Bulletin 13 - Hackney Sub-Zero No Limit
Hackney Round Chapel December 11th
The Round Chapel in Hackney is a bloody beautiful venue. Tucked in amongst Council estates and chip shops, it’s recently been cleaned, probably Portland stone, and, erm, is a round chapel. Probably late eighteenth or early nineteenth century, neo Palladian, for those of you who care about such things, it has simple, elegant lines and a lovely space used last night as a performance area. Its charm nearly made up for the total lack of heating, making the building almost as cold inside as it was outside.
The quirky venue was a fitting location for one of Dirty Pretty Things last gigs, this one postponed from June - a benefit for ‘Real Fits’ and ‘Jail Guitar Doors’, both charities concerned with bringing music and writing into prisons and working with prisoners to encourage creative expression. Indeed, a number of the evening’s performers, including Carl Barât, Drew McConnell and Jon McClure had spent the afternoon running a workshop at Brixton Prison. The event had a very different feel to most DPT gigs - the audience was more mixed - fans blended with supporters of the two charities. And in a frosty way, the evening was magical. The performance kicked off at just after half seven with Kieran Leonard with his Dylanesque ballads accompanied by a lovely, mournful fiddle. We then moved onto Drew McConnell who sang a short set ending with Bound for Glory, the classic Woodie Guthrie song, well chosen for the night. Following rapidly was Jon McClure accompanied by colleagues from Reverend and the Makers as well as McConnell with an acoustic set punctuated by McClure’s engaging and impassioned political observations.
With very little pause Billy Bragg was introduced - one of the musical voices synonymous with political activism, and a driving force behind Jail Guitar Doors. He played a set that teased out the vein of leftism lurking in most of the audience. He gave a lovely little speech about his own political awakening at the 1978 Carnival Against the Nazis in Victoria Park, although we wanted to nudge him into acknowledging the 2008 30th Anniversary Carnival that attracted 100,000 people this past April, and to correct his mistaken memory that the Park is in Hackney (Victoria Park is actually in Tower Hamlets). Fast on Bragg’s heels was a song from John (sorry, didn’t catch his surname) whose previous performances had been within the walls of one of HM’s Prisons. Clearly nervous, he performed his Streets-like tale of prison life amazingly, and the crowd was respectful and enthusiastic.
We then had the only real pause in what had been a rapid turn around evening whilst DPT’s crew set up. Time to go out for a fag and remind ourselves that it was actually colder outside than in. Finally the band hit the stage, and not withstanding the arctic temperatures, we managed to stomp some life into our frozen feet. Despite predictions to the contrary, the band played a full set - shorter than the usual fare, but at least a dozen songs played the way they do best - tight and fast. No Hippy’s Son (well, it was a church, after all, and I’m sure they wouldn’t have wanted to be disrespectful... *cough*), no Kicks or Consumption, Playboys or Truth Begins, but we got pretty much everything else. Carl spoke about the reason for the gig, and asked us if we were alright - warm enough? No of course, we bloody weren’t warm enough. Hadn’t he come on stage wearing a hooded parka suitable for polar exploration? But the cold didn’t matter, really. It was a subject for bonding between all the performers and the audience, and gave the evening a suitably home-made, seasonal feel.
Then a break followed by BURMA, Bang Bang and You Fucking Love it. (So much for the we’re-playing-a-church-self-censorship, then). The lead-in to Bang Bang broke from tradition. Anthony picked up the trumpet and blew a squawk and then started futzing with the instrument, removing some of the valves. Carl pointed out that the trumpet appeared to be broken, and led the crowd in what must have been the most pathetic vocal rendition of the trumpet part ever. Didz clearly thought so too, commenting, ‘Well, that was the best ever’!
Then they were gone again, but clearly not for good as techs retuned and the finale was introduced by the organisers who drew the winning raffle ticket to award a signed twelve string to a lucky bloke in the crowd. Everyone piled back on stage and, with a quip from Bragg about there being no such thing as too many guitars, Mick Jones joined the assembled throng to play a jam-like version of Jail Guitar Doors. It was good fun, if not the musical highlight of the evening. Barât competed with McClure for height by standing on the drum riser, Jones beamed, Anthony and a woman percussionist who’d played with McClure looked after the raffle winner, and McConnell bounced about on the front of the stage clearly having the time of his life. Then hugs all around and it was over.
After some hanging about, we were shepherded onto a waiting Routemaster bus in the jumble of helpers, musicians and miscellaneous bods for what felt more like a school outing than anything else. The purpose of this was to travel the short distance to a club in Clerkenwell where the aftershow was being held. Covert smokers, booze guzzlers, plaintive voices asking ‘are we there yet’ should have been accompanied by rousing choruses of song. Had the journey been any longer, we might well have descended into chucking paper wads and making airplanes from our printed bus tickets. Fortunately for the organisers, we arrived before full madness took over, and trooped off the bus for a few pleasant hours of overpriced drinks, dancing and chatting.
It was a really good evening. All of the performances had their own charm, and there was no point where I felt impatient for things to move along more swiftly. The whole show was very focussed on the nature of the benefit, and it included some very moving moments as well as some great music. It all worked, and hats off to everyone who gave of their time to make it happen. Though, frankly, if I’d had a hat, I’d have kept it on for warmth.
The Round Chapel in Hackney is a bloody beautiful venue. Tucked in amongst Council estates and chip shops, it’s recently been cleaned, probably Portland stone, and, erm, is a round chapel. Probably late eighteenth or early nineteenth century, neo Palladian, for those of you who care about such things, it has simple, elegant lines and a lovely space used last night as a performance area. Its charm nearly made up for the total lack of heating, making the building almost as cold inside as it was outside.
The quirky venue was a fitting location for one of Dirty Pretty Things last gigs, this one postponed from June - a benefit for ‘Real Fits’ and ‘Jail Guitar Doors’, both charities concerned with bringing music and writing into prisons and working with prisoners to encourage creative expression. Indeed, a number of the evening’s performers, including Carl Barât, Drew McConnell and Jon McClure had spent the afternoon running a workshop at Brixton Prison. The event had a very different feel to most DPT gigs - the audience was more mixed - fans blended with supporters of the two charities. And in a frosty way, the evening was magical. The performance kicked off at just after half seven with Kieran Leonard with his Dylanesque ballads accompanied by a lovely, mournful fiddle. We then moved onto Drew McConnell who sang a short set ending with Bound for Glory, the classic Woodie Guthrie song, well chosen for the night. Following rapidly was Jon McClure accompanied by colleagues from Reverend and the Makers as well as McConnell with an acoustic set punctuated by McClure’s engaging and impassioned political observations.
With very little pause Billy Bragg was introduced - one of the musical voices synonymous with political activism, and a driving force behind Jail Guitar Doors. He played a set that teased out the vein of leftism lurking in most of the audience. He gave a lovely little speech about his own political awakening at the 1978 Carnival Against the Nazis in Victoria Park, although we wanted to nudge him into acknowledging the 2008 30th Anniversary Carnival that attracted 100,000 people this past April, and to correct his mistaken memory that the Park is in Hackney (Victoria Park is actually in Tower Hamlets). Fast on Bragg’s heels was a song from John (sorry, didn’t catch his surname) whose previous performances had been within the walls of one of HM’s Prisons. Clearly nervous, he performed his Streets-like tale of prison life amazingly, and the crowd was respectful and enthusiastic.
We then had the only real pause in what had been a rapid turn around evening whilst DPT’s crew set up. Time to go out for a fag and remind ourselves that it was actually colder outside than in. Finally the band hit the stage, and not withstanding the arctic temperatures, we managed to stomp some life into our frozen feet. Despite predictions to the contrary, the band played a full set - shorter than the usual fare, but at least a dozen songs played the way they do best - tight and fast. No Hippy’s Son (well, it was a church, after all, and I’m sure they wouldn’t have wanted to be disrespectful... *cough*), no Kicks or Consumption, Playboys or Truth Begins, but we got pretty much everything else. Carl spoke about the reason for the gig, and asked us if we were alright - warm enough? No of course, we bloody weren’t warm enough. Hadn’t he come on stage wearing a hooded parka suitable for polar exploration? But the cold didn’t matter, really. It was a subject for bonding between all the performers and the audience, and gave the evening a suitably home-made, seasonal feel.
Then a break followed by BURMA, Bang Bang and You Fucking Love it. (So much for the we’re-playing-a-church-self-censorship, then). The lead-in to Bang Bang broke from tradition. Anthony picked up the trumpet and blew a squawk and then started futzing with the instrument, removing some of the valves. Carl pointed out that the trumpet appeared to be broken, and led the crowd in what must have been the most pathetic vocal rendition of the trumpet part ever. Didz clearly thought so too, commenting, ‘Well, that was the best ever’!
Then they were gone again, but clearly not for good as techs retuned and the finale was introduced by the organisers who drew the winning raffle ticket to award a signed twelve string to a lucky bloke in the crowd. Everyone piled back on stage and, with a quip from Bragg about there being no such thing as too many guitars, Mick Jones joined the assembled throng to play a jam-like version of Jail Guitar Doors. It was good fun, if not the musical highlight of the evening. Barât competed with McClure for height by standing on the drum riser, Jones beamed, Anthony and a woman percussionist who’d played with McClure looked after the raffle winner, and McConnell bounced about on the front of the stage clearly having the time of his life. Then hugs all around and it was over.
After some hanging about, we were shepherded onto a waiting Routemaster bus in the jumble of helpers, musicians and miscellaneous bods for what felt more like a school outing than anything else. The purpose of this was to travel the short distance to a club in Clerkenwell where the aftershow was being held. Covert smokers, booze guzzlers, plaintive voices asking ‘are we there yet’ should have been accompanied by rousing choruses of song. Had the journey been any longer, we might well have descended into chucking paper wads and making airplanes from our printed bus tickets. Fortunately for the organisers, we arrived before full madness took over, and trooped off the bus for a few pleasant hours of overpriced drinks, dancing and chatting.
It was a really good evening. All of the performances had their own charm, and there was no point where I felt impatient for things to move along more swiftly. The whole show was very focussed on the nature of the benefit, and it included some very moving moments as well as some great music. It all worked, and hats off to everyone who gave of their time to make it happen. Though, frankly, if I’d had a hat, I’d have kept it on for warmth.