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I have posted this twice in FOG now and it would be nice to have some reaction. If not, I'll assume people don't read posts started by unknowns. It's only because I have put effort into it and no-one likes to see their work go unrewarded.
Just yesterday, I went to see '24 Hour Party People', the story of Manchester's drug-fuelled music label, Factory Records, and the city's burgeoning music scene in the 1980s. I doubt many of you have either seen the film, plan to, or are old enough to have many memories of Manchester in the 1980s and early 1990s, so I'm expecting almost no interest in this thread. But you never know.
The film itself was an intriguing collection of sketches based on the activity of Factory Records and its major bands, Joy Division/New Order and the Happy Mondays, and the Hacienda nightlcub in central Manchester. It never really felt like you were watching a film in fact, but that is probably the best way to tell this particular story.
It asked more questions than it answered, and I now find myself in a position whereby I am fascinated by the last great British youth subculture of the 20th century. Unfortunately, being 14 when the Hacienda shut its doors, I missed out entirely on the whole scene, by only a few years.
The main character, Tony Wilson, played by Steve Coogan, himself a Mancunian, was a sonorous combination of half-TV presenter, half-record label boss, overly-comfortable with the camera yet ostensibly unaware of his self-indulgence. I have actually had the pleasure of meeting Tony Wilson twice, and found him to be an amicable and approachable gentleman.
The first time was in Old Trafford's hospitality lounge, when I was introduced to him through my cousin, a local DJ and one-time Hacienda discjockey. More about that later. The other time was in a bar in Manchester's Deansgate waiting for a mate to show up, and he just came and sat by the bar and started talking to me about United's chances this season.
Back to the film. The direction was deliberately unsettling and avantegarde, narrated by Wilson to the camera in the first-person. But it never got in the way of the story, which itself needs little imagination to shine.
There is the story of Ian Curtis's suicide, Factory Records' 'contract', the Sex Pistols' first ever gig, and the inglorious rise and fall of the Hacienda nightclub. There are too many anecdotes about this Mancunian institution to tell them all, but the film makes a fair job of it. Sadly, the building, long since redeveloped into loft apartments, had been demolished just two days before filming began. One of my personal favourites, and one that my cousin recalls with some glee, is the time when police locked clubbers inside the nightclub until dawn whilst waging a war with Manchester's prolific drug dealers outside. The music never stopped, and nor did the drug-taking.
My cousin, Adam Cole, now working the drivetime slot on Manchester Key 103, only had the opportunity to play the Hacienda twice, but was a regular there for some years.
I feel disappointed that I missed out so narrowly on this pervasive Mancunian culture, all the more because it has been so inadequately replaced. Yet at the same time I feel very privileged that my city has had such a notable recent past, and has had such a profound impact on music history. Now all the major clubbing music north of Watford centres on Leeds and Liverpool, yet it was Manchester that kickstarted it all. By all accounts, it was quite unlike today in which music listeners find themselves thinking, "Ooh, I'm going to get into house music," or "I'm going to get involved in hip hop," or whatever else. All you can do these days is buy the albums, go to the concerts, buy the T-shirts, but the music never envelops you in the way that it did in Manchester in the 1980s. This, for me, is a shame, because it seems unlikely to happen again, and Madchester, Tony Wilson, Factory Records and all, seemed to be the last major British promoters that never sold out, and for whom, it was all about the music.
Just yesterday, I went to see '24 Hour Party People', the story of Manchester's drug-fuelled music label, Factory Records, and the city's burgeoning music scene in the 1980s. I doubt many of you have either seen the film, plan to, or are old enough to have many memories of Manchester in the 1980s and early 1990s, so I'm expecting almost no interest in this thread. But you never know.
The film itself was an intriguing collection of sketches based on the activity of Factory Records and its major bands, Joy Division/New Order and the Happy Mondays, and the Hacienda nightlcub in central Manchester. It never really felt like you were watching a film in fact, but that is probably the best way to tell this particular story.
It asked more questions than it answered, and I now find myself in a position whereby I am fascinated by the last great British youth subculture of the 20th century. Unfortunately, being 14 when the Hacienda shut its doors, I missed out entirely on the whole scene, by only a few years.
The main character, Tony Wilson, played by Steve Coogan, himself a Mancunian, was a sonorous combination of half-TV presenter, half-record label boss, overly-comfortable with the camera yet ostensibly unaware of his self-indulgence. I have actually had the pleasure of meeting Tony Wilson twice, and found him to be an amicable and approachable gentleman.
The first time was in Old Trafford's hospitality lounge, when I was introduced to him through my cousin, a local DJ and one-time Hacienda discjockey. More about that later. The other time was in a bar in Manchester's Deansgate waiting for a mate to show up, and he just came and sat by the bar and started talking to me about United's chances this season.
Back to the film. The direction was deliberately unsettling and avantegarde, narrated by Wilson to the camera in the first-person. But it never got in the way of the story, which itself needs little imagination to shine.
There is the story of Ian Curtis's suicide, Factory Records' 'contract', the Sex Pistols' first ever gig, and the inglorious rise and fall of the Hacienda nightclub. There are too many anecdotes about this Mancunian institution to tell them all, but the film makes a fair job of it. Sadly, the building, long since redeveloped into loft apartments, had been demolished just two days before filming began. One of my personal favourites, and one that my cousin recalls with some glee, is the time when police locked clubbers inside the nightclub until dawn whilst waging a war with Manchester's prolific drug dealers outside. The music never stopped, and nor did the drug-taking.
My cousin, Adam Cole, now working the drivetime slot on Manchester Key 103, only had the opportunity to play the Hacienda twice, but was a regular there for some years.
I feel disappointed that I missed out so narrowly on this pervasive Mancunian culture, all the more because it has been so inadequately replaced. Yet at the same time I feel very privileged that my city has had such a notable recent past, and has had such a profound impact on music history. Now all the major clubbing music north of Watford centres on Leeds and Liverpool, yet it was Manchester that kickstarted it all. By all accounts, it was quite unlike today in which music listeners find themselves thinking, "Ooh, I'm going to get into house music," or "I'm going to get involved in hip hop," or whatever else. All you can do these days is buy the albums, go to the concerts, buy the T-shirts, but the music never envelops you in the way that it did in Manchester in the 1980s. This, for me, is a shame, because it seems unlikely to happen again, and Madchester, Tony Wilson, Factory Records and all, seemed to be the last major British promoters that never sold out, and for whom, it was all about the music.
nice post mate, and congrats on the gad!
Well done seinfield, top post as always.
...nevertheless, you deserve some credit - the post won!
Well done.
Well done.
I've read all three. Sorry. :0D
It's just, I don't really have anything to say. I'd like to go see 24 hour party people... but I don't really have much interest in the Mancunian culture, as you put it.
So don't get upset. I'm not really even sure why I didn't reply to the second one... but people DO read it, it's just, we don't feel obliged to reply. Sorry again.
It's just, I don't really have anything to say. I'd like to go see 24 hour party people... but I don't really have much interest in the Mancunian culture, as you put it.
So don't get upset. I'm not really even sure why I didn't reply to the second one... but people DO read it, it's just, we don't feel obliged to reply. Sorry again.
I have posted this twice in FOG now and it would be nice to have some reaction. If not, I'll assume people don't read posts started by unknowns. It's only because I have put effort into it and no-one likes to see their work go unrewarded.
Just yesterday, I went to see '24 Hour Party People', the story of Manchester's drug-fuelled music label, Factory Records, and the city's burgeoning music scene in the 1980s. I doubt many of you have either seen the film, plan to, or are old enough to have many memories of Manchester in the 1980s and early 1990s, so I'm expecting almost no interest in this thread. But you never know.
The film itself was an intriguing collection of sketches based on the activity of Factory Records and its major bands, Joy Division/New Order and the Happy Mondays, and the Hacienda nightlcub in central Manchester. It never really felt like you were watching a film in fact, but that is probably the best way to tell this particular story.
It asked more questions than it answered, and I now find myself in a position whereby I am fascinated by the last great British youth subculture of the 20th century. Unfortunately, being 14 when the Hacienda shut its doors, I missed out entirely on the whole scene, by only a few years.
The main character, Tony Wilson, played by Steve Coogan, himself a Mancunian, was a sonorous combination of half-TV presenter, half-record label boss, overly-comfortable with the camera yet ostensibly unaware of his self-indulgence. I have actually had the pleasure of meeting Tony Wilson twice, and found him to be an amicable and approachable gentleman.
The first time was in Old Trafford's hospitality lounge, when I was introduced to him through my cousin, a local DJ and one-time Hacienda discjockey. More about that later. The other time was in a bar in Manchester's Deansgate waiting for a mate to show up, and he just came and sat by the bar and started talking to me about United's chances this season.
Back to the film. The direction was deliberately unsettling and avantegarde, narrated by Wilson to the camera in the first-person. But it never got in the way of the story, which itself needs little imagination to shine.
There is the story of Ian Curtis's suicide, Factory Records' 'contract', the Sex Pistols' first ever gig, and the inglorious rise and fall of the Hacienda nightclub. There are too many anecdotes about this Mancunian institution to tell them all, but the film makes a fair job of it. Sadly, the building, long since redeveloped into loft apartments, had been demolished just two days before filming began. One of my personal favourites, and one that my cousin recalls with some glee, is the time when police locked clubbers inside the nightclub until dawn whilst waging a war with Manchester's prolific drug dealers outside. The music never stopped, and nor did the drug-taking.
My cousin, Adam Cole, now working the drivetime slot on Manchester Key 103, only had the opportunity to play the Hacienda twice, but was a regular there for some years.
I feel disappointed that I missed out so narrowly on this pervasive Mancunian culture, all the more because it has been so inadequately replaced. Yet at the same time I feel very privileged that my city has had such a notable recent past, and has had such a profound impact on music history. Now all the major clubbing music north of Watford centres on Leeds and Liverpool, yet it was Manchester that kickstarted it all. By all accounts, it was quite unlike today in which music listeners find themselves thinking, "Ooh, I'm going to get into house music," or "I'm going to get involved in hip hop," or whatever else. All you can do these days is buy the albums, go to the concerts, buy the T-shirts, but the music never envelops you in the way that it did in Manchester in the 1980s. This, for me, is a shame, because it seems unlikely to happen again, and Madchester, Tony Wilson, Factory Records and all, seemed to be the last major British promoters that never sold out, and for whom, it was all about the music.
Just yesterday, I went to see '24 Hour Party People', the story of Manchester's drug-fuelled music label, Factory Records, and the city's burgeoning music scene in the 1980s. I doubt many of you have either seen the film, plan to, or are old enough to have many memories of Manchester in the 1980s and early 1990s, so I'm expecting almost no interest in this thread. But you never know.
The film itself was an intriguing collection of sketches based on the activity of Factory Records and its major bands, Joy Division/New Order and the Happy Mondays, and the Hacienda nightlcub in central Manchester. It never really felt like you were watching a film in fact, but that is probably the best way to tell this particular story.
It asked more questions than it answered, and I now find myself in a position whereby I am fascinated by the last great British youth subculture of the 20th century. Unfortunately, being 14 when the Hacienda shut its doors, I missed out entirely on the whole scene, by only a few years.
The main character, Tony Wilson, played by Steve Coogan, himself a Mancunian, was a sonorous combination of half-TV presenter, half-record label boss, overly-comfortable with the camera yet ostensibly unaware of his self-indulgence. I have actually had the pleasure of meeting Tony Wilson twice, and found him to be an amicable and approachable gentleman.
The first time was in Old Trafford's hospitality lounge, when I was introduced to him through my cousin, a local DJ and one-time Hacienda discjockey. More about that later. The other time was in a bar in Manchester's Deansgate waiting for a mate to show up, and he just came and sat by the bar and started talking to me about United's chances this season.
Back to the film. The direction was deliberately unsettling and avantegarde, narrated by Wilson to the camera in the first-person. But it never got in the way of the story, which itself needs little imagination to shine.
There is the story of Ian Curtis's suicide, Factory Records' 'contract', the Sex Pistols' first ever gig, and the inglorious rise and fall of the Hacienda nightclub. There are too many anecdotes about this Mancunian institution to tell them all, but the film makes a fair job of it. Sadly, the building, long since redeveloped into loft apartments, had been demolished just two days before filming began. One of my personal favourites, and one that my cousin recalls with some glee, is the time when police locked clubbers inside the nightclub until dawn whilst waging a war with Manchester's prolific drug dealers outside. The music never stopped, and nor did the drug-taking.
My cousin, Adam Cole, now working the drivetime slot on Manchester Key 103, only had the opportunity to play the Hacienda twice, but was a regular there for some years.
I feel disappointed that I missed out so narrowly on this pervasive Mancunian culture, all the more because it has been so inadequately replaced. Yet at the same time I feel very privileged that my city has had such a notable recent past, and has had such a profound impact on music history. Now all the major clubbing music north of Watford centres on Leeds and Liverpool, yet it was Manchester that kickstarted it all. By all accounts, it was quite unlike today in which music listeners find themselves thinking, "Ooh, I'm going to get into house music," or "I'm going to get involved in hip hop," or whatever else. All you can do these days is buy the albums, go to the concerts, buy the T-shirts, but the music never envelops you in the way that it did in Manchester in the 1980s. This, for me, is a shame, because it seems unlikely to happen again, and Madchester, Tony Wilson, Factory Records and all, seemed to be the last major British promoters that never sold out, and for whom, it was all about the music.