I had to drive to Wilmslow to collect the very last tranche of an archive which firstly my father and then I had been dealing with for decades. I was glad I had decided to stay in Manchester, where I was once a student, overnight. The drives were not easy, taking over four hours instead of three each way. I am convinced that most motorway delays are down to drivers who change lanes all the time and do it inconsiderately and those who don’t get up to speed when they come on from the slip roads.
I am not generally a fan of modern or industrial architecture, mostly it leaves me cold at best, but I do like Manchester’s Victorian Gothic. The hotel, the Native Manchester on Ducie Street, showed clever use of space, being a converted warehouse. My room was very comfortable but the atmosphere was rather sterile and austere. There was a lovely barman in the evening, but the receptionist and other staff in the morning were rude to the point of surly, looking as though they wished they were absolutely anywhere else. I have mentioned this to them in response to the inevitable request for a review (it seems to be impossible to do anything without being asked for this these days) but have not had the promised reply.
The bar opened out at the back of the building to a rather shabby outside area with a view of buildings which seemed brutally modern to me.
I took a while to deice whether to crop out the red lightbulbs in the last photo above, but decided they added to it.
It was soon time to head off to my favourite venue, the Band on the Wall. I went there often as a student in the early 1980s and wrote about in Animal Trust. It was where I discovered my profound love of reggae.
Some nights we ventured out from Moss Side to go to a club called The Band on the Wall at the back of Piccadilly. Friday night was usually reggae night and I utterly, utterly loved it. There was a beautiful, chilled atmosphere, a sense of together-ness, and a hint of danger – two Rastas always guarded the gents where the weed deals happened and you had to walk up and wait for them to step aside before you could go in. Sassy, fun, northern girls too.
One night two, tweed-jacketed undercover cops came in – the DJ immediately switched to a track intro which was simply a recording of a police siren (with a bassline underneath of course), just in case anyone hadn’t noticed these absurdly unsubtle interlopers. Baggies were quickly but casually stashed into the gaps in the velveteen-covered benches, everyone was on quiet alert. They left after ten or fifteen minutes, the DJ pronounced “All clear” – and everyone started dancing again.
A local reggae band played another night, all their own songs. Really good. But the pure magic was right at the beginning and I’ve never heard it done so well. One instrument starts it, maybe a light drum beat, then the guitar “Chenk, chenk”, after a bit longer the keyboards, one at a time, taunting you. You knew the bass was coming, the suspense was electrifying, wait, wait, wait, it’s coming … “BOOM”. And with that the whole band unifies (I love how many musicians there so often are, I’ve counted at least eighteen many times) and it all kicks in.
As one of those UB40 Brummies said, it’s the only music that truly moves me. It’s the only music that uplifts me, consoles, calms me. Gives me a sense of oneness. Of course it isn’t for everyone, but I do struggle to trust people who dismiss the entire genre out of hand.
Burning Spear himself, in my view the greatest reggae artist of them all (who also features on my keyring alongside the elephant and the fox) said “reggae music insist”. It is like a drug sometimes – I get a deep, deep need to listen to reggae and it’s a rush and a release when it comes. And as Bob Marley sang, “One good thing about music, when it hits you feel no pain”.
Burning Spear gigs, of which I have been to around twenty, are transcendental, spiritual experiences of utter purity. Spear is Ras Mahatma.
On this occasion I had a ticket for what was described as Bradford nu-soul. It would be unkind to name the two singers, one of whom had a band with a very charming guitarist who spontaneously came over to me for a chat beforehand. The layout of the venue has changed but the friendly, laid-back atmosphere has not. We were in the smaller bar and stage area of the two which the venue boasts. I am not much of a fan of soul music, although there are many exceptions (Marvin Gaye and Otis Redding spring to mind to name but two), but this was not for me at all – the first singer did a decent cover of an Alisha Keyes song and had a good, deep voice, but the rest of her set was just warbling to me. The patter was dire: “This song’s about love. I try to write about other things, but they’re always about love because … well, love’s amazing isn’t it, it’s just brilliant?” And, “This one is about my essence, it speaks to my essence”. Give me strength.
I enjoy the ambience at gigs before the main act comes on, the anticipation, and hate to miss the opening notes.
The second singer seemed to think she was a big enough name to start the set by just humming in the wings for a while as the band noodled away. Again, a decent voice, but it was just more warbling to my ears. I lasted for two songs, at which point she also started talking about being mindful of her essence and how we should all do that. Just a word salad really. Time to go. It was disappointing but I still enjoyed spending an hour and a half or so there.
A somewhat incongruous loch on my way home.
These caught my eye in the morning.
This powerful mural I have found out is by the German graffiti artist Case Maclaim. It’s called “Human Dignity is Inviolable” and was created as part of the Cities of Hope festival.
To my astonishment I was quickly able to find Ghostsigns which tells you everything you could possibly want to know about the advertisement above. The author, like me, at first thought that “Gileric” was a word he simply didn’t know but in fact it’s a conflation of “Gil” and “Eric” which were the names of the two brothers who ran the firm founded by their father H.A. Howard. It seems the sign was uncovered in 1991 and repainted.
To quote from Sam Roberts’ excellent site: “The firm itself was incorporated in the late 1940s, although prior to this the premises were occupied by Howard Alex. and Co, blouse manufacturers, which seems likely to have been related, perhaps under a different ownership structure. They remained in business until the 1980s, although from 1970 renamed themselves as HA Howard and Sons (Gileric), emphasising what was clearly their flagship product.”
The Manchester skyline has changed completely since I was first there and there is a huge amount of construction going on, cranes and building sites are everywhere.
Off to Salford docks, Pier 8 by the Lowry theatre to be precise, for a boat trip on the Manchester Ship Canal and River Irwell. The boat was a bit tired-looking with at least two unusably broken seats on the outside top deck, but I loved the trip, the variety of buildings and bridges and indeed the birdlife, which included a surprising number of Cormorants, as well as ducks, gulls and large numbers of Canada Geese. What follows is really just a photo dump (thanks to one of the other bloggers I follow for that phrase), but I think these are mostly self-explanatory. There are some quite startling juxtapositions of the old and new and a very unusual asymmetric bridge. I didn’t even dislike all of the modern architecture.
The bridge above rises vertically to let bigger vessels through. The canal was an incredible undertaking and feat of engineering, begun in 1887 and costing over £15 million. When it opened in 1894 it was the largest river navigation canal in the world “and enabled the new Port of Manchester to become Britain’s third-busiest port despite being about 40 mi (60 km) inland.” From Wikipedia. I let myself imagine how extraordinary it must have seemed to have ocean-going ships appearing in the heart of the city.
This graffiti made me smile.
The overhanging part of what is now a hotel was for the barges to unload.
I adore Manchester and had not seen it from this angle before. Trips to the north and the Midlands for that matter always remind me that not everywhere is like London with its all too often hostile, suspicious, taciturn, pretentious, miserable- and exhausted-looking, grey-faced people.
Before heading home I had lunch at the Banana Tree, a chain of restaurants I had not tried before. It was delicious. As soon as I tasted the Malaysian coconut curry, I felt transported to Kuala Lumpur and memories of my dear, late friend Willmie Jalius.
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