Summer In The City

Time Loops

No sun will shine in my day today 

The high yellow moon won't come out to play

I said darkness has covered my light

 And has changed my day into night, yeah

Where is the love to be found?

Won't someone tell me? 'Cause life 

Must be somewhere to be found 

Instead of concrete jungle 

Where the living is hardest 

Concrete jungle

Man, you've got to do your best, oh, yeah

Bob Marley

Concrete Jungle

Am at the Photographers' Gallery, where there is an exhibition of photographs by Dennis Morris entitled Music + Life which highlights Morris’ early documentary work in the multicultural neighbourhoods of post-war London but also captures the spirit of some of the most pivotal moments in 20th-century culture, from the soulful vibrancy of reggae to the rebellious energy of punk..... His candid photographs of Bob Marley, both on stage and off, along with the raw, chaotic world of the Sex Pistols, illustrate his unique ability to capture the personalities behind the music, (from the Photographers' Gallery website).

It's only a tenuous connection - a coincidence perhaps, but when Dennis Morris first hooked up with Bob Marley I also met the great man. On April 28, 1973, Bob Marley and the Wailers came to play in the Great Hall at Lancaster University on their Catch a Fire tour.  I was helping my friend Terry with his band, who were the support act that night, and we spent quite some time in the dressing room, with Bob and Bunny and Peter Tosh and their record playing and a lot of strangely pungent smoke.  Although they had yet to reach the heights of international stardom that was to come, they had a buzz about them, a confidence that they knew where they were going, and they were enjoying themselves.

Trouble was, that, although I was then a very keen amateur photographer, I didn't have my camera with me at the time [A minor oversight, no?  Ed].  I wonder now whether or not Dennis Morris could have been there?  He, like me, would have been a hanger-on, although he was already an accomplished photographer..... 

Here are some photos I took that year:

Brother and sister, Moss Side, Manchester

Moss Side, Manchester

Hattersley County Comprehensive School

Hattersley County Comprehensive School

Hattersley County Comprehensive School

And here is one Dennis Morris took of Bob in Jamaica a year or so later.....

Strange how time loops back and forth, with memory and coincidence entwined.....  

But:

It's all in the something or other.....

I emerge into the stupor of the London streets.  It is hot,  It's the city.  I need a loving spoonful:

Hot town, summer in the city

Back of my neck getting dirty and gritty

Been down, isn't it a pity?

Doesn't seem to be a shadow in the city

All around, people looking half dead

Walking on the sidewalk, hotter than a match head

There is indeed a stifled listlessness on the air:

Pollock's Toy Museum, once a colourful and entertaining spot in Fitzrovia (founded in 1956 in Covent Garden, it moved here to take over what had been an Italian cafe in 1969) is now fading into history, since it closed in 2023 (though still exists in pop-ups in Croydon and Leadenhall market) (Never mind the Pollocks?  Ed)

Even the mural in Whitfield Gardens (off Tottenham Court Road) seems exhausted.....

And Edward Burra's ladies waiting for a bus to Tate Britain are decidedly drained:

But at night it's a different world

Go out and find a girl

Come on, come on and dance all night

Despite the heat it'll be all right

Yes, well.... Maybe not? Better to keep cool with a little water feature:

Or take a pew  and relax with friends in a street cafe:

Cool town, evening in the city

Dressing so fine and looking so pretty

And babe, don't you know it's a pity

That the days can't be like the nights

In the summer, in the city

In the summer, in the city

The Lovin' Spoonful

Summer In The City

I wander back down past the now closed Photographer's Gallery, and then up Argyll Street, where only a couple of weeks ago Eva Perón entreated me not to cry for her silver (Not sure you quite understand?  Ed).  Apart from a bare handful of similarly dissolute campesinos or barrienses that night was mine.  Now the crowds are etched into a platinum frieze and gawp in silent homage:

Yes, the city has melted and been moulded into eternity. There is no where to escape to, but, wait a minute, sweet Cynthia (the moon goddess) Erivo calls me from above the rooftops (with Herbie Hancock on piano at the 2025 Grammy Awards):

Fly me to the moon

Let me play among the stars

And let me see what spring (summer?) is like

On Jupiter and Mars

In other words, hold my hand

In other words, baby, kiss me.....

Etcetera

Bart Howard

Fly Me to the Moon

Man, you've got to do your best, oh, yeah

Dublin c1973

London 2025

(Greater) Manchester - 1 - Then....

Don’t look back in anger….

 

Slip inside the eye of your mind

Don't you know you might find

A better place to play

You said that you'd never been

But all the things that you've seen

Will slowly fade away

NOEL GALLAGHER

Oasis - Don't Look Back In Anger

In 1973 I lodged in Albert Road, Levenshulme, Manchester.  

I had graduated, split up with my girlfriend from Lancaster University, been appointed to teach English at Hattersley County Comprehensive School near Hyde (which became Hattersley High School, then closed in the mid-90s), and needed to sleep somewhere.

So, having signed a contract to live in a bedsit near Manchester University, in Rusholme,  I spent three nights there, returning home from work across broken glass to a freezing room where the only company was the ticking of the gas meter.  It was ghastly.

Then I moved to stay with Tony and Tricia, trying to sleep on the floor behind their sofa.  Tony was a (minor) Liverpool poet (published, but not successful) and Trish’s moment of fame came when she was carer to Dandy Nichols in ‘In sickness and in health.’  It was not the ideal situation for someone entrusted with inspiring the next generation, so I moved into a bedsit on Albert Road. 

My abiding memories of this experience are: cooking liver and onions in a Baby Belling; waking up at about three a.m. to loud static from the TV in the next room where the deaf landlord had fallen asleep; having to negotiate sharing a bathroom with people I never saw.  There was something about it which resonated with the opening chapter of George Orwell’s The Road to Wigan Pier…. The feeling of stagnant meaningless decay…. Labyrinthine slums and dark back kitchens with sickly, aging people creeping round and round them like blackbeetles….

My contact with the real world was found in the Union Inn, across the Stockport Road.  Here, where Boddingtons Beer (brewed in Strangeways; gives you strange ways) flowed in reliable quantity, if not quality, my friends included Spen, who had been imprisoned for manslaughter (as a serving soldier on leave he had punched a man he found sharing a bed with his wife; the man’s skull was thin….) and Martin, who, apart from his claim to sublet his night shift at Courtaulds – he paid someone younger to do his job while he read the paper and slept – went home early on Wednesdays to play strip chess with his wife….

Across the road, in what is now, since March this year, the Dice Lounge [15-20 people, Booking deposit: £100, Bottle of house prosecco: £20, Bottle of spirit: £25 plus a jug of energy drink, Includes: Table service, private room all night] was The Railway pub, just moments away from Levenshulme Railway station on The Street With No Name…..  It was here, in my time, that you could find Kendo Nagasaki, the less than talkative wrestler….. [In his heyday Kendo Nagasaki - brutal, silent and with a hint of Samurai savagery - was the most celebrated British wrestler of them all…. Simon Garfield: The Guardian, October 2001.]

I won’t dwell on this time of my life, for it remains something of a blur.  It seemed apposite, however, that when I re-entered the (virtually unchanged) Union Inn, after forty-four years, I found myself in the midst of a funeral wake…..

Throughout the winter and spring of that year I rode to work as pillion on a 250cc Suzuki piloted by a smart young chemistry teacher to whom I owe indelible gratitude.  But at the school I found myself drowning in a fool’s paradise reminiscent of passages from The Rainbow where an innocent attempts to control wilful creatures that have no inclination to follow any scheme of work whatsoever.  Paradoxically, at break times, finding the maths department’s total domination of the chess board in the staff room and everyone else’s jealous preservation of their tea mugs, I preferred the company of the feral beings in the playground.

I was not so sure of my allegiances when, during an interview at my first parents’ evening, smoke started billowing past the classroom window as the Sports’ Hall burned down.  Later, when one of my colleagues had his throat cut by an irate parent on the way to work, I began to wonder if teaching was for me, but then this was a school where Ian Brady had been personally known to pupils, parents and staff.

I didn’t have time to explore the centre of Manchester, but some of my pupils did.  A fair number of them were never present on Monday mornings, as they were in the courts following excitable behaviour on Saturday at either Maine Road or Old Trafford.  One particular truant, deemed unteachable by colleagues told me that when he wasn’t in school he went to the Central Library…. Oh yeah?  I thought, And what did you do there?  He browsed art books, he told me.  He particularly liked Bruegel.  Tell me about this?  He especially liked Landscape with the Fall of Icarus, he said, with the boy, whose wings have melted (because his dad made him fly too near the sun), falling into the sea while a boat sails on regardless, and a man ploughs the field without realising….

In Brueghel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away

Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman

Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,

But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone

As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green

Water, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen

Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,

Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on...

Musée des Beaux Arts

W. H. Auden

Who needs education? I moved on that summer.  My future was not in The Union Inn, nor was I equipped to teach kids about a life about which I had no idea.

What remains of those times?  I remember the thick, grey air, thick with dirty water.  I remember skies like grey cardboard, damp and spongy.  If I walked down the street I would have to wipe off the grime when I got home.  I remember the scarred sites where back-to-backs had been wrecked ready for redevelopment in Moss Side

and Whalley Range, 

and the towering empty red brick warehouses in the centre, near the canals and railway stations…..  I have no contact with anyone from there and then, though, eerily, entering The Union Inn, it was almost (I will not exaggerate) almost, as if time had run down….

So Sally can wait

She knows it's too late as she's walking on by

My soul slides away

But don't look back in anger

Don't look back in anger

I heard you say

At least not today

NOEL GALLAGHER

Oasis - Don't Look Back In  Anger