Bandwidth had a hand in a unique exhibition based in Belfast Oh Yeah Centre. The project was called True Confessions and the idea was to record the musical memories of Northern Ireland’s gig going population for future posterity. Steven Rainey was dutifully dispatched to share his own.

Illustration by Stephen Graham.
Photos by Liz Wade.

I was sitting in a shed, lit by candles. The walls were decorated with clippings from the music press from the last ten years or so. A curtain was pulled back, and a cardboard cut-out of Fergal Sharkey’s face appeared.

The former Undertone’s voice crackled through a tiny amplifier, and I was instructed to reveal my musical “guilty secret”, the one band that is indefensible in my musical collection.

Stumbling over my words, I cast my mind through the hundreds of records I’ve owned over the years, struggling to recall the most horrifically embarrassing choice. Images of Simple Minds’ Jim Kerr wearing a white trenchcoat with the sleeves rolled up, releasing a white dove of peace into the sky, flashed before my eyes. Paddy MacAloon, the bard of the bedsit, singing the lines, “Hot dog, jumping frog, Albuquerque”. Bob Dylan, struggling to cope with the stylistic changes of the 80s, wearing a grey suit jacket, looking lost, whilst mumbling, “Wiggle wiggle, like a can of soup.”

I’ve owned them all, and – in their own way – I love them.

Without thinking, I blurted out my answer:

“Yes!”

Instantly, I recoiled. How could I tarnish my beloved Yes? What compelled me to say that this band, which has given me so much pleasure, is musically indefensible? A guilty secret? Was I implying that Yes, perhaps the greatest band on the planet, were somehow terrible? And – even more damningly – that I was EMBARRASSED of them?

In many respects, it’s hard to be a Yes fan. Most people only recall the phenomenally popular 1983 hit, ‘Owner of a Lonely Heart’, but the “true” fans (ie. Me) aren’t interested in that one. We delve further back through the mists of time, sailing on the Topographic Ocean, going Closer to the Edge.

These were the glory days of progressive rock.

It’s the year 2010, and in the last three years, I’ve managed to write not one, but two articles on this most derided of musical genres. One of them had an affectionate, yet mocking tone, whilst the other was an interview with the legendary album cover artist Roger Dean, and afforded me the opportunity to be a little more serious and analytical, treating the music with a degree of the respect I felt it should be awarded.

But even still, I felt the need to hide behind a masque of irony, never revealing my true feelings. There’s just something so unbelievably naff about the very idea of prog, that admitting to liking it in any genuine way is akin to revealing that your favourite pastime is masturbating whilst wearing a woollen cardigan, looking at a picture of Dame Thora Hird. Ie. Something that you don’t share with people in public.

After making my confession to Rev. Sharkey, I felt saddened that I had betrayed my secret prog rock heritage, and perhaps inspired by the golden spirit of Wakeman, a newfound pride swelled within my breast…

“Actually,” I started, taking my first steps upon the Golden Path, “I take that back. I’m not ashamed of Yes. They were amazing. And ‘Gates of Delirium’, from their 1974 masterpiece Relayer, is AWESOME!”

Or words to that effect. I was caught up in a moment of evangelical fury, and couldn’t keep track of what I was saying.

When push comes to shove, some of this stuff is brilliant, a pure distillation of all that is good and great in rock music. It gets a rough ride for being overblown and pompous, but in the right context, this is precisely what makes it great. Punk was perhaps the most seismic shift in Western musical history (on both sides of the Atlantic), and in its wake lots of what went before was instantly declared extinct, off limits –VERBOTEN!

And this musical climate continues to exert its influence today, with certain things being so inherently uncool, that they just don’t feature in the world of pop music anymore. With the all conquering dominance of the internet, music has never been more accessible, and the boundaries between genres have never mattered less. Bands can draw upon a seemingly limitless spectrum of influences, and mix them all together in one giant contemporary pot.

But you’d be hard pressed to find that many people shouting from the rooftops about the strong influence of ELP in their music. Or how the lyrical concerns of Rush are relevant in today’s society (possibly beacasue they’re not….sorry, Neil Peart).

Sure, some bands do risk it from time to time, but even then, it’s slipped in under the radar, as some kind of post-ironic gesture, to confound and irritate. And even then, they are rarely that vocal about it, lest someone actually call them on it, and they have to reveal that the primary motivation to form this new, uber-hip band, was Camel’s Music Inspired by the Snow Goose.

(That scenario would never happen, by the way.)

However, during the Stalinist purges that happened in the post-punk years, many pre-punk prog rock fans simply kept their obsession private, hiding a worn out copy of The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway (Genesis, 1974) underneath a brand spanking new copy of Joy Division’s Unknown Pleasures, and Meat is Murder by The Smiths. The Jam sang of “Going Underground”, but prog fans actually lived it.

Thus existed a culture of surface level futurism, with people obsessing over new musical movements, the lack of pretention that punk had ushered in, and the DIY “anyone can do this” spirit that allowed gleeful amateurs – such as myself – to have a go at music, and be allowed to attempt creativity, without having the technical expertise previously required.

And all the while, we were listening to lightning fast guitar solos, sounding like they’d blasted on to the earth from outer space, whilst Rick Wakeman used Moogs, Mellotrons, and other strange and alien devices, to let us hear the VERY SOUND OF CREATION ITSELF!

Yes, Rick Wakeman – the Lord of Prog.

With his golden locks, his propensity for playing as many simultaneous keyboard solos as humanly possible (ie. Two), and his well documented love of beer and curry, he was an icon to many, reviled in equal measure. Wakeman was the personification of “Flash”, and that’s ultimately what led to him being written out of history, with the post-punk shunning of materialism and flamboyance. But this is precisely what made him great, a larger than life ability to be LARGER THAN LIFE, and innate understanding that rock music should be stupid – gloriously so – and an incredible musical alchemy that allowed him to take Yes in new and uncharted directions. He is a celebration of the ridiculous, in the purest possible way, and was smart enough to know that the best rock music shouldn’t be scared to be silly.

On the other hand, there’s the studied cerebral intensity of Robert Fripp, the man behind King Crimson. They’ve not suffered as much as some of their other astral travellers (stand up: Rush), perhaps because they had the good grace to split up BEFORE punk, and were therefore spared the cull. But much of their music still stands up today as incredibly vital, a dark pulsating beast of pure evil. Just listen to the surges of guitar and bass on their ‘final’ album, 1974’s Red (They reformed in the 80s and release a series of impressive, if inessential art-rock albums. Kinda like a more ‘arty’ Talking Heads, if such a thing were possible. Which it is, clearly). This was music made by men who had glimpsed a darkness that we mere mortals could only dream of in our worst nightmares. More importantly, there’s nothing bloated or pretentious about this music, giving lie to the claim that all prog was this flabby indulgent beast. Turn the lights off, bolt the door, and let Fripp and co scare the shit out of you.

And all along the way, there’s many moments of pure, unbridled musical enjoyment. From Chris Squire’s impossibly versatile and funky bass sound in Yes, to the throbbing electronic pulse and sludgy guitar dirt of Hawkwind, there’s always moments that are worth waiting for. And given the pure intentions of the majority of the players involved – a genuinely exploratory approach to music, a desire to push things forward, and a conviction that the thuggish sexism of yore should be left behind (although there are exceptions to this, it must be said…) – it appears that prog has been given an unjustly rough ride in the last 30 years.

So perhaps it’s time to throw off the shackles of ‘style’ (and perhaps  even ‘taste’, if I’m being truly honest…) and re-assess progressive rock, giving it a second chance to peacefully exist in this supposedly ‘enlightened’ age? Its been many years since the Punk Wars, and perhaps it’s time to forgive? Looking out over the precipice of a new dawn, can we not just let the healing begin?

As for me, I’ll be leading the charge, flying above my armies using a gatefold edition of Tales From Topographic Oceans as a magic carpet, Wakeman-esque gold cape atop my shoulders.

Anyone care to join me?

True Confessions is currently showing 9am-5pm at the Oh Yeah Centre, admission is free

Brian Wilson once sang, “I just wasn’t made for these times”, and increasingly I’m inclined to think he was singing about me. As culture continues to spiral further and further out of my grasp, I increasingly feel like an anachronism, left behind watching some glittering future that I can never be part of. And as the years go by, once seemingly unshakable institutions crumble and fall into dust.

REM are no longer in the hit parade. Three of the four Ramones are dead. Jar Jar Binks ruined Star Wars. There’s a new Captain Kirk. You can’t smoke in bars anymore.

And now…the new Doctor Who is younger than me.

Admittedly, Matt Smith is only slightly younger than me, but for a character who’s central defining character is his (almost) immortality and his amassed wisdom, it’s still strange that I’m older than him, and by extension have possibly seen more than he has. Call me egocentric, but this matters to me.

As a little kid, Peter Davidson’s floppy-haired Doctor ran about, battling Cybermen and the like, not so discreetly cashing in on the whole “Post-Star Wars, isn’t Luke Skywalker great!” thing. Then, as I started to discover that scary things were slightly cooler, Colin Baker took over as a deliciously deranged Doctor, prone to bouts of unpredictable anger and schizophrenic mood changes. After that, the clownish buffoon of Sylvester McCoy slowly evolved into a Machiavellian puppet master, pulling the strings behind the scenes.

Then there was the Americanised Paul McGann’s version of the character, which nobody was too fussed on, leading to Christopher Eccleston’s bloke-ish re-start in 2005. Then came David Tennant. Nobody could have predicted the impact he’d have on the series, capitalising on the unsuspecting success of Eccleston (lest we forget, there was only one episode of the series made in the 90s), and drawing an entirely new audience into the sphere of the show.

Time for truth – the only reason I’m able to write this at all is because of David Tennant. For whatever reason, it felt like everybody liked the guy. No longer was Doctor Who the territory of the stereotypical nebbish “anorak” types, but it was seemingly adopted as a national treasure, beloved by all, and setting new standards in family entertainment. If it hadn’t been for Tennant, there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell I’d have admitted the knowledge of Doctor Who I’ve just displayed – it would be cultural suicide. Tenant made it cool to like Doctor Who, and that’s all there is to say about it.

But they were all older than me.

And now I am older than Doctor Who.

So, as I stood in the reception of the QFT cinema in Belfast, alongside dozens of school kids, all there to meet the new Doctor, I had mixed feelings as to what I was going to do. Would I wish him well? Give him a bit of advice for the journey? After all, I’d been going through this longer than he has, and there’s sure to be things I’m more experienced in dealing with. You know, Sontarans, and stuff.

Or would I attempt to attack him, causing him to re-generate again? Into someone older, hopefully.

But as the doors opened and he strode in with his new assistant, Scotland’s Karen Gillan, any thoughts of causing the Doctor to regenerate – before his first adventure, no less! – were immediately swept out of my head by the response which greeted the young time traveller.

A huge scream went up, and a palatable sense of excitement filled the room. Standing where I was, I couldn’t see anything so I was forced to draw my own conclusions as to what was taking place – judging from the hysteria evident in the room, he hadn’t bothered turning up, but had plucked the 1964-era Beatles up in the TARDIS and dropped them off in his place.

But then, he rounded the corner towards the main foyer, and I could see that it was this young Doctor who was provoking the shrieks, and not the smiling faces of Paul and Ringo, alongside the resurrected faces of John and George.

In a sense, I was both bewildered at the response – never having dared guess the kids would get that excited – and saddened, as I had briefly begun to entertain the notion that I would soon be shaking hands with the Fab Four. Signing autographs, the new Doctor Who – younger than me – was swamped by school kids, who seemed to think a titan walked amongst us, a genuine Time Lord, like Tom Baker or something, rather than some fella with indie-ish hair, and a scruffy coat.

But the kids lapped it up and continued screaming and screaming, with no evidence of them reaching their peak just yet. Looking round, I began to notice the haunted, worried looks on the faces of the adults present. Beads of sweat began forming on brows, eyes darted about, and teeth were ground – this is the passing of the torch…he is no longer ours.

Sitting in the empty cinema screen a few moments later, I steadied myself for the interview. I was assisting a colleague, and also hoped to grab a few words with the time travelling pair myself, if – ahem – time permitted. The doors swept open, and they were escorted in.

It was at this point the thought of attacking the – younger than me – Doctor completely evaporated from my mind. He seemed a likeable type, clearly aware of what an opportunity he’d been given, but intent on enjoying it as well. Any impression of him as some time travelling Johnny-Come-Lately was shattered, as he revealed himself to be a fairly regular guy, an actor, no less, who once had the opportunity to be a professional footballer, but had to give it up because of injury. There was no magic, no mystery, just a guy…round about the same ages as me, if I’m being charitable…enjoying the experience of a lifetime.

And anyway, it didn’t really matter to me as by this point, I’d begun discreetly flirting with the Doctor’s assistant, Amy Pond, aka the actress Karen Gillan. She’s from Inverness, I lived in “nearby” Aberdeen, and ultimately that was enough of a cosmic connection for me. Obviously I didn’t tempt her away from a life of exploring the expanse of the galaxy – and time itself – but it was an opportunity to flirt with a fictional character, and that’s something I’ve never been able to turn down.

And then it was all over. There wasn’t enough time for me to grab an interview, which I wasn’t too bothered about anyway, and I was handed two autographed postcards; a memento of the moment one of my great illusions was finally shattered.

I’m 28 now, and in the modern age, I think that’s old enough to be past it. Upon hearing a statement such as this, people who are older than me will utter a belly laugh, chortle wildly, whilst uttering some kind of platitude such as, “My goodness! I wish I was still your age, tearing it up with wild abandon! Go forth, and wreak thy havoc upon the unsuspecting public! You are youth personified!”*



*Dialogue invented by the author.



But the truth is that culture is moving at such a vastly accelerated rate, that even someone who is arguably in the prime of their life can be completely left behind if they’re not careful. And in my case, I’ve not been careful. My pop culture references are alarmingly out of date (I recently made a reference to Lori Petty which was met with complete bewilderment) and I’m feeling increasingly alienated from my surroundings. Things that I think are ‘cool’ don’t seem to be ‘cool’ anymore. And I’m not sure if anyone thinks stuff is ‘cool’ anymore.



As an example of this, just before Christmas I dragged my weary bones out of my coffin to the Menagerie to see Mr Joe Lally, formerly the bass-mangler in Fugazi, the legendary post-hardcore band. Now to me, there is nothing cooler than seeing a member of Fugazi in a relatively small venue on a rotten Thursday night, a feeling akin to standing in the presence of Superman. Fugazi were one of the most important bands of the late 20th century, pioneering a new way of doing things, encouraging forward thinking and promoting a culture of self-reliance and positivity. They also made some incredible music which continues to blow my mind to this very day. They’ve been on “indefinite hiatus” since the start of the decade, seemingly never to return. But various band members have been active in new projects, continuing to preach their gospel of DIY activism.



In a nutshell – Fugazi were a band that actively encouraged you to give a shit about stuff.



The mighty Ian MacKaye played in Belfast in the church hall above Common Grounds café a few years ago with his new band, The Evens. There, he delivered a stirring set of raw punk rock, with folkish overtones, to a crowd of enthusiastic onlookers, including some very young kids, who were no doubt getting their very first taste of rock and roll. It was moving stuff, and Joe Lally is as crucial to the appeal of Fugazi as anything else, so I was expecting a similar reaction.



Well, the old saying goes that there was only 13 people at the Last Supper, but that didn’t stop it being a legendary event…which is about the same amount of people who were there for Joe Lally.

Not that he let that get in the way of things, delivering a strong set of exploratory rock music, which fused jazz and funk rhythms to the polemical style Fugazi are frequently associated with. At one point, Lally left the stage, and went to stand at the bar, creating a weird and disorientating displacement between crowd and performer, which helped remind us that performance can be a LIVING, BREATHING THING, rather than some kind of staid event which we attend just to stave off suicide for another hour or two. He then gave us an acapella song outlining some of his views on war which, if somewhat simplistic, were completely heartfelt.



It’s a shame that there weren’t more people there for him to connect with, but I guess it was refreshing to see a guy who genuinely cared about something enough to get up there and do something about it.



Is that ‘cool’, these days? I don’t know.



I’ll tell you what’s not cool, though: selling yourself out.



Your correspondent is ashamed to admit that he has engaged in an activity that will result in him sent directly to indie-hell, a complete and utter betrayal of everything he holds dear and everything that he stands for.



Yes, dear reader, your correspondent WILLINGLY went into a high street retailer, and purchased a pretend retro Star Trek t-shirt.



And as if this isn’t enough, your correspondent will confess that he has a GENUINE retro Star Trek t-shirt in his possession that he wouldn’t be caught dead in, for fear of being deemed ‘uncool’.



My brain is still struggling to calculate the mathematics on this one, so bear with me. In 1993, my teenage self went into a comic book store, spotted a garishly coloured t-shirt sporting a picture of the starship Enterprise flying through space, bearing the legend, “To Boldly Go Where No Man Has Gone Before…” I immediately dug out my pocket money, thinking this was the coolest thing I’d ever seen. There I was, an adolescent Star Trek fan, celebrating my love of Star Trek, buy wearing a Star Trek t-shirt. Cool, eh?



Not cool apparently. A flick through a diary from 1994 contains the following entry:



“Non-uniform day in school today. Wore my Star Trek t-shirt. NEVER WEAR STAR TREK T-SHIRT TO SCHOOL EVER AGAIN.”



It seems that back then, the cutthroat world of Grammar school was not prepared to tolerate the existence of a nerdish kid wearing a Star Trek t-shirt. Apparently, being into stuff wasn’t cool.

So how is it that I can go into a high street retailer and purchase a ‘retro’ Star Trek t-shirt with out any shame, and then wear it on a night out, thinking to myself, “Yeah…you’ve GOT IT GOIN’ ON”? How did my cultural bearings become so askew? We’re facing a situation where I’m wearing an ironic t-shirt, in a completely sincere way, but am too intimidated to wear a completely non-ironic t-shirt, for fear that I’ll be misinterpreted.



Or something…



WHAT!?!?!?

IRONY CIRCUTS OVERLOADING!?!?!?!?



CTRL + ALT + DEL


Anyway, it’s a pretty nifty t-shirt, and I think it’s cool.



And in a way, it’s possibly prompting a profound change of lifestyle. Perhaps if I was able to drop all this cultural baggage, I’d be able to just embrace my surroundings, and make the most of it? If I was true to myself, and were to acknowledge the inherent clichés in my being, then perhaps I’d be able to adapt myself to the modern age, rather than feeling like some kind of piece of cultural archaeology?



There are lessons to be learned. What Joe Lally is doing right now, is deeply, deeply unfashionable. His music is cerebral and intense – it’s certainly not party music. The sentiments he projects, and the sincerity with which he projects them, are deeply unfashionable. I mean, yeah – sure we all hate war, but like, do we have to totally go on about it, or some junk?



No, we don’t have to, but the point is that HE has to. And that’s what matters, whether we’re listening or not.



With this example, your correspondent has taken a look at himself, and acknowledged a few facts which will hopefully lead to better living through understanding.



Some points:



1. The undersigned is happy enough to wear his Star Trek t-shirt because- you know what? – he really likes Star Trek (only the original series, though). And the undersigned is also prepared to acknowledge the fact that he probably won’t wear his original retro t-shirt because it is over a decade old, and looks totally horrible, whereas his new one looks a bit stylish.



2. The undersigned is prepared to admit that he is a slightly hackneyed Pitchfork reader in his late 20s, who listens to a lot of indie-rock, but has never really felt the need to investigate hip-hop. And he’s ok with that.

3. The undersigned has come to the realisation that he doesn’t really like going out to clubs, etc, and never really saw the point in it. It’s not that he doesn’t like dancing, rather that the apparatus for him to do so does not currently exist.



4. The undersigned believes that by supporting local talent (musicians, writers, film-makers, photographers, etc) that he is making a difference. He believes you should do this too.



5. The undersigned is happy to celebrate the fact that he has many interests, and likes the fact that he can’t get interested in something without wanting to GET INVOLVED. Hence, releasing records, writing articles, doing his own comic, etc.



6. The undersigned has finally come to the realisation that he is more or less over breaking up with someone at the start of the year, but would still like to see them, just because he can’t remember the sound of their voice.




Yours, in hope,

Steven Rainey


And if that ain’t some kind of fully fledged cultural manifesto, then I don’t know what is!



Unfortunately, your correspondent attempted to put his newfound enlightenment into practice, by going out to Lavery’s on a Saturday night, and found that he didn’t really feel that cool – at all. All the hipsters and young people intimidated him, so he went home.



SO MUCH FOR THE POWER OF POSITIVE THINKING!

In the future online websites could be highly influential in promoting artists. The recently successful campaign by users of Facebook to put Rage Against the Machine’s hit, ‘Killing in the Name’ on the Christmas No. 1 spot is evidence of the power of word-of-mouth potential on social networking sites.

The campaign started by married couple Jon and Tracy Morter was in protest over X Factor’s continual Christmas chart success. The public have spoken and Rage’s victory could prove to be a small turning point in a greater change. X Factor’s enduring presence over the past decade of chart music can be attributed to the fact that it is well produced, promoted, advertised and good Saturday night television for many people. But is it reaching the end? The money spent on Joe McElderry’s Christmas No.1 campaign became insignificant compared with the no budget campaign by the Morter’s on Facebook. Simon Cowell even went as far as offering the pair jobs at his company in light of their success. I suspect that their success was made easier due to huge public animosity towards X Factor. But with the huge profits X Factor generates it is obvious that it is still hugely popular. The campaign should not be viewed as a witch-hunt against Simon Cowell as he or anyone is entitled to create such programmes and they will only continue to run as long as people tune in.

The industry currently lacks any major alternative artists like whose music defined the early 90’s. For every commercial band there was an indie group fighting in their corner for artistic integrity. These artists generated a lot of attention but rarely had a game plan to make huge profits, an alarming tactic for record execs. Since the music industry went digital, the piracy of music has made it very difficult for any artist to make money. With the massive fall in sales many have found other ways of making money through advertising or creating clothing labels for example but only big name artists get this opportunity. This means that most other artists fall by the wayside leaving the industry very one-sided with only a small amount of big names getting all the promoters time and clogging up our air-space.

So how can we counter the balance? Artists that endured over the years had to justify themselves musically which is in stark contrast to today’s stars. Most of the artists today are more concerned with how they look in photo shoots than they how they sound on stage and will be quickly forgotten as both we and the companies know too well. This is why record companies focus so heavily at the beginning of an artists career. However the continuous changes in how music is processed and sold means there are more opportunities for artists to carve careers than ever before. Artists just starting out have a greater access to music technology. Studio equipment is cheaper, and computer programmes for under a few hundred pounds are widely available meaning anyone can become skilled at digital recording. Digital distribution means that artists can sell or sample out their music to attract a wider fan base with little cost.

Smaller labels are being set up throughout the country as a result of job losses in the big companies. Artists should seek out these companies as they can give more time to their artist’s career development. Home recording and self marketing online may also prove a valuable way for new artists to promote themselves. Online sites such as MySpace and Facebook until now have not been hugely successful at finding raw talent; however many artists continue to use such sites to promote their music. A large reservoir of talent must have been building up over the years on these sites. If making music is to remain a viable business with any integrity then the alternative artists must be supported in difficult financial times. This means paying for your music, first to provide an incentive to record companies to invest in these bands and to ensure a wage for the artists.

The Morters made sure to emphasise that only paid for downloads are counted, so if you want to support your favourite artist in the charts then there is no option but to dig in your pockets. Their campaign has shown, despite its criticisms, that what people spend on music directly affects the charts. The public have a bigger voice than they perhaps realise and ultimately it is them who have the power to decide on an artist’s success.

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The artist sits alone in his musty manse, contemplating those subjects that others fear to face. His suffering, monumental in it’s nature, dwarfs all other consideration. He pauses, hunched over a battered acoustic guitar, out of tune, but powered by pure soul, and the audience lay down their everyday concerns, content to basque (sic) in his greatness.



This, my friends, is the real pain.


I hate singer-songwriters, always have. There’s just something so nauseating about the concept of the lone troubadour pouring his thoughts and emotions into the song, coughing up pearls of wisdom for us mere mortals to cling to. It makes me barf.



Or it used to anyway. Over the last year or so, I’ve found myself mellowing on the subject, no quite so quick to call a jihad whenever someone picks up a guitar and begins strumming a few minor chords whilst looking thoughtful.



(Indeed, I’ve found myself mellowing on a number of subjects lately. No longer do I pour scorn on musicians who commit the crime of trying to make money from their music! Ian MacKaye – I have misinterpreted you for several years now. I apologise.)



Two singer-songwriters have elevated themselves out of the great pantheon of recorded music, and entered the hallowed halls of my heart. Both err towards the melancholic, miserable side of things, and both of them died young in tragic, not to mention mysterious circumstances. And sadly both of them attract a following which occasionally threatens to destroy and obscure the great legacy they have left behind.



Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, allow me to introduce Elliott Smith and Nick Drake.



For those that aren’t familiar with them, here’s the info. Elliott Smith, before his untimely demise on the business end of a carving knife, was a critically acclaimed songwriter, famed for his intimate and layered delivery. Dealing with dark and frequently depressing subject matter, Smith had a wonderful way with words, neatly avoiding the clichés inherent in the genre, whilst simultaneously celebrating them, and possessed a voice like silk which weaved its way through the Beatles-esque music he frequently used to frame his bar-room vignettes. He was found dead in 2003, having been stabbed twice in the chest. The wounds may or may not have been self-inflicted. He was 34 years old.



Nick Drake, before his untimely demise on the business end of some prescription medication, was a critically acclaimed songwriter, famed for his intimate and intricate delivery. Dealing with dark and frequently depressing subject matter, Drake had a wonderful way with words, neatly avoiding all the clichés inherent in the genre by creating a new lexicon with which to express oneself, and possessed a voice like velvet which weaved its way through the haunting and frequently stark* music he used to frame his bedroom vignettes. He was found dead in 1974, having overdosed on prescription medication. The overdose may or may not have been part of a suicide attempt. He was 26 years old.



(* I am particularly referring to his final album, Pink Moon. The first two are deceptively jolly in places.)

Both men have a slender legacy, which has expanded posthumously, and have largely been canonised since their death. Smith was nominated for an Oscar when one of his songs appeared in the 1998 film Good Will Hunting, which attracted him a considerable amount of attention, but his legacy has continued to grow in the aftermath of his death. Drake, on the other hand, was virtually unknown in his lifetime, and it has taken over twenty years for his music to slowly permeate into the popular consciousness, largely down to his music being played in a car commercial. Such is life, I guess.



As I said at the start, I hate singer-songwriters, and there’s a lot about Elliott Smith and Nick Drake that epitomises what I don’t like about the genre. Both of them exemplify the ‘troubled loner’ persona which has become such a cliché. Also, they have – inadvertently it has to be said – inspired legions of less talented songwriters to inflict their misery upon the world, whether we want them to or not. Anyone with a guitar and a bag full of emotions seems to think that they’ve got carte blanche to share said emotions with the rest of us, as if their insights have some kind of weight which lifts them outside of the normal world and makes them some kind of Supermen or Gods or something, and then expect us mere mortals to lap it up, like we have no way of articulating our emotions at all, AND I’M LOOKING AT YOU, DAMIEN RICE!!!



Sorry, I got a bit carried away there.



But hopefully you get the point.



Once I’ve got past the emotional baggage that others have brought to the show, I can settle down and just wrap this stuff around me. Whilst both songwriters deal with intensely personal visions, that we can occasionally struggle to comprehend, there is a universality at the core of their writing that we can all connect with. Unhurried and gentle, this is music that slowly sidles up beside you and embraces you. And, as with many things, my own personal connection is borne entirely out of love.



Both were introduced to me by lovers with whom I have seemingly outstayed my welcome, and as such, both songwriters remain an undying connection to a life I used to lead. Like a hotline straight to my heart, I can dial into this any time I want to, and be transported to a place which is both comforting and painful. I’m not in any way connected to the subjects either man wrote about (although they both have a fair few songs where I can strongly identify with the lyrical content), but rather I have imposed my own involvement with these songs. One listen to Elliott Smith, and I can feel pale skin against pale skin, a brush of hair on my face. As Nick Drake sings of the River Man, or the Pink Moon hanging in the sky, I can feel a tear on my cheek, sunlight on my bones, and hope in my heart. 



These days it’s the worst crime imaginable for a person in my position to commit, exposing one’s feelings and trying to rationalise them in the face of the increasing scepticism of my peers. Adolescent angst and suffering is easily mocked, and the laying bare of emotions is the domain of the emo, fringe straightened and dyed black. My fringe isn’t straightened, and it’s red instead of black, but I’m not ashamed of my compulsion to share my feelings. I ain’t saying my pain and sadness is more sad and painful than yours, rather I’m happy that my pain and sadness is mine, and I can share it with two very special songwriters.


This music makes me sad in the most comforting way imaginable, and for that reason I will never ever let go of it, or the connection it still holds to special people I have met. Nick Drake and Elliott Smith are long gone, as are the people I want to remain connected to, but the connection itself is just a drop of the needle away.



Next week: How the Ramones feel like a kick in the balls.

As anyone who hasn’t been hiding in an underground bunker will know, it is climate change week. The world, their wife and their team of advisors are descending upon Copenhagen for the World Climate Change conference, all trying to out-posture each other and ultimately ‘strike a deal’. What did poor Copenhagen do to deserve this circus?

Media frenzies like this can bring to light some strange phenomenon’s. This particular event has brought into sharp focus, the huge following of a new world religion. “The Enviro-crats”.

The enviro-crat is easily pigeonholed – a bit disillusioned, the type of person who might have been a little bit religious in a time before it became too hard ignore that traditional religion has caused most of the hurt, pain and war associated with this part of the world in particular. So what was needed, was a new religion – something a bit modern, something noble, worthy – oh yeah – Climate Change!

At a time when, more than ever, we need voices of clarity to get behind the causes of waste, pollution and ultimately climate change, what we have ended up with is the Enviro-crat. I mean, this new religion even has a pilgrimage now. Hoards of people are getting busses, boats, and trains this week – all the way from every part of the world to Copenhagen- just to be there to campaign about issues like…. how much oil we use for needless transport. Picture the conversation – “Yeah this is my 4th Climate conference this year, how many have you been to? What, just three? Wow! It’s been totally brilliant though – I’ve met some really cool people who are making such a difference, like Randolph – He’s so passionate about climate change (blushes). He’s part of a group that has been travelling all over the world to demonstrate. I mean they only fly when they have to and they always stay in tents” Yes that’s right – the GAP year has taken on a noble cause. Now let’s get this straight – far from being a climate change nay-sayer, there is no doubt in my mind that (as a member of the human race, with at least a few brain cells) our actions are rapidly laying waste to this beautiful big mess of a planet, that we call home. What worries me is the upside down logic of the disciples of this new religion.

I know the Gap year/wandering soul disciples have taken a bashing here so far, but there are worse; The Chattering classes (I could think of some more descriptive terms!) have turned environmental logic completely on its head, locked it in a single glazed Georgian bubble and put their fingers in it’s ears. We have all witnessed the sickening sight of ‘super mom’ looking smug and glancing around the checkouts for some kind of ‘green credibility as she say’s “no it’s okay, I have my ‘bag for life’” Bravo! But the small city on four wheels, with the emissions of a Russian Power plant, parked outside renders that smugness as nothing more than complete delusion.

But we surely are a smart bunch, aren’t we? Why can’t our clever, modern minds work out what is wrong? What is so difficult? Global issues like this are collections of individual actions, travelling all the way to Copenhagen to lambast politicians does not address the fundamental issues that have created the monster of ‘climate change’ in the first place. We individuals, with our individualistic goals, created this monstrous free word, where we can have what we want , all of the time. The everyday person has become the ‘consumer’, as consumption is more often than not, the everyday activity. We are even being hoodwinked by our own good intentions, with people unfortunately beginning to believe the green drivel, dripping off advertisements, posters, the lips of politicians & celebrities, like sticky environmental snot.

The consumer can become human once again, and influence the directions of society through their own actions. These actions start at home, in the immediate surrounds that your life actions impact upon, not in Copenhagen. So instead of taking 14 busses, 8 trains and a Volvo taxi to Copenhagen this week, do something worthwhile – stay at home and insulate your fucking attic!

Joe Laverty is an angry drummer for a band called Pocket Promise. See him in a warmer climate here on the Bandwidth site.

Illustration by Paul Milne

There are few bands as exploratory as the Flaming Lips in the world today. This is as close to a FACT as I’m prepared to go.

Sure, there are bands out there making more experimental or confrontational music, but the Lips do it differently. This isn’t a band being wilfully difficult – this is the last gang of cosmic adventurers. Boundaries are ignored, and wisdom is swallowed whole in their quest for knowledge and understanding. And as the Lips push further and further into the heart of consciousness itself, truths begin to reveal themselves.

(Sound + Science) x Emotion ( – ability) = UNIVERSAL TRUTH, ie. “Everyone you know, someday, will die.”

So why is it that I have been initially traumatised by the new Flaming Lips album, Embryonic?

Arriving a good three years after the underrated At War With The Mystics (apparently an album you either love, or hate  – I love it), Embryonic is perhaps one of the most hotly anticipated albums I’ve ever…anticipated. After years of blowing my mind with stellar albums that just seem to be more revealing and invigorating, a documentary which literally changed the way I thought about music, and one of the most unforgettable experiences of my life when I appeared on-stage with the band as a dancer, I was ready to be exploded into another dimension by this album – I would ascend from this primitive shell into a higher state of being.

Imagine my surprise to find myself getting agitated…bored…angry….confused…this is not what is supposed to be happening when I listen to the Flaming Lips.

One of the major strengths of At War With the Mystics (2006) was that it allayed the universal themes and sentiments of The Soft Bulletin (1999) and Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots (2002) to the sonic textures of their earlier albums, creating one of the most lush sonic palettes heard in many a year. For all it’s faults, At War With the Mystics was a joy to listen to just from the standpoint of a band experimenting with sound. Admittedly, it contained some of their most banal songwriting, but the soundscape of noise more than made up for that.

Embryonic takes that sonic experimentation even further, and then pushes it over the edge. From the very beginning, everything seems to have been recorded at the edge of it’s tolerance, causing an unusual distorted sensation from all the instruments. Drums rumble and syncopate, guitars squelch, bass throbs and electric piano tinkles. And tinkles. And tinkles.

Unlike previous Lips albums, the defining feature of the album is the electric piano, which gives it a weird, seventies Miles Davis feel. Much like when Davis tore up the jazz rulebook, the Lips appear to be doing the same with…the Flaming Lips. This feels so unlike a Flaming Lips album that all the ‘usual’ reference points are gone. This disorientation continues throughout the entire album (18 tracks!), and by the end, a feeling of exhaustion and disappointment lingers in the air.

This was not supposed to happen.

However, the damn thing stuck in my head. People asked me, “What’s it like?” and I’d struggle to tell them anything. “It sounds like…..Can being played by Miles Davis…or something.” And then they’d ask, “Is it any good?” and I’d say, “I don’t know. All I know is that I didn’t enjoy listening to it. That’s not to say it’s bad, as such…”

Etc.

But the more I thought about it, I realised how much this music had moved me. It had got under my skin and affected me. It had provoked emotions in me that very few other pieces of music have managed to do so this year. So I gave it another chance.

AND IT BLEW ME AWAY!

Once it reveals itself to you, Embryonic explodes the world into technicolour. Where it once sounded unfocussed and lethargic, now it sounds visionary and intense. This is the sound of the modern age, a world in confusion, where nothing is quite like it seems, and we are spiralling out of control. Wayne Coyne, once the cosmic balladeer, is now some concerned prophet, trying to force us to open out eyes and see what’s happening. But rather than dealing in trite reportage, he expands upon some kind of great galactic crisis that threatens us all. As he whispers himself, “The ego is crushed.”

What once sounded like sonic defects, now reveal themselves as a band refusing to take the easy way out, saying, “You can do this any way you want to – THERE ARE NO RULES.” All that’s important is that you mean it. And where once the endless use of squibbly noises and tinkling electric piano sounded repetitious, now it sounds cohesive, almost as if it provides us with a rope to cling to whilst everything else falls away.

This could be the dawning of a new era, and once again, The Flaming Lips are leading the way.

Just trust your feelings and leave your preconceptions at the door.

Sometimes, I find the mistakes more interesting than the thing I’m supposed to be paying attention to. It’s almost as if the little glimpse you get of someone when they muck up what they’re supposed to be doing is a more revealing insight into the person than what they’re actually putting on display.



Ultimately, what I’m saying is that I like the excitement of things going wrong, rather than streamlined perfection.



Some of the best musical moments I’ve ever experienced (live and on record) have come when a performance has come dangerously close to falling apart. Things like that bit in ‘Summer Babe’ by Pavement where Stephen Malkmus sings, “Minerals, ice deposits daily, dropped off,” and he starts laughing, and the music sort of stutters and clatters around him…or the bit in ‘Hardcore UFOs’ by Guided by Voices where the song is about to hit its climactic moment, and the guitar lead breaks, cutting the guitar off…those are the kind of moments I enjoy.



I once saw a band in Scotland (Aberdeen, to be precise) called The Jinx, who encapsulated a lot of what I enjoy about music. An overly literate four piece who were very fond of swapping instruments, they could be quite easily summed up by the word “cult”. Oblique to the point of confusion, a live performance by them could be a thing of wonder, with the audience having absolutely no idea of what is going to happen next.



I fell so hard for this band that I decided to start my own record label, just to release their music and take it to a wider audience. I roped in a few friends and accomplices, and dragged them down to see a show by the band. Brilliantly, they were on top form, four voices mixing with each other, weird, cranky little hooklines that seem to make no sense, but fit together perfectly, songs about losing your watch on the wrists of time…it was all there. We loved it, and left the show, fired up to make magic happen. We would release their record on our newly founded record label, and we would conquer the world with it. We decided we’d catch their next gig, confirm the feeling, and approach the band to see about working with them.



Their next gig was terrible. Strangely, they did more or less exactly the same thing they did at the previous gig, but it was just so shambolic and messy that it seemed to be swallowed up in the complete and total indifference of the crowd. It became obvious that on this particular occasion, NO ONE cared about this music. We left without approaching the band, deciding that we should mull this one over for a bit. Before anything could happen, I left the country, and I guess that was the end of that.



But can you ever really leave the tempting lures of indie-rock behind? As Sebadoh’s Lou Barlow once sang, “Started back in ’83 – started seeing things differently.” I know what he means. I’ve learned to be objective about art and aesthetics, but there’s certain things you just can’t shake. I can now listen to a piece of speed metal or something, and recognise it for it’s own inherent qualities, rather than just writing it off because “I don’t really like that kind of thing.” But every now and again, something comes up that just taps directly into my soul, and there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s like I’m geared to connect with something on a primal level, and the only option is just to surrender to it.



This happened recently with a band called The Frigates. Formerly The Pascals (many years ago…before my time, I think), they are a five piece hailing from…somewhere on this island. I’ll let Raymond Mullen from the band explain it himself:



“We didn’t really do all that much, slept in late, got up, drank some tea and went back to bed. We passed around a demo and played a handful of gigs half-heartedly trying to get signed. The Pascals were disbanded in 2003, mainly because David moved to Washington and I moved to Paris, but also partly due to disinterest, and general fedupness. Apologies for the mini-memoir, I’m hoping Wayne Rooney will ghost-write our autobiography. I can’t go on … I’ll go on.



“We went over to Virginia (the US one, not Cavan) last year and recorded a number of songs in David’s little subterranean studio, right in the heart of the military industrial complex, well, its commuter belt. Our intention is to release a series of EPs on our own label (K-7 Music, though we’re not too sure about the legality of this manoeuvre) over the next twelve months digitally/virtually, but we’re still going to make a few physical mock-ups, in this virtual mercantile gehenna the physical artefact is all but redundant.

“And it’s about this point where I enter the story. After being passed a copy of the CD with the words, “I think you’ll like this”, I was instantly captivated. For me – and I hope I’m not pigeonholing them here – the sound of the Frigates is one of glorious and gleeful freedom. Bass and guitars and drums and other things collide with each other, overlapping and crashing about in a gentle fury, whilst we are told stories about naval conflict, military ranks, a ghost (I think), and other things as well.



It might not be the tightest thing ever recorded in the world, but that’s what I love about it. Listening to the CD, I can hear the amount of care and attention that has gone into making this. This is the kind of music that requires a lot of care and craft in order to be made, and it’s then fired off into a potentially uncaring and hostile world, so it has to be able to stand on its own merits. If you were going out on a date with the record, it would be like going out with Molly Ringwald at the end of Pretty in Pink, where’s she’s made her own dress, and it’s more charming than all the pre-manufactured crap that the rich kids have.



(Although it’s best to ignore the fact that Molly Ringwald’s dress at the end of Pretty in Pink was horrendous – a truly nightmarish garment which was completely unflattering. Perhaps this wasn’t the best example.)



Anyway, you can hear tunes here:

 www.myspace.com/thefrigates


So you should listen to that.



It’s like the sound of someone falling off the edge of the world, and if you make a mistake and let go of the rope that you’re tethered to, it might just be the single most exhilarating thing that’s ever happened.

Please drink responsibly. It’s not that unreasonable a request is it? But within the context of an Oktoberfest in a shed behind the Kings Hall the only real answer you can give is a curt ‘Nein!’ followed by a slap to the face with a pair of leather gloves.

For you see, last night myself and several co-enablers bussed it down to leafy Balmoral and proceeded to fire German beer by the litre down our collective necks, whilst bashing steins together (or off the table, when there were no other steins) ‘yeeeooo’ing and speaking in war movie German.

Because, like the Germans themselves, the 2nd annual Belfast Oktoberfest is far from subtle. From the crude posters to the website that appears to have been designed by Paulaner addled chimps with half an hours worth of tuition it’s clear that any pretence of sophistication has been thrown out the window, alongside any gains that the woman’s lib movement might have made over the past century.

On arrival we were greeted by the chief Fraulein and had the rules explained to us. Tokens would be purchased at the front of the building, where they could be exchanged for a litre stein of your beer of choice. No compromise here – litres or nothing. Within the hall you take your seat at the benches, and a bar-maiden would take your order, and provide table service.

The bar-maidens, while easy on the eye were not an advertisement for teutonic efficiency. In fact there was not a single member of the master race amongst them. So much so, that I was roundly scolded when trying to place an order at the bar. Three seconds later tokens had exchanged hands and we were on our way to boozy oblivion.

How long does it take 2 late twenty-something liberals to start barking like a stereotypical wehrmacht officer in such an environment? Roughly a tenth of a stein. Before long the air was full of curt ‘schnells’, und ‘raus’es, as well as declarations to any passing Englanders that yes, their war was over. Shamefully our conversation made ‘Allo ‘Allo seem as authentic and well researched as Downfall.

In our defence at our own personal Nuremburg, we might claim that we were merely following orders, as well as claiming a great deal of provocation; the barstaff rocking out a particularly fine set of Stahlhelmen and the imported band introducing songs with the likes of ‘This was Der Fuhrer’s favourite, and ‘this is the theme to The Great Escape – how that happened I’ll never know.”

Then the vaguely martial music came to an end, and Pete ‘opening of an envelope’ Snodden took to the stage to announce that most Prussian of activities – the Rocky Horrorshow Dance-off. Yes, for far longer than it should have the beery bonhomie of the beerhall was transformed into the wedding from hell as he encouraged the bar-maidens to ‘show ‘em how it’s done.” Cringeingly the bar-maidens (average age, of I’d say about 19) didn’t know the dance moves and moved vaguely about.

Still, their choreography was up there with Nijiniski’s compared to that of the hapless drinkers plucked from the audience. The eventual winner seized the prize (which, to be fair, I can’t recall – some beer themed tat, I’m sure) through  the unusual move of kicking his shoe in the air and failing to catch it. He was later thrown out for drunkenness. Then came the Blues Brothers Tribute Band. Who were very good. Of course, by then the beer had taken it’s toll, so hacks were swiftly ordered and bedways was very much bestways.

Would I go back? Well I was offered the chance to return later on in the week, but feared that the beery good times of a mid-week session would turn into a fully fledged riot come weekend, so I declined. But next year? Jah I say, but miss out the Time Warp.