had gone out of music, and sick of Britpop albums with only one decent energetic song surrounded by multitudes of ballady acoustic pap, Drew searched for something else, focusing himself on the Southern California punk scene and found renewed passion for lyrics and leftism. Brief flirtations with many other genres followed before Drew settled on the smorgasbord of musical loves and loathes, and played his way through a multitude of different bands.

In finding music, Drew found himself and one of the great loves of his life, drinking copious amounts of Real Ale and writing about beer experiences for several local CAMRA publications and websites. Working various customer facing jobs selling just about anything to support himself, Drew also learned to loathe the corporate machines he worked for and enjoyed surreptitiously undermining their efforts by sending letters disguised as disgruntled customers to newspapers and radio stations.

As a man, Drew likes statistics and lists and will often be found debating his top ten anythings, which will change depending on his blood alcohol level. He also appreciates people with opinions and is never shy at offering his. If you want to buy him a drink, a dark ale or a strong IPA will suffice, Marstons Old Empire is the obvious choice, although he'll accept a Fullers ESB.

KATHLEEN SAROS

Kathleen Saros - age 32.
Brought up in Peel Hall, now finds herself meandering around the outskirts of the city, eventually calling Longsight her home.

Kathleen spent 3 years studying politics and creative writing at Manchester Met, and it was here that she decided that ultimately, she wanted no real part in any occupation stemming from either of these subjects.

Instead, she spent the following 5 years after her degree working on and off for various charitable causes. Many charity events entailed the unexpected use of photography, and it was during this period her love for photography grew.

In 2007, after receiving an open-invitation from her Aunt in Maine, USA (whom was a writer herself, and Kathleen's main inspiration since childhood) Kath decided to up-sticks and soar over the shimmering Atlantic to experience America for herself. This is where Kathleen's real voyage of self-discovery began.

The people and surroundings of the small town of Cabot Cove were a dazzling contrast to her home town of Peel Hall; it was beautiful, serene and adjacent to the coast. Faring well in her new laid-back lifestyle, the art of photography came even more naturally to Kathleen, winning several notable prizes for her landscape photography, as well as portraits of local characters she befriended during her time there. Her proudest moment was receiving 1st prize in the highly-competitive "Amos Tupper Foundation" annual photographic competition.

After 2 years of traveling and photographing the local vicinity of Maine, Kath knew something was a-miss. As much as she loved the sleepy harbor of the cove, spending warm summer starlit nights exploring the ruins of Whipstaff Manor in the local village of Friendship and whiling-away her mornings reading the "dailies" with an all-American cup of Joe amongst the locals in the "Quality Café" - the hustle and bustle of Manchester swirled-still, deep within her heart.

Here we can skip forward to late 2010. Kathleen waved farewell (but not goodbye) to Cabot Cove, taking with her the photographic memories and writing inspiration once again granted by her Aunt. Kathleen found a small den she could call home, and took upon ingratiating herself back into the Manchester arts scene.

Kathleen can't name a top 10 of artists, books or films, as she feels there are too many she holds equally precious, but says the most important and moving song, lyrically, is "The Greatest Love of All", and believes it should be commandeered by the educational system as an everyday "modern hymn" to teach children the importance of strength of character and self-worth.

IAN MORGAN

Ian Morgan, 36, is an avid golfer, an avid Tonbridge Angels supporter, an avid 1960's music lover, and he likes cinema films, such as E.T. The extraterrestrial and the Jaws “quadrilogy”. He lives in Tonbridge with his wife, Mary Morgan-Tonbridge (48), his two sons, Adam and Vivian (both 6), and a small, mean-spirited cat-type animal. The cat-type animal is called Chestnut. Nobody knows how old Chestnut is.

Since the age of about 9, with a brief interlude between the ages of 15-22, Ian has been a fan of music. Right now, he can't stop listening to Jack Off Jill, Flyleaf, Exilia, Otep, BarlowGirl, Emilie Autumn, Tristania, The Divine Madness, Eyes Set to Kill...and other 1960's stuff like that. About those bands and artists, he is avid.

Two years ago, Ian was diagnosed with intestinal worms. He was forced to quit his job – he worked as a sewerman – and into an involuntary convalescence, where he discovered literature. Among his literary heroes, he counts the controversial Jeffrey Archer, the enigmatic Dan Brown, and the a bit hit-and-miss William Shakespeare.

With the intestinal worm colony in his gut shrunken down to a few hardened individuals, Ian looks to the future. The future is yours, Ian. Fly, Ian. Fly.

Fly.

CHESTER WHELKS

Born St Mary's Hospital, May 4th, 1979 (the Day Margaret Thatcher seized the office of Prime Minister)

Swefford "Chester Whelks" Taft caught 'the Midnight Disease' as an infant: Enthralled by the literary greats (Stevenson, Tolkien, Twain) his Trade Unionist  father would relentlessly read to tire his crepuscular mind into a whimsical sleep, he displayed a nascent wordplay far predating the ability to read. 

A precocious child, the young Swefford often found it hard to fit in. Thought of as a savant by many of his teachers, and frustrated at the remedial curriculum, he would often become disruptive, resulting in frequent exclusions from the classroom.

Taft found his calling when, attending the Radio One Road Show's call at the G-Mex in 1995, his LSD flavoured fury led him to throw a can of Tango at a member of Boyband MN8 while they mimed 'I've Got A Little Something For You'. This anger spilled over into a feverishly written review, which to his surprise was accepted for publication in Melody Maker, sparking a new and enduring interest in Music Journalism.

He has been criticised for his over-reliance on alliteration, which he swats away, describing it as a necessary evolution of his thought process, or "Spontaneous Narrative Parkour" (SNP). The rhymes, always relevant - born of the subconscious - supply a momentary foothold for the one way rock-hop he's blindly set out upon.

Chester Whelks currently writes for various websites on both sides of the Atlantic.

Waiting for Whitney to Cark It

Is anyone else sick of this Whitney Houston thing yet? Yes, she’s dead; she died, in a hotel, in a bath, pumped full of alcohol and drugs. 3 American television channels cancelled all their programming for round the clock coverage of her death. There was a report in the Manchester Evening News. There are people all over the world crying their eyes out for this person they've never met, or even know.

She is frequently cited as one of the most influential musicians of any generation. She won over 400 different awards for various things and has sold 170 million records.

I can't jump on this bandwagon.

In her entire studio album career, spanning 6 albums (3 of which had practically the same fucking name, she’s as imaginative as a fucking carrot that one), and 2 soundtrack albums, she wrote 2 songs. 2 fucking songs, so apparently she’s a fucking songwriter. She also did vocal arrangements, which basically means she decided where to sing, or to put it another way, she listened to the songwriter then filled every song with that warble-y shite that female vocalists seem to love. Musicians would call it a trill, vocalists call it vibrato, and I call it a fucking abomination. She chose who she wanted to produce an album, so she's a producer. By this logic, I'm a vocalist, backing vocalist, vocal arranger, transposer, guitarist, guitar tech, bassist, bass tech, percussionist, drummer, songwriter, arranger, transcriber, studio tech, producer, mixer, runner, audio engineer, mastering engineer, A&R, marketing, artist, liaison, and sales, as well as a band member.

It's official. I'm the greatest man who ever lived.

She also never played an instrument, so I’m struggling to see how she can be classed as a musician if she can’t read music or play an instrument. I get sick of the attitude towards vocalists. There are very few bands in which the singer was the best part. If they are writing their own lyrics, then there is something to hook onto but these overblown divas? They are little more than puppets. The songs they sing are traded from singer to singer based on what their management want to push next, all the time being told they are quite literally gods gift. They are overexposed and over-loved, this leads to the fawning attitude.

I fucking hate the fawning. She must have had one of the cleanest arses in America. The amount of tongues up there must have been sickening for the poor mare. You’re so brave Whitney, you’re so beautiful Whitney, you’ll get through it Whitney, We understand you Whitney. It’s a shame they don’t say the same things to people who have real problems. Whitney Houston was, for years, a crack-head of immense proportions, whilst raising her children on the fucking television in a car crash for all of us to see. This I don’t understand. Why are people on the street addicted to crack vilified but somehow Whitney is OK because she’s Whitney.

Michael Jackson was the same, he basically got off all the charges because parents in America didn’t want to believe that Michael Jackson wanted to put wine in a coke can, call it Jesus Juice, get their kids drunk and then fuck them. That was all he was doing. The words “I never had a childhood” is not a defense open to the common man.

There were people looking up to this wreck, all because in 1987 she had a voice and a cheeky smile. An interview she gave in 2009 was billed as “The most anticipated music interview of the decade”. The fucking decade? Jesus Christ. You know what she said in this interview? She said she'd been using copious amounts of drugs, for years and years. Really? I had to wait a whole decade for that pearl of fucking wisdom. I knew that in 1996. It's not like all these signs weren't there. She was relying on technology to keep her voice in check, she had been fired from musicals and performances for “erratic behavior” and she was taking every substance she could get her hands on. She couldn't see the line because it had gone up her nose.

The thing that really annoys me is that her voice isn't really all that good. I find it quite weak. I think that when she is really pushing it, she straddles that line between feedback and strangled cat. She never wants to hold a note. She just wants to move around it. It makes her sound totally indecisive. It's not an attractive type of singing. The absolute worse thing is the plethora of amateurs who then try it. They sound even worse. At least the studio magic keeps Whitney's voice on a note that kind of makes sense. Karaoke nights are full of wannabe girls machete their way through these soft pop ballads all being sold the same fucking dream.

Whitney Houston could have been replaced by anybody. It's quite simple. She was lucky, she happened to be singing in the nightclub Clive Davis happened to walk into. There were hundreds of others, some were probably in the night club next door, but Whitney happened to be chosen. It's the dream. Comes from nothing because of this “special” talent. Our music industry, press, venues, and everything else are part of a machine selling us this dream because it's cheap. They are shitting on us from a great height and loving it. Rags to riches. With as little work and effort as possible. It makes you wonder why you fucking bother.

And you know she isn't going away. There will be literally hundreds of recordings that have been kept back. RCA have been waiting for Whitney to cark it. The amount of re-releases in time for Christmas will be totally sickening. Then, when that's all died down, someone will have been searching in the vaults and will have found something that's never been heard by anyone. Something that was lost in 1987 and has honestly not been kept in the warehouse in the future obituary section, alongside Mariah Carey, Britney Spears, Barbara Streisand and Justin Bieber.

Dealers in dreams and death.

I'd say good riddance, but there's always another one around the corner.

Review: Ren Harvieu - "Through the Night"

There's a heron in the music video and her online biography is funny: Ren Harvieu

Ren Harvieu has a single out - Through the Night. It has singing and drums and a promotional video shot using the instagram app for iPhone. I think it is the sort of thing the cast of (new) Dr Who would listen to in-between takes. Here is Matt Smith sitting on a hollow plastic gravestone listening to Ren Harvieu on the radio; once again he is trying to find the courage to be eccentric in a way the Americans will enjoy, in a way they will think of as quintessentially British. The red-haired sidekick woman creeps up behind him wearing a cyberman mask. She grabs his shoulder. Matt jumps. In a robot voice she says: 'straighten that bow-tie you cunt, we've got a scene in five minutes.' She drops the mask and falls about laughing. Matt Smith watches her with a set expression. There was a time when he found her attractive...

One remarkable thing about 'Through the Night' is, there's a heron in the music video.

If you want to see the heron, but don't want watch Ren having a sexual epiphany in the shadows, the only apparent stimulus being the sound of her own singing voice, skip to 53 seconds, then press stop at 55 seconds. Remember to press stop at 55 seconds.

I give the song 5 herons out of 10 (herons), and at least two of those herons are down to heron in the music video. To put that score in context, I only gave Florence and the Machine's last single 2 herons. Some people said 2 herons was harsh, but what those people didn't realise is, that review was only out of 3 herons.

I used to know someone whose surname was Heron.

 

This is the end of my music review.

This is the beginning of my review of Ren Harvieu's biography - her snivelling, portentous biography - which you can read here.

It is very funny.

At the top of the page, there are two quotes from selected press reviews:

“A voice to die for“ Grazia

“She reveals her remarkable voice, a tender and muscular organ, that evokes some of the great divas of bygone years.” The Observer

Whoever wrote '...tender and muscular organ...' had porn open in another window.

The biography is too long to go over line by line (which is funny  in itself), so, for ease of slyness, I have identified four broad categories of things to pick fun at. The categories are as follows:

1. Assertions that Ren is down-to-earth.
2. Lines so hokey, it's hard to believe they weren't intended to be funny. 
3. Cynical and repeated evocation of back injury. 
4. Claims on the supernatural/that Ren is exceptional/that the hand of god is at work.

There is also an informal fifth category: things that can only have been written by Alan Partridge. I will highlight these as they arise by underlining them.

Here are five examples from each category (my comments are in [] brackets):

1. Assertions that Ren is down-to-earth

1. ...her manner as down-to-earth as the streets of Broughton in Salford, which is where she was born [what a stroke of luck to be born in the exact place you just happen to be as down to earth as. I'm as down to earth as Donetsk in the Ukraine, but I was born in Bristol]...
2. ...schooled in dusty youth club contests rather than star-spangled pop schools...
3. Although Ren loved music, she wasn’t a diva in the slightest. She just wasn’t arsed, she laughs [it's a strange thing, not being arsed to be a diva].
4. She was happier in lock-ins with friends than out in the spotlight.
5. She’ll remember her Dad’s stories, his old lessons in stagecraft: ‘back against the wall, chest out, hit ‘em’. She’ll remember the teachers who told her she couldn’t sing, who have recently tried to befriend her on Facebook – she clicks ignore when she sees them, and beams broadly as she does so [needless to say, Ren had the last laugh].

2. Lines so hokey, it's hard to believe they weren't intended to be funny.

1. So here she still is – and how she sings.
2. her voice transports us to a place where youthfulness becomes yearning, where dreams become dramas, and music aches longingly, full of beauty and power.
3. [This whole paragraph] Her first song was Through The Night, and she still hears a shy girl in its old-fashioned swing [what?]. In Twist The Knife, she hears a young soul too, but also a mood starting to reach out to the ears beyond the room [what?]. Once the mood reaches you, you will hear something extraordinary [what?]. In Tonight, a new soundtrack queen finds her feet [w...]. In Do Right By Me, a country soul is set free [no]. In Forever In Blue, we return to a time of Autumn Leaves, sentimental journeys, flying to the moon [WHAT!?]. We hear an effortless vocal with no flounces or fuss, stunning us every time it soars [gnuuuuuuffffffgghhh].
4. Protective friends were told she was now like the Bionic Woman, a girl with metal in her spine, even more iron in her will.
5. Then Ren will open her mouth, and start to sing; as she does, a new angel of the North will ascend.

3. Repeated, cynical evocation of back injury.

[Now, it really does sound like a terrible accident, but I think the author has chosen to present it in a cynical manner. Ren is being sold to us as 'the girl who recovered from a back injury' just as much as she is 'the singer with talent'. The story has been drawn out to a morbid extent and it has a kind of sinister, ingratiating tone...which is quite funny. It's basically one of those x-factor back (no pun intended) stories.]

1. ...only four months after she thought she would never walk again, she is walking back to us.
2. How close these came to these being her first and only recordings; how close she came to these being her legacies.
3. She remembers every moment: the voices around her, the lack of feeling in her legs, the sensation that this was it, this is how it ends.
4. In this specialist unit, she had the worst injury on the ward, and many of her fellow patients had been told they would never walk again. 
5. Ren’s brush with death has given her life so much more depth, she says. She was determined before; just imagine how much she is now [when I try to imagine, I just see  herons].

4. Claims on the supernatural/that Ren is exceptional/that the hand of god is at work. 

1. She had no idea why she kept performing; something kept her going [this 'she did not know why' stuff crops up several times throughout the biography, and, interestingly, as a lyric in Through the Night – which makes me think Ren herself is the author].
2. She was shy as a child, observing everyone while the world whirled around her [I hear it was the same with Leonardo Da Vinci], soaking up the music she loved like a sponge [sponges soak up water, not music].
3. By a miracle, she calls it – her first one, before the huge one [meaning her recovery] – manager Paul Harrison chanced upon her page, falling in love with her lovely young blues [' lovely young...soft, yielding, boob-– BLUES'].
4. She was a strange one, she knew that [Ren uploads bathroom mirror shot to facebook. The caption: I'm a strange one].
5. [The night the accident happened] It felt strange from the start, she says; as if something was going to happen.
6. But somehow, Ren could feel things. Doctors kept asking if she had any sensations; one day she was able to move her legs like she was cycling. After six weeks, she wheelchaired [WHEELCHAIRED] herself into the kitchen to make a cup of tea; her doctors shaking their heads, not knowing how this was happening [the kettle wasn't even plugged in]. The day she washed her hair by herself, she knew she would be alright. She left the hospital in August, walking with a cane; she is now getting better, slowly but surely, every day.

There needed to be six in that last one.

The biography puts me in mind of Darth Vader's hypothetical bum flap. On the one hand, it has been designed to look all sleek and stern, painted a particularly evil shade of black by a team of grim-faced Imperial engineers with British accents, but on the other hand it's a bum flap. And bum flaps are funny.

Imagine Darth Vader's changeless facial expression, that sick, raspy breathing. At last he is alone. His gloved hand creeps toward his chest plate. He fingers the glowing red button, the one that nobody is allowed to ask about – it's the bum flap release. He presses it. The bum flap falls open behind him. More laboured, mechanical breathing. A bloodless Sith bottom marked by strange scars and dead veins protrudes through the newly opened orifice. It seems tentatively to sniff the air: an uncertain badger on the cusp of twilight. He's been needing this dump for ages.

Rockport : Faith, Shoes and Charity

Rockport have given you a brief to design 8 pieces for their new range. Yes, Rockport - the shoe people.
It's not so much knitwear at this point, but casual menswear, predominantly shirts and t-shirts.

Clothes must designed with the following "target market" in mind:

• 18-32 years old
• Reads "Lads' Mags" such as "Nuts", "Zoo and "FHM"
• Works for the weekend
• Trend Driven
• Is a follower, rather than a leader
• Likes girls, sports and beer

God, that marketing is scary, it's like describing the 6 pillars of Scallydom, maybe it's a religion and Rockport is it's God...

Possibly...

But maybe they are trying to get me, and convert me. Maybe they know I'm between 18 and 32, and that I'm partial to girls, sports and beer, and that I have glanced at a lads' mag, (even though I thought it was too big for it's ideal purpose).
Maybe I'll get people coming 'round the door knocking on quoting their misprinted version of Corinthians "Faith, Shoes and Charity; and the greatest of these is Shoes".
Giving me little booklets about how I should place my Rockports higher than any other shoe in the house, and always treat them with respect, polishing every bit I can three times a day and making sure to kiss the shoe before I kick some poor child's head in with it.
About how Rockports can solve all my life's problems, they can help me to lose weight by making me run, they can help me to attract a mate (to make little Rockport babies, dressed head to toe in Rockport, and baptised in the traditional mix of blood, petrol, rubber, vodka, Stella and melted down bling).

By making me irresistible to anyone who follows the age old trend of walking around with their head pointed at the floor, they can solve confidence problems by having you wear your shoes on your head.

Then they start encouraging me to come to church where we all stand united under 2 flags, 1 of England and 1 of Rockport. Singing such classics as "These Boots were Made for Walking, and Kicking People to Death", and "The Ballad of the Rockport Strangler", whilst we all worship the Pope Shoe; the most expensive and beautiful rockport ever made. Its jewel-encrusted sides glistening with Littlewoods cygnet rings, Argos gold chains - more than 2 inches in thickness, and oversized hoop earrings bought from a market in Whitechapel.
Its soles made of glow-sticks and Marlboro packets, stuck together with a mix of Stella and 3rd time home abortion debris. Its laces made of the hair you have to shave off to be ordained in the first place, and it's leather, fashioned from the corpses of all those who have gone before it, their "soles" departed to heaven - which looks unnervingly like Salford... where people run around stealing each others property, setting fire to cars and attacking defencless old women for a few pence...

or maybe not, maybe I'm just a bit bored today.

Rock's Backpages

~ Chester Whelks tunnels deep beneath the sarcophogus of the Rock Writers' Mausoleum.

To celebrate Manchester Library Card Holders’ newly granted access to Rock's Backpages, a wonderful online repository of a wealth of material dating back to the birth of the Rock, the Roll, and the writing thereupon (but deserves special condemnation for containing not one article on The Daddy of Rock N’ Roll: Wesley Willis), a select number of diligent Manchester Library user-musos are gathered in an oak-paneled study room in the City’s makeshift Library in Elliot house on Deansgate, for a pub-quiz style competition. Sans alcohol, naturally. The idea behind this event presumably is that the loser could always bolster their woeful knowledge by accessing the aforementioned website. Leading proceedings is Brother John Robb – author of a Demi-Century of articles to be found on the site in question, on subjects ranging from The Roses to Rapeman and My Bloody Valentine.

The backpages of Rock magazines were always to my mind, the preserve of frustrated musicians seeking to make contact with likeminded individuals, isolated by geography or a fierce, alienating taste. While not, I imagine, the intent behind the title, its still very apt, considering music writers are supposedly just that: Frustrated, failed and embittered musicians. Jealousy is their Muse. Source of both their scorn and fauning. Her untouchable honeydewed mammilla swings pendulously, each extreme of a nipple's swing ticking away the seconds of their wasted lives, agonizingly out of reach of the frantic suck of their pucker. Not Robb, who has gorged himself to succor at bosom, bush and backdoor of the Floosie-Muse - a Renaissance Man-Jack of all trades.

Maybe I’m in the wrong job?

John Robb? What a job…

…but which one?

He does it all, having earned his Punk Rock chops in 1977's The Membranes. After their dissolution he osmosed his way into writing for seminal music mag SOUNDS, before forging Punk Soul combo 'Goldblade', for whom he acts as bug-eyed, hoarse-throated vocalist. He's also recognisable to a portion of the docile populace as a regular Talking Head on self-indulgent TV nostalgiagasms such as 'I Love The…(Past)'

He's a Mental Gentleman and a Rock N’ Roll Scholar. A riddle wrapped-inside an Enigma, and a Quizzical wizard, but tonight, he's pointing his throbbing, knotted wand squarely at us...

...but first, if I might be so bold as to foray into an alien vocation, I’d like to step off the beaten track into intimidating wilderness (where still looms the odd Barn casting a shadow the colour of dried-up blood) and impress upon you a poem.

THE 'GROWING-OLD' RADIO SHOW

A November 9am is worth just as much as a summer's 6,

Or at least, the skies plough their clouds with a similar, if chillier, indifference.

While last night's poos commute through the sewer…

I sit-up from slumber and enmesh myself headfirst in the switchboard-limbo of a morning radio DJ.

The delicious intern screens me like she did the comb segmenting her hair at 5,

Ironing-out any personality chasms that might house unforeseen twitches or nits.

A Tourette’s sufferer stutters at her inability to p-p-p-put him on the Nun-fucking Air,

Forgetting she’s in her Hitler-position based on knitting-pattern and fringe-skirting logistics.

("Of course I've fucked some ugly girls, the good-looking ones are too much hard work.")

Quarantined in the Leonard Cohen introspection of the anechoic chamber of a telephonic waiting area,

I beatbox-compete with my own tachycardic biorhythms,

Until the paterfamilias of the wheels of steel eventually lets me out and welcomes me in:

“Long-time caller, first time listener...

Even as a toddler I promised I’d never be here, providing the likes of you with your microphone goo,

The whooping cough of your infantile, mongoloid colic.

Using my aimless AM to populate FM radio with banality chatter for the work-bound jerks.

The grumpy sun screaming out from behind lung cancer cloud cover promising that, despite jobs to the contrary -



I was alive.

                        Dancing about Grave Architecture: “Fuck Art. LET’S DANCE!”

Look at these people: They don’t know either. 

Rock’s Backpages crystalizes a time when Music Writing was an invaluable source of information for bands that couldn't get mainstream airplay or TV time, gaining notoriety instead via reliance on fans’ mix tapes, festival attendance, resulting word of mouth. Now our information is trickled down the thighs of the go-to guys – from the Pitchfork, the Stereogum, disseminated by Twitter and cast to the digital winds. Rock’s Backpages is a familial Mausoleum for the Golden Age of Rock Writers, resplendent with various crypts, niches and sarcophagi, and I heartily recommend it as an indispensable reference pension.


But remember to siphon some life through your pipe.

Easter, Outer Dark + Cyril Snear - Dulcimer 12/1/12

“No sooner is Christmas in the bin than we’re thinking about Easter.”

The pine needle outlines tell me the bin men have finally disposed of the Christmas tree corpses that have besieged my street for a week. I’m Febreze-ing my bollocks-off this frosty Friday the 13th, because as chance would have it, I’m sat only in these pants, and last night saw fit to damn them to the stench of ‘Kaltenberg Hell’. Why don’t they arbitrarily randomize the smell of Febreze? This stink is an insinuation of filth. Much the same as Hospitals seem like they’re frantically distracting your olfactics from their clandestine death.

It’s refreshing to be away from the inner circle of the City Centre’s scene & herd – the overambitious bollocks of atrocity boys and cupcake-baking girls…but then again, this is the bohemian outpost, of which I’m swiftly reminded by a streetlamp in knitwear as I make my way down Wilbraham Road.

Dulcimer is dully simmering as a band sound checks upstairs, attempting to approximate the date (“1-2…1…1-2″) and Thursday night pints are sunk in its cosy corners amid handovers in conversation. Bypassing the vacant ticket table at the top of the stairs I inadvertently eavesdrop on the start time being pushed back to 9 0′clock from the stated ’8′. When I come around to the idea of descending for last minute cigarettes and drinks, I think it best to introduce myself to the guy now manning the desk, who identifies himself as Paul from ‘Outer Dark’, and offers an outstretched hand along with his thanks for coming down. My cynicism insists this is an act of pandering to ‘the press’, but is seemingly sincere enough to make me hope his band isn’t shit.

Having minus’d my life by 11 minutes while Kitty Saros was at the bar pledging her allegiance to the cirrhosis sorority after pleading free drinks from the bar after some unrepentant cunt vanquished her vodka, its time for another insinuation of villainy as we rendezvous with…


CYRIL SNEAR

 

“This song’s called ‘My Pet Goat’”.

Rather than the menace suggested by the all-but-naked, pink skinned, cigar-chomping nemesis of Evergreen Forest, the now audience-plumped upstairs is enveloped by the harmonic fretboard slaps and sit-atop-clobber-box of tonight’s stripped-down Cyril Snear, swaying with the mystical whimsy of a time signature reminiscent of Jeff Buckley’s ‘Grace’ with similarly earnest, if less adventurous, vox frosting-it. Skinny Arms gee-tar man ironically has a ‘Fear and Loathing’ tee on, with it’s Steadman illustration of our narcotic-Don Quixote & Gonzo-Sancho Panza cannonballing toward the rollercoaster ride of the undulating gradient of Vegas’ skyline, which is at odds with the temptation to cosy-up to bobos in the redundant bass drum’s muting duvet & pillow combo.

OUTER DARK

Outer Dark look like Middle class white guys who profess to like Tom Waits, and shake their flaky heads at sacrilegious Cookie Monster comparisons. The opening song is a vociferous behemoth reminiscent of Mastodon, with intermittent funky Jazz schisms and underlying Pearl Jam lamentations. On the whole, they make a sound that simpletons think-of as ‘Grunge’.

A bandaged hand whose brother I shook, strangles the fretboard and neck of a Gibson SG. Funky stop/start nipple-high bass pulsations are wrought by a guy that looks like Jeffrey Treblezine to whom I owe a month-overdue review of The Fall’s ‘Ersatz GB’ and is freaking me out. Everything slides into a Roni Size avalanche of overabundant beats, before cascading into ‘Morning Bell’ skibbidy-bop catch-up drumming. The arpeggiated guitar riff Goosy Ganders upstairs, downstairs, while the keyboard tinkles like streetlights on rainy Rhodes.

‘Outer Dark’ aren’t my cup of tea, but tea isn’t my cup of black coffee. Outer Dark aren’t as outré or noir as their name suggests, but frenetically caffeinated enough to be of interest…

"WEIRD ERA, ARE YOU PLAYING SOUNDS FROM THE OTHER CITY?"

…having said that, while they’re winding-up their set, I’m distracted by Adam from ‘Weird Era’ who is front and centre, mentally dissecting them for himself. I’ll spare you the metaphorical cock-suck I undertook and just tell you that Adam says: Yes. Yes they are.

EASTER

Like Jesus, I’m late for the start of Easter. While I’m wondering if that duct taped guitar strap on the lead singer’s Fender Jaguar is really necessary or just a tokenistic Indie Rock affectation, stage left’s Merzbow T-Shirted guy Greenwoods his guitar into a Three Mile Island of a sonic cacophony courtesy of what he’s learned from his Japanese noisemeister idol, undercutting the coolly crafted Indie Pop the song once was, and everything vapourises into cloudy screams reminiscent of ‘Yrself Is Steam‘, until I no longer give a fuck about the duct tape’s integrity, as I’m blown away. I don’t know what else to say. Easter held my attention hostage with unknown melodies underscored with skilfully invoked explosions, ploughing tinnitus into us as guitarist and bassist physically shifted their most unwieldy speaker to the front of the stage as the showstopper.

PrettyfuckingWOW.

Easter is, like, a festival of Death & Resurrection which has been supplanted by chocolate eggs, which presumably are a metaphor for the shit we feed our children, i.e. the fairytale of a well meaning Biblical hippy whose depressing execution needed a happy ending tacked onto it so we don’t get all Emo over the futility of our existence.

‘Easter’, resurrected my faith in Rock N’ Roll or something…that’s all I’ve got for my showstopper.

Hey, it’s better than saying I was chained to a radiator with a stiletto in the testicles.

But I did spill beer on my leg, honest.


Photos: Kitty Saros

Review featured on Manchester Scenewipe

Fanclub Flyers : Stone Love, The Phoenix 1999