I've always found the music of Michigan songwriter Sufjan Stevens to be comforting but up until now I've never been sure why. His folk-pop albums, especially "Seven Swans", are beautiful but I've lost touch with him over the past few years as his work has gone off on a tangent. After two experimental records, Stevens has returned to his folk roots and his time in the electro-orchestral wilderness has strengthened him. "Carrie & Lowell" contains his most stripped-down sound to date with the plaintive guitar backed by a supporting cast, including Laura Viers, although their contributions can easily go unnoticed until the third or fourth listen. But in contrast to the fragility of the music, emotionally these are some of his most powerful songs and it suddenly becomes clear why I have always found such a feeling of warmth in his work.
Put simply, Sufjan Stevens reminds me of my dad and of his record collection that was a constant presence in our house during my childhood. Particular reference points are Simon and Garfunkel, or more delicate Beatles moments such as "Blackbird" or "Norwegian Wood". But most of all, these are the kind of songs that my dad would have written had he been a musician. On previous albums, Stevens has cunningly woven autobiographical elements into tales of fictional characters, and there was never a clear border between the two. Similarly my father would regale us with tales of his life, mostly untrue but the aim was to entertain rather than deceive. He clearly dreamed of being a performer and told us stories of his fictitious music career; he even convinced my sister that he had once been in the Beatles. In reality his musical ability was sadly limited, as is mine. So we have both had to settle for basing our writing and storytelling around the creativity of real performers.
Although there are moments here that are almost certainly fictional, Stevens has produced something that is rather more personal than previous efforts. The people in the title are his mother and stepfather; the album tells of the former, who left when Stevens was a child. He recounts memories of her but as his time with her was limited to the occasional holiday it's likely that many of these are pure fantasy, his idea of what a real childhood would be like. Again, I can imagine my father writing songs about the strained relationships with his own parents and siblings; the difference being that those songs would likely have been full of sarcastic humour (another trait he shared with me) while the songs on "Carrie & Lowell" display a touching sense of forgiveness. After seven albums, it seems that Stevens has finally found the confidence to be truly open with his audience.
The nakedness of the instrumentation here means that there is actually very little that I can say about it. Any attempt at a description would be similarly sparse so instead, I encourage you to listen to the album and, hopefully, purchase it. For me, there is nothing like unwrapping a physical album and reading the lyrics for the first time so I strive to avoid hearing new songs until the product is in my hands. Those of you who don't share my old-fashioned perspective might choose to listen to the full album stream that is available below. Whether you see parallels with your own upbringing or simply immerse yourself in the singer's own story, you cannot fail to be moved.
Back in 1992, the Wedding Present embarked on the ambitious venture of releasing a 7" single each month for the whole year. They were already hated by the music press and this project, deemed self-indulgent by many, did nothing to help their cause. But journalists' opinions have never mattered and the singles became very collectable. You might expect me to have been among those who collected them, but this was during the brief period when I only had a cassette player and my vinyl buying was minimal. The 24 tracks from the singles have now been compiled on a CD with all kinds of bonus material so it seems that a bit of re-evaluation is due.
In my late teens, the songs of the Wedding Present described my life more accurately than anyone apart from the Smiths. On the albums "George Best" and "Bizarro", David Gedge's words were full of anger and bitterness. His frantic guitar mirrored the speed of a typical relationship. Nought to break-up in three minutes. On the following album, the Steve Albini-produced "Seamonsters", the mood shifted from bitterness to resignation and this was reflected in the one-word song titles, in contrast to the lengthy names given to earlier tracks. "The Hit Parade" sees Gedge moving on with his life. There is more variety in the lyrics, although the general theme of relationships is continued. This was the point when my own relationship with the Wedding Present started to fall apart, and in the years that followed, Gedge's life moved on further and he began to seem like one of those friends whom you lose touch with after they get married and start a family. You feel pleased for their happiness but you no longer have anything to talk about. The late '90s albums sit in my collection like a number in an address book that I'm not even sure is up to date. Maybe I should rekindle my friendship rather than scribbling David Gedge's details out of my book.
The accusation "all the songs sound the same" was often levelled at the band, to the extent that they adopted it as a battle cry and I even had a t-shirt bearing the slogan. But these singles didn't all sound the same and looking back, it was the shock of this unfamiliarity, the variation from what I had come to trust, that disenchanted me. Older and wiser, I can see that this variety was essential or they would have stagnated. Having said that, listening to the tracks for what is probably the first time this century, I'm surprised to find that some are not as different from the earlier albums as I thought at the time. The vocal delivery is not as intense and although the guitar is toned down, much of the abrasiveness is still there. "Come Play With Me" and "Silver Shorts" in particular do sound comfortingly familiar. To a certain extent I must still be set in my ways because the peak for me comes halfway through the year with the most Wedding Present-like song. July's single, "Flying Saucer", eclipses everything on "Seamonsters" and finishes with an extended guitar workout reminiscent of the epic "Take Me" from "Bizarro". "Flying Saucer" is possibly the last classic Wedding Present song, but I've always said that about "Dalliance" from the previous album so maybe there is something of value to be found in the even later works.
Each new song was backed with a cover version and there are some inspired choices that in many cases outshine the song on the A-side. There are cult favourites from the likes of the Go-Betweens and the Close Lobsters, and a surprising take on the Monkees' "Pleasant Valley Sunday" that comes closer to the magic of the original than I would ever have thought possible. The less predictable covers are film and TV themes ("UFO", "Shaft") and the standout of these, in fact probably the best of any of the 24 songs apart from "Flying Saucer", is "Falling". You would be forgiven for thinking that it is the version used in "Twin Peaks" until the vocals come in. Then the sound becomes so different from Julee Cruise's original that the effect is startling. This, combined with lyrics ("Don't let yourself be hurt this time") that could have been penned by Gedge himself, makes for a surreal experience and you wonder if you have woken up in David Lynch's nightmare world.
As with most "expanded" reissues, some of the extras are not strictly necessary. The 80-minute live set is worth hearing but do we really need 20 alternate takes and radio session tracks that barely differ from the 7" versions? The sequencing of disc 2 even means that we get two similar versions of "Silver Shorts" in succession. Obviously someone thinks this is a good marketing idea but despite my reputation as a collector, I rarely buy reissues just for different versions of songs I already have.
As if recording two songs a month wasn't keeping them busy enough, the lads also made a video for each new song and these are included, under the collective name of "Dick York's Wardrobe". These are proof, if you needed it, that indie bands should not make pop videos. They were obviously having a laugh but these are uniformly dreadful. In particular, I would advise against watching "Loveslave", as the image of the band in nappies and glittery wigs is not something that you will ever be able to erase from your mind.
When the singles came out I was such a staunch indie kid that I had sworn off all mainstream media and had no idea what was in the charts. They must have done pretty well though as there are no fewer than four "Top Of The Pops" performances included here. These are followed by a recent interview with David Gedge where he reflects on the recording sessions. I can't help but notice that he's starting to resemble Tony Blackburn and I wonder if this is what becomes of us all when we move on in life. Maybe I'll stick to anger and bitterness.
If you're not familiar with the Wedding Present at all, you should start with the albums "George Best" and "Bizarro" then work your way through the others until you get to the point where David Gedge's life seems to be taking a different path from your own. For those of you who are old friends but found your paths diverging 20 years ago, this would be a good time to reacquaint yourselves.
THE JESUS AND MARY CHAIN - Manchester Academy / Birmingham Institute
The choice of venue can often make the world of difference to the success of a gig, even with the performers giving it all they've got. This is painfully apparent when I compare these gigs that I saw a few months apart, with exactly the same set being played in two different locations. When the Jesus And Mary Chain announced three dates at the end of last year where they would be playing their 1985 debut in full, there was much excitement and a group of my friends immediately snapped up the maximum number of tickets for one of the shows, even before we'd worked out if there were enough of us to use all of them. With tours such as this, with only a handful of dates, it's likely that a longer tour will be scheduled soon afterwards and usually with a show closer to home, but if this means I get to see the band twice then so be it.
I'll start by reflecting on the Manchester show back in November, as I didn't write about it at the time. When a favourite band returns from a long break, particularly when playing a classic album that I was too young to hear played live the first time around, there's always the fear that it won't live up to expectations. In this case there was no need to worry. Before the full run-through of the album, we're treated to seven other songs from various points of their career - playing the encore first, as frontman Jim Reid puts it. They kick off with the jangly "April Skies", perhaps the song that most appeals to those who can't quite decide if they like the band or are put off due to their noisy reputation. Then there are a couple more almost-hits - "Head On" and "Reverence", plus the single "Some Candy Talking" from the same time as the album and the song "Psychocandy" itself, which confusingly didn't appear on the album. An unexpected and welcome inclusion is "Up Too High", an early song that was never released until it appeared on a collection of b-sides and demos in 2008. The first part of the show ends with the debut single "Upside Down", to prepare us for the discordant glory that's coming soon.
Then the volume is cranked up to 11 and even beyond, and we're reminded why "Psychocandy" was such a groundbreaking album. There are melodies here that are easily discernible alongside the wall of fuzz and some great singalong moments, including the gruesome motorbike crash of "The Living End", and "The Hardest Walk" - quite possibly the best break-up song ever. Jim is still a compelling performer, while his brother William stays in the shadows. Some have cruelly said that he's chosen to stay out of the limelight because he knows that he no longer looks as young as he used to, but he's retained his mountain of curly hair and seeing this silhouetted through the smoke, we could easily be back at one of their classic '80s shows where they never looked at the audience. William's guitar is very precise in its distortion and the trademark sharp feedback comes at exactly the right moments. Ex-Lush man Phil King adds an extra layer, not present on the original record but this only serves to make things more cohesive. This is one of the loudest gigs I've seen for a while but despite the volume there is clarity and we're left in no doubt as to what's going on behind the strobe lights.
If I have one quibble, it's the inclusion of a full drum kit. I'm very aware that the Mary Chain used "proper" drums in the final years of their original incarnation, but one of the key elements of "Psychocandy" is Bobby Gillespie's sparse drumming. Obviously Bobby has other things to be getting on with now, but I'm sure if they'd advertised then they would have found someone who couldn't play any more than two drums. I could easily get sidetracked into listing the host of great bands using this style of percussion, but let's just say that pretty much anything - doing the washing up, watching Jeremy Kyle - can be rendered life-changing by the addition of a stand-up drummer.
But I can't really complain about the absence of Bobby as the gig is still more exciting than most young bands I've seen over the past year. We leave the show feeling electrified that something 30 years old still sounds so fresh.
Three months later and I'm excited about seeing the same thing all over again, although I am a little cautious as the Institute has never been one of my favourite venues. I have attended gigs there where everything has sounded spot-on, but an equal number where the sound has left a lot to be desired. I've never been sure if this is because the shape of the room leads to poor acoustics, they've skimped on the sound system or maybe even the sound engineer himself isn't up to scratch.
Things don't seem too bad at first as the band blast through the same seven songs as at the Manchester show. The sound quality isn't perfect but at least things are reasonably clear and it's better than some gigs I've seen in this venue. But once the "encore" is over and we get to the album, things start to go wrong.
My best guess is that the soundman has never actually heard "Psychocandy" but is aware that it's full of distortion so decides that the best option is to push every one of his sliders to the top. This means that it's difficult to discern the separate elements of the music. William's shrill feedback is barely noticeable, all we get is a muddy pool of gloop. It becomes so murky that at one point I lose track of the songs. Despite the album being played in order and the fact that I can recite the tracklisting in my sleep, we're halfway into "Never Understand" before I realise which song it is.
The evening isn't a total loss and I do enjoy hearing the songs again, when I can work out what they are, but I get the feeling that if I had just seen this show and not the previous one then I would think that the band had lost their edge. Indeed, this is the opinion of a friend who is seeing them for the first time in 20 years.
I'm not sure if there are any long-term plans for this reunion, either new songs or more gigs, but I'm glad I got to see one more fantastic show from them and I'll try to forget about the second one. As with many things in life, great moments seem even better when you've got something rubbish to compare them with.
Do you remember the year 2001? I don't. Maybe it was uneventful, or maybe I experienced an emotional trauma that has caused me to wipe the entire year from memory. After listening to this record, I suspect the latter.
I have recordings of old John Peel shows and I find it comforting to hear his voice. In the run-up to Christmas I attempted to listen to a different Festive 50 broadcast each day. A John Peel advent calendar, if you like. In the 2001 chart there was a song by Meanwhile, Back In Communist Russia. I didn't know the song but the band name sounded vaguely familiar so I decided to investigate. I discovered that I have this 10" mini-album. I don't remember buying it. I don't remember hearing it. I don't remember seeing them support Pulp at a gig that was broadcast live on Radio 1, but my diary tells me that I was there.
The Oxford band deal in hazy guitar and keyboard textures with sudden bursts of noise. There are brief moments of piano and drum machine that threaten to wander into the realm of "Kid A" but then lose confidence and come creeping back. You're probably thinking that this is nothing you haven't heard a thousand times before. The key element, though, is the series of monologues delivered by Emily Gray. While there are similarities to the structures of the Slint songs reviewed last week, rather than pieces of fiction these stories of lust and betrayal are very personal. Despite the wall of fuzz that threatens to drown her out, Gray's voice is crystal clear. We are left in no doubt as to what has gone on in her life, even if she would prefer to forget.
Particularly during the stark piano moments, I'm reminded of Arab Strap. Their frontman Aidan Moffat's words also tell of ill-advised liaisons so maybe these are the same stories told from the other person's perspective. But while Moffat is crude and boastful about his conquests, Gray sees nothing to be proud of.
It's possible that each song tells of a different relationship but they end the same way, with emptiness and despair. We've all been there. You tell yourself that it will be the last time you get into this situation. But of course, it happens again. And again. You end up angry with yourself for not taking your own advice. At times, Gray takes out this frustration by indulging in self-harm, or maybe this is a means of distracting herself from the futility of the relationship. In other songs, it seems to be the partner who is abusive. This not a comfortable listening experience.
Eventually I realise what it really is that's making me feel uneasy. Emily Gray's voice sounds familiar. There are hints of Linda Steelyard of Prolapse, who featured in the first ever post on this blog. But, no... it's someone else... maybe not even a singer. Maybe it's the person who caused me to lose the whole of 2001. I wish I could remember.
Although she is haunted by most of her experiences, Gray does look back fondly on one brief period of her life. On "Blindspot/Invisible Bend", she is desperate to become reunited with the man in question and spends months trying to track him down. She becomes excited when she thinks she has spotted him from a distance, but it turns out to be someone else. There is a lesson in this anticlimax. By all means reminisce about the past but trying to recreate the moment or reconnect with those who shared it with you will end in disappointment. There is a reason why those people are no longer in your life.
By the time we reach "Morning After Pill", everything has become clear. I sense that the pill in question is not to avoid possible pregnancy but to erase the memory of the regrettable encounter. I'm left with the feeling that my life - not just relationships but everything - has been a sequence of one-night stands. Ultimately of little consequence. The final line of the album says it all: "Please keep in touch..." "I couldn't see the point."
I had another blog post lined up for this week, but after the upsetting events involving David Pajo last Thursday/Friday, I felt that I had to write something by way of a tribute. If you're not aware of the story then you'll find it on most US music news sites, I won't go into the details here. Having discussed this on other social media platforms, the consensus was that it is not our place to speculate on Pajo's emotional state, other than to wish him a speedy recovery. I will just say that it's an indicator of the power of social media that so many people leapt into action and prevented a sad story from becoming a tragic one.
Pajo has been inspirational for a generation of guitarists who didn't want to be constrained by conventional chord structures. In recent years, he has performed solo under a variety of names and also in bands including Tortoise and Billy Corgan's post-Smashing Pumpkins project, Zwan. But the high respect bestowed upon him really stems from this 1991 album by his original band, Slint. Their first album, "Tweez", was produced by Steve Albini and although there is certainly some experimentation going on, overall it sounds more like an Albini project. Slint would have been consigned to the "other US indie" record fair crates were it not for the radical change of style that occurred on their second record. Having said that, "Spiderland" was largely ignored on its release and it wasn't until five years later, when a handful of up-and-coming bands started to cite it as a reference point, that the rest of the world began to take notice.
Despite my previous post on music genres, it's inevitable that we'll get onto that topic when discussing Slint - partly because the album itself is so hard to categorise, but also because it has spawned a host of meaningless genre names invented by journalists with nothing better to do. In the late 1990s, the latest wave of experimental bands were being tagged as "post-rock" or "math-rock". Are these just the UK and US names for the same style of music? I've never been sure what math-rock actually is. Regardless of the classification, the influence of Slint was apparent.
It would have been easy for Slint to become part of the grunge movement that was developing at the same time but, while keeping much of the distorted guitar sound, they rejected the lazy delivery style of Mudhoney and their ilk, and produced something far more elaborate. In places their use of unpredictable time signatures would be better described as prog, but back in 1991 no one would dare admit that they knew the meaning of that word.
Slint's lyrics are also far removed from the anger and apathy found on other records of the time. Again harking back to classic UK bands of the early '70s, each song is a work of fiction. But the stories are incomplete and you are left to fill in the gaps for yourself. It's likely that your conclusions will be bleaker than the band originally intended. Brian McMahan's vocal delivery shows emotional detachment and is very matter-of-fact despite the grim nature of the subject matter. This only adds to the mystery. At times the words are almost whispered and are drowned out by the tortured sounds from Pajo's guitars so this is a record that really needs to be heard through headphones.
The complex nature of the album means it would be difficult for you to get an idea of the sound simply from me attempting to describe it to you, so it might be easier if I let you listen. As there are only six tracks on the album, let's look at each one in turn.
We kick off with a trip to the funfair and a visit to the fortune teller on "Breadcrumb Trail". The opening chimes sound pretty but don't be fooled; the next 40 minutes will be anything but comfortable. Rather than getting his fortune told, the narrator persuades the fortune teller to accompany him on the roller coaster. The sudden transition in the guitar sound and vocal delivery suggests it's a terrifying ride. But things calm down after the ride is over and you're left hoping that the two characters will meet up again once the funfair has closed.
"Nosferatu Man" is obviously inspired by the 1920s horror film. The lyrics are (I suspect intentionally) disjointed and difficult to follow. Rather than being a literal description of the film, the words seem to represent the desolation that seeps through the rest of the album. The dissonant guitar sound in the "chorus" (if you can call it that) adds to the feeling of uneasiness.
"Don, Aman" describes a character who feels alienation even in the company of friends - "Like swimming underwater in the darkness, like walking through an empty house, speaking to an imaginary audience." The distortion in the middle section emphasises this feeling of isolation before the final verse tells us that "he knew what he had to do." Hopefully what Don actually has in mind is not as gruesome as we are imagining.
Side 2 starts with "Washer", which is the closest the album comes to a conventional song structure. It's also the only track where the vocals show any kind of personal involvement and where it's clear, to me at least, what is happening in the lyrics. The words seem pertinent at the moment so perhaps we should move on for the sake of sensitivity...
"For Dinner..." is an instrumental track, which could be overlooked at first but it builds the tension in preparation for the album's standout song.
"Good Morning, Captain" has the sparsest arrangement on the album. The main guitar part consists of just two chords and never appears at same time as the vocals. This is the song whose lyrics I've spent the most time contemplating. They tell of the aftermath of a shipwreck and the captain of the title is apparently based on the Ancient Mariner, although I must confess I have never read Coleridge's poem in its entirety.
Halfway through the song, a child appears; I have always assumed that he is being reunited with his estranged father. It's not clear who utters the words "I'm trying to find my way home. I'm sorry. I miss you." I had originally thought it was the child, but listening to the song now it seems more likely that it's the captain, apologising for being away at sea for so long. Perhaps all would be clear if I were more familiar with the original poem. What's most puzzling is the barely audible line, "I want the police to be notified." I think I would prefer not to know what had happened in the past to prompt this. What follows is the most terrifying section of the entire album, with McMahan screaming so loudly that he allegedly made himself sick. It's a relief when the screams are eventually buried beneath the squall of Pajo's guitar.
Like the characters in the songs, you will feel alienated and detached from this album after the first listen. It takes time to become fully acquainted with these songs but your patience will be rewarded. More than 20 years on, "Spiderland" continues to be relevant and is deserving of its reputation as one of the most influential records of its time.
I would like to set the record straight about my relationship with Steven Patrick Morrissey. This piece might come across as something of a hatchet job. If so then I apologise for any offence caused to his fans or even to the man himself - who I'm sure will be reading this. When asked which artist they associate with me, many would say Morrissey. They would say that I collect his records, which is true. They would say that I look like him, which has never been my intention. They would say that I worship the ground that he walks on, which is certainly not true. I have in fact heard myself referred to as "Morrissey Steve" to distinguish me from the many other Steves in my social circle.
I should start by saying that I am a great admirer of (most of) his recorded output. There is no question that the Smiths are one of the most important bands of my lifetime. They changed my music tastes forever when I first heard them in my teenage years. I return to their records more than any others in my collection. I can quote all of their lyrics, and often do as there is usually a line that seems pertinent to any situation in which I happen to find myself. Morrissey's solo work was never going to match the splendour of the Smiths and although I can't quote all of his recent words faultlessly, I have still collected and enjoyed his releases.
For me, his solo career peaked relatively soon after the break-up of the Smiths. Nobody could fault his 1992 album "Your Arsenal". I also have a fondness for the singles released at that time, particularly 1991's "Pregnant For The Last Time", when his music first began to show traces of rockabilly. This was largely down to the backing band he had now put together. Guitarists Alain Whyte and Boz Boorer were the most proficient musicians he had worked with since Johnny Marr. They also looked great - but more on that later.
After two more impressive albums in the late '90s, the quality of his work began to decline. I find a lot of his music from this century to be rather wishy-washy and I haven't committed many of the lyrics to memory. The latest album, "World Peace Is None Of Your Business", shows signs of a rejuvenation with the songs telling the interesting stories we would expect, in contrast to the lyrics about nothing much at all found on "Ringleader Of The Tormentors". Perhaps there is scope for a full review on these pages at a later date.
But enjoying someone's music is very different from idolising them or wanting to be like them. While talking about the availability of Morrissey dolls, someone jokingly suggested that I might have a shrine dedicated to him. There are stereotypical fans, who go to every show on a tour, fight over scraps of his shirt and do indeed have shrines - I used to know someone like this. I don't consider myself to be in this category, I certainly hope I'm not anyway. More than anything, I have never referred to the man as "Moz".
Morrissey fanatics, male and female, often attempt to copy his appearance. You might be surprised to learn that my hairstyle is not based on Morrissey's in particular. A 1950s rockabilly look does sit well with many of the bands in my collection, and a better example of someone who has influenced my style would be Alain Whyte. Look at his neatly-styled quiff in the video for "Glamorous Glue" above, then compare it with the hairstyle of the singer - I would say that a rockabilly look was never really what Morrissey was going for. One of the most bizarre questions I've ever been asked was nothing to do with hairstyles. A complete stranger, not considering that I might genuinely suffer from hearing loss, said to me, "Do you wear that hearing aid to look like Morrissey?" I can't remember my response but it probably wasn't polite.
Trivial matters of fashion aside, the main reason that friends associate me with Morrissey is probably that he is such a high-profile artist. Those who follow me on social media will know that if I had a shrine to anyone then it's more likely to be Kristin Hersh, Michael Gira or Amanda Palmer. None of these get much news coverage, so people focus on my interest in the one artist they know something about. Unfortunately his high profile is often for the wrong reasons and I don't want people to assume that I agree with some of his outrageous statements. A friend, who I hoped would know better, said that he thought that Morrissey was the person who had the most influence on my life. I was quick to point out that there are many aspects of Morrissey's character that I strive to avoid.
It's fair to say that he's now known more for being outspoken than for his music. You could argue that everyone should stand up for their principles, but in Morrissey's case the line between principles and blatant attention-seeking is becoming increasingly blurred. Let's not waste time discussing all of his controversial quotes, but just look at the top of this page for an example of one of his outbursts that would embarrass any sane member of his fanbase. This is why I don't want people to think that he has any influence over my life.
In recent years, he's become notorious for scrapping gigs and entire tours. I was saddened when the news broke about his serious illness, so obviously he can be forgiven for any cancellations due to health problems. But abandoning a gig at the last minute due to his own petty niggles with the venue or audience shows a disregard for the fans who already have tickets. I respect his decision not to eat meat and he is entitled to promote this viewpoint, but trying to enforce it upon others is another thing entirely. My vegetarian friends are realistic enough to accept that some people choose to eat meat. Come on, Moz, what makes you any different? He's currently in the news for demanding that a venue stops selling meat if his performance there is to go ahead. Tantrums like this have caused even the most fervent fans to say that he's a bit of a twit.
I deliberated for a long time before deciding to buy a ticket for his forthcoming tour. At first I was reluctant due to the high cost, the size of the venue meaning it will be difficult to get a good view, but mainly the risk of the show being cancelled. What finally settled it for me was the thought that this might be the last time that I get to see him. Not so much a morbid prediction based on his current state of health, just that he might retire from touring due to his dissatisfaction with humanity in general. Assuming the show does go ahead, I'm sure I won't regret my decision.
So, I hope that has cleared a few things up. Morrissey and I have had our ups and downs but we are still friends. Nothing more.
Julian Cope, it has to be said, has committed some atrocities in the name of music. The former Teardrop Explodes frontman is an expert on obscure '60s and '70s rock, and has written several books on the topic. But sometimes these influences creep into his music, especially in recent years. This, along with his inclination for long meditative pieces, can lead to results that would have been best left in the studio bin. Brain Donor, his Kiss-inspired side project, is excruciatingly painful and I'm not entirely sure that it was meant to be ironic.
Now I have nothing against experimentation, indeed there is plenty of it in my record collection, but Cope is such an outstanding songwriter that he shouldn't need to rely on gimmicks. His live shows should always be approached with caution, but when he walks onstage with no backing band and just an acoustic guitar, as is the case tonight, you should be safe.
It soon becomes apparent what a constant presence Cope has been in my life since I bought his "Saint Julian" album back in 1987. He has been there watching over me for so long that I no longer notice. He's released seven albums just in this century and although I'm pretty certain I've bought them all, I don't think I could name them or recognise many of the songs. At least that's what I think until he launches into the opening number, "Living In The Room They Found Saddam In" - possibly one of the best songs he's penned in his solo career. I immediately remember what I was doing in 2005 when this came out. The same is true for the rest of the set; Cope has been so prolific that there is a section of his back catalogue intrinsically linked with pretty much every period of my life.
It's his early-90s releases that mean the most to me, particularly "Peggy Suicide" and "Jehovahkill", where he began to move away from the quirky pop of the earlier albums. The songs became slightly more complex without being overblown, but at the same time those records feature some beautiful stripped-down moments. The opening songs from these two albums, "Pristeen" and "Soul Desert" respectively, are similar in structure, with each one having just one very basic set of words repeated throughout. They remind me of the simpler times we lived in back then. The two songs are the highlights of tonight's set, and Cope remains more or less faithful to the simplicity of the originals, although he does attempt to turn the ending of "Soul Desert" into an all-out rocker. Well, as much as you can rock out with just an acoustic guitar anyway. He wisely brings the song to a close just as it starts to become comical.
His live sets often contain songs that are still in development or were written years ago but not recorded. There are song titles that are often mentioned on fansites but are probably apocryphal. Does a song called "I Could Strangle Pete Wylie" really exist? Cope's erstwhile Crucial Three colleague does get a mention tonight though. The title of Wylie's hit "Heart As Big As Liverpool" has been corrupted to give us a song about the perils of drinking, called "Liver As Big As Hartlepool". Another new (to me, anyway) song has a title that I won't repeat here in case there are any children reading, but Cope explains that it is intended to offend or at least confuse Americans, simply because they use the same four-letter words but in a different format.
It's not just the songs but also the anecdotes between that make for a memorable evening. He takes a self-deprecating look at his career and how the Teardrop Explodes failed to achieve their full potential, referring to himself as an "intuitive non-career mover". Sometimes it's not clear whether he's talking about his own experiences or those of an exaggerated cartoon character and even in his own mind the boundaries have become blurred; he took what he describes as a method actor approach when writing his first novel. During "Sunspots", he stops to tell us about the lyric insert that was required for the Japanese release. After a lengthy discourse about the part in the chorus that "sounds like a car going past" causing problems for the poor sod given the task of transcribing, he remembers that he still owes us the final verse and resumes the song. Few performers could get away with that.
When he returns for an encore, he tells us that the previous night, the crowd had shouted for "Robert Redford". He hasn't had time to write a song on that topic on the way to tonight's gig, so instead we have to make do with "Robert Mitchum". I suspect he tells the same story every night, but we will forgive him that little bit of artistic licence. Despite my reservations about some of his work, and some of the live sets I've seen him play, he has proved tonight that those minor blips only make up a small percentage of his career. I'm not sure what 2015 is going to bring for me but I hope he will provide me with some new songs as a soundtrack that I will still remember when I look back in 20 years' time.
