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I met with my good friend Steve yesterday for a spot of breakfast. Where once we'd have hooked up for a lunchtime pint, these days you've more chance of finding us in the greasy spoon round the corner supping nothing stronger than builder's tea. We were planning our next excursion so dates, locations, bands were all high on the agenda (that and the breaking news that Football Focus has been put out to pasture). Really looking forward to spending a few days away with him again. Our last trip set the bar extraordinarily high so 2026 has got a lot to live up to.  

Returning back to base I took a bit of a detour and stumbled upon the place where they make the sky. Who knew it was made in Leicester? Also, it got me thinking, how many sky songs must there be out there? I have no clue. Rol Hirst mightn't either but pound to a penny I bet he's compiled a Top 10 of 'em. And if he hasn't he should. And if he has and it hasn't got this belter in there, then, I'm sorry, but the man's a damn fool.  

However, dig a little deeper in that barrel (who said scraping?) and you'll find this little curio. It's from 1975 - but you don't need me to tell you that as it's plastered all over the backdrop. And one look at the medallions, the dangerously wide white silk flares and the singing drummer will also alert you to the fact that you've entered another world: a world where chicken in a basket and journeymen cabaret acts collide. I give you... 

Jigsaw - Sky High (1975)

And talking of sky high...

Matt Berry - Toast of London

On the road

Just back from our mini jaunt around the UK. Four gigs in four days. Time to decompress. Thank you again to Steve - my travelling companion and best friend - for what I call the heavy lifting; I sorted out the digs but he did all the driving - some 700+ miles. This tour was was special for me. My way of reconnecting with the world after having lost my mooring earlier in the year. And who better to come away with than my old mucker.

So, a very emotional and spiritual journey. My travelogues in the past have never been wordy; never been flowery. So why change the habit of a lifetime? I'll tell you where we stopped and where we saw the band(s) and, hopefully, the photos will give you a sense of the atmos.

Hebden Bridge, 53.74°N / 2.01°W. Driving up from Nottingham and we're getting our money's worth out of the wipers (it was to be a familiar tale over the next few days). Our billet is a rather boujee Air BnB on the edge of town. We had a couple of drinks in The Albert (a.k.a. The Wellington in BBC's Riot Women), followed by pizza at Sam's, before taking a short stroll to the Trades Club. Last time I was here I nearly got into an altercation with Jah Wobble. Moving on. We were here for the first of XGenerationX's gigs on their whistle stop UK tour. The band were amazing and played a blistering set. We met Mark Laff & Elizabeth Westwood (see my signed poster) afterwards and told them we'd see them tomorrow night north of the border.

Now this project wouldn't have happened without the extraordinary Mark Laff. So much more than a drummer. A band leader if you will, and a bloody nice bloke. He stepped up to the microphone a couple of times during the evening and you could see this meant a lot to him.

Elizabeth was a sweetheart. I was admiring her from afar; though, as you can see, not that far...

It was a genuine surprise to see this man - James Stevenson. He wasn't on the posters; Elizabeth said they didn't know if he could commit to the tour. But at the eleventh hour he gave the thumbs up; after the flyers came back from the printers.

Time to mention my friend Richard a.k.a. Riggsby. Between leaving the gig and walking back to the digs my phone buzzed. Richard had sent me pictures of the band with me looking on taken less than an hour earlier. Richard was texting from his home in San Diego - some five and a half thousand mils away. "Look what I just found on Facebook," he said.

Speaking of Riggsby - this is the letter he got from Generation X's Fan Club back in 1977 c/w a signed photo of the band.

Glasgow 55.86°N / 4.26°W. We broke the journey in Lancaster for some brekka before wending our way. However, we got stuck in the mother of all tailbacks on the M6 during which we played Quixx and ruminated if the band were stuck in the same jam; turns out they were. Eventually got to the Argyll Hotel, not far from the venue; took a stroll thru the Botanic Garden and happened upon a student pub that sold Bellhaven Black and haggis pie. Result. The Òran Mór is a magnificent little club - basically it's the crypt of a church. Another tub thumping set. Elizabeth was wearing Stewart tartan, Steve Norman, on the other hand, was wearing his pyjama bottoms. An hour and a bit and it flew by - this is high octane stuff: the ferocity they put into these songs is phenomenal. The drum intro alone into Rock On would finish off a man 40 years younger.

Speaking to James afterwards and he told us about being in Gen X and touring the final album, Kiss Me Deadly. He also told us that time was tight putting this tour together and that thy'd only rehearsed for three days & was still trying to get his chops round Derwood's guitar part on 100 Punks! 

Time to give young Herbie May a shout out. He's the support for the whole tour and was not phased one iota. He's got some great songs in his armoury and should go far. 

Newcastle 54.98°N / 1.62°W. A quick detour via Moffat for brunch before bombing across to Newcastle. We were stopping in the Travelodge and enjoyed some sensational beers in The Crown Posada and The Wobbly Duck. Just time for a shit kickin' curry down a little side street before jumping in a cab to the other side of the river. Elizabeth had clocked us and whilst thanking everyone for coming out asked who had to go to work tomorrow. "Not these two" she said pointing at me and Steve. Grabbed another quick word with Mark at the end of their set and he confirmed he has had a bust up with Derwood, hence his (ex?) mate wasn't on the tour. 

I'd been looking forward to our breakfast destination for the longest time. We both had grilled kippers & poached eggs (the Breakfast of Kings) at the Quay Ingredient - a caff I'd introduced Ernie to at BlogCon24. 

Leeds 53.80°N, 1.55°W. And so back to West Yorkshire. I told Steve we were hooking up with a blogger friend of mine. We weren't. My James hadn't seen Steve in at least five years (probably longer) and was the surprise guest. Our hotel was opposite a beautiful boozer called The Highland Laddie. A couple in there before we cabbed it to The Adelphi. Walking from the bar to the snug we clinked glasses before James, unannounced, sat next to Steve and said "Alright?" Steve's face was a picture.

To The Brudenell. No pics of House of All, I'm afraid. Six men on stage who all look like me is not what people want to see. Instead I'll show you the support band, Loose Articles. They were terrific. And much easier on the eye.

Maybe I'd just caught HOA on a bad night, but they just sounded perfunctory. Even with, wait for it, three drummers. And Martin Bramah was reading his lyrics all night. Not a good look. A quick post-gig drink in the bar and James Uberated back to the station for the late train back to Manchester. Steve and I too bid a hasty retreat and made our way back to The Holiday Inn. I was jiggered and slept like I'd never slept before. A Full English and plenty of tea next morning and it was time to head home. As you can imagine we deconstructed the trip on the way back and agreed to do it again next year: pick another band and follow 'em round the country. It's the only way to travel.

To Heron back (#3)

I was in Hull yesterday visiting my Auntie Margaret. My dad's younger sister has recently lost her husband, my Uncle Brian. It's very strange visiting her and seeing an empty armchair in the corner of the lounge where Brian has been sitting since they moved in to their modest semi back in 1966. But my auntie has got a fantastic friendship circle so will not be all alone as she mourns her soulmate (they got hitched a week before Margaret's 20th birthday and were married for 67 years).

Whilst driving out of Hull have a guess what I saw? Those bloody Herons are everywhere! 

...

This will be my last post for s few days: I'm going on a wee road trip with my friend, Steve. Remember me telling you about XGenerationX? Well, Steve and I are off to Hebden Bridge tomorrow; followed by Glasgow on Wednesday and Newcastle on Thursday. And then on Friday night we round the week off with House of All at Leeds Brudenell.

It should be a blistering week (after the shitty year I've had it'll be good to slip anchor). I'm really looking forward to hearing Gen X's back catalogue being given a shot in the arm; Steve and I last heard Ready Steady Go, King Rocker et al a couple of years ago when Generation Sex (with Idol, James, Jones & Cook) rocked up at Wolverhampton's Wulfrun Hall.

Must go and pack my bag. See you next week.

Sweet Thing

My friend Steve and I made something of a pilgrimage on Friday. A young rock and roll hero of ours was playing but a stone's throw from London St. Pancras at The Lexington in Islington N1. Making a day (and night) of it we visited haunts old and new before fetching up at one of north London's grooviest live venues.

Gyasi (pronounced Jah-see), as I've mentioned here before, is the embodiment of Glam: he not only walks Glam, he talks Glam. By a process of elimination, therefore, he is Glam. No ifs, no buts. 

Gyasi - Sweet Thing (2025)

Are you having a Turkish?

Mark Laff (right) up against the wall

If you were to believe Wikipedia (file under 'unreliable witness') then Mark Red Laffoley b.19.5.58 is a retired English rock drummer. Pah! Mark Laff, for it is he, best known as the tub thumper in Generation X, is going out on tour this November under the snazzy moniker XGenerationX (see what he did there) playing all the best bits from their first two albums - the blistering eponymous debut and (the Ian Hunter produced) Valley of the Dolls. (As good as it is, the third one doesn't really count,)

Below is the itinerary c/w who he's going out on the road with: no Rob Derwood Andrews, sadly, but Elizabeth Westwood (she and Derwood were Westworld in the late 80s). Also the sax player from Spandau(!) - now on guitar - and some other gadgie on bass. It should be a hoot. 

Having seen both Generation X (in 1978) and Generation Sex (2023) - Billy Idol, Tony James and half the Sex Pistols - this will be the third iteration of a band that I thought (and still do think) absolutely defined the New Wave. (Older readers will know the new wave was no longer new after 1979.) So that in itself gives you an idea of the demographic, their core support, who will likely turn out for this tour. Well, there's me and Steve for starters - a sprightly 64 & 63 respectively. And I don't think for one minute we'll be the oldest people in the room; as we're going to three shows on the tour we'll be able to conduct a straw poll. I shall, of course, report back later in the year with our findings.

All of This Awaits You

Last night was special. Steve came up. We'd got a pair of tickets to see Swami a.k.a. John Reis a.k.a. Speedo. He used to be the frontman for Rocket From the Crypt. We used to follow them all over; back when we were both fit and well (if you had have eavesdropped on us in the bar beforehand you'd have heard us exchanging war stories and the medical demons both of us are currently dealing with. A trouble shared and all that). But we won't dwell on such matters.

The band - full moniker Swami & The Bed of Nails - were playing Nottingham's legendary Boat Club. And they were sensational. Off the f**king charts. Plugging their latest album - All of This Awaits You, comprising nine songs and weighing in at just 23 minutes - it's probably one of the finest recordings Reis has ever put his name to.

This is from earlier in the year in Philadelphia (and with a slightly different lineup) but you certainly get the picture. Watch the band as Reis finishes his Popeye impression and they prepare for the onslaught they are about to unleash. A small snatch of Doo Wop a Capella before that first power chord hits you like a truck. I don't think I've ever seen a tighter band than this. As I texted Ernie Goggins this morning (he's a Londoner) they're playing in Hackney on Saturday night. You really should go.

Swami & The Bed Of Nails - Do You Still Wanna Make Out? (2024)

 

"STAY IN YOUR HOME!"

Faye*

I rang my best friend, Steve, this afternoon. Like me he's almost at the end of his rope with the lockdown; but needs must when the Devil vomits in your kettle - as a wise man once said. We listed all the things we miss (I'm guessing you do the same thing too) and how once this bloody war is over we'll never take anything for granted again (though in time, of course, we will).

Steve has a daughter* currently living in Vancouver and he's missing her, I can tell. I miss James like crazy and he's only in Manchester - though to all intents and purposes Manchester may as well be in Canada - the way this pandemic has confined us all to barracks. 

We always end our calls shouting "STAY IN YOUR HOME!" in our most demented of voices. It comes courtesy of the Stranglers' Curfew lifted from their Black & White album. You should try it; it's very cathartic. We've been doing it that long we probably won't be able to stop ourselves, even in peacetime.

The Stranglers - Curfew (1978)

1979

It's long been acknowledged, between me and Steve anyway, that the 70s actually started in 1968 and probably kept going till around mid-1983. Culturally, musically definitely, and sportingly - mavericks ruled the world in concert halls and football grounds the world over. So when you talk about 1979 be under no illusion that the 1970s still had plenty of gas left in its tank.

Some stonking albums came out in '79. I particularly remember buying Joe Jackson's Look Sharp, Valley of the Dolls by Generation X (produced by Ian Hunter), this classic by Graham Parker and The Damned's Machine Gun Etiquette. It was also the year In Through the Out Door - Led Zeppelin's swan song was released, and the Clash's eclectic mixed bag, London Calling.

Tom Petty was busy too. Together with his band the Heartbreakers, he released Damn the Torpedoes the day before his 29th birthday. And if you were to press me for one song from today's featured year (go on, press me) I reckon it would have to be this:

Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers - Refugee (1979)

Square Route

A midweek smash and grab raid on that London yesterday. Quality time spent in the company of Brother Mondo and Brother Steve. We zoned in on some of the West One Squares with Beatles and Bowie connections. And nearby pubs too. Obvs. First, the EMI Building in Manchester Square and, just around the corner, is where David Jones was snapped reading all about it. We volunteered a German passer by, showed her Bowie's pic and asked her to recreate same; despite a bit of camera shake, I think we just about get away with it.

Staying in the same zip code you then come across Montagu Square - it's actually a rectangle - and situated at No. 34 is where John Lennon holed up for most of '68. It's not Strawberry Fields, but it's got a blue plaque outside, nonetheless. 

A huge thank you to the boys for another great trip to the capital. Let's do it again in the Summer.

Hunter gatherer

Ten things you need to know about Ian Hunter:

* He was 29 when he joined Mott The Hoople.

* That's why he's 77 now - nearly as old as my dad. Just for the record, my dad was never in Mott The Hoople.

* He sings in a fake Cockney accent - hailing, as he does, from Herefordshire. That's nearly in Wales.

* His sunglasses are fixed to his head with No More Nails.

* Hunter is actually his middle name. I think it's got something to do with tax.

* He's prickly. Very prickly.

* He invented the Sex Pistols. Seriously. Listen to this if you don't believe me.

* I saw him play The Running Horse in Nottingham the day after Diana died, and he insisted on a minute's silence before the gig started.

*   'Ships', the song he wrote about his father, was recorded by Barry Manilow. I know, hard to get your head around, isn't it?

* Hunter has just released an eye watering 30 CD anthology. It's called 'Stranded in Reality'. You really should go out and buy a copy. Apart from 'Once Bitten, Twice Shy' and a booklet containing 841 photographs of him in his sunglasses (most of them taken indoors and/or at night), you'll find this favourite of mine:

Ian Hunter : Death of a Nation

For Steve

Behind (10) Bars

English pubs may well be closing at a rate of 20+ a week but, in all fairness, a lot of those falling by the wayside had probably outstayed their welcome anyway. That's not to say that a few babies haven't been thrown away with the beer slops, but, if you don't use them, you'll lose them. Nothing's so sure.

Here are ten that I've used on numerous occasions over the last few years (with a couple of exceptions) and each and every one has a certain quality that makes a return trip a necessity, not an option. That they all sell sensational beers is a given. No, what makes these establishments the real deal often won't get mentioned in beer guides and bucket lists of hipster bars you must visit before you die.

Without further ado then, here are, in no particular order, my ten favourite pubs/bars in the UK (well, nine, actually - the tenth being an honorary English pub which sneaks under the wire, in what I will have to refer to as the Overseas Section).

And, so that you know, this is not a forum for gushing five hundred word critiques. I will endeavour to sum up each hostelry in no more than a couple of sentences.

* Knott Bar, Manchester

The Number One Son lives in Manchester and, for me, going in this cracking little boozer on Deansgate is synonymous with seeing James. Added to which they've got a splendid Ramones tour flyer on the wall, and their fish finger sandwiches are to die for.

* The Harrison, London WC1

It's no secret that my former business partner and I named our company after George Harrison. So it was hardly a coincidence that when we were working (or playing) in London we sought out this hidden little gem tucked away behind the Grays Inn Road. And we still go back to this day.

* The Lamb and Flag, Worcester

This is now the only pub on the British mainland where I'll drink Guinness. The snug at the back is like stepping back in time, and, I'm told, Robert Plant has been known to slide in for a dust cutter.

* The Baltic Fleet, Liverpool

There are two pubs on this list that I've only been to the once and this is the first one. This beautiful little drinking establishment is home to the Wapping Brewey. And they hold an annual sea shanty festival - but don't let that put you off! We're trying to schedule a return visit later in the year.

* The Black Horse, Whitby

If you're a shrinking violet or you're seeking anonymity in a backstreet boozer, this little drinking den in the old own probably isn't for you. You sit cheek by jowl with fellow patrons so getting embroiled in a lively discussion is as natural as walking up to the bar to get the next round.

* Reid's Bar, Lurgan

In my humble opinion this diamond in the rough - Lurgan is not a pretty town - would not be everyone's cup of Nambarrie.  But, if you can, prise yourself away from Belfast, take the (not so fast) train twenty miles into Co. Armagh, disgorge at Lurgan, make your way to Reids and get Raymond Murray to stand you a pint of Smithwicks. Tell him I sent you.

* The Crown, Belfast

Or to give it its full moniker - The Crown Liquor Saloon. When the IRA were blowing up the Europa Hotel for fun back in the seventies, The Crown, which stands directly opposite, never had so much as a cracked window pane. And what (stained) window panes they are. It's owned by the National Trust these days a so that makes it a real treasure, indeed. You'll find me in the third booth from the front door.

* Room With a Brew, Nottingham

Nottingham's newest addition to the micro pub scene and one that we only discovered for the first time a couple of weeks ago. The beers, from Scribbler's Brewery, are all literary themed and the walls are adorned with images of Penguin paperbacks. We went in for one and came out four hours later - says it all really.

* The Adelphi, Leeds

Leeds may or may not want to be part of the Northern Powerhouse. What it really wants is more pubs like the Adelphi. Again, when James was billeted in Leeds for eighteen months I would often meet him in him here for a couple after work; so a sentimental choice maybe, but you'll struggle to find a better pint of Leeds Pale in the city.

* The White Horse Tavern, Greenwich Village

A pretentious choice, I grant you, but if I lived in Manhattan I'd probably make it my local. Dylan Thomas used to hold court in there. Bob Dylan freewheeled in there many a time. Next time you're in New York City be sure you give it a coat of looking at.

Almost perfect

We're having a shindig tomorrow. We don't throw parties very often, so I'm really looking forward to dressing up, splashing some Brut 33 on and playing mein host for the night. It'll be perfect, I know. Well, almost; despite there being some very special people on the guest list (and there are, believe me), one person who I really wanted to be there there sadly can't make it. He rang me today from the bed he's not shifted from in the last seven days: the quack's ruled him out of action and told him he's going nowhere for the foreseeable. Get well soon Steve - I need you up here.

Lightning Seeds - Perfect