In My Life

There are places I remember. As time goes by I discover that this blog is as much about geography as music. The setting can stir my memory just as effectively. My walk through Manchester to the Michael Chabon talk back in October seems to have started something. Last Sunday there was a reunion to celebrate the Russell Club. I was sorry I couldn’t go, but I did find myself in Manchester on both the Saturday and the Monday for different events. Saturday’s plan was to meet up with an old friend for lunch and a poetry and jazz event at the Whitworth Art Gallery. Simon Armitage was one of the performing poets. He’s a favourite of mine, and I have seen him interviewed and reading his poetry before. He also filmed part of his fantastic version of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight in the historic house where I work. There’s a bus that runs direct from Bakewell to the centre of Manchester and a couple of times a year I am tempted to catch it, because it seems to make sense at the time. I still find public transport a bit of an adventure, and the journey into Manchester included a fantastic cast of characters that may get written about one day, truth being stranger than fiction. The bus came to a sudden halt in the middle of the road in the centre of Longsight. It was completely immobilised and the driver struggled to find the magic button to make it work again. After ten minutes I made a decision. I knew I could walk down Dickenson Rd and would then be close to the Whitworth Gallery. I asked myself when, if ever, would I get the chance to retrace the journey I made on a daily basis back in the late 70s. So turning the corner I walked past Longsight market, as vibrant and multicultural as ever. On past Wise Chemists, the family business of Manchester promoter Alan Wise, still there on the corner of Hamilton Rd. I used to live on Reynell Rd, on the right at the far end. I clearly remembered walking this route in good weather and bad, slipping on ice in my pearlised pink leather ankle boots, admiring my new haircut in a shop window reflection. There were more unpleasant memories too. I worked at the Asian Women’s refuge as a language teacher and if I walked children from the refuge to school I would run the gauntlet of abuse, shouted from passing cars, and even to my face. Last Monday I took the train from Buxton to Manchester with my son Charlie and my friend Keith. We had tickets for Shearwater. They were playing at a venue that was new to us, St Philip’s Church in Salford. Except it wasn’t really new to me. From the age of ten until I was thirteen I went to school just round the corner. Adelphi House Grammar School for Girls. I believe the building is now part of Salford University. And when I left boarding school I spent a year working at Salford Central Library, just a short walk away on The Crescent. Like Dickenson Rd, this area seems to held in a suspended state of partial renewal. It hasn’t been transformed in a way that makes it unrecognisable like many areas of Manchester. The Catholic cathedral was still there. Roads and junctions had been widened. Pavements had strange blue neon strip lights set into them. The bus stops were in the same place – we used to walk one bus stop closer to Manchester to avoid the chaos of getting on the bus outside school. A man with no nose used to ride past on his bike every afternoon. The Education Offices, where I went to plead my case after I had left Exeter University after only a term (I missed the north ) are now unoccupied. Salford Education Committee gave me a full three years worth of grants when I started afresh at Leeds the following year. There was the Dickensian corner shop where I once had to buy two ounces of cheese, wrapped in a scrap of greaseproof paper. It was for domestic science – cheese scones, and my mother who worked full time didn’t have any cheese in the house. No late night mini supermarkets in those days. I had to catch an early bus and go searching. The building was still there, but it was no longer a shop. Pubs with familiar names were boarded up, including the Peel Park on Chapel St. Peel Park was the view from the art room window, a real life Lowry landscape. In fact Lowry drew St Philip’s church, and the architect of the British Museum designed it. We discovered a great pub, The New Oxford, that was still going strong, with a friendly clientele and a huge range of Belgian fruit beers. The band were amazing, and hopefully they will put a video made during the sound check up on their website. Their sound engineer is from Manchester, and his father had filmed them with a camera attached to a remote control model helicopter. It was a strange and multi-layered evening. I loved the music. I loved the neo-classical Church. I loved being back in Salford. Even the tension of wondering would we make it to Piccadilly in time to catch the last train back to Buxton added something – a reminder of those days of dashing for the last bus home. And I haven’t even touched on the concerts at Salford University, when I was one of Allan Prior’s dance troupe. Another day.

When I'm 64

Whilst I am thrilled that the Stones are still strutting their stuff,I do wonder what all the fuss is about with regards to their ages.They have proved themselves survivors in spite of the early tragic loss of Brian Jones. Many others of their generation have fallen by the wayside. However in the last couple of years I have been lucky enough to have seen some amazing performances given by artists who have been around for a long time. None of them have been diminished by age - if anything they have improved with experience. They include Ravi Shankar in his 90s,Crosby and Nash (late 60s,early 70s),Candi Staton (late 60s),Patti Smith (mid 60s)Jackson Browne (early 60s)and Leonard Cohen (late 70s). A few weeks ago I went to a local folk club with my cousin to see Julie Felix, who I remembered from the Frost Report back in the sixties. She is 74 and had just got back from performing at a Goddess Convention in Mexico! Enough said.

Cut the cake and pick up the pieces

Yesterday BBC's Flog It! came to film where I work, Haddon Hall in Derbyshire. One of my colleagues had been doing a bit of research on Paul Martin the presenter. She told me that he had played drums with the Average White Band when he was younger. Earlier this year I went to see the Titanic Odyssey celebrations in Liverpool - the amazing Little Girl Giant and her Uncle.On the way home on the train a kind young man offered me his seat. We got talking and our conversation ranged from his family connections to the Titanic, his love of Icelandic music, his imminent move to Germany, and the fact that his parents were friendly with one of the Average White Band. A memorable random train conversation. Back in the spring I went to a local folk night in a tiny rugby club venue to see Chris Wood, one of my favourite singers. He also mentioned Average White Band, as he had recently played at a festival with one of the members. Back in my Drive In Rock days we played on the same bill as the Average White Band in their early 70s glory days. I got the chance to ask Paul Martin about his connection with them, and our paths hadn't crossed on stage back then - he is much too young - but I find this a particularly interesting example of 6 degrees of separation!

Tar barrels and mermaids

This weekend I saw a piece in the Guardian what's on section about the tar barrels of Ottery St Mary near Exeter.It's a calendar custom defying health and safety regulations.Back in 1972 I was at Exeter University for a term.In those few short months I saw David Bowie,Shakin Stephens and Pentangle at the students' union. I also went to see the tar barrel event.There was an old fashioned fair in the town,featuring a two headed stuffed calf and a real mermaid,a woman in a fishtail,sitting in a glass tank.Strange days as the Doors once sang.

Something Good

I'm being haunted by Herman's Hermits. Back in the summer of 1964 they played at the Adelphi House FCJ Grammar School summer fair. I was about to move up to this Salford secondary school, and as new pupils we had been invited to the fair. Herman's Hermits were playing in the gym,a newly built facility right by the River Irwell. On windy days chemical foam whipped up from the weir would blow across the playground, melting our nylon tights!They played 'I'm into Something Good', their first major hit and we all fell in love with Peter Noone's goofy cheeky chappy image. Of course it wasn't a hit until later that year, and it was exciting to hear it played on Radio Luxembourg through that summer, knowing that we had discovered them before they were famous. Earlier this summer I met someone on one of C P Lee's great music history walks in Manchester. He too had been at that particular Adelphi summer fair. The Adelphi site is now part of the University of Salford. The River Irwell might have salmon in it nowadays for all I know. We are singing a three part harmony version of 'I'm into Something Good' at the singing class I go to. When our tutor got the phrasing wrong a chorus of women of a certain age quickly put him right! On Saturday night it was played at the wedding disco of some young Italian friends. My youngest son's father did a great version of it with his band back in the mid 90s. I switched on the radio on Sunday morning and there it was. This is a song that is coming up to 48 years old! I know Goffin and King wrote songs that last, but where will it end? It's still full of optimism and the joys of youth. Maybe we should all hum along to it more often.

How long - has this been going on...

This has been a busy week. The wonder boy Michael Chabon on Sunday,writers' group on Tuesday, Robert Lee (of Black Gold of the Sun)organised an enjoyable evening at the Washington in Sheffield on Wednesday, the great Show of Hands at Buxton Opera House on Thursday. Friday night was scheduled for a catch up at home with Charlie,teenage son and lodger. It didn't quite work out like that. I'd lit the fire and settled in for the evening, so I read a bit, tidied a bit, made a couple of phone calls and then sat down to surf the TV channels. I got caught up in BBC4's evening about Squeeze and Paul Carrack. Now I have some memories of going to see them both, but I haven't felt any urgency to write about them until now. Like last Sunday's stroll through Manchester, it was a trip down Memory Lane. I saw Squeeze at an outdoor festival in Holland, possibly just outside Rotterdam. I was with my new Dutch boyfriend and I had to go back to Manchester to face the music of the break up of my first marriage. I couldn't stop crying, eyes and nose streaming on a lovely sunny summer afternoon. Their lyrics probably didn't help. I saw Ace during the 'How Long' days but I'm a bit hazy where. Kokomo were one of my favourite bands whilst I was at University, and I saw them live at Leeds. I still have their album. I suppose it's all blue eyed soul, but of a very English variety. Paul Carrack talked about his happy family days in Sheffield, before his father died as the result of an accident at work. Things seemed to be getting better all the time.I can recognise that feeling. He and his brother talked about being able to leave school on the Friday and walk into a job on the Monday. His brother took over the family decorating business at 15,and still runs it in Crookes. Sheffield is my second city. I moved there for a brief time in the early 90s and am very fond of it. Neil Hubbard described Paul Carrack as the Michael Palin of rock 'n' roll, because everyone loves him. Strange that Michael Palin is also a Sheffield lad.I went on a healing course with Matthew Manning when I was studying to be a homeopath. At the end of the weekend he played Mike and the Mechanics 'The Living Years'. It was incredibly moving, and I hadn't yet made the link with Paul Carrack that runs through all this.My friend Joyce, who died too young of a brain tumour, loved Paul Carrack and James Taylor and we managed to see them both together several times, so there are other associations linking all this for me.Then I went to see Mike and the Mechanics and rediscovered Paul Young, part of the scene in Manchester - Sad Cafe days. And Mike Rutherford was at school with Dim from Drive In Rock, the band I used to be in.Six degrees of separation, maybe less. Chris Difford said Paul Carrack's music translates the family love from his upbringing. There are many kinds of family.

There are places I'll remember

On an early autumn sunny Sunday afternoon I took a train to Piccadilly Station, Manchester. This time of year holds a sense of melancholy for me - nostalgia creeps up and ambushes me - the end of the holidays, return to boarding school. The Manchester railway stations hold a lot of memories for me, though they never appear in my dreamscapes, though Leeds station and the area around Manchester Cathedral are regular dream locations. There was a dreamy quality to the afternoon,and I was on my way to see one of my favourite authors, Michael Chabon, in conversation with Dave Haslam at the Whitworth Art Gallery as part of the Manchester Literature Festival. I knew there was a street food market and some music on in Albert Square, so I had arrived early to take a wander. Feeling something of the spirit of a flaneuse, even though there was a purpose to my visit, I decided to stroll. I passed the wall my unsuitable drug dealing boyfriend used to call the People Wall because it created an austere and revealing back drop for anyone walking past it. That was when I was 17. Today a homeless man with his dog rested against it. As I walked past a bar I heard Stevie Wonder singing 'I was made to love her'. Coffee bar jukebox, Gimlet Rock caravan Site, Pwllheli, North Wales circa 1967. Market St - the ghosts of Cromford Court and the Magic Village, New Brown St and the original On the 8th Day. A detour down Cross St, with a side street that led to what was once the Hollies boutique, where I had my first kiss from my first boyfriend. Round to St Annes Square, and The Royal Exchange, where my grandfather did his trading. Up to Albert Square, where I'd seen Candi Staton last year. Food and drink, a conversation with John Robb to thank him for his amazing review about Patti Smith back in September. Bumped into Elliott Rashman last seen at Bill Sykes' book launch for Sit Down! Listen to This!, but also part of the polytechnic 80s music scene, Simply Red's beginnings and the rest is history.Cutting through the threatened corridor between the old and 'new' Town Hall buildings to St Peter's Square. 'Rosencrantz and Guidernstern are Dead'at the Library Theatre when I was studying Hamlet for A level. The Odeon, boarded up and marooned at the top of Oxford St. We had stood in the road, screaming for a glimpse of Scott Walker from the dressing room windows. Package tours and teenage crushes. I met the already mentioned first boyfriend after a Small Faces concert there.On I went, leaving the city centre behind, past the nearly demolished BBC building where I had discussed ideas for programmes that never happened and the new On the 8th Day - such a significant piece of my history.Alberto Y Los Trios Paranoias developing their ideas between customers. XTC and half of Spirit coming in to explore Manchester's famous hippy shop.Bill Shumow, Beefheart's road manager, coming to collect me from work to head off on the tour bus. All Saints and the Cavendish Building, Thursday night discos and Drive in Rock home coming gigs. Royal Northern College of Music, still one of my favourite venues. Music Force - the ghost of the Georgian terrace and the musicians' collective - Bruce Mitchell, Tosh Ryan, Martin Hannett. On past the Students' Union, with a huge crowd outside, one or two I recognised, waiting to see Fun at the Academy. Recent strong memories of Patti Smith, and ancient memories of a film made of the dance troupe I was in when I was 16. By the time I reached the Whitworth I was in a perfect frame of mind to listen to a writer I admire, and I wasn't disappointed.

One way of life - and that's your own

On Friday I went to see the Levellers play an acoustic set at Buxton Opera House. I felt slightly regretful and guilty because I had been given their new album to review for Sloucher, and I hadn’t got round to it for a variety of domestic reasons. I could have been better prepared for a set of new material, but I needn’t have worried because all the old favourites were there too. The lovely Moulettes opened for them – and joined them on stage later. Accomplished musicians with great arrangements, they were very suited to the acoustics of the Opera House. For those of you not familiar with Buxton Opera House, it’s a little gem of a theatre designed by Frank Matcham. Ornate, intimate, gilded, it is home to opera festivals , Gilbert and Sullivan festivals, tribute bands, comedians, local theatre groups and the rest. I had seen the Levellers there in 2008, just before their massive Royal Albert Hall event. It was a wall of sound, with a sea of fans crashing against it. A bit of a shock to my system but very exciting. It’s the only time I have seen girls on the shoulders of boys on the shoulders of bigger boys! They reached up to the level of the circle. The Opera House staff seemed to cope without being heavy handed. Last Friday’s crowd weren’t quite as acrobatic, but they were certainly as enthusiastic. About three songs in there was a surge to the stage, mostly men of a certain age. Jim Morrison once drawled on a live recording something along the lines of “So this is New York – only the guys rush the stage’. I had seen something similar a few years ago when the Beat played Buxton – all those middle aged Ska boys dancing like there was no tomororow, and no yesterday. All the favourite songs were sung, the audience punched the air, sang along, dreadlocks flew and great time was had by all. It’s a mixed age audience too – children and parents – maybe even grandchildren. Perhaps it’s the influence of the festivals they have played at. I rediscovered the Levellers when my son Charlie came across them as a young teenager. Memories of the songs, their collective political stance and their support of the travellers in the late 80s and early 90s. I don’t know if they are still working as a collective, but I bought a t shirt from the incredible didgeridoo player at the interval! And he certainly blew a few cobwebs out of the carved woodwork and dusty velvet of the Opera House. It’s wild rebel music, raising the roof, ‘Out Demons Out’ as the Edgar Broughton Band would have screamed. I love the energy and enthusiasm. It’s not my tribe but it’s great to see their tribe in action. We were home in time for Jools Holland, but I couldn’t cope with seeing the Beach Boys and John Lydon. I saw the Beach Boys when ‘Good Vibrations’ was in the charts and I don’t want to think of the nasty behaviour that’s going on over a brand name. I missed the Pistols at the Lesser Free Trade Hall, tried to see them at Wigan Casino (and got picked up on suspicion of selling drugs – another story and we weren’t) and can only think of an advert for margarine when I see Mr Lydon now. Thank goodness the amazing film about George Harrison was on BBC4 again.

It's only rock 'n' roll but I like it

I was terrified. My hands were trembling as I tried to adjust the microphone and my knees were knocking under my fifties style skirt. Julian the junkie drummer had just fallen off the back of the stage, bringing the last number to a messy end. Now he was back in place, and the set list told me it was my solo. The Paris Sisters’ ‘I Love How You Love Me’. What on earth was I doing here? ‘Here’ was the cavernous Market Hall in Haverfordwest. For some reason our manager had booked us in on a tour of the outer reaches of Wales. We were a rock ‘n’ roll revival group in the early nineteen seventies. Two sax players, one on bass sax, three girl backing singers, a lead singer, lead and rhythm guitarists and a bass player. A nine piece band, all with alter egos, and stage names – Edsel Odeon, Rocco Lampone, Timmy Shirt, Leroy Cool, Pete L’Eau (guess what his real name was) and we were Peggy, Debbie and Jo-Anne, though we never worked out who was which. There was a slightly surreal aspect to playing Haverfordwest . Normally we played small clubs and student unions. Sha Na Na, Alvin Stardust, Shakin’ Stevens and Showaddywaddy were part of a popular fifties revival and we rode the wave. However in this part of Wales the fifties had never gone away, and there were authentic teddy boys in the crowd. I expected a rumble to break out and flick knives to appear at any minute, and we had already planned a quick get away. Unfortunately Julian the junkie drummer was the only drummer available for our tour, and he had already drawn some unwelcome attention. It all started when I moved back to Manchester to live in an infamous shared house. I’d dropped out of my first University course, and my parents had encouraged me not to return to the family home. I had Annie’s room, Annie having gone to live on a kibbutz, a rite of passage for several disaffected Catholic girls I knew. I therefore also inherited Annie’s place in the band. We rehearsed in a cellar lined with egg boxes for soundproofing. Pat and Cathy were the other two Rockettes, and Pat’s mother taught us the hand jive, ideal for such a confined space. We also choreographed dances more suited to the stage performances. We bought authentic fifties clothes in jumble sales and charity shops. We wore our hair in high ponytails. Us girls had day jobs, but the boys were serious about their music. Our manager was also very serious about music, and our material was authentically from the fifties, except for a couple of very convincing songs the boys had written for themselves. There were many adventures on the road in the two and half years the band stayed together. Important connections and friendships were made, many of which still exist, though the lead singer and the manager have joined that heavenly band of rock ‘n’ roll brothers. Ten years ago we reformed for Annie’s 50th birthday party. Almost as terrifying an experience as my first solo in Haverfordwest. There was always safety in numbers though, and the audience were very kind. After Annie’s 50th I discovered a singing class in the local programme of adult education classes, ‘Singing for the Terrified’. I joined, adding my trembling voice to others equally timid and I am still going. It’s now called something along the lines of ‘Singing for Pleasure’. It’s led by a well known harmony singer and song writer. There are no auditions, everyone’s welcome, it’s very informal and friendly. Two hours of harmony singing a week is great for the soul and for peace of mind. I was reminded of my singing past when I signed up last week, having just been to Annie’s 60th birthday party. Could it really be ten years since I nervously joined the class? Coincidentally last week there was also a lot of media publicity about a short video made in 1972 to welcome students to UMIST in Manchester. I saw a preview of the video on a big screen at a magazine launch at Manchester City Art Gallery. To my amazement, three minutes in was a shot of the Students’ Union noticeboard. There was a poster for Drive In Rock and the Rockettes, appearing at Manchester Polytechnic. Proof I hadn’t imagined it! I found my voice with Drive In Rock and the Rockettes. I’m still using it when I sing in harmony or write about my experiences .

Rock the Casbah

Last weekend was the Wirksworth Festival. The sun always seems to shine for the Art and Architecture trail - perhaps too much for my friend Maja's tiny wax houses in a south facing bakery window. It's a great place, perched on a hill, like a seaside town without the sea - though it was part of a tropical lagoon once, which is why the limestone quarried there is so special. There's too much to see and do in one day, but over the years I have learnt to go with the flow. On our way back to the car, we thought we would just pop in to the Moot Hall to catch Bill Aitchison's 'Vinyl' an interactive piece involving old records. When we got there he was playing the Staples Singers 'Come Go With Me' on a neat little record deck. There was a man with a box of singles, who had been visiting his daughter. We were invited to choose something from this box of vinyl treasures. The woman ahead of me chose Soft Cell's Tainted Love and then Bill interviewed her about her associations with it. Basically, she didn't like Soft Cell's version any more, but it reminded her of the record collection she had shared with her brother. Flicking through, I came across Rock the Casbah, and was reminded of my return from a year working in Casablanca back in 1981. I was completely changed by the experience. I had run away from Thatcher's Britain, the spectre of unemployment and the prospect of a miserable winter ( not to mention a break up with my boyfriend)and ended up getting a job teaching English in Morocco. There were many adventures whilst I was there, and loose ends to be tied up on my return. I'd heard stories of attempts on the King's life, and if you listen to the lyrics it tells the tale of one I knew about. Morocco had been the place to go in the hippy days, but by 1980 when I went it had lost some of its perceived glamour. I had loved it. I didn't expect to hear a band like the Clash sing about Morocco and its politics. It may not even be about Morocco and King Hassan Deux, but for me it was, and it revived and reinforced my memories.Thanks Bill.

A lazy bastard living in a suit

Lazy Bastard As I mentioned in my last post, I was going to see another poet who sings. You may have guessed that this was Leonard Cohen. We had booked tickets for Hop Farm, but the venue was changed. Thanks to my friend’s quick response to the news, we were able to get seats 11 rows back from the stage at Wembley. Not even far enough back to see the big screens! As the woman behind me said “I’ve waited 47 years for this!” I first heard Leonard Cohen on one of the Rock Machine albums back in the day, and his mournfully beautiful songs were the soundtrack to a period of teenage angst, whenever I needed to indulge in a bit of the old misery. I rediscovered him about 20 years ago with ‘I’m Your Man’ and grew to love the golden voice, the wry and regretful lyrics and the amazing musical arrangements of his new work. On Sunday night he literally hopped, skipped and jumped onto the stage, often kneeling to sing. The first time he did it, I felt a bit panicky that a man of his age (78 I’m told) might not be able to get back up, but like the Dalai Lama, he is very sprightly. He is more than sprightly – he is remarkable. It was a 3 hour performance with a half hour break. We needed the half hour to get through the queue for the Ladies – it seemed it was more for us than him. The musicians were amazing – have a look at the line up for the new album to follow them up. It was beautifully staged, with amazing lighting. Intriguing projections of two of his paintings during the intervals, and elegant draped curtains suffused with colours during the songs. The musicians could have been dwarfed by the height of the backdrop, but their silhouettes were dramatic as they crossed the stage and re grouped between numbers. Even the roadies wore homburgs! The backing singers were stunning, elegant in masculine suits, choreographed and graceful. The Webb sisters even did a synchronised cartwheel at one point! No end to their talents! Sharon Robinson’s solo ‘Alexandra Leaving’ was breathtaking. Old and new songs, all arranged and performed beautifully, elegantly. Leonard Cohen was measured, respectful of the songs, the audience and his fellow performers. It was curiously old fashioned, European, well mannered and respectful with more than a hint of the gypsy. No spitting, swearing or sweating here. It would have been my concert of the year if I hadn’t seen Patti Smith two days before. But I can’t turn back the clock and I am changed forever. ‘I love to speak with Leonard, he’s a sportsman and a shepherd, he’s a lazy bastard living in a suit’. No lazy bastard on stage on Sunday, and how strange that the image of a shepherd should come up in the lyrics of another poet who sings.

Because the Night

I’m going to start this post with a story. In the early nineteenth century there was a young woman who worked as a laundress, travelling from remote farmsteads to small hamlets, helping the housewives with their monthly wash. Her long fingered hands were raw from lye. Her arms were mottled and powerful from the scrubbing in cold water and the wringing of sheets. At one of these farms she met a young shepherd. “That’s the man I’m going to marry” she said to herself, and four years later she did. They ran on their own flock of hardy sheep on the mountain, and took on a smallholding. They had two children, a boy and a girl. Then her husband died. Now a young widow, she didn’t want to give up the only home her children had known. They could manage the smallholding and the flock if they worked together, and she was as capable as any man. She became a shepherd, not a delicate shepherdess, no Little Bo Peep. There was grace and strength in her movements. She wore her husband’s clothes - a waistcoat, his old flannel shirt, an over sized man’s jacket, even trousers tucked into his boots. Her hair grew long. The house was down a long track, remote in the beauty of the landscape that inspired the Romantic poets, absorbed into her being in every waking moment. She was rarely seen, but once a year she took her sheep to market, reminding the farmers and their wives of her story. Each year they were impressed by her courage and determination, and her ability to survive. On Friday night I went to see Patti Smith in Manchester. I had seen her interviewed by John Robb, at a lunchtime session at the tiny Library Theatre in Sheffield. Robert Mapplethorpe’s photos were on display in the Graves Gallery, and she was promoting her book ‘Just Kids’. She sang ‘Because the Night’ at the end of the interview, and we sang with her. She was charming, fascinating, intelligent, funny and thought provoking. It was an inspiring moment for me. One of my friends had seen her at a performance in Sheffield that same day. Another had seen her at the Apollo thirty five years before. This woman is a legend, and that raises expectations. So – how to describe her? Her androgynous beauty is still beyond compare. There were t-shirts for sale with Robert’s iconic image of her printed on them. Her beauty has become more solid, more earthy. With her long hair half plaited, wearing her signature jacket, waistcoat, t-shirt, jeans and boots, with her wedding ring on a chain round her neck, and a ring flashing on each hand, she redefines the sexual allure of rock n roll. I’m guessing it’s her wedding ring, because she held it whenever she spoke of her late husband, Fred ‘Sonic’ Smith. Sweating, spitting, snarling, swearing, smiling, she was totally engaged with her music, the band and the audience. A poet who can sing. A punk who is both a mother and a widow. A woman who can tease about practising her catwalk walk back on stage for the encore, but who moves with grace and fluidity, acting out her lyrics, throwing her arms wide to draw us in ‘Come, Come’, and then high to remind us that we have the power. She dances like a teenager. She has balls. Eye contact and a smile for the audience members. Then eyes closed, looking like the death mask of a Romantic poet. Song after song, old and new, supported by Lenny Kaye and a great band. When Lenny and the lads did their own songs, she came down to the front of the stage to connect with the audience. “Because the Night’ that hymn to passion, longing, lust and love was full of power. ‘I want your babies’ shouted a man in the audience. This is a woman in her mid – sixties.’ Age shall not wither her – nor should it wither any of us. And any woman who feels the pressure to become a commodity in the music business world should take a look at her. It was hot, and as she said, we were all ‘hot’. Beyond politics, beyond religion, she talked to us of freedom, ‘outside of society’. Becoming true, free, wise to being fooled and manipulated. ‘Work hard, stay clean’. Making her protests about so called friendly fire – the only weapon is a guitar, and sharing her support of the members of Pussy Riot. And why the story? Well she revealed that her ancestry was Cumbrian, Welsh and Irish, launderesses and shepherds. We started bleating. She called us her flock of black sheep, and she sang the nursery rhyme to us. We sang along. Past and present, childhood memories and future associations. New fans and old, those there because they thought they should be, those there because it had been a long time coming. We all shared the power, the beauty, the air, the breath, literally inspiration. Create or explode. We were speechless when we left. I managed to articulate, ‘I know where I’m going now’. By that I mean that I have rediscovered my tribe, my flock, my calling. And coincidentally I am going to see another poet who sings tonight. More of that later.

Bakewell Music Festival - Acoustic once more

This was the third Bakewell Music Festival, formerly the Bakewell Acoustic Music Festival. A bit of history first. It was started in 2010 by Jonathan Rowland, something of a legend in Bakewell and beyond, as former manager of Rod Stewart and the man behind Captain Beaky. He got involved with the Bakewell Arts Festival in the early days, and brought Tim Rose in to perform a memorable concert. Jonathan is a great man for making connections, and he saw the opportunity offered by the chance to use the patrons’ marquee after the Bakewell Agricultural Show at the beginning of August. To those of us who live in Bakewell there is something slightly incongruous in seeing the rugby pitch and showground morphed into the venue for a music festival. I would love to know how it appears to the happy campers who have put this festival on the map. There are a few stalls and food tents, and Dave Kennedy from the fantastic Bakewell Music Shop moves across with his stock and his caravan for the duration. You can get a henna tattoo, a funny festival hat and a wood fired pizza. And the shops of Bakewell are a mere two minutes away. It’s odd living so close to the festival. It means that I have the comforts - and responsibilities - of home, and somehow fail to grasp the festival spirit. I have a feeling that it’s a very mixed spirit, due to the range of music represented. On Friday night the main band were from Sheffield – the Everly Pregnant Brothers. Spoof lyrics to well known songs, delivered with ukulele accompaniment and a Sheffield accent. The audience loved them, and most knew all the words. ‘No oven, no pie’ to the tune of Marley. It gave it a holiday camp feel. The wedding marquee with chandeliers and gold painted upholstered chairs added to this. Those Show patrons can show a festival crowd a thing or two about creature comforts. The ladies loos were a bit special too. On Saturday we went as a family to celebrate my mother’s birthday. My son, her grandson, is the singer in Neon Railroad. I told her not to wear her hearing aid, and I suspect she had cotton wool in her ears too. A great time was had by all – a fabulous home coming gig for the band. Dave Kennedy, their honorary manager (he doesn’t get paid) was moved to tears with pride, and so was I. In 2010 Charlie had appeared in the festival’s first Acoustic Idol competition, and Jonathan had told him to go and get experience in a band. He and the other members of Neon Railroad have done just that, and could hold their own at any festival. It was particularly sweet to see them on home ground. Sunday came round, and I was feeling slightly unfocussed about when to go down to the festival and who to see. I ended up watching String Driven Thing, with echoes of my past and the sensational Alex Harvey. It was good to see two generations on stage together, and the bass player had amazing stage presence. You will know what I mean if you were there. The timings were shifted and I missed Bo Walton because I needed to go home and make some tea – a case of responsibilities rather than home comforts, and a cause for regret. I resisted the temptation of the Olympics closing ceremony and headed back to the showground for the final acts. I met some friends and as we chatted we noticed the night drawing in – that’s August for you – but then we realised that all the power had gone off. No loos, no lights, no sound, no bar. The cry went up for an electrician in the house. One got up and disappeared into the gloom with the organisers. The last band had just arrived after a long and delayed drive from Bristol. They announced that they could do an acoustic set. Someone brought some solar powered fairy lights from their tent. A camping light was hung from the chandelier. Tables and chairs were moved into a circle. Their redundant keyboard player held a flashlight. Double bass, acoustic guitar, a simple drum and an electric guitar with a battery powered amp – and a singer with a beautiful, soulful voice. The Blitz spirit. It was a magical end to the festival. Triumph in adversity. ‘Intimate gone nuts’ as Yolanda said. The spookily named Phantom Limb had saved the day. At the end of their set they announced that Yolanda had been saving her voice – not that it showed – because they were recording a session for Bob Harris’ programme on Radio 2 the next day. I’d love to hear them at full power, but for those of us there I would say that their unplugged set will be a magical memory for the rest of our festival going lives. Then home for the megawatt spectacle that was the Olympics closing ceremony. I know which I preferred. And I saw the caravan of my dreamsand I didn’t know I even had a dream of a caravan – an Eriba Puck! Thanks Jonathan – looking forward to next year.

Reel to real

Reel to Real Last week I went to see Alisdair Roberts and friends in the Backroom at the Greystones pub in Sheffield. A venue with an interesting past and a lively present. This week my son is off to the Green Man festival at Crickhowell in the Brecon Beacons. We have seen Alisdair there twice – once as a very traditional Scottish folk singer on one of the small stages, and again as a bit of a rock god on the main stage. He has such a distinctive voice, and he appears to be unafraid of experimenting as a performer. The Backroom is a small space, and he was appearing with a traditional Gaelic singer and a puppet show. I had no idea what to expect. In those circumstances I should remember to expect the unexpected. The evening started with Gillebride Macmillan singing in Gaelic. For some strange reason we learnt traditional Gaelic songs at my Catholic grammar school in Salford. I was transported back to a concert we did, perhaps when I was 11 or 12 years old. I was also transported back to evenings spent in Kuching, Sarawak, where I spent my holidays from boarding school. A house on stilts, gekkoes climbing the walls, mosquito screens instead of windows. My father was a great fan of jazz and folk music. He had a Uher reel to reel tape recorder and a fantastic collection of tapes. Included in his collection was an evening’s worth of traditional Irish and Scottish gaelic songs by a variety of artists. He had another tape of poets reading their own works – Yeats, Eliot and Edith Sitwell stick in my memory. Jigs and reels, tales of love, longing and murder, and then freedom fighters’ songs – the political folk music of America. To round off the evening he’d play Joan Baez’s version of Farewell Angelina. Sometimes I fail to acknowledge the roots of my love of music, but I am recognising them now. Just as I was processing these memories, the Sokobauno Puppet Theatre started. Commissioned by the School of Scottish Studies , there were links I shared through my undergraduate degree at Leeds in the School of Folk Life and Dialect Studies. An inspired puppet version of a mummers play – ‘Galoshins’. Hard to describe but great fun to watch – Punch and Judy mayhem with a mummer’s twist and Scottish characters. Finally Alisdair did his own set. He had been performing all evening with the other artists, and it was great to hear his distinctive voice and pleasantly gloomy songs. Highly recommended as a evening’s entertainment.

How Sweet it is...

Last Friday I went to Chatsworth with my good friend Sheila, to an Ultimate Motown outdoor evening concert. I saw the Temptations ( or a group claiming to be them) at the CIS in Manchester back in the late 60s. I saw Smokey Robinson at the Bridgewater Hall about 5 years ago. I saw Junior Walker and the All Stars and Curtis Mayfield in Manchester in the early 80s. Sheila and I have been to a couple of good Motown tribute shows over the last few years.We weren't familiar with this particular version of the Motown back catalogue, and at first I wasn't sure if it was more Merseyside than Stateside. But it was a beautiful evening, they had great harmonies and slick moves. There were many people of a certain age there, revealing their misspent youth with Northern Soul moves and exuberant shapes. For me it was a collision of worlds - Chatsworth House as a backdrop, set in Capability Brown's apparently natural landscaping - I used to be a guide there. The skies were clear, and the moon had just turned from full. These were the songs of my youth,they helped me discover my love of dance through a youth club in Patricroft, and lunchtime record sessions at my Salford girls' school. Candles, lanterns and tablecloths, picnic baskets and champagne flutes, crisps and beer. A Lathkill Coaches bus full of a hen party.High heels and walking boots, sandals and wellies.Evening dresses, linen suits and panama hats, jeans and fleeces. Anything goes and anything went. And all on the Salisbury lawn, looking down towards the house, with the Cascade behind us. The same Salisbury lawn that couldn't be used for the Antony Gormley sculpture installation a few years ago, because of the possible presence of fungi. There were plenty of fun guys there on Friday night. The band used to back Edwin Starr. If you are interested they have a website and facebook page, and they get around all over the country on tour. Look them up as Ultimate Motown or How Sweet It Is. Go and relive your carefree youth.

Blog from the North Country ( with apologies to Mr Zimmerman)

This is slightly introspective, and not about music - this is a blog about aspects of the process of blogging. I have been writing the Historic Gig Guide for some time now - there's no shortage of material - memories, things I want to comment on and share, connections that leap out of the ether - everyday coincidences and occurences. A friend - who writes a blog as Wonderman, a man who wonders - told me about Blog North's events. The second get together was planned for August 4th at the Tate in Liverpool. So I looked and I booked, feeling more excited than nervous at the thought of being in the company of more than three bloggers at once! To get to Liverpool for 10am by train I left the house at 7am. An adventure in itself. The train passed through Widnes station - famous for being the place where Paul Simon wrote 'Homeward Bound' when he visited the folk clubs of England in the early sixties. Layers of meaning in unlikely places.Gazing at the engineering and back breaking work that had gone into creating a route through sandstone as the train pulled into Liverpool I remembered school history lessons - Stephenson's Rocket and the unfortunate death of Huskisson, the MP for Liverpool in the Rainhill trials.There was an amazing vertical wild garden set into the rock and dressed stone - grasses, buddleia, mosses, ferns and worts.Visible only to passengers who looked up. A white feather drifted slowly through a patch of sunlight. When I stepped out of Lime Street station I was momentarily overwhelmed by the sense of being at the seaside. A seagull's cry, and that quality of light you get in cities built on estuaries. I live as far inland as you can get, in the heart of the Peak District, so a visit to the coast is a treat. I usually visit Tate Liverpool two or three times a year. I recently visited the city for the Sea Odyssey - an unforgettably exciting event to witness. The Blog North event was great fun. Very inspirational, very exciting to be in a room of interesting and passionate people, and to realise that there is a spectrum of age, experience and practical application and I am somewhere in that mix. It gave me confidence in what I am already doing, and sparked lots of ideas for the future. It was fascinating to hear about developments in social media, and the joy of twitter. The food was good. The Monet/Turner/Twombly exhibition was amazing, and I will be back for another look. The views from the gallery windows were breathtaking on a day of sunshine and showers - weather blowing in from the Welsh mountains I guess.I got a press pass, but had no camera - oh well! The best aspect for me was the opportunity to share in person what we are all trying to do with our blogs - to educate, inspire, bear witness, provoke thoughts and test attitudes, promote our talents and ideas. I loved the presentation about the more arcane possibilities of phone apps - but if I'd had one of those clever ones that tell you who is where and whether they share your likes on facebook I wouldn't have had the added delight of bumping into an old friend at the event, and then two more friends from Derbyshire outside the gallery. Looking forward to Blog North 3.

A question of etiquette

Some time ago I started a blog I named The Etiquette of Shopping, in response to some of the tales of customer behaviour I heard from friends involved in retail. Perhaps it's only coincidental that they are no longer working in that world. I'd done my fair share of over the counter stuff too - shops, libraries, the door at clubs and so on. I didn't continue the blog because I stopped hearing their astonishing tales of dealing with the public, and I was no longer on the front line. However there is something about the etiquette of concert and live music performances that is really bothering me, and in an anthropological sort of way I would love to know what's happening. I'm aware that I could be showing my age here, but I'll take a chance. I first noticed it at the Green Man festival. There are grass terraces overlooking the main stage, and groups of friends would set up camp for an afternoon or evening there.Sometimes the buzz of conversation would detract from the music and performances, but it seemed fair enough in an outdoor relaxed setting, so if you wanted to really listen to the performers you could head down to the front of the stage.But then people started hanging round the front of the stage who were more interested in yelling inane comments to one another - the folly of youth I thought until it happened one too many times during performances I had really looked forward to experiencing. Then I went to see Sufjan Stevens at the Manchester Apollo. Indoor, in seats, intense - and yet there was a constant stream of people (no pun intended) presumably going to the toilets - or maybe the bar - or maybe for a cigarette somewhere. I'd never experienced a sit down concert like it. Now I have been to folk clubs in the old days where you wouldn't so much as dare blow your nose whilst the artists were playing, and heaven forbid if you needed the loo, and I wouldn't want to go back to that. But there's a respect for the artist you have paid to see, and the fellow members of the audience. Maybe it's all about attention deficit disorder, a lack of ability to concentrate.But there's always an interval. Since the Sufjan Stephens concert I have noticed it happening at the Bridgewater Hall - the Waterboys and Crosby and Nash for example - but not at Ravi Shankar's performance, and not at the Royal Northern College of Music. So yesterday I was at Tramlines - a great free festival in Sheffield.It was the lovely Folk Forest weekend event in the sylvan setting of Endcliffe Park in welcome sunshine. All free, so we didn't 'own' our space to sit.We had been surrounded by a loud group of friends ( not ours) who talked all through every performance the day before, and we'd moaned about it among ourselves afterwards, but in typically polite British fashion hadn't wanted to spoil the atmosphere by complaining. This is a family folky event with lots of young people, children, thirty-somethings and people like me and my friends who are verging on the vintage in the best possible way - we are old hands at music events of all types! So having sat down yesterday to enjoy an afternoon of music, we were again surprised by the behaviour of those in front of us. A big group of friends, some connected with one of the bands, they appeared to completely ignore the music all afternoon. No sense of personal space,as people joined the edge of the group,they scrambled over me and my companions, carving out a new space by practically sitting on our knees!They were drinking but they weren't drunk. They were old enough to know better and not so young that it would have been an excuse for a lack of consideration for those around them. Some were quite charming in one to one conversation. I was genuinely intrigued by how they were behaving and how they would have explained it if I could have found the right moment to ask them without sounding confrontational. Mary Hampton Cotillion were on stage late afternoon. Ethereal voices and magical music, with the afternoon sun and shadows of leaves and birds on the stage. A squirrel ran from branch to branch. A real chance to be transported in a Sheffield park, but the volume of conversation - and this was a group directly in front of the stage - was distracting. We listened and enjoyed the music, tuning out the chat, but I really would love to know why they were there if all they wanted to do was ignore the music. There were many lovely places to set up camp where they could have laughed and talked and waved and shouted to their hearts' content, and still heard the music at a distance.And the dog might have been happier too! Do I sound like a grumpy old woman? Probably. I wasn't so put off by them that I took up my plastic sheet and found somewhere else to sit, in a very crowded area. But I would genuinely like to know how it works for them.Is this the new Etiquette of Live Performance? So if any of you are reading this - get in touch and bring me up to date.

Legends

The sign over the door read 'Legends'.The club had an alternative identity for the occasion - the original Twisted Wheel. A legend as home of Northern Soul. We were there to celebrate the memory of Roger Eagle because Bill Sykes has worked for more than seven years ( this is the stuff of fairy tales and folklore too)to create a written record of the man. He deserves his reward for completing the task. So down a long flight of stairs into a dark dank cellar, with a cheerful tattooed barman who admitted that they had forgotten the event was on until that afternoon. A liminal place if there ever was one. The atoms of the past were dust in the air. Memories of the Magic Village,and every other dark and underground space dedicated to music and mayhem. Under threat from German hotel development, there is a now a campaign to preserve the Twisted Wheel. Where did the name come from I wonder. If Roger's spirit could ever be conjured up it was in these circumstances, in this time and space. The tribe of Eagle was present. Layers of memories, influences, stories all vibrating, spoken in public, in private, in thoughts, and only two days after the anniversary of his birth. There were other legends from the Manchester music scene there too - C P Lee hosting the event for Bill Sykes and the Manchester Music Archive in his own brilliant style. Bill interviewing Roger Fairhurst, Elliott Rashman and Bernie O'Connor about their experiences of knowing Roger. Bruce Mitchell, Victor Brox and Alan Wise - all legends in their own time. Old friends and new friends. People from my past, present and future. It was a rare gathering of the Tribe, and for me there were memories of those no longer with us, like Allan Frost and Steve Gee, and those who couldn't be there, like Cathy Hopkins and Dimitri Griliopoulus. It was a powerful reminder of the role music plays in the lives of all of us bearing witness, and of course just to bring us back down to earth, one of the raffle prizes was nicked from the table where they were displayed. It was a compilation of some of Roger's favourite music. I hope it's found it's way to someone who appreciates the significance of it. Otherwise CP Lee's colourful curse might just come true. A legendary night, and thank you to all concerned.

I pity the poor immigrant

Last night I went to Sheffield to see a choir from Cuba. When I started this Historic Gig Guide blog it was intended to be a little bit of nostalgia, perhaps making links between the past and the present, but mostly about memories. But I find that my active concert going sparks all sorts of connections and ideas that I want to share in the here and now. The choir were the sublime and stunning Camerata Vocal Musica Aurea. They are in Europe for the first time. The Sheffield Socialist Choir and Voces de Cuba have helped make it possible for them to come to Britain, financially and practically. They have been performing and giving workshops. I think they are here for another week, and that are performing in Sheffield Cathedral on Saturday. They look and sound beautiful.Go if you can. The Sheffield Socialist choir opened the concert. Links had been made when they travelled to Cuba for a couple of international choral festivals in the last eight or so years. One of their musical directors has recently written a piece of choral music about the experiences of asylum seekers, and this was given its world premiere last night. The testimony of those who had found their way to South Yorkshire was incorporated into the lyrics. The performance was dramatic and evocative. A very powerful piece of music. As I listened I was suddenly aware of Britain as an island, a green and pleasant land, a beacon to immigrants throughout its history. Those who broke their sea journeys and stayed here, those who came seeking land, a living, a place to farm and settle,and then those who bought into the image of a country where a sense of fair play and democracy was paramount. A peaceful and pleasant place with polite people and orderly queues. A little jewel of a country. It then seemed terrible that the immigrant is so often made the scapegoat for society's problems, with calls for caps on numbers, and bureaucratic treatment of those who seek a calm and peaceful life, free from torture, war and political persecution. It occurred to me that we have all been immigrants at some point in our family history - that's how an island acquires a population, and that it should be a source of great pride and happiness that people look to the UK as a safe haven. As I said - it was a very powerful piece of music. This morning the alarm went off at the usual time, and I switched on the radio to listen to the Today programme.It was an item about the Britain's DNA project, and I heard Alistair Moffat say ' we are all immigrants here'. Links have been found to the Queen of Sheba, Berber and Tuareg peoples, as well as the more usual links with Europe and Ireland. He explained that this is deep ancestry - 'it's not about your Aunty Jeannie'.I suppose it's tribal - he gave an example - 97% of men called Cohen share common DNA. Now my daughter has been taking advantage of the ancestry website's free trial to track our family's more recent past - lots of toing and froing from Ireland, as well as Germany, and deepest Lancashire. In a week where I have been particularly alert to the power of music to cross cultural boundaries, I'm beginning to wonder if we are all more bound together by blood and beat than we appreciate.

Sit down! Listen to this!

One day, when I was fifteen, I fell down a kind of rabbit hole into a dank Dickensian cellar and discovered a parallel universe called The Magic Village. The cast of characters I met there became part of my life story. Underground club, underground culture, now buried under the Arndale centre, along with the bag of amazing Thai grass that had travelled all the way from Singapore only to fall through a crack in the floorboards ( or did it? - that could be another story). Days of Arts Labs and David Bowie, International Times and the Oz Trial. Third Ear Band, Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee, The Groundhogs, Family and Don't Look Back at Holdsworth Hall ( I still have the ticket stub).Al Stewart - who didn't like it when I reminded him I'd seen him there all those years later. 'White Rabbit' on the juke box - and 'Please Crawl Out Your Window' - how I longed to do that from my boarding school bedroom. Captain Beefheart and his Magic Band's 'Electricity' threatening to blow the fuse board. Love's 'Alone Again Or' - my theme song. But this is about Roger Eagle. I have just read Patti Smith describe a friend as larger than life with a delicate touch, and it brought Roger to mind. Such an imposing man, he could have thrown his weight around, but he didn't. He shared his passion for music, introducing several generations of enthusiasts to the real thing. It's hard to believe he was younger than I am now when he died aged 56 in 1999. He could have been intimidating, but he wasn't.Instead he was impressive in every way, and as a fifteen year old fledgling student of English I was equally impressed that his mother worked for the Oxford English Dictionary team. So Bill Sykes' long awaited biography of Roger - Sit Down! Listen to this! is about to be published, and Roger has been a topic of conversation among those of us who knew him. One friend, a former Rockette, remembered him literally picking her up like a child, and what a great feeling that was.Another - Drive In Rock's bass player - was surprised to hear there was a book and he hadn't been approached for his memories of Roger - 'did we mean so little that we don't figure in his story?' As far as I know Roger only managed two bands - Greasy Bear (which featured CP Lee who will speak at the book launch) and Drive In Rock and the Rockettes - and I was a Rockette. Quite an accolade to be managed by Roger. We were a nine piece band and we covered 50's rock n roll in an authentic way. We were surprisingly successful on the college circuit for at least a couple of years.I remember my friend Cathy - another Rockette - making an amazing multilayered multicoloured birthday cake for Roger. It must have been July 15th 1973. That was the same year that we got to join Captain Beefheart and the Magic Band on the Clear Spot tour. Two teenage girls probably did wonders for Roger's reputation, but we didn't think of it like that at the time. We were his musical apprentices, soaking up the atmosphere. Roger and Don Van Vliet could have been related, big imposing men with a passion for the blues. Roger was rumoured to have forever damaged his hearing by listening to Spirit playing live with his head in the speakers. What a way to go! And Roger has appeared in a book before.He was immortalised as Roger Lion in Cathy's father's book 'Anything Goes'. The command'Sit down! Listen to this!'was usually accompanied by a big fat spliff I am reliably told. Just before I ran away to Morocco in 1980 Roger turned up in my life again. He had moved to Liverpool and Eric's was already a legend . But he came over to Manchester every Thursday to run an R&B night ( that's proper rhythm and blues) at Rafters. I did the door, and Roger stayed at my house in Longsight. He often left his vinyl collection with us, and my boyfriend systematically taped many of the rare singles. Does he still have the cassettes? - I wonder. In what I now think of as a short time Roger played a huge role in so many people's lives, introducing music to each generation, multi layered, looking back and forward, from Northern Soul through Captain Beefheart and beyond. Some may have never spoken directly to him, others were lucky enough to hear him say the words, 'Sit down, listen to this'. We can all celebrate him with Bill's book.

Under African Skies

Last night I went to the Royal Northern College of Music in Manchester to see Mamane Barka and Etran Finatawa in concert. Before their performance a documentary about their work in Niger was shown - Endless Journey. They take the traditional music of Niger to the younger generation through a series of workshops and performances in schools. And then they showed us how it was done. The conventional theatre setting of the RNCM felt too formal, especially having just watched film of the kind of reception they received back in Niger. After the interval a few of us got up and danced at the front, to the side of the stage. It was the least we could do to thank them. And when do you get a chance to dance with desert musicians? When I went back to retrieve my coat and bag from my seat,I joked that it was one of those things to do before you die. My neighbour said - No - it's what stops you from dying - it keeps you alive. On Saturday we had the well established international Day of Dance in Bakewell. Sosa-Xa, a group of singers and dancers from Sheffield,who perform South African songs and dances were part of the programme. They have been a vibrant part of the Day of Dance for many years, and sadly their director died earlier this year. They held a celebratory memorial concert for him. It meant a lot to everyone who was there. Tonight I caught up with the Imagine documentary on the making of Paul Simon's album Graceland. What a lot of controversy and creativity that caused. It seems even more remarkable to consider what it achieved with hindsight. There was film of Miriam Makeba and as she sang I felt my eyes fill with tears. Back in 1991 - I think - I went to see her at the Free Trade Hall. I had two young children, I lived out of town, I was on a course and staying with a friend - a rare night away from home, and someone gave us tickets. She was absolutely amazing - I had never seen anyone like her. She performed as a traditional South African singer, and then as an international jazz cabaret artist. It was a stunning experience, and her beautiful presence and voice is unforgettable. As I write this, the monsoon rain is pouring down once more. It seems a long way from under African skies. The Endless Journey concert was part of a summer of events celebrating West African culture in Manchester - We Face Forward. Don't miss it.

Seven years - but not in Tibet

Last week a friend teased me about posting so many links to the Dalai Lama's status on facebook. I sometimes find myself trying to explain why I am such a fan. So this isn't a musical historic gig guide. It's about when and why I have seen the Dalai Lama over the last seven years. I read Heinrich Harrer's book 'Seven Years in Tibet' as a child - probably aged about 9 - and I was entranced by the picture he painted of Lhasa and the young Dalai Lama.I longed to be part of that world, and as my interest in religions and spiritual practices grew, I was even more intrigued. When my children were young travel literature was my escape, and I couldn't get enough of books about Tibet, Nepal, the Tibetan community and the Dalai Lama. I never imagined that I would actually see him. One Sunday evening I watched Michael Palin talking to him on the TV programme he made about India. I had a sudden insight that I could go to India for a short holiday, and that I could take my then 11 year old son with me.We could visit Dharamsala, where the Tibetan government in exile was based. So that's what we did - and as luck would have it, the Dalai Lama was there, teaching Buddhist monks and nuns from all over the world in his home temple. We got passes to go in and see him, and in one week we saw him twice, and Charlie received a blessing from him. A once in a lifetime experience - or so I thought. That was in 2005. In 2007 I heard he was coming to Nottingham the following year, and I bought tickets for Charlie and I to go and see him in May 2008. Very different surroundings, very different circumstances. An arena more used to Disney on Ice and pop concerts. But there were thousands of people there who cared about how they lived, and how they behaved, and I really needed to be part of that on that particular weekend as I was raw from finding out just how treacherous my ex partner had been. I felt as fragile as I have ever felt in my life, and the simple and compassionate advice my son and I took in that day has served us both well ever since. Then a couple of weeks ago we went to a public talk given by him at the Manchester MEN Arena. A much lighter hearted occasion for us, travelling with friends, no dramas or traumas, just looking forward to seeing the man who holds a special place in our lives and hearts. His talk seemed even more down to earth - simple common sense about patience,caring for others, recognising that we are all in it together. He delivers his talks, and answers the questions presented to him by the audience with charm, humour and a light kind of wisdom, based on a deep and complex tradition.He stood to talk for the first hour, and his stamina was impressive. He is optimistic about developments in China, and the impact they will have on Tibet's future. He is working with educationalists in India and elsewhere to develop a secular approach to ethical living, and world peace. I feel very lucky to have seen him in person four times in the last seven years, and I no longer think - 'this could be the last chance'. I look forward to the next opportunity with a great deal of optimism for him and the world.

What the folk

Recently I was reminded of how strongly the debate still rages – what is folk? I was at the No Direction Home festival at Welbeck Abbey, and Will Hodgkinson had been asked to come and talk about his book The Ballad of Britain. In 2009 he took a trip round Britain to cast his eye on the state of the folk revival. Sadly he couldn’t make the festival, but the discussion went ahead in the lovely literature and comedy yurt. New descriptions for folk music genres have been explored by Rob Young in his book Electric Eden, and by Jeanette Leech in Seasons They Change – acid folk, twisted folk, psychedelic folk. Academically I’m a folklorist, though it doesn’t really give you a day job. I was lucky enough to be an undergraduate in the Institute of Dialect and Folk Life Studies at the University of Leeds back in the early 1970s. Undergraduates mixed with postgrads studying all sorts of interesting aspects of folklore and traditions including music, song and dance. Later I did an MA in Folklore and Cultural Tradition at Sheffield. Back in those days folk rock was the prevalent alternative form of folk music, with performers like Richard Thompson, the Strawbs, and Fairport Convention. Traditional songs were borrowed and adapted – sometimes ‘stolen’ and claimed as newly written – Simon and Garfunkel’s Scarborough Fair comes to mind. Some even made it on to Top of the Pops – Steeleye Span’s All Around my Hat and Sandy Denny singing Si Tu Doit Partir are among my memories – exciting times for folk music. Not long ago I joined C P Lee for one of his Bob Dylan walks round Manchester. The Free Trade Hall was identified as the place where Dylan was accused of treachery to the traditionalists – ‘Judas!’ Strong words. Dylan had been to England and had hung out with the traditional singers and musicians who were part of the growing folk club scene. His friend and lover Joan Baez had a repertoire of Scottish, Irish and English ballads, recorded for Vanguard in the early days of her career. We were taught folk songs and dances at school, thanks to Cecil Sharpe’s influence on teacher training between the wars. Read Georgina Boyes’ fantastic book, The Imagined Village, (now back in print) for the bigger picture. The group took their name from the book by the way. My parents loved Scottish and Irish folk music – from Margaret Barry to Robin Hall and Jimmy MacGregor by way of The Clancy Brothers with Tommy Makem. My dad also loved Bob Dylan and Joan Baez, and I still have some early vinyl from his collection. I was not alone growing up in the 60s, listening to live and recorded folk music as often as I listened to the Beatles, the Stones, the Small Faces and the Kinks. Our Catholic upbringing also gave us a kind of Irish social life, where people sang or played party pieces at gatherings of family and friends. I will never forget hearing She Moves Through the Fair for the first time, sung by Angela Mangan, aged about 15. The song haunted me until I could identify it and track it down, too young and shy to find out more about it at the party. And then came the acoustic singers and songwriters. Joni Mitchell, James Taylor, Neil Young, John Martyn and Al Stewart. How did you define them? From the States came country and blues influences, the left wing politics of the Seeger family and Woody Guthrie. Mix that with Salford’s own Jimmy Miller, better known as Ewan MacColl. Folk became a kaleidoscope of influences. If you played a folk club did that make you a folk singer? Who knew? The problem starts when one faction claims ownership of the territory. On the one hand you have – or had – the traditionalists, finger in ear, contrived local accent and slightly tuneless delivery. On the other hand, the influence of pop, rock and commercialisation. Now I know, as a member of an informal group of harmony singers, that sometimes you just have to put your finger in your ear, especially if like me you are easily distracted and can’t always hold a tune. Back in 1974, listening to field recordings of people who couldn’t sing in tune in a tutorial, I had light bulb moment. I realised that the performers weren’t necessarily the ones who had a good voice, but they were the ones prepared to perform and who could remember the words. Nowadays I’d think of comparing it to karaoke. And of course much of the folk revival in this country was a Victorian construct – a political desire for a national identity and a return to Merrie England. Some so called traditional songs collected in the early 20th century were hymns and music hall songs. Tunes were borrowed and new lyrics were added. Lyrics were tidied up and bowdlerised. What makes it folk music could be in the method of transmission – from singer to singer, musician to musician. But in our electronic and digital age that is no longer the only way to share and learn a song. Listen to the songs Lennon and McCartney wrote – there’s a significant amount of playground lore and urban folklore in their early lyrics, reflecting their 1950s childhood in Liverpool. Ray Davies, Kirsty MacColl, Damon Albarn – they all reflect a similar awareness of how and where we live in their work. And just consider for a moment a song like Ewan MacColl’s The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face. A love song in a folk ballad style, it transformed into a huge hit for Roberta Flack – a far cry from Dirty Old Town. So in the discussion over what folk music is, Lavinia Blackwall claimed that Trembling Bells were psychedelic rock. I certainly recognised that her voice has as much in common with Grace Slick as it does with Sandy Denny. Alex Neilsen however sang one of his own songs, the Bells of Oxford, unaccompanied and containing imagery and a turn of phrase worthy of any traditional ballad. Lavinia was defensive about her beautiful voice – ‘classically trained’. Whilst it’s fascinating to hear old field recordings of an old lady from Kent singing in the early 20th century, and lovely to hear Anne Briggs or Shirley Collins singing old songs in a simple and unadorned way, for me there’s nothing like listening to a voice like Lavinia’s, with its power and beauty. It transcends labels like classical or traditional or psychedelic. To hear her sing The Quiet Joys of Brotherhood was a magical experience. There we were, sitting in a yurt, listening to a classically trained singer who defines herself as psychedelic rock, singing a song whose words were written by a Californian hippy poet, (Richard Farina), with links to the 60s folk scene ( married to Joan Baez’s sister) and set to the tune of a Northern Irish air ( My Lagan Love) This debate on how to define any aspect of culture – not just music - as ‘folk’ isn’t going to go away. There is no definitive answer, just many possibilities. Open to argument but never worth falling out over. It’s a big enough concept to embrace all its potential. A spider’s web. A kaleidoscope. A tapestry woven over time, the shuttle going back and forth from past to future to create the patterns you shouldn’t try to unpick. The heartbeat goes on.

Remember...just...remember

A few more memories stirred by the mix of experiences at No Direction Home last weekend. Beth Jeans Houghton hanging out at Green Man in 2006, and invited up on stage to play with Devendra Banhart. Robert Saul, last seen performing at the Rude Shipyard in Sheffield, sitting next to us in the literature yurt. Taking my mother to see Richard Hawley at Buxton Opera House for her 80th birthday - she'd heard him on the radio, loved his voice, and liked the Sheffield connection. I will never see Ed Miliband in the same way after Josie Long's comedy set. John Robin's sad story about being sold fake Captain Beefheart paintings - my friend Cathy gave the sketch he did for her away when she went to live in an ashram back in the early 70s. Seeing Trembling Bells at Green Man only days after Lavinia Blackwall had lost her mother - and appreciating how helpful and comforting it would be to be held in such affection and creativity in those circumstances. Her unaccompanied version of the Quiet Joys of Brotherhood reduced me to tears last Sunday afternoon. Tune from the traditional My Lagan Love, and lyrics from a poem by Richard Farina, brother in law to Joan Baez - none of us could remember who had written the words at the time.

No Direction Home - notes from a festival

'Remember...(pause) just (shorter pause) remember'. Warren Ellis' last instruction to the crowd as Dirty Three finished an amazing set on the first night of the festival.That man looks like he's wiped and rebuilt more memory banks than most. Another role model for growing older with energy and style. My favourite wellies had sprung a leak. I had used a plastic bag as a temporary repair. We'd pitched the tent, but we were in the eye of a storm, it felt like seaside weather but we were at Welbeck Abbey, in the middle of the Midlands.No direction home seemed an apt description of the site, as the mud slides built up on the access routes. I was wet and cold, and beginning to think I should give up on festival going. But I was in good company - my older son and daughter, and we are veterans of some very wet Green Man festivals. We were also less than an hour from home if things got bad - as long as we could get the car off the field. So Warren, I do remember, I will remember. That's what this blog is all about. Back in the day I recognise that I was more observer than participant. I feel like a witness, and I'm a witness who had my wits about me. I remembered other festivals - Bath in 1970, one I have written about recently. Knebworth in 1976 - the Stones played but Todd Rungren made the big impression. Lincoln and Bickershaw with Joe's cafe - an offshoot of On the 8th Day in Manchester - it had more in common with a refugee camp soup kitchen than the pretty and vintage style food outlets you get at festivals nowadays. At Lincoln we were outside the corrugated festival perimeter fence - I don't remember seeing any of the music, though I think I heard Rod Stewart and the Faces. Bickershaw was great, in spite of the mud, because we were just at the side of the stage.I remember Dr John, and Beefheart and Hawkwind. And of course the man who did the high dive into a tiny tank of water! We were next to the Release tent, and I wish I still had a copy of their typewritten instructions on what to do if you were busted by the drug squad at the festival! I remember it quoting the words 'Oi sonny, you're nicked'. I went to Womad for a day when it was in Morecambe and saw Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan. And then I didn't camp or go to a festival for a long time - until we made Green Man in the Brecon Beacons our annual family get together back in 2006. But this year we thought we'd try No Direction Home. The food was great, especially the breakfast pastries from the Welbeck Farm Shop tent. The Literature and Comedy yurt was a good place to get warm and dry whilst being entertained - and taking off muddy wellies in the entrance definitely helped keep it clean and comfortable. The Somerset cider bus, the red double decker bus cafe, the Mexican cafe - all highlights.Three generations in one place - the babies in their trollies with coloured covers like miniature wagon trains. A swan in the evening moving over the lake.Performers enjoying the festival, in the queues for the loos ( good) and drinks. Comedy highlights were Josie Long and Simon Munnery. Literature highlights were Jon Ronson, Mick Jackson , Katherine Hibbert and Richard King. All very thought provoking.And people you'd never see anywhere else, wearing clothes they'd never wear anywhere else. There were some familiar faces among them. Babies dressed as fairies ( cute) and a 7 year old and a 57 year old ( I'm guessing) wearing Sex Pistols T shirts! And the comedy compere revealed himself as a massive Captain Beefheart fan, so I had a conversation with him about my on tour experience back in Clear Spot days. John Robins - if you are reading this take a look at the last post of my old blog, Life and Death in the Peak District, written in response to the news of Beefheart's death. On Friday night I thought it would be my last festival. On Sunday after a gloriously sunny day, I look forward to the next.

Early Byrds

On Saturday night I found myself reminiscing about the Bath festival in June 1970. If you follow this blog, you will know that I went to it in rather unusual circumstances, my friend and I having persuaded the nuns who ran our boarding school that it was essential for our Duke of Edinburgh Award. In the course of the conversation I realised that there were people on the bill that I have no recollection of seeing, though there was only one stage, and as we had no tents, sleeping bags, food, water etc etc, I was under the impression that I stayed awake and watched everything from under a piece of clear plastic sheeting, handed out, refugee camp style to the inexperienced festival crowd. There was a lot of rain. So much rain that the running order was disrupted, due to the danger of mixing rain with electricity on stage. As the sun rose on the last morning, I was down the front near the stage, watching the Byrds play an acoustic set. I was wearing a Nigerian Fulani blanket my dad had brought back from Northern Nigeria a couple of years before. I still have it. Pure magic. At the weekend my friend James William Hindle posted a link to the Byrds 'Get to You' from the Notorious Byrd Brothers. As I listened, I was in floods of tears, happy to hear the song again, but overwhelmed by emotion I had no idea was there. Bath was my first ever festival. This weekend I'm off to No Direction Home at Welbeck Abbey - if it rains I'll come home. I'll take food and water and tents and air beds and sleeping bags. I know it will be a great experience, but there's still a bit of me that wishes I could be that totally unprepared 16 year old again.

The Blank Generation - my punk experience

Late 1976. I had left university with an English degree. I was married. I owned my house. I was working in a wiring factory, waiting to hear if I'd got funding to do a masters , studying vernacular architecture in West Yorkshire. Late 1977. I was living with my Dutch boyfriend, Jan, former roadie to Alberto y Los Trios Paranoias.I was dyeing his hair black over the shared bathroom sink, and sewing his jeans to his skinny long legs, Ramones style. I was living in a flat on Northen Grove, West Didsbury, famous for being the residential road where a disgruntled cannabis dealer had once planted a home made bomb under the drug squad's Jag.I was treasurer for On the 8th Day,whole food shop and cafe on Oxford Rd, once the centre of idealistic hippiedom in Manchester and now a serious part of the workers' co-operative movement. How did this happen? Some of it was down to punk. At 22 in 1976 I felt a little too old, and possibly a little too conventionally pretty ( though I wouldn't have been able to articulate that back then)to fully embrace the punk movement, but it still had an impact. How did we learn about it? There was no internet. TV, radio and the music press were limited in their scope when it came to reporting new influences in music, lifestyle and fashion. Viral was cold sores and chicken pox. Some friends were in the music business, some independent record shops shared what was coming, some journalists had ears to the ground and John Peel did his bit. Word of mouth. I was aware of Blondie, Richard Hell and the Voidoids, Patti Smith, Television and of course the Velvet Underground and Iggy Pop.Manchester grew its own - Magazine, Buzzcocks, Fast Breeder, Ed Banger and the Nosebleeds. I've already written about how bored I felt, how middle-aged and past it, with the mainstream music scene that was becoming so bland and corporate. I still loved soul, and Little Feat, and Captain Beefheart, but the rest was all just a bit too much about singing in tune. There had to be more. I was back at 8th Day. My husband had been made an offer he couldn't refuse, as were many unemployed graduates - poacher turned gamekeeper - and was working for the Department of Employment at the local Labour Exchange.One of the co-op members had just inherited some money. He also had a new baby. He had cut his hair short, bought a bright green Citroen 2CV and a stylish leather jacket. We heard that the Sex Pistols were playing Wigan Casino that night. We followed the road to Wigan, but the Sex Pistols didn't - it was just an ugly rumour. However Ed Banger and the Nosebleeds were on and we experienced a punk gig. On leaving Wigan casino, the Northern Soul crowd were waiting to go in for their customary all nighter. There was a police presence. When our friend opened the boot of his new car, we were all pounced on by uniformed officers, arrested, searched and taken down to the station. Unfortunately my husband's boss had given him a small piece of cannabis the day before, as she was 'giving up', and this was discovered in his jeans pocket. He was charged and prosecuted. He had to resign from the civil service before he was fired.I can only assume that because we didn't look like typical punks or Northern Soul fans, the police assumed we were drug dealers. We were all straddling several worlds at this point - from hippy ideals to left wing socialist politics. We were educated but not interested in conventional professions.We were rebels in our own time, but these days were different. The time was ripe for shock tactics and the rejection of the status quo. Pretty went out the window and in came pretty vacant. 1977 was the year the year of the Silver Jubilee, of desperate unemployment and a lack of connection ( deliberate and accidental) from the government of the day. The working class was unemployed and unemployable.Rock against Racism took a stand against the fear and ignorance of attitudes towards the new wave of refugees finding their way to the UK.Echoes of the present time. Punk's attitude was - if we can't be free we'll make bondage a fashion statement. If you think we are rubbish we'll wear bin bags as dresses. Ripped and torn clothing, held together with safety pins, laddered tights, shaved heads, sugar water and food dye mohicans.Let's make fashion out of necessity, take it to the limit one more time. Razor blades as earrings.The symbolism is amazing, and it gave fashion a whole new vocabulary. This wasn't simply a political movement, it was about taste, bad taste, and it was rotten. And that was amazing.I was more observer than participant, but it changed my attitudes. Vivienne Westwood and Malcolm McLaren recognised this as a piece of performance art, to be managed and manipulated through the media. It was soon absorbed and adapted by the mainstream. Katherine Hamnett and Zandra Rhodes took on the aesthetic - even Versace's safety pin dress for Liz Hurley referenced it. Never Mind the Buzzcocks is a jolly family music quiz. I have just been informed that there is a perfume called Anarchy in the UK. I'd like to think it's a joke but I have a horrible feeling it isn't. What price Smells Like Teen Spirit next.

The Bard of Salford

BBC 4' Punk Britannica and the documentary Evidently John Cooper Clarke got me fired up with recollections this week. The Bard of Salford was one of our own. I was brought up in Salford, as were both of my parents, but it was the place that dare not speak its name for my mother. Synonymous with slums. My mother is a Catholic doctor's daughter from Salford - a very troubled heritage if there ever was one. She denies it but her lifetime obsession with Coronation St is a bit of a giveaway. So the punk poet appealed to me on many levels - familiar turn of phrase, wicked sense of humour, literary interest. Before I was sent to boarding school I went to school in Salford - to Adelphi on the Crescent. I worked in Salford Central Library when I left school, before I went to university, all paid for by Salford. Salford was good to me. There were many points of contact with Mr Clarke through my 20s - music venues, performances, mutual friends. I'm not sure he ever really knew who I was - he tended to confuse me with my next door neighbour Jackie, Bruce Mitchell's wife. I was flattered. I've seen him perform several times over the last few years - Buxton Opera House and the Green Man festival. A far cry from the slightly seedy pubs and clubs of late 70s/early 80s Manchester. Some years ago I thought about booking him for the Bakewell Arts Festival but took the advice of a former member of the Invisible Girls and didn't - problems of communication, management, money and reliability were presented to me in a succinct and convincing way.Wise words I suspect at the time, but it could have caused a revolution in Bakewell's cultural life if I'd pulled it off! I'm encouraged to hear that he's part of the National Curriculum. I'm pleased I saw him back in the day.I wish my mum hadn't paid for elocution lessons for me. I'm glad he's recognised as the talent and influence he has always been. I asked someone at work if they'd seen it. 'Is he dead?' was their response. It's something special to have a documentary like this shown when you are still alive and creating. It was very poignant to see film of Martin Hannett as I remember him, and Alan Wise larger than life admitting to putting about the rumours of John's 'long relationship' with Nico. Enough of punk poets. More about punk as it appeared to me next time.

Two sevens clash

Last week two completely unconnected ( except through me) friends on Facebook posted links to Stevie Nicks' songs. On BBC4's music programme on Friday there was footage of George Benson, from The Old Grey Whistle Test, circa 1976. I usually write about concerts I have enjoyed, and I've usually enjoyed the concerts I have been to, but there are two that are fixed in my memory as personal turning points. They really made me feel that I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sometime around 1976/77 I went to see Fleetwood Mac with Lindsay Buckingham and Stevie Nicks, at the Ardwick Apollo.I'd loved Peter Green's Fleetwood Mac since I was about 14, and Christine MacVie was one of my favourite singers ever. I couldn't stand the way she was upstaged by Stevie Nicks, and I wanted to see a progressive British blues band, not some Californian hangers on. Of course with the benefit of hindsight and maturity I can see that it worked for them then and the millions of fans since. The appeal carries on because all eras of music are now so accessible, and I have calmed down! Around the same time I made a special trip into Manchester to see George Benson at the Palace. Now I like jazz guitar, I appreciate those smooth sounds, and I love soul music. On a summer's evening like we are experiencing as I write, there's nothing better than 'Breezin' blowing in the wind. But on that night back in 76/77 I could barely keep awake during the concert. I was bored by live music. Luckily something was stirring to fire up my enthusiasm and wake me up. Punk, New Wave, Rock against Racism, reggae - a new energy created when two sevens clashed.

Young hearts run free

1976. I'd just left university and was working in a car wiring factory. Radio One was played over the Tannoy system in the mornings. Candi Staton's Young Hearts Run Free was the sound of that summer. My friend Marie loved the song, loved the sentiment.I loved the song but the sentiment didn't seem as relevant. My heart wasn't running free - I'd been married for two years and didn't see the end of it. Fourteen years, a divorce, a second marriage and two children later, I got a phone call to tell me that Marie had taken her life.Running free in her own way. Last summer Candi Staton was part of the Manchester International Festival, and my son and I got tickets to see her in the big tent in Albert Square. It was packed with devoted fans. We were right at the front, by the stage.We could see the colour of the nail varnish on her toenails! She was warm, pretty, in her seventies and totally fabulous. You Got the Love. It felt like being surrounded by friends. The emotional impact of her songs was overwhelming. She had already given some free performances in a local gospel church. This was no Radio One pop concert - her music took us all to a higher place. She is coming back to Manchester to the Royal Northern College of Music this summer. Go if you can.

Dr Dee - Manchester, Myth and Magic

There's a real buzz about Damon Albarn's Dr Dee in the run up to the Olympics. He was on Jools Holland the other week talking about his opera, and I think I heard a song from it on Radio 2 when I was out and about last week. I haven't heard him say much about John Dee's links with Manchester, but it is because of those links that the opera was devised for the Manchester International Festival last year. I went to see it, as I have been fascinated by the story for some years. I also really regretted not getting tickets for Monkey in a previous festival, and I didn't want to regret missing Dr Dee. He was strange figure, playing an important role at the Elizabethen court as a magician and mathematician, a conjuror and astrologer. He fell out of favour and was exiled to Manchester, where he allegedly attempted to levitate Manchester Cathedral. I was thrilled to discover that a group of Manchester psychogeographers tried to repeat this event a few years ago. How fantastic! That area of Manchester is still part of my dreamscape - not quite as it is in reality, but along with a dream version of Leeds railway station, it appears in my remembered dreams several times a year. It is thought that John Dee was the inspiration for Prospero and Faustus, two of the most powerful and mysterious figures in Elizabethan drama. His scrying mirror - a polished piece of obsidian, Aztec in origin - has featured in the recent BBC series Shakspeare's Restless World, and is part of the British Museum's collection. The opera portrays a broken man, tricked by his so called friend and teacher. It's a fascinating blend of visuals, words and music. The sets are amazing, and one point there is a crow that steals the show. It's not a pop opera,nor a stage musical yet it's accessible. It's very charming,authentic and folkloric, international in the mix of musicians and instruments, and yet quintessentially English.It extended my appreciation of Damon Albarn and the tragedy of John Dee's rise and fall. I feel privileged to have seen it in Manchester, and before the hooha of the Olympics takes it over.

Who Wrote the Book of Love

Last Saturday I went to Liverpool to see the amazing giants, created by Royal de Luxe. I had been looking forward to going for some time, and it didn't disappoint - nothing like a piece of street theatre to bring people together, and it really was an extraordinary spectacle. I met up with my sister and my cousin. My cousin lives in Liverpool, and was able to take us through some unexpected twists and turns in our route to catch the Giants - the Little Girl, her uncle the Diver and the dog. Our walk took us past an old Banksy piece, discovered on a building being redeveloped somewhere near Chinatown. It took us down to Pier Head, and outside St George's Hall. As a Mancunian, I hadn't really appreciated the memories Liverpool holds for me. We went past the hotel where I had breakfast with Rockette Morton, after Captain Beefheart and the Magic Band played the stadium, promoted by Roger Eagle. I'd seen Sha Na Na there earlier the same year, and ended up living in a house and singing in a band managed by Roger as a result. The band was Drive In Rock and the Rockettes ,a 50s rock'n'roll revival band, and some of us are still around and in contact. We played the university circuit for a few years, and I have a recollection thet the Average White Band supported us in our hey day. We may simply have shared a bill, but it's a niggling memory. The Sea Odyssey event was about the Titanic disaster. There's a possibility that I am related to the Captain of the Carpathia, the first rescue ship on the scene.A young man gave me his seat on the packed train home. Conversation followed, which meandered through Titanic family connections - his great grandfather was stoker in Engine room 2 - through shaman stones in Finland, to music we both liked and a forthcoming Philip Glass concert he had tickets for. Somewhere in the conversation Roger Eagle was mentioned ( Eric's is legend in Liverpool), and I told him about Drive In Rock and AWB. His parent were friends with one of them. All that seemed coincidence enough. On the Sunday morning I lay in the bath, pondering on the meaning of life and the kind of amazing conversations travel and public transport can offer, ones that could never take place travelling solo in a car. And the Monotones 'Book of Love' came on the radio - one of our favourite Rockette numbers - I can still remember the harmonies and choreography!

One good thing to come out of Guantanamo Bay

Last week a film company location manager got in touch with where I work. They gave some information about the film, including the main stars. One was an actress called Sienna Guillory. Now I had followed her career with some interest over the years because back in May 1997 I had been to a local folk club at the Miners Standard in Winster to see her father play. He was Isaac Guillory, a favourite on the South Yorkshire folk scene, exotic, good looking and a hugely talented singer and guitarist. I know it was probably May 30th 1997, because he told us that his friend's son, Jeff Buckley, had just drowned.He sang a song for him. He also mentioned his daughter Sienna, which was a coincidence as some friends of mine who were there also had a daughter called Sienna. He sang a song for them. So I can remember where I was and who I was with when I heard the sad news about Jeff Buckley.
In an odd twist, I know where I was and who I was with when I heard that Tim Buckley had died back in June 1975 - I was watching the Old Grey Whistle Test in a holiday cottage in Port Isaac. Bob Harris played a clip of him singing Fred Neil's 'Dolphins'.
Guantanamo Bay comes into the picture because Isaac Guillory was Cuban, and he was born there. I once told someone who asked me to sign a petition against Guantanamo that there was only one good thing to come out of there- luckily he knew who I was talking about. Two fans sharing a moment.
Isaac Guillory died in 2000, way too young, of complications from undiagnosed cancer apparently.
The film crew decided to film elsewhere.
I never got the chance to talk to Sienna about her father.

Hacienda Daze or My Life as a Museum Exhibit

Once upon a time in the west – or in the North West to be precise – and mostly Manchester, I met someone who had a profound influence on my life without either of us realising it. So it goes.
“So it Goes’ was the title chosen for his first music TV programme for Granada. A fellow fan of Vonnegut. In those days he carried a famous leather bag, made like a western saddlebag, worn over his shoulder, to carry a dozen LPs in each pocket. It was made for him by my second husband. It featured in ID magazine.
To start at the beginning, I first met Tony Wilson when I was about fifteen. He was the school friend of my friend’s oldest brother.
Tony was striking in many ways, physically and intellectually. He was reading English at Cambridge. He was confident and opinionated, but in a fascinating rather than facetious way. He was something foppish about his style. More Cam than Irwell.
Our paths occasionally crossed at family get togethers.
I was offered a choice of places at university, when I was seventeen. My options were Durham or Exeter, and I didn’t know which to choose. I was going to read English. Tony gave me some advice. Quoting Carlos Castaneda, he told me to follow the path with heart. So I did. I had friends in Devon, and Exeter offered American Studies, so I headed southwest. By Christmas I had left. So it goes.
I came back to Manchester and worked at On The Eighth Day. After a Sha Na Na concert in Liverpool, promoted by the legendary Roger Eagle, I found myself living at a famous house on Wilbraham Rd, with Cathy Hopkins and Martin Hannett among others. I was invited to join Drive in Rock, a 50s revival band managed by Roger Eagle (in a nutshell, Twisted Wheel DJ, Magic Village, Eric’s in Liverpool and friend of Captain Beefheart).
Later that summer, the summer of 1973, I met up with Tony again, and we ended up wandering through Longford Park in Chorlton, under the influence of mescalin. I thought the parrots I could hear calling were some sort of jungle flashback to my time in the far east. It was only later I discovered that there was an aviary there.
He told me to go and see the Wailers if I got the chance. Within a few weeks I had started university afresh in Leeds. And the Wailers were on at Leeds Polytechnic, so I went to see them.
After university, I returned to work at On the Eighth Day. It was 1977, when two sevens clashed. Tony came into 8th Day very excited, and told me he had new protégés, the Durutti Column, or the Movement of the 24th of January. ‘That’s my birthday’, I cried. So it goes.
My Dutch boyfriend was asked to roadie for them, and I was asked to regularly do the door for Factory at the Russell Club, and Alan Wise at Rafters. Our paths crossed again. I was there the night he was attacked by feminists. He got up people’s noses. He was clever and eccentric. A contradiction – a posh lad from Salford, and a grammar school boy who went to Cambridge. Granada had claimed him, but he had influence and ambition. He was a big fish in a provincial sea.
I left the boyfriend and spent a year teaching in Morocco. On my return Ian Curtis had died and the Hacienda had been envisaged. I was invited to become part of the team on the basis of my previous door-keeping experiences. At the same time I was offered a job as a local history researcher at Manchester Polytechnic.
I took the day job, and I worked a couple of nights a week on the door or in the cloakroom. I was on the door the night the Hacienda opened, May 21st 1982, but I don’t feature in 24 Hour Party People. I was too busy to watch Bernard Manning, I do remember being introduced to the architect, Ben Kelly. It was an amazing space, created in a former yacht showroom. The industrial factory style design echoed Peter Saville’s designs for the Factory label. If you were culturally literate, it referenced Warhol’s New York Factory, but wasn’t no CBGBs. The space was clean and bold, both utilitarian and expensive looking and above all an unfamiliar aesthetic. In the early days the club included a hairdressing salon in the basement, and was intended as a daytime arts centre. Whilst this double life never really succeeded, at least it wasn’t doubling up as a hen party venue with sticky carpets and flock wallpaper. Venues in Manchester tended to be based in existing mainstream clubs on quiet weekday nights. There was the Free Trade Hall and the Palace for sit down concerts, and the Band on the Wall, and student union venues for beer swilling musical events. Tony famously said that the Hacienda was ‘for the kids’, but it attracted a much wider age group. People recognised that it was a statement, a custom made club with style. There was even talk of putting the bouncers in track suits rather than tuxedoes, to make them less intimidating.
I saw some unlikely bands there. Grand Master Flash, Thomas Dolby, Burning Spear, Robert Palmer. There were videos – Fish Heads sticks in my mind. The Jazz Defektors danced. Mike Pickering (later of M people) booked the turns. I missed out on the night when Madonna performed for the Tube. I still have a handwritten photocopied list of forthcoming bands. Sadly it was a live venue with poor acoustics and a badly designed stage. I am convinced I did the cloakroom with Johnny Marr. I didn’t know him, but I translated his name from the French as ‘I’m bored’. I wasn’t sure if it was a stage name. I have other memories – New Order in baggy shorts, Hewan Clarke playing the Thunderbirds theme to close the club at 2am. Of course I may have imagined some of this.
It was good to reconnect with Tony. I left the Hacienda after a few months and
I married and had a daughter. We lived next door to Bruce Mitchell and Vini Reilly of the Durutti Column. She was born at home to the sound of Vini’s guitar floating through the party wall. The midwife was very impressed. Her son was a big fan. I only knew Tony’s first wife by sight and reputation, but I met his second wife through a toddler group and eventually our children played together. I was deeply shocked when she was attacked on her doorstep by a woman wielding a Stanley knife, who was looking for Tony. He was a very provocative man. Just think of the names of the bars in the Hacienda- Kim Philby and the Gay Traitor, named after homosexual spies of the cold war era, or the name Joy Division. A colleague was held at gunpoint in the basement, in an attempt to persuade her to reveal the code to the safe. As she told me at the time, she hadn’t taken acid regularly in her youth to be intimidated by a gun held to her head. So it goes.
We never met again. I watched his career develop, and then the legend turned to myth. He wasn’t a musician. In spite of Factory’s cool image, his favourite band was Kid Creole and the Coconuts. Fair enough. He was an enigma and an entrepreneur. A pompous poser and a manipulator. A mover and a shaker. His professed cure for the common cold was LSD. So it goes.
Fac 51. Madchester. 24 Hour Party people – the book, the film, the soundtrack. There was a Hacienda exhibition at Urbis. My life as a museum exhibit. It was good to be able to show my children something of what it represented. The V & A are now planning to recreate the interior.
Tony’s the only man I can ever imagine having a ticketed funeral, in the wonderful St Mary’s Church, the Hidden Gem, beloved of Manchester Catholics. I wasn’t invited but I have seen one of the fancy Perspex tickets.
If I had gone to Durham, I might have stayed. And if I had stayed, everything that have happened to me since I followed that path with heart, that didn’t lead where I expected it to take me, would never have happened. So it goes.