I watch the Elliott Smith documentary and leave the cinema feeling crumpled and happysad as expected. Everything seems so long ago now. When I get out onto the street the light has become incredible. The pavement is full of people not walking but taking photographs of the tops of the buildings which are visible in incredible detail in the hour before sunset. I play ‘Needle in the Hay’ and take the Whitworth Street/Piccadilly/Back Piccadilly route to the Northern Quarter to fetch my bike which I left there three days ago. My battery goes and ‘Needle’ cuts out before the chorus. When I get to my bike the removable squishy seat which I should have removed has been removed and so has the front wheel. I’m not upset. I found him in the basement of my old building, we’ve had a good innings, someone might ride him again soon. I take my D-lock at least which is worth more than the bike and walk to get the tram with my headphones still on, playing nothing. A gorgeous girl in a hijab is taking a ton of selfies at the stop. Someone Tweets: ‘Please someone take me for a beer in the sun’. A group of Spanish people are photographing a lad who is holding onto the back of a tram and being pulled along on his skateboard. Just before Cornbrook, the saddest place in the world, the astonishing sun rests in a gas tower on the horizon just for a second.
Wednesday, 13 May 2015
Saturday, 2 May 2015
‘I remember my winter, trudging up to Oldham on two buses, sat in the back room with endless tea and a whole rotisserie chicken…’
What’s your name?
What do you do?
I am a writer, predominantly about clubs and dance music, for several publications including The Guardian, Time Out, Skiddle and The Skinny, for whom I was Clubs Editor, and from where all of this stemmed. When I see distant or elderly relatives, I joke that ‘I write in advance about what most people can’t remember!’ No, they don’t tend to laugh either. It’s a real struggle. I also work for a research company occasionally, and still get my head down with the odd bout of office temping. I am trying to distance myself from the brain prison of data entry.
Where do you live?
For the past year or so, I’ve lived in Chorlton, home to the highest proportional home burglary rate in the UK. So you can assume that if this questionnaire drifts off into the ether before your mind does, I have simply been robbed of my ability to complete it. I had always liked Chorlton even when living in the city centre, but the Metrolink made it much more appealing. Plus there’s cheap swimming and moderately priced ale to offset the constant climate of fear that you could return home any time to nothing but a dope stained set of late 70s upholstery.
Tell us the story of how you ended up in Manchester.
As a teenager in a North Wales village, in no uncertain terms I wanted to get the fuck out, and fast. I considered going to university in Kingston Upon Thames, Derby and a few other spots, but really wanted Manchester (not so) deep down. I just about squeezed in to MMU to study Film and Media, which I screwed up and dropped out of after two years. Somehow, with almost no financial means and only temporary jobs flyering alongside a brief stint as caretaker managing a declining chain of sex shops in Northern satellite towns, I managed to stick around. Soon to be 27, when life still feels uncertain, I remember my winter trudging up to Oldham on two buses, sat in the back room with endless tea and a whole rotisserie chicken, avoiding eye contact with the endless money shots repeated on a first generation plasma screen inches from the counter. The only security I had was a hammer stashed in a small cupboard.
I moved to Manchester for ‘the scene’, although I wasn’t sure what that was at the time. I did stand up for a few years and ended up working on a few writing projects for television and so on. I was much better at the latter side of things. Eventually, my interest drifted more toward music, and dance music especially. I started to DJ (sometimes badly, dropping random Panorama Bar house in between Foals remixes at Now Wave), and somehow kept my head above water. Some best of times, most worst of times.
I have lived in town in pokey student flats with TVs tuned only to Sky Action – on which I watched the finale of Alien Resurrection on a daily basis – then in Rusholme, where a burglar shat in my yard and a DNA officer inspecting the scene asked me if I’d ever met Steve Coogan, ‘and was he a dickhead in reality too?’ I lived above Abduls, on whose food I briefly subsisted, stealing wi-fi from a Chinese exchange student and never having to heat the flat, which was so warm in the summer months, I was physically unable to occupy it most of the time. Eventually I moved to a flat near Piccadilly, and lived with a rotating cast of characters, starring me as landlord and handyman.
What’s great about this city?
It’s a massive cliché, but almost everyone in Manchester loves music, and many more become readily engrossed in the culture surrounding it. Perhaps this is true of any large condensed populace, but the people are largely very funny too. But it’s mainly great for all the brilliant, life changing experiences and opportunities it has afforded me over the years. Or, perhaps I have afforded them to myself? Perhaps the real city, is inside myself…? (It’s not, it’s in Manchester.)
What’s not so great?
I think the city centre as a whole has declined rapidly, and the atmosphere is markedly sour compared to less than a decade ago. The cuts to resources for the homeless or those with mental health or drug problems has disenfranchised people on a huge scale; From a humanitarian angle, it’s unjustifiable, and from a more cynical tourist board perspective, it doesn’t present the city in the best light. Obviously the blame here doesn’t necessarily lie locally, though. I also worry that the city’s small enough to be almost entirely franchised and operated by half a dozen powerhouses across retail, clubbing, dining… It’s great that there’s money and ambition available still, but a streak of independence and even the sort of radicalism that the city’s cultural heritage often trumpets wouldn’t go amiss, albeit from those with far more imagination and conviction than most of us, myself included, are able to offer.
Do you have a favourite Manchester building?
I don’t have much of a taste or sense for good architecture, although I’d like to. I enjoy the corridor of university and residential buildings on Whitworth Street, and the general feel and sights of the Palace/Cornerhouse junction. I seriously hope that the latter building stays put.
Do you have a favourite Mancunian?
My favourite living Mancunian is probably Kosmonaut’s bookings manager and former Piccadilly Records staff member, Pasta Paul. Not only is he one of my favourite DJs - which is saying something as he can’t mix for shit - but he loves the city more than anyone I’ve ever met. He’s still dashing around from gig to gig, opening to opening and record shop to record shop without a shred of disillusion, or the usual ego and expectations that consume some ‘local characters’. He has achieved what is surely one of the UK’s largest network of friends without ever succumbing to Facebook, and has not but a bad word to say of anyone. He is an immaculately dressed force for good in what can occasionally feel like a sea of ridiculously attired cynics.
Pasta Paul aside, I would have really loved to have met Tony Wilson, especially as I have a fondness for old Granada TV idents as much as acid house. Like many, I feel like Manchester’s musical heritage has occasionally been frequently pillaged for personal gain by many of those instrumental in it, but in and of itself, Factory is perhaps one of the most important labels of all time, and yes, Vinni Riley is good music to chill out to.
What’s your favourite pub/bar/club/restaurant/park/venue?
I love clubs, and I love them best when they’re dark, loud, full of smoke and not entirely welcoming at first glance. I really think Soup Kitchen’s basement is, on a good night, up there with the best in terms of a space to dance, and definitely one of the few dancefloors I feel most comfortable playing records to. Dan, who books Soup Kitchen’s club, has afforded it an amazing reputation in the face of massive competition, never allowing the listings to go stale, and maintains a wry sense of humour or perspective when I’d potentially be losing my mind.
I really like Albert Hall, which is a great example of what happens when several ambitious organisations take a risk on a venue that probably seemed obvious to a knowing few for so long. I love This and That, which even despite a few dodgy visits of hundreds, will always remain my personal victor in the endless Northern Quarter Rice and Three war. I still love Common, whatever’s on the wall there, and whatever they do to make their fries taste really good.
I enjoy strolling through Granby Row, beneath the railway arches, which feels pleasantly secluded and is as good of a bench sitting spot as any in the city. As well as the Archimedes statue, I particularly enjoy the ‘Vimto Bottle’ monument, which I genuinely thought was a really durable inflatable promoting the drink for far longer than I should have.
What do you think is missing from Manchester?
Following on from the above, I’d love to see more green space, which has always felt exclusive to the greater suburbs. I hope one of the occasional plans to transform Stevenson Square or the like into a greener environment comes through. But that it is genuine green space, not a continuation the council have of adding relatively miniscule patches of grass amid largely stone or concrete areas. I would rather see relatively miniscule patches of stone and concrete amid large areas of grass. I know you’re not supposed to say that sort of thing nowadays, but deal with it, incredibly well paid town planners!
If I was Mayor for a day I would …
Make sure I went somewhere dead nice to get a sandwich at lunch, and then keep the receipt, say I was having a meeting, and claim it back on expenses at a later date.
Who else would you like to nominate to answer this questionnaire?
Tuesday, 28 April 2015
I still listen to new music all the time but I think the period of my life is over where music has the power to impact on me so hard that it’s like being in love or becoming politicised or finding out a truth about yourself. Feelings of that intensity probably won’t happen now just from hearing an album. It’s a bit sad to think about it that way but I’m fine with it. I know who I am a bit more these days and there are things in life just as important as music, and some even more so.
In 1990 that was not true. I was twelve and pin-balling between two great albums released the year before; ‘3 Feet High and Rising’ by De La Soul, and ‘The Stone Roses’. I was young with not much frame of reference but music gave me a sudden and profound understanding that there was a much bigger and better world out there, with an astounding soundtrack. (I am living in it now, thank God).
That young period of my life has expanded in my memory, maybe because in the ‘90s all I cared about was music and in those days you had to wait for your music. You waited for Top Of The Pops, you waited for The Chart Show, you waited till you had enough money to buy a record, you waited for the record shop to open or you waited for your records to arrive in the post, you waited for the inky weeklies and the glossy monthlies, you waited for the radio to play the right song, you waited and waited. Perhaps that’s why it feels as if I’d already been listening to music for a long time when ‘Teen Spirit’ landed in September 1991. I was thirteen and a half then and I can’t overstate how much my sister and I loved that record and how much we loved Kurt on sight. We should have been afraid or unnerved, at least by the dark gorgeous video that constantly looped on MTV, but because Kurt looked so frail and indie yet sounded so heavy it hit you from both sides and never stopped.
Henry Rollins said ‘Nirvana slayed the hair bands’ and whether you agree or not, at the time the heavy guitars we craved seemed like the province of Guns N Roses (who we loved and then discarded – they seemed ludicrous post-Nevermind) and their sexist West Coast soundalikes. It’s possible I heard the Pixies’ Surfer Rosa the week before ‘Teen Spirit’, or at the latest immediately after, and I got Trompe Le Monde on release in ‘91, so I was at least moving in the right direction, but Nirvana blew everything up in minutes. Even now I find it hard to credit that a band whose impression on me was so overwhelming and has been so enduring were only around for two years in total from ‘Teen Spirit’ to the final double A-side of (the overrated) ‘All Apologies’ and the poignant, brilliant, bookend re-imaging of ‘Teen Spirit’ that was ‘Rape Me’. Kurt was gone four months later.
When you walk into a film like Brett Morgen’s Montage Of Heck you are sad already because there’s no getting away from the ending you already know, but Morgen has offset that anxious anticipation of loss with such weird artistry and lingering intimacy, moments of absolute comedy, and such a brilliant devoted use of Nirvana’s music, re-imagined, stripped down or slowed down, orchestrated or left raw, that you are in Kurt’s grubby and funny and hurt world for longer than one album ever allowed, and it’s overwhelming and addictive – two adjectives which were pretty much the blessing and curse of Nirvana and Kurt.
Montage Of Heck is a film about Kurt and watches its subject in as isolated a way as it’s possible to do in film without making something abstract. There are no discussions, per se, not about the legacy, nothing about the Seattle scene, the word grunge is never mentioned, Dave Grohl is not included, Courtney only speaks a few times (and for one of the world’s greatest music interviewees makes a bland showing) – this is all about Kurt from birth to death and sets his life and writing and personality against fame and pain and the power of his songs. When ‘Territorial Pissings’ hits the speakers it is such a spectacular kick in the guts that it’s hard to sit still. I thought people might stand up. I wanted to. Conversely, the arrival of ‘Teen Spirit’ is handled with a genius understated stroke (but stay for the very very end of the credits for some emotional comeback).
Among the stories about Kurt you might never have heard, and certainly the footage you won’t have seen of tiny Kurt becoming the kind of messy movie-star-handsome man you want to instantly be friends with, there are two moments that left me heartsick. One is the cut between footage of baby Kurt and baby Frances, who could be twins. The second is a grown up Kurt visibly nodding out with Frances in his lap and a drawling Courtney trying to cut the baby’s hair. It’s truly pitiful, and whatever Kurt went through as a child, at least nobody did that to him. Frances co-produced the movie and I wonder what it was like to see that footage for the first time. It’s almost certainly heroin and it’s very hard to watch.
Where footage and photos run dry, animations take over and I understand that some people won’t be into that aspect but the aesthetic of it seems so right for the time, referencing the zine/poster look from the ‘alternative’ world of that period, and it never turns Kurt into something you feel he’s not. It feels authentic. In addition, the continuous animation of his notebook lyrics and artwork is probably my favourite aspect, aside from the music. The feeling of an invisible hand and a blank page coming alive with the non-stop weirdness that would eventually become known world-wide is a powerful tribute to Kurt as a writer.
If you’ve read other reviews it’s no spoiler that the film doesn’t focus on the method or circumstances of Kurt’s death, and certainly not on any conspiracies around it, though it does seem to accept the Rohypnol near-miss in Rome as a suicide attempt so is not entirely a fence-sitting piece. At two and quarter hours it might be the longest amount of time you’ve spent in Nirvana’s company for a while so prepare to feel it all again. You’ll be glad to recall there were so many highs and only one big low that I guess we’re all still going through. I had a ticket to see Nirvana play at the Manchester G-MEX in March 1994. I'd just turned sixteen. After the Rome incident they re-scheduled the gig for April but by the time the re-scheduled date came around Kurt had already been dead for a week. I came that close to seeing them. I have my unused ticket still. When they cremate me or turn me into an apple tree or whatever, it will probably be in my pocket.
Thursday, 5 March 2015
A simple enough word seen in the darkness of the cinema that means a special journey has come to an end.
As we count down the days to the closing of Cornerhouse – towards the FIN of the film of Cornerhouse’s life – I will be using the Cornerhouse Twitter account to send into the world a selection of images, historical detail, videos, anecdotes and memories relating to Cornerhouse.
Mimicking human memory, my timeline will be un-chronological, the posts gleefully abstract and enticing, but the stories and feelings they communicate will all be genuine. They will hopefully reach out to all those who have loved Cornerhouse.
My previous Twitter intervention for Manchester Central Library can be seen here.
Watch out for the hashtag #30DaysofFIN from the Cornerhouse Twitter account, every day until April 4th when my final Tweets will be sent live from The Storming.
Thursday, 22 January 2015
Victoria Baths, and Ancoats, and now Number One First Street… The soft launch of HOME is bringing us ever-closer to HOME itself and it’s a genuinely exciting feeling. From the makeshift theatre foyer on the second floor of this smart office building, serenaded by a live guitar player, and with a lovely craft beer in hand, you can look out (through snowflakes in my case) and see the new building emerging over the way.
On Tuesday, fittingly, I saw ‘Tuesdays at Tescos’ inside the pleasant temporary performance space. You might have seen me Facebooking about how good it was. The final performance is tonight, and you should treat yourself. You can even get half-price ticket deals on the HOME website.
The play is a one-hour monologue spoken by Pauline, a trans woman renegotiating her relationship with her ageing father now that she has been able to reveal her true self, or, ‘Me. As I am. Now.’, as she says, softly and repeatedly like a mantra.
I came away feeling very moved by Scott Kentell’s performance. He brought a gentle sincerity to a very good script. His performance was assured and insightful (I can’t imagine Simon Callow’s was a better, and I’m a fan).
The director Sue Womersely and performer Scott Kentall are interviewed here:
‘Tuesdays…’ is part of the 2015 Re:Play Festival, an annual selection of theatre that gives audiences a second chance to see the best work from the previous twelve months.
On Friday night I’ll be looking back at a year of comedy with the Re:Play Breakthrough Comedian of the Year competition. I need all the inspiration I can get for my own foray into stand up this year, of course…
Thursday, Friday and Saturday gives you another chance to catch Jenny May Morgan’s portrayal of a questionably-talented author of women’s erotica pushing her latest work, complete with mucky novel extracts… An Evening of Filth and Despair promises to reach into dark and delicious Julia Davis comedy territory.
On Saturday night, Chris Hoyle’s play Two Spirits dramatises the story of the three Sioux Warriors who came to Salford in the late nineteenth-century as part of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West touring show. This coming together of disparate cultures was researched heavily by the playwright during time spent in Dakota and a documentary about his time there will screen after the play. Theatre and film for one ticket, not to be missed.
Re:Play is not only a great chance to see quality new work so cheaply but it will also whet your appetite for the big HOME-coming too…
Check the full line up HERE.
Tuesday, 20 January 2015
In February I am honoured to be speaking at a panel event which is part of a larger media event which is part of the one of the most exciting festivals happening in Manchester this year. It’s Queer Contact, and the line-up is so good it makes you wish it was actually Pride and that there was a parade at the start.
From the 5th to the 15th a plethora of queer arts comes to Contact and beyond with a program of music, theatre, performance, comedy and more.
National treasure David McAlmont launches proceedings with a live performance on the 5th, alongside the talented Mr Guy Davies, which, from experience, I can promise will be intimate, fun and very touching.
Justin Vivian Bond is another sensational name on the bill and is in town for not one but two performances, including a collaboration with our very own David Hoyle. Bond is a trans icon of cabaret and is here to share Valentine’s weekend with us, using both original songs and familiar cover versions to interrogate and celebrate love. Expect to be stimulated and moved. On top of that there is a related JVB event with a screening of Shortbus and a Q&A to follow.
The Queer Media Festival is a highlight for me. Almost thirty media professionals (and me!) will gather to talk about storytelling, their work, their identities and career paths. There will be films screened, performances, a news broadcast, and a gathering of like-minded but diverse creative individuals under one roof. The event is promising to be a great opportunity for students, for peer-learning and networking, for idea generating, for meeting and greeting, and for exposure to new ways of thinking. Speakers include V-Squared aka Vinny and Luke (YouTube stars), John Bird Media (blogger), Tim Macavoy (Director at InterTech Diversity Forum), Anna McNay (arts editor, DIVA), Paul Brand (Northern Political Correspondent, ITV) and Addie Orfila (producer, Hollyoaks). Tickets here.
Queer Contact has comedy covered with a six-comic line-up for the Comedy Playground, while word nerds will thrill at the selection of poets, novelists and playwrights sharing their practices at Paul Burston’s Polari on the 10th. Kate O’Donnell explores trans identity with humour and music, while site specific drama takes a police raid on a Victorian drag ball as its thrilling subject. The Vogue Ball at Gorilla sees competing Houses dance to victory, or defeat, while Mother’s Ruin host one of their far-from-usual cabaret spectaculars. The closing party, Love Art, is in the hands of the creators of Cha Cha Boudoir so couldn’t be in better hands.
Explore the full line-up for yourself right here and treat yourself to something new and challenging. There will be queer bohemia aplenty at Contact, but all across the city February is turning into a high point in the cultural calendar – Seeing Queerly has a terrific line up, while the first Manchester-based LGBT History Festival provides the context for how far LGBT people have come. February is a chance to learn and connect, network and create, and be touched by art and performance. Please be a part of it. The rest of 2015 has a lot to live up to…