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Every now and then a new band comes along to grab you by the throat and demand that you sit down and listen to them. Enter The Spitfires and their debut album ‘Response’, released on their own Catch 22 record label. Lazy comparisons will no doubt come their way, but these boys are better than that. It’s true that the band wear their influences like tattoos; Mod, Punk, and Ska are all in there, but they bring their Molotov cocktail of genres, kicking and screaming into the 21st century. Fresh faced power pop with thundering drums and staccato, rasping guitars, underpinned by solid bass and swirling keyboards, their musicianship belies their tender ages. But it’s not all bang and bluster, as the subtleties of ‘4 a.m.’ and ‘Spoke Too Soon’ create soundscapes that depict the frustrations that their generation are having to deal with. Council estate mazes, job dissatisfaction and the constant fight of dragging yourself out of the spiral of poverty are age old subjects, but they are bought up to date with references to themes such as the minimum wage and payday loans. The songs that concern the torment and complexity of youthful relationships are achingly painful and make me so glad that I don’t have to go through all that shit again! Tours with Weller, The Specials and The Ordinary Boys will hopefully bring them a bigger audience, and slowly the ‘sold out’ signs of their own gigs are increasing by the day. It’s taken them 3 years to get this far, without compromising themselves, proving that there is an alternative to karaoke talent(less) competitions, hosted by egotistical puppets playing God with the desperate and delusional. No shock tactics, no gimmicks, no hype, just tunes and attitude in spades, The Spitfires are digging up the corpse of mediocrity and shitting down its neck. I paid the princely sum of £5.00 ( yes that’s correct, £5.00) to see them at the Retro bar in Manchester last month, a cosy downstairs bar with not enough room to swing a mouse, it was like watching them in your bedroom. They ripped through their set, playing to a mixture of knowledgeable teenagers to middle aged mods and ex punks, whilst fighting against a sound bathed in treacle. This didn’t stop the band inflicting an incendiary aural assault on their appreciative audience, Billy Sullivan spits out his venom, strangling every sinew of energy from his guitar, Chris Chanell pounds and caresses his keyboards in equal measure, all underpinned by the solid rhythm section of Sam Long on bass and Matt Johnson on drums. I implore you to give them a listen, but more importantly, turn off the TV, put the mobile on silent, and catch them live. They deserve your attention.

A strong woman is a weak man’s worst nightmare; sticking their noses into stuff that shouldn’t concern them. Art, Education, Music, Politics, an ever growing list, which will only get bigger as the girls get smarter. Intelligence and competence are the new tits and arse to grab the male attention, and to keep their eye line a little higher.

It wasn’t always thus as we know, women should be seen and not heard was the mantra, even as recently as the late seventies, but not for women such as The Slits, Poly Styrene, Chrissie Hynde and Vivienne Westwood to name a tiny few. No better place to gain an insight into what is like for a woman trying to get along in a male dominated arena such as the music business, than Viv Albertine’s book “Clothes Clothes Clothes, Music Music Music, Boys Boys Boys”.

Brutally honest, often showing a side of her personality that many others would shy away from. Her perpetual problems with bodily functions, embarrassing sexual exploits and a constant self effacing description of her limited musical prowess, all go into the mix to give a conflicting picture of a confident/unconfident woman. She would be totally outspoken and single minded on the one hand, but a nagging self doubt would never be far away from the surface. Punk, as it was for so many other people, was the vehicle that would drive her desire to be a musician, the ethos of punk was the fact that anyone could do it. You just had to have a little bit of talent, but a wealth of imagination to put your ideas into a piece of art, be it music, painting, or ceramics. (All of which Viv did at some point). She joined the fledgling Slits after seeing them play their ramshackle noise at  early gig, fronted by a 14 years old Ari Upp, and slowly developed into being their organiser, lyricist, guitarist, and songwriter.

She was romantically  linked with some of the main players of the punk scene; Mick Jones and Johnny Thunders being the most serious of her liaisons. But the male ‘suits’ at the record companies, and even some of  the fans didn’t know whether they wanted to fight them or to fuck them. For me they just inspired me politically to become a male feminist (if such a thing exists, without being patronising), and musically to embrace the natural progression from punk to the post punk bands. The Pop Group, Gang of Four, Delta 5 (more opinionated ladies), still gave out the attitude but instead of shouting and posturing, they put a dance beat to it. Albeit sometimes a dysfunctional, erratic, rhythmic syncopation, it none the less enhanced my learning curve in my drumming techniques. I was already a massive reggae fanatic, particularly dub, and The Slits were a big influence on me.Viv moves on from the band and music altogether, getting into film making, production, and a wide variety of visual arts projects, with a considerable amount of success, as well as a period as a dance teacher at Pineapple studios.

Eventually and inevitably she settles down and gets married to become a ‘Hastings housewife’, but it’s never that simple in Viv’s life. Several years of trying for a baby on the IVF programme end up with numerous heartbreaking results, until eventually she is rewarded with a daughter. Her husband is referred to in the book as just that: husband. Her daughter also remains nameless in the text, and for a while things are looking good. Once again though the doubts and uncertainties creep back into her psyche; is she a good mother, wife, house maker, person?

The book ends with her explanations of the writing of the book, plus the recollections of how her first musical output since The Slits came to fruition, ‘Confessions of a MILF’, produced by Mick Jones, which brings things more or less full circle. Possibly.

If you only read one book this year, make it this one.

Gareth Ashton

As of today, Hanging Around Musicians will be available to buy from Rough Trade in Nottingham. This is the latest addition to a steady growth of stockists including Piccadilly Records in Manchester and Jumbo Records in Leeds, as well as Buxton Pavilion Gardens gift shop.

Tony Burke- Lead Vocals, Guitar

Julie Hadwen- Lead Vocals

Mace Carnochan- Piano, Synthesizers, Organ.

Martin Wilson- Bass.

Steve Martinez- Drums

An Inward Revolution. – The Big Sound Authority.

All good things come to he who waits apparently, but some great things take 30 years to get the recognition they deserve. I have sent many emails and messages over the last few years to Cherry Reds’ ideas service, where people can put forward their suggestions as to what albums they would like to see given a well deserved and overdue release. Whether my plea’s contributed to it finally happening is irrelevant, what does matter is that it’s finally here.

In the mid ’80’s amongst the posing and posturing of the clothes horses of the self appointed musical hierarchy, there were people of eloquence, substance, and a social conscience who wrote about ‘real’ subjects without patronising their audience. The Kane Gang, The Style Council, Special A.K.A. plus many others all wrote about the times we were living in, and for me The Big Sound Authority were at the top of that list. ‘An Inward Revolution’ is an album that’s as relevant today in some of its subject matter as it was in 1985; cutbacks in services, towns decimated by big business, and pockets of social decay. “Spend a fortnight where I live”, a line from ‘Let’s Hold Together’ sums up the authenticity and honesty of the whole ethos of the band. The record’s picture sleeve gives an indication of what to expect inside, but it’s not the doom and gloom that you expect, instead it’s a rallying call of hope and that you, and only you, can change things. Hence the title.

The strength of Tony Burke’s songwriting is augmented by a tight band and the naturally powerful, beautifully soulful voice of Julie Hadwen. There are no vocal gymnastics, false ‘soulful’ histrionics, just stripped back, laid bare vulnerable emotion.’This House (Is Where Your Love Stands)’, arguably their most well known single, is a mixture of heartbreak and the bitterness of adultery (“she’s so so-so it’s almost perverse” is still one of the greatest put down lyrics). 60’s kitchen sink dramas rewritten for the Thatcher age run alongside passionate love songs complete with brass section; white soul music at its best. Personally I tend to judge a band by its b-sides, and tracks like ‘Excuse Me Please’ deserved to be a single, perhaps someone could have a word with Adele about a cover? At last I can listen to it now without the crackles and pops of my worn out vinyl.

For those who like their music with meaning and genuine feeling, I strongly recommend this album.

Imagine being a 15 year old schoolboy in the sleepy idyll of a small village that called itself a town. You’ve made the effort to go to you nearest decent record shop to see what the next inspired choice will be, the next addition to your fledgling record collection. Peel had obviously been the catalyst and the list was growing. I only earned £2.50 a week paper round money plus £1.50 from the pockets of my parents, so the choice had to be wise and punctilious. Choice made,the journey on the bus back was made much less tedious by the visual exploration of the outer sleeve, and on the odd occasion where care had been taken by the record company, the inner sleeve and lyrics. Today’s purchase was the debut album by Stiff Little Fingers.’Inflammable Material’ with its stark black cover of 9 images of a single flame. Desolate titles such as ‘State of Emergency’, ‘Wasted Life’, and ‘Barbed Wire Love’, spoke of life on another planet, far removed from the sanctity of my surroundings. I couldn’t wait to learn about their lives in a foreign land over the sea. Granted it was the Irish Sea and Belfast was a literal stones throw away, but it may as well have been on the other side of the world.

Off the bus, run home as fast as the Six Million Dollar Man, up the stairs into my brother’s bedroom, take that Barclay James Harvest shit off the turntable, carefully take out the record holding it by the edges (after all this was a weeks wages I was holding),and put the needle on the record. And wait……
INFLAMMABLE MATERIAL IS PLANTED IN MY HEAD!!, IT’S A SUSPECT DEVICE THAT’S LEFT 2000 DEAD!!
What the fuck? I am now witnessing the aural equivalent of having all my teeth kicked out. They are then picked up off the floor and reinserted into my mouth. In the wrong order!
Ears and gums bleeding all over the place, I regain a certain amount of consciousness, dust myself down and strap myself in for the next 13 slices of an angry,shouting, Northern Irishman surrounded by 3 more enraged souls.
The Clash had posed with the English soldiers in Belfast, but these guys were living it day in day out. But amongst the negativity of their situation the positivity of the songs shone through, urging people of whichever religious or political persuasion to try to change things, or at the very least think about it. This was an album of its time, it gave me and thousands of other people an insight into what the ‘troubles’ meant for our generation. The only thing we saw was bleak footage on the news; bombs, death, riots in the streets, bricks and bottles and Molotov cocktails.
Alternative Ulster was released as a single the previous year 1978, so I had an idea of what to expect. That song is one of the best examples of punk and in the top 5 singles of many people, and the album expanded the issues SLF were wanting to convey. Not schoolboy ramblings or 6th form poetry readings, but songs about isolation, cultural ignorance and racism concerning the ubiquitous Irish jokes as well as the stereotypical language used by those morons concerning corner shops, muggers, pimps, spongers, etcetera. In language that pulled no punches. Preaching to the converted maybe, but educating at the same time. These are their experiences, real life without a gimmick in sight.
The record had no fillers and included a version of Bob Marley’s ‘Johnny Was’, with more than a hint to The Clash’s reworking of Junior Murvin’s ‘Police and Thieves’. Despite Jake Burns’s gruff delivery there are choruses in abundance and pure pop tunes, which much later would evolve into the polished, toned down sound of bands such as Green Day and Blink 182. Even the token love song on it was an incendiary blast of lust between the divisive, repressive regime of their environment.
Whereas the Undertones sang about chocolate and girls,(also a truly great band), Stiff Little Fingers kept upping the ante even after signing to a major label in the form of Chrysalis. Straw Dogs and At The Edge both uncompromising singles. There legacy still lives on and they still continue to fill venues across the world, playing to original and second generation fans.
But it all started on that morning in February 1979.

My ears are still ringing.

This plastic sign, crudely slotted into a block of wood was my first experience of V.I.P. treatment, aged 9. It was placed on a table, adjacent  to the stage of the Buxton Working Men’s Club where my father would ply his trade every Saturday and Sunday evening. It meant that UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES was anyone other than those named on it, plus their respective immediate families, allowed to park their behind at that particular area.

This brazen example of a social hierarchy was open to exploitation; it justified our inherent human right as a family to swan in at any given time before a performance, in the knowledge that our place would be unoccupied and awaiting our arrival. Unfortunately my father was not the egotistical type so we would invariably turn up at the same time every week, and while he set up his kit and did the necessary tweaking and tuning, my mother and I would take our place with a Snowball and Blackcurrant and Lemonade respectively.

In all the years of attendance (about 5 years), I can’t remember a single instance of an interloper causing us any undue distress, so it goes to show that this small plastic and wooden notice served its purpose in the respect of the audience members knowing exactly where they stood. Or sat in this instance.

A lovely piece of history for me that I now own, after it was liberated from the club when he retired from playing. Both the organist and drummer are now both consigned to history. As are a vast number of social clubs, which ever political party they were affiliated to. Happy days.

Love manifests itself in many guises; two lovers lying in a soft focus meadow of golden corn, a box of chocolates and a bouquet of flowers wrapped in ribbon. But sometimes it’s not sugary or fragrant. The meadow may be full of thistles and weeds that require careful footsteps. Grace takes you one step at a time throughout this absorbing book, from the initial horror and fear of Edwyn’s stroke, the dark times of uncertainty, towards the gradual re-building of their lives. It’s not a hearts and flowers, Mills and Boon formula, it is a real, grown up, and sometimes tough love. An intense, deep loyalty to her soul mate.

This is the story of most people’s worst nightmare, the debilitation of a loved one. I am fortunate not to have experienced what Grace, Edwyn, Will their son, and the rest of the family went through, but it made me think as her story unfolded, how I would react. How would I cope with everything going on around me? Hopefully I would show her courage, humour and devotion, and deal with the stress in the same way, although I’d probably add a whisky chaser thrown in for good measure.  To add insult to injury she was having to deal with problems at home, which meant that the place where she could try to get some tranquillity from the pressures of the hospital, were occasionally denied to her.  The care that Edwyn was receiving was not always what was expected and Grace had to fight and confront the ‘professionals’ to get even basic routines administered correctly. One of the finest lyricists in pop no longer able to communicate the most simple of sentences (for the time being), as a result of Edwyn suffering from aphasia (a by product of his stroke); the inability to understand or produce speech.

Eventually as Edwyn’s health improved the next hurdle was teaching him how to speak, read, and walk, although remarkably his singing voice remained undamaged, and with the aid of the specialists’ and Graces’ unreserved dedication, real progress was forthcoming. This book is heart warming, tragic, and shows her wicked humour throughout.

The restoration is still ongoing and Edwyn is still making progress. Not from the hand of God, but more the patience of a saint.

Saved by The Jam

Carrying on with the missing words series, this story came to light a couple of months ago and wasn’t included in the book.

In the mid ’80’s whilst plying my percussive trade with Cairo we were sometimes booked to play shows which were somewhat inappropriate for our particular style of music. One such gig took place at a ‘charming’ venue called The Lively Lobster in Sale. I’m pretty certain that at that particular time, circa. 1985, the word Chav wasn’t used in common parlance, but if it was then the OED definition would probably read thus: Chav n. ‘Frequenters of a certain venue on the  outskirts of Manchester’. An acronym of Council House And Violent. Possibly.

We noticed an air of tension from the first note and we quickly realised that this was not our target audience, but rather that we were indeed their target for them to vent their poorly disguised indifference and vitriol towards. As anyone who has been on a stage whether it is to sing, act or play an instrument, the reaction of an audience is very important. You feed off their enthusiasm and feel appreciated to be up there performing for them, and you in turn want to give your best performance in response to this. Unfortunately we couldn’t have felt more unwanted or under appreciated if we had walked onstage and proceeded to disembowel Golden Retriever puppies as an act. We carried on in a professional manner as best we could but at the end we just started to take the piss a little, which made our popularity plummet to new depths of Chilean mine proportions.

We packed the gear down as the last chord was still ringing, as quickly as we could trying not to make eye contact with anyone, but unfortunately a few of the ‘boys’ had come over for a word. I don’t think they were too keen on us, and after a little bit of banter which started off as good natured then escalated and  I think included the questioning of our sexuality and our geographical place of residence (sheep shaggers etc. etc.). I had kept out of it up until now but went over to give solidarity to my mates and to try to get out with heads and tails still attached. As I walked over one of the locals noticed that I was wearing a pair of grey bowling shoes as worn in the past by The Jam. This obviously tripped a switch in his head and in the blink of an eye things turned from sour to sweet as his friends all cottoned onto the fact that I was a massive Jam fan, and that we did have something in common after all. From that moment onwards the lads got the stuff into the van whilst a couple of us upheld the peace regaling tales of the bards of Woking and expressing opinions on The Style Council and music in general. We escaped intact and never went back.

The place has closed down since as I can’t seem to find it listed anywhere. The most up to date notification was of a firework being thrown into the place a few years ago. How apt. That’s  how we felt.

This is the piece that I bought off Gaye and finally received it at Rebellion after a little confusion. She is a very talented artist and this is a unique piece and I am very pleased to own it. I shall now put it on my wall in pride of place.

The Ruin’s first ever gig. We were aged just 15 years old and as you can see by the ticket number there were at least 200 people there. It probably felt like 2000! We steadied our nerves with a couple of cans of lager but it probably made us more shambolic than we actually were. The other handwritten ticket was from an earlier gig which I don’t think we were involved in. The Rhythm evolved into Blitz and Steve and Me went onto be in several bands until 2003.

Line up;

Tim Irrgang  Vocals

Steve Bainbridge  Guitar

Jon Goddard  Bass

Gareth Ashton  Drums

Thank you to Mackie for the ticket photos.