Saturday, March 29, 2008
"So Much to Answer For..."
Just got back from Manchester this afternoon. A fun trip out. First we went to see The Fall in the nearby coastal town of Morecambe (named after a comedian from the ‘60s). After the show we stumbled through the back door of the venue and into the band’s dressing room, where we met Mark E. Smith and asked him various questions like “Why don’t you like Pavement?” (I think he just laughed at that one) and “Do you like Subway Sect?” (Yes, it was the only band he liked from the post-punk era). They gave us free beer and were incredibly nice.
Next day we wandered around Manchester and chanced upon a few things here and there, such as the former site of the Hacienda club (established by Factory Records in the early ‘80s), now an apartment building. Went to a couple of record stores and at night popped into a club called Night & Day, where we talked with one of the bartenders for a while. According to her, Mancunian legends such as Peter Hook of Joy Division, some of the Smiths (not Morrissey), and Guy Garvey of Elbow come in from time to time for drinks.
The day after that, we took a walk over to Salford—Manchester’s smaller neighbor to the west. We did a great tour of the Salford Lads Club, the site where The Smiths were photographed for the inside cover of their penultimate classic The Queen is Dead. Next, we swung by Old Trafford before checking out the The Imperial War Museum North. At night we spent an hour walking around looking for a burger place before giving up and retreating to the kebab shop near our hostel.
In between the aforementioned events were more greasy meals, discount beer from Tesco, the closed down amusement park at Morecambe, the Costa in Lancaster, some place called Ruby Lounge (or something), and several near-death experiences involving Manchester’s Metrolink tram system. All contributed to a fairly rock ‘n’ roll holiday in and around Lancashire.
Indubitably,
Peter Crickners, ca. 2008
"Back to the Old House" - The Smiths - from the Peel Sessions
Buy Louder than Bombs from Newbury Comics!
The Fall live at the Dome, Morecambe
"Big Prinz" - The Fall
Labels:
manchester,
mark e. smith,
salford lads club,
the fall,
the smiths
Monday, March 24, 2008
"Cold Son" - Stephen Malkmus & The Jicks
Stephen Malkmus's new album is called Real Emotional Trash. It's with the Jicks, just like his second record post-Pavement, Pig Lib. Janet Weiss is in the band now, she's in Quasi and used to be in Sleater-Kinney. Awesome, right? What about the music? Is it good? Yes my friend, it's real good. Real, real good. Well, what does it sound like? Godzilla (Blue Oyster Cult) destroys Williamsburg and Kurt Vonnegut rises from the dead wielding the sacred stratocaster?? Suh-weet!
Yeah, it's pretty good. Wanna hear something? Here, clicky. Clickety-click.
Click:
"Cold Son" - Stephen Malkmus & the Jicks
from the album Real Emotional Trash, Matador Records
Buy it hurr: Newbury Comics
BONUS!
"Post-paint Boy" from Malkmus's last LP, Face the Truth
Labels:
cold son,
pavement,
real emotional trash,
stephen malkmus
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Budapest, Hungary
Near the Museum of Agriculture
Allegedly dubbed the “Paris of Eastern Europe,” Budapest, Hungary is a city you should get out to as soon as you can (it adopts the Euro in a year or so). Compromisingly situated upon the Danube, and full of fantastic sights, it’s a wonder that it hasn’t become a more popular travel destination. That said, there’ll be aggravations anywhere you go, and Budapest’s got a good-sized handful—mostly in the form of its elderly museum caretakers.
I arrived at Ferihegy International Airport early Wednesday morning with my friend Caleb, dog-tired but eager to jump into the sights the moment we put our bags down.
First things first, we grabbed some breakfast at a little sandwich place not far from Deak Ter metro station. Greedily I selected several open-faced monstrosities loaded with all kinds of counterintuitive toppings. Hard-boiled egg halves, decoratively sculpted pepperoni slices, olives, peas, cucumbers: you name it, they had it, and it was delicious.
Anyway, we moved on to the hostel, which was tucked away on the second floor of this gloomy apartment building just around the corner from St. Steven’s Basilica. It’s called Central Backpack King, and it’s a fantastic little place. If you’re ever in the city, look ‘em up. Friendly folks, most of whom are attractive young women, work the desk and are always eager to help out. Can you ask for more?
So, that all settled, we started roving around town. We popped into the Basilica to take a peep at the mummified hand of St. Steven (which is pretty overrated and cannot actually be seen directly) and then hopped across to the Buda side of the Danube. The city’s divided into two sections: historic, residential Buda, and commercial, happenin’ Pest. Once in Buda we checked out the age-old castle, which sits on a commanding hilltop overlooking plains to the east.
We spent a few hours at the castle and checked out the Military History Museum. The next day we returned with the some NYU in London comrades whose travel plans just so happened to coincide with ours. Waiting for them to show we caught the National Museum, filled with exhibits on the history of the city’s development. I received a silent finger wagging from some constipated usher for sitting down in what looked remarkably like a real-life seating area. Later when the London posse showed we caught the labyrinths (reeking of sulfur or vinegar or whatever) and then descended to the riverside.
Next day we rode the metro to Heroes Square in eastern Pest. We observed the motley architecture of the Museum of Agriculture and viewed some of the peripheral works of the French impressionists over at the Museum of Fine Arts. At one point, silently fuming over being followed with prejudicial attention by the burly crones that guard the place, I lost it and rolled my eyes at one. She promptly gestured for my ticket by attempting to grab it from my back pocket. I just stared at her in mild disbelief, wondering if I was being sexually harassed. Everything was in order, but my tolerance was at an end, so we moved on to the nearby zoo (miles better than some throwaway Monets any day of the week).
The highlight of the trip was unquestionably Friday night at a nightclub/bar/music venue called Kuplung. If you imagine a party in a rundown courtyard, with Christmas lights hanging from rafters, graffiti on the walls, dogs padding by nonchalantly, you’ve got a pretty good image of this place. It’s converted from an old bus garage, and has a big bar and lots of tables, though a lot of people were sitting on the floor, Indian-style in little campfire circles, so we did the same. We were with some awesome fellow travelers staying at the hostel that night, including a couple of Californians, some Mexicans, and a fantastic Serbian couple who are some of the friendliest people I’ve met in my travels thus far.
It was a brilliant night. I remember lights everywhere, on the way there, in the club, on the way home…
I got talking to the drummer of the band Blues/Vers, a blues rock quintet that got the crowd dancing with a weird mix of rockabilly, glam, and even early punk. In remarkably good English (that sounded as if it’d been learned watching hours of interviews with British bands), he told me something to the effect of, “There’s this famous Hungarian children’s writer, yeah? Well tonight’s songs are all about these poems he wrote about fucking.”
Other interesting characters included a concert organizer from Berlin and a cute girl from Portland, OR who I remember trying to impress by mentioning Karl Blau and Anacortes, Washington.
The night wore on. I drank several glasses of something called Zlaty that was on tap. We all watched the band and raved about East Europe. The Serbian couple, Milan and Milana (no joke), told me upon my asking a little about the consequences of the conflict with Bosnia in the early ‘90s. They were surprisingly objective and in no way self-pitying.
Afterwards we all had the greatest gyros ever to grace this tiny, disgraceful planet and stumbled back to the hostel.
Overall it was a fantastic trip. Go some time.
Paris pix up on: FLICKR
Labels:
budapest,
central backpack king,
hungary,
kuplung
Monday, March 10, 2008
Sunday, March 9, 2008
CCTV 3
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Easy! Easy! Easy! Easy!
Here's the video for "No Lucifer," the second single from British Sea Power's latest album, Do You Like Rock Music?.
EASY! EASY! EASY! EASY! EASY! EASY!
Hey you, give me the dummy tits,
Forget the rest of the shit
The man with the skull and bones,
You think you know, but you don't.
To Sodom I will go,
Not to Megiddo.
Several Lucifers come,
We can beat them all.
A Carlton Corsair,
A Raleigh Twenty, yeah!
A little lost roe deer,
The wind in your hair.
NO LUCIFER!
Come on, Allons-y let's go,
Can always just say no.
To the anti-aircraft crew,
The boys from the Hitler Youth.
Silk and cyanide,
Six weeks left alive.
Metal, skull and bone,
You think you know but you don't.
To Sodom I will go,
Not to Megiddo.
Several Lucifers come,
We can beat them all.
A Carlton Corsair,
A Raleigh Twenty, yeah!
A little lost roe deer,
The wind in your hair.
NO LUCIFER!
EASY! EASY! EASY!
Is that what the future holds?
Is that what the future holds?
Kevlar or cherry wood,
Malevolence or good.
Is that what the future holds?
Is that what the future holds?
Is that what the future holds?
Is that what the future holds?
NO LUCIFER!
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Nick Drake's Grave / Tanworth-in-Arden
At what point does fandom cross the line and become outright fanaticism? I may or may not be the person to answer this question, but whether tellingly or no, I thought it would be a great idea to visit Nick Drake’s final resting place in Tanworth-in-Arden. About a three-hour train ride from London, the late singer/songwriter/guitarist’s hometown is a quaint little village in the English midlands that’s full of quaint little houses, a quaint old church, and various other quaint things.
I arrived at Danzey train station a little after eleven and proceeded to trudge uncertainly down the main drag until I caught sight of the not-to-distant steeple of an old church (St. Mary Magdalene’s). I kept on up the road until I reached a little wooden kissing gate that led into this church’s graveyard, thinking there couldn’t possibly be two church burial grounds in as unassuming a hamlet as this. Incredibly, I was upon Drake’s gravesite within the space of a few strides. Here I’d come all this way, thinking I’d be wandering for hours and hours, asking indignant locals for even more indignant directions, and I’d suddenly found myself practically treading on the very object of my pilgrimage, minutes after getting off the train. I didn’t really know what to do with myself.
Still, there I was, standing mere feet from the remains of one of the most brilliant talents of the 1970s and a long-standing personal idol of mine. I knelt down beneath an irritatingly restrictive sign of some verbosity to behold a meager headstone inscribed with the deceased’s name, lifespan, and a brief dedication by his parents (their life spans also). On the reverse side, the haunting lyrical excerpt, “Now we rise and we are everywhere,” culled from “From the Morning,” the last song on Drake’s final album, Pink Moon. I was impressed and relieved by the humility of it all, and the sodden tributes that lay round, including a cracked drumstick, guitar picks, and a few coins (to which I added a shiny five pence), seemed appropriately quiet. Around the base of the stone, someone had planted a cluster of violets. I stood there for a moment, taking the scene in.
Still a grave’s a grave, and being especially impartial to his suddenly “rising and being everywhere,” I figured I’d scarper and leave ol’ Nick to his own devices.
I headed off down the main road and passed the town’s premier pub, The Bell, which I later found out was a really tacky attempt at an upscale hotel (although the food wasn’t half bad). Then I came to a small gap in one of the innumerable hedgerows and discovered a “public footpath” that led into some verdant pasture beyond. My devotion to public life being especially ardent at that moment, I hopped over an awkward stepladder and began an hour’s trudge through the surrounding farmland.
Let it be known that there is, in fact, no “path” involved, and I soon found myself in a fair amount of mud. It was pretty great though. I’ve seen parts of the English countryside before, from out the windows of cars and trains mostly, but actually being there, with all the mud and clay caked to my boots was something else entirely. Thankfully sheep don’t spit, because I most certainly came within range more than once. I struck mortal terror in the hearts of a couple of jittery ducks in a nearby pond and glimpsed the vanishing tail of a March Hare in the middle distance. It was all very tranquil overall, and I could almost imagine the ghost of Wordsworth oo-ing and ah-ing as he tramped through the undergrowth towards Tintern Abbey (not too far away).
At the end of my excursion I wandered down some of the residential side streets, and, by sheer chance, came upon a house that I believe once belonged to the Drake family, which was called “Far Leys.” “Far Leys House,” as it is today, has an air of renovation, and, judging from the shiny gate and CCTV camera perched snidely atop a prominent garage of some sort, I only snapped one photo of the premises (mostly obscured by trees) and one of its gold-lettered nametag.
I made my way back to the church and passed a short while on a bench “gravely reading the stones” until it was time to catch the train back. Pretty tiring day. I’ll post some pictures now. More on my FLICKR page.
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