Me, I can t wait to see the film version of High Fidelity. As you might know, Nick Hornby, author of Fever Pitch, wrote a follow-up novel about a record store boss in north London, a champion loser who defines the key moments in his life through records. When he s not doing that, he s making lists about music or sitting at home compiling tapes of his favourite tunes. His relationships are generally terrible, probably because he s useless at externalising his feelings. Instead, everything goes into those sad lists and many cassette-loads of obscure singers.
I read the book with a mixture of joy and horrified recognition. It was nice to realise that I was not alone in my crapness. You see, I too had tramped the streets of that part of town, looking for illumination in Reckless Records in Islington. Or standing with a dozen other dismal blokes in the Weaver s Arms, Stoke Newington, listening to some reasonable-but-not-great troubadour from Austin, Texas, warbling about the great plains and how Townes Van Zandt really liked this song, he sure did.
I also served my time at the Dublin Castle in Camden, at the Mean Fiddler in Harlesden and the Sir George Robey in Finsbury. Occasionally a venue-owner would let me play some records before the main act, and so I got to cue up my precious vinyl before all the other saddos, who would nod their heads in approval, if they felt I deserved it, or else they d come up and request Gene Clark tunes that even Gene hadn t heard of.
Hey, it wasn t always that dismal. On Sunday nights, a club started up at a pub on Portland Place called the Heavenly Social. Again, the premise was that people could play records from their collections that had a special meaning. The difference between the Social and those gloomy roots clubs was that the former was alive with the spirit of rock and roll. People there were always up for it, even if that meant that the working week began with a spectacular hangover.
The house DJs were a bunch of guys called The Dust Brothers, who subsequently changed their name to the Chemical Brothers when their American counterparts called the cops. They were mixing up vintage hip hop and electro, throwing in some NWA or pummeling techno, revving up a style that became known as Big Beat. Somewhere in the corner, Norman Cook was taking notes, while Tricky was toting a bag of acetates and Paul Weller was getting busy with the Rizlas.
It was cool and it wasn t cool. Sure, you could see Noel Gallagher there on occasions, and you could probably trace the origins of Death In Vegas back to those nights. But I recall the daft moments best, when everyone would sing The Loving Spoonful s Do You Believe In Magic , the official anthem of Jeff Barrat from Heavenly Records. And I also remember hearing the intro to Paul Simon s Fifty Ways To Leave Your Lover , and experiencing it in a completely different light afterwards, fantastically born again.
Anyway, I was feeling homesick at that time keen to get back to Belfast after ten years away. So I did the proper thing and made up a compilation tape to get me in the frame for leaving. And I played it in the car for months; in traffic jams and chill winter nights, on horrendous journeys across the North Circular. I remember there being some Pogues tracks on that tape, and Shane s ambivalent croak about the dirty metropolis was a comfort. So too was the sound of Kevin Rowland warbling Knowledge Of Beauty from the last Dexy s masterpiece, urging me to go west and stating with great conviction that national pride and personal pride were all the same.
There was a great story doing the rounds that Kev had made a video for this album, featuring his parents in a little rowing boat, splashing around the coast of Mayo, and I kind of understood where he was at. Just to keep the Kev dynamic strong, that tape also included the man singing Young Man from his solo LP The Wanderer, which also dealt with the resolve to do the right thing. So while the estate agents were looking at my place in Harringey, I was listening to De Danann and Van s version of Purple Heather and singing along with Terry Clarke.
The last guy was a pal from Reading with roots in Sligo. His album, The Shelley River was a gloriously sentimental collection about family, displacement and getting back to where you once belonged. I d listen to American Lipstick a lot, indulging the soul.
But the keystones of that compilation tape were a series of songs by the Belfast writer, Andy White. He was a guy that I knew in my teenage year and never liked much. Maybe he was too posh , or wasn t punk rock enough, or something. And when he got some publicity for Religious Persuasion , his first record, I felt he was milking the Ulster situation, copping sensationalist poses. But, in time, I grew to like his records. They seemed more personal and less shoutey. And the Dylan thing wasn t such an obstacle, because I too liked old Bob by this stage.
But importantly, those records moved me a fair bit. The Andy tunes I chose for the tape were Birds Of Passage , in which Andy quits London to go home, leaving no forwarding address. Cute and sincere and great for my purposes. I also liked Speechless , which charts Andy s progress through an emotional American tour. He s wowing at the images, thinking about the Gulf War, having a few beers and measuring his Irishness against this unfamiliar landscape. And finally, I taped a track called Travelling Circus , in which relationships spin across cities and the road goes on forever. The sweetest.
So hey Andy White, I wrote this column for you. By the time I did get back to Belfast, you were in Dublin, fixing to go off to Switzerland to live. And the last time I saw you in the flesh you were talking about your peculiar relationship to your hometown. I love the place where I grew up, I remember you saying. But you don t necessarily have to live there to love it. Ahead of me, once again.
Andy s new live LP, Speechless (Womad Select) is another journey into that conundrum. He s bashing out a lot of his old works in the
Real World Studios in England, with Bronagh Gallagher on drums and Kieran Kennedy on guitar. Loads of songs about the old place. Sometimes he s high on hope and then he gets rightfully twisted. Swooning chords,
crashing sentiments and some wit at no extra cost. And listen out, cause Andy s playing my song again. I can feel another compilation tape coming on.