A return to Berlin (and Zionskirche’s morning wake-up peals, silently pictured above), and some hard changes which will have to remain embedded between the lines. Here’s something to distract you:

So, Wallpaper magazine has joined the fray and made the claim that Montreal is one of the world’s greatest cities to live in (a great design city to be more precise). Along with Spin, Rolling Stone, the New York Times and even Richard Florida’s recent case study, Wallpaper has proclaimed Montreal this year’s urban hotspot. The backlash against this was, as expected, immediate and predictable, exhausted before it even began. Of course they got things wrong (Spin’s map of St. Laurent was off, to say the least) and of course they misrepresented the economy and the politics, and they exaggerated certain facts and obscured others. But by definition they’re puffed-up publicity pieces so why would you expect anything more (or less)? The question to ask is: what is the right way to represent Montreal and why should it matter now? In international urban hierachies, Montreal seems to be the one Canadian city that has consistently edged out TO for the honorific of “city of cool.”

In the same issue, they looked also at Manchester, Stockholm, and Hamburg, three cities I’ve visited on occasion. The issue gave me pause to recollect.

Manchester was a bit of a shock for me, in part because this was a place I had invested so much musical affectivity in (see Manchester post below). From the Buzzcocks to Joy Division to the Smiths and finally to the Stone Roses, to my adolescent self, Manchester was a city which seemed to be Britain’s cultural centre. A dire one at that, but its miserablism was absolute in its effervescence. Manchester was as gray and rainy as I had come to expect. In fact, on my first visit I had lucked out and had hit Manchester at a point where it stayed sunny for days, raining only on the day I left.

Having been back a few more times, the city has acquired a slightly different appeal. I can only imagine what the place looked like prior to 1996 (the IRA bombing) and 2002 (the Commonwealth Games). What has struck me about early 21st century Manchester is that amid all the top-down imposed slabs of sheen and lustre, there’s an irrepressible, bottom-up roughness that still persists, in the people and places. I think there’s a good exposition of this in Dave Haslam’s cultural history of Manchester, Manchester, England: The Story of the Pop Cult City, which, while at the same time it lovingly mythologizes the city, also binds Manchester to its working class heritage in a way that stresses the constant serrating of that sheen by the city’s jagged edges.

Hamburg was nice enough, looking a bit like a cleaner Liverpool in certain places (I’m getting rid of the necessary Beatles connection early on), with a spot of Venice thrown in (Hamburgers (?) will be the first to tell you there are more bridges there than in Venice). After giving a seminar on scenes and subcultures, I spent a good afternoon down around the port, which, once you get used to the scale of the place and enormity of some of the freighters cruising by, is actually not a bad place to while away the remains of the day.

I was also shown one of the hangouts used by the Hamburg Swings, a group of youths who, during the Second World War, fought against the dominant fascist image of proper youthfulness (you might recall the Disney flick about them, “Swing Kids”). To those who’ve written about it, this was an early example of youthful countercultural resistance, which led to the arrest and imprisonment of many of its members. And that resistance was countercultural; it was not organized in the same way it was among swing kids in places like Paris or in the Czech Republic, which were fueled by their own patriotic fervour (what’s fascinating about descriptions of the Hamburg Swings is their emphasis on “English-ness”: they carried umbrellas, used English expressions, listened to the BBC and often carried an English newspaper, cocked ostentatiously in their pockets. Their “English-ness” was seen as an affront to the Nazi’s “German-ness,” and they apparently mocked the official Nazi greeting with “Swing Heil!”).

And, of course, I did the Reeperbahn as well, stopping by for an early evening Chinese meal. Leaving the restaurant, it was clear that the street’s night shift was slowly coming on duty. Perhaps a (im)proper night there might be in order at some point.

Stockholm remains a small mystery to me, having only glided along its surfaces. I’ve done my fair share of plodding about there, but I spent most of my time on the island of Södermalm, the funky chic part of the city, so I can’t speak so much to the other neighbourhoods of Stockholm (though I’ve mentioned other areas in earlier posts). Judging by the number of art galleries, as well as sundry ceramic and design shops, Södermalm knows precisely what its civic purpose is. Only recently has design, to get back to the Wallpaper issue which got me going here, become a conscious part of how it markets itself (to its citizens and the tourists), but it’s definitely flourishing there.

A late podcast for you. Some recent electronic tunes, to keep your mind on things upbeat.

Tracklisting:

1) Vitalic - My Friend Dario
2) Whitey - Leave Them All Behind
3) Mount Sims - No Yellow Lines
4) Out Hud - A Requiem
5) Ada - The Red Shoes
6) Popular Computer - Darling
7) Justus Köhncke - Elan

Iso G.

General | 4 Comments »

The tour ends in Glasgow, where my good friend Jimmy, aka Mark, picks me up at the bus station. It’s good to see him as it’s been many years and I won’t get a chance to see him for a fair few years I’m guessing, his being in the Northern Hemisphere and all. We quickly jet to the local vegan eatery, Mono, and grab some good hearty fare (yes, bean burgers can be hearty). These folks used to be affiliated with the Glasgow landmark The 13th Note, but had a somewhat acrimonious split a few years back (the Note still exists, but distinguished itself from its scorned other by going lacto-ovo on their ass. Sellouts).

Was then introduced to Stephen Pastel, of Pastels fame. Nice guy working in a nicer record shop, to whose coffers I did not contribute, sadly (in fact, I left the UK record-free).

Jimmy then gives me the royal tour of Glasgow’s legendary club scene, which I realize now did not include King Tut’s Wah Wah Hut (Jimmy if you’re reading, this is one glaring omission, for which your hospitality excuses you. Just).

I think there was some drinking in there, too.

Thursday saw us out doing a bit of a walk around and hitting the Centre for Contemporary Art for a coffee. While poking around the bookshop, an elderly lady approached me and asked if Jimmy and I were brothers (okay, we are both shaven-headed, black clothes and square eyewear wearing guys, so you can see the resemblance). It turns out a friend of hers was convinced that we were the Chapman brothers (who should not be confused with these Chapman brothers). We’re not of course, but a bit of flattery means alot to me these days.

Later that night we took in the Pop Quiz at the 13th Note. We did suprising well, and had a commanding lead until we lost out on the open mic to the rappingly good bar man and some other guy who could really throw down, Scot-stylee. We should have won it on a technicality, though, as the host got one of the song ids wrong (claiming it was Howard Jones and not Nik Kershaw who sang “Wouldn’t It Be Good.” That’s not an indication of the difficulty of the questions, as the answer, so you would think, is pretty straightforward. You had to be steeped in your pop history, really, cause knowing the difference between impresarios David Balfe and Bill Drummond was not just splitting hairs).

Friday, we did a half day in Edinburgh (where Jimmy lectures). I wanted to tour the castle, but in a vision that cast me back to under-construction Berlin, the thing was armour-clad in scaffolding. So just a wander round the old town. Later that night, we head off to see some dreadful twee band, who are doing third-rate Postcard Records knock-offs (the singer wearing knee pants, qua Edwyn Collins) mashed with Belle and Sebastian (and the drummer from B&S was in the house). Uninspired, we head off to the Arches (pictured above), for a proper Soul night. Mainly obscure Northern Soul, it was a great night all told (my ankle kept me from breaking out the real dance moves, or maybe it was the lowerback pain, or the cramped calf muscle, or the… I get points for effort, but not effortlessness, I think).

Saturday I finally get my computer in order, which ate up most of the day (I think 10.3.9 has finally sorted out most of the trouble). Had to do it as I was losing stuff all the time, and besides, it was rainy and generally unpleasant out (it is spring in the UK, after all). The night, however, was filled with the sounds of Scottish wedding bells as a friend of Jimmy’s had just tied the knot. I found myself among the young (and youngish) media elite, with radio programmers, graphic designers, animators, musicians and others so inclined. The wedding band was suitably bad, but the DJ saw to it that local heros were heard, including Franz Ferdinand and the cross-generational Proclaimers (”500 Miles” filled the dancefloor with wrinklies and younguns).

Sunday was a great closer. I’d heard the rumours and Jimmy knew I had to try it, so we boiled up a veggie haggis. It was a proper Scottish breakfast, too, with turnips and potatoes, a side of brown sauce, and the local hangover helper Irn Bru.

And no, I never got to have that deep-fried Mars Bar.

An early single from the Pastels would be nicely placed here: I Wonder Why

Iso G.

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Finishing up in Manchester, I headed to Lancaster to see Marc and Christine. I decided on the bus, for monetary reasons and to try something other than the train (in fact, due to rail repairs, it took about the same amount of time as the train anyway and ran more frequently).

Marc and Christine had offered to take me to the Lake District to do some hiking, and a spot of relaxing, which was probably about the best thing for me.

We set out for Seatoller, which by their reckoning is one of the more beautiful parts of the Lake District. The weather, as you might well imagine, was a mix of sun and cloud, a bit cool, and blustery. Probably just about right for a trek through the Romantics’ old haunt. And if that wasn’t enough, the daffodils had begun their springly ritual of fecund ubiquity, dotting every nook and cranny. Surrounded by so many cliches, it was hard not to be overwhelmed at times.

We arrived at Seatoller and we checked into a bed and breakfast, which was a cozy little place recently handed over to a young couple. We met a few of the other good folks who are regulars in the area. Classic English stereotypes, all, as Marc noted. School marm to uptight single Londoner. And we three, the silent, slightly aloof foreigners.

My ankle still tender from the Swedish accident of a few weeks back, we trekked at a somewhat relaxed pace up a few of the surrounding hills. Some spectacular views from there, and me without my hiking gear (to be fair to myself, last time I went hiking with them it was late Spring and the hills were not nearly so damp and muddy).

After some hearty walking, we traveled back towards Lancaster, but not before we stopped in Grasmere, Wordsworth’s burial place. Once a quaint little village, it’s now a quaint little tourist trap. Rife with daffodils, of course.

Upon returning to Lancaster, I slowly tried to put together a half course I’m teaching next year. Not easy when your library is scattered around four cities. Should be an interesting course, revolving around media in the city (oddly enough, it wasn’t my choice, but they needed to slot me in somewhere and this seemed a fit with my interests). Will do that once I get back to Berlin on Monday.

Lancaster over it was then up to Glasgow. Which we’ll save for later.

Rob in Liverpool introduced me to this Austrian artist Gustav, who makes great electronic pop music (reminds me at times of the New Zealand artist Demarnia Lloyd, or even Berlin’s Barbara Morgenstern). Here is “We Shall Overcome”

Iso G.

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A blissfully uneventful journey from Liverpool to Manchester. I arrived early morning and made my way up to Manchester Metropolitan University, where the conference was being held.

But before we get stuck into that, the qualifying intro: When I was a fifteen year old, living in a suburb west of Toronto, bored and fretfully middleclass, I turned on the radio late one night and heard the opening chords of “What Difference Does it Make?” from the first Smiths album. I’d never heard anything quite like it:

All men have secrets and here is mine
So let it be known
For we have been through hell and high tide
I think I can rely on you
And yet you start to recoil
Heavy words are so lightly thrown
But still I’d leap in front of a flying bullet for you

To my still-untuned sexuality, this was a minor personal anthem which set the tone for the way my life would unfold over the next few years. I followed the Smiths avidly, voraciously devouring the 12-inches and the LPs, as did some of my friends. We imagined ourselves the hopeless outsiders, literate, clever, and maybe just this side of gay (as in most North American highschools these were often construed as indistinguishable). Lost on us were the references to Rusholme, the Moors (well, we got those from Bronte and Wuthering Heights, actually - but the Moors murders we knew little about), North/South divisions, the snippets of dialogue from British kitchen-sink realism (The Leather Boys, A Taste of Honey, Billy Liar, etc.).

The value of the Smiths for me was the confessional intimacy which was always masked by a calculated ambiguity (but we knew he was gay - I mean the guy posed with Pete Burns from Dead or Alive, fer crissakes). This was smart and clever pop the likes of which we’d never heard, balancing literate (Mozz) and melodic (Marr - but let’s not forget the other two, Mike Joyce and Andy Rourke, the bass and rhythm section which gave some much needed bounce to songs like “This Charming Man,” “William, It Was Really Nothing,” “Nowhere Fast,” “Shakespeare’s Sister,” and, of course, the stand out “Rusholme Ruffians”). And the packaging? The pantheon of characters that adorned each single was a simple curiousity to us, but each was a magical portent of the interior.

As my own musical taste took hold, I appreciated how that urgency of the first album evolved into something more musically and lyrically intricate, at once self-deprecating and -aggrandizing, and I loved the way Morrissey began to map out his issues with his own increasing fame and pop stardom.

I was fortunate enough to see them live twice in Toronto (at the dreadful Kingswood Theatre). At one show, Morrissey, in a splendid moment of cheekiness, invited a clutch of fans onstage, calling security a “bunch of marshmallows.” There was no going back.

(Live they were incredibly tight, as evidenced by two bootlegs from the mid-80s I’ve been listening to recently. Of course, this was before the booze, coke and heroin habits kicked in. Theirs, not mine).

They finished at the right time, with Strangeways Here We Come, just as I shed my highschool histrionics and moved to Montreal to take up a more anonymous and sedate university life. I lost interest in Morrissey after Viva Hate, and was less intrigued by his racist pronouncements, which seemed a quaintly dated longing for an England of old, designed to shock rather than be clever and slyly provocative, which had always mitigated his English pride before. I had moved on.

Their lingering appeal? They were the ambassadors for English pop for me, with the dreariness of Manchester naively being taken as shorthand for all of England. I would later learn the value of regional pride and know the social import of the Watford Gap. Songs such as “London,” would mean something different, too.

This dimension of the Smiths, the articulation of class and Northern-ness (which was a non-existent reference point for friends and I), was brought home by the Smiths conference in Manchester this past weekend.

The conference itself was a healthy balance of sycophantic obsessiveness (witness the near total domination of paper titles by Smiths’ lyrics) and astute critical observation. I think these two things are what made the conference a success in the end. There were plenty of great papers and some wonderful stories meshed with behind-the-scenes gossip, which made everyone sit up in their seats. I’ll be writing a review of the conference soon enough, so I’ll save the details for that.

Of course, the Smiths Disco on the Friday was a welcome dance event (a whole night of Smiths/Morrissey songs, with maybe a dash of T-Rex thrown in for good measure), marred only by the topless lads who should know to keep their bellies clothed, and the cover band The Smyths, who played on the Saturday, was also notable (actually very good in many ways, posturing and preening in a way which suggested hours studying Top of the Pops performances). The visit to the Salford Lads Club was also worth doing, but I felt that perhaps stopping at the house Morrissey grew up in was a bit gratuitous and intrusive (and I was a mortified by the guy who went and knocked on the door; most people did the sensible thing and stayed on the bus). I missed out on the visit to Strangeways as I had to catch my train to Lancaster (more about that soon enough).

Seeing bits of the 80s Manchester that hadn’t been tarted up with a post-industrial sheen (coming in part after the IRA bombing of Manchester and in part after the Commonwealth Games), it became apparent just how desolate that hillside could be. The Smiths couldn’t exist in the new Manchester, not in Blair’s New Britain. They were a distinct product of Thatcher’s England (where there was “no such thing as society”) and as such spoke, and continue to speak, to that sociohistorical moment in compelling ways, providing overt commentary really, in a style so many other bands sorely lacked. Certainly not the bands who followed (Madchester, etc). The humour and poignancy, clad in a kind of poetic social realism (more evident in those first few songs rather than the later ones), still resonate even today, tapping a long-buried feeling which both the conference and Manchester renewed.

An appropriate tune would be one which honours the Smiths, of course. I chose the Ukranians because they include members of The Wedding Present which were always touted as the inheritors of the Smiths mantle. Here’s their version of Big Mouth

The picture above, by the way, is the iron bridge referred to in “Still Ill.”

Iso G.

General | 1 Comment »

I have landed in Lancaster after a few days of sorting out conferences and settling down to hear some talk of the Smiths (I will say more about the Smiths conference in my next post). Tomorrow to Glasgow.

Let me get you up to speed, slowly, over the next few posts (I promise many adventures).

To begin at the beginning: Leaving Berlin was hellish. Travelling on the S-Bahn to the airport, from downtown to Schönefeld, is usually a 45 minute ride. This time, it took more than an hour, as we stalled about 1 km from the airport. No explanation given. Sweating and trapped, so close, but…. So I was there 25 minutes before my flight, which for Easy Jet is about 5 minutes too late. Told to try tomorrow.

Next day, I try again, deciding now I would take a cab. Same amount of time to the airport via taxi, and now I give myself plenty of leeway with travel time. No real benefit as we get into an accident about half-way there. No one hurt, but my schedule is bruised. I get to the airport exactly 31 minutes before the flight. Last one in the cattle pen which passes for a lounge at the airport (Easy Jet has its own terminal at Schönefeld).

Arriving in Liverpool, I hop on the 80 bus, which takes you into Lime St. Station. Doors shut, engine starts. And promptly stops. What the? We de-bus get on the next one into town. All is well. For now.

Get to Rob and Marion’s place, after a bus ride through some pretty grim neighbourhoods (and this is supposed to be the City of Culture for 2008, remember). They’ve decided that what would really suit me tonight is some angsty German opera. Wozzeck it is, as performed by the Welsh National Opera Company (the image above is from the interior of the theatre). Okay, I’m up for something new and a little challenging (the last version I saw of this had people performing it nude). The set is rather adventurous (a kind of 50s Soviet Kitsch) and the performance is not bad, if a bit muffled. The sound up where we’re sitting is pretty off at times, so we’re following the bouncing ball with the subtitles. At the piece’s climax, we lose the subtitles. We’re done for, I think. Surely a sign. They get them back for the last two lines of the performance. Rob and Marion eye me suspiciously. I may well be emanating some nasty EMR.

As promised, more music, this time a set for those who like to hit things and/or be hit by things: Audio Bits Vol. 2.

Tracklisting:

1) Interlude - Speedway Gas
2) Favorite Sons - That Driving Beat
3) Hollywood Persuaders - Drums
4) Mike Pedicin - The Beat
5) The Beatniks - Beatnik Blues
6) Unknown - Hard Hitter
7) Twilights - Bohemian
8) Tito Puente - Hit the Bongo
9) The Son Of P.M. - James Bond Theme
10) Abba Dabba Doo Song - Tradewinds
11) Surapon - Ding Dong
12) Crazy Cole - Big Noise from Winnetka
13) Li Xiang-Ian - Plum Blossom

Iso G.

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I’ve arrived back in Berlin, no worse for wear (though the train was bumpy enough to allow me only three hours of sleep). The room was diesel-scented which was not a surprise as the car itself dated back at least five decades. A rickety ride, but worth doing at least once. I was only slightly perturbed by the muttering man next door, who I mistook for a mad bomber, but was probably just a German academic.

You know you’re back in the former East Berlin when:

1) Your shower pipes are rotting and leaking and generally depriving you of the pleasure of a warm shower to wash the smell of diesel off your skin.

2) Your kitchen sink pipes are kaput for reasons unknown, leaving you no option but to eat out, which is actually cheaper than eating in.

3) The bathroom sink where you’re supposed to shave gives you only cold water. Let the hurtful scraping begin.

4) It’s grey, cold, and rainy. Remember all those sunny photos from Sweden? No such option here (save for Monday, when I was too tired to appreciate it). And of course, that greyness extends beyond Prenzlauerberg and Mitte.

5) The tenant above you, the one with the dodgy but handy DSL connection, has been unceremoniously ejected from his apartment and left you with his Ostalgie kitsch. Where exactly to put that poster of Honecker?

6) Entrepreneurs in the shop downstairs have been replaced by yet more new entrepreneurs. And so the seasonal occupation continues. Plus ça change….

7) The apartment is so cold you’re thinking about lighting up that coal oven, but would rather not risk waking up dead or dumb.

8) The smell of coal in the air makes you wistful, and maybe a little sick. The last remaining scent of German industry in East Berlin, the lingering aroma of working class-consciousness.

9) The chronically unemployed neighbours continue to drink all day and all night, with vocal abandon.

10) Beer is cheaper than bottled water.

I have to rush out of Berlin again, to take care of some conference business in Liverpool/Manchester tomorrow. I’m busy also trying to work out a book proposal about Montreal and Berlin scenes, which is slowly coming together. It looks good so far, but then it’s just a few rough chapter breakdowns and a sketchy outline. Will do more on it over the next little while. I think it’s the most obvious way to take the dissertation and give a bit more life. At some point, I should relax.

Continuing my love affair with the Go-Betweens, here’s their new single, “Here Comes a City,” and you can find the deadpan video here (probably right near the top). Still an appropriate soundtrack to my life at the moment.

*Note that the above photo of a train arriving in Berlin is not my own. Neither is the one of Bob below, of course.

Iso G.

General | 2 Comments »

A glorious, sunny day in Stockholm. And some good news for me: My ping pong talk was covered in the national daily Dagens Nyheter. What a pleasant way to leave the country. In a few hours, I’ll be on the overnight train to Berlin. I’ve had a great stay in Sweden and I should thank a few people for their hospitality, generosity and camaraderie:

Johan, Helene, Ann, Kyrre, Tobias, Martin, Hillevi, Linda, Cecilia, Magdalena, Costa, Robert, Ove, Vanessa, Karin, and probably others I’ve no doubt forgotten (the many people at ACSIS who I chatted with, however briefly, included).

And I should single out Andreas who was a great help when I needed it most. And a good person to have a few drinks with (and one very expensive scotch).

Thanks all for making a short visit so worthwhile and unforgettable. I wish I could stay longer, but Berlin’s story needs more telling, so off I go.

In celebration of Ping Pong Country, and to complement the image above, here’s a couple of things that’ll get your boogie going:

Ken Craig - Silver Coin
Tex Williams - Sweet Little Boogalie
Roy Hogsed - Rag Mop

The podcast by all accounts is working: Audio Bits. Another one next week, which you can subscribe to by clicking on the link on the left there.

And as an afterthought, Vila H at The Smoking Section turned me on to a beautiful image of Mont Royal’s cross, post-Pope. Really very stunning and quite haunting (even for an atheist).

Iso G.

General | 2 Comments »

Below is my first attempt at a podcast. It’s approx. 30 minutes in length and if all goes according to plan, you should be able to pick this up through RSS feed. Otherwise, check back weekly or bi-weekly and there should be a new show up for your aural pleasure. (Yeah, so it doesn’t work as a podcast. I’ll keep trying, though)

Audio Bits Vol. 1

Tracklisting:

Radio Spot - Hot Summer Nights
Billy Stewart - Summertime
20th Century Steel Band - Shaft
Laila Kinnunen - Kuume
Usha Uthup - Lelo Dil Mera
Debbie Neon - Psycho Killer
Kane Triplets - Mission Impossible
Alan Price Set - I Put a Spell on You
Rose Mitchell - Baby Please Don’t Go
Enoch Light - And I Love Her
Xylos Inc. - Summertime

Yes - it’s a summer theme because I’m bursting out with summer goodness. And yes, they’re all covers.

Iso G.

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A last couple of days in Sweden, before I head back to Berlin. It’s been gloriously warm here and it’s a shame to leave before I see much green. Now, on my way back from Göteborg, I lost my camera (a combination of having too much on the mind and just plain ol’ absent-mindedness), so any posts in the future will be sans photo, or will be culled from the archive (I’ve got some nice Berlin ones which are timeless, so stay tuned for those), or they’ll rely upon the generous soul of someone who can trust me with their camera.

I’m also experimenting with a podcast. It might take some sorting out as this template I’m using is not so XML-friendly. I’ll probably do one a week, restricting length to around a half hour (just right for the commute, for my commuting friends). Good for iPods of course, but you can use ‘em any old way you please. Content will vary, so don’t let the first one fool you. It should be smart, clever, and ironic in all the right places. For fans of the old Rock’n'Roll Radio Root’n'Rot Roundup, you’ll get a sense of continuation, but also some growth (it has been a couple of years, after all. Maybe I should put my DJ voice on again). Should be up by Sunday, provided I can get the enclosures right. Otherwise, it’s just a straight-up mp3 for now.

And of course, you’ll still get “killer” tracks like this one, from Göteborg’s own The Similou and their 80s tribute (Chromeo anyone?): All This Love. Hurray for Swedish pop.

Iso G.

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