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Manchester …more ghosts…more echoes

Author: Mick Middles

Barely a week after Magazine’s evocative set at The Bridgewater Hall and Manchester is invaded by more ghosts. This time they are clustered in a tiny art gallery – The Richard Goodhall – buried deep with the area now rather grandly referred to as ‘The Northern Quarter’. The positioning is apt, for the gallery currently houses a fine collection of rock’n’roll images frozen by the perceptive lens of Kevin Cummins, the one time NME man who captured Manchester’s rock glitterati as they dawdled beneath the city’s decayed grandeur.
Now this area is reborn. (The NQ enjoys a dense exotic heritage…once you could by a python or hire a murderer and, in later years, catch the embryonic noises of so many, from The Fall to Elbow within it’s tightly clasped streets). Of course, and somewhat controversially, there is sheen of contemporary elegance here, from lunchtime meetings to night time huddles of jazzers…and, of course, those who sip bad white wine and enjoy gallery openings.
It IS strangely unsettling, in truth, to drift around the gallery, glancing the oh-so familiar imagery on display. The iconic grimace of Mark E. Smith; the ugly mug braggadocio of the Gallaghers; Tony Wilson, Alan Erasmus and Peter Saville huddled outside The Factory Club; Sean Ryder’s Fagin leer, the winsome reserve of Vini Reilly…oh and Mozzer!
If you will forgive me, I need to state that I was indeed fortunate enough to be stood next to that camera as it snapped to such devastating effect. I am not trying to muscle clumsily into the magic here…just need to note how fascinating it has been to see the illusion unfold. That famous image of Wilson, Erasmus and Saville might seem to evoke an urban urgency…the very source, perhaps, of Factory’s inglorious empire. In truth it was merely one of a number of shots that accompanied a piece in ‘Sounds’ that focused tentatively on an unfolding Manchester scene. Believe me; it took weeks of phone bashing to prize that article and that picture within the pages of ‘Sounds’. As for the NME…with Paul Morley lost to the glamour of the capital, there was little interest in northern imagery at that point.
To be honest, the images that now affect me the most are not the most obvious. I would be a happy man if I knew that I would never again see Joy Division in the snow of Stockport and Hulme or a Pollockian paint splattered Stone Roses…oh and, again…Mozzer.
Far more refreshing are images of the lost faces of Manchester. The gloriously, painfully lost Distractions, perfectly posed in oikyness at Bell Vue or the frolicking ofThe Drones. The latter image transported me directly back to The Smithfield pub on Swan Street – next to the soon-to-be revived Band on the Wall. That evening, The Drones- with manager Morley gleefully igniting fuses – spoke with gushing naiveté into our fanzine’s (Ghast Up) cassette recorder. They were full of the verve and rush and promise of a new Manchester and no one really cared that, just a few months previously, they had been the sub-Slik Manc surf pop band, Rockslide. In the moment and for Kevin’s camera, all seemed possible. For Slaughter and the Dogs, too, the pre punk glam vision flickered thrillingly, if rather ineptly. It didn’t matter…the energy still drips from the photographs.
The exhibition is, in commercial reality, merely a launch for Kevin’s Faber and Faber book, ‘Looking at the Light Through the Pouring Rain’. An elegant affair, it must be noted, that sees the ocean of photos punctuated by blocks of prose; Morley eloquent on Manchester, Stuart Maconie and John Harris equally intriguing, if rather more perfunctory, as they spill their tales.
But to be honest, rather than leafing through the book, I prefer to look at the photos in-situ….slap bang, as they are, in the centre of Manchester regeneration. How amusing it is, to stare at Shaun Ryder’s cartoon vision while deflecting the faint but obvious disapproval of the gallery staff. Ha! How ironic too. I assume they wish me to purchase a book. I cannot, of course, for that would hardly be in the spirit that inspired these photographs in the first place. So I smile and think of the Distraction’s Mike Finney. I think of Slaughter’s Wayne Barrett, of MJ Drone and all of The Worst. I think of the scuttling shadows in Moss Side. Of the broken dreams. That is where the interest still lies. That is the heartbeat of old Manchester and, as Morrissey once reflected onstage – and reflects in his every single song- the past never dies.

Mick Middles

Magazine and ghosts of Manchester

Author: Mick Middles

Mick Middles September 2 2009

Just like Len Brown! Well, he blogged in this arena….admitting to feeling strange to be watching Magazine, in Manchester, in 2009.
Odd indeed and odder still, to catch them again, six months later in the same city. Different venue this time thou…profoundly so. On Saturday it was Manchester’s dignified, musicianly Bridgewater Hall. If Paul Morley’s recent diversion onto contemporary orchestral music is to be taken as a serious post-rock diversion – and, having suffered the wails and strains of Snape Maltings, I’m not convinced – then The Bridgewater Hall would be the perfect venue for a post-rock vision.
But Magazine?
In February, the band seemed refreshingly vigorous and outrageously joyful….at The Bridgewater Hall they were one step beyond blindingly unique. How so?
It was impossible not to be affected by the ghosts of Manchester. Impossible not to hurtle back to the band’s initial stirrings, down in the elongated cellar of Rafters, deep in the post-punk fug. So this was Howard Devoto’s fast and slow music? So this was some kind of future? It didn’t appear so, even then. I do recall, and word for word, enjoying an exchange with the aforementioned Mr Morley – actually at a Crass gig at The Factory Club, I recall correctly – during which the NME man proclaimed Magazine to be ‘treading into the past’. I wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or not. After all, we were lost in a rather dizzying mess of messy, pseudo avant garde, whether fizzed up electronic darlings or jagged white boy funk. The edge, or lack of musicality parading as the edge, seemed all consuming in that moment. Why should we respect a man – Howard Devoto – who leapt from the fray and scrambled back to warming pre punk base? This band had drifted back to the shadows of Roxy Music…Be Bop Deluxe perhaps. Pr Dr Feelgood, let alone pre Sex Pistols. Sounded good though. Sounded pretty. Sounded literate and fun.
Oddly…most oddly, it sounds even more powerful here, now, in an unfolding 2009. The Bridgewater Hall set was spiced by an ancient and stupid war. The silvered ex punks, 50 something’s staging a puerile we-have-a-right-to-dance battle against those who, having paid to sit and enjoy the Bridgewater comforts, did not wish to retreat to the pogoing frenzy of 1978. I felt rather embarrassed at that. Lumpen Mancs dancing and mouthing…
But the band…astonished by the welcome afforded them in Britain, in Spain and beyond, seem to have attained a new and welcome level, where Howard Devoto, once rather lost in seriousness, now seemed to relish a new humorous stance. It was a joy…more so, because ‘Shot by Both Sides’ was hauntingly conspicuous by it’s absence.
“That was the first time we have played a show and have not played ‘Shot’,” stated keyboardist Dave Formula, in the Bridgewater’s sterile backstage bar area.
“We just decided not to play it today, just to see how it felt.”
And just how does it feel, we enquired, to be so WANTED again?
“Just utterly bewildering,” he replied.
“We only really got together for those two initial gigs…but we are rolling towards…towards…I don’t know.”
Initially, at least, Magazine are rolling towards a Dave Formula solo album, due in the spring. But beyond that, and perhaps because of it, the inevitability of a new and original Magazine album now seems so temptingly in view.
“Maybe…we haven’t really spoken. But Howard has worked with me on my album and, well, if he were to write songs for a new Magazine album…well..I don’t know.”
Howard Devoto himself was, as one would expect, somewhat more cryptic, preferring to reply questions with polite and smiling detachment.
“I may ring you yet,” he answered, when I informed in that, in 1977, he had promised me an interview. (For popzine ‘Ghast Up’, I think.
Barry Adamson, oikish and fun, confessed to “,,,being really nervous before this gig in particular…scary hall,” although memories of his own triumphant ‘evening’ at Salford’s equally elegant Lowry Theatre, three years ago, bubbled in my memory. And it was the lush, dense sensuality of Adamson’s separate career – Manchester’s silent genius – that perhaps holds the true key to Magazine’s curious relevance in 2009. With the entire band, it seems, there is now an unforced air…with nothing to prove, with nowhere to go perhaps, and freed from pressure of expectation, they have relaxed into style. They have found themselves.
I remind myself of just how distant this band – Devoto in particular – have seemed in the past. I also remain fully aware that the welcoming air in the ‘aftershow’ was more the result of the old friendships they share with my companion of the evening, Lindsay Reade, than with myself. But it didn’t matter.
Magazine are relevant. More so, than ever…and certainly much more fun. Who would have thought? Who would have thought?

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