Sunderland

We set off from the lad club in three vehicles and none of them are mine. Karen, Mike and Bonehead are doing the honours. I am grateful not to be driving. I seem to spend way too much time behind the wheel of my small automobile letting the days go by. Ben takes charge and we agree to meet at the services on top of the hill; on top of the big hill when you get to Yorkshire he reiterates. So now we know and meet up there later to bemoan the rubbish food and drink like right and proper grumpy old men. ‘It’s worse than the old days then again most things are’ I hear myself say, like I’m in The Likely Lads or something, only I can’t do the accent. I’m so rubbish at accents. The journey to Sunderland is trouble free and spent cranking up the iPod in Boneheads new Mazarati, I’m not really a car person but from what little knowledge I have I’d say this one was kind of special. Satellite navigation which is still a novelty for me brings us into Sunderland town centre and after a short phone call we arrive at the venue where the miss spelt posters all read Vinny Perculiar. It’s happened before and I’m sure it will happen again, it’s Pec not Perc but I don’t say anything. There’s no point. We’re met at the venue by Ben the promoter and shown around the dressing room. This club looks feels and smells like it works very hard for a living. Mike and Bonehead both disappear to do interviews with a lanky Louie Theroux look alike who’s apparently writing a book on Brit-pop. The sound check lasts for ever. The engineer is a bloke called Gerry modelled on Garcia and originally from Hereford. It all sounds a bit odd but he puts that down to the cavernous empty space adjustments to compensate for the presence people who will change the sonic ambience. Unfortunately this wasn’t the case and when we finally go on at midnight the first four songs sound like we are playing underwater. When Gerry sorts this out as he does in due course the gig improve a little; people dance and banter is exchanged. The level of intoxication though is way off the alcohol-meter and very few people seem capable of listening with any sense of concentration or purpose. I mean, I don’t expect reverence or silence…but this was stupid. We had the option of playing earlier to a smaller crowd; in retrospect this might have been a better idea. The terrible sound also killed things off response wise. The best reaction was when we played Replica Shirt where I made some speech about Sunderland, passion and their return to the premiership. In truth I went on a bit and no they’re not really my second team, I made that bit up as any football fan will tell you there is no such thing as a second team. The great thing I’ll always remember about Sunderland is the hospitality at the gig which was as good as ever I have known; we have been seriously well looked after. Walking back through the town centre to the Travel Lodge at 3am against the advice of the club owners Ben and I keep our heads down meandering through the part volatile part comatose crowds who appear to be part of a huge experiment into the impact of binge drinking. Bodies litter pavements. People are getting hit and people are bleeding. It’s frightening really…In the morning we watch match of the Day and return to the club to collect our gear at midday where one of last nights punters has been locked in overnight…he greets us, wasted, elated, apologetic and makes the call to his wife. Imagine…it’s not my fault, I got locked in the club, what else could I do but drink….what else indeed, then we’re back home in time for the brawl in the cup final…Mummy [or was it money] I’ve been fighting again…The Great Dominions revisited in my head. VP

The 17

I’m in Mossley -which is back around the ring road the wrong way according to Ben who lives there-on a sticky Tuesday night at the home of Rob and Julie [who are good friends of mine from the Analogue Cat days]. They have a new baby girl Frances who is pivotal to tonight’s proceedings [see score 9, The 17] and shares a birthday with my own daughter Pru, who was 17 this year. We talk about coincidence and calamity. We’re all here, all 17 of us, to make up the numbers of The 17 and to secure our lifetime memberships. Andy Woods has come along for the ride, he excels in the navigational zone and we only get lost the once. He’s also bought a copy of Bills book 45 though I’ve no idea if he got Bill to sign it. I must ask him. I did the very same thing myself a couple of years ago. As for The Manual-the book he wrote on having a hit record-I'm still looking for a copy and still looking for a hit record of sorts. Here in the oaken beam lounge Bill Drummond is perched at the end of the sofa telling the story of The 17, of happenings to date, the practice and the origin of the thinking. It’s a pleasant place to be; mulling over ideas and not missing Corry even though I am if you follow. I’ve not seen Bill or John for sometime so we have a bit of catching up and reconnection time before the start of the event. We are here, all 17 of us, to perform SCORE 9 from the book of 17 scores and Julie has set up a mic in the corner to record us. Bill rounds up his spoken word intro time down to 17 minutes from the typical 45 slot and there’s group pontificating on new music and musical meaningless and the quest to start afresh. Bill is questioning his capacity to be thrilled by music or to be entranced by new sounds. We revisited the Irish discussions of a world without fiddles or mandolins or those drum beater things..[it was a self deluding prophecy but a good one],imagine a world without instruments, without rhythm or signature or tempo or harmony or tone…Bills passion is as infectious as ever. Below is the notice that explains things far better than I can. Score 9 involves the 17 collectively humming [tonight’s note is C] and recording the work for five minutes. This will be stored and the process repeated one 5th note above or below the previous with succeeding generations; 17 generations to be exact at which point the amassed dis-harmonious recordings will be deleted- and the process will start again. The process always starts again. I like that. It will take 400 years or more to complete depending on each generations reproductive trends. At approximately 17 minutes past 7 the lights are turned off as Bill hits a middle C and we all begin to hum in unison. It’s quite pleasant really you can see why the Buddhists love it. Afterwards we debate the worn out excitement receptors in our respective brains and I accidentally have a roll up on the step with John just to keep him company; still it’s not clever and it’s not funny. Then I have a look around the new studio which is just wonderful as Julie says NO- she won’t sell me her Rickenbacker; which is what she always says when I always ask her. It’s nice to know it’s here though, in case we ever get to work here again. We have a band show in Sunderland [never been there before] on Saturday at an alternative indie music night club- details are on the dates pages. Then on Sunday night it’s Luke Haines at The Roadhouse here in Manchester; cant’ wait for that, be there if you can. VP x

Met bar

This is what you might call a last minute job Tom Hingley said ringing early on Tuesday morning; so I said yes, naturally. Tom was off to do an interview with a Manchester magazine in London so was unavailable having expected the interview to be here… he was also planning on impregnating several of the capital’s young and glamorously endowed music industry receptionists with some choice rock n roll semen of the north…well that’s what he said though I think he might have been joking. It was really nice to hear from him as we haven’t spoken in ages. So that night I set off for the Met Bar in a seasonally dismal Bury as Toms replacement where I was warmly greeted and provided for by Tony the affable promoter. I can honestly say I was pleasantly surprised with the venue, a bistro setting tables and dining and all very civil really. The gig went well and I was home for midnight. I hope to return again some day. I quite enjoyed playing solo as it’s been awhile since and I managed to part with a few albums afterwards for hard cash no less. Today Bonehead and I are sorting out festival dates in the summer...if anyone’s got any suggestions or knows any useful contacts do drop us a line, best VP x

DRY BAR

We’re in the basement at DRY on a freezing Thursday night sound checking and I’m thinking this place could smell a lot better, we’re all thinking exactly that. Joss sticks are cheap enough and we have thousands of them at home, make a mental note, pack some in case of future odorous emergencies. Phil the promoter, who has a Jupitus look about him, handles the sound with aplomb and we’re done for in no time. Then we’re away across the street to the Wheatsheaf where they sell pies and bitter and pork scratchings [probably]. I always prefer the old mans pubs, especially before gigs for obvious reasons, volumes are down, conversation is up, novelty tramps and darts players are invariably more interesting and entertaining that prada willys. DRY has always been rather pricey and Ben should know as he used to work here in the old days, I had no idea. Geoff and Bonehead arrive with the girls from GMR bringing high heeled good time atmospherics as the pub starts to buzz a little. I get two veggie samosas from a little Oldham Street Deli where chef in a white thunderbirds hat is playing online poker on a computer that sits right next to the Salad selection. He’s up some $400 and surrounded by a gathering of kitchen staff. The atmosphere is entertainingly tense. I feel like I’m missing out something but only briefly. The food is kind of average which is a little better than I’d expected, but not much. Back at the venue we catch the main support, a band named after a nasty character from Millers Crossing, which as I’m sure you know is a film by the Cohen Brothers. Of course I can’t remember their name; I just know they took it from the film. My retention of after show information could do with a makeover. I am working on it. They had an attractive Zappa thing going on with cool brass and sass and frenzy. In the new tradition of musical modernism we made the obligatory my space friends request commitments. I will investigate further and remind you of their name in due course. Our show was what you might call well received…I give away loads of singles and even manage a few sales despite the usual tales of student poverty and woe, which i'm bit of a sucker for in truth. It was really nice to meet so many people who enjoyed it. Ben and I load the gear back to the Lads Club and then the lights go out. VP x

The Mark Radcliffe Show

I’m the only one here in Studio 5 at the BBC who doesn’t know Mark and he reminds me of this at the start of the interview and asks me where I’ve been? I think I say something about my early life resembling a Dolly Parton song and how nowadays I feel more akin to a power ballad state of mind, like a Bon Jovi b side. We also talk SOUP LINES and I do a poem off the cuff so to speak. In case you don’t believe me you can listen again on line via the bbc website. We all enjoyed the session enormously; if a single theme were to emerge it would have to be the bin collections of Bromsgrove and the wonders of the local council’s website. The CD competition was also based on a name that collection day puzzler, no wonder we all got the giggles. Mark puts everyone at ease, the sound was great [thanks Chris] and the feedback was good. My inside leg measurement remains a secret but if you work for Paul Smith and want to sponsor me with suits and haberdashery stuff drop us a line and I’ll spill the beans. Remarkably someone from Paul Smith contacted me years ago about such a deal but he was somewhat deluded having read an album review in the OBSEVER that predicted great things for a fledgling Peculiar…great things that never happened. I have a big list of such but I never read it; a good thing. Tonight we are moodily up and toasting the airwaves of the nation, I feel like we’re reaching out a little further into the unknown and touching a few more hearts and minds. Sorry if this sounds like deluded hippy shite but sometimes it’s as simple as that. So thanks for listening again or at the time even. We appreciated the feedback, thanks. We play a local gig at DRY BAR in Oldham Street tomorrow night Thursday, be nice to see you to see there….VP x

Vinny Gannon and Craig Peculiar

Craig and I are loitering in the foyer of Manchesters URBIS museum where we are due to play a mid afternoon gig. I am feeling slightly adrift of the flow as last nights London show with The Fischers [who I’m helping out on guitar] meant I didn’t get in till 2am and when I did I stayed up to finish my book, The Forth Hand by John Irving. I can totally recommend it, not just the book, it’s been awhile since I read a book on a London train, simple pleasures indeed, but I’m knackered now all the same. The URBIS stage is temporary and feels a little bit physically and emotionally unsafe although I cant quite put my finger on why exactly. Perhaps it's an improper age thing. The reason we are here is by invitation of the Manchester Council of Youth Clubs who have organised this open day of youthful celebration. The Salford Lads Club are also represented here which is our connection with being asked, we chat to Les and witness The Good Times who are also playing. They sound a bit like the Bunnymen crossed with the Undertones. Dead good and nice lads. A couple of actors in victorian workhouse costumes dance like frigid robots during their set. Craig and I are briefly hyterical at this point. We’re on after the the teenage girls fitness event, like I said, it all feels a bit bizzare so we retire to the café to wonder 'how did we get here'? The gig is fine in the end, the audience are what you might call a transitory crowd, people mingle by and some remain apparently intrigued by my musings on semen donation and music teachers near murdering…well I think to think so, but who knows, we were the wrong choice of artist if I’m absolutely blunt, but it’s great to support the Lads Club who managed to shift a few Vinny CDs and make a few bob. We’re home in time for the FA Cup results. Later that same night we get lost on the way to our gig at The Station in Ashton which seems to have it’s own two-way system; everyone we ask has a different version of where we need to go, then we discover there are two Station pubs in Ashton, which partly explains everything. Mostly it's just annoying. We set up in the corner of the pub, get hassled by people who want to use our gear for an improv show of their own, agree in principle they can but they dissappear soon afterwards anyway. Several people claim to know me and they probably do, I go along with everything in the spirit of ye olde entertainer. Craigs picks of destiny are donated to fans who barely paid us any attention during the set. We are amazed to be asked to do an encore but somehow we don’t and now I’m thinking perhaps we should have. People are so far out of it at this point, the words bender and diddly come to mind, it's not exactly a sexual thing. After the gig Pauline the promoter puts everything into perspective and we have a lovely chat with her. We leave soon after, and bizzarely have to agree, it was great gig, and we'd do it again and again...of course we would, VP x

Glasgow

We last here a couple of years ago at Sleazies,as in Nice and, but this time we’re at the legendary King Tuts; it's venue of the year apparently although I forget which one exactly. The rider is divided into sections, all very civilised, we get the Stella, the other bands seemingly jealous...still they can have mine if they want, I'm no no great fan of a drink that calls itself the wife-beater [Mike explains that Stella is known for it's incitment toward domestic violence]. To an alcohol softie like me it's way too strong, chemically enhanced, makes me ill, not that I've drunk it for years. The hospitality factor at the venue is really wonderful, we are well fed and watered by the management. Craig and Ben order some kind of Scottish spiced sausage thing and I’m briefly reminded of my first wifes penchant for the Glasgow sausage casserole, which we sort of lived on at the time, and here I am years later, a meat free modernist in a fantasy food memory zone. I forgot about it until now. Back at the gig there’s even a lock on the dressing room door. The sound engineer knows the room, we're happy and checked and our hotel is a few minutes walk, I’m sharing with the bands very own Mr Sheen. There are huge parties of Irish revellers in the hotel bar who promise to come to the show, of course they won’t still they enjoy the banter notably with Bonehead who attracts that sort of thing. You know what I mean…lets have it large and explode like a diamonds in the night, with copious talk a lot of Columbian army marching powder shite, if you’ve no idea what I mean it hardly matters. The crowd is swollen, and has swelled even, significantly when we return. Supports are done for. We manage to catch the last of The Felt Tips who seem perfectly charming and nice people; their bass player is a trainee psychiatrist as it happens, I was talking to him earlier about the madness and the sadness and the one sided door...which is a line from some song or other apparently. Then we’re on and off and encored and it’s all over. The reaction seems good, I sell a few albums, half an hour later everyone’s disappeared. We go back to Mike and Bens room for a sing song where Bonehead plays the major minor happy sad song as we all come over a bit hysterical. You had to be there, as indeed Karen was on behalf of you tube…I think she was joking wasn’t she?? Our Mark Radcliffe BBC radio 2 session is confirmed for Tuesday 6th Feb, do tune in, drop him a txt or mail, keep the name alive and all the usual promotional blagging begging a bellowings…cheerio for now, VPx