Heart of a Punk Soul of a Rasta

Magazine
- Slade Rooms -
Wolverhampton
30th June 2011

"Religions fall. Children shelled. Children shelled? That's all very well, but would you please keep the noise down low?" Because tonight, Howard is playing in my hometown. So everything can be side lined, set aside, overlooked, forgiven - momentarily - because tonight, Howard is playing in my hometown.

I park up outside the Lafayette; of course it hasn't been the Club Lafayette for a million years, except to me. Once upon a time in June '76 it all began for Howard and Manchester when the Sex Pistols played the Lesser Free Trade Hall. Once upon a time in Wolverhampton, a year and two months later, it all began when the Sex Pistols (AKA Spots) played the Club Lafayette. This is what The Laff looks like now:

Yes, a thing of beauty is a joy for ever. The other picture is of the row of wonderfully resplendent and beautifully maintained buildings alongside which we used to queue. We'd stand here desperately trying to scrape together 30p from out of our fluff incrusted pockets. Then we could become a fully fledged member of the Club for one night only. But does anyone remember The Laff; it's merely a well aimed stones throw away from the Slade Rooms. Do they even give a blue f**k about the place now? Do they bollocks! But what do I care, as I pass by, because tonight, Howard is playing in my hometown.

The late eighties early nineties were the shittiest time in the entire musical history of the UK - in case you didn't know. (Yeah I've moved on from The Pistols now, try and keep up). I know this coz I can vaguely recall all the chemical and alcoholic concoctions I had to consume to get me through this unnatural period of nothingness. And also I was in a band at the time - so nuff said. Unfortunately Miles Hunt and Erica Doo Dah, who are backing up Magazine tonight, are a bit of The Wonder Stuff and so hail from this era, but I'm not going to hold this against them because tonight, Howard is playing in my hometown. I'd usually play a schtumer card here, and clam up as tight as a Scottish Rabbi's purse. Why do I want to talk about something I know nothing about? Something I have no passion for? Something I need to be disingenuous about? If I had to do all that, I might as well be writing for the NME (spit). However………………….with all my caveats in place, I decided to give Miles Hunt and Erica Doo Dah a go. By which I mean I decided to listen to them.

Scratch a Midlander and you will invariably find an Irishman. An Irishman with a roguish twinkle in his eye, who needs to hear the sweet sound of his own voice; take a glass, enjoy the craic and who above all things needs to hear the strains of a fiddlers fiddle. Miles Hunt presented Wolverhampton with the full set. There must be something in the genes. For thirty minutes or more Hunt & Doo Dah made beautiful music together, and were more than that perfectly charming. And I mean this most sincerely folks. But also I mean it because during his confabbing Miles Hunt gave out his post code - it is unnerving close to mine - I felt a chill pass down my spine when spat out the digits. So why aren't Miles Hunt and Erica Doo Dah playing Farmer Phil's Festival then? The question is rhetorical don't write in.

Anyway the Wonder Stuff duo did some Wonder Stuff stuff too (not a clue what), and they did a cover of the X-ray Spex track "The Day the World Turned Day-glo" in tribute to Poly which was right fine and dandy - charming in fact. See I can be nice if I try. Miles & Erica also admitted to having a need for cake - if they want cake they need to play the Kitchen Garden Café in Kings Heath. They'd love them there. When Wreckless Eric and Amy Rigby played The Kitchen Garden they got given a massive wodge of cake. So why aren't Miles & Erica playing Kitchen Garden Café? Again the question is rhetorical, don't write in.

And so, 9.15 came and so did Howard accompanied by a new piece of Magazine music arrived on stage clutching a pristine copy of the "Thirty Lyrics" compendium from '79. (I'm sure if you still send a postal order to the correct address and an A4 SAE you can still get a copy - details in next weeks Melody Maker). Sat upon a stool with spectacles perched upon his proboscis he read from the menu du' jour. The band took up their places. Jump leads were applied. A sixpence was turned on. The pulse beat began - "The Light Pours Out of Me" - Black blood was soon gushing forth.

The evening had been billed as a warm up for The Hop Festival (festivals, ha!), a forty five minute set. And by some serene serendipitous sequenced symbiosis that is exactly what we got. The Light Pours out of Me/Because You're Frightened/Motorcade/Song From Under the Floorboards. Then we had a new "application" from "Magazine version 6.1" as Howard described it. A song about pain, agony, euthanasia, memory loss and Terry Pratchett - what more could you possibly want? Permafrost/Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin)/Parade/Definitive Gaze/Shot Both Sides (encore)

Howard was thankfully bedecked in black, no espadrilles, pink shirts or shorts. "Permafrost" was for me exemplary moment of the evening - but unfortunately the chill did not pervade into the reality. It was bleedin' hot in the tiny black torture sweat box. The two Johns - Doyle & new boy on bass John White seemed to be leaking the most fluid. The new boy John White (Groove Armada/Faithless) done well though. He didn't repeat the faux pas of Martin Heath from back in '83. The perfect note singular in Permafrost was bent and accentuated to perfection.

After a modest amount of oscillation during "Shot Both Sides" and a major amount of clamour by all present to get Magazine to do one more, the lights came up and we were booted out into the Black Country night. As any right minded person knows - "Music Festivals are the work of the devil" - but sometimes they're a means to an end. "Religions fall. Children shelled. Children shelled? That's all very well, but would you please keep the noise down low? Because" tonight Magazine played in my hometown, and now it's only five days til mighty Morrissey plays Stoke. ON. WE. GO.

And finally from '78...........Howard de Voto's MAGAZINE, it sounds quite regal, quite posh - distinguished and refined - definitely not a top shelf mag.