onionbagblog

I’m pleased the 1,001 Albums list threw up the Shack album this morning. I’d forgotten completely about the band, plus The Pale Fountains.

There was a lot going on back in 1999 - both musically and personally. I was always aware of HMS Fable through the music press, though I’ve never listened to it. Which is odd, seeing as though the NME banged on about it.

It sits perfectly in a post-Britpop world. There’s even an argument that The Pale Fountains were very early forerunners for all that followed.

On HMS Fable you have the melodies, plus the production. I would have preferred something a little more raw and rough around the edges. The songs are strong enough to carry it without the polish.

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An early evening walk out to Vauxhall and back. Having spent three hours on a stupid train, I was in need of a leg stretch.

I headed up South Lambeth Road, through Little Porto and past Vauxhall Park.

I did think of stopping off briefly at South Lambeth Library. But I’d only end up flicking through the local history section.

Why read about local history when you MAKE IT?

Forward ever, backwards never, etc Comrades.

The Transpontine skies were dark, only punctured by the GAWD awful fireworks. I’d forgotten how shitty 5th November can be around these parts.

You don’t look towards the sky, but keep an eye out in front of you instead. Fireworks were meant to be launched, not thrown, fella.

I reached Vauxhall Bus Station. It’s an apocalyptic setting that seems to change each month. I’ve long since lost count of the new towers that appear on the horizon around Nine Elms.

They’re not to everyone’s architectural tastes, but I rather like them. You can’t stop progress. London is never finished. It would be pretty stale and shitty if that was the case.

I’d add in the usual disclaimer about foreign investment, empty luxury apartments, a soulless enclave etc.

But Nine Elms was a wasteland fifteen years ago. At least we’ve got a skyline that has a little character. Please stop now though. No more obscuring of those proud four chimneys of Battersea.

I bloody LOVE Vauxhall Bus Station. Which makes me sound a little further on the spectrum than I suspect I already am.

I would say that the S Ldn ski slope is not long for this world. But it’s been that way for over a decade now.

I lose touch with the various developer plans and deals. I do recall reading recently though that TfL has finally done a deal that will involve some form of land swap with a developer.

This is all such a shame. Vauxhall remains futuristic. The ski slope hasn’t aged one bit.

The only downer for the area is the public male toilets. They would make even a Frenchman blush, such is the lack of modesty afforded when you board a bus and have sight of a gentleman syphoning his python.

They REEK of piss as you walk past as well, natch.

Time was a little tight for me. I had plans to cross the Old Father at Vauxhall, and then back once again over Lambeth Bridge.

I kept it Transpontine and did something of a detour around the backstreets of Kennington and then through Lambeth Wall.

OI! etc.

It looks so peaceful. Trust me, it’s not at 5pm on 5th November 🧨

I’m telling you nothing new here: Nottingham’s a dump. But then again, so is everywhere else - within reason, and with the usual caveats. Cities across England seem to share the same weary story. I do appreciate it’s more nuance than that, of course.

We had the same conversation after a day out in Ipswich. I’ve had similar thoughts walking back through Colchester.

Actually, Norwich was the exception. Admittedly, I only had a day to blitz the place, but it didn’t carry that same air of decline - that quiet sense of things being irreversibly broken - that hangs over Nottingham these days.

And that hurts. It’s my hometown, after all. I only had time for a brief wander today, but even from my unscientific stroll it’s clear the city has deteriorated over the past year.

The feeling hit hardest around Broad Marsh. That once-infamous shopping centre is now an empty shell, being taken down pillar by pillar. It was an absolute shambles in its final years, sure, but for those of us who grew up here, Broad Marsh was the gateway to the city.

I looked up at the remnants of the old building today and remembered the shops that once defined my teenage years: Revolver Records, the smaller indoor HMV, even that gift shop in the early ’80s that sold knock-off Rubik’s Snakes and the poster of the tennis player scratching her arse.

Maybe I’m romanticising it all. Maybe the Nottingham of my youth wasn’t so different - maybe this is what fifty-somethings do: wander their hometowns remembering when it was all a bit better, a bit brighter, a bit more “proper.”

But I can’t see how the city bounces back from where it is now. Will anyone really be reminiscing about “the good old days” of 2025 in twenty-five years’ time? I doubt it.

I’m not up to speed on what the future holds for Broad Marsh. There’s a small area there now that’s turned into a kind of urban wilderness - the planting started out tidy, but it’s been allowed to rewild itself, thankfully. Unless there’s a proper master plan and serious investment, maybe that’s the best thing for it: let nature take over until the money - and the imagination - returns. At least it gives today’s teenagers somewhere to carve out their own memories.

Because that’s what it’s all about, really. My looking-ahead days are long gone. I’m content to listen to my records, buy clothes I’ll never wear, and drink endless cups of tea.

But as I walked around Nottingham at lunchtime, I couldn’t shake the thought: what kind of future are we leaving for the young? I loved my teenage years - full of optimism, affordable education, and at least the promise of a job or two. It more or less worked out.

But to be 16, 17 or 18 in 2025? Good luck.

Cultural appropriation probably isn’t appropriate. These days we call it a collab. Both styles suit each other, with Ry Cooder holding down the more freestyle Mali approach. Makes we want to go and listen to some Andy Kershaw.

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An unexpected new drop form Kae Tempest, and a most welcome cover of George Michael’s Freedom ‘90.

It doesn’t have the same energy of the original, but I don’t think that’s the point with Kae. It’s obviously a song with a powerful message as Kae continues with his outstanding artistic and personal development.

It’s better than the ropey Robbie Williams cover, recorded with a similar message in mind.

George would have been proud of the direction being taken here. I often wonder how he would have thrived in a post-WOKE 2025 cultural environment.

Kae’s playing Brixton on Saturday. I’m keen to cut a deal with a tout.

Sometimes the best recommendations to satisfy your cultural thirst come from right on your own local doorstep.

OH HAI Brixton Buzz.

And so with a spare half hour in Clap’ham, I swerved the brunching Wankerville hordes and headed to the local library to look at the work of Brixton street photographer Christopher iCha.

The X-Factor exhibition is low key, but lovely all the same, It features many recognisable Brixton faces. The enthusiasm for the subject matter comes across clearly.

A mixture of black & white and colour snaps are on display as you make your way down the spiralling - and bloody awful - structure of Clapham Library.

There’s no great fanfare telling you about the exhibition. The photos blend in with what is already quite a busy interior landscape.

Framed behind glass in a very bright building, they’re also impossible to snap yourself, with endless lens glare.

That’s no bad thing. It’s a little cheeky to take photos of photos, often leading to a poor secondhand reproduction.

It’s clear from the first frame on show that iCha has the complete trust of his subject matter. He’s not capturing Brixton scenes - he is PART of the Brixton street life.

If you can manage this then you’re halfway there to capturing some decent portrait photography.

It’s an incredibly positive, and very playful exhibition. It will serve as a wonderamful historical archive of the Brixton scene in ten, twenty years time.

Clapham Library itself is very odd. It was built on the back of a developer, wanting to flog on luxury apartments up above. The library looks and feels like an afterthought.

The spiralling nature of the building means that you make your way down to the basement on basically a giant helter skelter walking ramp. It has aged badly over the past fifteen years or so.

Never trust round buildings - and yep, I’ve worked in one.

Light and cheerful, with an almost rural feel throughout. As ever with foreign language albums, it helps that I haven’t got a chuffing clue what they’re banging on about. It’s probably something as mundane as the price of a pint of milk.

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I can’t remember where I first got the hat tip for the excellent Brown Collection over in Marylebone. Maybe it was from Londonist?

And so I found myself on a miserable, wet Soho afternoon, kicking about with an hour or so to spare.

The record shop circuit (and budget) had been exhausted. I couldn’t be arsed to hit the BOOZE.

Hey! How about that freebie gallery that I have a vague recollection of a recommendation?

It’s a ten minute cut through from the West End and around the back streets of Marylebone. Look out for the Mews, and then WOH! Won’t you look at that.

What a BEAUT.

The building itself is a work of art. Beautifully restored as a town house period piece of architecture, yet still effortlessly blending in with burgeoning wine and dine scene around these parts.

I was wet, wearing a pair of stomping red cherry DM’s and looking a little distressed tbh. I wasn’t your typical Art Gallery Circuit Wanker.

I was welcomed in my the most polite of young fellas. I visibly made an effort of stamping my size 8’s on the matting, not wanting to drag half of the wet Soho shit into the space.

Erm, what next?

My host knew exactly what the score was.

“Have you visited before?”

Nope.

“Do you know anything about Glenn Brown?”

I made my apologies.

“How much time do you have?”

I think my answer of half an hour or so wasn’t too cheeky, or too imposing either.

“PERFECT!”

…said my host.

It was explained how Glenn Brown founded the gallery with his husband Edgar Laguinia. The aim is to showcase Brown’s work (and why not?) alongside other artists of a similar style and perspective.

I then heard a little more about how Brown’s own work concentrates on the finer details and brush strokes, often to reveal secondary images within the overall canvas.

This technique has a specific name in the art world. I’ve forgotten it, as I was a little concerned that my wet DM’s were now leaving a slight puddle on the immaculate wooden flooring.

Apologies, Mr B.

Magnifying glasses are available across all four floors of the gallery. Visitors are encourage to focus in on the finer detail - a nice touch.

I was then let loose to do my thing. Immediately I was drawn, so to speak, to the Austin Osman Spare artworks. He has a specific place in contemporary Transpontine architecture.

Elsewhere and the work was as stunning as the surrounds. I think I might have just found my Nu Fave Art Gallery.

The lush, bright colours of Brown contrasted well with the under-stated decors of each gallery. Each floor had sufficient space to maintain my interest without getting bored.

The current Hoi Polloi exhibition displays work of the “great unwashed masses.” It was nowhere near as insulting as the title might suggest.

The cellar containing sculptures was a particular fave. The space itself is remarkable. You can hear and feel the vibrations of the Victoria Line running underneath.

Next time it rains in Soho, I’ll know exactly where to wander.

The new V&A Storehouse East - aka the World’s Largest Jumble Sale.

Harsh.

Sure, it’s not tat. It’s high end value items - apart from the West Ham 1980’s kids kit.

The Moulton F-Frame was to be admired, as was some of the social history from the Robin Hood Gardens estate.

But there was little context or explanation, unless you wanted to have your face stuck in your phone via the QR code.

I get the idea that it’s a lofty space. Build high, etc. It’s tricky to display items without stacking them up.

Voyeurism is quite a fetish, Comrades.