St Bedes Middle School Football Team 1980
Alright, it’s not going to take too long to spot me is it? Sice is there as well, as is my twin brother, Calum. I can remember all of these names although not necessarily the faces. Mr McCurry (top left) used to be our form teacher as well as managing the school team. He used to smoke all the way through the lessons, lining his butts up on the desk in front of him. I’m convinced my indolence on the football pitch drove him to an early grave. Imagine Berbatov without the talent, that was me - a ‘fanny dancer’. Out there on the right wing I was quick, lightning fast, but easily distracted. I wanted to be good, don’t get me wrong, I just wanted someone to be good for me while I went about more important things, like watching Top of the Pops or reading girls books about gymkhanas and boarding schools.
I didn’t play after 1982. Oh, I would kick a ball around with Sice - I once scored the greatest goal ever scored by anyone within the fading light of a summers evening on a lonesome field in North Carolina. Sice will back me up on this - and we sometimes played a match on tour but nothing serious. Before each game, while somebody was sorting out positions, I would wander out to the right wing, light a cigarette and hope that nobody would pass to me.
Then, somehow, in 1998 Sice and I ended up playing a weekly game run by NME journalists in Regents Park, where, 450 years earlier; Henry VIII had spent many a fine afternoon popping royal caps in deers asses. The day before, I had bought a copy of ‘Michael Owens Soccer School’ video, sneaking it back to my flat for some late night revision. I fast forwarded through the warm up exercises, ridiculous, and drunkenly taught myself the step over with a cushion. On our way to the park Sice and I had to stop off at Oxford Street to buy some footy boots as neither of us had owned a pair for sixteen years. I, of course, bought the most expensive boots in the store. They had lights, three gears and the longest, most brutal metal studs you can imagine. We got to the park, it was a sticky evening, the going was good to barren and my studs were made from plutonium.
I fast forwarded through Sice and the others warming up. Ridiculous. I leant in the shade and smoked a cigarette idly going through the step over technique in my head. Then, while the captain sorted out the positions, I hobbled out to the dusty right wing - moving like I was wearing twenty four high heeled shoes - and waited. I didn’t have to wait long, the ball came to me almost immediately, I pushed it past the defender and ran, pulled a calf muscle, fell over and was sick. As I lay there, pulling bits of puke out of my hair, I saw the scout from Liverpool FC shaking his head sadly and ripping up a contract that had my name on it, slowly walked back towards his car. It was all over..
But then last year ( I didn’t intend to write any of this, I just put the photo up so we could all have a laugh at my hair) while we were staying in London I was strong-armed by my friend Pete to join his weekly Tuesday Night Crouch End Dads Astroturf Game down on Holloway Road. What could I say? It was his house, he held the keys to the fridge. So at the age of 39 I joined in with everyone as they warmed up before wandering out to shiver on the right wing. The ball came to me early again, I collected it, pushed it past the defender and…nothing. I looked down at my legs, wondering why they weren’t pumping down the flank like a pair of Stephenson’s pistons but they stared at me mournfully and shrugged (can legs shrug?) ‘You’re old now la’, they seemed to say ‘now fall over and be sick, nobody will mind’. I didn’t of course, I played on and accepted the fact that my main strength, my burst of speed, had gone - never to return. I played the holding game, even pulled off a couple of stepovers but was generally happy not to be too involved. I turned up for a couple of months until I found an excuse not to. And so into that long dark void of retirement, my trophy cabinet bare and not a punditry job in sight. The end of the road.
So long the beautiful game.
‘Sorry if this is huge’ was the subject line in a mail I received from my friend Mark the other day. At first I thought he was referring to the size of the file he had sent along with the mail; maybe he was but listening to the track I realised that he knew, and not many people know me as he does, how much I would love this song, how it would be already a part of me even though I’d never heard it before. As the song wraps it’s arms around me, sinking itself into my core, never to leave, I am struck by, not only it’s beauty but by how powerful a friendship can be when used correctly. Mark and I have the pretty much the same relationship as the one that me and Sice have. It’s closer than friendship and we have been through times when we can barely talk to each other, when we wish that we’d never met but we’ll always be linked by what we’ve been through, linked by the forces that attracted us to each other in the first place and, like electrons and protons, it is our differences that bind as much as the things that we share. Sice and I hardly ever agreed about anything. When we were kids we argued like fuck but nobody could make me laugh like him and vice versa.
I met Mark one night in Planet X. He worked part time at Pink Moon records in Liverpool which, alongside Probe, was where I bought all my records during my teenage years. Over a bottle of Newcastle Brown (me) and a pint of, I’m guessing now, Strongbow (him), we shouted band names at each other for an hour in a frenzied state of mutual indie lust. He was tall with long blonde hair and had a beautiful girlfriend and lived on Falkner Square which was pretty much the same street as me as I lived on Huskisson Street which led off the square, up towards the colossal pile of Woolton Sandstone that is Liverpool’s Anglican Cathedral, always partially obscured by a miasmic shroud. Canning was a magical place to live in 1989; rent was cheap, the sun splattered, wide Georgian streets were almost always empty and I would walk for hours without seeing anyone else. Time didn’t exist, or rather all of time was right there, at that time and the drugs we took gave everything a jeweled sparkle, a glistening dew that almost made you forget that you had no money, no job, no future. Nowhere to go and nothing to do.
He came to see us play, we thought we sounded like the end of the world through a fuzz pedal, he thought we sounded like Biff Bang Pow. I thought him and his girlfriend were the most sophisticated people I had ever met. They had dinner parties and went to see rude french films down the 051. When I was employed I would have less money that when I was on the dole and I would knock on their door at all hours looking for money for the ferry over the River Mersey, to Birkenhead and the dreaded Land Registry. He became my muse, when I wrote songs I would write them with him in mind, my target audience. (’Best Lose the Fear’, ‘January’, ‘the Monk Jumps Over The Wall’, ‘Captain America’ have all been written for or about him.) We both wanted out of Liverpool, London was where we were headed, Creation Records, Rough Trade Records, The Town & Country Club, Dingwalls, The NME… he lent us our train fare the day we signed for Rough Trade, we were always skint.
I ended up in London first, I think Mark may have been working a fast food place in LA at the time. Even though London has been the only place in the UK I’ve ever wanted to live I’ve somehow managed to always mess it up and I’ve only lived there maybe four years in the last twenty. By the end of 1991 we were both there. I was living just off Highgate Road, on Dartmouth Park Road and I think he was in Notting Hill, working at the Record and Tape Exchange. He used to come on tour with us, never a popular decision within the band. Why should Martin bring a friend along? Well, I needed him, I didn’t want to do it without him. Then he was at Rough Trade and when they went down I helped him (not that he needed it) get a job at Creation records. The jigsaw was complete. You can go anywhere and do anything if you really want it, everything seemed easy back then - we love Creation let’s get on board there, we should have a hit record, let’s write one etc
Now he runs a respected record company which, more observant readers may have noticed, I’m not on. It’s not something we’ve ever talked about but I guess I don’t sell enough records and I’m too old and difficult and it’s not called the record business, the music industry for nothing. I don’t remember the last time I saw him, Green Man maybe? Reading back I realise that I haven’t even scraped the surface of what we’ve been through together, what we mean to each others lives.
I’ll leave it there, all I want is for you to listen to this song and while you do so, think about your friends. Sounds like I’m working for an ad agency doesn’t it? Forgive me, it’s early.
Sixto Rodriguez - Sugar Man
Rodriguez Website
Sixto Rodriguez - Sugar Man
I know I shouldn’t post other peoples stuff. If anyone is offended and/or feeling particularly litigious, let me know and I’ll take it down.
This week I’m going to sign the contract with Bandstocks. Thanks to all those who responded with advice, warnings, love and threats, it will all be taken on board. I think I would regret it if I didn’t do it, if I signed with another label and went through all the same old shit once more. For those who don’t know what I’m on about it’s all here. I will post a F.A.Q about it soon. I’ve never done one before, do I wait until they are F.A.Q’s or do I second guess what people will want to know and put them up first? I’m leaning towards the latter.
So, two months to earn fifty grand. Two months to raise more money than I’ve managed in ten years. I guess it’s down to whether or not people are as tired of the industry ’system’ as the people involved in Bandstocks are and if so, whether they are prepared to commit to and contribute towards some kind of change or are happy merely download their music for free. I have never worried too much about illegal downloading, I’ve nabbed the odd thing or two myself when my patience won’t countenance a two day wait from Amazon, Eil or Ebay. I’m not proud and I make sure to buy whatever it is if I like it but that’s a whole other issue and I’ll write about it some other time. For me, personally, it’s an ideal setup. Everything is transparent, you know exactly, down to the last penny, where your money has gone and hopefully you may even make it back whereas I get to continue making music without having to go cap in hand to the suits. I can release stuff on vinyl, include handwritten lyric sheets, include artwork etc so that when you buy an album from me you won’t feel ripped off. I sound like a bloody door to door salesman now don’t I? I was one once, for two dismal weeks in back in the late eighties when I was about eighteen. I was unemployed, unemployable, and answered an ad in the paper for one of those ‘Travel the country and earn £100 a week’ (a fortune then) ads. There was nothing happening jobwise, Sice and I would go to the job centre regularly and stare at the solitary card on the wall advertising a post for a panel beater at something like ten grand a day (or so it seemed). We resolved to find out what the hell a panel beater was and how we would go about becoming one but always ended up back in on of our bedrooms, trying to work out the chords to ‘Jean’s Not Happening’ by The Pale Fountains.
I got an interview for the job, it was in Southport. My dad drove me up there and I said I’d see him back home the following day (the company were putting us up in a hotel, things were looking good). My interview lasted about five minutes, I think they just wanted to see if I could speak English and I was given a room that I was to share with three or four other lads. That night they took us to a nightclub and got us hammered, it was the best job I’d ever had and I still didn’t know what it was. The next day though, instead of going home we were driven to Banbury near Oxford and given an intensive training course in door to door sales or, as it turned out, bullying old women and pressurising the vulnerable into buying our smoke alarms. I was useless, utterly useless. I would knock at a door, after seven hours of traipsing the freezing streets of Oxford, some old dear would answer and I could smell dinner cooking and hear Coronation St starting somewhere behind her and I would feel dreadfully homesick. I’d give some half hearted pitch and then be on my way down the path before she could say ‘Sorry son, I can’t afford…’. I hated myself for even asking. I sold two in two weeks, to a couple of insane people who would have bought whatever it was I had in my pocket.
We stayed in a small compound in Banbury, after the first week we were told that our £100 pounds would be minus the cost of the Southport Hotel, the Banbury rooms, food and kit leaving us with practically nothing. We had to shoplift food the week after and I had had enough. A few of us were planning on doing a runner but they caught wind of it, finally agreeing to drive us back to Liverpool where they dropped us as far away from the city centre as they could and that was that. I arrived home, skint and depressed, the future seemed so bleak back then. I borrowed a couple of quid from my brother, Calum, called at Sice’s and went to the pub.
I think I’m doing alright at the Times. Last week they rang and asked me illustrate Ken Russell’s column which will appear tomorrow and when Caitlin went on holiday they asked me to illustrate her replacements column. This week she wrote about the English and their bicycles. 
I’m trying to animate a video for one of the songs from the album but I’m absolutely clueless. I’m trying animate photoshop layers in Premiere. Any ideas?
Marylou and I are moving back to Cardiff this week. We haven’t been able to find somewhere to live that we really like and we’re desperate for some time alone and so going to have the baby in our lovely house in Canton. We’ve been so lucky here, living with Cait and her family and we’re going to miss them very much. We’re putting the Cardiff house up for sale at Christmas and hopefully we’ll be back in London as soon as possible. Mary is well and full of energy, she’s working on a new website at the minute. It was a mistake to try and combine our business site with my music one so all of this will be far less confusing within the next few weeks.
I’ve been reading Adam Ant’s biography over the last couple of days. I’m astounded by how driven that man was. As a kid I loved his records from ‘Dirk Wears White Sox’ onwards. I might be meeting him to talk about songwriting soon. Even if nothing comes of it, and I’ve never met anyone who I’ve wanted to write with before (except Akira the Don), at least I’ll be able to talk about music for an hour or so with somebody who was a big part of my childhood.
