November 2003 Archives

He probably thought he was well 'ard, you know.

Big strapping feller -- late twenties. Or maybe early twenties. As I said before, I just don't know anymore.

I had my nose stuck deep down the latest Word magazine gorging on acres of quotable writing. I was particularly thrilled with a very funny U2 DVD review and an article on Julian Cope -- an artist I've never cared much for. Word makes you care. Word makes me read columns on that tiresome Welshman Kelly Jones and enjoy the experience.

I looked up and saw him towering over me. He had on an army jacket with punk patches all over the front and back, carefully scattered and attached with large safety pins.

Large shiny safety pins. Brand new patches.

I left my magazine for what it was and started reading his jacket.

'The Sex Pistols'

Can't go wrong there.

'The Ramones'

Yeah.

'The Specials'.

Not punk, but a good choice regardless.

'Green Day'

...

If he hadn't left the train at that point, he would have seen me breaking my heart laughing.

There's something very rock and roll about doing business with a beer in your hand. In the back of the venue, next to the sounddesk, we huddle in the dark and -- pressing the paper up against a stack of speakers -- sign on the dotted line. A contract that makes sure we'll get paid for work we did 6 months ago. Hurrah, drinks are on us!

{ franz ferdinand, london calling, 7-11-20003 }

There's a girl. She's front row left and tiny. Dancing to Arab Strap, though 'to' is perhaps too generous a preposition. There is music and she is moving. There's no relation between the two.

I pause in my thinking and expect to follow up with a sneer. Instead the words 'more power to her' form in my head. My god, I am getting old.

London Calling, first night. Lots of bands I don't know. I can't remember going to a festival with bands I don't know. I'm here to see Franz Ferdinand, on the strength of their first and only release, Darts of Pleasure, and Arab Strap -- because a friend said I should go.

M.A.S.S. get me going, blondie girl singer with attitude and a voice like Siouxsie. Jumps off the stage, has an act. Then the guitarist ruins it. "Sorry, we don't speak Dutch... um Flemish."

{ sluts of trust, london calling, 7-11-20003 }

It's been a while since anyone on a stage has made me go 'huh?'. The drummer/guitarist duo Sluts of Trust make it happen. What ARE they on? What IS with the sleazy blonde mustache? WHY the guitar solos?

"That bloke didn't have ANY friends in school," I say, "And then he forced the neighbour's kid to play drums for him, put a note up on the school notice board. Wanted. Bassist and singer. But nobody wanted to be in a band with them. Fuck it, we go at it by ourselves, they thought."

At least they're not bland like Hawksley Workman, the Canadian answer to Big Country. Or Kane, for the Dutch readers. Jack L. for the Irish. The theatrics are a put on -- I can spot a fake a mile off.

Back upstairs for Franz Ferdinand. "It's leather for leisure and velcro for sport," they sing. Yeah! These Glaswegians are a godsend. Angular indie pop, danceable, droolable. They're The Jam with Suede haircuts. They're The Stranglers in a better mood. I beg their roadie for the setlist then rush downstairs for some more Scots entertainment.

Arab Strap's Aiden is not in a good mood. I wonder if he ever is, or if he ever acknowledges his audience. For ten minutes the band drown out the world with their songs about fucking and I rock to and fro, then I lose interest because that's they do too.

{ arab strap, london calling, 7-11-20003 }

"They were better last time," says a friend.

Words are poisoned darts of pleasure.

{ Castle Moydrum, Athlone, 1989 }

It was 1985 and The Unforgettable Fire sparked the flame. The man in the record shop (Max van Praag, Hoog Catharijne) handed me the album, all stately gold and burgundy and said: "Good choice. Part of your education. Listen to the last track on side two."

I did, I liked, but I liked other songs better. The title track and Wire, A Sort of Homecoming, Bad, Promenade...

Sidestep, sidewalk
I see you stare into space
Have I got closer now
Behind the face

Part of the magic was the cover. Anton Corbijn using infra-red film capturing the band in front of the ruins of a castle, the sky streaked with thin clouds. Ivy on the walls like shimmering snow.

I wondered what castle it was.

In those days, if you wanted to know something about the band there was the fan club (not usually a font of knowledge), the library, or that Dublin address on the sleeve. I wrote a letter and got a U2 Sister Sister Info Centre postcard in return. The squiggly writing said:

"The one on the front is Moydrum Castle, Co West Meath. The one on the back is in Carrickgogunnell, Co Limerick. Thanks. Beaky."

I thought Beaky was a weird name.

Years later, I realised the card was signed Cecilia, not 'Beaky'. She is Larry Mullen's sister and she ran the info centre.

I kept the postcard and remembered the names and locations of the castle and waited until I could afford to travel to Ireland.

Which was in 1987. I went with a flatmate who wasn't a big fan, but she was very interested in anything ancient and castles were definitely in. In those days, hitchhiking was still incredibly safe in Ireland and you could easily leave your backpack unattended or your bike unlocked and get into a car with middle-aged men. Sure, they were only messin' and the wife wouldn't like it annyway...

We got a lift to Athlone in a truck. The driver, who was more into country music, offered us Lucozade, a fizzy orange energy drink that I've since been rather fond of. He dropped us off just outside the town where we got directions for a camping site on Lough Rea, 3 miles out in Ballykeeran.

We walked there slowly, slightly uphill all the way. The camping site was run by an older man. Thin, wearing jeans, good posture, trim beard. One look told me 'retired, army, British'.

I was spot on. He told us he'd married an Irish woman, the camping site was his daughter's. He showed us where to pitch our small tent and the next day we asked for directions to Moydrum Castle.

"It's down that road, a bit of walk, though..."

{ Castle Moydrum, Athlone, 1987 }

(to be continued)

The morning's cold and quiet, the smell
of gasoline drifts strong through Aungier street
my bags are packed, I wait, I've seen
the city and the seagulls screech

my memories. My life in bits and pieces:
The corner where you turned away from me.
I stooped to see
my tears embedded in concrete.

Where once was joy, the Happy Ring
when days were sweet with laughter
goodbye to that, goodbye to drinking
whiskey on the quays

Goodbye my Dublin days, my decade gone,
the years were bittersweet
and friendships end or change
so much we're strangers when we meet

The day begins, the taxi waits, I leave
behind the days I thought my world complete
and full of love and life it seemed
upon Exchequer Street

{ from the archives }