"The night-time economy can bring many benefits to an area,
but how can councils ensure that it's properly managed? Get it right, and the
night-time economy can boost your financial prospects locally, enhance the
sense of community, in your area and also improve local services during the
day. But if councils get it wrong, a community can be plagued by antisocial
behaviour and alcohol-fueled violence."
"The panel learned that the town centre was seen, by some
influential key players, as the ‘engine room of the local economy’ and the
future economic success of Middlesbrough is tied up with the performance of the
town centre. Developing a more diverse evening economy can bring many opportunities
and economic success to the town in terms of job creation, attracting
businesses and people and altering the image of the town."
By the cashpoint, half past 1. Idling about waiting for friends to restock on
money so we can go back into the club and carry on drinking. Lad slumped at a
distance from the cashpoint: head lolling about, clumsily try to manipulate a
smartphone. We eye him and walk on by; offer sage advice, for example “You
wanna watch that mate, someone’ll have it off yeh” or the sturdy, “Are yeh
alright?” Can’t quite remember what I
said but it might have been “You want to get yourself a taxi home.” Think later
that I should have maybe done something more for him, helped out; try and fight
the idea it’s his own stupid fault for getting in a state. He isn’t there when
we roll out a few hours later into the pizza shop; hopefully he didn’t come to
any harm. Wonder where his friends were.
Second floor near the bar; guy in a dark coat appears. Starts
talking to me (his accent Eastern European?) quite friendly-like: he’s clearly
fucked. You can see from his face the links between body and brain have been disjointed
by intoxication; seen this sort in here before and don’t like it. Friends
return and we proceed towards the ground floor to meet up with others, dark
coat following. He grabs one of my friends by the throat and holds him against
the wall at the top of the stairs; we don’t make a move, appreciating the precarious
situation. Dark coat turns to me and inquires of my friend whose throat he’s
got his fingers wrapped around: “Do you know him”. Indeed I do. He releases him
and wanders off after giving me a friendly ‘cya around’ sort of gesture. Friend
who’d been restrained turns to me and says “Who the fuck was he, did you know
him?” No, but I did feel worried for him: if he’d tried that when the friend we
were going to meet on the ground floor was about, the one who’s been drinking
since about 4, he’d have ended up at the bottom of those stairs without a
doubt.
Outside, the smoking area. A friend has been chatting to a
girl we’ve met: plenty of people floating about, smokers, black-coated bouncers,
hi-visibility coppers in the distance. Guy turns up amongst the four of us: “That’s
my girlfriend.” Friend who was walking to her replies “Alright then.” Guy
(never do find out if he is her boyfriend, the girl’s edgy and starring with
quite appropriate disapproval) acts quite genially but in no certain terms
offers to fight all three of us: “Bring your two friends”, he says to my friend,
“they don’t mean anything to me.” We’re frankly stunned, the guy’s fairly
out-of-shape looking, and obviously the worse for drink but even still you’d
have to be a lot more drunk than this to embark on something as plainly idiotic
as this. Eventually the situation is defused in the way these things are and we
drift off. See the girl again that night on her own: understandable.
Very late in the night/early in the morning. Cooling towers,
chemical works, orange flaring from towards Dormanstown. Too tired to speak or
say anything or look at anyone. The taxi skirts its way through what’s left of
the little Hercules of British industry in the sad pre-dawn as we are driven
ages for no reason to drive to an outer suburb to drop a friend off. It’s only
when I’m this tired and this drunk that I start thinking about inanities: my
dad’s stories about working at a steel foundry and a warehouse amongst the
stacks in the now carved-out and ‘redeveloped’ docklands; Ridley Scott’s
memories of the industrial skyline and its impact on the imagery of Blade
Runner; the permanent orange glow just beyond the Eston hills.
There’s still industry here but it’s no more convincing than
when the Deputy Prime Minister visits a shop floor somewhere: this is what Britain
still does the news and the politicians are telling you, it’s all about the classics,
the cars and airplane engines and so on. What they would find it difficult to
say is that the real action is behind me in the town centre: young men and
women leaning against walls with tears in their eyes; a broken bottle arcing
down a face leaving red memories and lost sight; three police kicking a man in
the gutter and hefting him into the back of the van with the rest. A utopian
idea in the 1990s about clubs suggested they could become zones of alternative
reality, fuelled on E-nergy and rave optimism/hedonism. Dream on.
‘I’ve never written about Welsh
identity before: these days, I’ve got to search for things to write
about, whereas in the past everything would be driven by anger and all
the rest of it. Now I’ve got to delve more… Ready For Drowning is the
most complete song I’ve ever written, I think…’
After Everything Must Go, This is my Truth Tell me Yours
is the best album of a mediocre bunch – even with its overblown and
airless moments, even with Wire’s retreat behind domestic lines and
po-faced earnestness replacing their early half-articulate,
all-encompassing ire. Ready for Drowning is perhaps not the best
but the most interesting song on the album: its rippling chapel-service
introduction; Bradfield’s precisely rendered Valleys diction on the
line ‘Said ‘e’d y’eard it in a tacsi’; the second verse’s
disappointing touch of that chronic Nineties disease whereby ‘proving
you care’ feels like more of an imperative than actually caring; and the
climactic sample, amidst the song’s drunk-sounding central lurch, of
Richard Burton’s misanthropic telekinesis master in The Medusa Touch. As the early Manics were and remain a band only a teenager could
properly love, so this, their first album produced entirely post-Richey,
is inescapably the product of a band forced to grow up, but unsure what
to grow into – a state reflective of, among other things, the
post-industrial stasis and stagnation still affecting much of their
homeland.
Released in 1998, This is my Truth is a deeply Welsh
production. Its cover photo was taken on Black Rock Sands in Gwynedd, a
tourist-friendly beach which in the cover shot manages nevertheless to
look as desolate and featureless as an abandoned slate quarry or the
surface of the moon. The album quotes, references or eulogises Aneurin Bevan; the impressively irascible North Wales poet and
Anglican priest R. S. Thomas; and the Welsh who left to fight fascism in
1930s Spain. In 1998, of course, at the end of a decade marked by the pushing of
confected ideas of ‘Britishness’, ‘Welshness’ was also getting big
(everything’s relative). As explored in Wales Off Message, Patrick Hannan’s
occasionally amusing compendium of devolutionary culture and its
cock-ups, the taking root of specifically Welsh political institutions
gave rise to broader debates on how national identity was to be
characterised and defined. The Welsh Assembly’s establishment took place
alongside a very Nineties shift of focus from economic issues to the
nation’s performance on various cultural stages; for Wales, this meant a
cathartic concentration on the national team’s improvement on the rugby
pitch and the consolidation of a dubious ‘New Welsh Cool’, based around
the sudden commercial success of the Manics and the emergence in their
slipstream of other Welsh bands of varying quality and longevity.
Around the time of this album the Manics, never having previously
appeared to endorse flags as anything other than combustible material,
began draping their amplifiers and themselves in the red dragon. But,
just as 1994’s The Holy Bible had been a refusenik splinter in the side of Britpop, so in Wales, when everything surrounding This Is My Truth
seemed to indicate a post-Thatcher, post-imperial, post-devolution sigh
of forward-looking relief, the Welsh album of the year was steeped in
backwards-looking pessimism, quietly if resentfully resigned to despair,
and old before its time. Well, of course it was. It’s Welsh.
In late-90s South Wales at least, the experience of having had work
first defined as one’s purpose for living, then abruptly removed but not
replaced with anything meaningful, was cemented by the shallowness of
Blairite triumphalism, which, despite Kinnock’s unenviable place as New
Labour’s handmaiden, had little time for Wales. The dispiriting and
bathetic micro-machinations surrounding the attempt in 1998 to impose
Alun Michael as London’s man in Cardiff, against Rhodri Morgan’s
positioning as the people’s choice, exemplified this distance. In
addition, New Labour’s post-socialist direction and the Welsh Assembly’s
lack of tax-raising powers both militated against any commitment to
concrete economic improvement. No longer condemned to an industrial
past, vast swathes of the country remained condemned to a
post-industrial future, against which the New Welsh Cool rang as hollow
as a lot of other Nineties rhetoric. Against this backdrop, Ready for Drowning has no solutions and little
hope to offer, in accordance with the quietly bleak defeatism,
resignation and pathos that riddles the album.
On This is my Truth, lacking roots in older, more established
ideas of Welshness tied to custom, place and language, Wire’s casting
around for a secure identity finds him latching on to specific
traditions of Welsh political history. From the Bevan quote in the
album’s title to Welsh participation in the Spanish Civil War, these
aspects of Welsh identity are more modern than ancient, more southern
than northern, and more industrial than agrarian. They are also,
crucially, based in class rather than national consciousness, and they
are, equally significantly, things of a heroic and romanticised recent
past – stuff of history rather than myth, but just as irrecoverable. The
album derives its few comforts and securities from the past,
reinforcing the present lack of either. Ready for Drowning, like If You Tolerate This…, is almost unbearable in its yearning for what’s lost –
for principles, potential and power that, by the end of the twentieth
century, were all over bar the shouting.
*
[A much longer version of this, if you're so inclined, is here, here, here, here and here.]
That is how the shock doctrine works: the original disaster- the coup, the terrorist attack, the market meltdown, the war, the tsunami, the hurricane- puts the entire population into a state of collective shock. The falling bombs, the bursts of terror, the pounding winds serve to soften up whole societies much like the blaring music and blows in the torture cells soften up prisoners. Like the terrorized prisoner who gives up the names of his comrades and renounces his faith, shocked societies often give up things they otherwise fiercely protect.
incapable of charting an independent course of self-development;
a shattered economy and natural resources completely accessible to multinational corporate exploitation, including the enormous mineral wealth in Kosovo;
an impoverished, but literate and skilled population forced to work at subsistence wages, constituting a cheap labor pool that will help depress wages in western Europe and elsewhere;
dismantled petroleum, engineering, mining, fertilizer, and automobile industries, and various light industries, that offer no further competition with existing Western producers.
