Manchester Evening Coming Down

Rain, too cold for August, hammers down from an unforgiving sky. A damp cotton hood does little to protect my aching forehead from the icy daggers. A waterline has worked its way up my jeans, slowly, like poison creeping towards the young Montague’s heart. My shoes- wet and heavy- are drowned corpses.

I’m not headed anywhere. There’s no reason to be out in this weather, but I walk all the same.

Hands in pockets, I drift through Piccadilly Gardens, my shoulders bump into strangers and I don’t try hard enough to avoid the tsunamis of bus splash wheels. The perverted lights of the amusement arcade pierce the dull night, grotesquely twisting the shadows of old men sharing cigarettes outside a betting shop. Under the concrete archway, Somali boys in brand new baseball caps laugh and huddle close together. A young couple kiss on the low bridge over the fountain, stopping to watch me walk by.

I pretend not to notice.

Bars and restaurants are full of strangers, as alien to me as B-movie atrocities. Lads clad in white t-shirt horror, swagger into the rain, oblivious to all as they shout and sing. Like brothers in a morgue, they all smell of the same cheap fragrance. Further down the road, men in pinstriped suits and no ties, talk on and on about mortgages and their daughters’ university fees and the state of test cricket. Their shoes seem dry- I wonder how they got there.

A beautiful woman rushes past me, her pendulum hips awakening butterflies in the pit of my stomach. A suitcase follows her towards the station like an enthusiastic dog, its wheels slip sliding on the wet pavement. I wish I could go with her too, but she moves faster then my serotonin depleted soul can manage. Soon, she’s out of sight, lost among a crowd of passengers in waiting. By the time I reach the taxi rank, I can’t remember what she looked like.

A left at the Star and Garter takes me into a tunnel’s cobwebbed womb. The flickering of the overhead yellow lights always play tricks on my eyes, conjuring phantom shapes to dance around me. I sit down for a while, finally out of the rain, back against the filthy brick wall of my haunted cave. Happily, I remember a can of beer in my bag. Passing pedestrians sidestep me, as if avoiding a fallen gorgon, careful not to make eye contact. Sipping the cold beer as the trains roll over head, I feel, momentarily, content.

Time travels, cars drive by and more trains pass above me. Two cops in diseased jaundice jackets walk towards me. I attempt to hide the can, but they don’t care either way. They just walk by. Using my hands, I get to my feet. Out of the tunnel now, I climb the hill through the industrial estate where balding men get blowjobs in maroon Cavaliers. Tyres screech as someone makes a get away, or perhaps begins a pursuit- I can’t say. Two whores in tall leather boots and high skirts stand beneath a single blue umbrella. Madonnas in boob tubes. I smile and say hello, but they just scowl and look away- disgusted by an uninvited traveller in this barren land. Unexpectedly, their snub hurts more than a lifetime of averted gazes. “Fucking Cunts,” I mutter under my breath- kicking a puddle and instantly regretting it.

In Ancoates, where the giants once were, amidst the rubble of burnt out mills and crumbling warehouses, kids- with the glowing eyes of hungry foxes- ride by on the back wheels of their bikes. I begin to think about the moon, invisible behind the clouds, and whether it really controls us. Are we just marionettes, twisting at the whim of Dianna’s silver strings? I pick up a litre of whisky from the nearest off licence, deciding that wheat and barley have stronger pulls than any lunar cycle.

The path along the canal is strange and muddy so when I manage to climb down there I’m completely alone. I watch the stadium’s floodlights reflecting in the murky water, which moves just as I do- propelled by a force we can’t understand. I continue my aimless journey. I am Nebuchadnezzar, king of Nothing. Through the lonesome dark and endless sheets of rain, I push onwards towards my kingdom. I’m going Nowhere.

Dayse and Aver Interview

I've started writing occasionally for the Mind on Fire website now, so some stuff will be there and not here. One such article is an interview with Manchester Hip-Hop duo Dayse and Aver, who have just released a rather sick new EP. My review of the record soon to be appearing on www.mindonfire.co.uk 

Review: Trojan Horse

It’s a good job I don’t do this for a living. I was asked to review Trojan Horse’s album weeks ago and am only really getting around to it now. But here I am, typing some words. In order to do so, I’ve decided not to go to work- which, coincidently, is where I do make a living.
Like any ne’er do well, I’ve got my excuses. A big stumbling block has been dark associations that the band’s name has in my curiously fragile life. Some time ago, when my over used collection of asphyxi-cuckoldry videos began to feel a bit stale, I set out in search of a new exciting alternative. I delved the recesses of the human condition (feltch-gasketing, HIV bukake, train track bondage etc. etc.), hoping to rediscover that indescribable thrill of the decadence nouveau or, at the very least, achieve something resembling an erection. For those of you unfamiliar with these passions, be advised, the internet is a dangerous place- particularly for your computer. Within minutes of starting my lonesome journey into the wildernesses of perversion, my PC began to show the first tell tale sign of wear and tear- advanced intelligence. The computer began to think for itself, the curser struggling free of my mouse enabled ownership. I watched in horror as it drifted around the screen for a few moments, before opening my online banking account. It then made several large transfers to the Vatican, only stopping when my overdraft had reached it’s limit. The blue screen came next. Efforts to resuscitate the machine had various degrees of success, but all came to the same end- a series of beeps, several error messages and then a crudely made, and unstoppable, Powerpoint presentation outlining the benefits of the Rhythm Method.

Back in the present tense, I’m currently using a borrowed laptop with several keys that stick (see above paragraph), writing a review for a band which, ironically, shares a moniker with the film that killed my computer. In hindsight, I probably should have given that one a miss.

Trojan Horse kicks off with the rather ecstatic ‘Mr Engles Says...’, which nicely charters out the band’s own manifesto. Tight stylistic changes, lush arrangements and catchy choruses abound here- it is clear that a lot of time and effort went into this album and the results, for the most part, reflect this. The Horse take a no holds barred approach songwriting, bouncing between genres regularly without ever feeling forced. It’s a tapestry of familiar sounds, patched together to make a finished product which is unique and interesting. Not an easy feat. There are, however, moments that let the album down- it occasionally ventures in to blander pop territory with tracks like ‘…And the lights went down’ being less than memorable despite some nice flourishes.

Minor flaws are forgiven, as Trojan Horse have created an album which fully showcases their elaborate sonic spectrum. These 10 songs certainly hint at their reputation as one of the more exciting live bands in the Manchester area (an opinion that I whole heartedly endorse). I’m not sure if they’d like me saying this or not, but there’s a very British feel to this LP, kind of like drinking Liberty Cap tea with the Mad Hatter in the pouring rain. By which I mean to say, the album is euphoric and rich, full on and excessive… it’s likely that too much of it could make you feel a bit ill, but there’s only one way to find out. TH make nods to an eclectic mix of bands, ranging from the Beatles to Mastodon, but manage to mould their own sound throughout. The lasting impression that I got from listening to this album was of a band that immensely enjoys making music and sees no reason to pretend otherwise. Hopefully, I’ve burnt down enough churches not to be kicked out of the Burzum fanclub for finding this joyful approach to music refreshing.

The Cab Driver

Did you tell them that you wanted to put that TV in the boot? No? Well it will be an extra two pounds on top of the fare. Come on, come on- what are you going to do... walk it across town? Get in. Now where to? Hulme? OK, I know the quickest route, we will get you there on the double-you must be eager to plug in your new TV. And what a beautiful machine it is as well.
What's that? You are giving it away? That's the most beautiful thing a man can ever do for a friend. I have given away many TV's myself. But sometimes people won't even take them. For example, recently I wanted to replace my old Sony big screen- 47 inches! So I called friend after friend after friend, but no one would have it. Why? Because it wasn't a flat screen, can you believe it? They would turn down this, only a few years old, because it wasn't the newest. They said it would take up too much space! Ha! Too much space, come on now. Well, since I couldn't get rid of it I put it in the garden shed, so that I could watch it when I'm outside. Perfect!
So now I have a TV in every room as well as one in the garden. My wife just doesn't understand. Women! Ha! Can you believe them? But when she has to go and use the toilet during the middle of Corrie, now she can turn on the little 19” Hitachi I mounted on to the wall. I know she thanks me- but she won't ever say say so. Women. Are you married? No? Well that's good, you're still young. My daughter has just started University, we're very proud. I gave her an old television for her room as well, it was no longer being used and she will need it. My other daughter is much younger, so I start driving early and get home by 3. She has a TV in her room also, never too young, right? She doesn't get the adult channels though, those are just for the living room. Ha! But don't tell my wife! Ha ha ha!
Well we're nearly there, let's hope they are home. Are they expecting you? Of course, of course- you wouldn't just come by with a TV in your arms if they weren't. Only a madman does that! Right?