Heart of a Punk Soul of a Rasta

The Methodist Central Hall, Manchester 27th May 2011

The Bereft, The Inane and The Unintelligible

I'm a parochial sod. This goes without saying. Firstly I THINK of myself as a son of Wolverhampton and second as a Black Country boy born and bred. Thirdly I'm a Midlander and fourthly a Little Englander. Then finally, and only when the occasion dictates - which it never does - I'm British. Outside of these unimportant and fanciful points of reference I'm nothing. I don't THINK of myself as European, or as a World Citizen, or as part of the Empire or part of a Commonwealth. No, I'll leave that kind of mindless bollo for the fascists.

So with my parochial persuasions you might be forgiven for thinking that I'm jumping up and down in protest at the idea of Second City Status being stripped from my beloved Birmingham and handed over to Manchester. But this is not so. How can I defend the indefensible? Manchester should be the second city of England, only raw emotion, unintelligible passion and parochial self-interest could argue otherwise.

Manchester second only to London? Definitively. Let's forget about the football and the art and the vibrancy and the music and everything else that Manchester out trumps Birmingham in for a second. For me wondering around the streets locked inside the Ring Road, killing time before The Kills, Manchester seems more like a major German city, more like Saarbrücken or Munich than a city in Northern England. The people are escaping now, through China Town and through the Pink Village, suited and booted and walking rather too quickly, and with far too much intent. They flail their arms about to gain more speed as they're buffeted by the wind that blows through the vast grids and corridors of Manchester. The wind dishevels un-gelled hair and flaps at loose clothing. Still the stilted procession moves on, in well-defined rows, on overly wide pavements, beneath Manchester's oversized structures. And that is exactly what Manchester is, oversized.

Manchester specialises in dwarfing dehumanising structures, nothing has any finesse or intrinsic beauty, only craft and know how; everything is gargantuan, thick, solid and impenetrable. If Manchester was placed in the centre of a conventional war it would become another Stalingrad. Row upon row of solidity would need to be ground into brick dust before it could be mastered. It is unquestionably the second city of England on grounds of solidity alone, and it is important that it should be made so. Manchester's structures and streets say more about the people who dwell here than the buildings and environs of Birmingham say about its inhabitants. The structures of Manchester are massive and for the masses, grand but not grandiose, stately, for the state.

But it's the sound of Manchester that for me makes it the second city of England. There is a sound in Manchester, a sound you need to wait for. You have to wait for the trains and the trams to drone by and the cars to fall silent. You need to be patient while a filthy grey pigeon claps its wings all the way from the viaduct arch to the canal bridge. You need to find a moment of silence when the inane shout of a drunken fool and the sudden burst of laughter that follow it have subsided. Then for a split second you can hear Manchester. I guess it's the sound of the north wind blowing down on the city from the moors - a sound as brief and as unfeeling as a bullet passing through the air. And the sound never seems to alter, its constant as it passes through each and every crack and fissure and confluents in Manchester's oversized structures. It's a curious sound to behold, nothing a dimwit like me could possibly put into words. But it's there if you want to hear it for yourself, all you need to do is wait for the moment, and listen. Manchester can't be silent.

Prior to The Kills coming on stage we were bombarded with a right old eclectic mix of stuff. One amongst this mêlée of music was "Gut Feeling/Slap your Mammy" by Devo. Now I don't have gut feelings any more when I set out to see bands play anymore. I suppress any expectations or requirements and try to turn off the very little intelligence I have left. I simply turn up open to receive. Tonight my gut feelings should have been tickled into action though, coz the signs were there to be seen from a long way off.

Being an alcoholic I'm not greatly fussed that the Manchester Methodist Hall is a dry venue. And because I'm not allowed to smoke anymore I guess I'm not that fussed that Manchester Methodist Hall hasn't a place for anyone to smoke. Also I'm not too fussed that the stewards at Manchester Methodist Hall are the most miserable bunch of toss pots I've ever had the privilege to meet. Telling all and sundry that they can't take photos of any kind in the venue tonight (on the express wishes of the band) didn't go down well in the waiting queue. But what the f**k! I'm not fussed! I've only travelled 95 miles to get here after a full day grovelling at work, a few more regulations ain't going to hurt. No many!

Well all these things wouldn't really matter if Manchester Methodist Hall wasn't the worst venue in Manchester suitable only for School Nativity plays and Fairport Convention. Without even being allowed to indulge in the pleasures of General Sternwood from Chandler's "The Big Sleep" I found myself a shady hole in which to wait - no smoking, no drinking, no drugs, no cameras, no blacks, no gypsies, no Irish, nO fUN!

The support band were S.C.U.M who perfectly encapsulate the curious musical times of the today. Pretentious moi? Surely not. Tonight the young overtly coiffured and raven headed Tom Cohen - gaunt and tightly tailored - came on looking like the living embodiment of Nick Cave - circa The Birthday Party. A neat trick, unfortunately the rest of the band and Peaches Geldof will have to take my word for it, since none of them were around back in '81.

But what S.C.U.M had to offer other than having a lead singer that looked like Mr Cave was almost impossible to discern. Musically the sound S.C.U.M conjured via bass, drums and double moog seemed dark moody and pretty emotive stuff, but even though I tried to lip read Cohen and tried to divine something from his intricate almost India like hand gestures I was unable to understand a word he was conveying. The sound spewing out of the PA was so garbled neither melody nor meaning was audible, and Cohen's vocals were nothing more than a muffled appendage. Pointless for everyone concerened.

I guess by now my gut feeling should really have been preparing me for what was to come, but still I was ignoring all the signs. You see in case you didn't know I've been going to gigs for well over thirty years now, and in all that time the amount of gigs I've left prior to the last note being chimed and the house lights coming up can be counted on one hand of a fingerless glove. I did leave a James gig early (after one track) in Birmingham in 1989. But this was because I never liked James (I'd gone to see The Band of Holy Joy who were supporting) and try as I might I just couldn't force myself to stay. Ten years earlier I left the same venue early, it was the Top Rank then and Sham 69 were playing - the story concerning this early evacuation would be too long in the telling. I also left a Babyshambles gig early in Wolverhampton in '05 because Pete turned up late and the Car Park I was parked in closed its shutters at midnight. And finally I did leave a Stranglers gig early at Rock City Nottingham in '81 because the bouncers wanted to beat me up prior to end of proceedings. Happy days eh! But these are really the only gigs I can remember leaving early. Little did I know that tonight was to be (yet) another.

The Kills kicked off with "No Wow". Hince percussive guitar riff battering and bludgeoning the hall into rapt attention - Mosshart slinking around the stage marking out her territory spitting out the lines "You're gonna have to step over my dead body, before you walk out that door" . All seemed well. "Future Starts Slow" next - the sequenced bass and drums were introduced - it was obvious that the mix was not going to be a friend to The Kills. The bass and drums were too loud, but also rather than beating out time the rhythm was bumping into itself - the speakers sucked and rumbled, the vocals of Mosshart and the guitar of Hince were non-specific beneath the booming clamour.

After the track finished a girl not far from me shouted out. "The bass is too loud - we love you anyway". Nothing was done. The guy at the mixing desk was either dead or deaf or both. Things got slightly better during the quieter "Kissy Kissy". Mosshart & Hince both came centre stage. This made me realise that tonight they were just too far apart. Even when I saw them backing up Franz Ferdinand on a larger stage they never stood this far apart. The gapping crevasse between them didn't work. The Kills need to be attached - in each other's faces - like the music they produce.

"Heart Is a Beating Drum", "You Don't Own the Road", "Baby Says", "UR a Fever" and "DNA" followed, still the sound was horrid. I moved from centre front to centre rear but nah, the sound was impenetrable from all angles. The Kills were now playing "Satellite", it was awful, totally disjointed - the bass and drums weren't beating out time and Mosshart could not be heard above the mush. The pain was now too much for me to bear, whilst The Kills played "Sour Cherry" I made my way across Manchester back to my car.

Perhaps it's time for Hince to go back to the days when he kicked the drum machine into action, or time to get someone front of stage with a pair of f**king ears. Who knows? I don't. All I know is that The Kills were probably still playing by the time I reached the M6. By then I was four tracks into "Blood Pressures" which is probably the best Kills album to date. I was mightily pissed off, yeah, but it won't stop me seeing The Kills again - but as far as Manchester Methodist Hall is concerned never means forever!