Composure

I wrote this piece in 2009 for London-based music zine GobShout. Back then, GobShout ran a section called “They Shoulda Been Huge”, which celebrated and mourned the standout musical acts that had deserved to become massive sensations but somehow never made it. I chose to cover the Derbyshire ska-punk/hardcore band Lightyear.

Now that Lightyear have reformed, possibly for good, it seems the right time to return to this article.

(Buy tickets for Lightyear’s 2017 tour here. You won’t regret it.)

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They Shoulda Been Huge: Lightyear

Written by Richard Kemp

“Seven naked men for every occasion!”

We live in a world now where there are more people going to live gigs than ever before. Smelly, overpriced festivals have become the norm, as have delightfully sticky gig hall floors. People go to concerts all the time, be it in a teeny pub or a huge outdoor arena. Music is omnipresent in our lives. These few simple facts make it even harder to comprehend why seven comical Derbyshire men, who toured relentlessly throughout Europe and made grown men cry with laughter, didn’t make it like it always seemed they would.

For a good number of years, Lightyear delighted audiences throughout the land with their own brand of ska-core. While there were plenty of fantastic hardcore bands around at that time, including Five Knuckle and Fireapple Red, Lightyear brought that little something slightly askew to the fray.

With brilliantly-named tracks such as Twat Out Of Hell, Shatner’s Bassoon and Uri Geller Bent My Heart, Lightyear could make you laugh with joy and cry in desperation at the same time. Their lyrics zoom ferociously from the darling (“With a porcelain smile that’s been glued too many times”) to the socially apt (“If I promise not to listen, will you talk to me, please?”) and on to the hysterically angered (“We’ll chop his balls off and bake a pie / And over dinner we will ask him why innocent people die!”) all without missing a step.

The songs, though focused on social and political issues, have umpteen pop culture references that jump out at you, thus benefiting from repeat listening. Being great fans of Doctor Who, Star Trek and the like, the Derbyshire seven were able to bring these loves into tracks like Data’s Double Chin and mingle them with silly lines and comedic digs…

“Your mum’s got a big hand and shops at ALDI!”

“We’ve bombed Ibiza, now we’ll bomb Ayia Napa. We’ll bomb George Bush while he’s sitting on the crapper. Resident President Evil!”

However great their lyrics were though, this was not the sole reason for many fans – hardcore lovers or not – continually going to their gigs and showing support. A Lightyear show was always something to see, regardless of the line-up. These guys were so much fun that if you spied a Lightyear poster up in your town, it was as if the circus was finally coming.

Full of energy and hilarity, Lightyear were always a pleasure to watch. Many people will recount the time when lead singer Chas grabbed a crowd member’s pot of mayonnaise and poured the contents over his own head mid-gig, only to stop a short while after to attend to his burning eyes. Or, the time in the Bristol Bierkeller when the entire band got naked (the crowd, too) to then be confronted by pub security. At this point, Chas (still naked) felt it necessary to argue with the bouncer, getting nowhere, but creating one of many hilarious scenes.

One Reading Festival year, Lightyear set up a make-shift stage outside the event and performed to a thoroughly excited crowd. This was one of Lightyear’s greatest appeals: the focus on people. Every gig, people would come, they would dance their hardest, they would get on stage and sing entire verses for the band, they would have a grand party and then, after all was said and done, they would come out laughing, hugging each other and thinking. Lightyear used their brand of musical humour to project social ideas to their audiences, making them stop and mull for a second. Their beautiful use of harmonies with terrifically cheerful ska and exploding hardcore made for a style that stopped you in your tracks, before jumping into a skanking frenzy.

Finally, in 2006 (after one final goodbye tour, and due to financial, travel and life commitments), Lightyear disbanded, causing many hardcore fans to cry rivers. If any band should be remembered from the European hardcore scene, it should all of them. But, if any one of them should be revered, it should no doubt be Lightyear.

Some sounds that have been tickling my earholes of late. 

Kurt Vile Releases Record Number Six

Saw that Kurt Vile has released his sixth studio solo album, B’lieve I’m Goin Down, and pondered on how time really has flown. My first foray into the work of Mr Vile was back in 2009 when I wrote a review of his third record, Childish Prodigy (Matador), for the now-defunct magazine Kruger.

There were so many quality magazines on the shelves during the 1990s and 2000s, many independent to a degree, though most eventually fell through for financial reasons. They are all missed, of course, but Kruger was the special one; that magazine was doing things most wouldn’t even try until long after they’d passed. It brought to the world incredible talents, such as Mike Williams (Editor of NME) and Jen Long (BBC1 DJ), and was one of my first real entrances into the world of music journalism.

I’ll always have a special place in my heart for Kruger.

I had a root around and dug out the review. It’s not too long - Kruger reviews generally never were unless you had the first-page spot. I had a read and was quite pleased with what I had written back then.

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Review of Kurt Vile - Childish Prodigy for Kruger Magazine, 2009:

Like an old 60s record, the (un)fortunately-named Philadelphian explodes in a fusion of rock, roll and psychedelia. His Reed-esque voice, with a dash of Jagger swagger, fights through the static as the chugging, melodious guitar repeats on you like really good sushi. From the rumble of Hunchback to the sweet poignancy of Inside Lookin Out, Vile’s eclectic mix of kooky lyrics and hypnotic beats make for how Dylan’s electric faze could have panned out.

Rich Kemp

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Here’s a video from Kurt Vile’s new record, B’lieve I’m Going Down:

Entrepreneur and founder of Fopp looks to challenge the independent record market.

Gordon Montgomery, the founder of entertainment retail chain Fopp, opened an independent record shop on Bristol’s Cranbrook Road in March this year. The shop, entitled The Centre for Better Grooves, sells primarily used and new vinyl records. Owner Montgomery, who is originally from Glasgow, opened the shop with a view to changing the way that used vinyl is sold.

Vinyl records have experienced a resurgence in popularity since the mid-2000s, though many argue that the state of record shops in the UK has largely stayed the same. “Generally,” says Montgomery, “record shops are supposed to just have fag butts on the floor and stink of real ale. They put people off.”

Montgomery plans to buck this trend. While other second-hand shops, for instance, might have signs that say ‘No returns’ or ‘All records untested’ his offer is a guarantee on every record that he sells, new or used.

Merchandising and layout are key elements to Montgomery’s business model – customers must be able to find what they are looking for, both comfortably and easily. “Small record shops are poor at it,” he says. “Used record shops are absolutely abysmal at it. They don’t lay it out so people can find it easily.”

One example of this model is shown in where Montgomery chooses to display his records. Bestsellers are always at the front of the shop. This is retail psychology, he insists, which helps to generate sales – customers walk into the shop and immediately see a product they would like to purchase.

Traditionalists might turn their noses at applying professional retail techniques to the used vinyl market, but Montgomery doesn’t see it this way. “Most people appreciate it,” he says. “It’s neat and tidy here. It’s well laid out and people like that.”

The main aim for Montgomery’s shop, at least in the short term, is to be profitable. If this works out, he has one other goal in mind: “I want to be the frontrunner, I don’t want to be at the back. I want people to come to my shop and say ‘this is how you should do a record shop.’ I want to be the best.”

Montgomery has a wealth of experience in the music retail industry, but he still gets worried over his business. “Calculate the risk,” he advises to any emerging entrepreneurs. “Be prepared to lose a lot of sleep. It doesn’t matter how big the business is, I lose sleep over this because it never goes away…I used to run Fopp and I lose as much sleep over this as I did running Fopp…because you have to commit yourself. It’s not for everybody.”

The dreams I long for most,

Are those,

When you come to visit.

I relax,

I smile,

Though I never know,

What to say.

So I say nothing.

Samantha Crain is an expert storyteller, spinning delicate yarns with her beautiful words and music. The following story was inspired by the singer-songwriter’s latest record, ‘Under Branch & Thorn & Tree’.

Story originally published here: http://www.kemptation.com/features/short-story-if-you-ever-come-back/

  It’s not until you see it laid out before you that you realise how short this life really is. Do you ever think about that?

It’s so lonely this side of the bed, staring at you through all the pipes and wires that keep your heart and lungs in check. The smell in here, I wonder, do you notice? Do you want to keel over too every time the stench of urine and medicine wafts its way up your nostrils?

The doctors have stopped visiting – the family too, the grandchildren anyway. It was when you started forgetting people’s names. Faces are one thing ­– your sight’s been rotten for years after all – but forgetting the names of your own grandchildren. They’d ask me why you remember one but not the other. It’s hard not to take those things personally.

Our kids still come to see you; do you see them? I’m not sure they want to be here, though. To see you like this, so weak, so vacant: their hero, defeated. Chained to a mechanical bed of plastic and rubber, machines beeping all around you as the help in white coats mill up and down, reminding us all that you’re probably not getting out this time.

What do you think? Your chances, I mean. I can’t tell anymore. I’m sorry, darling, but it’s true. You haven’t spoken in over a year, not past the beleaguered grunts and one-word commands that make no sense at all.

It’s so lonely this side of the bed. Seeing a broken man unable to hold himself up. I often wonder: what do you see? Is it the woman you loved? The one you married so young? Do you see the person who listened to Wagner with you turned all the way up? Do you see the girl you fought for all those times when the family would never approve? Do you see the one who stuck by you even when you did the stupidest things?

Or, do you see a lonely old woman who’s lost her husband to a tiny shell of a once-great man who can no longer speak? Do you see a shattered lover who has nothing left?

People come by the house every day to check on me, to see how I am. The faces keep changing, but the questions remain: can I get you anything? Let me know what you need, won’t you? I tell them all the same: I want nothing. I need nothing. All I really want is you, but then they bring me back here to talk to a statue. Do you even know I’m here? I shouldn’t say such things, but it’s hard to cope sometimes. I wish we’d seen this coming; at least we would’ve had time to decide what to do. Would you still want to be here? If it were me in bed, what then?

Instead, I stare through your eyes and feed you mashed-up apple crumble. I try to remember the man I once knew, the one I loved for so many years, but it’s hard with the smell of shit in the air and all those screams coming from down the hall. Is there anyone I could have loved more than you? I doubt it. When I’m home alone, wrapped up in bed, I try to imagine the covers are your arms, so strong, the pillow your chest. I fall asleep this way, so comfortable, so warm, so safe. I dream of our lives before the bed, a life that seems so far away now.

I’ve taken down some of the family photos – the nephews and nieces we never see – and replaced them with pictures of you and me. That time at the fairground and during the war when we first met.

I was stood on the landing the other day, staring at the photos, when a carer came by. Another new face, a short, skinny man, he said, ‘looked better today. You never know, he might be coming home soon.’ I winced at this and screamed at him, tears filling my eyes as quickly as anger filled everything else. There was no way you were ever coming back, I snarled. How dare he say that to me? The man’s eyes had widened. He was shaking. ‘Sorry,’ he whispered, and sloped off. The carer had changed by the next day.

I went back to looking at the photos, smiling in the way you always smiled at me. A love so pure, so real. I lay a hand on my hip as if it were yours and I thought about where you were now: in the mechanical bed covered in plastic, with the television blaring and food dribbling from your mouth. I thought about that and I thought about you, then I thought to myself, ‘if you ever come back, could you bring my heart?’

The table was already laid when he walked into the room. The soft glow of wavering candlelight flickered against the ruby red walls of the dining room. It wasn’t really a dining room, but it would be today.

The sofa had been pushed against the back wall. A throw rug lay over it. He wouldn’t have noticed the sofa at all if it were not for its lone arm poking out from under the rug. Like a child that should be in bed but is desperate to stick around, to see what’s so great that he’s had to be sent upstairs.

If you cast your vote on Thursday and then wake up the next day to find the party you wanted didn’t get enough votes yet again, don’t despair: your vote is not worthless. You’ve voiced your opinion, as have millions of others across the country. And while your pick may not win this time, they will have more support from people like you than they did the last time (and even more than the time before).

In our current, money-driven society, we expect things fast; we expect things fast and, often, we think of change as an overnight thing. Even when we say we don’t, we’re quietly disappointed that it doesn’t happen like that. Real change will be gradual, something the history books all show. Sure, big important events can effect a movement, instantly, but real positive change that is indeed long-lasting, that’s going to take patience and hard work.

And so your vote is important, and you probably won’t reap its rewards in your lifetime. But then, this vote isn’t for you, is it? It’s for the generations of Brits that are unable to vote: the youth of tomorrow, your children and your children’s children. You have one vote to help make your country a better place for them, to start the change you want for your family. That has to be more important than just making sure you don’t let in the one you don’t like.

Cake by Todd Colby

The wait for morning, long,

Was worth every minute.

As the sun bears up,

Promenading the leafy pathway.

Loose, frozen dirt glitters withtiny diamond specs,

Thawing out the night before,

Of shivering cold.

A wet winter’s eve.

  Boots and wellies.

Scuff up the tired earth.

Mixing dirt with soil and mud,

Soil with mud and dirt.

Heels get caked,

To dry in the car ride home,

Another memory for the back seat.

  The pathway sits, serene.

Bark sweats on a gnarled old birch.

Thick, now bracing, gales whip through,

Whistling high,

To fill the leafy lungs of every gasping tree.

  And on the floor, leaves judder,

And cover,

Over undergrowth.

I felt like a carrot,

when I started.

All stiff and tall.

Wrinkled beyond my years.

  The dirt from the earth,

I tried to wash off,

but I never could quite get it all.

  Every person I met,

chopped a little bit off,

taking what they needed,

and casting me back.

  Some took big bites,

others snapped me in half.

By the end, I was nothing but a nub,

with a funny green haircut.

Awake.

Is it...really? Yes, time to get up.

Work, you don't deserve me. So many hours wasted at your desk; it's just wrong! Well, I'm not getting up. I'd rather be fired than have to get up right now. I haven't been there that long, perhaps they'll think I'm ill. Let's try a cough...

No, not convincing enough. Oh, alright, fine; I'll get up. Yes, stop pushing. I know what time it is.

Have a stretch, that's it. All the way out. You're up now, might as well get moving. Out the door, into the kitchen. It's already light out. Guess it's not that terrible, really.

Writing! Morning pages! Better get it done. Oh, but I can't be bothered...

Come on now. Book open. You'll regret it if you don't.

Blank page. So blank... So empty. Again? Another page? Can't I just use yesterday's and say I did the other half today?

Fine.

I'm writing, OK? And it's awful. It always is. Don't know why I...is that time already? Felt much shorter. And another page. Brilliant!