1. The Headmaster Ritual
2. Rusholme Ruffians
3. I Want the One I Can’t Have
4. What She Said
5. That Joke Isn’t Funny Anymore
6. Nowhere Fast
7. Well I Wonder
8. Barbarism Begins at Home
9. Meat Is Murder

First time listener — Brian Koppelman

I’m a co-creator/executive producer/showrunner of the television series Billions. Before that I worked on a bunch of films like Ocean’s Thirteen, Solitary Man, Rounders, Runaway Jury, The Illusionist and I Smile Back.

Before all that, I was executive producer of Tracy Chapman’s first album.

Brian’s top three albums

I could list three Bob Dylan albums, and I wouldn’t be lying.

I could list three R.E.M. albums, and I wouldn’t be lying.

I could list three Lou Reed albums, and I wouldn’t be lying if one of them could be a Velvet Underground album.  

Before we get to Brian, here’s what Martin thinks of Meat Is Murder

My favourite origin story. I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to tell it.

Anyway.

An eighteen-year-old Johnny Marr is in need of a singer. Despite his young age, he’s already been in a succession of failed bands. The usual story of the usual lads meeting up and giving it a go — giving it a go until it falls apart.

So he decides to turn it on his head.

He decides the rest of the band can wait. The bass, the drums, he’ll get to them in due course. They’re the easy bit. Before that, he needs a singer, a singer who can also write the songs and front the band.

And he’s heard of someone.

Someone that he met briefly at a Patti Smith gig three years before but has never come across since. A slightly odd, enigmatic character who is unemployed, has few close friends and spends most of his time in his bedroom. Somehow Marr thinks this might be his man and, in either an act of desperation or the most inspired piece of recruitment ever, decides to just turn up, uninvited, at his house.

Taking a mate along for moral support, he boards the number 263 bus in Manchester, resplendent in his best clothes to try and make a good impression — vintage Levi’s, biker boots and a US-style men’s flying cap that sits back from a tinted quiff. Yes, a tinted quiff. Imagine seeing that on a bus in Manchester in 1982.

‘Where’s he off to then? With his tinted quiff.’

'Dunno, probably going to form some band called The Smiths who will go on to become the most influential group of their time and inspire a religious devotion amongst their legion of fans. Give it a couple of years, this bus will be full of tinted quiffs. Mark my words.’

’Oh.’

Anyway, Marr and his mate get off the bus, head to 384 Kings Road and knock on the door. And nothing happens. They knock again. And nothing happens. Then, just as they’re about to leave, they hear the footsteps of someone slowly coming down the stairs and eventually the door opens. And there he is, with a cardigan and a quiff of his own — the twenty-two-year-old Morrissey.

Now as much as I love this story, we have to leave it for a moment so I can just give you more of an idea of who it was that came down those stairs that day.

So here’s the potted biography.

Like virtually all the pupils in his primary school, Morrissey failed his 11+ and was sent to a secondary modern school that specialised in preparing teenagers for the factory floor whilst simultaneously physically abusing them via an endless, and at times random, regime of corporal punishment. Basically that school in the film Kes. To save time, assume he went there.

Whilst other pupils were somehow hardened by the experience (there were accounts of some pupils fighting back and hitting the teachers) this definitely wasn’t the case for our hero, delicate flower that he is. He hated it, every minute of it. One his classmates has since eloquently said,

'He was too clever for us. We were all fucking dur-durs from the council estate fighting each other and robbing each other. He shouldn’t have been in that school.’

Another classmate has said that the young Morrissey avoided the bullishness of the playground and, during breaks, just wandered around the school’s corridors on his own, 'looking at things intently’.

Any attempt he made at social inclusion outside of school backfired too. He once went to watch Manchester United play and fainted because he thought George Best was beautiful. He once went to a fairground too, but someone head butted him for no reason.

So, naturally, he withdraws into his shell and provides his own curriculum. And it’s all the things we know and love about him — Oscar Wilde, British New Wave cinema, James Dean, Sandie Shaw, more Oscar Wilde, Republicanism, sixties girl groups, Feminism, The New York Dolls and Oscar Wilde. As a result, he leaves school with barely a qualification to his name but an exhaustive knowledge of the aforementioned subjects.

It’s worth noting here how much Morrissey is a product of the education system of his time. Had he been born in the nineties it’s reasonable to assume that he would have avoided the brutality and misery of a secondary modern and become one of the 40 per cent that now end up at university, where he could mix with like-minded souls and develop his interests further. No doubt he’d have done a degree in English literature and, instead of being the lead singer in The Smiths, he would now be working at Buzzfeed creating listicles of hamsters that resemble Lord Byron. 

But he never goes to university. Instead, he goes from dead end job to dead end job, punctuated by large periods of unemployment. All the while his lifelines being music and writing. He becomes the scourge of the music press, dispatching missives from his bedroom about all the things that they’re getting wrong, constantly writing letters to them and submitting his own reviews whether they want them or not — generally being an incorrigible pest. He also has a string of pen pals, back bedroom relationships with people around the country, where he displays early evidence of the narcissism that his detractors are all too happy to accuse him of. He opens one of his letters with —

'So pleased that you enjoyed my last letter. Why don’t you just admit that every word I write fascinates you?’

So here he is in 1982, a Lee Harvey Oswald character, a legend in his own mind if not quite in reality. A lonely, depressed, obsessive writer with an overdeveloped sense of his own destiny.

I’m not even joking with that comparison by the way. Look at these lines from Oswald’s diary —

‘Watch my life whirl away. I think to myself, “how easy to die” and a sweet death, (to violins).’

See what I mean?

If only a great guitarist had knocked on Oswald’s door in November 1963, the course of history may have been different. Maybe they did, maybe he wasn’t in.

Morrissey was in though. Of course he was. As he’s said since with customary drama, 'I was just there, dying, and he rescued me’.

So here we are, back on the doorstep, and now you have more of an idea who came down the stairs that day.

Morrissey invites Marr in and they go up to his bedroom where he sees a life-size cutout of James Dean, a bookshelf full of Wilde, Delaney, and Sillitoe and a load of seven-inches from Cilla Black to The Fall. It’s like Johnny Marr has walked into the bedroom of the biggest Morrissey fan in the world — which, in some respects, he has.

Marr picks out the B-side of a Smokey Robinson single, puts it on, and about an hour later they decide to form a band. Simple as that. The next time they meet, about a week later, they write The Hand That Rocks the Cradle and Suffer Little Children. Simple as that. They sit down and write two songs that will appear on the first album. Within a year of them meeting they’ve been signed by Rough Trade and their first single, Hand in Glove is released.

It’s incredible really, the extent to which there is no trial and error and nothing is discarded. They rush out of the blocks, two finished articles meeting each other and just getting straight down to it. Morrissey’s lyrics and Marr’s guitar — developed in isolation but coming together and working straight away. To put this into context, Lennon and McCartney met in 1957 and it took them five years to write Love Me Do. And, let’s face it, Lennon and McCartney were not known for wasting their time.

Morrissey and Marr then audition a load of drummers who fail to impress until Mike Joyce turns up, powered by magic mushrooms, and wins them over with his 'energy’. Andy Rourke follows suit on bass shortly afterwards and there you have it — The Smiths. Marr got to them in due course, they were the easy bit.

Over the next five years, the time it took Lennon and McCartney to release one single, The Smiths release 108 songs, four studio albums, three compilation albums and a live album. A phenomenal level of output made all the more remarkable by how brilliant it is. In fact it’s so good, so consistent, that the ten worst Smiths songs are better than any other bands ten worst songs - a bizarre award category that I acknowledge i’ve just made up..

On top of the recorded output they left a cultural mark too, which, ironically, took hold amongst the students of the colleges and universities that Morrissey himself missed out on. Whilst their devotion was tribal, The Smiths were anything but. From the commonality of their name, the mundanity of their dress, all the way to their pure pop sound, they were entirely inclusive. Neither goth, nor punk, nor new wave — they defined 'indie’ before it was even a term. They allowed people like me to dance with a cardigan stretched over my hands, with a fringe that covered a multitude of sins, with a load of other kids that were different, different just like me. Those halcyon days of the UK indie disco before Give It Away by The Red Hot Chili Peppers brought along a load of kids wearing shorts, who mostly danced with their hair, and generally ruined the whole thing because we were too soft and shy to do anything about it. The bastards.

But Morrissey. Our hero.

My dad absolutely hated him. Physically repulsed by a topless Morrissey, he once turned off Top of the Pops, complaining that he was trying to eat. But I loved him. Not in the religious, devotional way that Smiths fans are often accused of. I’m not vegetarian or celibate, and I’ve got huge issues with the film Saturday Night Sunday Morning. No, it wasn’t any of the baggage. It was him, just him.

He was one of the greatest front men I’ve ever seen, having way more fun than all the other eighties pop stars. Whilst his lyrics may have reflected a time when he was 'dying’, the success and adulation that followed very much brought him to life - ripping his shirt open and proposing, doing a pirouette with a load of flowers in his back pocket. Simon Le Bon wasn’t doing any of that, was he?

No, of course he wasn’t.

But Morrissey was. A back bedroom casualty that opened the door to a great guitarist and grasped his opportunity as if his life depended it. As if his very life depended on it.

And who knows, maybe it did.

Martin Fitzgerald

So over to Brian, why haven’t you listened to it? WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU??????

There’s no way for me to talk about The Smiths without talking about R.E.M. first. Because R.E.M. saved my life.

Overly dramatic? Maybe. But as we are talking about The Smiths, I think overly dramatic is fine. Called for even.

And anyway, that’s how it felt, nineteen years old, driving around freezing cold Boston, Massachusetts in a Jeep CJ-7 with broken windows, the music of Michael Stipe, Peter Buck, Bill Berry and Mike Mills the only thing keeping me from turning the damn thing right into the Charles River.

I had come to their records a bit late; Fables of the Reconstruction had just been released. Before, in high school, I was a heavy metal fan — Van Halen, Iron Maiden, AC/DC — and a fan of American rock and rollers like Bruce, John Cougar and Pat Benatar. But then, college, a bad breakup, driving through the snow in the busted-up Jeep, and a friend handing me Murmur with the following instructions: 'Put it on while you are doing something else, cleaning, studying, reading, and just let it kind of seep in. They’ll become your favourite band.’ (And no, it wasn’t you, Martin, though it sure as fuck sounds as if it could have been).

I did as ordered, the album did as promised, and R.E.M. and I were, forevermore, bound together.

From there, I dove headlong into The Replacements, The Cure, Hüsker Dü, and back into The Clash and Wire and The Velvet Underground and Lou and every other band of that lineage. Every other band, that is, except The Smiths. I avoided The Smiths with the same focused determination I used to avoid the girl who had put me in a perilous state of mind in the first place.

Here’s why: I didn’t think you were allowed to like both Morrissey and Michael Stipe. Somehow, I had got it into my head that they were rivals, that Morrissey, with his British intellect, witty literary references and arch demeanor, was staking a claim for voice of his generation, our generation, when I had already made the decision that Mr Stipe was that man.

This belief was reinforced when I’d come across an interview with Morrissey and look at pictures, or when I’d be at some concert and a guy with a God Save the Queen shirt would be standing next to me, posing as he smoked clove cigarettes, and acting as superior as I believed Morrissey would act were he standing there with us. I mean, sure, I was posing too, in my black jeans, black T-shirt, black boots way, but I knew deep down that I meant it. And he was just pretending.

As the years went on, my generalised antipathy for The Smiths dissipated. I’d see a picture of Stipe with Morrissey and think, 'huh’. When I’d hear The Smiths spun at a party or on radio, I’d recognize Johnny Marr’s brilliant playing, and when I’d catch a lyric, I’d smile, sometimes, and admit to myself that Morrissey was, in fact, every bit as clever as he thought he was.

But something in me, some vestigial unasked for loyalty, prevented me from ever buying or streaming a Smiths album. Prevented me from ever really giving them a chance.

Until now.

You’ve now listened to it at least three times, what do you think?

The First Listen 

I want to like this. That’s the thought running through my ​brain as I slide the iPhone into its speaker cradle and hit play.

Then the music starts. Jaunty and emotional at the same time.

I’m lying in bed, lights are off, it’s late at night, and my plan is to allow the music to seep in as I drift off to sleep. I do this every night. Usually with my favourite bands playing. I start earlier than usual this time, because I am meant to actually listen to the entire thing before sleep. I succeed. But also fail. Which is to say that I do make it through every single song. But I also cannot make myself like it.

The voice, the affect, the whole thing grates on me. I can hear that it is a sturdy record. That the guitar playing is excellent, that the melodies are catchy, that the thing has a unified tone and is, distinctly, a work of art.

It just doesn’t appear to be a work of art I like. Yet.

This is, after all, just the first listen.

The Second Listen

On a bicycle, riding downtown on the path adjacent to New York City’s West Side Highway, the Hudson River and New Jersey to my right, all of Manhattan to my left.

Earbuds in, nothing to distract me from the music, nothing but Morrissey and me gliding along together.

This time, The Smiths sound like The Smithereens, only without the raucous urgency. And I realize that there is no garage rock influence on the band at all. The music I love often feels like it might come apart at the seams. This doesn’t. It feels thought out, planned, executed at a very high level. Boring. Even the folk music I love has a recklessness about it. It’s missing here.

I ride on to my destination, starting to understand that it might not just be my atavistic dislike of Morrissey. I might just not like what The Smiths do.

The Third Listen

At home. On the couch. This time, with lyric sheet in front of me.

And it turns out that Morrissey, the lyricist, is my favourite part of the band. He is, without a doubt, every bit the wordsmith he thinks he is. Important subjects, deeply considered, personally revelatory and universally significant. I understand the lineage from which he comes, the poets from the past with whom he is engaging, the way it must have hit like-minded kids of the era.

I respect the fucking hell out of it. But I still don’t actually enjoy it.

Would you listen to it again?

​Nope.

But I wouldn’t turn it off if you put it on.

A mark out of 10?

​It is a record of high quality and purpose. And so an objective mark would be 8.​

So that was a little preview of our upcoming book.You can pledge for it at the link below and if you do so before May the 5th then you’ll be able to see you name in ink - or e-ink if you go for the digital version.

Thanks 

Martin

X

https://unbound.com/books/ram-record-club

Hiya,

Our book is now available everywhere!. 

You can order it from the following places - 

Waterstones

Rough Trade 

The Big Green Bookshop

Amazon

I’ll also be doing a number of events which, depending on where you live, you should probably attend. 

October 5th - In Conversation with Geoff Lloyd at The Big Green Bookshop in London  

October 12th - In Conversation with Neil Atkinson at Waterstones in Liverpool

October 19th - In Conversation with Ian Rankin at Waterstones in Edinburgh

November 18th - In Conversation with Adam Walton at the Chester Literature Festival

Hopefully see you soon

Martin

x

Alright Everyone

Do you have someone in your life who a) likes music b) likes books and c) doesn’t deserve a Christmas present that costs more than £20?

If so, they could be the lucky recipient of a signed and PERSONALISED edition of Ruth and Martin’s Album Club - the feelgood book of September 7th, 2017.

This is what you have to do.

1) Order the book here 

2) When you get to the payment page, just enter whatever message you want, to whoever you want, and I will write this in the front of the book for you and sign it. Honestly, put whatever you want - marriage proposals, death threats, Half Man Half Biscuit Lyrics. It’s totally up to you. You’re in charge.

Or you can just wish someone a Happy Christmas.

If you can’t think of anything to write just tell me ONE FACT about the person receiving the book and i’ll do the rest.

Just don’t ask me to draw anything. Because I can’t.

3) Sit back and cross someone off your Christmas list knowing that they’ve got a unique Christmas present that money can’t buy*

Place your order before December 8th to guarantee Christmas delivery.

*That bit technically isn’t true. Each book costs £20 and, yes, that does include postage and packing.

Order here

All the best

Martin Fitzgerald

Guest Listener - Brian Bilston

Who’s Brian Bilston when he’s at home?

I write poetry but I (and others) would hesitate to call myself a poet. I have been sharing my verse on Twitter and Facebook for the last few years with varying degrees of success. I write about the stuff of everyday life, with a particular emphasis on buses and bin days. My first collection of poetry, You Caught the Last Bus Home, will be published with Unbound later this year - https://unbound.co.uk/books/brian-bilston

Brian’s Top 3 albums ever?

Hatful of Hollow by The Smiths

Different Class by Pulp

Doolittle by Pixies

What great album has he never heard before?

Harvest by Neil Young

Released in February 1972

Before we get to Brian, here’s what Martin of Ruth and Martin’s Album Club thinks of Harvest.

So much happens here, until the very best part - when nothing happens at all.

Let’s begin with a whistle stop tour of Neil Young’s childhood. 

1) He was born in Toronto in 1945 and, by all accounts, was a bit chubby and grinned a lot.

2) He then contracted Polio at the age of 5 and it looked like he might die.

I know, that escalated quickly didn’t it?

3) Fortunately he survived and, at the age of 10, decided he wanted to be a farmer and raise chickens. He even saved up his pocket money and bought a coop.

4) He swapped the coop for a guitar when he heard Elvis Presley and Chuck Berry on a local radio station called CHUM.

5) CHUM is the best name for a radio station ever and, whilst not integral to the story, I thought it was worth mentioning and dedicating a whole point to.

6) His family were constantly travelling and he ended up going to something like 11 or 12 schools as a result. That’s basically a school every year, which is a bit mental. Eventually he dropped out in the eleventh grade having decided that school wasn’t really for him. He should know to be fair - he tried loads of them.

And this is where we pick him up.

He’s 16 years old and walking at 6 ft. 3 with an air of detachment befitting of someone whose chicken farming days are behind him.

So he starts to get busy.

After a short lived spell in an instrumental band called The Squires, Young hits the road as a solo artist under the influence of Bob Dylan. What follows is a series of impromptu performances at Canadian folk clubs and coffee houses, a fleeting figure with a guitar strapped to his back and sideburns that had taken on a life of their own. Along the way he meets Stephen Stills and Joni Mitchell for the first time and on his 19th birthday he wrote Sugar Mountain - a song he must have known was a bit special.

His own image of himself at the time is of someone walking around in the middle of the night in the snow, wondering where to go next - always with another destination in mind. On the one hand he was thrilled at the troubadour life he was living, whilst on the other he naturally worried where it would all lead to as each year passed without any sign of breaking through.

Enter an admirer to give him a hand.

A bass player called Bruce Palmer was so taken by the sight of Neil Young just walking down the street that he introduced himself and suggested a jamming session.

Simple as that - “That tall fella looks dead cool, I wonder if he wants to come back to mine and be in a band with me.”

It worked though. Young went back to Palmer’s house and, before long, they formed a band called The Mynah Birds, with a young black singer called Ricky James. In keeping with the breakneck pace of this story they somehow got signed to Motown just three weeks after their first gig and were on their way to Detroit to record their first album.

But then disaster struck, which is why you’re not reading a piece about The Mynah Birds’ classic debut album.

Firstly, their manager had overdosed on heroin. Secondly, their singer was arrested and jailed after it was discovered that he was a deserter from the Navy. Neil Young returned to Canada a dejected figure and, in what must have been his lowest ebb, he was then beaten up whilst hitchhiking and left unconscious in a ditch. When he eventually came round, he decided to hit the road again.

He sold everything he owned, bought a hearse, and drove to L.A. to seek out an old friend - Stephen Stills.

It’s here that his next band, Buffalo Springfield, are formed. Despite being named after a particular type of steamroller they quickly caused a stir within the L.A. garage rock scene and were soon playing alongside contemporaries like Love and The Doors. They even had a huge hit, the Stephen Stills penned For What it’s Worth, which was quickly adopted as THE anti-war anthem of its time.

Success, but it was far from perfect. Stephen Stills was very much the boss and, to make matters worse, he often wore a cowboy hat. Young rebelled and felt he could never quite realise his own vision within the band - despite the fact that he was turning out brilliant songs of his own like Burned and Mr Soul. It’s also at this point that he experiences his first epileptic seizure and is put on medication that made him even more moody and withdrawn than he was anyway. After a couple of albums, multiple arguments with Stills, and a seizure live on stage, Young decided to quit Buffalo Springfield for good in May 1968.

You’d think he’d relax for a bit now, be a bit more Neil Young, and take it easy. But no, he’s on the move again.

Over the next 18 months he releases two solo albums, forms a new backing band with a bunch of tough guys called Crazy Horse, and starts hanging around with the singer songwriter and would-be serial killer Charles Manson. At one point he even tries to convince Warners to sign Manson in what would have been the worst decision by a record company since Motown decided to sign The Mynah Birds.

Inexplicably, he also decides working with Stephen Stills again is a good idea and joins the board of the worst firm ever - Crosby, Stills, and Nash. Why he thought this was a good idea is anyone’s guess and the inevitable happened straight away. Not only was he clashing with Stills, but now he had to put up with Crosby as well - the pair of them taking so much cocaine that they once considered calling the band The Frozen Noses.

Can you think of anything worse?

OK - Crosby, Stills, Nash, Young, and Manson would be worse, but you get my point.

After one album that took over 800 studio hours to complete, the band descended into a predictable haze of drugs and competing egos. When Nash ran off with a woman that Stephen Stills fancied the band thankfully broke up for good - but not before Neil Young had wasted a load of time on them and some great songs like Helpless and Ohio.

He momentarily returns to Crazy Horse, but after seeing them beset with drug problems of their own he finally decides it would be best for everyone if he stopped messing about with a load of dysfunctional bands and just became Neil Young Solo instead.

He’s starting to slow down. He’s getting there.

In September 1970, he releases the brilliant After the Gold Rush and celebrates by moving to a big isolated ranch in L.A. And finally, it’s here that it happens - the pivot from which the whole story revolves.

Whilst moving some slabs of polished walnut, Neil Young does his back in and spends the next few months in bed.

At last, we now have him where he want him.

After a lifetime of perpetual motion and bad company he finally takes shelter in solitude and inactivity - it’s the part where nothing happens, where he takes time out and just reflects. He didn’t even have the strength to lift his electric guitar so he had to play an acoustic instead. And the songs start pouring out of him - songs about the old man that lived on the ranch, the friends he’d seen ravaged by drugs and, best of all, a song about a lonely boy that just packed it all in and went down to L.A. Gone was his clawhammer style, his wild abandon, and instead came a sparse finesse that suited the material perfectly.

It was the sound of someone recuperating - not just from his present ailment but from everything that had come before.

He now just needed an opportunity to do them justice in the studio and, again, a happy accident provides the solution.

In February 1971, Young travelled to Nashville to appear on The Johnny Cash Show and, whilst in town, had dinner on the Saturday night with a producer called Elliot Mazer. Throughout the dinner Mazer tries to convince Young to record his next album in his studio. After the meal Young effectively says “Ok, ready when you are”.

Mazer probably thought that meant they were going to schedule a slot in the studio for some future date but Young actually meant he was READY, i.e. let’s do it now. Mazer made a few calls to see who was about and rounded up a bunch of local session musicians including Kenny Buttrey who had played drums Blonde on Blonde. They went to the studio and started recording Harvest - THAT EVENING!

How mad is that? One minute you’re having dinner and the next minute, completely unplanned, you’re recording one of the best albums ever.

“Oh but hang on, who can we get to play drums?”

“Will the fella who played on Blonde on Blonde do?”

“Of course he will!”

The bass player was found because he just happened to be walking down the street at the time - a great example of why you should never stay in on a Saturday night.

But look, the whole thing gloriously comes together. Young is in charge like never before and embraces a bunch of musicians who were content to play from the sides. Everyone did as they were told and they did it REALLY quickly - most songs being completed in just a couple of takes. Any attempts at virtuosity and showmanship were outlawed in favour of a sound that was simple yet beautifully effective. On the song Harvest, for instance, Buttrey plays the whole thing with one hand yet it’s some of the best drumming you’ll ever hear.

After the sessions in Nashville, Young then enlists the help of The London Symphony Orchestra whilst on a visit to the UK and records a couple of songs with electric guitars in a massive barn on his ranch. Unbelievably, he invites Crosby, Stills, and Nash along to provide some backing vocals.

Once the album was finished Mazer set up a huge outdoor stereo system with one stack of speakers in the barn and another in Young’s house. He then plays it to Neil Young whilst he’s rowing in a nearby lake.

Young, from his boat, shouted “More barn!”  

It’s the image that sums the whole thing up for me - Neil Young having a massive laugh whilst listening to his new album on a lake.

Whilst some tough guy music critics have accused Harvest of being compromised, I prefer to see it as pure - as the work of a man who was forced to slow down and enjoy the sound of his own company. Glistening and still, it represents a noble ambition - that doing nothing can be productive, and being busy can get you nowhere.

That’s the album in a nutshell, the luxury it affords - the imposition of time and space, from the artist to the listener.

And it’s why I love it so much. Because, whatever I’m doing when I hear it, it always slows me down.

Martin Fitzgerald (@RamAlbumClub)

The Critics on Harvest 

In a retrospective review, Pitchfork gave it 9.3/10

Rolling Stone ranked it as the 78th best album of all time after initially deciding it was rubbish. 

Lol @ Rolling Stone

So, over to you, Brian. Why haven’t you listened to it? WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?????

Requiem for the Things I Haven’t Done

My life is a litany
of things unachieved,
unbegun tasks, unfinished deeds;

the unwritten novels
and untaken goals,
unfulfilled words, unfilled holes,

jobs unhad
and places unbeen,
unchosen paths, unfollowed dreams,

unseen films, plays, artists,
and all that unlistening to
Neil Young’s Harvest.

But why? Such reasons
are long since lost
to the passing of the seasons.

Maybe I saw him wearing a hat.
I never like it
when musicians do that.

Or did I think it rather
the sort of thing
liked by my father,

some kind of AOR accident,
a middle of the road spill
on the Highway to Grownupville.

For I have never held
much stock
by either country or rock,

it said nothing to me
about my life
and besides, I was busy

in my unachieving prime.
I had so much not to do
and so little time.

You’ve now listened to it, at least 3 times, what do you think?

Harvesting

Out on a weekday, earplugs in,
iPod synced in to my plod,
preparing for the worst.

The opening bars plod along, too,
catch up with me and, together,
we head into the verse.

His tenor comes to greet me
with the resignation
of the condemned

and I listen in close
to the words he’s penned
See the lonely boy out on the weekend

and it’s then that I know
I have a new friend.

You made me feel, Neil Young.
You made me feel as though Spring had not sprung.
You made me feel when your songs were sung.

And although I thought
I would never be ready for the country,
I became a harvester,

went out into the fields,
reaped, gathered, stored.
A few crops left me bored

but I brought them in anyway,
and grew to love them over the days.
Because a man needs some maize.

But others rippled proudly
in golden fields
and those I played loudly

until pins and needles begun
to tickle my ears,
and the damage was done.

I carried these songs inside,
having chopped them down
with my scythe,

and ‘though I wonder
what my young self
might have thought,

I’ve been in my mind,
it’s such a fine line
that keeps me searching

for a heart of gold
and now that I’m getting old,
I think I’m getting Young.

Would you listen to it again?

I’m all out of poems now, thankfully.

Yes, absolutely. I found it something of a ragbag of an album but, almost in spite of itself, it somehow seems to hang together. The highs when they come are glorious and I can see myself returning to this many times.

​​A mark out of 10?

8

RAM Rating – 9

Guest Rating – 8

Overall – 8.5

So that was Week 57 and that was Brian Bilston. Turns out he’d never heard Harvest before because he may have seen Neil Young wearing a hat. So we made him listen to it and he loved it so much that he gave it an 8. 

I know, I wished hat and 8 rhymed too.

Next week, Bonnie Greer listens to something from 1966 for the first time.

Until then, here’s Out on the Weekend from Harvest

Guest listener - Bonnie Greer

Who’s Bonnie Greer when she’s at home?

Bonnie Greer was born on the South Side of Chicago, the eldest of seven children .My late dad was a young GI here in Britain for the D Day Offensive, a life-changing experience for a guy born in segregated Mississippi. I was raised a Roman Catholic kid and attended Catholic school-with a brief two year hiatus in high-school until I got my undergrad degree from university.

I was active politically in high-school and university - the first #blacklivesmatter generation. I was a Motown-teen largely, and when “Pet Sounds” came out in 1966, I wouldn’t have been there to greet it.

Bonnie’s Top 3 albums ever?

I have a lot of favourite albums, but if these three were played on my deathbed (they say hearing is the last sense to go) I’d be absolutely happy. They are :

Nina Simone – Here Comes the Sun

Nirvana - Nevermind

Miles Davis - Sketches of Spain

What great album has she never heard before?

Pet Sounds by The Beach boys

Released in May 1966

Before we get to Bonnie, here’s what Martin of Ruth and Martin’s Album Club thinks of Pet Sounds

Welcome to the alternative history of The Beach Boys

It begins with three brothers in California.

First up, there’s Brian Wilson.

Brian was the oldest and liked nothing more than sitting in his room listening to music - despite being deaf in one ear. In particular, he was a huge fan of a harmony group called The Four Freshmen, and the first album he ever bought was brilliantly called The Four Freshmen and The Five Trombones.

The Five Trombones weren’t another band - there were just five trombones on the album.

Next in line, there’s Dennis Wilson.

Dennis was smart, rebellious, and everyone fancied him because he was bloody gorgeous.

He also played drums and occasionally went surfing - the only one of the brothers that did. Remember that, it’s sort of important.

Finally, bringing up the rear, there’s Carl Wilson.

Carl, the youngest of the three, was basically ignored by everyone else on account of him being quiet and chubby. So, left to his own devices, he learnt how to play guitar. In a strange quirk of fate, he was taught guitar by a local kid called John Maus who would go on to become the fella in The Walker Brothers who wasn’t Scott Walker.

So there we have it, the three Wilson brothers.

Add an ambitious cousin called Mike Love, a friend called Al Jardine, and a band started to take shape. It’s probably worth mentioning here that Jardine, the only one who wasn’t part of the family, was given his chance because Brian Wilson broke his leg once when playing football and felt like he owed him one 

In fact, you could say he got his big break after his ….oh forget it.

The band initially started singing clean cut doo-wop under a variety of silly names like The Pendletones, Carl and The Passions, and Kenny and The Kasuals. However, they were just another group of kids that could sing, the type that make it to the house on The X Factor but then get booted off before the live shows. A local record label was on the verge of showing them the door for the last time, satisfied they had exhausted every angle, when suddenly Dennis piped up with a suggestion.

“How about surfing?” he said.

They looked up to see an excitable, and gorgeous, Dennis Wilson regale them with stories of the local surfing scene. He buzzed about how it was the next big thing and all these local teenagers were listening to the surf report on the radio before planning their day around the size and location of the waves 

One minute they’re saying goodbye to another failed prospect and then, out of the blue, he’s got his foot in the door and starts banging on about surfing. And it wasn’t just the label that were taken aback. The rest of the band were equally surprised at Dennis’s last ditch attempt to save the group.

Once he’d caught his breath, he said,

“Brian already has a song called Surfin’. We could practice it for you and come back?”

Dennis had, remarkably, found the angle.

The publishers nodded their consent, seeing a ready-made audience in the scene that Wilson had described, and the band scurried off. It didn’t matter that Dennis was the only one with any experience of surfing or that the other four, judging by their shirts, looked like they’d be more at home with an ironing board than a surf board. They sensed an opportunity and they weren’t going to let small details get in the way.

The band rehearsed the song all weekend, and went back to the label who recorded it straight away. It was then released as a single and, without even consulting them, the label decided on a new name for the band - The Beach Boys.

It really is worth pausing here to take in what’s just happened.

A fella has saved his band by suggesting they write a song about a relatively niche pastime - surfing. In fact, it’s so niche that 80% of the band have never done it before. Even though it sounds like the worst idea ever, EVERYONE thinks it’s the best idea ever and the band are then called The Beach Boys for the REST OF THEIR CAREER!

I guess the equivalent would be a band that had never played Dungeons & Dragons but exclusively wrote songs about 36 sided dice, dexterity scores, and how to keep your chainmail in good nick. And for good measure, they called themselves The Games Workshop.

They wouldn’t stand a chance.

The Beach Boys, on the other hand, were on their way.

Surfin’ was followed by Surfin’ Safari which was then followed by Surfin’ U.S.A. By sticking to a winning formula (basically making sure the first word of every song is Surfin’) they became the biggest band in America before you could say “bushy bushy blonde hairdo”. And they did it with joy and harmony - epitomising a way of life that was in tune with the elements and promised triple fun for everyone that joined them.

Such was the success of their sound, and their spirit, that they even had the nerve to start singing songs that had nothing to do with surfing at all. There were introspective ballads like In My Room and, of course, there were the best Beach Boys songs of all - the car songs.

It’s the sheer joy and excitement that cuts through. This is not about the road, that endless American obsession about an arduous journey to a mythical destination. No, these are kids who understand that the car itself IS the destination and the thrill is just sitting still and admiring where they are - taking in the rubber, the leather, and chrome. The message is simple and effective - “I’M IN A CAR AND IT’S THE BEST THING THAT’S EVER HAPPENED TO ME”.

They’re the only songs that make me want to learn how to drive.

It’s probably also worth mentioning here that during this time in their career, The Beach Boys were responsible for some of the best opening lines ever. Here, in a quick detour from the story, are my top three -

3) Surfin’ USA

“If everybody had an ocean across the U.S.A., then everybody’d be surfin’, like Californi-a”

I’m giving them top marks for managing to make California rhyme with U.S.A. there.

“Can we get away with that? Just separating the A so that it rhymes?”

“It’s the least of our worries mate, none of us even surf”

“I do”, piped up Dennis.

The only issue I have with the line is that there are 32o million people in America and if everyone really did have their own ocean it would be a bit like that Waterworld film starring Kevin Costner - I.e. Terrible. 

2) Little Deuce Coupe

“I’m not bragging babe so don’t put me down, but I’ve got the fastest set of wheels in town”

Hmmm. Sounds like a massive brag to me, mate. 

1) Help me Rhonda

“Well since you put me down, I’ve been out doing in my head”

Hands down, the best opening line to any song ever.

But back to the story….

As the early sixties inevitably turned into the mid ‘60s, the band were influenced by a new wave of sounds. First, The Beatles came over and the entire country watched them on The Ed Sullivan Show singing songs that weren’t about cars or surfing. Then Bob Dylan started to release a series of albums that were so good that Brian Wilson actually wondered whether he was out to destroy music with his genius.

And, if that wasn’t enough, there was Phil Spector.

Spector had harnessed the power of the studio and started producing songs with layers upon layers of orchestration - mini symphonies that turned pop songs into epic dramas. When Brian Wilson first heard Be My Baby by The Ronettes he sat with his face pressed against the speakers so he could feel the sound and the vibrations - a huge grin on his face as he let the immense sound wash over him.

In fact, he was so taken by what he had heard that he decided to quit touring and stay at home so he could play in the studio instead.

He informed the other Beach Boys of his decision whereupon Al Jardine started to have stomach cramps and Dennis threatened to hit someone with an ashtray. Still, they quickly got over it and brought in a bloke called Bruce Johnston who looked a bit like Brian Wilson. Most people couldn’t even tell the difference.

Free from the rigours of touring, Brian Wilson then started to work on a new sound that relied on a vast array of session musicians and innovative studio techniques. You can first start to hear it around the time of California Girls. Gone was Carl Wilson’s simple Chuck Berry guitar and, in its place, were 14 musicians playing all sorts of weird instruments. One of them was called a Vibraphone, which, if I’m being honest, conjures all sorts of unpleasant images.

Buoyed by his successes, and free from interference, Brian Wilson then tells his wife that he’s going to make the best album ever. He recruits a lyricist called Tony Asher and they begin to sketch a series of new songs, each one starting with a conversation - something to set a mood to write within. Wilson discussed a series of topics with his new partner - his childhood sweetheart, Carole Mountain; the temptation he had for his wife’s sister; the optimism of young love versus, in his view, its pessimistic conclusion. 

It’s some shift, only a year before they were singing songs like this -

Tried Peggy Sue

Tried Betty Lou

Tried Mary Lou

But I knew she wouldn’t do

Barbara Ann, Barbara Ann

Still, this was a new mood and the songs came thick and fast - God Only Knows taking just 20 minutes, which is obviously the best use of 20 minutes by anyone ever.

Once the songs were complete they went to the studio and, with the help of over 60 musicians, they weaved the magic that you can hear today. Wilson was in charge throughout, meticulously conducting the disparate parts to realise his vision. There were so many people that even the most up to date release contains, at best, a guess as to who contributed what. My favourite entries from the liner notes, which are illustrative of the sheer weight of numbers on show, are as follows -

Ron Swallow - Tambourine (uncertain).

“Tony” - Sleigh bell.

The use of inverted commas around Tony has been making me laugh for about 32 years now.

Meanwhile, back in 1966, the rest of the band return from Japan to overdub their vocal parts.

“Japan was great Brian, what have you been up to then?”

‘I’ve just made Pet Sounds lads"

Carl Wilson then sung God Only Knows at the age of 19 and the rest of the group chipped in with their harmonies, despite some of them raising various objections about the change of direction. Mike Love said “it sure don’t sound like the old stuff” and, you know what, he was absolutely right about that.

Pet Sounds was released to moderate sales and only a distant fanfare. Lennon and McCartney heard it and went straight home and wrote Here, There, and Everywhere. Andrew Loog Oldham took out a full page ad in the NME and declared it the greatest album ever made.

Brian Wilson, meanwhile, took it home and played it in bed. He was 24 years old and was overwhelmed by what he’d managed to produce. 

As he listened to it, he cried his eyes out all the way through.

Which is where we bring the story to an end - Brian Wilson lying in bed with his sound washing over him. 

For me, it’s a joyous conclusion, one that celebrates the veneer and refuses to dig deeper – that tells a different truth to the other truths that are out there.

It could just be me, but sometimes the journey doesn’t have to be so arduous - it doesn’t ALWAYS have to be about the destination.

Sometimes you can just sit still and admire where you are 

Thanks for reading my alternative history of The Beach Boys.

Martin Fitzgerald (@RamAlbumClub)

The Critics on Pet Sounds

Really?

 It’s one of the most critically acclaimed albums of all time, but you knew that.

So, over to you Bonnie. Why haven’t you listened to it? WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?????

When I was a very young child, at the end of the 50’s, we lived in a neighbourhood in the notorious Lawndale community on the city’s West Side. It was gang-riddled and you had to watch your back. But in the midst of all that, in those days, there were doo-wop groups on every street corner. There were impromptu doo-wop contests, so I heard lots of falsetto, exquisite falsetto. Plus our local Roman Catholic Church had a superb Irish tenor who sang Low Mass every day before we went to class - Bach mostly.

Then , as a teen, it was Little Anthony and the Imperials; then Curtis Mayfield, Jerry Butler and The Impressions; the entire Motown stable; Mahalia Jackson in Gospel; Muddy Waters and Koko Taylor, the blues; my dad had  Frank Sinatra albums; Johnny Mathis. There was Sam Cooke and Jackie Wilson; Dinah Washington, Miriam Makeba. Throw in the entire Civil Rights Movement- a big part of my growing up-so why would a kid like me listen to some California surfing dudes? 

Plus…they just didn’t look like they would know anything about me and my life. The Beach Boys were what was known as “white bread”- clean, cut; nice lives. What would they know about segregation or gangs, or having to endure getting your hair chemically straightened every month?

If you watched tv- and I did a lot then - they were kind all over it. I mean their ethos.They seemed to me to be that  all American Dad- coming- through- the- front- door- after- a -day at- the- office yelling:  “Honey, I’m Home!”, and mom emerging from the kitchen in a lovely dress, heels and pearls and the perfect meal ready.

Surfin’ USA was their theme, not mine.

If my friends and I were going to the beach in those days, it was to de-segregate it.

That’s the truth.

You’ve now listened to it, at least 3 times, what do you think?

Let me start by saying that I’m a synaesthete. Synaesthesia is a cross-wiring in the  brain in which several senses come together. Until about a decade ago, I thought that everyone heard music the way I do: I see images…whole movies even. Sometimes colour and I can experience smell. So needless to say, listening to any music is not a simple experience for me. Which is why I have instinctively avoided Pet Sounds.

And was quite right to do so!

Let me take you into my world.

I’ll start at the bottom and take you to the top:

1.    The barking dogs almost made me want to commit homicide. I’m still shaking. I get it, but it’s so jarring, so thrown-in. The train. It really jarred me because Wilson felt to me like he was tripping. I read later that he was experimenting, and it’s all over some of these instrumental sections. I can understand why it didn’t chart well in America at the time because those bits seem careless, and a loss of control compared to everything else. Horrid.

2.    The instrumental segments…made me wonder if Burt Bacharach had listened to them and created his Broadway show “Promises, Promises” out of them. I’m saying this as a compliment. If Wilson had gone on to write for Broadway, just with those bits he would have been a zillionaire. I don’t know where they come from, or how they came to be. They’re just there - out of the blue and quite, quite amazing. It still blows my mind hours after hearing it. Very skilful, and throw-away all at the same time.

3.    Now to the masterpieces:

a. The minor one: “Sloop John B”.

Frankly, if you ever want to know what the folks who flock around Donald Trump have playing in their brains - it’s this. This is Middle-America, (I almost said “the whole shooting match”!), the thing-that-they–are. Wilson nailed it and that’s why everybody in America at the time was singing it. Even me at times. Real sing-along “God Bless America” stuff with those gorgeous harmonies.

b. “Caroline, No.”  Exquisite. It’s about being a guy on the edge of manhood. In love with a girl. This is the stuff 16 year old guys feel and you know it as a 16 year old girl, and you also know that you have the upper hand.  It’s really naked; keening. Perfect.

c. “God Only Knows”

In Sonnet 43 Shakespeare writes:

“ When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see, 
For all the day they view things unrespected; 
But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee,”

The pop version of that Sonnet is “God Only Knows”

For me, this was a piece of cinema, so I don’t have the space to talk about it. But it’s a singer’s K2 of emotion; control; picture painting; mood-setting. Out-there and beyond. It’s about a  human being trying to save their life and it pulls no punches.  Really surprised that my idols: Nina; Miles; and Kurt never covered it. Would have been great to hear what they would have done with it.

Would you listen to it again?

Not soon. No.  It’s too much for my brain, really.

​​A mark out of 10?

If you can take it: a 9.

RAM Rating – 9

Guest Rating – 9

Overall Rating – 9 (obvs)

So that was Week 58 and that was Bonnie Greer. Turns out she’d never listened to Pet Sounds before because the music The Beach Boys constantly played said nothing to her about her life (please don’t sue me Morrissey). So, we made her listen to it and she loved it – apart from the dogs and the trains which, let’s be honest, are the worst bits.

Next week, David Aaronovitch listens to something from 1993 for the first time. In the meantime, here’s God only Knows from Pet Sounds.

Ruth and Martin

xx

P.S. - LOOK AT THAT SUPPORT THE BOOK BUTTON THING ON THE RIGHT HAND SIDE OF THE SITE!

CAMPBELTOWN ‘69

EXT. THE RAILWAY, CAMPBELTOWN - NIGHT

The weather is brutal - a relentless rain and howling wind makes the pub sign swing violently on its hinges. 

A single lamp gently illuminates the pathway that runs alongside the pub, giving a spotlight to the rain that bounces off the ground.

Inside, through the frosted windows, vague silhouettes are visible, accompanied by a soundtrack of incomprehensible chatter and the occasional chorus of laughter.

It’s a moment in time, observed from afar - a pub in the middle of nowhere, that could be anywhere. A theatre where the locals are simultaneously the audience and the cast every night.

But suddenly unscripted, a man emerges from the darkest end of the path and casually walks towards the light.

He’s scruffy, a mixture of styles thrown together in haste to create a look that, maybe, wasn’t meant to be seen. He’s wearing a burnt orange waterproof jacket and loose-fitting jeans that are tucked into a pair of old Wellington Boots. He’s also wearing a tight woolly hat, rolled into a hem at the bottom, which, along with his full beard, gives him the air of a lost fisherman.

As he approaches us, we get to study him further.

He’s in his mid-20s, walking at 5 foot 10. Yet, there’s something about him, in his eyes and his essence, that tells us he’s still partly a child, that he hasn’t fully committed to adulthood yet. I’d hesitate to call it an innocence or even a boyish quality, rather it’s just something that he carries. There are some adults that look just like the child from their school photograph, with the fake clouds in the background and their hair shining brightly. And he was one of them - he had a beard now and he’d grown tall, but he hadn’t quite left that child behind.

As he approaches the door, the rain continues to strike his face and soak his beard. He doesn’t flinch, though. He’s self-contained, deep in his own thoughts and history. Whatever his past is, whatever story he’s just left, this is where we find him tonight - walking towards us.

CLOSE UP on the man’s face as he looks straight ahead.

Nothing seems urgent, nothing seems rushed.

This is THE STRANGER.

He opens the door to the pub, increasing the volume of those inside as he does so, and we follow him as he crosses the threshold.

INT. THE RAILWAY, CAMPBELTOWN - CONTINUOUS

FROM BEHIND

The stranger walks through a haze of smoke towards the bar, and it’s solitary barman, on the far side of the pub. A few of the locals look up, acknowledging his entrance, but his head remains focused purely on his destination.

He reaches the bar and waits at the end - a safe distance from a group of men sitting to his left.

The barman and the stranger look at each other before the stranger says something out of earshot and points towards one of the pumps. The barman pulls a pint of dark ale and places it in front of the stranger.

The stranger takes the pint and walks towards a table in a dark corner of the pub, where he sits with his back to everyone.

We leave him to his thoughts and take a seat at the bar, where the group of men are engaged in their own conversation.

FROM THE RIGHT

There are 4 of them in total, 3 in their 50s and one in his mid-20s. Their hands are dirty and rough, their clothing soiled and well worn. They’re very much settled in for the night.

In front of them are 4 pints at uneven levels, a congested ashtray, and a tin of rolling tobacco.

One of the elder men addresses the youngest member of the group.

BILL

Not even for double time?

KENNY

Not even for triple time.

The older men laugh gently

BILL

Jesus Alec, have a word with your son will yer?

ALEC

Bill, I’ve told you before, he’s bone idle. 

The younger man rolls his eyes

KENNY

Look, I dunno about you lot but I’ve got things to do on a Saturday.

BILL

Aye, what things son?

KENNY

Never you mind.

ALEC

He’s got fuck all to do, just like every other Saturday.

The older men laugh again.

Kenny takes a deep drag of his cigarette

KENNY

I’ve got what you call a Catholic work ethic fellas…

ALEC

You haven’t got any fucking work ethic son. That’s your problem.

As Kenny is about to defend his position once more, we leave them and explore the rest of the pub.

FROM THE FRONT

Near the door, there’s a woman sitting on her own. She’s in her mid-40s and appears anxious.

She’s smartly dressed in a navy-blue blazer, silk blouse, and pencil skirt - a show of sophistication at odds with her surroundings, and possibly even herself. Her make-up appears unfamiliar to her and tell us that, for this evening at least, she has gone to some trouble over her appearance.

Desperate for something to do, desperate to look natural, she fiddles with her rings - turning them round on her fingers.

CLOSE UP on her hand as she turns her wedding ring around.  Suddenly she pauses and stops turning it, her fingers resting on the ring.

She checks her watch, then checks the clock behind the bar to make sure they’re showing the same time.

They are - 8:20pm.

She takes the tiniest sip from the bitter lemon in front of her then places the glass back down.

She looks at the door. Then back again at her watch. As each second passes she’s becoming more anxious, more impatient.

She looks at the glass in front of her and notices she’s left a residue of lipstick around the rim.

She sighs, clearly frustrated. Everything needs to be perfect, so she takes a tissue out of her handbag and carefully wipes the glass clean - inspecting it closely afterwards.

She places the glass down in front of her and again checks her watch.

Her patience is wearing thin.

On a table near her, an old man is sitting on his own. He’s dressed smartly in a tweed jacket and tie. His grey hair is well groomed, his moustache full above his lips, and his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. His head is bent down towards a newspaper on the table.

He appears distinguished, professorial.

As we get closer to him, gliding past his table, we notice that he’s asleep and gently snoring.

Leaving him in peace, we turn around and see the barman slowly moving around the pub, collecting the glasses from the customers who have since moved on. His head is bowed, half in duty, half in despair, as he goes from table to table. A cigarette hangs from his mouth, giving him an accompanying cloud of smoke as he does his rounds.

He gets back to the bar and places the empties down.

The four men are still there, the youngest one still defending his work ethic. Joe, one of the elder ones, who has hitherto remained silent decides it’s time for his part.

JOE

Here’s one for yer.

The three other men turn to face Joe.

ALEC

Here we go.

JOE

There’s this group of fellas at work arguing about who’s got the laziest son. The first fella says, “I’m telling you now, my son is definitely the laziest.”

The other 3 men are smiling at him, hanging on every word.

The barman moves round the horseshoe shape bar to the room opposite. We continue to follow him.

A couple are sitting opposite each other, a small table in between them. They’re both young and eager, wholesome and attractive. Their clothing is smart, but sensible and understated. It could be 10 years in the future, or 10 years in the past, and they’d still be wearing the same things.

Their elbows are on the table and they’re clasping each other’s hands. They’re silent and looking pleadingly at each other.

It’s unclear whether they just decided to get married or break up.

The barman continues to move around the room until he leads us to a table in the far corner where three local men are seated.

All three men are young, early 20s at the most, and they’re all smoking. 3 pints are in front of them and a collection of empty glasses.

There’s something that suggests an exterior influence on them compared to the other locals - small cultural affectations and nods to fashion. There’s something in the way they do their hair, a slight extravagance in their clothing and general deportment. One of them has sideburns. One of them has suede boots. And one of them is dressed exactly like Bob Dylan from the cover of Blonde on Blonde.

Their names are KEITH, PETE, and CHARLIE

The barman collects the empties, using every one of his fingers and thumbs as he does so.

Charlie looks up at him and takes a drag of his cigarette before watching him go back to the bar.

The three men lean into each other.

CHARLIE (WHISPERS)

There’s no way he’s coming here. No fucking way.

PETE

Why not?

CHARLIE

Why would he? I mean, who in their right mind would come here?

PETE

Maybe he’s not in his right mind. Maybe the rumours are true and they’ve split up.

CHARLIE

Well, maybe, but I can’t see how coming here is gonna help that.

KEITH

Where’s Terry?

CHARLIE

No idea, look I think someone’s got the wrong of the stick. It doesn’t make any sense.

PETE

Why does it have to make sense?

CHARLIE

What’s that supposed to mean?

PETE

I’m just saying, just because you don’t understand it, doesn’t mean it isn’t happening. Besides, why would someone make it up? What would be the point?

CHARLIE

I dunno. Look all I’m saying is I can’t see it. Can you? A fella like that in a place like this? Can you honestly imagine it? Cos I can’t. I think it’s all a load of bollocks.

PETE

Don’t you want it to be true?

CHARLIE

I want loads of things but it doesn’t mean I’m gonna get them.

PETE

Well let’s just see what happens. We’re not gonna resolve anything here tonight.

CHARLIE

Fair enough, but you know my view.

Keith looks up.

KEITH

It’s Terry

Pete and Charlie look up and see another man on the other side of the bar. The man is a similar age and, for some reason, is wearing sunglasses. He walks past the men seated at the bar and follows the bar round. He then walks past the couple at the table, their hands still locked together, and approaches the three men.

He’s soaked through, his hair and his clothes are stuck to him.

TERRY

There’s someone at the farm.

CHARLIE

Is it him?

Terry peers over his sunglasses and looks down at Charlie.

TERRY

I dunno, but someone’s there

CHARLIE

Did you see Linda?

KEITH

I’m surprised he can see anything with them on.

CHARLIE

Look Terry, what exactly have you seen?

TERRY

There’s lights on at the farm, someone’s there.

The three men all look each other, unsure what to make of this new information.

Charlie then breaks the silence.

CHARLIE

Are you sure?

TERRY

Course I’m fucking sure. I know what a light looks like.

PETE

So it’s true then, he’s here.

Charlie considers the point and then stands up.

CHARLIE

 I’m going over there. I wanna see him.

PETE

Jesus Christ Charlie, what’s wrong with you?

CHARLIE

I just wanna see him, with my own eyes. Are you coming?

PETE

Nah, I’ll give it a miss.

CHARLIE

Keith?

KEITH

No chance

CHARLIE

Terry?

TERRY

I’ve just fucking got here!

CHARLIE

Ok, suit yourselves. I’ll go on my own.

PETE

We’ll be here when you get back.

Charlie leaves the table and we follow him.

As he walks past the table where the couple were sitting, we notice the man has gone and the woman is now sitting alone.

Some of his drink is left in the glass so it’s possible he’s either gone to the toilet or hurriedly left.

The woman looks resigned to whatever fate she has agreed to.

It’s still unclear whether they’ve just decided to get married or break up.

Charlie follows the bar round, walking past the men seated together and heads towards the door.

As he walks past the old man he wakes with a start and furtively looks around him. Once he has his bearings, he holds up the newspaper that was on the table and starts to read.

The headline on the front page of The Campbeltown Courier reads - “Councillor Calls For Report On Crumbling Primary.”

Charlie leaves the pub and heads out into the night, his silhouette visible through the frosted glass as he walks the path.

The woman by the door is still alone. Still looking anxious, still checking her watch.

We turn to the bar and sit ourselves down. As we look to the left we can see Joe is coming to the end of his joke.

JOE

The last fella says “I’m telling you my son is definitely the laziest and to prove it you can come round my house to meet him”. So all the fellas get up now go, you know, to the fellas house. They opens the door and there’s silence, so they all walk through to the hallway and into the living room. And there he is, the fella’s son - rolled up in a ball in front of the fire.

The other men smile

JOE (CONT’D)

The son then turns his head to face his dad and says…“Dad, roll me over I’m burning”

The three men explode in laughter and Joe takes a drink from his glass in recognition.

The barman, back behind his bar, gently laughs along, caught up in the collective joy of the moment.

But then he looks up at the door, something has caught his attention.

A woman has entered the pub and is standing still, looking straight ahead.

She’s in her mid-30s and carries herself quietly and without fuss, with all the steel and goodness of a primary school teacher. In her right hand, she’s holding an umbrella by her side that’s insistently dripping rain on to the floor – each drop like a countdown to whatever is about to happen. She’s wearing a hat and a scarf, a duffle coat and the merest touch of blusher. She looks around, her innocent eyes searching every part of the pub.

CLOSE UP on the woman’s face

She then looks over her shoulder, behind her at the woman sitting alone at the table. The woman at the table is looking directly at her, smiling.

The woman walks to the table and pulls up a chair.

WOMAN

I’m sorry I’m late

THE OTHER WOMAN

It’s fine, I’ve only just got here.

The old man is still focused on his newspaper, scrutinising it as if it’s a game of chess. We move closer to him.

The paper is now folded and, facing us, is page 2. We skim the various stories on the page -

“Teacher retires after 37 years at Castlehill.”

“Lifeboat crew rescue same Irish yacht twice.”

“A sail down memory lane for shipyard family.”

Finally, on the top right hand of the page we rest on the

following headline.

“More Beatle sightings on local farm.”

CLOSE UP on the headline - pause for 5 seconds.

We turn away from the old man and his newspaper, past the two women who are nervously chatting away, past the bar, and arrive at the table in the dark corner of the pub.

FROM BEHIND

The stranger is still sitting there, his back to everyone, and staring at the wall in front of him.

His jacket is hanging over the chair next to him, revealing a wool sweater and a shirt underneath. His hat is on the table in front of him, revealing his long black hair.

He sits perfectly still, as he will for the rest of the night, until the barman stops serving and he makes his way back to the farm.

THE END