Dark Satanic Mills?

During my somewhat nomadic existence, I have lived in quite a few places in the UK. From the rolling warm hills of Dorset to the wild Fylde coast, I have experienced some of the many lifestyles available to the lucky citizen of this sceptred isle. I now live in South Manchester, not you would think an obvious choice for the discerning Bedouin, but Manchester is a very surprising city, full of contradiction yet maintaining a comforting traditional side too. I love the fact that it’s full of trees and parks. I always think that you can tell a good city by how many parks it has and Manchester fulfils this criterion nicely. It’s just the right size for my ageing limbs to wander about in and there’s always some kind of art/music festival to go to. Of course the fact that it’s home to some of the best modern music in the world doesn’t hurt either. But most of all (as the genius known as Greg has just reminded me) the thing I love about Manchester is me in it.

What is wrong with these people?

Yes, I know, it’s a little hysterical but I bet it got your attention. The thing is, why do people insist on drinking so much at gigs? If they want to get drunk surely it’s cheaper to go to a pub? Every gig I’ve been to, from George Benson at the MEN to Radiohead at the Cricket Club, has been infested with people who cannot sit still and listen to the music, but must drink the insipid overpriced beer.

What happened to the days when people (old hippies like me) used to go to a gig to listen to the band? People nowadays are so interested in showing themselves off they hardly notice the artist. Perhaps this is why at nearly every gig I’ve been to the band has played a very limited encore, almost like they couldn’t wait to leave. I can’t blame them. The ambient noise at the MEN is atrocious. Soon the artists will have to sign. Shut up, sit down and let me hear the music!

Back in the Smoke

Back in the Smoke

Having avoided the return for over 10 years, I finally broke down and went back to my old haunt over the weekend. A family occasion was the excuse but really I felt like a fake, going back to so many memories and another life (younger, fitter, more optimistic).

London has changed very much for the better. The South Bank is unrecognisable, clean, very chi-chi yet still retaining an “edge”. Saw a lot of new stuff as well as old, I hadn’t seen the Millennium Bridge or the Eye and marvelled at the patients of tourists who on a chilly grey July day queued for hours just to look more closely at the clouds. Ah well, we’ve all done it.

Having said all that, I was not a bit sorry to come home. The pace of life is verging on the comical. Young harassed people rushing and banging into each other. Not for me. Not anymore. Of course London is mainly for the young. Full of promise and excitement, something happening on every corner and life, life, life.

What they don’t tell you is that it’s all a fake. You work longer hours there than in any city in the world (official). Everything is overpriced, from seedy bedsits to the Tube. People lie for fun; that Music Promoter you just met actually works in the Mail Room at the BBC. Very Hollywood in that respect.

You learn to love London for what she is, a tart with not much of a heart.
Having spent 2 days in nostalgia land, I returned to the comfort of Manchester with a sigh of relief. Some thought on Manchester to follow (My Kind of Town).