Alone in Blackpool, Waiting for Sleaford Mods Scott King Imagine a Northern Accent
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Alone in Blackpool, waiting for Sleaford Mods Scott King Imagine a northern accent. A man half-shouting over the looped guitar Sports, shoplifting, ram-raiding, three for a fiver, discount supermarket riff from the Sex Pistols version of Jonathan Richman’s Roadrunner: poetry of Sleaford Mods? Chop Chop Chop ... fucking bummers ... She insists I go meet her fam- As I look back now, I can see that certain madness had taken hold. ily for Christmas ... at some crap 21st. in some shit club ... so I went ... Something strange had happened to me - something that I thought it was terrible. Bunch of thick bastards eating cheap party food ... she’s would never happen again - I had become a fan. bouncing around flirting with everybody, jiggling her knobbly knees to Jay-Z and Beyonce. *** Gripped, at least in part, by a need to understand my own behaviour, I I laughed out loud when I first heard it. I was immediately transported begin making notes on the band: “Anyone can be a Sex Pistol”, “Our back to Goole in the late-eighties, back to any working man’s club, greatest weapon against the Mumfordisation of Britain”, “X-Factor back to any stiff-egg-sandwich-birthday-party and a world of orange- gone disastrously and brilliantly fucking wrong”, “Sleaford Mods: the skinned-back-combed-hairspray-lasses. I identified. But as the song Sex Pistols meets X Factor. The X-Pistols”. goes on, deeper into the realms of bad breath junkie drug dealers and their screaming kids, everything becomes darker and more desperate. My need to categorise the group is pathetic, really. Why can’t I just It’s still funny, really funny, but I’m painfully aware of laughing at enjoy them? Obviously, it’s because I am a male fan of rock and pop; I someone else’s sink-estate, piss-hole misery: by the end of the song, I can’t just enjoy any band. I need to label groups, put it them in boxes, no longer identify. In fact, I’m not even that sure I should be laughing. then file them away - and I’m not alone. Previous reviewers have at- tempted to do the same, the general consensus being that Sleaford Mods *** are ‘the bastard children of The Fall’, or ‘extras from a Shane Mead- It wasn’t Chop, Chop, Chop that got me hooked on Sleaford Mods, but ows film’. Inevitably someone describes them as ‘John Cooper Clarke that was the song that swung it for me - the song that sealed my faith on steroids’ (this ‘on steroids’ or ‘on acid’ affix always riles me: ‘like in them: an eight minute mini-drama, an update on the classic BBC Timothy Leary on acid’). More imaginative reviewers will have you sit-com formula where - like so many of Sleaford Mods’ lyrics - the believe that Sleaford Mods are Half Man Half Biscuit ‘meets’ Wu-Tang tragedy and humour both spring from the same source: entrapment. Clan. Interesting, funny, but also untrue. Several notebooks already full of supposition; I’m determined that it’s now my turn at to commit some I play YouTube clips of the band over and over throughout early Sep- Sleaford-theories to print. tember. I am transfixed - as much by the grim world the band describe, by these other lives, as by the gurning, hooligan-looking singer and I pitch my idea to this magazine. It’s never easy. The publisher makes the wobbly legged, junkie-looking computer player. Like Chop Chop me meet him several times, forcing me to explain why he should give a Chop, all of their songs are a window into lives that are much more dozen potentially high revenue advertising pages over to a little known desperate than mine. I mean, sitting hear in leafy Highbury, what would band from Nottingham. I bang my fist on the table in the organic coffee I write my white-rap about? The middle-aged IVF lawyer new mums, shop: “BECAUSE THIS IS ART”, I tell him, and eventually he agrees. latte-jogging their twins around the park - or - New-Media-Matt and I can have as many pages as I like for my feature.” There is a condition his mates, still in training kit, watching football in the local pub over an though” he says, “We want you to speak to the singer - Jason is it? - art- orange juice and a ‘locally sourced’ Sunday Roast? ist to artist. That is the story - and we want to know why you, a grown man, are behaving like a teenage girl. Can you write about that?” *** Nobody asks me to, nor probably even wants me to, but I appoint my- *** self as this band’s unofficial marketing wing. I work tirelessly and for Sleaford Mods love Twitter. Jason, uses it like a public note-pad. Half free. My Twitter campaign begins on 19th. September 2013. “Sleaford thoughts, proto-lyrics and bad feelings all go straight on to Twitter: no Mods are the best band in Britain” - that’s the message. I’m not the first editing, no deleting and no apologies. ‘Am fucked’, ‘Tied up in Nottz’, person to realise this of course, I’m just very vocal about it. Everyday, ‘Fuck off’. Twitter is part of the very idea of Sleaford Mods - it pro- sometimes three or four times a day, I Tweet a variation on this message vides immediate one-to-one communication with an audience - and its and support the sentiment with a YouTube link of the band playing live. through Twitter that I establish a friendship of sorts with the Jason. It’s I am relentless. not difficult - they don’t keep their distance from me or any other fan. There’s an endless two-way communication between band and audi- In the coming weeks, realising the limitations of Twitter - that it is per- ence and this - it seems - is the backbone of Sleaford Mods. The record- sonal but not that personal - I step up my campaign to include e-mails. I ings are the same: maximum truth with minimum beats. It all makes send e-mails to almost everyone I know and repeat the message. ; some sense - in a way - no barrier between the band and the audience. I dwell people even reply. I then expand my e-mail campaign to include people on this fact a lot - I ruminate on it - the pros and the cons. that I don’t know - I apologise for ‘cold-calling’ but explain that it is worth it, and essential that they look at the link below: “Sleaford Mods Late one night, via email, I offer Jason some advice - I suggest that Track 1” I say. “Amazing. The best band in Britain”. he might want stand back a bit: not let everyone in, not be seen to be too accessible - unintentionally, unwittingly, but undeniably - I am, of Looking back now, I can see why I sent out dozens of e-mails to well- course, suggesting that he starts to act a bit more like a rock’n’ roll star. known journalists like Miranda Sawyer (who I don’t know) or Alexis Petridis (who I know a bit). I hoped that they, like me, would be instant- *** ly converted - and - they’re influential, so it made sense. I was hoping In mid-December, Sleaford Mods are playing a short tour of the north. that they’d write about the band, introduce them to a national audi- I make up my mind to go to one of these gigs. The 16th December is ence, give them a leg-up. That said, I have no idea why I sent the same Blackpool. I can’t get the thought out of my head. Sleaford Mods make e-mail to Alain de Botton; or why I should have his email address. Did songs about the minimum wage and crap discos. Blackpool is officially I really believe that this bald-pated, patterned knitwear fanatic boffin - Britain’s second poorest town. I’ll go up to there. I’ll write about the born into almost unimaginable wealth - would really understand the JD long boozy neon nights and even longer dull grey days. It’s perfect. OR GREY SEA MEETS NEON NIGHTS?? I arrive in Blackpool the night before the band are due to play. I’ve Tower and the Winter Gardens (both closed). I’ve wandered up and convinced myself that this is essential: if I travel up on the Saturday down the backstreets photographing the lunatic B&Bs; I’ve photo- night, I’ll have the whole of Sunday to take photographs in daylight. I graphed the dog shit, the spew and the semi-defunct rock shops. Now have a vision of sorts. Blackpool is the working class death disco of the what do I do? Time has almost stood still and every ten minutes seems North. A safety valve invented by Victorian industrialists to pacify the to take two hours. I’ve even contemplated all-day drinking, but was put workforces of Lancashire’s cotton mills. Blackpool is where Norman off by a non-legged man parked outside Wetherspoons. I sit on a bench Tebbit made his infamous ‘get on yer bike and look for work’ speech in high up in the town and flick back through my photographs - they’re all the aftermath of widespread urban rioting in 1981: it’s where the Tories terrible - predictable clichés of Northern misery - they look like Morris- used go to publicly fuck and kick the working classes and where the sey’s holiday snaps.