Mancunian Blues
Created | Updated Oct 28, 2004
In Which The_Jon_m Gets Diverted and Revisits Old Haunts
Have a spare evening? Want to get very little accomplished but have a fun time doing it? Want to fail to comprehend where 4 hours went, and you can do it without consuming alcohol, nicotine or any other harmful substance1? There is a simple way of doing this. Hold a band meeting!
In my new role as joint (can't be bothered to think up a title that doesn't have narcotics connotations) manager, I arrived first at the meeting, just before 8 o'clock, followed shortly after by the drummer. The singer arrived late with the wrong key (typical singer), not a bad effort - 15 minutes late to his own house!! When one member of the band, who doesn't know where the house is, decides to wander along vaguely familiar-looking streets hoping to be rung up on his creditless phone, you know the meeting isn't going to run smoothly !
I could bemuse you with the side-tracks that our conversations took, but I actually had a point for this article for once and so I want to start it before I loose track of my train of thought.
Let's imagine that you were one of the very few people to have bought a Delorian (if you don't have a Delorian, a Volvo 240 works but doesn't have the style), installed it with some fancy electronics from Maplins/Radio Shack*2 with a small nuclear reactor made from egg boxes and some 1970s electronic equipment taken from the skip in the loading bay of the Physics building and a flux capacitor given away with a box of Kellogg's Cornflakes and, there, you have a working time machine.
Switch it on and program it to a time before binge drinking was a problem, before beer was £2.50 a pint, back to when the country was young and fresh and St Tony had only betrayed our trust on tuition fees (as far as we knew). Tap in October 1998 to the readout, fill the reactor with a donor kebab (useful fact, the Greater Spotted Donor is actually a genetically engineered animal from the 23rd century, made to grow without discernible organs or bones and with a large metal rod though its middle. It was sent back in time and is farmed in caves somewhere in Shropshire, the species' early brush with time travel makes it ideal for Time Machine fuel) with extra chilli sauce and lets rock and roll!
Dump your foot on the accelerator to hit 88 mph (coincidentally the optimal speed for mini-cab drivers when approaching a huge puddle next to the pavement) and it will bring you back to a world before MVVDs (male vertical volume drinkers) conquered the north.
There was a bar; it was called Copper Face Jacks. It was underground, had fantastic décor, cosy bay tables, it played blues based music and held a late license. The drinks were even vaguely reasonably priced for a city centre venue. Gradually, as the years past by, it tried to appeal to larger crowds; gone was Muddy and BB from the sound system, in came Steps. In came the people and the regular people left. The new influx of people, mainly MVVDs, took it upon themselves to nightly destroy the toilets (personally, I think that the bar owners have the right to go round to their duplex penthouse and piss on their floor, rip off the toilet seat and puke in the MVVD's basins) and made it impossible to get to the bar and get a drink within a half hour.
I suppose the regular repair bills and danger money paid to whomever had to clean the toilets combined with the lack of money coming across the bar due to the time taken for anybody to reach it, forced them out of business.
Well, CJFs is back and I went there the other night. And frankly first impressions were not good; over-loud house music at 9ish, XXXX was the cheap larger. Soon the corner where I remembered so many games of table football, now a pool table, was overrun by men a few bottles past vertical. A couple of hours later some interesting rock was playing and there was vomit on the floor of the toilets - and we found out, at 11, that the late licence was not yet in place.
So we left at 11pm to meet some people in Po Na Nas, around the corner. However, the venue had a great idea. Let's charge £6 entry for 3 hours. So what happens? We wander round the corner to an equally decent bar, with mildly cheaper prices and nobody charging on the door. So how do people justify that price difference?
So the pub I ended up in was called Joshua Brooks, recently changed from Sofa, which 5 years ago was Joshua Brooks. Ain't progress great? 5 years down the line and they revert to what it was originally. If only Opal Fruits can take the hint!!
This was the point of the journey where I construct an elaborate plan (on a not-to-scale model) involving a tram, some lightening and three stages of Eccles Cake to power my time machine back to 2004 and plug a gig.
The gig I was going to plug was Narcissus, Silent Quarter and guests playing a Halloween party at Soundgarden. However, the venue has gone bust. Given that they were not telling anybody less than a week before they shut completely, I'm rather peeved with them. However, there are lessons to be learnt for anybody wanting to open a bar in Manchester.
Soundgarden wanted to be an Indie/Rock venue. The followers of said genre don't tend to be flushed with cash, so with drinks starting at almost £3 a pint people aren't going be coming down regularly for the drinks. They put out minimal advertising and much of what they said was contradictory or wrong, hence me turning up for Open Mic nights only to find they had changed the day or cancelled them. Beyond the main room there was a second large lounge that was blocked off mainly, so they must have been paying a large rent on the space in the centre of town. They opened up at the end of spring, not enough time to make a reputation before the students and their bands vanish. So I'm more annoyed to see the place go, than sad. Many people think that they can run a bar, but the slightest miscalculation can bring your dreams crashing down on top of you.
Till next time
Love, peace and blues
tjm
