GRAHAM DAY & THE FOREFATHERS, THE HIGHER STATE and THE AARDVARKS at the BETHNAL GREEN WORKING MEN’S CLUB

When Graham Day, Allan Crockford and Wolf Howard reunited to play as The Prime Movers at the Blues Kitchen in May – and then tore a whacking great hole through Day’s songbook – it got Day’s juices flowing after a five year absence. What started as a couple of special shows under a previous moniker has now developed into something hopefully more substantial: a new name, a fresh start but - for now at least - familiar songs from The Prisoners, The Prime Movers, The SolarFlares and The Gaolers.

First up though, taking a similarly nostalgic approach to the Forefathers, were 90s Mod scene attractions The Aardvarks. Cherry Red this year issued Sinker, Line & Hook: The Anthology 1987-1999, which by accident or design has prompted the Ealing dandies to rekindle former glories. Always taking from a slighter later sixties period than their closest rivals The Clique, The Aardvarks dusted off their old Wimple Winch, Easybeats, Fleur De Lys/Sharon Tandy and Who covers but these were overshadowed by their own material, especially “Buttermilk Boy” and the Graham Dayesque “I Threw Her A Line”.  

The band may sport a few grey hairs these days - singer Gary is now less Scott Walker and more Roy Walker (please forward all complaints/credit for that remark to Mrs Monkey, I’m in no position to comment...) – but they did enough to bring back memories of their amazing 1995 Barcelona gig which still gets talked about along the length of the Uxbridge Road. There was surprisingly no “Arthur C. Clark”, which I always think of as their signature song, but maybe next time.

The Higher State also look back but not to their own past. Marty and Mole, as half of The Mystreated, played on bills with The Aardvarks at the St John’s Tavern and Boston Arms twenty years ago but now showcase tracks from their fourth album, The Higher State (matching the score of their previous combo). With chiming guitars and three-part harmonies they gained in momentum, switching between unadulterated folk-rock and intelligent garage-punk. By that I mean avoiding the usual “running round town/tryin’ put me down” garages clichés, although as Marty acknowledged when muttering an introduction to “Potentially (Everyone Is Your Enemy)” there is seldom an upbeat message. “Always so negative,” he sniggers.

Watching The Higher State finish off with a blissfully sunny sounding “Song Of The Autumn” was to be transported to Los Angeles in ’66, to the Troubadour, to the Whisky A Go Go – a far cry from a scuzzy, down-at-the-heel East End working men’s club in 2013.

I expected Graham Day & The Forefathers to romp through their collective back catalogue and that’s exactly what they did. The Prime Movers’ “Good Things”, followed by the lesser-spotted Prisoners B-side “Promised Land”.  There were Gaolers songs (“Get Off My Track”) and a handful of SolarFlares numbers (“Mary”  etc.).

The absence of an organ didn’t matter (I could still hear one in my head) as the Medway powerhouse trio drove through in typically hard hitting style. Day, crunching out his riffs, his purple shirt soaked through to the skin, gets top billing but Crockford and Howard’s contribution to that sound should never be underestimated. They crashed, banged and walloped anything and everything within striking distance. It would’ve been easier to bash a hole in a prison wall than find a weakness in these monumentally tough slabs of songs. There was no let up. A quick catch of breath and then BANG, off again.

I wasn’t taking full notes as I didn’t want the distraction but jotted down the Prisoners ones as I knew I’d forget. “Better In Black”, “Creepy Crawlies”, “Whenever I’m Gone”, “Be On Your Way”. They kept coming. “Hurricane”, “Love Me Lies”, “Coming Home”. I only had a small scrap of paper. “I Am The Fisherman”, “Reaching My Head”. Blimey. And then the finale, “Melanie”. Not only were people cheering, they were dancing. At a gig. In London. Is this allowed? Incredible scenes.

Next stop is back to the old Prisoners haunt of the 100 Club on Saturday 8^th February. It’ll be great like this was. There’s no immediate rush for new songs as there’s enough oldies to chop and change but on this form it’s a tantalising thought for the future. 

JOHN SQUIRE: CELEBRITY at the IDEA GENERATION GALLERY

No matter what John Squire does he’ll always be best known as the art-dabbling guitar hero who helped alter Britain’s musical and cultural landscape after the post-Smiths wilderness years. His plasticine jigsaw globe on the sleeve of Do It Yourself is almost as iconic as his riffarama on “Love Is The Law” or “Happiness Is Eggshaped”. But there is more to life than The Seahorses, as this new exhibition of paintings show.

His illuminating collection of completely new works examines how modern Western society’s idolisation of celebrity culture has devoured our traditional symbols of salvation and replaced them with new gods. Not my words, as you can tell, but from the gallery’s blurb. It then goes on about Babylonian Star Cults and Ancient Sumerians before losing me completely. Squire more helpful says “It’s a brief respite from the endless bombardment of celebrity images. It asks: How often do we really need to see copies of complete strangers’ faces, and why do we collectively choose those particular people?”

The works are all abstract representations of household names, often composed using eight pointed stars to create a mosaic feel. Although it’s near impossible to guess from the paintings who they represent (it’s tempting to try), once you read the caption, the recognition slowly dawns: Sugar Ray Leonard’s boxing-glove-red supernova; Lindsay Lohan’s shambolic scribbled mess; Cheryl Cole’s thinly decorative fluff; a disintegrating Woody Allen; the dark claustrophobic descent of Richard Pryor; Phil Spector’s swirling madness; and, as they used to say on television commercials for albums of all your favourite pop hits, many many more. I couldn’t fathom Alison Steadman (above) but if I were her I’d buy it (£6000) to hang over the fire place, Jock Ewing style. It's testament to Squire all his images live longer in the memory than anything carrying the same name in the Sunday tabloids.

Now, how about another Seahorses record? The gap’s nearly been as long as the one between albums by that other group.

John Squire: Celebrity is at the Idea Generation Gallery, Chance Street, Bethnal Green, London, E2 until 3rd July 2011. Admission free.

FRANKIE & THE HEARTSTRINGS at the BETHNAL GREEN WORKING MEN'S CLUB

My finger is nowhere near the pulse of up and coming bands. My hand stays tucked in my pocket, nice and warm and cozy, only occasionally poking for life in the chilly outside world that left me behind over a decade ago when I hung up my “indie DJ” headphones.

But now and again a band cross my radar and catch my attention. Frankie & The Heartstrings are one. To start with, I like their name - it has a ring of Wigan Casino about it. I like they mention Mike Leigh’s Naked in one of their songs and watch Ken Loach films on their tour bus. I like their forthcoming LP is named after Knut Hamsun’s Hunger. I like they are from Sunderland, free from associations with the usual tired cities. All these things score heavily in my book without them even playing a note.

I’m conscious I’m twice the age of most of those here to see them. Predicting this would be the case I shaved before leaving the flat, removing the festive white whiskers from my stubbly chin. It took weeks off me. As I hover around the edges of the club I’m hoping the hip young scenesters think I’m the cool mysterious head of Pieface Records. Instead I bet those even seeing me think I’m the bass player’s – hopefully groovy - Dad. Maybe I could pass for the guitarist from a half remembered Brit Pop band? “I used to be in The Bluetones don’tcha know.” On second thoughts, “that’s my son up there”.

Up there, the Heartstrings and Frankie do their thing and do it well, mixing infectious twitchy pop with epic torch burners. Singer Frankie Francis adopts two stances: a camp spasticated dance that’s less Ian Curtis and more Freddie Garrity for the bouncy songs, and the pained furrowed face of the crystal meth woman for the wounded soul numbers. The later style is more impressive. Not the face but the thoughtful romanticism of “Fragile”, “Ungrateful” and the brass backed “I Want You Back” which elevate them above the latest Orange Juice obsessives. Edwyn Collins’s son is manning the t-shirt stall, which makes perfect sense. It’s all good yet falls short of being exceptional or offering anything unique or inspiring – they’re simply a decent pop band. Nowt wrong with that, and one or two "make it" for a brief moment, but I’m not going to sign them to Pieface. Without a huge investment I can’t see where I’d get my money back (although having Steve Lamacq, Simon Price and Ryan Jarman among the hundred people in attendance on a freezing Monday night suggests they’re being backed by someone). Even megabucks Peter Jones got his fingers burned with Hamfister on Dragons’ Den.

Fortunately for the Heartstrings they’re signed to Pop Sex Ltd/Wichita and don’t need my investment, so I’m out. I shall invest in their album though and play it through the spring when I’m doing the washing up and sing along, annoying Mrs. Monkey with my tuneless caterwauling and incorrect lyrics. I’ll spot them on Later With Jools Holland and go all sniffy because I saw them ages ago and they were better then. In July they’ll open for Pulp in Hyde Park and all us Heartstringers will claim them as our own. Then they’ll get forgotten about, eventually knocking out a second album that I’ll never listen to. Finally, before you know it, some old git is saying “I used to be in Frankie & The Heartstrings don’tcha know” and no one will be any the wiser.

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THE MODERN TOSS LONDON MUSEUM OF URBAN SHIT-NAKS EXHIBITION

I like a bit of art, don’t mind an occasional poem, like well placed swearing, like scooters and dislike coffee drinkers. So dig the new additional to the walls of Monkey Mansions featuring the Drive-By Abuser character from the Modern Toss comics (click on it to read). It’s just one of many brilliant potty-mouthed creations from the inspired minds of Mick Bunnage and John Link.

It’s not often you hear laughter in galleries but that’s what you get at this exhibition, featuring alongside our Drive-By Abuser: Mr Tourette the Master Signwriter; Alan the sociopathic scribble; the small talk stalling Cheese and Wine blokes; ridiculous work scenarios; pointless arguments in space; giant flies and all manner of social commentary battened down with a liberal sprinkling of swear words.

Limited edition signed and numbered prints start from £35 and one-off originals for more. Got that, yeah?

The Modern Toss London Museum of Urban Shit-Naks Exhibition is at the Maverik Showroom, 68-72 Redchurch St, London E2 until 4th July 2010. Admission free.

RAY LOWRY: LONDON CALLING at the IDEA GENERATION GALLERY

The Clash’s London Calling is a classic case of an album being spoiled by carrying too much flab, excess baggage and a suffering from a puffed out sense of its own importance. Move “Train In Vain” to side one, drop “Jimmy Jazz”, bin sides 3 and 4 completely and hey presto – they’d have had a decent record.

The sleeve though can stay. Designed by Ray Lowry and using Pennie Smith’s blurry photo of Paul Simonon it’s as good an album artwork as you’ll find. Using that as a starting point, 30 artists, performers, writers and assorted odd bods have donated new works to be auctioned to raise money for the Ray Lowry Foundation which provides funding to aspiring art students.

John Squire goes for a numbered cube painting, Tracey Emin describes first hearing the album, Harry Hill displays a hitherto unseen artistic flair with a large oil painting of The Clash bedded in the earth, Mick Jones and Paul Simonon offer pieces, Clash road manager Johnny Green pens a personal tribute (see above), Ian Wright’s (not that one) torn paper collage is a highlight as is Lennie Payne’s version of the cover produced on – wait for it - twelve slices of toast.

Ray Lowry died in 2008 and many examples of his inky sketches for the NME and the others are exhibited and offered for sale (they don't do anything for me mind). You’ve until 1st July to bid for the others.

Ray Lowry: London Calling is at the Idea Generation Gallery, 11 Chance Street, Bethnal Green, London E2 until 4th July 2010, admission free.

DEAD FINGERS TALK: THE TAPE EXPERIMENTS OF WILLIAM S. BURROUGHS at the IMT GALLERY

Before my thoughts, here are extracts from the IMT press release:

“Dead Fingers Talk is an exhibition presenting two unreleased tape experiments by William Burroughs from the mid 1960s alongside responses by 23 artists, musicians, writers, composers and curators.

Few writers have exerted as great an influence over such a diverse range of art forms as William Burroughs. Burroughs, author of Naked Lunch, The Soft Machine and Junky, continues to be regularly referenced in music, visual art, sound art, film, web-based practice and literature. One typically overlooked, yet critically important, manifestation of his radical ideas about manipulation, technology and society is found in his extensive experiments with tape recorders in the 1960s and ’70s. Dead Fingers Talk: The Tape Experiments of William S. Burroughs is the first exhibition to truly demonstrate the diversity of resonance in the arts of Burroughs’ theories of sound.

Inspired by the expelled Surrealist painter Brion Gysin, and yet never meant as art but as a pseudo-scientific investigation of sounds and our relationship to technology and material, the experiments provide early examples of interactions which are essential listening for artists working in the digital age.

In the case of the work in the exhibition the contributors were asked to provide a “recording” in response to Burroughs’ tape experiments. The works, which vary significantly in media and focus, demonstrate the diversity of attitudes to such a groundbreaking period of investigation.”

Got that? Now, it would make sense to have the Burroughs recordings at the beginning and then to see/hear the replies afterwards but that isn’t how it is. His two tape experiments are near the end amidst a bunch of the replies playing one after another so you need a degree of patience to get to them. There is no information displayed: nothing about how and where they were made but I’ll presume they were made at the Beat Hotel in Paris with Ian Sommerville and Brion Gysin but Burroughs would conduct tape experiments until the late 70s – chopping up the order of his texts, playing parts backwards, making new words, and creating a hypnotic and disorienting effect on the listener that he believed could be used as a weapon of control.

The responses range from mildly interesting to downright pathetic. One is a blank monitor screen. Yeah, clever. Another is two black buckets of water. Get over yourself. The rapid cut multiple spilt screen video images by o.blaat with a slurping soundtrack has a Burroughsian effect and a hanging sculpture by David Burrows and Simon O'Sullivan (Plastique Fanstastique “Yage-Cat-Demon Shrine”) at least has a bit of thought and effort but the majority of exhibits simply expose smug self-satisfaction and a sorry lack of imagination - an accusation that could never be leveled at Burroughs himself.

Dead Fingers Talk: The Tape Experiments of William S. Burroughs is at the IMT Gallery, Unit 2, 210 Cambridge Heath Road, Bethnal Green, London E2 9NQ, Thursday-Sunday 1200-1800 until 18th July 2010, admission free.

PADDY ROBERTS - THE BALLAD OF BETHNAL GREEN

Been a quiet week so here’s something for the locals. Local, that is, if you live in this part of East London (can’t stand it when people call it “the East End”, sounds so contrived). Anyway, this sprightly little ditty by Paddy Roberts won an Ivor Novello award in 1959. The references to rock ‘n’ roll, drainpipe pants and chewing gum nicely tie it to that year. Oh, and look out the album sleeve at 1:20…

VIKTOR WYND'S LITTLE SHOP OF HORRORS

“Just popping down the road to the shops, do you want anything?”
“Yeah, can you get a pint of milk, toilet rolls, a pickled puppy, a two headed snake and some pig snouts painted gold?”
“Yeah, cool, see you in minute”.

As shopping lists go, that looks tricky but not if you know where to go and can summon up the courage to enter the Little Shop of Horrors on the border of Bethnal Green and South Hackney. This part of East London is generously populated with interesting independent shops and galleries but none quite as off the wall as this. The sign on the door warns folk offended by death and decay to keep away and they’d be well advised to heed that warning. Shrunken skulls sit next to bones which sit next to medicine jars which are gazed upon by dead animals and birds. Then there are books, bizarre toys, flannels with “Cuntface” embroidered on them, and heaps of bizarre curiosities I couldn’t quite fathom.

The pickled puppy, the two headed snake and the gold pig snouts were all in stock and although sorely tempted by a stuffed monkey I only bought a pirate ring. It was neither owned by a pirate nor made from one, but if you want to buy a ring made from a pirate this would be the place to look.

The shop is run by The Last Tuesday Society who are “devoted to exploring and furthering the esoteric, literary and artistic aspects of life in London and beyond”. Count me in.

And after all that, I forgot the milk.

Viktor Wynd’s Little Shop of Horrors at The Last Tuesday Society, 11 Mare Street, E8. Open seven days a week from noon until 7pm.

"KEEP YOUR SOPHISTICATED MUSING BEHIND CLOSED DOORS"

Last week I was impressed by the antagonistic and provocative manner the artwork depicting Josef Fritzl was displayed in a Bethnal Green shop window (see below). This week I’m less impressed by the seemingly yellow-bellied ease they rolled over and capitulated from the inevitable backlash.

Was it hordes of frenzied torch burning Cockneys storming the barricades in furious indignation? Er, no. The work in question has been replaced by this (admittedly funny) missive from a semi-literate “London resident”. And I quote: “To whom it may concern, If the picture of Hans Fritzel is ment to be ironic, then it is in extremely bad taste. Please keep your sophisticated musing behind closed doors. This is not appriate for a shop window. Name blanked out. (London resident)”.

The lipsticked “Fuck you Fritzl” has been smudged to read “Love you Fritzl”.

Trips to the off license have scarcely been so entertaining.

Neon and All Things Electric @ Neon and Sign Writers.Com, 278 Cambridge Heath Road, Bethnal Green, E2