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the 4 glamorous men
1957 ready steady skiffle!
1959 live at the 2spot
the glamourboys
1963 postergirls
1965 embrace you
1968 swirl
the glamour
1970 damaged goods
1973 tainted vein
1977 unexploded blonde (unreleased)
the figs
1977 skull
1979 flesh
1981 vapour
glam damage
2002 scorched out for love
2003 vibegeist
^^ Back to top
the nightclub/ a stonecold zombie with a look of shock on its face, the kind that happens when nocturnals get caught in the daylight/ check that feeling/ something about turned-off neon always does it for me, turns on the sadness, gets me thinking about where all the shine goes to/ like it should've been raining, like it should've always been raining
what the hell
just this guy, you know, standing alone on ian curtis boulevard/ sunday morning frozen, just gone nine/ and even the moon has been left behind by the night, so careless, looking like a stain of bleach/ like a close-up photo of how my head is feeling/ oh please, I could do with some doghair right now/ something wet to get the heart in tune, to keep my finger from shaking on the door buzzer/ until this low-pitch squawk gets back to me
— who is it?
— I'm here to see donna
— who is it?
— it's elliot, look...
— who is it?
oh shit, the door's got nasty bouncer attitude/ I only met this donna last night and I'm pretty sure she never mentioned a password
— who is it?
— shut the fuck up will yer, I'm thinking
— who is it?
I press my lips closer to the grille
— the bass player
^^ Back to top
the door slides open, smooth as yer like/ and I have maybe five seconds to get myself and the big case through before it closes again/ closes like a bad breath mouth around me/ some kinda foyer, shuttered cloakroom to the left, ticket booth to the right/ suddenly warm, like the building has a pulsebeat/ and no one around so I walk ahead, through into blank space
club zuum/ the dancefloor, shining away into the distance/ heat-shivering
and dirty/ with my shoes sticking to the spillage so much, feels like I can carry on walking, right up the walls, make out like a fly for the day/ around the circle of the floor, where a couple of old ladies are cleaning up the plastic glasses, the cans, the swill, the vomit, the debris/ I give the bomb squad a wave, and they look up and smile, and wave back, like a mirage/ the club has that glazed ozone feel/ molecules of evaporated sweat and perfume/ the thousand-and-one come-ons still lingering, sticky ghosts of young desperate sex
— where's the studio? I shout over
the women point me towards some steps/ down/ where a lone stiletto lies discarded, as though cinderella has turned sluttish/ a regular trash palace/ along a corridor now/ deserted/ past offices all empty of life/ maybe I got the wrong day or something
holy shit/ what am I doing here? somebody tell me
just tracking down the traces/ the sizzle and the traces of a stranger's smile
when this big, old domestic cat saunters out of one of the offices/ a mangy, battle-scarred affair, all black and tattered fur/ the flea magnet looks at me, like I'm a fool to even be here/ and then waddles off down the corridor, flicking its tail like it owns the world
well what the hell/ I follow/ into another doorway
some fat guy, standing near a kitchen counter, eating a breakfast burger
— what the fuck do you want?
— the studio?
— downstairs! down the fuckin' stairs!
hey, nice people/ I walk back into the corridor, thinking it's maybe time to leave/ no, really/ when I see the cat again, sitting on its backside right next a door/ a wooden door this one, looks like a broom cupboard/ open it/ and there you go, more stairs, leading further downwards/ into darkness/ I look around for a light switch, find one/ but it doesn't work/ of course it doesn't
this is getting stupid
the old cat's looking at me/ one eye is glued together with a clog of scum/ the other's giving me this real voodoo manic stare
ok, cat/ let's get to it
holding the case behind me, I follow the creature downwards/ feeling for each step in turn/ musty, cloying air/ the damp on the walls meets the sweat on my skin/ the drink being squeezed out of me/ and down, and further down
some other kind of door at the bottom/ no answer to my knocking/ louder now, and still nothing/ and then swing the door open, letting the cat nip through my legs/ I follow it through, into a recording suite/ empty/ a glass partition shows a room beyond/ darkness/ near darkness/ people/ another door leads to them/ I push it open
just standing there, holding the bass/ looking through
^^ Back to top
oh yeah, I play the bass/ the bass plays me/ the four-stringed, thick-bellied electrified monster, you know, the one that eats all other noises alive
and I've gone walking down these four strings most every hour of every day, of every year and every busted heartbeat, just trying to get along to where the last riff kisses the dark/ the subsonic groove, we call it
dub culture/ midnight's vibration/ something to reach for
some throat, some bottom, some neck and some deep clutch of riverpulse/ gets you hot just strapping yourself into the thing/ and the more you play, the hotter it gets, the slicker the slide/ and all for nothing much because none of the songs you discover, ever come anywhere near to what you hear in your dreams
and I guess all that follows is about me taking a chance on the journey of the bass/ and finally getting to reach the end of it/ the end of the last tune, and what I find down there, in the grooves of the soul/ and how come the music is always that one step beyond all the love you play it with/ and how the bass ain't got four strings at all
just when you think you're getting the grip of it
how it's got these other strings, invisible like/ below the low, and deepcore/ you gotta dive down underload to get a finger on them/ and watch yourself doing it, watch yourself
those strings can pull you under, believe me
ah shit/ believe me please
^^ Back to top
and that's it, the guy tells me to piss off/ and I'm glad to/ out into the rain, coming down full strength now/ fifteen minutes slow-driving, to get to the hotel/ some mock-gothic monstrosity, the best in town, right there on simply red street/ a nice room, for a week/ all expenses paid by the zuum people/ a week, for fuck's sake/ in manchester/ what's to do in a week?
trouble is, the idea of just going up to the room, well...
if I'm gonna be lonely, I'll be my own kind of lonely
so I get out of the car, walk round to the boot/ I'm drenched through just getting there/ open it up, and there's the bass/ and behind it, the carrier bag/ the tapes...
in the driving seat, looking through them/ everything's here, the whole story/ the 4 glamorous men, the glamourboys, the glamour/ the three figs albums/ and also
a globe...
what's that doing here/ jody must've thought I'd want a copy/ the label reads
vibegeist mix #3
ok/ let's hear some, for real
I put the first glamourboy tape in the car's player/ start up the engine/ start up the music/ start up the driving, driving, driving
come on, manchester/ play me some fuckin' bass!
all around the centre, listening to the ready steady skiffle music/ just riding the beat along/ reacquainting/ circling around something that isn't quite there/ getting lost in the one way systems, and all the singing street names
joy division terrace/ rick astley street/ sad café drive
soaking up the music, and the rain's percussion/ some people are out, so used to getting wet, they don't notice hardly/ sunday shopping, using up the weekend
john cooper clarke street/ magazine boulevard/ bee gees avenue
and here's me, hitting the fast forward every so often/ skipping the moments, letting the tape turn over, play out, slotting home another
down oasis lane/ around billy j kramer circus/ along the hollies road
sometimes just finding a space to park in/ some place that reminds me of something
and then driving, drifting, arriving, deriving/ songlines and dreamings
the fall parkway/ a street called gerald/ glamourboys parade
what's that/ I stop the car, turn off the tape, climb out/ start walking
it's a little street, edge of the centre/ no one around/ a few shops, some of them boarded up/ well yer know, at least the group got a street name/ and then I see the sign, the blue plaque stuck on the wall of a run-down building
on this site 1955 - 1968 the famous 2spot coffee bar and night club
below the sign, a door/ an open door, unmarked/ stairs, leading me down
at first, I think I've stepped into some subterranean television showroom/ all tuned to the underwater channel/ big fat colours pop and wave/ tiny little flickers dart, iridescent/ the world's a black pit, filled with globules, ship wrecks, lichen and slugs
it's an aquarium/ a giant aquarium/ a few solitary men stand around, here and there, inspecting the swimmers, making notes in little black books/ some of them holding bulging plastic bags, full up with greasy water and the golden goodies/ I walk through the aisles, mesmerised/ round a large open pond, where giant specimens swim through green water/ until, at the back of the shop, a forlorn middle-aged man stands behind a counter/ head down in some obscure fishkeeping fanzine, but still keen enough to notice my arrival
- is sir looking for anything in particular?
- erm/ yeah/ kind of...
- we have more stock, in the back/ specialist items/ if sir would like to...
- didn't this use to be a club?
- a club?
- yeah, the 2spot/ a nightclub?
- was it?
- there's a plaque outside
- look, mister/ you want some fish, or what?
I leave him to it
back on the road again, letting the rain fall/ and listening/ passing landmarks, youthful things/ getting a sandwich, eating it in the car/ listening, following
stone roses junction/ victor brox house/ northern uproar cul de sac
I see a newsagent/ buy myself an A-Z of the city/ check the index/ there's a glamour walkway listed, right along the river bank/ but no mention of the figs/ there's a jon the postman yard/ a frank sidebottom villas/ a biting tongues playground/ but no figs street/ no figs road/ not even a figs passage/ george axle, a man without a place
new fast automatic daffodil street/ m people mews/ inspiral carpet warehouse
heading out of town eventually/ down new order road/ down to the strange, finding the old house/ glam damage house/ what is that, a new paint job, frilly curtains/ I get out of the car/ looks like any normal family home/ and I know jody and donna moved out some time ago
gives me a shiver, just being there
the curtains twitch/ somebody's looking at me
so then, back to the car, more listening/ tape after tape/ music, unfolding, losing me, finding me/ I don't know where I'm up to/ losing track/ the music getting looser, more relaxed/ becoming too much, too much to listen to/ what's wrong with me/ it's just pop music/ just the usual cheap salvation of the pop dream life
durutti court/ morrissey gardens/ alberto y lost trios paranoias roundabout
along all the roads, the rhythms play
glamology/ just this one family, going through all the phases/ growing older with it, from rock'n'roll to beat, to psychedelia, to rock, to punk, and beyond/ fifties to sixties to seventies/ beyond/ me, skipping forward, jump-cutting/ getting the picture all in one place/ trying to, anyway/ following through the twisted moments
genetic harmonies/ disharmonies
a damageography
and then, suddenly, I know where I'm heading
^^
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