GOODBYE CRUEL WORLD : THE DEATH OF AMY WINEHOUSE

I never thought I would see the day I would receive two incredible texts arriving within 30 seconds of each other informing me of Amy's death. I mean, yes, I knew she was a caner obviously out of control on various substances and/or mental illness. But somehow, some way I always seemed to dismiss the whole sordid spectacle as a gutter press beat up or some anonymous tool uploading videos online purely to then vent abuse about her skankiness. We've all been shitfaced in our time and half the stories I read just seemed like rock n roll behaviour exemplified - 'high spirits' mixed with money, fame, celeb friends, a crazy personality and a newspaper-selling, car crash image. It just seemed to reflect what 'the kids' of contemporary London got up to and characterised what Camden, in particular is like.

Amy's membership to the 27 Club is obviously extremely regrettable and her loss means far more to me than any of that notorious club's other illustrious members. Cobain may have been closer to my generation, but he was American, male and (worst of all) grunge. Couldn't really get any more removed from my own personal experience. Amy, on the other hand, wove images (both lyrically and musically) utterly infused with the emotion, drama, chaos and sassiness of what it feels like to be young, female and fucked up. Laura Barton posted an insightful take on Winehouse's lyrical legacy on the Guardian's music blog yesterday, an excerpt of which I've included below. She touches on all the reasons why Winehouse was such a powerful performer and resonated in particular, with so many women. Read the full post here. 

Pop music had often cast women as sweet, bright creatures, but Winehouse's lyrics revealed something mulchier, messier. Here was a woman who refused to conform – not in the eccentric mad woman in the attic mould of Kate Bush or Björk, but a woman who chose to live a little wild, follow her heart and sing of the simple stew of being female. Her songs were filled with broad talk, cussing, drink and drugs and dicks, songs that could hinge on one magnificent, unladylike question: "What kind of fuckery is this?"

She sang openly of female desire – not the squawky, shrill sexuality of Sex and the City and Ann Summers, but something truer, more physical, more serious. She sang about the ache of the body, the need for emotion, the distracting allure of a man's shoulders, shirt, underwear. "When he comes to me, I drip for him tonight," she sang on I Wake Up Alone. "Drowned in me, we bathe under blue light."
She frequently gave her songs a familiar, almost domestic setting, a world of kitchen floors, chips and pitta, Tanqueray and Stella. "I'm in the tub, you on the seat," she sang on You Know I'm No Good. "Lick your lips as I soak my feet/ Then you notice likkle carpet burn/ My stomach drops and my guts churn." It was a verse that started off like a Degas painting, naked and intimate and warmly erotic, but swiftly dissembled into something sad and messy and ruined.And this, too, was key to Winehouse's lyrics – she gave you an image and then quickly swiped it away, a honeyed love scene soon dissolved into wretchedness; over the course of an album it gave the impression of a life of instability, lived from one ramshackle lurch to the next.
But there were constants – namely addiction and passion, the flaming five-storey fire of love she always returned to in Love Is a Losing Game, the ferocious, proprietorial female strength of Some Unholy War, the mind fogged by drugs and love and desire. In Back to Black's great tangle of pride and neediness we found a melding of the two: "You love blow and I love puff," she sang. "And life is like a pipe/ And I'm a tiny penny rolling up the walls inside."
The other constant presence was of self-recrimination and remorse. In her lyrics Winehouse seemed to show how she screwed things up – how she should never have played the "game" of love in the first place, of "teasing" her self-esteem, and of "this regret I got accustomed to". In Tears Dry on Their Own she gives herself a stern talking-to: "I cannot play myself again, I should be my own best friend," she warns. "Not fuck myself in the head with stupid men."

All images in this post taken outside Amy's house in Camden Square, North London, two days after her death. Amy Winehouse 1983-2011.

WHOLE LOTTA HOVE

I had another opportunity yesterday to admire the beautiful Victorian curves of Brighton station (below) on the way to visit my dear, dear friend, artist Mrs Gillian Trundle-Hepplewhite.

Gillian lives in the grandiose Palmeira Square area of Hove, in a lovely art deco inspired flat with her original Northern Soul hipster and builder husband John. Goldsmiths alumni Gillian agreed to give me a crash course in screen printing, but not before I took the grand tour of their amazing living space full of exotic wares she had accumulated over the years...

Along with the stylish accessories like the vintage Mickey Mouse and beautiful modernist carved bust above, Gill and John's house was full of hip period detail like the elegant curved wall and neutral-toned, minimalist, marblised shower below.

The upper levels of the property contained a number of skylights, the master bedroom featuring an enchanting view towards the pretty St. John the Baptist Church perched on the Western end of the regency-era Palmeira Square (below). Gill's flat sits in a brilliant location, the beautiful church up the northern end of her street, while Hove's lovely seafront lies at the southern end, a matter of a few minutes walk away. 

Gill and John's outdoor space included this beautiful solid vintage sun dial below and other small but perfectly formed accessories.

Gill showed me some fine examples of her screen printing work, inspired by John's northern soul roots and his enormous vinyl collection which runs into the many hundreds. The stark, detailed print below is a post-modern tribute to the music obsessive and a nice interpretation of the numerous nights spent under the Hepplewhite roof way past midnight with the turntables turned up to 11... 

Gill's other obsession is the retro graphics and art deco aesthetics so integral to the city of Miami and the Florida Keys area. The influence is clear in pretty, stylised prints like this hip one below.

We finally got down to brass tacks with a run-through of the basics of screen printing a simple stencil. Gill let me down gently by informing me that the crappy vintage silk screen frame I had picked up at a garage sale in Australia for $8 wasn't up to the job...however my squeegee was the business so all was not lost. We did a few simple prints - featuring a crude rendering of Gill's favourite symbol - and viola!...a few very, I mean VERY rough images emerged. Luckily Gill was still smiling despite that crimson paint threatening to go all over her beautiful new kitchen fittings.

After all that hard work, it was off for a twilight stroll around Hove's grand Palmeira Square. The descending sun created a beautiful sunset over the wooden beach huts as the square gradually illuminated with cosy, warm hues eminating from luxurious lounge and dining rooms. The grand, spacious flats seemed to be full of idiosyncratic furnishings and characterful charm, the rainy pavements reflecting a magical, opulent ambience. Not a single stick of Brighton Rock to be seen...gotta love Hove.

A PRETTY GREEN LIAM GALLAGHER

It seems Carnaby Street is the place middle-aged rock'n'roll stars go to reinvent themselves, specifically Liam Gallagher in the form of post-Oasis men's clothing venture 'Pretty Green'. The Old Burnage Bully is tastefully spreadeagled over his new shop window, manfully draped in a vintage union flag that puts Morrissey's notorious 1992 Finsbury Park performance to shame (below). That trademark intimidating scowl burns holes into the skulls of innocent Japanese tourists, Gallagher's pretty vacant looks and celebrity bankability making a potent combination. Kerching!

Apparently 'founded and designed' by Gallagher himself, (difficult to imagine the moody so-and-so fingering fabric swatches and frantically sketching all night on a massive, Lagerfeld-style creative bender), the store capitalises on both Oasis' characteristically British brand of football casual/mod fusion style and the rich cultural, music and fashion legacy of London's famous Carnaby Street. With a logo ripped straight off the Beatles' distinctive 1965 Rubber Soul album cover, its interesting to ponder if the store's name is a sly nod not only to Weller but also towards all those pretty green dollar bills hes going to rake in with this new incarnation...

Pretty Green's wares incorporate swinging '60s and mod-influenced 'Black Label' tailored designs, including a range of parkas priced from £420 to £555. The more casual 'Green Label' diffusion line features less expensive pieces in rich burgundy, blue, purple and green hues. The reasonably priced desert boot at £95 in distinctive champagne and green is pretty cool, along with the brilliant black suede Lennon hat artfully modelled by the man himself. La Gallagher's regular pounding of Hamsptead Heath's paths (keeping an eagle eye out for Georgie Michael!) in early morning mists have paid off, his youthfully buff form showcased in all its frowny glory on the store's website.

Brother Paul Gallagher, Ocean Colour Scene's Steve Craddock and ex Ride shoegazer/Oasis band mate Andy Bell have all made in-store DJ appearances (presumably Noel's invite got lost in the post). The shop also functions as a venue showcasing exclusive new material and events for Liam's post-Oasis musical outfit Beady Eye. Could it be Liam's been reading the Katie Price guide to branding and business diversification? Definitely maybe.

LOVE WILL TEAR US APART...AGAIN

And so onto the final destination of my tour into the heart of northern darkness...the pretty little town of Macclesfield 15 miles south of Manchester - home and final resting place of Ian Curtis.

I wasn't sure what to expect after the horrors of Blackpool but Macclesfield proved to be a charming little village full of quaint workers' cottages set off by gentle green rolling hills behind the town. Named Most Uncultured Town In Britain by the Times in 2004, Macclesfield seemed to have upped its game since then with a cute retro cinema (where the Sumner/Hooky interface clearly found lyrical inspiration on one of their pilgrimages to chez Curtis) and a hip art show at the local library (below).

Ian Curtis lived at 77 Barton Street, Macclesfield (below bottom) with his wife Deborah and daughter Natalie in the three years preceding his suicide. It was apparently in the kitchen of this house, after watching Warner Herzog's film 'Stroszek' and listening to Iggy Pop's 'The Idiot' that the Joy Division singer hung himself on the eve of the band's first American tour. There is nothing remarkable about the house - it looks like a nice, comfortable first home for a young couple in a tranquil leafy street. Standing outside the house, it seemed easy to imagine the difficulty Ian experienced in reconciling this pretty, homely normality of family life with Deborah to the the intense relationship he had established with Belgian journalist Annik Honore and the international success Joy Division were beginning to experience.   

 

Curtis' memorial stone lies in the leafy grounds of the Macclesfield Cemetery, the attractive, worn original stone unfortunately stolen in July 2008 to be replaced by a more modern version (below). People as far as Canada and Japan had visited the site to pay their respects and leave talismans and other precious objects in tribute. Don't walk away in silence...Ian Curtis 1956-1980 RIP.

MANCHESTER...SO MUCH TO ANSWER FOR

I finally made the trek into the 'grim' north of England last weekend and the city of Manchester did not disappoint. Making the trip to document the Ghosts of Madchester Past as well as the archaic skeletal structures of the industrial revolution, Manchester's atmosphere was unpretentious and the converted warehouses throughout the inner city gave the area a touch of New York ambience. The impressive remains of these factories and warehouses from the city's rich 19th century manufacturing heritage (below) provide many a modern Mancunian with a hip living/work space (below right).

The Museum of Science and Industry provided an excellent overview of the city's industrial history, including an enormous warehouse filled with engines (below), textile manufacturing and aviation buildings in addition to exhibits charting the development of gas, electricity and nuclear power. An enlightening experience indeed spending half a day at this wonderful museum.

 

Of course there was no way I was visiting Sir Steven Patrick Morrissey's hometown without taking a sniff around the local Madchester sites - starting with legendary Factory records-owned Hacienda 'nitespot' which now houses rather dull-looking apartments (below). While aesthetically the building retains no trace of the 80s/90s superclub (apart from the name), I did manage to find a small piece of Shaun Ryder's brain on the footpath outside.

I stopped for a snifter in the creative Northern Quarter of town - at Oldham Street's Dry Bar (pictured below) - originally owned by Tony Wilson and still displaying the sharp graphic yellow style and unique catalogue number characteristic of much of Factory record's sleeve and advertising design. The bar's interior felt a little shabby and outdated, nevertheless the venue seems to be a Manchester music institution not least of all because both Shaun Ryder and Liam Gallagher are alleged to have been barred from the establishment.  

Due to utter incompetence and total disorganisation I managed to miss the infamous Salford Lads Club featured inside the Smiths' The Queen Is Dead album, a truly lacklustre performance on my behalf. I did however, hunt high and low for the iconic Strangeways traffic sign (below top) featured on the band's final studio album Strangeways, Here We Come...but all I could manage to locate was this post-modern and somewhat charmless version (below bottom). Moz would have been outraged.

Finally, I travelled on the winding Eccles tram out to Salford Quays, the regenerated docks area of western Manchester. The brilliant Lowry arts complex (right) is the area's main attraction - named after the artist L. S. Lowry who was noted for naive paintings of  workers and urban scenes of the city's industrial districts. Lowry remained a bachelor and loner throughout his life, producing a prolific artistic output documenting Northern industrial & coastal landscapes whilst holding down a straight job as a rent collector at the Pall Mall Property Company.

Further relics of Manchester's industrial past were evident in the Salford Quays area including these impressive rusty twin cranes, lording it over the canals with a certain iconic and charming authenticity.

Lastly, not forgetting this eccentric local chap, out for a pleasant ride in the Castlefield historic area in his natty Sunday best...