Edge Trinkets

In a few days time, on the 4th of November, a film will go on general release that is set in a scary and terrible world. It’s a world where young girls are traded to settle arguments without bloodshed, resources are scarce, your identity is tied to arbitrary numbers, and wearing the wrong colours or wandering into another person’s territory could get you beaten, killed, or worse. This is a world were seven year olds have access to guns, and being shot is a badge of honor.

Although I could be talking about any dystopian sci-fi Video Nasty from the early eighties you may have already guessed I’m actually referring to areas of Birmingham. Not LA, Rio, or Africa, but the city you live, right now. OK Not the areas you may live in obviously. But short bus journeys away. Its where children have to deal with these rules and joining gangs not only seem the only option but a damn site preferable than buckling down, scraping a few GCSE’s and one day, maybe, becoming lower middle management in an office job they hate.

Ever met a kid in a gang? I have, they’re not showy or quick to anger like most of the young people from the same areas. They are closed, almost to the point of autism. School doesn’t bother them, not in a rebellious way. They just don’t even entertain the notion that teachers or school authorities have any influence in there world. There eyes are dead and distant and they look right through you, not dismissively but rather that they regard you as a ghost, a person that has no more impact on there life than the dream they had last night. Gang members mostly don’t get into trouble at school because they’re above the childish rebellion and dealing with far more serious and potentially life and death situations, or they simply don’t want to pop up on any more radars than is absolutely necessary, be it school, social services or the police.

It’s likely that you think you have met gang members. Birmingham police estimate that there are less than one hundred and fifty boni-fidi gang members in Birmingham. The kids you have met, been mugged by, or been intimidated by on the back of the bus are not gang members. They aspire to be gang members. They are so seduced by gang culture that they commit, what the police force refer to as ‘low level crime’ and generally alienate themselves from society until they are ripe for recruiting.

And why wouldn’t they? The gangs themselves have grew in the same cultural Petri dish as you or me, they are as aware of the benefits of self aggrandizing, branding and advertising as we are, in fact maybe more so. Because gangs have something to sell, not a product, but a lifestyle and they have a medium to do it. Type almost any north Birmingham post-code into YouTube and you will see short films made by and for the gangs of that area. Most have MySpace pages featuring talented young men and women who most gangs consider ‘trophy members’. These are gang members that have a higher profile than your average street grunt; they are the most sought after members of gangs and treated as commodities. If these are good looking girls they can, and often are, swapped and traded like Panini stickers, never given a voice or opinion. Boys could be talented rappers or even budding sportsmen. These Prestige members often intimidated into joining the gangs are belong to a situation and culture that fool them into thinking that the gang is the only option or family they have. Tragically it’s the young people that have the brightest prospects of leaving that are the ones actively sought after and ‘recruited’.

The film is called ‘1day’ and is set and filmed around Handsworth, all its cast, apart from a few key actors are from the area, and inevitably members of the gangs they portray. Although I have yet to see the film I suspect a lot of the elements that I have mentioned here will be discussed in the narrative and the more depressing points hid behind the same sort aggrandizing and protagonist empathy that the real message will be lost. No one will realise that these problems are real and happening to people’s sons and daughters every day.

Another, more practical worry is that it seems that only members of one gang were chosen to appear in the film. Which to all intents and purposes becomes an elaborate version of the YouTube adverts and contains many of the ‘trophy’ members of that gang. Or, if you like, the gang members that do appear in the film will quickly become so called ‘trophy members’. This, many suspect, will draw a lot of negative reaction from the rival gangs, and the negative reaction will not just translate into poor box office figures and stern letters to The Guardian. There will be violence, and I suspect a lot of it. Now a lot of this probably will not be reported in the main press, partly because the police ask local press to not run gang related story’s in fear of giving them the sort of reviews they would be proud of or inspire revenge attacks. And partly, for the larger press, there is nothing novel or newsworthy about gang violence.

The film angle will be attractive to your average journo so, who knows. Watch this space I guess. In the mean time, the gangs will continue to control the lives of young people, some young people will aspire to have their lives controlled by gangs, and anyone who knows what goes on will continue to stand at the sidelines and try and solve an unsolvable situation with the little resources they have

The trouble is, a place like this is DNA encoded with its obsolescence. Like a deformed water headed baby kept on life support and doomed by its own genetics. And if this place is too survive then the option ain’t pretty

The next generation of rock music fans have split loyalties. And why shouldn’t they? if saturated by information and options its seems an act of a crazy person to belong to one group. A new study shows that current teens see know problem in belonging to more than one tribe; the signs were all there, raving ballerinas, straight edge punks, and vegan infantry in the army already exist.

The future is grim. when sub-cultures are worn and discarded like fancy dress, places like this will become a theme-park for scene tourists wearing pull on tattoo-sleeves, and foam studs glued to their immaculately made up faces. In a world of empty glamour and style-over-content authenticity is revered but never aspired to.

The true trappings of the ‘alternative’ lifestyle were always the things that permanently marked you as apart from the crowd, tattoos, piercings, and the Mohawk are stylistic signals of civil disobedience. But as the allegiance of any group is going to be split amongst many tribes and tried on for the weekend these symbols will eventually lose their potency. I cant think of one signifier that started in the subculture that hasn’t at some point been co-opted by the mainstream, faux-hawks, tattoos worn by any passing starlet, even Harrison fucking Ford got his ear pierced.

I see a future where, along side bars that offer ‘a taste of Latin’ and 80 theme bars, are built ‘rock dives TM’ where the waitresses wear leather jackets and serve amusingly named cocktails, spray on cobwebs adorn spotless clean wall that are interrupted only by an artful aged band posters, and the music is always well within government safety guidelines.

Or we could be lucky and wiped out by a giant fucking tidal wave.

I’ve been listening to the classic album ‘Pearl’ by Janis Joplin. The theme of this weeks radio show is ‘japan’ and, yes, the songs tend to be THAT tenuously linked.

I love Janis Joplin’s voice and it started me thinking how an unknown Janis Joplin would fare in todays X-factor. You see Joplin’s voice is completely the opposite of what Cowls cohorts expect or want from the chattering masses willing to swap dignity for their alloted 15 minutes. Her voice isn’t note perfect , AND it doesn’t hold the up and down vibrato on sustained notes which is the staple singing trick preferred by contestants on this random game show.

The Ground Zero of this loathsome substitution of any real singing prowess was the cover of ‘I Will Always Love You’ by everybody’s favorite crack fiend – Whitney Houston. The original, incidentally, is three times the song that got wedged at the top of the charts for ten weeks (back when the charts used to actually matter and didn’t spring fully formed from the thighs of coke deranged PR agents thighs) The difference between the two versions being not only did Dolly write the song, but lived it and re-lived it every single fucking time she sang it. You can literally hear her heart breaking. The sentiment of the Whitney Houston abortion being second hand, borrowed from the movie it accompanies.

This notion of accompanying sentiment in place of actual emotion is evident in the X-factor – their voices contain no real emotion so they choose to accompany any entrant they can with a sad back story – so we, the sophisticated reader of the televisions, make the leap of overlap, hearing meaning where there is none – mis-judging our own pity echoing in our heads as emoting in the singing.

Joplin’s voice is hoarse and damaged from what sounds like a month of crying and whiskey and this is not far from the truth. Plagued her entire life by low self-esteem, she allowed herself to bounce around from destructive relationship to destructive relationship, cuddling up to, the appropriately named, Southern Comfort and the blanket of heroin. Every note sounds dragged over her scarred heart and voice and she frequently stops the live shows to plead with the audience to give each other the love and respect you feel she so sorely missed.

X-factor singers pantomime emotion. I’ve never bought the suffering artist shtick but singing, good singing, has to come from a place of honesty, not faux regret and the right warbling note. X-factor is a sideshow distraction away from our inevitable death and good for only hangovers and sneering. A good singer connects the souls of all that are listening and makes life a less lonely place.

My favorite bit of any Janis Joplin’s song are just two notes. At the end of ‘Mercandes Benz’, her last ever recorded song. Just after she finishes the playful accapella with a off hand ‘Thats it’ there are two notes. The last two notes she ever put down on tape are not singing, but the beginning of a laugh. I love to hear this – it reminds me about hope and love and joy. Just two notes, fuck you Simon Cowell, fuck you.

It’s too bright in here, sleaze is so much better when its inferred, dirt more glamorous in the dark and, for the right class of degenerates, it’s more comfortable when people can’t quite make out your features. 5 years ago a place like this would have been full of smoke, every stranger more than 5 yards away becoming Jack th Ripper emerging from a Victorian pea-souper. What we gained in health we lost in atmosphere.

‘Mate, do you want a game of pool?’ a small skinhead interrupts my train of thought, i say i’m ok thanks and he leaves with a nod.

I’m obviously sitting near a speaker because the vibrations through the table have caused the beer to slowly froth out of the bottle in a firm white foam. The last time I heard the song that is playing was about ten years ago and is angry and loud but to me speaks of youth and the naked joy of shedding school and finding a family hidden in dark bars.

And the crowd shouts along ‘you can suck my dick and fucking like it’

The difference in Britain between what we call bars and what we call pubs is more of an idealogical one than something based on layout, music or, some cynics would point out, price. It boils down to this – if your going to hide amongst friends, its a pub. If your going to be seen amongst strangers, its a bar. Bars are home to scene, pubs house communities.

The music stops because the DJ is at the bar chatting and everybody shouts ‘IAN!’

After a few beers the volume and vibration from the speakers have started to feel like a hot bath, normally when in a pub (or bar) on my I spend my time people watching, and the first thing to do when people watching is figure out the power relationships, the alpha male and queen bitch etc. I’m pretty good too, but in here I can’t see it. Reading body language is a lot easier when people are trying to appear relaxed when compared to actually being relaxed.

On my way out I may eye contact with the skinhead from earlier and he gives me the devil horns hand gesture as a goodbye

Old punks never die- they just smell that way.

Costers is closed and part of my adolescence disappeared. I’m sitting in its cultural replacement which by all accounts is exactly the same but better. It’s brighter, louder, bigger with comfier seats, two TV screens and a pinball machine. The Costers crowd have made the migration of 100 yards to another underground bar and first impressions are good. Personally it should feel like a fresh start but I cant help but miss the ghosts. Costers was a dark run down shit hole but it had a cobweb of personal history hanging from every corner. My connection to the Birmingham alternative scene it seems was the shared fetish stick of that shit hole. I’m young enough to generate new memories – but to old to invest heavily in this scene.

I’m trying hard not to draw the parallels to cockroaches who scuttle from one hidey-hole to another whenever the light is switched on because I think I owe my weird heritage more than that, but maybe its not a cruel or degrading analogy to make, after all the cockroaches is one of the most prolific and robust creatures on the planet that’ll be around after the nuclear bomb hits, thats what they say isn’t it? Cockroaches and lawyers. Maybe its not as cruel as I first thought, as long as there is mainstream there will be ‘alternative’, no matter how many times the monoculture tries to absorb it the ‘fuck you’ instinct of youth will reject it.

Despite what we want to believe human behavior is a very narrow and predictable pattern, the train of our thoughts only have the same tracks to run on. As long as were all pushed towards whats right, honest, and deemed decent. There will always be a minority that is innately attracted to the wrong, skewed and left hand path. These people do tend to be the ones already marginalised by normality – the non-sport played boy, the gender rebellious, the morally flexible, depressives, freaks, and angry. Even these dregs, the childishly rebellious, the conformity adverse seek company, rules and structure. So places like this will always have custom and always feel like home.

Here is a story what i did gone and wrotten, let me know what you think in the comments section please. thank you

There is a certain type of American bar that is very different to what us English call a ‘pub’. They’re normally tatty, sticky, and dark with the ghosts of a thousand good times giving them an extra dimension in the day time. It was one of the dive bars that I found myself walking into a couple of years ago in Chicago. The bar was empty apart from the bartender counting bottles in the fridge and a pile of dirty washing heaped on the bar that upon inspection turned out to be a man with his head in his hands.

The jukebox was loud but only highlighted the lack of other noise, so I could hear the man sniffing and when I approached the bar I saw tears hit a napkin below. Of course I did what any Englishman would do in that situation, and pretended not to notice.

The barman heard my third polite cough, or it got to a large enough volume he couldn’t ignore it any longer, and turned to serve my drink in a way that could compete with your average French waiter in casual rudeness.
I smile.
‘I can see why this place is so busy’
‘Fuck you’ replies the barman wearily. Again I smile
‘And who says the Americans don’t understand irony?’ I riposte as I turn away, not exactly Oscar Wilde I know, but if I was in the mood for sparkling conversation I wouldn’t be letting my shoes stain in the shithole. I survey the place I’ve ended up, shafts of white sunshine attack through the high windows like spotlights highlighting the losers on god’s stage.
‘He’s OK Clyde – he’s with me’ I turn at this new voice, to see the bar tender pulling his hand away from under the bar, the place I know from experience some of the smarter bar owners keep a bat.
‘My names NOT Clyde – you know that’ says Not-Clyde
‘Sure it is Clyde’ says the once crying man as he pushes a note across the bar. He faces me and confides
‘It’s amazing what a Finnski can do to a guy’s attitude’

I look at the stranger starting from his slightly shaggy side parting, taking in his red childlike eyes, pausing at his smile, like a charming shark. The was tailored but had seen at least a months of drunk nights, complimented with a animal print waistcoat.
‘Put him on my tab Clyde’ the stranger says and as I go to protest he holds his hand up explaining ‘ I get free drinks here since I accidently sang the national anthem at a Cubs game’ the smile flickers briefly and his voice cracks ‘It’s a long story – join me for one?’ I’m not in the habit of drinking with crying men and my instincts were telling me that the stranger smelt of tragedy and vice, but his voice had the air of someone who was used to persuading people into doing what they didn’t really want to AND he had just possibly averted my head from having more cracks in it than usually prefer so, I obliged. Beside it wouldn’t be the weirdest thing I’ve done for a free drink. I look to the barman for guidance, he shrugs and says
‘My name isn’t Clyde’
.
We find a booth that least resembles a crime scene and sit down.
‘I’m waiting for results – the doctor thinks it’s inoperable and nasty, but it’s a false alarm’ not the lightest of opening conversational gambits for someone you’ve just met, but it is America I think and try and match him for frankness
‘How do you know it’s a false alarm?’ I say, he stops swirling the ice in his glass for a second
‘Because everything works out for me’ there was no boast in his voice only a small bitter sigh
‘That’s a bad thing?
‘Drove my sister nuts’ he says, a nostalgic smile shadowing across his face as he focuses somewhere over my left shoulder ‘my best friend too – we fell out of touch when we went to collage, like he predicted.’ The smile dies and the head droops a little ‘One of his suicide notes was addressed to me it said “he felt sorry for me” because I “would never know what its like to struggle to win”’
The shafts of light highlight the swirling particles of dust, they look like they’re dancing
When I look back he’s wiping fresh tears with the palm of his hand ‘His parents did a real number on him, uptight you know? Diamond forming uptight. He was right of course, I’ve worked harder at not working than anything in my whole life, and everything just falls into my lap.’ The last few words are spat out like they taste bad. I let a couple of beats pass and try to change the subject.
‘Are you not in work today?’
‘Day off’ he blankly replies ‘the doctor will be phoning me here any minute to tell me it’s a big mistake and the results are negative.’ Now I’m as accommodating and polite as the next guy, more so considering the next guy is a bar tender not called Clyde that was potentially willing to brain me 10 minutes ago. But this is a lot to lay on anyone.
‘If you’re so sure that the results are going to positive why are you semi-drunk in the middle of the day treating an Englishman like a shrink?’
He finishes the scotch, stares straight at me and says
‘Because I want the results to be positive’
‘You can’t mean that’ I say flippantly, suddenly he’s standing
‘You have no idea how hard it is! How hard it is to have everyone think you’re this “righteous dude”’ he pause and fills my stunned silence and sits ‘I’ve spent so long tricking people into liking me I have no idea if people actually do anymore, if I’m someone worth liking’ his eyes drop and an old Wayne Newton song fills the bar from the pathetically neon jukebox.
‘Well, if it helps – I think you’re a wanker’ he smiles at this
‘You’re just saying that’
‘Straight up’
‘Thanks man’ he stands up smiling a resigned smile and straitening his suit ‘Tell Clyde I’m sorry’ he says shaking my hand
‘Where are you going?’ I ask
‘Just to the bathroom’ he lies, takes a deep breath and leaves the booth. The suddenly ringing phone masks the flat crack noise from the gent’s toilets. But I hear it.

As I leave I meet Non-Clyde’s eye as he calls the man in the bathroom that I’m pretty sure will never answer.
‘Bueller?….Bueller?….Bueller?

Anyone can make a gin and tonic; the recipe is in the title. Add gin to tonic and Roberts your mother brother, right? Wrong? Making a good Gin and Tonic is not an accident. It’s alchemy. Like a good cup of tea you can’t just throw the ingredients together and hope for the best, its not soup. There are rules, a ritual, and order. We’re Englishmen after all.

A good Gin and a decent brand Tonic are essential, but I know needs must when the devil pisses in the tea-pot. So the general rule of thumb is using an average Gin with a good tonic OR an average tonic with a good Gin. Notice that I never said Bad gin or Bad tonic. If you can still find a tonic made with a decent amount of Quinine and not too sweetened that is a good one – after all malaria still exists and a gentleman still has to be ready.

Take a glass full of ice, again notice the word “glass” and the word “full”. Frankly if you think drinking out of a plastic cup is not abhorrent, give in now and go drink Stella until your sick on your best mate. And then you fight him. “Full of ice” means that the ice will not melt and dilute the drink, I know this seems counter-intuitive, but the more ice means the lower ambient temperature which means a slower rate of melting. See? A Gin and Tonic is where science meets magic.

Ice will always go in first. Add ice to gin and you will change the taste significantly. Even the lowest Wetherspoons Sud-Slingers is taught this as when your average know nothing drinker is faced with a drink that is different to there last fourteen they will take it back.

Fruit is added next, Lemon or Lime, this part of the process is up to your taste. But, again there some rules. Never squeeze the fruit into the gin, although you may wipe rim of the glass with it, briefly. Alternatively roll the fruit firmly against the chopping board before chopping; this will make the fruit give more of a taste when added. The spiraled zest is also a good option for those of a subtle palette and sophisticated aesthetic.

Gin is added, never too much 150ml maximum, remember if your drinking just to get pissed, drink flat lager until you put on some union jack shorts and throw a deckchair through a window because some looked diagonal at your over made-up girlfriend.

Then add Tonic to taste, it’s worth mentioning that Bitter Lemon is also acceptable and some times preferable depend on taste, but Lemon should never be added to Bitter Lemon only lime.

It’s important to say, I feel, that I am not drinks Nazi telling people what and how to drink. It’s just some things are important, and if you do want to drink a tall Gin and Tonic, why not do it properly?

Anymore tips, hints or absolute decrees can be added via the comments section. Thank you for your time.