Detroit Grand Pubahs/Rza Bobby Digital

another few reviews if you be arsed.

Detroit Grand Pubahs ' Nuttin Butt Funk (Det.Ele.Funk)

Somewhere along the way techno lost da funk. I don't really know when this happened having lost interest in Detroit's 'hi-tech jazz' somewhere in the mid-90s. Bleep I could live with and whilst I admired the Cornish tech miners (Aphex, Vibert) and the likes of Autechre, Paradinas, Jenkinson, their brand of 'drill n' bass' operated somewhere on the outer reaches of intergalactic funk. Meanwhile whilst appreciating Hawtin's minimalist genius, his techwank left me cold. Jeff Mills, Carl Craig, UR all passed me by to be honest.

So, I've been attempting to re-educate myself over the past four years or so. What confuses me is all the hybrids; tech-house, intelligent glitchkore, tech-dub, booty-step, deep-click etc. But what it all boils down really is da funk. Modern funk, mutant funk, funk not as a 70s pimpsploitation cliche but as an evolving technological artform.

When the UK and Germany replaced Detroit as the centres for techno's commercial and some would say artistic centre, the circle seemed complete; Kraftwerk's Teutonic synth-funk influences black American musicians and DJs who produce their own takes on this sound and export back to the Fatherland. Yet what the music lost in this process was the essential funk of the grooves.

Nuttin Butt Funk reasserts the essence of Detroit Techno, not that it ever went away but serves as a timely reminder that for all the recent hype surrounding the likes of Villalobos et al, back in the ghettoes that spawned techno, the emphasis is still on the visceral thump thump head noddin' qualities of the music.

Beginning with the cosmic opener (costech?) track 'Skydive From Venus' with its tinkling piano and muffled bass, this LP takes in pounding tits out stompers like 'Message From Overkill' and 'Crystal', the best p-funk tune Clinton never made, 'Rollin' Paper & Bush,' the squelchy electro of 'Earth Hoes', deep tech flow of '50,000 Legions', the insane whump whump hardcore of 'ChiTown Shuffle' and several deeply silly 'skits.'

There is a seriousness to some tracks especially the Funkadelic style Rollin' Paper & Bush which takes a swipe at the cultural appropriation of black art forms, although this is balanced with the humourous (yet deeply sexist) 'Earth Hoes' and 'Butt Market.' The Grand Pubahs are not sonic crusaders like UR or Mills, they offer GettoTech that is accessible to even non-techno disciples such as myelf. Nuttin Butt Funk indeed.

Rza as Bobby Digital - Digi Snacks (Bodog)

Rappers, like squaddies exist in a state of perpetual adolescence. They appear to have rejected the usual trajectory of adulthood - responsibilities and all that boring straight shit - to indulge in a blunts n' hoes Utopia of sex n' weed on tap. OK, so most people in the music biz act in a similar way but rappers, even supposedly intelligent ones like Rza, appear to wallow in this shallow pool of decadent sensuality for far longer than most. Having a dig at Robert Diggs is hip hop heresy but here goes;

Let's begin with the artwork. The illustrated front cover sees our masked hero on a throne, surrounded by six concubines of varying ethnic origin. The usual Wu quasi-Samurai/Kung Fu adornments accompany this Digital despot and he stares coldly, dispassionately at us, like some terrible sultan about to pass sentence of death by a thousand cuts. The inside comic artwork attempts to convey some kind of dark urban narrative to the LP, as if it's a 'concept' maaan. Yet what we get is just the same old, same old. Guns n' sex n' quack science n' third rate philosophy. And it's not bad, some of it the epic 'You Can't Stop Me Now' and the superb 'Don't Be Afraid' are equal to any other Rza or solo Wu effort, it's just.....you expect MORE from Rza.

The Wu are thru! They've had their moment in the sun and for a while they were as important and vital in re-shaping hip hop for a new decade, a new generation as had been Public Enemy or De La Soul. Their problem was stretching the Rza sonic template far too wide. The initial lo-fi thrill of 36 Chambers was replaced by formula beats, familiar tricks, leaden, lazy raps. Too much of Digi Snacks is just Rza by numbers, it leads nowhere, it's a sonic, aesthetic and commercial dead end. Hip hop has always evolved to sustain itself but it seems that Rza and the entire Wu collective have simply ran out of steam. There are younger, hungier rappers and producers out there and perhaps, Bobby Digital should take a look around and y'know grow up a bit.

Hang Loose fanzine 1990

Yet another of my short-lived and totally unsuccessful attempts to enter the lo-fi world of fanzine culture armed only with a marker pen, a friendly typist at work and the Dept Of Lies trusty photocopier. If I could be arsed scanning it in, I would but I can't so here are a few slected bits n' bobs from issue 2

Fashion Forecast Winter 90-91

2nd hand socks
slip-on undies
putting your hair in a bun (dig at deee-lite? can't remember)
prussian aristocrat muzzies (weatherall got the idea here)
sad cardys with maps of africa on the back (Harvey got the idea here)
sumo wrestler barnets (dee-lite again?)
dressing like a hassidic jew
violet, orange and yellow checked trews (rupert got the idea here)
fireman helmets
balloon jeans and smoothy belts
bukta trackies
Boys Brigade hats
cut-down pacamacs
digital watches that bleep
suede socks
platform slippers
adidas tattoos on your buttocks
bullet belts
camouflage staffs
double-breasted t-shirts
george best yeti beards
jummy sale parkas with no arms
skiddy kilts
'i think the poll tax is a rather good idea actually' t-shirts
CID raincoats
afro wigs

Pensionari

It's the youth cult that's sweeping the nation. Yes all across Britain kids are copying the dress sense of their grandparents for that authentic OAP look which the fashion press have Christened 'Pensionari' - out have gone hooded jeans and baggy shoes, in have come brown check suits, trilbys, scuffed hobnails and starched vests. 'Pensionari' don't drive around in flash cars, they gather at bus stops and moan about the poll tax, kids today, bus fares etc. Their favourite meeting places are post offices, cafes, poll tax demonstrations and funerals. They are vociferous and they know their rights. Top accessories include war medals, tartan shopping trollies, lethal weapon walking sticks and massive bags full of dog food, chicory coffee, butterscotch toffees, sticks of rhubarb and pig's bladders. Don't ever fuck with the pensionari or you'll get a herring slapped in your face sharpish!

No Guru, No Method, No Teacher - Hang Loose Playlist

reasons to be cheerful pt 3 - ian dury
it's her factory - gang of four
it's a love thing - the whispers
soul bongo - little stevie
scorpio - grandmaster flash
cloud 9 - the temptations
staisfaction guaranteed - harold melvin and the bluenotes
let the world wait for you - archie bell and the drells
cast a spell - the turnpikes
look through my eyes - rufus and chaka khan
lions after slumber - scritti politti
one trick pony - paul simon
rumours - hot chocolate
undercover - rolling stones
pyjamarama - roxy music
black dahlia - david toop
interference - model 500
amor amor - gipsy kings
bewildered - james brown
walk on into my heart - bobbie smith
smokey - funkadelic
theme from barney miller
i'm down - the beatles
what can i do - boz scaggs
mardi gras - lonnie liston smith
talkin all that jazz - stetsasonic
transmitting live from mars - de la soul
oasis - happy mondays
funeral pyre - the jam
dazed and confused - led zepellin

stick it all in, fuck off the purists, checkpoint charlie is no more! (ah the idealism of youth)

Are You Ready For The Crazy Sound Of Ulster?

Put on your balaclava and hijack the nearest taxi cos Ulster Beat is with us. Every day down at the docks you can see the fun-loving gangs of happy-go-lucky paramilitaries waxing their kalashnikovs in readiness for a day of surfin' and knee-cappin.' Here are some of Ulsterbeat's top records:

Surfin' UDA
Two Guns For Every Boy
Good Bomb Vibrations
When I Grow Up To Be A Terrorist

Five New Music Crazes For 1991

Indie-Bhangra - groups such as The Wedding Present, Ned's Atomic Dustbin and The Pixies will crossover/sell out by fusing their guitar frenzied rock with Indian sitars and bongos to create a totally poo musical hybrid - Top Tune : I'm Into Footy Me by Ravi Shankar feat Liu Reed and The Fall

Coma Pulse Music - New Age landscapes for people who enjoy listening to seaweed. Burnt out tossers from 1973 into synthesisers will concoct an ethereal mood music which combines life support system noises and mating dolphins - Top Tune : Cumulus Rex by Brian Eno feat a shoal of migrating salmon (think this was aimed at The Orb)

Orkney Beat - A new dance sound created when top house DJs holiday in the Orkneys and bring back the eclectic happy-go-lucky spirit of Highland Scotland to London clubs - Top Record : Straight Outa Peebles by MC Mungo McTavish feat Paul Oakenfold

Thrashrap - A musical collision of thrash metal and hip hop performed by long haired mid-west metal bands in sad trainers and Public Enemy t-shirts. Every band will have a black bass player with dreadlocks and a mad lead singer with skateboard tattoos. Top Tune : Da Bitch Done Dissed Me by Faith No More feat Saddam Husseinski

Pubadelic - Two bit pub bands with 16 year old drummers will buy lots of War LPs and sample rioting Leeds fans to produce a groundbreaking fusion of badly played Bootsy Collins basslines and Sham 69 prole vocals. Top Tune - There's Only One Georgey Clinton by Flowered Up feat Sly Stone.

Clubbed Senseless

The whole world it seems has been convinced into believing that 'clubbing' is the only relevant form of leisure-time in the 90s. Goths, doleys, estate agents, plumbers, actors, peelers, vicars...you name it, they're all participating in the latest crazzy youth phenomenon. Ofcourse back in the early 80s it was a West End clique of veteran trendys who recieved all the glory. Face, i-D and Blue Rondo types formed a mutual appreciation society and advertised their irrelevant lifestyles as some kind of recession-escapist Nirvana.

Then the acid scene dumped these self-important W1 wankers firmly on their arses and democratised the dancefloor Karl Marx stylee. The only problem now being that every Tom, Dick and Barry Grant got in on the act and the bad old days of elistism didn't seem that bad after all. An influx of dodgy indie kids, Sloanes, beer monsters and general bints was bound to cause a snobbish backlash but if we're going to return to Bob Elms types in their Telecom Des Garcons whistles ( I know the banana) supping Thai rice wine and discussing Dada, then I suggest that other avenues of leisuredom be explored. How about fly-fishing, hiking, making balloon animals, sheep farming or simply going to bed at 7.30 with a book a glass of Vimto?

Taking Penalties - How the stars do it

Mark Hughes scissor kicks it
Chris Waddle dummys it
Vinny Jones jumps on it and stabs it
Gazza stuffs it up his shirt and runs into the back of the nets with it
John Barnes runs up, falls down and claims a penalty (and gets it)
Clayton Blackmore rapes it
Peter Beardsley scares it to death
Brian McClair snots all over it
Mo Johnstone buys it a drink and then glasses it

Cherry Faves (local disco-tek's top tunes from 82/83)

african and white - chinca crisis
burn rubber on me - gap band
rescue - echo and the bunnymen
the model - kraftwerk
give it to me baby - rick james
rock the casbah - the clash
messages - omd
not just knee deep - funkadelic
magic's wand - whodini
funkin for jamaica - tom browne

August/September New Releases

Hatchback - Colours Of The Sun (Lo Recordings)

Music like this and that of the Scandolearic Dons could only be made by the sea. Whether it's Samuel Milton Grawe aka Hatchback's California or Rune Lindbaek's Norway, there's the feeling of open expanses and salt air and - yawn - space! Lots of space, space inbetween the spaces, both physical and spiritual. Endless horizons and miles of desolate shoreline. After being The Sorcerer's apprentice for a while, Quick Draw McGrawe has emerged as a real challanger to Dan Judd's cosmo-cali crown with this startlingly good LP. Recording together as Windsurf, they share a similar ethos, reclaiming the AOR West Coast heritage and fusing it with Euro synth-prog to produce 21st century epics. Essential!

Release Date - 22nd September

Various - Cosmic Balearic Beats Vol 1 (Eskimo)

The original Bealric Beats Vol 1 (there never was a Vol2) was released 20 years ago in 1988 and maybe more than any other compliation, changed what we now call 'dance' music for ever. With the re-birth of interest in all things 'balearic' this release is a timely reminder that the original ethos of balearia never went away. Mixed by Skinny Joey, these tracks serve as an antidote to the likes of Fred Deakin's cash-in Nu-Balearica comp on Ministry Of Sound (are they STILL going?). Maybe it's a tribute to that original Ibizan template of togetherness that a Belgian label has served up a cracking tribute to Balearic Beats with contributions form the UK, US, Belgium, Germany and Italy. Wasn't that what Amnesia was supposed to be all about?

Release Date - 6th October

Red Snapper - Pale Blue Dot (Lo Recordings)

More fishocentric funk from the Snappers, now back to a three piece and honking that Fela-esque sax with wild abandon. After listening to nowt but nu-cosmo-balearia-space-disco for the last three centuries, Red Snapper's organic blend of afro-dub-funk-electronica comes as a bit of a refreshing change. There are even cosmic-rockabilly (cockabilly??)tinges here with dub-slap-bass action and two remixes;Subway's take on Brickred and my favourite, the Kelpe remix of Clam. This LP (extended EP really - only 6 tracks plus the two remixes) was recorded live in the studio and that really comes across with an almost freestyle/jam feel to the tracks, but ina good way! Good to have the whippersnappers back after too long an absence.

Release Date - 6th October

Thanks to Jonas at epm for review copies

Other CDL recommendations

Funky Nassau - The Compass Point Story 1980-1986 (Strut)

Been out a while this but is essential listening for anyone with even the slightest interest in the evolution of modern music. Put simply, Chris Blackwell of Island Record's Bahamian studio became perhaps the most innovative production space of the 80s with its 'drum n' bass' super-duo, Sly and Robbie, producer Wally Badarou and the creme of New York's No Wave/Mutant Disco crowd all maxing n' relaxin and soaking up the laidback Caribbean vibes. Grace Jones, Tom Tom Club, Talking Heads, Gwen Guthrie, Ian Dury, Chaz Jankel, Will Powers tracks, FK, Larry Levan mixes, dubs, 12 inch versions, obscurities, there's something different about all these tracks, even the familiar ones. Lovingly packaged with extensive sleevenotes, this is the kind of compliation that makes me weep when I see all those tacky Ibiza Bliss abortions stocked up in row after row of funky house Fierce Angel futility.

Bon Iver - For Emma, Forever Ago (4AD)

The sthick goes like this; Justin Vernon aka Bon Iver (French for Good Winter if you knock off an H) splits with bird, retreats into the wilds of Wisconsin during the winter of 2006/07 and pours his heart and soul into these nine tracks of loneliness and despair. In his freezing wooden shack, Bon kills and eats a deer to keep him going and with only the merest hint of production and 'additional recording' the songs write themselves. It's a good story and I even think some of it may be true. There's no doubting Bon's despair, each song being more or less an ode to his ex, the Emma of the title no doubt. I should hate it but there's no two ways about it, this is a beautiful record with Vernon's achingly morose voice and the spartan arrangements highlighting the minimalist 'one man and his songs' philosophy of the 'concept.' There are elements of Jose Gonzalez's stripped bare guitar style and the alt-folk-harmonics of Fleet Foxes. At times the lyrics are at once self-indulgent 'and if all your love was wasted then who the hell was I?' yet totally heartfelt. I'd advise Justin 'to get over it' but if he did, then he wouldn't have produced such a gorgeous record as this.

No Notion Disco

AKA A Rainy Sunday Afternoon in Sankey Bridges, more of a selection than a mix per se;

Kiki Dee - Chicago (Rocket)
Space - Carry On Turn Me On (Obsessive)
Glass Candy - Miss Broadway (After Dark) (Italians Do It Better)/Cheech & Chong - Lard Ass (WB)
Otis Clay - The Only Way Is Up (Harmless)
Herbie Mann - Superman (Atlantic)
Walter Muphy - Uptown Serenade (Private Stock)
Santa Esmerelda - House of the Rising /Quasimodo SuIte(Philips/Fauves Puma)
Evelyn King - I Don't Know (Popular Peoples Front re-edit) (PPF)
L.T.D - Back In Love Again (A & M)
The Gap Band - Outstanding (Total Experience)
Harold Melvin & The Bluenotes - Wake Up Everybody (Pt's 1 & 2) (PIR)(with the merest sliver of Funkadelic to bridge it)


https://www.yousendit.com/download/TTdFYlJUb0JIcWZIRGc9PQ

Cuckoo Fanzine - are you balearic/Tony Wilson etc

Cuckoo no 1 – Turn on, tune in & slop out!

Cuckoo was one of my many short-lived fanzines from the late 80s/early 90s. Just re-discovered in me ma’s loft, along with Hang Loose nos, 1 & 2, (yet another fanzine concept that went no further than Widnes Market), I’ve decided to put a few bits n’ bobs from both titles up on here, just to remind myself of what a whopper I was/am!


Are You Really Balearic?

(note: this was done at the time of Spice, Ophelia, Venus etc when the ‘balearic network’ was in full swing and ‘dressing up’ as opposed to dressing like a ‘scally’ had once again become the door policy for many of these supposedly progressive clubs)

Much has been written about Balearic and most of it has been Ballorocks. Is Balearic a musical genre or an attitude? How do you say Balearic? Is it Bal-ear-ic, Bal-yerrick, Bally-eric or Can-aries? What do Balearic people look like? Loads of hair and a Radion logo t-shirt? No hair at all and a Telecom de Garcons sackcloth shirt? A bit of hair on their toes and a Colman’s Mustard New Age toga? The whole point of Balearic is not to take things too seriously, so here’s my complete guide to being utterly Bal-hee-herikk (proper Minorcan pronunciation). First of all watch all the quiz shows, adverts and soaps and develop your own wacky repertoire of tacky catchphrases such as ;

“Don’t put your daughter on the stage Mrs. Worthington!”
“And remember…the clues are there!”
“Oats! Pull the other one!”
“Pooh what a smelly horse!”
“Points mean prizes.”
“Hot pot please Bet!”
“Ragu, Ragu, brings out the Italian in you!”

This stage complete, you should go about concealing your public school background by adopting an orfenic Sarf Landan accent and brill rhyming slang ie. “Me Richard’s a stylist at Victor Baboons!” Ask your parents to ‘loan’ (give) you five grand to set up your own fanzine (called ‘Smash!’), record label (Corking Platters) and promotion company (Blooming Fabbo Events). Tell all and sundry that you used to be a Dorking Town hooligan and served time with Reg Kray, Ian Brady and Al Capone. If it all goes well and you’re accepted into the Balearic mafia then memorise the following list of Balearic Essentials:

Balearic Authors :

Martin Amis
William Burroughs
Bret Easton Ellis
J.D. Salinger
Aleister Crowley
Enid Blyton

Balearic Artists :

Aubrey Beardsley
Edward Burne-Jones
Roy Lichtenstein
Gustav Klimt
Tony Hart

Balearic Films :

2001 A Space Odyssey
Scorpio Rising
Blue Velvet
A Clockwork Orange
Un Chien Andalou
Metropolis
Altered States
Pink Flamingos
Snow White

Balearic Musicians :

The Orb
Santana
Gladys Knight
Philip Glass
Abba
Curved Air
Serge Gainsbourg
Windsor Davis and Don Estelle

Balearic TV :

The Price Is Right
Through The Keyhole
Coronation St
Neighbours
The Time, The Place
The 8.15 From Manchester
Wheel Of Fortune
Pebble Mill At One
Nationwide
The Harry Worth Show

There you go then! Balearic Mafiosi types always counter the accusation of elitism with the retort that they’re only taking the piss. So the next time you get refused entry into a Milky/Slammy/Spicy/Ducky event, simply tell the door-person that you’re the lovechild of Reg Holdsworth and Nancy Noise and you’ll have no hassle….and I mean that most sincerely folks!


Cuckoo’s Nest – top platters of yesteryear

Burning Down The House – Talking Heads
Feel The Chant – Spandau Ballet
Heart & Soul (Reprise) – Great Leap Forward
Wire (Dub) – U2
Wordyrappinghood – Tom Tom Club
Kissing With Confidence – Will Powers
Tusk – Fleetwood Mac
Strut Your Funky Stuff – Frantique
Bourgie Bourgie – Gladys Knight
Upside Down – Diana Ross
Undercover – Rolling Stones
Landscape – The Mohawks
Funk 49 – The James Gang
Make Me Smile – Chicago
The Crunch – Rah Band
Magic Fly – Space
Hard Times – Human League
Lifetime Love – Joyce Sims
Cold Getting Dumb – Just Ice
Follow Me Follow You – Genesis

Greavsie’s A to Z of Culture

(note Jimmy Greaves was the ‘outspoken’ ie bigoted, former alcoholic pundit on ITV’s Saint & Greavsie football show and prone to loony anti-lefty diatribes on TV and via his Sun column)

A is for Art – paintings and stuff
B is for Ballet – a load of puffs dancing
C is for Cinema – Patrick Swayze films and that
D is for Dada – Experimental German art school of the 1920s
E is for Existentialism – err!!!
F is for Freud – shagging and stuff
G is for Greek Civilisation – I like a few weeks in Rhodes
H is for Hamlet – I prefer Castella myself
I is for Impressionists – Bobby Davro and that lot
J is for Journalism – I write for The Sun
K is for Kafka – brilliant Czech novelist author of Metamorphosis
L is for Lagerfeld – I don’t touch the stuff any more
M is for Mondrian – my grandson could paint better than that twat
N is for Nobby Stiles – toothless hero of England’s 66 World Cup squad
O is for Opera – fat Italian bastards singing
P is for Pianists – like Chas and Dave
Q is for Queen Elizabeth – God bless yer maam!
R is for Roland Barthes – I new his brother, Municipal
S is for Shelley – workshy sit-com star played by Hywell Bennett
T is for Tennyson – I hate that Boris Becker!
U is for Umberto Eco – Italian metaphysical novelist, author of The Name Of The Rose
V is for Verdi – as in lasagne
W is for Wordsworth – he wandered lonely as a cloud. Prick!
X is for Xylophonists – Patrick Moore for example
Y is for Yeats – Liverpool defender of the 60s
Z is for Zen Buddhism – Oh fuck off and put Russ Abbott on!


10 Unusual Destinations For Your Foreign Rave Trip

Oumel-Bouaghi – Algeria
Cochabamba – Bolivia
Plzen – Czechoslovakia
Olafsfjoerdur – Iceland
Balik Papan – Indonesia
Antananarivo – Madagascar
Janakpur – Nepal
Pingtung – Taiwan
Chililabombwe – Zambia
Yap – The Federated States Of Micronesia

10 Wacky Venues For Your Invites Only Party

In your nan’s attic
Half way up Ben Nevis
Inside the belly of a whale
Underneath a particularly large cow
At a Boy’s Brigade bring n’ buy sale
On a Manchester Ship Canal dredger
In a chippy
3000 feet down a disused Cornish tin mine
In the bonnet of a Hillman Imp
At your mum and dad’s 25th wedding anniversary

10 strange things to wave above your head whilst dancing

An ostrich
A set of encyclopaedias
An inflatable dinghy
A life-size replica of the Elephant Man
A Black & Decker hedge-trimmer
A No Left Turn sign
Jim Bowen’s scalp
A 30 piece stainless steel cutlery set
The entire Tottenham Hotspur football team
The remains of a half eaten hippopotamus

10 names pop stars give their kids

Neptune Geronimo
Tostig Butterfly
Zachariah Moonboot Junior
Petal-Delicate Rainshower
Oxo
Billy Agamemnon
Mozart Amplifier Reverb Monitor
Ernie
Candlewax Bunty Flip-Flop
Organa Celery Herbivore

A Man For All Schemings (A Nightmare On Whitworth Street)

(note ; this was written just after the Hacienda had re-opened for business after the whole gangster closure fiasco – it was sent to Wilson himself who returned it with comments such as ‘bullshit’ scribbled on in red ink.)

Call him Tony! Call him Anthony! Call him Mr Wilson! Call him wanker! Call him whatever you like, the World’s Greatest Living Mancunian doesn’t give a flying fish. A man of many guises, this supremely self-confident – arrogant if you like – man plays different roles depending on his audience. Put him on Yoof TV and he’s the street smart patron of the dance scene, put him on a business programme and he’s the hard-nosed corporate supremo, put him on something arty and he’s the dialectical scholar. Stick this man anywhere and he’ll adapt, a smug chameleon in a 700 quid suit.

As boss of Factory Communications, Wilson has built up one of Britain’s largest independent music and media empires and, so he maintains, invested in his hometown’s economy, increased it’s cultural importance and cocked a snook at self-important, lethargic old London Town. Tony makes grand claims on behalf of his company but are they really worthy of the appreciative slap on the back that he so evidently feels they deserve?

In 1989, ‘Madchester’ that ill-defined, misunderstood movement made front covers not only in the British music press but also in foreign current affairs publications. But who had most to gain from this new freaky youth phenomenon? Mr A. H. Wilson of course. The scene’s leading band, The Happy Mondays were signed to his label and its spiritual home, The Hacienda, was his club. No wonder then that he engineered a farcical incident at the 1990 New Music Seminar by provoking black US techno-crats in the infamous ‘Wake Up America, You’re Dead’ debate. Madchester needed US exposure and Tony Wilson, the arch media manipulator, was determined to get it. He got it alright but the gap between his wayward champions of urban UK rock, the Mondays and suburban US rock was too great a gap to span and the kids of Kasey Kasem stuck with bands who had curly perms and wore leather pants.

At home meanwhile, Madchester was fast becoming an embarrassment. National tabloids were publishing their own cut out and keep guides to the scene, getting the parlance, fashion and music all hilariously wrong. Like Swinging London before it, Madchester had become a mythical creature, unrecognisable to those who had created it. Bands began to distance themselves from the whole thing, fearing the inevitable backlash and places The Hacienda and Affleck’s Palace became tourist attractions for those in search of the legendary Manchester vibe.

In this respect, Wilson’s hype backfired on him as disenchanted Manchester clubbers felt the Hacienda had lost its credibility and deserted in droves. This wasn’t the only reason why they went elsewhere though. Many regulars had become disillusioned by the Draconian door policy adopted by the club during its battle with the Greater Manchester Constabulary to keep its licence. Ostensibly this policy was implemented to prevent drug taking and selling inside the club and the bouncers were under orders to refuse entry to so-called ‘undesirables.’ This resulted in arbitrary refusals for both first time punters and hardcore regulars alike, so Manchester clubbers voted with their feet and moved onto other clubs instead,

Potentially the threat of becoming unfashionable was worse than the club’s licence being revoked. Enforced closure meant certain martyrdom whereas voluntary closure could prove an opportunity to make headlines and re-think strategy. And so, after fighting off James Anderton and his Puritan Yeomanry, Tony Wilson closed the Hacienda of his own accord in a blaze of publicity. The official reason for this unexpected event was that the lives of the club’s employees had been threatened by local gangsters. There was no denying the fact that Manchester did have a serious gang problem and that they already controlled the doors of other city nightclubs. However cynics felt that the Hacienda’s problems had been blown out of all proportion by the club’s management to smokescreen dwindling attendances. The skilfully handled press conference given by Wilson made it clear that we were witnessing the end of an era; the Cavern of the 80s was shutting up shop…but not for long.

The Hacienda dramatically reopened several months after closing. Apparently the gang warfare which only weeks ago had forced the club’s closure no longer posed a problem. This was a surprise to those people who were bombarded with ever worsening tales of Manchester’s internecine gang war, which was at its height at the time of the re-opening. Konspiracy, the club which had taken most of the Hacienda’s clientele had itself been closed due to an overbearing gang influence. This left a gap in the market and, whether it was coincidental or not, the all-new-metal-detector-no-drugs Hacienda filled a void.

That’s business, and whatever else he is, Tony Wilson is a businessman first and foremost. Factory isn’t a philanthropic enterprise run on behalf of your average-bloke-on-the-street, it’s a profit making venture. So they’re still based in Manchester when they could be in London or New York. Big deal! So they’ve opened a club and a bar in over a decade of business. Thanks a bunch! Why do they feel that they’re doing everyone a big favour by simply existing? Let’s face it, the unemployment figures wouldn’t exactly hit the roof if they uprooted.

Recognition where recognition’s due though. The Hacienda’s place in popular youth mythology is not only assured but deserved and I’ve spent many memorable nights there myself. Self-importance however, breeds a smug sense of superiority, which eventually leads to complacency and decline. No-one can take things for granted these days and the world is music is a notoriously fickle one in which to do business, as Factory, I’m sure, are only too aware.

Love him or loathe him, you can’t help admiring him. Call him Granada’s smirking granddad, call him rave culture’s Rupert Murdoch, call him the most hated man in England. Call him anything you like, the World’s Greatest Living Mancunian can rest easy in the knowledge that he’s Anthony Wilson and you’re not.

Special Hard-Up Factory Bargain Box Set Only £45 featuring all your faves…..again!!

Love Will Tear Us Apart; The L.S. Lowry Doom & Gloom 90s Remix
Blue Monday : One more time with a toss video mix remix
Wrote For Luck : The off it’s box everyone on stage dead live mix.

The Fall - The Man Who's Head Expanded

The Fall - Imperial Wax Solvent (Sanctuary)

Another year, another fucking Fall LP. With the publication of Mark E. Smith’s ‘autobiography’ and his worrying transformation into Shane MacGowan style drunkard icon, maybe it is time for fans and the band themselves to decide what the point of The Fall is.

Now, ever since Bingo Master’s Breakout I’ve been in love with the idea of The Fall rather than the reality of their music. MES’s messianic mantras spoke to those working class kids who were well read and well versed in the classic rock cannon, who knew their Burroughs and their Beefhearts but who were patronised by middle class musicians and music journalists. Smith’s contrary bigotry and aggressiveness, was designed more to provoke the liberal music press than anything else. He’s always played the role of the prole sage, the pisshead poet and reactionary rabble rouser and in doing so, has alienated band members and friends as much as the despised journalists he loves to wind up.

There’s no point attempting to analyse Smith’s lyrical hieroglyphs because he’d only sneer at such a futile exercise; he has been perverted by language and speaks only to and for himself and that’s fair enough. Yet, we can judge him and his band on their music and whilst there are moments of brilliance on Imperial Wax Solvent (see what I mean? De-cypher that fools!), there is too much on here that is simply The Fall knocking out more Fall Songs for Fall Fans with little deviation from the classic Fall formula. Which is like complaining about bread for tasting like bread I suppose.

It begins well enough with the creepily free-form Alton Towers, the ghost of Smith’s brilliant Von Sudenfed side project haunting the eerie electronic ether. But then it’s back to Fall Business As Usual. Wolf Kidult Man is typical Fall; all four four stomping drums, relentless garage riff and nonsensical Smith-isms ‘where is your momma, your power is gone!’

50 Year Old Man finds his phlegmy delivery first aired on Reformation’s ‘Over! Over!’ back and Mark sounds every day of his 50 years, growling and grumbling like the grumpy old punk he is. On and on and on he goes, informing all and sundry ‘I’m a 50 year old man’ like some OAP constantly telling you how old he is, as if staying alive in itself is some kind of achievement. After four minutes of non-stop ranting the track suddenly lurches into a banjo pickin’ hillbilly boogie before Mark begins again at half speed ’and don’t forget you tried to destroy me’ he spits, his paranoia trailing off into a fatalistic, confrontational reproach to anyone who has ever doubted him and his art (maaan). He’s a 50 year old man and he likes it, he’s a 50 year old man, what’re we gonna do about it? Er, fuck all mate. There follows an instrumental interlude and yet another song begins but it’s the same song, this is ProgFall. All in all 50YOM lasts for over 11 minutes. Infact he’s a 53 year old man by the time it ends.

I’ve Been Duped continues this ’the whole world’s against me’ tirade, this time with Mark’s latest female disciple, Eleni Poulou on vocals, doing what she did on The Wright Stuff. Like Rotten’s ‘ever get the feeling you’ve been cheated’ it rails against foes both real and imagined. It’s stated as a MES only composition yet its structure is perhaps the most traditionally poppy with y’know rhymes n’ shit. Maybe it’s meant for the charts, but if so, it’s no Hey Luciani.

Smith’s wobbly up n’ down singing style returns for a cover (about as committed to singing as he ever gets), this time on Strangetown detailing a love/hate relationship with some place that could be Los Angeles or Lower Broughton. Cosmic tumbleweed sounds blow through the streets where ‘the birds are too scared to fly.’ Definitely Salford then.

Taurig sounds like Raven era Stranglers meets Stephan Bodzin, a whispered vocal barely audible beneath the synth waves. It is fantastic.
Can Can Summer’s minimal duet with MES and Mrs and overlaid vocals ‘you are no dog’ he tells her. 'The town is anti-life, time to change back.’ Urban alienation, de-evolutionist social commentary or just the usual random words and sentences that sound meaningful but could just as well be meaningless?

At least it’s multi-layered and tech-y flirtations provide something different but then with Tommy Shooter we’re back on familiar territory. With lyrics like ‘chickens coming home to sit on your shoulder bone/ Painting yellow flowers after blowing away another balloon string/The rubbish piles up in the corridor.’ it could be an ode to a local ‘Life Of Grime’ character or just another Smith grotesque. Who cares? I have fell into the trap of attempting to decypher the words of a poet. And Smith IS above all a poet. Along with fellow Salfordians, Shaun Ryder and John Cooper Clarke, MES manages to project humour and menace in equal measure; there's definately something dark and deformed lurking in the Irwell, ready to bite anyone foolhardy enough to attempt safe passage across its slimey, sarcastic and scum encrusted waters.

Latch Key Kid begins with a bassline growling and several MES vocals stylings overlapping ‘I like to relax with tobacco and sugar’ the synth repeating the endlessly repeated ‘I’m a latch-key kid’ sloganeering. It becomes MESmerising after a few minutes but then so did the test card.
Is This New answers its own question. No, it’s the same old Fall Sound with Smith reciting one of his cut n’ paste short stories to a sprightly blinka-blink riddim. Instead of attempting to justify himself maybe Mark would be better just releasing a book of lyrics and have done with it. Take Senior Twilight Stock Replacer for example. That almost sounds like a parodic Fall title as spewed out by a Random Fall Album Track Title Generator, much like Imperial Wax Solvent itself. The imaginary job title is chanted by the whole band as if by repeating those four words they take on sinister alternative meanings or hint at hidden depths.

Closing track, Exploding Chimney erupts with stabbing metallic cut-finger chords and Banshees type shapes mutated by Smiffy’s mumbled vocals. As he says at the end with his parting shot ’he’s seen it all.’ Maybe he has and maybe he’s got nothing left to say.

As with last year’s ‘Reformation Post-TLC’ I found myself liking the songs that sounded least like the Fall which perhaps tells its own story. Much as I admire Smith’s refusal to be the media’s pet prole intellectual, he often lapses into self-parody. MES the mess; the snarling, tap room philosopher always with a sneering insult or epigram to hand. He’s obviously far more open-minded and open to new ideas than he lets on. He’s gone past the stage of proving himself a long time ago and with all kinds of people, young and of his own generation queuing up to work with him, perhaps Mark needs to break out of his own self-imposed musical and lyrical ghetto before he ends up like Morrissey.

Cafe del Classics # 3 - Central Heating (Grand Central, 1996)

Post-Madchester, Manchester’s music and clubbing scene was in the doldrums. The party was over and a sense of despondency had set in, as happens whenever any city scene captures the imagination of the pop world; think Liverpool post-65, London post-68, San Francisco post-70 or New York post-82.

Into this void stepped Fat City, a loose collective of hip hop-centric musicians, record label owners, Djs and promoters with a mission to put a spring back into Manny’s worn-out step. Exiled ‘Geordie’ (the kind of Geordie who has a public school accent) Mark Rae was the catalyst for much of this, opening the The Fat City record shop and the Grand Central record label as well as promoting various nights in the city. OK, they were by and large suburban white middle-class kids but their love for black American music was sincere and at least something was happening.

I remember going to the label’s ‘No Half Steppin’ nights and, after almost a decade of house music dominance, it was refreshing to hear a variety of different musical genres under one roof, indeed in one DJ’s set. Hip hop, funk, soul, boogie, jazz, latin, drum n’ bass all coalescing into a unified groove that transcended racial and cultural barriers. The fact that our mates were break dancing (still NOT revived at that time) there also told its own story; hip hop and the original ethos of Peace Unity Love & Having Fun was back, Jack!

Released in 1996, Central Heating was a showcase for this new cabal of beat finders and groove makers. They’d already released the Frying The Fat compilation a year earlier featuring tracks from Aim, Funky Fresh Few, Tony D and Rae & Christian, but Central Heating managed to surpass that and almost anything else available in the UK at that time. It wasn’t just the crystal clear production and the diversity of material on show, it was the sleeve-art, the confidence, the abstract feeling that, at last Manchester and indeed British music was moving forwards again, not relying on or copying Americans.

In rock, Oasis and the so-called Britpop phenomenon was making headway against US grunge but all that was a diversion, it was obsolete music made by obsolete musicians for traditionalists and Luddites. In the digital ‘real world’ THIS was Manchester’s true contribution to 90s music.

Hip hop remained at the core of Central Heating but only as a raw ingredient, the basis for a myriad of flavours. Essentially it all boiled down to the drum machine and the layers of sound added to it. Whether it was the ‘northern sulphuric soul’ of Rae & Christian’s still spine-tingling ‘Spellbound’ or the Evel Knievel hillbilly cut n’ paste of Aim’s ‘Original Stuntmaster,’ the slo-mo jazzy patter of Only Child’s ’Rain’ or Andy Votel’s creepy ‘Hemlocka,’ the luscious slo-jam soul of Scruff‘s ‘Gotta Have Her’ or the straight ahead party jams of Tony D’s ’It’s Times Two’ or Funky Fresh Few’s ’You Mean Fantastic’ there’s not one bum track on the three slabs of heavy duty vinyl (even then CDs were anathema for diggers and divvies, bonus tracks or not).

Soon a whole host of inner-city British ‘beats’ labels would spring up, capitalising on the late-90s boom for shitty sampladelic Fat Boy Slim copycats. In truth it was a pretty dreadful time yet Central Heating remains as one of, if not the best example of truly modern British music and restored a little faith in Manchester as a centre for forward-thinking, self-confident creativity.