On the edge of summer & the verge of another fantastic Scottish festival season, when friends reunite, romances begin & everyone just has a damn funky good time, the first whisperings of that hurricane of music are, well, in the air. Being the veritable audio capital of Scotland, the Glasgow area was feeling the first gusts last weekend with two all-day fiestas of band after brilliant band – in the Paisley case -, & singer after slick singer in the case of La Sierra Casa showcase at Room 2.
It was time for a gentleman’s stroll – Paisley first, & it’s well busy Food & Drink festival, sprawling congestiveley thro the central plaza area around St Mirin’s impressive Cathedral. I mean, Paisley is kinda impressive really, & I’m hearing great things about its music scene, fresh from the lips of my mate, Myles, from Arran, who recently moved to the place. Apparently, there’s this cool jam night on Wednesday’s hosted by The Keg music venue, & by the end of his first jam there had become the drummer in two bands, both of which play’d last Saturday.
The idea is that, during the festival, Keg set up their own stage in a marquee on the bridge over the White Cart Water, in which all the bands who play at their venue get a chance to play outside – well kinda outside -, & as a part of the festival its free for everybody.
People were congregating from Glasgow, Ayr, Arran & Galloway for some proper tunes, including me & crew, & I thoroughly enjoy’d St Mungo, one of Myles’ bands, a standard 4-piece electrified by Myle’s ever evanescent drumming & the honey-soak’d vocals of singing & catchy songcrafting of front man, Greg. I especially enjoy’d their track, Goodbye (above).
Greg from St Mungo
After offering my appreciation to the band for a fine performance, it was time for the second half of my Clyde-water’d afternoon of Caledonian guitarwork. So, to Room 2 & the La Sierra Casa showcase. Set up by Kyle Falconer from the View, the idea is you & other budding songwriters go & spend a few days with each other & tutors at a villa near Alicante in Spain, have a fantastic time in the sun & become, by osmosis, a better songwriter.
Songwriters relaxing round the pool in Spain
I’ve made pals for life thro’ this nonsense
Alan Purvis
With several ‘camps’ a year going on, that means a lot of alumni, which meant that Room 2 served up something of a speed-dating style scenario, with new singers every 10 minutes or so. It was like we were all sat by a campfire being lit by the luminous flames of Glasgow’s intense love for music.
From 6PM, however, more time began to be allotted for the acts those whose songwriting efforts are seriously taking root, such as Neeve Zahra, Rosie Alice & Dovv (see Spotify links). The whole affair was fascinating, really, a staccato trolley-dash thro’ 2024’s sonic zeitgeist, it was really interesting to hear how the ‘voice of the people’ was coming out of, well, it’s voices.
Keep it up Glasgow, you really do go from strength to musical strength, with each new generation inheriting, & adding to, your catalogue of classy tunes!
I want a hero, or an ‘anti’ one Some mortal who could change the world with song & moving chords, a maestro, paragon, Whose melodies & lyrics leap along Who’ll make us think & dance, perchance upon A higher plane of consciousness, among The sibilant hauteurs of humankind, Whom, hissing, never listen – never mind!
Of all the gifts of mind the Balladeer Presents an art to us most magical In which real peoples of the past appear As powerful as if them Biblical; Vivid, moving, breathing, soothing, sincere, So much it proves a lucid miracle, They live again! those, whom in history, Did mark their mark thro restless mystery.
The Twenty-seven Club glows emphatic When titans of drugtaking finally Find bodies gone on strike, a lunatic Deviant at the wheel, to supinely Lay them down, comatose, paralytic, Often with a demeanour divinely Accepting the ultimate high of death – Ten thousand crackpipes in a final breath.
There is a modern member of that gang A master singer & a brother bard Who knew just how to tune a guitar twang To hypnotise the Hellhounds in his yard Who crooning with the old tramps as he sang Each word the turning of a tarot card Would mystify us, energize, inspire Our souls like faces shining by a fire.
His life shall form the substance of this song Whose mould ordain’d as Ottava Rima In cantos of a hundred stanzas long Projected by poetical dreamer Well, me that is, whose dragonyear sends strong Impulses, deep as the first kalima, To mind, the most poetic lives on earth In finest lines revive them with rebirth.
Most epic poets plunge ‘in media res,’ That is ‘the middle’ for those not winning School Latin prizes, (& res rhymes with ease) Where was I? Oh yes! a poem spinning On Kurt Donald Cobain, when, if you please I’ll begin his tale at the beginning For round our childhood deeds & people swarm Which piece-by-piece our deeper fabrics form.
Let us begin with the ‘Aberdeen Curse’ Being the continental terminus Ocean next stop or star-stitch’d universe Attracts th’interminable verminous Thinking, ‘well, things cannot get any worse, I might as well stay put – the sperm in us That seeks a host, he’ll spread his DNA By the shores of Gray’s Harbor’s ria bay.
From copulation comes the miracle Of this existence in consistent form When singeth Fate at thy most lyrical & Angels bringeth babies to be born As when upon Gray’s Harbour Hospital Already beaten-brow’d by crown of thorn Out of a bloody uterus, thro hurt, A boy, for all of us, a boy call’d Kurt
A boy was born in windy Aberdeen Among the forests, by the endless sea Of ceaseless rain & sunshine rarely seen Of difficulties & delinquency Crack rocks for breakfast & the jocks are mean To one starchild of cyclic mystery Y’know, the ones on earth most seldom born Like single lilies in a plain of corn.
Soon as the babe left the baptismal font He’d entertain squads of aunts & uncles Who, begging to babysit, with a want Somehow bewitch’d, planets around a sun, gulls At scraps, Arlo’s Alice’s Restaurant & others of Simon & Garfunkles, He sang with cherub sweetness, sheer delight Did fill their lives with Elven fairy-light.
There’s nothing like loving thy first born child, When every waking day’s a nursery & sleeping’s a myth, as toys & nappies pil’d In only months Kurt’s curiosity & perceptive sharpness would lead to wild Excited, explosive precocity Whose tantrums becomes something to endure But, this toddler, was talented, for sure!
Sensing a love of music in the boy Aunt Mari bought a bass drum that became Within a minute his favourite toy That with a wildness none of them could tame He’d bang & bang & bang & bang, annoy The house & all the neighbourhood, first fame For his performances, as marching round The Streets of Aberdeen all heard the sound.
And every time his bedroom lights did dim, Out came his first imaginary friend, For Boddah any bed could comfort him, Kurt knew he would be right there to the end, More tangible his monkey was, Chim-Chim, On both of them, just them, could Kurt depend For festered at the gateways of his mind He fostered hatred for all Humankind.
Aunt Mari was a musician herself She’d play’d in bars for years, even releas’d A single, she produc’d it from the shelf & play’d it Kurt, whose love for her increas’d “Auntie you are famous!” her little elf Did squeeze her hard, as solemn as a priest Said, ‘one day I’m gonna be just like you!” “What’s that?” “A singing star, I’ll be one too!”
“In that case you’d better listen to these…” & carefully selecting some albums Awards him the Beatles & the Monkees Before long a Mickey Mouse set of drums Was his for Christmas, with a kiss, cos she’s “The best mum in the mummyverse of mums!” Thrash-smash-bash-crashing, splash-crashing, ev’ry day That by the Spring was far too trash’d to play
One day he gave his grandfather some art With Donal Duck so accurately drawn He was accus’d of tracing, so did start Another drawing straightways, when alone With papers, markers, comic books, apart From other human beings, he would spawn Aliens & monsters, from time to time He added words, & even ones that rhyme
He watch’d the choppers rising from Saigon & just like that the war in Vietnam Was over, one they never could have won His uncle home return’d a diff’rent man Who, walking with his nephew said, ‘Kurt, son There’s not much work these parts, but of you can Avoid the US Army, witness’d I Such sights my sleepless nights still horrify.
In an age when pharmaceuticals reign Doctors dismiss holistic vitamins Prescribe, instead, what drags the wild kids sane, Dependency on drugs thro ritalin’s Properties, anti-narcoleptic grain, That’s more a borderline ampetamine, Which wears, off leaving Kurt awake all night Reading back issue comics by torchlight.
As waking dreams reality defies & promises of better times instils He shut out all their arguments & lies – As Wordsworth saw a host of daffodils Whenever he clos’d his Westmorland eyes Kurt too saw things – from bad birth control pills Swarm’d weird flipper babies with lizards tongues Singing discordant sentences as songs.
Love! ye men of the marrying kind, Tho’ in the main how they’ve hen-peck’d you all & as for thee, whose bridal pledge survives, Why should it be such vows protect you all Not every couple’s hugging magic thrives Better it handl’d intellectual Until at last the smother’d fire goes out & puts the business past all kinds of doubt.
His father was a Chevron mechanic With neither love for learning or the learned But watching sports border’d him on manic & of results grew trueliest concern’d Watch’d basketball matches in nigh panic – Basketball & baseball – his wife felt spurn’d, “I don’t think I ever really loved him, Most nights there’s only me & Kurt & Kim.”
Whenever a family is divided Somebody’s gonna have to rear the kids A decision anciently decided The mums’ll get ’em, even invalids Some might call the custom quite misguided Others, just our link to the arachnids When, after mating, females set a tomb Inside their gullets, nourishing the womb.
So Wendy got the boy, but beautiful She soon attracts attention, & soon found A man to fuck her from dysfunctional But, as often deliver’d by rebound, She met a loser, reprehensible He beat her, mind & body, to the ground Who told her son was better if he scramm’d A cuntish “fuck you mum!” as front-door slamm’d.
His dad mov’d out to Montesano, where His prefab home truck’d to a trailer park, & with a party was assembl’d there With beers & beef & banter in ter dark By morning glow a brand new home to share With his dear son, a modern Noah’s ark Without the women folk, but with the dogs & mice, a paradise among the logs.
Whatever Kurt now wanted now he had & did whatever too, his dad did teach Him how to shoot, to smile & just be glad They lived near nature, he was no Nietzsche But knew where to tickle his son when sad & when, one evening, camping on the beach When pled, “Dad please don’t get married again?” Don said, “Son, I promise I won’t, most plain.
The walk to Montesano’s High School took Less than ten minutes, one morn, time to kill Shortcutting thro thick woods, retorting ‘fuck!’ he saw a human hanging, twisted, still For more than time Kurt stood there & just shook, Useless limbs to life, a dimly-lit thrill, But nothing happen’d, suicide is real No more to think, to stink, to drink, to feel.
Wondering what this discovery means Some prescient portent of life story Reflecting family suicide genes Of trigger-pulls, collapsing all gory, Into deep’ning chats with the same old teens Slots, “I’ll go out within flames of glory & kill myself a famous superstar For drums & songs & strumming my guitar.”
When Star Wars came to town his powers bloom He knew he was watching his relations On Tatooine a memory exhum’d Of visiting, with the delegation Of some red planet, by two suns illum’d, When cursing these human limitations Kurt wish’d he could just Jedi back to base At hyperspeeds, & leave to Earth no trace.
Then comes the fatal gym class skipping rope He trips & slips a disc, scoliosis Soon evolves, pain so rough most barely cope For spinal curvature’s long prognosis No cure intends, no respite & no hope, “Nobody ask’d for, nobody chose this Why do bodies transform in such strange ways,” Mulls Kurt Cobain in his painkiller haze.
Then came the day Kurt wish’d he would have stay’d In Aberdeen, his dad fully reneged Upon a promise, just so he’d get laid, Promptly remarried, furthermore was plagued Step-siblingly, old loyalties betray’d, As when the British soldier ‘Gen’ral Haig’d’ & blindly usher’d t’wards trenches promis’d Empty – when maxim bullets did the rest.
Within a house of larger yards & bulks This just-add-water family took root Whose basement grew a cauldron ditch of sulks A pit to lock the door, shut out, refute, This mad reality, a pile of hulks, Thors, Spidermen, & always this strung lute Which playing with the tenderness of youth Expung’d the bullshit from this living truth.
However much that weird woman tried Her second mother’s soft felicity Grieving for his own family that died Descending into animosity He’d bully his step-brother ’til he cried & fought his father to adversity Begging his mother always on the phone, “Can I come back…” “I’m sorry son…” & groan…
Don tried the best he could in his own way Some kids have never seen their father’s face & took his son to work each Saturday Where, letting him have the run of the place, Kurt makes prank phone calls, climbs log-piles at play, The scampers to Don’s truck, his special place ‘News of the World’ by Queen plays constantly ‘Til sounds cut out at drain of battery
Upon the day Kurt’s fourteen years now are A choice from Uncle Chuck, a brand new bike Or an old electric six string guitar Made in Japan – well Kurt, what would you like As when a whaleship blips on a radar Or finger slips out of a Dutch boy’s dike – From tranquil seas futurity explodes In scudding floods, ferocious overloads!
The mysterious manna from Heaven Which thro our art unproven consumes us & drives us blindly to our obsession That uses, confuses & illumes us Remnants of ectoplasmic possession Oozes thro juvenilia, dooms us To dedication & a wasted life, Or not, for Art is Art & Art is Life!
Such manna fell on Kurt Cobain’s lithe hands & pick’d up Louie Louise, so he thought, The one song play’d by all the North West bands De facto anthem, with a chunk he caught The change of chords, the strangest vale expands Of sounds achievable, if when them sought He’d sit down, & with patience at his back He’d spin a finger-fumble to a knack.
His uncle’s band’s guitarist came along & sat him down & ask’d him what he knew The boy play’d ‘Louie Louie’, got bits wrong & there corrected was, the pair soon flew Thro three fast months & many a new song “My Best Friends Girl” & “Back in Black” but two Another, “Another One Bites the Dust” &, overall, Kurt learnt them all, well, just.
Kurt found himself three chord structures strumming & settl’d them into soft metal grooves In moments rich melodies was humming Which his internal editor approves Mouthing their sounds, syllables kept coming That like a lyrical instrument moves Together to the guitar & the beat He’s tapping out in time with sneaker’d feet.
‘So this is what it’s like to write a song,’ Kurt thought, committing soulparts to the page ‘The one’s that people like to sing along When they are sung before them on a stage;’ The need to write another song grew strong, As steers the noblest poets of an age Running to the sun of procreation Shining on their wonderful vocation.
As golden ratios thread the dance of scales Like planets realigning with the stars Impenetrating mating chords of Whales & throbbing hums of market day bazaars A driving beat divides them into bars Whose even punkwork frames, whose wild wassails When yellin’ & a hollerin’ on top Wades us thro’ sonic guts like hogs in slop.
To everything else’s detriment Kurt practic’d his guitar, his father sat Him down one day & on the next was sent To join the best boys on a wrestling mat A chance his inner furies to unvent A smash of shocks, a flash & jocks splash-crash Transforming this shy guy from nerdy squirt To hyper-daemonical extrovert
Coach told Don, “Kurt’s one of the best I’ve had! & I want him to represent the school,” So came the match, the first made Don mad The second shock’d, the third time felt he fool After the fourth he storm’d out, red-fac’d, mad How could the little bastard think that’s cool, Just folding arms & getting himself pinn’d with no resistance, his roof I’ll rescind!
A teenage body rack’d by double pain His stomach screaming at his I.B.S., Like random lightning striking thro the rain While ever ached his ccurv’d scoliosis That domineer’d his back, the brutal reign Of arthritic emperors, but far worse For soreness over vigour’s life’s worst curse.
Being born in the post-nuclear age, With Reagan’s button-finger’s puppet-poise Set to send destruction, with silent rage The Cold War wages, with its lethal toys Array’d in red & blue upon the page & TV screens, news dribbling ruesome noise Of who was winning, whom the stock-pile star America or the U.S.S.R..
Our kids they could be anything at all Some sports obsess’d, some staunch political Some natural parents, some hate the role, Some heavenly & some heretical Some total seafarers, some hometowns small Whiel some turn out to be poetical Surmising standard schooling, “What’s the point? When knowledge chieves us thro’ a reefer joint.
One lunchbreak in the school refectory In swagger’d a huge creature from elsewhere Quite confident of coming victory Kurt could not help but drilling with a stare Into this spirit, felt a factory Of frolicking was working hard in there, Yet, something else, Kris Novoselic smil’d At him & shimmer’d as a summer’s child.
Alone, again, into those muddy streets A boy, barely halfway to thirty Pockets with copies of ‘Perfume’ & Keats Passing houses ramshackily dirty A time to tear out triumph from defeats To funny be & foxy & flirty & with electric geetahs in his hand Light up the world, the front man of his band
Unable punk to buy in Aberdeen He’d have to make his own, his amp’s ten watts Full power strained, screaming for Halloween He wailed a prototune called ‘Papercuts’ & slumped exhaustedly, asweat, serene, After the blast, he felt it in his guts, With just three chords he would have, after all Something to contribute to rock & roll.
Aunt Mari had a four-track, now & then He’d songs record, percussion wooden spoons Upon an empty suitcase, denizen Of low distortive holes, guttural croons Evolving slowly into something ‘zen’ That once or twice resembl’d actual tunes & now, with ‘Fecal Matter’ he’d record A formal demo where his soul outpour’d.
The demo did the rounds of Aberdeen ‘Illiteracy Will Prevail,’ it’s name With screeching gusto agitating spleen & perfect grounds to hurt, to hate, to blame On one song Kris Novoselich grew keen & made the call, the birth of all his fame; “Het Kurt, its Kris!” “Hey, man”, “I’ve listen’d to Your tape, I’m really loving that ‘Spank Thru.’”
April 4th, 2024, Manchester. At the O2 Victoria Warehouse the Happy Mondays, Inspiral Carpets & Stereo MCs congregate a combined age of 1000+. Meanwhile, in another part of town, a brand new band outta Liverpool was braving the epic rivalry simmering in advance of yesterday’s big footy clash at Old Trafford, & playing a set of their songs. The venue, Yes, the name, Keyside, the average age, less than a 100, & the music… absolutely brilliant?
I’d met my photographer for the evening’s engagement with the zeitgeist, Danny, at Piccadilly, & down we trundl’d the few blocks to Yes, where we caught the end of the support band, Arkayla, bought ourselves a couple of decently-priced pints, & readied ourselves for the show.
So on they came, a cool-looking quartet, whose singer (Dan Parker) had a smile on his face pretty much all the way thro. The guitarist (Ben Cassidy) jangl’d with a Cure-like polish, the bass-player (Max Gibson) pull’d out some reyt lines, like, while the drummer (Oisin MacAvoy) was pure ‘Master of Merseybeat’ himself.
The overall sound of the band was a completely enjoyable alchemical audiofest, with Dan’s honied yet edgy vocals really pleasing to the ear. The songs were, well, not original in concept, but just really infectious – a few bars in & you were hooked, while come the end one was – well, I was anyway – joining in the chorus of ‘nice one lads,’ ‘yes boys,’ etc.
It’s very early days for Keyside – they’re only a couple of singles in, but have a proper twang about them. There’s certainly something about them & I think that is mainly their potential, in which case the future definitely looks promising, especially as they’re on the books of the Modern Sky label.
I manag’d to grab the bass player at the end & asked him where does he see the band in a year’s time – ‘just bigger & bigger’ he replied, & I have no doubt whatsoever, his prophecy will come true.
Mumble Music 