STRANGER THINGS review

YOUR NEW FAVOURITE TV SERIES
'Why do you want to build a sensory deprivation tank?' 'Fun?'

A mash up of Spielberg, King, Carpenter and Repo Man (1984).
(Image copyright: Netflix)

I love it when a TV series seems to come out of nowhere and captures everyone’s imagination. This month that’s been the case with Netflix’s Stranger Things, created by the unlikely sounding partnership of The Duffer Brothers.

Rather charmingly, it’s a mash up of Steven Spielberg’s movies ET – The Extra-Terrestrial (1982, cute misfit kids racing about on bikes, involved with a strange outsider), John Carpenter’s 1980s film oeuvre, the horror novelist Stephen King – a character is seen reading one of his books in one scene – with a dash of Richard Donner’s The Goonies (1985, a misfit kids’ gang again) and Repo Man (1984): disaffected teenagers mixed up with sinister government types trying to suppress the leak of a paranormal conspiracy.

Appropriately, at the heart of the series are two iconic 1980s actors. Matthew Modine (Married to the Mob, Birdy, Stanley Kubrick’s Full Metal Jacket) is glacially cool, amoral scientist Dr. Martin Brenner, complete with white hair and sharp three-piece suit, looking like Christopher Walken in A View to a Kill (1985 – C.W. was the best thing in that film, incidentally). Winona Ryder (Beetlejuice, Heathers, Great Balls of Fire!), as neurotic mum Joyce Byers, is clearly going for an Emmy and deservedly so.

There’s also brilliant newbie on the scene (new to me, anyway). David Harbour’s Lee Marvin-voiced Sheriff Hopper, simmering with a troubled history and on medication, is not above beating up suspects to get information.

Give him his own series.

As for the angelic Millie Bobby Brown playing the abused ‘Eleven’… the range of emotion she projects through minimal facial expressions is extraordinary.

Stranger Things is ‘1980s’ in a lot less shouty way than Ashes to Ashes (2008-2010), a relatively recent series also set at the beginning of the decade. For instance, part of solving the mystery is based around photographs that have to be manually developed, instead of using a conspicuously ‘80s angle like, say, the technology on the Space Shuttle or referencing a programme on the new Disney channel. Elsewhere, the musical tastes of Jonathan Byers (Charlie Heaton) include The Clash and Joy Division – well researched, very early ‘80s indie – that are selectively and dramatically used, rather than plastered all over the soundtrack.

The storytelling is clear and unpretentious; accordingly, the cinematography is lit in a very ‘80s way, alternatively washed out, garish or murky. The use of three generations – kids, teens and adults – to tell the story is a simple idea that works fantastically well, often to great comic effect. This is particularly true of the gang of Mike (Finn Wolfhard - really), Dustin (Gaten Matarazzo) and Lucas (Caleb McLaughlin), as they compare the strange happenings to Dungeons and Dragons or Star Wars. Pleasingly, the outsiders in every generation emerge as the heroes, another Spielbergian theme.

Stranger Things runs to eight episodes, so you could devour it one binge sitting. All the threads of the story are satisfyingly tied up, but like all good script writers the Duffers have left the way open for more. I almost hope the series’ production team resists the temptation, as these eight episodes are almost perfect.

Still, I’d be more than happy be happy to enjoy the company of Hopper, Mike, Joyce and co. second time around.

DOCTOR WHO - SEASON 18 revisited

LET'S GET SERIOUS
An epic ramble through Tom Baker's final year. It's been well worth it.

'Nothing like this has ever happened before.'

Tom Baker’s final series over 1980-81 was a personally significant one for me. I hadn’t missed an episode since 1972, which was quite a feat in the days before home video recorders. The fourth episode of ‘Meglos’, on Saturday 18 October 1980, was the turning point.

That was the night Scottish glam punkers The Skids, my second favourite band – The Stranglers were first, and still are – played the University of East Anglia in nearby Norwich. I’d organised a minibus full of Sixth Formers, of which I was one, to go and see them, leaving an anxious Mum in charge of audio recording ‘Meglos’ Part 4. In short, to paraphrase Tom, that summer I’d discovered the pubs, women and music.

Building up all Tom’s stories on DVD again and the recent, mammoth interview with the lad himself in Doctor Who Magazine have put me in a nostalgic mood. Despite the lure of what used to be called ‘going out’, I remained very active in Doctor Who fandom in the early ‘80s. In any case, the PanoptiCons, the annual conventions the Doctor Who Appreciation Society organised, were basically excuses for everyone to get drunk, if you were lucky get laid, and talk all night about television and films.

In 1980, we fans were throwing welcoming garlands of praise at the feet of incoming producer John Nathan-Turner and 1981’s PanoptiCon felt like his canonisation. The stories looked great (translation: expensive), Tom’s Eric-Morecambe-in-space capering had been toned down and THE CHARACTERS MENTIONED OLD STORIES! Can you imagine how impossibly exciting that was in the days before commercial VHS and DVD collections going back to 1963? There was an air of intellectualism and visual inventiveness about the series, the Master was back and, the crowning glory, there was a dynamic new Doctor waiting in the wings.

Reflecting fifty plus years on from all that, Season 18 initially feels as if it was designed to appeal to young men uncomfortable in their adolescence (exhibit A: the first new companion, Adric) and uncomfortable in their love for Doctor Who, which had been through a rough time in the media since the arrival of Star Wars. Rightly or wrongly, those same serious young male fans had considered the series progressively ‘silly’, so JNT – as he soon became known – and his new script editor, computer journalist Christopher H. Bidmead, had done something about it.

With a decent budget, more stories and what we now have to call a ‘story arc’ about the Heat Death of the universe, Season 18 may have been great at the time, but how does it stand up today? After all, Graham Williams’ three series were almost universally maligned by fandom at the time and look at their reputation – rightfully rehabilitated, in my opinion – today. Roll VT...

The Leisure Hive

The startling, filmic direction of ‘The Leisure Hive’ builds an environment rather than navigates the viewer around an atmospheric BBC TV studio. For instance, you initially wonder why the camera is dwelling on the silent Klout, who doesn’t seem at all important. The reasoning becomes clear later on, a technique common in movies. It might not have been the first time this had been done in Doctor Who, but it fits with director Lovett Bickford’s novel, (mostly) carefully considered vocabulary of tracking shots, low angles that show the sets have ceilings, tight close ups, fast cuts and crash zooms. The cliffhanger to Part 1 is still fantastic, as the decapitated Doctor swallows the screen and the closing titles’ star field appears to be taking the viewer down his throat.

As you’d expect from David Fisher, there’s a credibly realised alien society. Following a trend in Season 17, there’s also a clever plot about the subversion of commerce, as well as allusions to Greece and Rome, together with a discreet inter-species love story – Mina (Adrienne Cori, above right) and Hardin (Nigel Lambert). There’s a nice touch of dramatic irony, too: Pangol (David Haig, above left), the only child of a civilization ruined by war, making amends through a community that promotes inter-racial understanding, is a xenophobic war monger. The nicely underplayed point, that the lessons of history can be forgotten or distorted, for me sadly resonates even more today.

It’s also the only story where you’ll see the Doctor knock out a guard using mathematics. Watch it now and you can easily see Bidmead punching the air and shouting ‘Yes!’

Meglos

Parts of ‘Meglos’ are the worst Doctor Who story written up to this point in the series’ history. It’s become fashionable to affectionately dismiss the serial as a Doctor Who Annual story that somehow got on to television, but that really isn’t good enough. If the script editor had been doing his job properly, the clunky expository dialogue between the inhabitants of Tigella, where they explain their own society to each other, would never have made it past the first draft. You can’t believe it’s from the typewriter of the same guy who edited ‘The Leisure Hive’.

Then again, writers John Flanagan and Andrew McCulloch are more interested in having fun with the malevolent, shape shifting cactus of the title and the marauding Gaztak mercenaries of General Grugger (Bill Fraser, above left). This is where the story comes to life, and Tom is clearly having a ball playing a power mad egomaniac.

The unexplored potential here – a parasitic race that can manipulate time and build super weapons that become worshipped – makes you realise why JNT considered bringing Meglos back.

Full Circle

There’s no doubt about it, Matthew Waterhouse (far left) was the wrong choice to play Adric. Either Richard Willis (Varsh) or Bernard Padden (Tylos), playing the other young rebels, would have been preferable. I’ll go further – Waterhouse was the worst choice of actor ever for a leading role in Doctor Who. He just didn’t have enough acting experience. The casting was a seriously questionable decision, but, from what I can remember, fandom at the time was largely in denial about it because they’d got everything else they wanted.

Anticipating the 21st century stories, ‘Full Circle’ is notable for having no villain, but if there is one it’s the concept of the Starliner ruling elite’s blind adherence to propaganda and meaningless procedure – ironically, falsehoods that hold their society together. The character journey of Login (George Baker) follows this rather beautifully, as the most respected man in the community joins the government, slowly has his belief in it destroyed and then finds his own path. Who says Andrew Smith was an inexperienced writer?  The brilliant scene where the Doctor demolishes Starliner society in one confrontation confirms otherwise.

Notably, the opening scene between the Doctor and Romana in the TARDIS may be inspired by continuity, but the economy of the closing dialogue speaks volumes about the characters: ‘You can’t fight Time Lords, Romana.’ ‘You did – once.’ ‘Yes – and lost.’ I bet Russell T. Davies and Steven Moffat wish they’d written that. I wish I’d written that.

State of Decay

The investigate/get locked up/get rescued structure of ‘State of Decay’ is really noticeable after the first three stories went so far away from the old formula.

What makes the story work are the performances. Tom and Lalla Ward (Romana) are at the top of their respective games, two chummy intellectuals who don’t seem too worried about being lost in another universe. In his first recorded story even Matthew Waterhouse isn’t too bad – he doesn’t do much – and I much prefer the original conception of the character as an amoral chancer, which they’d perfect a couple of years later with Turlough (Mark Strickson). Aukon (Emrys James), Camilla (an unrecognisable Rachel Davies) and Zargo (the brilliant William Lindsay – whatever happened to him?) as the vampires (above) are notable for being so deliberately and enjoyably theatrical, though modern viewers might find the baroque acting style a bit hard to take.

For the record, this is the first ‘classic’ Doctor Who young Poppy watched all the way through with us. She loved K9 and Tom Baker but declared the flight of the Hydrax scout ship ‘really fake.’ Don’t worry, love, it’s OK – we thought that at the time.

Warriors’ Gate

Stephen Gallagher’s script is the definitive example of how mature the writing is this year. Throughout, Romana does all the Doctoring, confronting the crew of Captain Rorvik (the peerless Clifford Rose), empathising with the Tharils and rescuing her companions, so that by the end of the story it’s logical that she leaves to effectively become the Doctor, with K9 and her own embryonic TARDIS (above). Significantly, the same idea’s not spelt out with a flashing neon sign and the sledgehammer subtlety the way it would be 34 years later in ‘Hell Bent’.

This time around, ‘Warriors’ Gate’ is my favourite story of 1980-81. It’s a fantastic combination of an articulate, esoteric script and a director pushing for a truly innovative form of visual storytelling.

Paul Joyce isn’t attempting to direct the story either just as a movie or just as a piece of atmospheric, videoed theatre: his approach uses the best elements of both, at the same time ignoring the naturalistic conventions of TV drama. The white void is a blank canvas and the monochrome gardens of the Tharils’ stately home clearly aren’t meant to be ‘real’. The only reality here is the slack workforce of the Privateer, a wonderful, underplayed satire on British industry circa 1979. It’s been said before, but it was a huge loss to Doctor Who that the iconoclastic Joyce was never used again.

The Keeper of Traken

Pleasingly it looks, and in places sounds, like a particularly stylish National Theatre production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, which I guess is the point, what with the lyrical metaphor of weeds in the garden representing evil. Here we have a liberal, humane culture that, almost imperceptibly, becomes authoritarian, violent and xenophobic. The more things change, eh?

What’s lovely about these stories is that supporting characters have complete narratives of their own: Mina and Hardin’s love story, Grugger and Brotadac’s alliance of convenience with Meglos, Login’s discovery of the sham of Starliner society, Ivo’s feud with Habris in ‘State of Decay’, Aldo and Royce’s fatalistic malingering in ‘Warriors’ Gate’ and, in ‘The Keeper of Traken’, the rise of the corrupt Proctor Neman (Roland Oliver, above) which can only end badly for him. This isn’t unique in Doctor Who by any means, but the care with which it’s done in Season 18 is quite striking. With that in mind, Sarah Sutton’s Nyssa stands out a mile in a strong cast, so it’s not surprising she was asked to stay on.

Logopolis

Barry Letts was Executive Producer on Season 18 and I do wonder how much influence he had on Tom’s final story. In looking forward, ‘Logopolis’ casts more than a backward glance at Letts’ tenure: the TARDIS inside a TARDIS, a Master who resembles Roger Delgado, a future regeneration of a Time Lord, the Doctor’s last-minute alliance with his nemesis, a death plunge from a radio telescope… you can also detect his hand in the creation of Tegan (Janet Fielding), a young career woman who stows away aboard the TARDIS. It’s a continuity fest that, with hindsight, was an ominous sign of things to come. That said, it’s a shame they didn’t keep enough money back for a stunt fall like the remarkable one at the end of ‘Terror of the Autons’.

Everything’s stripped back for 'the universe isn't big enough for the two of them' show down between the Doctor and the Master and, this time, Anthony Ainley’s darkly camp take on the character is both refreshing and genuinely sinister.

‘Logopolis’ is a combination of funereal gravitas and threadbare production values, which is somehow appropriate for the epitaph of a Doctor who saw out the 1970s. A whole generation of children hadn’t known any Doctor before Tom, which the story treats very seriously, so much so that his famous grin is barely seen until the regeneration, fittingly enough. He was a bit Woodstock, a bit New Wave and defined Doctor Who like no other actor before or since.

In conclusion…

If you want to look at Season 18 within the wider folklore of the series, the End of the Universe in ‘Logopolis’ might be the ‘eternal chaos’ predicted by the White Guardian in 1978’s ‘The Ribos Operation’, the prevention of which never happened because the Doctor dispersed the Key to Time. As the Black Guardian (left) appears at the end of the clips of Fourth Doctor enemies bellowing ‘DOCTOR, YOU SHALL DIE FOR THIS!’ just before he falls to his death, the idea fits. Perhaps the ‘galactic hobo with ideas above his station’ casually dismissed in ‘The Leisure Hive’ wins after all.

Cosmetically, the star field titles haven’t dated as much as I thought they would, probably because they had such an influence on the title designers of the BBC Wales series. The completely radiophonic music is a breath of fresh air – considered, atmospheric, unusual and evocative, far from the generic synth pap it would become when budgets were cut. It’s only in the Gothic stylings of ‘State of Decay’ that the new music doesn’t really work. Long-time traditional composer Dudley Simpson’s marimba is sorely missed.

Summing up, I can’t think of any other series in Doctor Who’s long history where the non-Terran civilizations are so well thought out and diverse. The TARDIS only touches Earth at the beginning and the end of the series and, for once, it’s the least interesting location the Doctor’s ship visits. He only encounters humans or human descendants four times (and that’s assuming the crew of the Privateer are human). The production team should rightly take a bow for such a concerted effort to stay away from Earth. After this, it was a quick slip back into human-featuring or Earth-set stories; by the 21st century, the TARDIS was returning there with monotonous regularity and the buggers had overrun the galaxy.

Behind all the accurate but dull scientific terminology – which, despite what Chris Bidmead might protest, might as well be made up – it’s the conceptual cleverness of Season 18 that impress and inspires today. The Argolins’ Experiential Grid, Meglos’s time loop, the Mistfall evolutionary cycle, the Great Vampire’s planetary bolt hole, the Privateer, the Gateway, the Keepership of Traken, Logopolis… every story has at least one brilliant science fiction idea. ‘The Leisure Hive’, ‘Full Circle’ and ‘Warriors’ Gate’ are packed with them.

This series is a thrilling collision of ‘serious’ science fiction concepts and artistic experimentation. One thing that’s particularly noticeable, watching the stories back, is Bidmead’s fascination with the lies and anarchy lurking beneath the thin skin of civilised society, a theme he’d return to in both ‘Castrovalva’ and ‘Frontios’.

If Season 18 proved anything, though, it was that JNT was only as good as his script editors. It’s very significant that Bidmead asked for a 30% pay rise and when he was turned down, he left.

Phew! That was fun.

And in case you were still wondering, The Skids were fantastic. And still are.

All images: copyright BBC

ENGLAND'S DREAMING

BABYLON'S BURNING
Babylon is burning, baby, can't cha see? Babylon is burning with anxiety.

(Image copyright: Chris Wormell)

All this punk nostalgia is a double edged thing.

On Thursday night I went to see the 1970s band the Rick Kids play the O2 in Islington. In 2016, they look like a glam punk super group: Glen Matlock (Sex Pistols) on bass and vocals, Rusty Egan (The Skids, Visage) on drums, Midge Ure (Ultravox and, um, Slick) on rhythm guitar and vocals, supplemented by none other than Spandau Ballet’s Gary Kemp (below, right) on lead guitar and vox in place of Steve New. The very tall Spand was endearingly humble, gushing that the Rich Kids were ‘The best group I’ve ever seen and I never thought I’d be standing on stage with them.’

At least three of the 2016 Kids must be millionaires, so to see them together performing the one album they made Ghosts of Princes in Towers, when they clearly don’t need the money, was quite touching. Proudly showing off his Mod roots, Matlock and the band also ripped through a great version of the Small Faces’ ‘Here Comes the Nice’.

Outside, the atmosphere was very 1970s too. London was humid and there was a very edgy atmosphere on EU Referendum day. At Angel Underground station it was packed because the trains were all screwed up because of rain and flooding. A white sports top wearing, young guy couldn’t get on a train and punched the doors in frustration. When they opened again because there were so many people jammed in the carriages, another guy, dressed all in black with tattoos, leaned out and yelled ‘I’ll break your f***in’ arms, you f***in’ c***!’ It didn’t kick off, but it was close. Outside the Tube station, IN campaigners were urging everyone to vote in a referendum that would decide whether we remained part of Europe or not – very 1975.

On Friday morning, I admit things hadn’t gone the way I wanted. As a nation, by democratic mandate, we’ve turned our back on Europe and, by implication, made all the immigrants working and living here feel unwelcome. Things weren’t too bad on Welling High Street that morning. The amusingly named Giggling Sausage, the café run by a Turkish family, was full; in Cruisin’ Records, the amiable Barbadian man who’s often in there and has lived in London for years joked ‘I’d better pack my bags, then.’ We laughed and the bloke behind the counter sardonically commented, ‘It’s not the end of the world – yet.’

Much as there were (maybe) legitimate and reasonable arguments for leaving, the whole referendum debate was hijacked by the kind of gutter politics I thought we’d seen the last of with the National Front. A courageous MP was murdered and right wing idiots insulted both the charity set up in her honour and her Trafalgar Square memorial service. This is the sort of 1970s nostalgia I can do without. The Ruts’ ‘Babylon’s Burning’ was written nearly forty years ago, but today the lyrics have never felt more uncomfortably relevant:

You’ll burn as you work

You’ll burn as you play

Positively smouldering

With ignorance and hate

Regular readers will remember that last year I reviewed the Doctor Who story ‘The Zygon Invasion’. At the time, I felt it was a rather hysterical allegory about immigration, extremism and racial integration. Today, I can see that my favourite TV show was once again ahead of the game: things are so serious that this isn’t the time for subtlety. For those people who haven’t seen it, I direct your attention to the Doctor’s moving speech at the end of part two, ‘The Zygon Inversion’.

As a family, this morning we talked about the idea of leaving England for sunnier climes; it’s not entirely outside the realms of possibility. The kids were all in favour, particularly if it means 24/7, all year sunshine. I can’t help thinking that the same idea will occur to all people of a liberal outlook like myself – depart for countries with a sympathetic attitude and cleaner air. Part of me thinks it would serve the OUT lobby right if, in a delicious irony, all the people who make British culture such a rewarding, cosmopolitan and respectful place emigrated.

But is that cowardice, just because we don’t need this fascist groove thang? Looking at Facebook today, I know all my friends to a man and woman are concerned about the future of dear old Blighty. I know what the Doctor would do: he’d stay and make the UK a better place. In fact, he’s already started – Peter Capaldi and John Hurt have proudly revealed their political colours this year with their support for the junior doctors.

 Whatever happens, Britain is a different place now.

BRITAIN LAST

NOT ON MY WATCH
Despite recent events, a better world is possible. 

This has to stop. Now.

It’s 2016. With digital communication, we now have access to more information about different cultures and religions than we’ve ever had before. We have gay marriage, female church ministers and respect for multiple faiths is taught in most British schools.

That’s why the killings in Orlando and the murder of MP and human rights campaigner Jo Cox, dreadful events in themselves, are so appalling.

Really, there should be no excuse today for the ignorance and hatred that led to these tragedies. The potential for informed education, whether through a structured system or on a personal level, is almost limitless. The problems start when unhappy people look for places online to have their prejudices reinforced, and unfortunately there are far too many websites and forums where that’s the case – join the ignorant herd and bleat the same sorry tune.

I live in South London and, as much as there are many decent people here that I have the pleasure of knowing, there’s also an ugly right wing element. There’s a pub at the bottom of the hill where no black faces are welcome. Yesterday, the clientele’s day was made when England beat Wales in Euro 2016, meaning that it was apparently OK to behave drunkenly on the street outside and shout offensive remarks at passers-by. My dream is to sit down with just one of these guys – they’re all men – and through reasoned and intelligent debate, convince them that they could live in a better world. That won’t happen, because a) I know it would become a pointless shouting match and b) they’re perversely proud of being ignorant.

A few years ago I’d arranged to meet a friend for a drink in central London on Saturday. Then the 7/11 bomb attacks happened. We spoke on the phone and wondered about calling it off, but I believed – and still do – that being intimidated into fear is what terrorists and extremists want. So we met up as planned. We were the only people in the pub apart from the barman, which is perhaps why we had such a great time.

I look at the innocence, optimism and multi culturalism in my youngest step-daughter and I know that a better world is possible. Idiots like Nick Griffin are already footnotes in history and Nigel Farage won’t be far behind. I firmly believe that that better world starts at home: grow up in an atmosphere of ignorance and there’s a strong chance that one day you’ll be passing on the same bigoted infection to your own children. It’s not always the case, but I’ve seen it happen too many times on my own doorstep.

Education is the way ahead. Arm yourselves.

THE STONE ROSES, Etihad Stadium, Manchester 15 June 2016

LOVE SPREADS
My first outdoor gig of the summer is a triumph. 

Mani: "Anyone got any requests?"

Steve said, “I’ve got two tickets for The Stone Roses in Manchester because I can’t go. Do you want them?”

Why not? I have wealth now and am properly self-employed again.

The last time I was in Manchester was in 1996 to see Oasis play the football stadium at Maine Road. (I stayed overnight then – this time, I’m training it back in the small hours). On that occasion, after the gig, the ex-wife, friends and I ventured out to sample the Mancunian nightlife. People really did wear t-shirts with a packet of fags stuffed up one sleeve.

In ‘96, the biggest ever bomb attack by the IRA on British soil took place in Manchester and it’s twenty years to the day as I step off the train at Piccadilly. Two hundred people were injured in the blast but, astonishingly and miraculously, no one was killed. In the years after the explosion, the city centre has been completely rebuilt. The steel, glass and concrete tentacles of redevelopment snake out from the railway station through dilapidated Victorian streets, and the city as a whole reminds me of New York, as it seems to be built on a uniform grid system. The moment you leave the station there are helpful signposts at almost every road junction (not like London, then).

Typically for a British summer’s day, there’s rain, although the weather brightens up considerably by the evening. On these drizzly grey streets, it’s easy to believe a double decker bus nearly crashed into Steven Morrissey and Ian Curtis was abandoned too soon. The fabled, dour Northern sense of humour is in evidence in a homeless camp opposite the station with a sign that reads, ‘If the tent’s a-rockin’, don’t come knockin’’.

Here It Comes

After a chat with the politest ticket tout I’ve ever met (who’s sorry, but he can’t do anything with just one ticket, but have a good night), I install myself in my vertigo-threatening seat (left), directly opposite the main stage.

First up on an eclectic supporting bill are nearby Stockport’s Blossoms. With long shaggy hair and a drummer in a tight black t-shirt designed to show off his biceps, they look like they should be bashing out REO Speedwagon anthems. They kind of are, with the addition of Stranglers-style keyboard swirls. Blossoms are efficiently tuneful – and it all makes sense on the tough psychedelic rock of their closing number – but I’ll say this: Mumford and Sons have a lot to answer for.

Chronixx bring reggae from Jamaica. There’s no doubting their commitment to the ways of Rastafari, but me their performance sounds like a private jam session rather than a festival set. Their finest moment is a cover of Bob Marley’s ‘Everything's Gonna Be Alright’, inspiring the first crowd singalong of the day just as the sun begins to shine.

Bloody hell, that was high.

Public Enemy really kick things up a gear with their political rap, storming through ‘Fight the Power’ and ‘Don’t Believe the Hype’, together with the delightful surprise of a DJ scratch version of ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’. At the end of their set, Chuck D exhorts everyone to shout ‘F*** racism, f*** separatism’ and make the Black Power hand salute. It’s easy to see why the Manic Street Preachers admire Public Enemy and got them to produce a remix of ‘Repeat’.

What The World Is Waiting For

Before The Stone Roses come on, the PA plays the Sex Pistols, Led Zeppelin and Isaac Hayes’ ‘Theme from Shaft’. This is appropriate, because sonically the band exist somewhere between all three; tonight, more than ever, guitarist John Squire is channelling the spirit of Jimmy Page.

Live, the real star of The Stone Roses is drummer Reni. His drumming is effortlessly inventive and expressive, and I’d say the like hasn’t been since Keith Moon shrugged off this mortal coil. He’s complimented perfectly by bassist Mani, dressed from head to foot in white denim (top), which makes him the coolest man on the stage, if not the coolest man in Manchester. Frontman Ian Brown was never the strongest singer in the world, but in the context of the rambling drum patterns, dark funk of the bass and soaring guitar lines, his stoner vocals make sense. His lyrics about chemically enhanced romantic unions and surges of messianic self-belief are as life affirming as they ever were.

It’s obvious how this quartet inspired Oasis, but, for all their magnificence, they were really only the Gallagher brothers plus a gang of sidemen. The Stone Roses are the real deal, a four-piece unit in the classic band tradition: remove one of those pieces and the chemistry is gone (and we saw the catastrophic result of that all those years ago at the Reading Festival).

They’re all here, the perfect soundtrack to a summer’s night – ‘Elephant Stone’, ‘Sally Cinnamon’, ‘Sugar Spun Sister’, ‘I Wanna Be Adored’, even ‘Mersey Paradise’, plus two numbers I don’t recognise which might be the recent singles. ‘Waterfall’ is the immaculate centrepiece of the set, which is just as well as I have to leave for the train straight afterwards. Following the helpful signage, I leave the stadium with the opening chords of ‘Fool’s Gold’ echoing behind me. A security man who lets me out says it’s never the same if you have to leave early, but I’m pleased that I at last got to see and hear a band that, in The Stone Roses, made one of the defining rock albums of all time.

On the way back, I’m marooned in Derby for a couple of hours. A nice town, a river runs through it and, reflecting on a joyous evening, I sit and watch its thundering weir. It’s a waterfall.

Photographs: copyright Robert Fairclough

STAND UP FOR STANDARDS

PUBLIC SERVICE BREAKDOWN
It's a steep drop from the efficient, nationalised public services in days of yore to the unreliable, privatised businesses of today's rip-off Britain.

Come back, Blakey, all is forgiven. (Image copyright: ITV)

I know the UK wasn’t exactly a socialist utopia in the 1970s, but as far as the public services went, when they were nationalised they were generally efficient, and if something went wrong it was usually fixed the same day. You didn’t get a load of attitude or, worse, dishonesty.

In broken Britain it’s a different story. Here’s just a few incidents of public service breakdowns that have happened to me recently.

1.    Myself and Dawn caught the number 89 bus to Bexleyheath on Tuesday. She got on ahead, bleeped her Oyster card and was about to go upstairs when mine bleeped I was out of funds and so I had to get off. Dawn asked for credit – i.e. a ticket so she could get on a later bus – and the bus driver said no. The conversation then went something like this: 

Dawn: I’ve had one before.

The bus driver ignores her.

Dawn: I said I’ve had one before.

Bus Driver: I was talking to [me].

Dawn: No you weren’t. You said I couldn’t have one.

He ignores her, prints out a credit ticket and grudgingly hands it over without saying anything.

Me: Thank you very little.

OK, I didn’t say that, but I wish I had done. A few weeks ago I got on another bus and the driver didn’t know if it called at a stop that was on his route. He was entirely dependent on his satnav.

2.    We got a black cab from Lewisham to Welling last Saturday. Instead of taking the direct route, the driver turned off into an estate and went along the side roads to clock the fare up to £25. He could tell we’d had a few and thought that we wouldn’t notice and just pay up as we wanted to get home quickly. When he dropped us off, I told him I was only paying £15 as that’s what the journey should have cost. The driver gave me some verbal about it being more expensive because it was ‘that time of night’; it was 20 to 11, hardly late for a taxi. Dawn used her phone to take a picture of his cab number and we politely told him were going to report him. He roared off, tyres squealing, and gave me the finger.

3.    A couple of weeks ago on my birthday, we took a cab from Welling to the pub in Lewisham where we were meeting friends. Dawn was rather surprised at the quote of £16 when, in the past, the same journey had cost 8. Soon after me and the girls got in the mini cab, things took a bizarre turn. Again, instead of taking the main road, the driver followed the questionable, repetitive instructions to ‘turn left, turn right’ from his satnav which put us somewhere in Kidbrooke village, miles out of the way. Unable to ‘turn left’ into a road as it was blocked by an oncoming van waiting to exit, he actually turned off the engine and sat waiting. I politely pointed out that it might be better to drive on and take another turning. The driver reacted as if this common sense idea had never occurred to him.

It took 50 minutes to get to Lewisham when it should have been a 15-20 minute journey. We paid the guy off as, by now, we just wanted to get to the pub as people had been waiting for us for over half an hour. Dawn was rightly incensed, but when she phoned the cab company, at first the controller at the other end wouldn’t pick up. When he finally did because she persisted, he said, ‘I know what you’re going to say Dawn, and you’ll have to ring after 10 tomorrow morning to complain.’ He was clearly in cahoots with the driver in trying to sting us for double the money. Dawn didn’t phone after 10 the next day. She went on every mini cab review site she could find and told the truth about what had happened.

4.    I was in Welling library and wanted to print something out from my laptop. The girl behind the counter immediately looked rather flustered, rummaged through piles of paper and assured me the information I needed ‘was here somewhere.’ I told her not to worry, but if she did find the info to let me know. She didn’t.

5.    I was in there this morning and I asked if there was anything wrong with the computers as they were all turned off. Saturday’s librarian truculently informed me that she hadn’t time to turn them on yet, in a tone of voice that clearly suggested it was my fault.

And so it goes on. Were things better years ago? I was a kid in the ‘70s, but I don’t remember my parents complaining a lot about the buses, trains or the services provided by our county council. Stuff worked and there wasn’t the unpleasant attitude of insulting people’s intelligence by ripping them off for as much money as possible, or so called customer service advisors being plain rude or ineffectual.

I’d like to think they’re in a minority, but some people clearly are Thatcher’s children.

iZOMBIE review

DEAD FUNNY
Let the anti-Buffy tickle your funny bone.

Monster, monster, monster!

I’ve said this before, but I’m not a huge fab of zombie fiction. The Walking Dead (2010 - ) is very well done, but I still can’t work out why Rick and co. don’t run very fast in the opposite direction or, better still, jump in a car and drive very fast in the opposite direction. Even in AMC’s fine series, the Biters are still doing that shuffling Gumby walk that couldn’t outrun a determined tortoise.

28 Days Later (2002) is still the only truly terrifying realisation of zombies I’ve seen. In that, they move like lightning and are portrayed as the rabid animals modern zombies are clearly meant to be.

(Image copyright: BBC)

Fiction about recovering from being a zombie is rather more interesting. BBC3’s In the Flesh, which ran for two series over 2013-14, was about the rehabilitation of teenager Kieren Walker (Luke Newberry, left), who became one of the undead during an apocalyptic event called ‘The Rising’. The series followed his attempts, as a sufferer of PDS – Partially Deceased Syndrome – to reintegrate with his prejudiced small village; the metaphor of outsiders trying to adapt to an unforgiving community has obvious – and, if you’ll forgive me – biting contemporary parallels. In the Flesh was excellent but for some reason the BBC didn’t go for a third series.

****

iZombie (2015 - ) has taken the survivor scenario a step further by crossing it with the police procedural genre and Neil Simon-sharp comedy. It’s the sort of thing I could watch for days with a contented feeling and a warm smile.

Medical intern Olivia Moore - 'Liv More', geddit? - (perky Rose McIver), who handily works for the police, is bitten, becomes a zombie then unaccountably wakes up in a body bag, more or less normal again. That is, apart from the need to feast on human brains. She discovers that when she does – on the grey matter of bodies in the police body shop – she acquires some of their memories, often at the point of death. Hence her subsequent crime fighting career a la iZombie.

Olivia Moore is remarkable as the heroine in this anti-Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Funny, smart and very real, like most of the little known cast she’s seized the opportunity offered her. The only TV series she was a regular in before was Power Rangers R.P.M. (2009) as the Yellow Bear RPM Ranger. I’ve never seen it, but just by that title alone you can tell it can't have been the best career move.

Ever since Buffy, US fantasy dramas have been contractually obliged to have a cool British character, and in iZombie it’s the turn of Rahul Kohli as Dr. Ravi Chakrabarti. He’s Felix to Rose’s Sarah Manning, reigning her in when she wanders off the straight and narrow and dispensing dry one-liners. The veteran in the cast is David Anders, here not playing a Brit but cheerfully amoral as fellow zombie survivor Blaine DeBeers, a former drug dealer turned Rose’s nemesis.

Malcolm Goodwin as Detective Clive Bavineaux completes the ensemble as the straight man, in the best traditions of the police procedural often putting his job on the line to back up Rose’s spectral visions. The playing between Moore and Goodwin is a joy to watch.

Part of the series’ appeal for me is its acid, Joss Whedon-esque insight into the human condition. In one episode, Rose realises that putting her career before her partner and losing him meant that ‘parts of me were already dead before I died.’ Like Shaun of the Dead (2004) before it, iZombie suggests that, if we’re not careful, modern life will turn us all into the walking dead.

OK, iZombie isn’t Orphan Black, but it’s all the livelier because of that. Recommended.