Heart of a Punk - Soul of a Rasta

LIVE - Magazine/Ipso Facto
London Forum 13th February - Manchester Academy 14th February 2009

The Preparation
As I prepare for Magazine at the Forum Kentish Town, even though back in the day on the only occasion I saw Magazine, I didn't actually travel south for the experience, my poor damaged brain is happy to disregard this fact and flip through its corrupted memory files back to the late seventies and to my first musical forays to the capital - "Mom, Dad I'm goin down the smoke to see a band" I'd whisper as I'd silently close the back door behind me. This sentimental remembrance leads me to consider the ridiculous idea that perhaps I should hitch down to Kentish Town like I did when I was a kid.

Back in the day I was ostensibly a straight middle class toss pot of a kid (I have painstakingly cultivated my character over the intervening years into that of a middle class middle aged toss pot) anyway back then the hitching to gigs bit was very much part of the whole "I'm f***kin off into a different world" misguided idea of youthful rebelliousness, and not really anything to do with not having enough money for a train ticket. Today I over romanticise the hitching, the sleeping rough, the nicking milk of peoples doorsteps for breakfast stuff of thirty years ago, and sweep under the memorial carpet the unwanted night time propositions, my personal bodily stench, the bone chilling cold, choosing only to remember the joyous sense of freedom which came from having absolutely no responsibility for anyone else and a reckless disinterest in my own long term well being.

Anyway there I stood in the drizzle on the roundabout of junction 12 of the M6 motorway circa '79 thumb extended awaiting the myriad of middle aged male non designated drivers armed to the teeth with the same conversation - eventually one of the stereotypes would stop.

"What you going to London for mate?" he says flashing his wooden peg like dentistry at me through the smoke, and flicking his fag nonchalantly in the general direction of the quarter inch opening of his window. I have no time to answer we're speeding down the slip road at full tilt (45 mph at least) the whole of the Austin Maxi's dash board shaking like Apollo 13 on re-entry, then suddenly and luckily, we catch a cross wind and slide majestically onto the empty motorway with all the natural grace of a greased brick. "I'm going to see a band called The Clash" I say, trying to recover and at the same time removing the tools wrapped in a towel from up my arse and pushing them under the passenger seat. Why has my new MATE got a blanket over his legs, I wonder? I suppose he's just cold. "Oh Christ The Clash" he says "are they still going, I saw them at the Roundhouse in '76 they were good back then, where are you seeing them?" Of course it would have made not the slightest difference which band I'd have said: The Clash, The Jam, The Stranglers, The Damned he would have seen them all, and long ago and at a time when they were "GOOD". "The Rainbow, they're playing The Rainbow" I happily inform him, knowing only too well what would be coming next. "Shit they've really sold out then those f***k**s, they always do when they lose it, I suppose they'll be playing the f**king Hammersmith Odeon next!" I keep my own counsel, close my eyes, grip the underneath of the plastic chair (this was the seat belt of the day) and feign sleep. It's only a snatched moment of feigning though. With a sudden jerk of the steering wheel we veer across all three lanes, apparently no indication is required, and onto the hard shoulder. Reassurance is quickly given "I won't be a minute mate I've just got to sort out the old biscuit tin" He stops the car and in a flash he whips open his door, and throws the blanket off to reveal a biscuit tin full of piss between his legs. This he proceeds to empty out onto the hard shoulder, the fragrance and a considerable amount of the substance is quickly wafted back into our faces courtesy of a passing lorry. The door is closed the tin and blanket replaced and we resumed our journey south. At fifty five miles per hour in the fast lane my cheery MATE is now able to savour a fresh bottle of Bells whisky and a flask of tea without having to be involved in the cut, thrust & mêlée of the inner lanes. I return to feigning sleep and try to work out how I'm going to get from Romford to Finsbury Park and whether I will have enough money left to get the coach back home. Great times, truly charming people, should I turn back the clock?

Mmm, too old to hitch at 45?

Perhaps.

Too scary looking to get a lift off anyone?

Definitely!

The Getting there.
With the idea of hitching down to London screwed up into a ball thrown into a metal bin dowsed with meths and set alight, I plump for driving myself, leaving Shropshire under the cover of darkness prior to the animals being released onto the roads. Soon enough I'm motoring down Kilburn High Road looking for Ian, merrily bowling up Muswell Hill looking for those Nutty Boys, pausing momentarily at Highgate Cemetery to see Karl's place (he's always in), and round & round Finchley looking for the Finchley Boys then finally I scoot down Camden High Street catching a glimpse of Norman Jay MBE (well you can't miss him with that new hat of his). Several tanks of petrol later and I still hadn't found a bleedin' parking space! - Eventually I parked up and walked in from Watford.

So finally I arrive, "early doors", at the HMV Forum to see the cute red SOLD OUT sign dutifully illuminated. The queue talk is of the previous evenings gig and the parley not just in English, French and some Scandinavian language possibly Swedish is in use too, but the prattle mainly concerns the dress sense of Howard Devoto - baffled? I was then. Standing in the standing line rather than standing in the sitting line I'm as cold as a penguin's chuff and so I pass a moment musing over the architectural irony of the old Forum Cinema's plain exterior. Its drab façade is chameleon like in its cunning, blending it seamlessly into the shit tip surroundings that are Kentish (Shanty) Town; out here you'd never guess at the beauty inside, it's like a Ferrero Roche in reverse all gold and resplendent within all shit brown and bland without.

Eventually we are let in, out of the cold of the outside, and into the cold of the inside. The auditorium is lightly smoking (an artificial effect obviously) but it brings back golden memories of those distant carcinogenic days. I immediately hand cuff myself to the barrier where Mr Adamson will shortly be appearing, turn my back to the stage and take it in. My main venue of inconvenience nowadays is the large public convenience known as Birmingham Academy, it was horrid thirty years ago and keen to preserve it so, the fine Burgers of the Birmingham City Guild have dutifully maintained its original bog like appearance - but still I love it. The Forum is certainly no Birmingham Academy.

I've never been able to relate to, or put myself in to the mindset of the seated punter the concept of being seated is just wrong and in my opinion is only one step away from voting Tory. But tonight standing here I almost begin to question my inherent bigotry, if I was forced at gun point to take a seat somewhere The Forum Kentish Town would have to be the venue I'd choose (God I'm really contemplating it, steady Eddie). Amid the glorious half oval sweep of the balcony and beneath the magnificent dome garnished either side with gold gilt plaques of exquisite art deco finery, I could sit, a large swalie of Red Bull by my side to keep me awake - tolerable, maybe just.

And then suddenly without warning I'm shaken forcibly from my narcissistic shadow world. Appearing like the shopkeeper from Mr Ben between myself and a stout six foot fella I believed I was standing shoulder to shoulder with, pops up a mysteriously attractive raven haired opalescent skinned female with boisterous demeanour and an old colonial accent (that's American to you). Totally disregarding the fact that we have not been formerly introduced or exchanged cards and ignoring my deep frozen demeanour and disfigured appearance she starts to engage me in conversation. Firstly about the sorrowful lack of a certain brand of Tequila in the capital (which is not a good opener when conversing for the first time with a recovering alcoholic, but I let it pass) then she hits me with that old chestnut of a question "Did you ever see Joy Division live?" We hurdle those two tricky subjects and lean side by side on the barrier, the fingers of our own opposing hands intertwined, we take on the appearance of two penitents kneeling silently at the altar awaiting communion wafers, and then we commune further. She fills me in on the happenings of the previous nights gig which she attended and the strangeness of Howard's garb, we go on to discuss a million one other bands and a million and one other gigs, our musical tastes are similar (wake up Ed they would be your at the Forum to see a band) I start to wonder whether there is some divine providence at work here? It's just like a "Matter of Life and Death", the old and possibly dead (I won't ruin it for you) brain damaged Englishman played by David Niven meeting the young American girl played by Kim Hunter full of life but alone in a strange country. Nah it can't be. "May I remind you Sir that we are living in the 20th Century" "May I remind you Sir we are not alive at all". Anyway this is very peculiar and highly irregular, a young and attractive woman showing a passing interest in a man who is plainly angry, ill and as ugly as sin and who is usually only looked upon by members of the opposite sex with pitiful and slightly terrified eyes. This sort of thing hasn't happened to me, since, well since - no I was right the first time, this sort of thing hasn't ever happened to me. God she must be short sighted, confused, lonely, drunk, on drugs or probably and most likely a blend of all eight. While the bands play the warmth of her close proximity gently begins to thaw my deep frozen insular core, I determine to seize the moment, I must attempt to forge a lasting platonic friendship from this brief encounter.

Finally the band is silenced, and the roadies put the equipment to sleep with their usual cold clinical precision, the bright glare of the house lights come up and I turn to face her in the stark limelight. There in her eyes I see the same pity and terror I've seen so many times before, bless her I think she tried her best to disguise it but it was there all the same, silently I shuffle away and into the cold Kentish Town night - alone.

It was a long drive home that night with only the one CD in my car "The Boatman's Call" by Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds and I could only get track six to play "(Are you) the one I've been waiting for?". Over and over the Caveman sang "I've felt you coming, girl, as you drew near. I knew you'd find me, 'cause I longed you here, Are you my destiny? Is this how you'll appear?"

Yes it was a long dark and endless road I took that night. I missed the turn off and went round the M25 twice.

The next evening in Manchester I positioned myself in the gloom, chained myself once more to the barrier, and desperately scanned the crowd trying to find her. I'd fooled myself into thinking she would suddenly appear by my side but it wasn't to be. After the gig I looked for her again amongst the dishevelled crowd, the young and attractive people escaped my gaze all I could see was me reflected in the faces of the old and foolish looking. I kicked and tripped my way through the discarded plastic beer glasses, I didn't find her, it just wasn't to be. The lyrics of "Insight" entered my head "Guess your dreams always end. They don't rise up, just descend. But I don't care anymore; I've lost the will to want more". If only I'd have lied about Joy Division if only I'd said I had seen them live, perhaps it would have been enough, well, now I'll never know. In fact was that mysteriously attractive raven haired opalescent skinned girl ever there at all?

The Gig
I know in a couple of month's time my mind will have taken these two Magazine gigs, blended, melded, inextricably and indistinguishably mixed them into one, so why fight it I might as well start the unification here and now.

The bowl & bobbed haired girls of Ipso Facto who I saw almost exactly a year to the day ago supporting Siouxsie Sioux breeze onto the stage in business like fashion and burst forth with "Introducing". They are all immaculately turned out, but bassist Samantha Valentine excels, vivid crimson lipstick has been applied and she is dressed in a see through chiffon top & skimpy undergarment. She instantly has me fumbling beneath my jacket to lower the setting of my pacemaker. Miss Valentine please take a moment to think about health and safety this is delightful haute couture and maybe okay for a crowd of your own age group but tonight you could be perilously close to seeing a few of us old boys off. (Oh you unlucky Manchester punters how you missed out, Valentine on Valentine's Day wore instead a simple black t shirt, but that's the London fashionista for you).

Whether it is due to the tour with The Shadow Puppet People at the end of last year or just the general passage of time I don't know, but tonight it is immediately apparent that Ipso are a tighter more confident and relaxed unit than they were a year ago. They wiz through a brief set which includes "Eyes & Ears" "Joined by the Sword" "Six and Three Quarters", the later gets better every time I hear it but it still perplexes me, why is it six and three quarters and not like Fellini's film "Eight and a Half", it's only one and three quarters difference after all.

Throughout "Balderdash" Rosalie Cunningham stands foremost like a ships figurehead, her quintessentially English voice demanding to be cherished and clung to amid a stormy sea of constantly proliferating transatlantic and mockney female voices. Smith's drums beat out a tight and steady time, Cherish Kaya stabs out chunky wads of sound from Farfisa whilst young Valentine hoists her bass head almost vertical like the mast of a tall ship - [why have I gone all nautical here? Note to self - must go to back having the bromide drops in my tea again]

IP seem to enjoy both nights work but the brevity of their performances leaves me wanting more and in the absence of an imminent album release I believe it will be necessary for me to journey to Digbeth once more to take in their own tour.

Coming to a town near you: www.myspace.com/ipsofactomyspace

It's been along day since Magazine played Digbeth Civic Hall 1980. And a veritable torrent of water has passed under the bridge since Dave Formula accompanying Howard left the stage at the Tin Can Club Birmingham in '83; John Doyle & John McGeoch left the same stage as part of The Armoury Show in '84; Howard and Noko in the guise of Luxuria exited stage right at Burberry's Club in Birmingham '88; and in comparison the only the merest trickle has flowed along the cut and under the flyover since I was last in the presence of Barry Adamson supporting Nicolas E Cave at the Birmingham Academy last year. "Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind".

Whether they have seen Magazine before or not the crowd on both nights have waited a long time for the performances so there is not a great deal of agitation prior to the opening chimes of "Thin Air". But as soon the intro begins it signals that commencement is imminent and now unstoppable, the crowd can now exhale. "Thin Air" plays on, while the band take to the stage in Manchester, and a hand is poised to drop the curtain in London, Howard gives a short off stage monologue and the wait is over the lights come up the curtain descends. Doyle and then Adamson launch into "The Light Pours Out of Me" at blistering pace. Magazine have not been forgotten for nearly thirty years they've been remembered for nearly thirty years and here we go. When the first of the night is completed by Dave Formula running out of keys a roar reverberates round and round the dome at the Forum, an intense cacophony of elation erupts in Manchester and for a moment I wonder whether or when the sound will end. When a lull finally comes Howard resumes control, dressed in black espridrilles; black trousers cut to the calf; a collarless shirt and pink blazer he states that "We are still Magazine, and I am still Adam Faith God rest his soul". And on we go with "Model Worker". Mobiles are pushed to the fore in London there is no time for such frivolous niceties in Manchester there is serious oscillating to be done. To the left of the stage Adamson slides from side to side dressed like an Edwardian nare do well, top hat waist coat and chain, with a blood red shirt open to the chest. Front right Noko is immaculate in a Jason King red velvet suit, green nails and green flash in his hair to match his green Yamaha guitar and red and green striped shirt beneath. Mr Doyle chops away behind in black tie white shirt black suit a la Mr White in Reservoir Dogs. And Dave Formula stands betwixt his keyboards left hand on the keys of his Hammond right hand on a Nord electro 3 all the time keeping a close eye the crowd, his shirt untucked a porkpie hat firmly applied.

The night flows on with a snippet of "Great Beautician" then Ipso Facto's numero uno Rosalie is brought by Howard's hand to the fore once more to ably assist with the vocals on "The Honeymoon Killers". On we go with "Because your Frightened" "You Never Knew me", the frenzied Doyle backbeat of "Rhythm of Cruelty", then "I Want to Burn Again", the slight reggae infusion of "This Poison", there is a united first line sing along to "A Song from Under the Floorboards", followed by "Permafrost" with Barry Adamson bending that wonderful bass note once more like a good un, and Howard drugging and f**cking, now with consent.

Then we take our ease for a moment, a lectern is dragged centre stage and Howard dons half rimmed specs to read from the "The Book". "Twenty Years Ago" resumes then segues into "Definitive Gaze" during this the guy next to me somehow contorts himself into such a position that he is able to photograph himself Barry Adamason and Howard who is currently sitting on the edge of the stage into one picture. The crowd begin to sense the end is approaching and song suggestions are shouted out. "Parade" follows with Formula & Noko looming large then finally and triumphantly "Shot both Sides" is majestically fished out of the closet and given a damn good thrashing. Noko throws back his head, whoops and lets his guitar drop into the hands of the waiting roadie on his way back stage. Only the encores are left now.

After the stamping has prevailed, a chair is brought forth for Barry Adamson to recline upon almost horizontally - it reminds me of the position Al Pacino took up on a sofa at the beginning of Carlitos Way - "Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin)" is given the full funk treatment & is gratefully received. And so to the second closing track "Motorcade" which gently undulates and then builds to a crescendo with Devoto manically shaking his head to and fro like a good looking version of Thom York. Both the London & Manchester crowds do enough to haul them back on stage, even if it hadn't always been the intention of the band to return. Return they do with "I Love You Big Dummy" - it is fast and furious and a fitting end, the Manchester Academy begins to vibrate and the ripples of sound are sent pulsing out of the building, out into the ground, and out into the air. In the Mojave Desert as if from nowhere a gust of air spirals up from the ground gathering up a handful of sand and casting it against the metal side panel of a trailer, it is the 15th of February 2009 and it is Don Glen Vliet birthday, he is 68.

If anyone came to these Magazine gigs believing that it could turn out to be a sterile dusting off of aging musicians going through the motions, well they were proved categorically wrong. The gigs were certainly not contrived novelties they were well conceived, executed and in every sense real gigs.

So what now?
Will there be more gigs?
Will autobiographies be written?
Will solo projects be returned to?
Or dare we hope that Adamson, Devoto, Doyle, Formula and Noko will throw caution to the wind, get their collective heads down, and come up with a new album.

There is no possible doubt in my mind listening to Adamson's "Back to the Cat" from 2008, Formula's forthcoming project, Noko's work with Siouxsie Sioux & Apollo 440, that musically Magazine can produce something fundamentally adroit whether in comparison or not with the ordinaire fodder that we are currently being served up with from the likes of certain God like Genius's, other Manchester bands or by any of those bands who purport to being under the influence of Magazine.

But will Adamson, Devoto, Doyle, Formula & Noko want to do it?
Only they will know.

In my humble opinion as a fan, this is what I would like to see Magazine do next - book two nights at the Roundhouse for November this year, book themselves into a rehearsal room, book into the Monnow Valley Studio ('am I being too specific here). See if things take. If they do then fulcrum is already turning, if they don't then there will be more than enough of us poor old souls able to make it to the Roundhouse in November, after all we didn't hear Feed the Enemy, Sweetheart Contract, Touch & Go, Upside Down or GIVE ME EVERYTHING etc this time round.

There are a million and one more bands out there today compared to back in '78 but only a handful who can produce anything more than a three minute ditty. Magazine has the personnel to produce something much, much more - surely this can't be the end? Can it?

NB See the song for Mr Devoto a couple of pages on.