Grumps Waltzing with the Cadence,

Broken Records are a brilliant seven-piece band from Embra, Scotland’s capital city. After a string of teasing singles, the band finally released their debut album, Until the Earth Begins to Part. Such a title serves as an epitome of the band’s power, it suggests strength and longevity.

When this mini-orchestra is something of a beast, whether erupting in attack such as in If the News Makes You Sad, Don’t Watch it or A Good Reason, or lying ponderously in wait through Until the Earth Begins to Part, they always present an insurmountable prospect. Many of the songs are upbeat and in an age where pop by synthesisers has become popular again, it is refreshing to see a band create energetic songs, through traditional string and brass instruments.

Lyrically, the band could be better, as they dwell on basic ideas, but their musical constructions more than compensate. The two loveliest songs are Ghosts and The Slow Parade. Reminiscences lilt along with the piano, the mood veers just one shade happier than melancholic and presents a uniquely wistful sound, ‘If the choice was mine, you’d always appear in my dreams’ sums up the tone of Ghosts. The Slow Parade may be best illustrated by the Jack Vettriano painting called ‘Dance Me to the End of Love’, it’s just about forgetting the woes of the daily life for small moments of culture and beauty, which is why people visit The Bellyaches.

Espousers of the Contrived,

At Kirkcaldy station, I noticed a fairly large crowd dismount and head down towards the town centre. As I waited for a train to the city, I forgot about this abnormality.

As I’ve documented before in The Bellyaches, I love the train journey to Embra. Musing over a book, I could ride the Fife Circle for hours on end. Today, I was reading Swing Hammer Swing by Jeff Torrington and what turned out to be a particularly relevant portion of it.

I amassed some materials from the city: God Help the Girl, Lord Cut-Glass and Ohbijou walbums, a couple of pairs of trousers and some polo shirts - standard fare. The weather was dismal and at the height of eastern Scotland summer, I was at risk of trench foot on Princes Street.

Arriving back in Kirkcaldy, from the train, I spotted more groups of people walking down the streets and police officers at regular vigilant over the hideousness. I still did not know what this hideousness was until it confronted me, the train doors opened, there stood Mr and Mrs Orange with their glum, put upon children bedecked in scarves, of a useless proportion (I anticipate a bout of pneumonia round at the Oranges' this winter, nevertheless when they remember buying their little orange tickets for this fun train journey, their hearts will be warmed), brandishing slogans relating to Ulster waiting to go home from their religious pilgrimage to the Mecca that is Kirkcaldy.

The idea of blaming parents is something I find is contentious. I can think independently from my parents, I’ve always had different views, but maybe that is because they have allowed me freedom of thought. In the case of the Oranges in their ridiculous garb, the parents are accountable; they have warped the delicate minds of their offspring, who in turn could bear another generation of Oranges, unless they emancipate themselves soon, should they be allowed to grow smart enough to understand their parents, their idols, are wrong.

People have always had to believe in something. I don’t have a problem with religion but in Scotland, the Orange walk is the only instance where lives are intruded upon and ‘religion’ is forced upon people and their activities infringe upon the lives of others. When religious people come to knock, doors can be shut upon them. Parents can choose to have their children exempt from religious lessons or assemblies in schools, the children themselves can choose not to pay attention (like I and most people did). People don’t need to watch Songs of Praise on television, they can choose to watch Come Dine With Me. Marches don’t give those along its route any choice, but then the same could be said of Colin Fox and the Scottish Socialist Party who were on their soapboxes with megaphones on Princes Street urging up rise against plans to privatise Royal Mail – life is a paradox, the socialists try to maintain the existence of a business with ‘royal’ in its title. I'm struggling to decide if such noisy and intrusive methods used by the Orange folk and these political campaigners are the same thing, but at least, the socialists hadn't brought their children with them - they could have dressed them up as post boxes and axes or made them act out an episode of everyone's favourite high-octane drama set in Greendale whereby Postman Pat is made redundant and becomes so skint that he has no choice but to send Jess to a home.

The mystery surrounding the existence of free will might never be solved. Kurt Vonnegut battled with it throughout his work and I’m just contrary.

Variegating Dredgers Eliciting Majesty,

The vague drizzle failed to moisten the floppy fringes (should there have been any) or dampen the seditious air as we emerged from the Doghouse, Dundee, its only effect may have been to shorten the longest day by a few minutes.

My Latest Novel had just finished their set and I had just torn down a poster from the wall. The resolution of the poster printing isn’t good but it’s the principle of bagging them that counts and I have now doubled my number of successes.

Arriving at the Doghouse too early, the first support act was Elliot from the West, declared as a local man on his MyArse site, the opportunities to sit on a couch, play the Bullseye video game and to stand by walls outside were taken. I don’t wish to be too disparaging about Elliot, his songs and his guitar because I never granted him my attention like I maybe should have. I will never know if he is to be the new Bill Callahan or Andrew Bird, I’d perhaps settle for the new Samamidon.

Popolo were on next, my main task after entering into the arena was tilting my head in a way such that my eardrums would not explode. Their brand of strident, progressive three-piece rock was not expressed persuasively enough for me to ever wish to endure such pain again. Perhaps I should see a doctor about these ears, perhaps Popolo should think about the cultural significance of their ways.

My Latest Novel are a wonder. I am very familiar with all of their songs now but I never tire of hearing them. The vocal layering, ‘harmonies’ is perhaps not the right term, is perhaps the most striking feat; such different voices combine so well. I love the ideas behind their songs, whether they are inspired by an event, a legend or literature, and I think they are unparalleled in their scope. Their Doghouse performance was perhaps the most energetic that I have witnessed, and amazingly, despite such force, they still maintain accuracy of composition. They played seven songs from the new album, Deaths & Entrances, and Sister Sneaker Sister Soul and Learning Lego from Wolves. I think the highlight of this gig was perhaps Re-Appropriation of the Meme, as led by Gary Deveney, it’s today’s ohrwurm.

Sadly, the show could have sold more tickets, I estimate an attendance of 50 or so, and some of them clapped before songs were finished. Maybe the Scottish meedja needs to give My Latest Novel more backing, perhaps they will take more notice when My Latest Novel win the Mercury Music Prize, or the Halon Menswear Music Prize or failing that, something else.

Cloud Consorts and their Staid Fusillades,

The sun transmitted warmth to those who were wise enough to make the early morning effort. The east wind belied the oncoming front from the west and a dramatic battle ensued in the sky above. The energy bequeathed by the sun bolstered the front by providing an arsenal of storms. I gazed wistfully upon the torrential rain feeding the ground.

The showers continued into the afternoon, across the firth from Kirkcaldy, the city of Embra was occasionally cloaked by cascade of rains, but these came and went to give startling views of the city with its spires and towers resolute. Over to the east, the wind farm churned on the hills to the south of the mysterious Berwick Law.

Obligators to the Ravishing Quagmire,

Lanark: A Life in Four Books by Alasdair Gray is awesome. The novel is a work of art that I almost feel unworthy to comment upon. After finishing, I really just want to start over, I want to make connections, analyse and understand.

The novel, consisting of four books that are not ordered numerically, follows two characters that are ambiguously one and the same, Lanark and Duncan Thaw. The novel opens with Book Three where we meet Lanark, a man in his twenties in the city of Unthank, a futuristic urban hell. As an outsider who spends his days longing for sunlight in an ever-darkening world, he is somehow awkwardly integrated into a trendy crowd who visit the same coffee shop. In a world where people disappear and contract outlandish but symbolic diseases, Lanark develops ‘dragonhide’ and enters the institute.

Books One and Two begin in pre-war Glasgow and follow Duncan Thaw as he grows up. These books document his schooling, his evacuation from the city during the war and his student life as he eventually becomes an artist. There are many parallels between Thaw and Lanark.

The main theme of the book is the supposed ongoing need to love, yet failure to do so. The protagonist seems incapable of offering or accepting love or forming any sort of relationship with people, and the inability to ‘connect’. The character’s mystique and independency often begs the question of why he needs to love and perhaps proposes the possibility of a happier life without such complications in light of his artistic passions.

I am drawn to the opening stages of Book Three where Lanark remains outside, away from the main group in The Elite, the coffee shop, where he watches for glimpses of sunlight. It’s almost as if Lanark knows there’s something greater in life than just being another member of the group of people pandering to their figurehead, Sludden. I compare this to my attraction to outdoor beauties and pleasures whilst living in a world of hermits.

There are many threads to this life but Lanark: A Life in Four Books really needs begin to grasp the scale of this achievement. For this is not just a story, it’s a social statement, it’s a study of literature and importantly, it’s analysis of self.

Avengers of Frowns Listlessly Cast,

Released in February 2009, the Dutch Uncles’ debut album should have received a commendation from The Bellyaches long before now.

On the surface, the Manchester five-piece make pop records. The keys and the guitars each contribute their own rhythm, whilst many reviews do Dutch Uncles a disservice by making comparisons to ‘math-rock’ group, the awful Foals, the scientific process that is most apparent is the formation of constructive and destructive interference by the combination of waves. As these rhythms, come in and out of synchronisation, constructive and progressive climaxes and formed amongst warm, languid, soothing aural pools.

The most impressive thing about Dutch Uncles is their ability to remain credibly wistful whilst playing such a brand of pop. Face In is the main single, it’s quite lively, a bit aggressive, written from the viewpoint of a weary woman, it’s sure to be remembered long into the future. I owe Someone for Everything (an undeniable truth) and Wild St are perfect examples of melancholy pop, the existentialism of the former is particularly remarkable.

Winnowers and Catastrophic Benignities,

I have pondered the issue of charity shops over the last while and the BBC series, Mary, Queen of Charity Shops sheds new light on the issue. I tend to rummage (the favoured verb) through the books in these stores, of course, I’m usually unsuccessful as I always look with favourite authors or specific titles in mind. This doesn’t surprise me; currently, my own books pile up on over-filled shelves, and whilst I do re-read some, I wonder why I keep them all. The need to have all these possession is perplexing.

I guess they exist as a history of what I deem important, they exist as books to be shared and to help someone else understand. I’ve never pondered paint colours for the walls, for in the next refurbishment move, the walls will be lined with books, as I make my home into a library. The books will help to soundproof my environment. Of course, my CDs compete with the books for space, but luckily, I’m quite good at discarding older clothes, despite being prone to buying things that I don’t wear for months after purchase.

The TV programme reminds us that charity shops face many problems. Mary seems quite incensed by the poor quality of donations, and she is right to some extent because it costs charity shops money to arrange special refuse uplifts for items that not fit for sale. The stinginess of the public in the affluent neighbourhood near Mary’s shop is also highlighted as they are shown to be unprepared to donate quality goods despite the fact that they might not use or need them any more. I wonder if there is some sort of repost in their local meedja, I would imagine someone might claim that the programme paints them in bad light.

The mentality of the charity shop volunteer comes under examination; some of these people feel that as they are volunteers, they do not really have to work hard, they lose sight of the fact of the need to generate cash for the charity, for their time is not enough to pay the running costs of the store. Mary is particularly harsh on them. I agree that the business has to be the priority, however, Mary forgets the important social aspect that these shops offer, many of these volunteers revel in meeting each other in store and keeping busy, but as always, I suppose effective and understanding management is the key, because space is at a premium and there’s no room for fudging or fighting.

This other article raises some valid points.

Poltroons of the Parliament of Opprobrium,

‘If the News Makes you sad, Don’t Watch’ it is a title attributed by Broken Records to one of their songs. Lately, I feel this is appropriate. Every headline concerns Gordon Brown and the bad job he is apparently doing. It’s saddening; I feel he must be inhibited in trying to implement policy if his immediate concerns are dealing with incessant questions regarding his position.

It is a cowardly act to call for Gordon to resign without putting yourself forward to replace him. No good can come of such dissent. Gordon’s strength in face of such criticism has to be commended but I suppose he will eventually have to yield in what would be no more than a PR move.

What Labour MPs ought to be doing is defining themselves. They have to convey the core values of the Labour party. They have to mark clear boundaries between their policies and how they aim to achieve them and those of the Conservatives. They have to go back to their roots; they have to tell us about their history and their successes. It’s not too late, but it would rely upon every MP and potential candidate to pull in the same direction. In the Alternative Land Use Party, all the candidates will stand for what they believe in - the party’s ideals. The cult of celebrity, and the notion of leadership will be obsolete. The Labour party should adopt a similar tactic.

Schismatics of Transgressive Scheduling,

Sunlight is a commodity in Scotland that, sometimes, only I appreciate. On our last day of sunshine, I departed for the park during my lunchtime; paradoxically, I chose to take the car, as my book was inside, it was a necessary stopping off point. In attempting to move the car 300 metres closer to the park, between car parks, I cut out too in manner that was a little too close for comfort on another car, then in accelerating away from danger (there are two lines spoken by my first driving instructor that I will always remember, although I was not on the end of the latter: ‘Always accelerate from danger.’ and ‘Do you want to cause a road accident or kill a pigeon? Drive!’), I heard a rattle. It was more than a rattle, it was a metallic onslaught. Not only had I held up the driver behind after emerging from a junction, I now had to suffer the modern indignity of dragging an exhaust along the road and pulling over, before turning round and extending the shame as I returned the car back to car park at my work. I took the book to the park and forgot about the car for a while in the sun.

The next day, I was kindly indulged by the chance of car pool, a special type of car pool, I am the pool to the car of a local champion. In order not to prove too much of a burden, I walked to his usual departure point, his home; this is in the neighbouring town. Despite the supposed inconvenience of not having the use of a car, the 20 minute shortcut over woodland scrub in the early morning was a rare delight in this age of rushing around the clock. The cooing of a woodpigeon is something I will insist on when I look for a place to live.

I can’t visit the bank without being offered all sorts of accounts and credit cards. It’s little wonder customers queue for so long, once the ordeal of the queue is over, a lengthy debate results in being given an appointment to meet their financial advisor, all I wanted was to deposit a cheque.

On my return to the bank, I was confronted by two day-trippers. I believe that I am approached more than the average citizen by people looking for directions, perhaps indicates selfishness on my part. These weren’t two ordinary day-trippers, they greeted me with what I take to be an insult, “You look like you shop in charity shops. Can you tell us where the best ones are?” I was flabbergasted. I don’t look down on those who buy second-hand things; I wish I was fortunate enough to find things I like in these shops. I was shocked at the brazen way that two strangers would address me. I regularly visit the charity shops of the town to find books thus I pointed them in the direction of some and arrived early for my appointment. My meeting finished before it was due to start, I didn’t want or believe in change and the advisor was angry that I had been forced into being given an appointment. Apparently, the bank workers on the shop floor often book people in for financial reviews when there is no great need – this is wastage.

The sport of badminton has made a comeback, it is a simple game that need not be so physically demanding as the shuttlecock does most of the work. Badminton has been kind to us in the past, it has gifted us great entertainment. The mental challenge beats that offered in other pastimes; it surpasses Connect 4, draughts, sudoku, FIFA and riddles.

As the working week closed, I was granted some promising results in an experiment, this gives me renewed hope for the coming week. In just three minutes, a week’s efforts paid off and fortunately, before lunchtime. After venturing onto court for the second time in the week during the lunch break, I tried to emulate the results of the morning for a short while but the draw of the record shop was too great. I heard a couple of great live performances on BBC 6music’s evening show this week by Malcolm Middleton and Withered Hand, and with the realisation that Broken Records’ album was also released this week, I had to buy. The demise of Fopp means that to be able find exactly what I want in store, I have to visit Embra. Coupled with an in-store appearance by My Latest Novel in Avalanche Records, it was difficult to remain in the Kingdom of Fife for the last few hours of the working week. I love Embra and the train journey to its core.

I’ve contributed to small businesses twice this week, it meant paying a few more pounds but I can feel proud of myself. Prior to buying some new racquet grip from the new sports store in town, I bought Until the Earth Begins to Part by Broken Records, Religious Songs EP by Withered Hand, Hazards of Love by The Decemberists and Sometimes I Wish We Were an Eagle by Bill Callahan. My Latest Novel wandered into Avalanche Records and played to a dedicated crowd of around 12, whilst the flux of customers took the audience sometimes closer to 20 in number, I don’t want to analyse the behaviour of those who passed through but, on the whole, I found it ungracious. The dynamics of the in-store appearance were something I had never witnessed before. With little or no ceremony, four of the band performed All in All in All is All, A Dear Green Place, Dragonhide, Learning Lego and I Declare a Ceasefire; hearing these songs in an improvised environment is a privilege, it's always interesting to hear the different ways in which established songs can sound. Although I am highly familiar with both albums, the different voices emerging from the harmonies always surprise and the arrangements are always beautiful, despite, on this occasion, being two members short. During the time, I read the first quarter of the diary of Anne Frank. I'm at the stage where small potatoes (arguments and materials) seem of greater importance than survival, I'm sure this will develop in an interesting way.

Slakers of Pother on Foot,

‘Kerry loves her 32D boobs’

He must have caught this on his glance round the carriage. His own reading material was of interest to someone else, tired of reading for now, the book was held between his legs, with part of the naked lady on the cover just visible above his thigh; the teenagers opposite stared, before drawling, ‘What’s the next stop?’

The talkative woman chatted though her audience changed, starting with a man returning home from a house viewing and a man visiting his daughter, ‘Sit down, sit down, they’re not a bad crowd’, the ticket inspector beckoned, and she was joined by a commuter whose shift had just finished.

The masses were hesitant to sit, but soon they felt maltreated if they were left standing.

The man of lists was the self-appointed voice of the coach, a director of stage, apparently, with lists, numbers with names and notes besides them, these instructions on envelopes were for later, once retrieved from the floor. ‘If you have reservations, sit on your seat. Ignore the digital displays, they’re not working.’, he ordered. He wanted them seated as quickly as I did. People respected his working space, with two seats, he worked through movements, until no longer possible, ‘warmed it for you, I’m afraid.’

Phones beeped, everyone checked their own and then felt embarrassed by unpopularity, the girl with three in front of her was never to blame, these beeps were mostly for the man who only existed as long legs in the aisle.

The man descended at the town of his daughter to be replaced by a man wearing headphones, he was a misfit within the chatting strangers. Relief came when he and the commuter were displaced by two men working for an agency that provided environmentally-friendly solutions to businesses. The headphone man returned to the vestibule between carriages gazing longingly at the seats, waiting for a seat, an opportunity.

Big Al, the train manager, announced, ‘those not travelling should now leave the train as we are about to leave the station, it’s your loss.’, this remarked achieved a smile in everyone even those so cold to force the elderly to their feet and into the vestibule.

Stuffing his ears with headphones, the lad with the book tried to shut out some of the noise.
With each stop, the fear of being in a reserved seat caused unease, potential victims of rude eviction planned their coping strategies.

The trolley hostess grumped. The social table jovially asked her why and heard her denial. The environmentalists defended the implementation of new waste disposal charges, recycling rules and the defeat of the plastic bag, the chatty woman argued for the right of the public to do what they want.

Big Al, at Dunbar, warned ‘mind the dodgy step down to the platform, we’ve don’t want to lose people down the gap’, before, ‘Hello Dunbar people, I hope you’ve emptied the sand from your shoes’.

Over the tannoy, one stark warning from the trolley hostess followed, ‘this will be the last time that I come through, clear all arms and legs to let me pass’.

And everyone sings, ‘ba ba ba da ba da ba’

Malcontents Holding Out Against Sensation,

North Korea as a concept. I am listening to hear where you are.

A parody in a childish filum, stories of rockets launched and nuclear weapons tested, fuzzy footage of grand parades in massive courtyards – this is what North Korea is to the masses.

As rockets are launched and nuclear weapons tested, North Korea must seem like a volcano about to erupt but the problem is far more complex. Interpreting what these activities mean is the task that its neighbours’ leaders must worry about. At the political level, policies in these countries are constantly developing and attitudes forever changing. At the human level, the behaviour of North Korea infringes upon the lives of its neighbours, for instance, clashes often arise as North Korean boats invade the fishing grounds of its neighbours

If reports are to be believed, events occur by the leader’s whims. Abduction, torture, execution and slave labour occurs to meet needs. Opinions and actions are controlled.

North Korea as a concept. Regimented.

We must be thankful for our freedoms; in this age, our government grants us human rights, our government won’t physically torture us or order our execution, we can opt out of North Korea as a reality, it’s a big leap.

Rigid in time, mundanely employed, strict in leisure.

Compliance to stay alive.

North Korea as a concept.

North Korea is a reality.