Not here...

...but over there...

On Codeine

Codeine were the sound of defeat. Of resignation, complete submission, days spent buried under a duvet, shutting out the world behind closed curtains. To define them as miserable is to miss the point slightly...they captured the moment at which failure is something to be embraced; they found a numbing, narcotic comfort in no longer trying to succeed. A rather beautiful, rather dangerous state. You could, as I found out, listen to them a bit too much.

Some bands are hard to pin down. Codeine were not one of those bands. Over the course of two early nineties albums and an EP, Stephen Immerwahr (bass, vocals, songs, always his band), John Engle (guitar) and a succession of drummers, most notably Chris Brokaw, nailed their sound and their purpose so absolutely and so repeatedly that there quickly came a point where there was nothing more left to be said. I mean, what are you going to do? Hitch a ride on the Nirvana bandwagon? Get a Chemical Brothers remix? Cheer the hell up?

Or, much better, don't hang around. For nigh-on twenty years, until a brief reunion tour to mark an exquisite re-release of those records, Codeine were a treasured memory for the relative few who'd had their lives blessed by those stately-slow songs...and an occasional name-to-drop in reviews of those who followed in their footsteps. You get the sense that they were a little surprised by the fervour their re-emergence generated, perhaps unaware of just how closely some of us clutch their music to our hearts, even now. Christ, some of those song titles are enough to send shivers down my spine, reference points for a desperately personal emotional space that little else has touched...

Frigid Stars dropped out of nowhere, it seemed. History might have it that these were the Sub Pop years, but if you'd been reared on Big Black, pre-bubblegum Sonic Youth, early Swans and all, Sub Pop seemed like a trad-rockist throwback, of no interest whatsoever. Codeine releases are, I'm almost certain, the only Sub Pop records I own...and they stood in stark, bleak contrast to the party around them. Intrigued by a Melody Maker review, I fell instantly and irrevocably in love with their debut album; it needed no explanation, no decoding, nothing but a loud stereo and empty days to fill.

Rock speaks easily of anger, frustration and disappointment. Codeine stripped it of catharsis and thrill, sucked it dry of sound and fury; for all the careful application of volume, there's barely a raised voice or an abrasive note on these records, hardly a hint of protest. Virtually no ego either, no cloying sentiment or hand-on-heart sincerity. They were left with something taut and sparse, mercilessly slow, hardly able to support its own weight. The enduring genius of it all was to manage to pin memorable, frequently gorgeous songs onto that bare skeleton: the peaks of this limited discography rise far above slow-for-slow's-sake, a classic melodic sensibility melted all over some very disciplined formal innovation.

"All their songs sound the same - like it's all one song - but it's a great song," quips Sub Pop's Jonathan Poneman on the sleevenotes. Which is a good line, and broadly true, but neglects how carefully composed much of this music is...and how many heart-stopping moments it conjures up. Even as its first verse begins, "Gravel Bed" stumbles sideways as if unable to stand up straight. The majestic "Pickup Song", all swooping slide-bass, foregoes a second verse and just plunges head-first into a wall, finishing with the line "Wish I'd never seen your face..." and the kind of anti-crescendo which could belong only to this band. Something of a signature, that...Codeine songs have a habit of ducking out quietly and softly, as if shying away from the spotlight before it shines too brightly.

This is emphatically pop music, rock music, accessible and memorable; Codeine were never a hard band to listen to, as long as you didn't mind living with the all-encompassing sadness they seemed able to summon up.  You should start with Frigid Stars and the subsequent Barely Real EP, which contains one of the great three-track winning streaks: the strung-out, blasted "Realize" sliding into the even-more-blasted "Jr", based around a blistered wreck of a riff, and then into "Barely Real". The latter is still astonishing, an object lesson into how to turn an essentially simple little tune into a thing of heartbreaking beauty by placing every single note just so, buffing every surface to just the right lustre, balancing it all on a knife-edge. The last of the three minutes, in which nothing happens to perfection, is worth taking a whole day off work for.

If those first two records are a little patchy, The White Birch is monumental and absolute and impassive. Putting aside occasional attempts at broadening their palette, Codeine recorded in monotone, capturing a snow-bound blankness that's somehow as romantic as it is hopeless. It has no variety whatsoever, no light and shade; the quiet is as steely and cold as the loud. It's as if they've decided to push their trademark sound as far as it can go, then leave it there for the crows.

Whereas its predecessors connect me immediately with a particular time in my life, The White Birch has none of those vivid associations. I played it to death on its release, but it isn't a record which lends itself to nostalgia; time seems to be frozen in its presence rather than drift into memory. It has no "Pickup Song", no "Barely Real". Rather, it's that very rare thing: a near-flawless record by a band in absolute control, focused inward on capturing what it has to say completely and forever. Every single note counts and is played as if the entire record depends on it; every bit of wool, tangle and fuzz has been stripped away. There are reference points for that kind of austerity in electronica, in metal, perhaps elsewhere too...but in the middle ground of American rock, it represents the most astonishing act of single-minded discipline.

As ever, though, it has the songs to turn what might be theoretical posturing into a record you couldn't bear to live without. It has great songs, nine of them...including, for me, the song to which all of the others were leading: "Vacancy", about which I have nothing smart to say whatsoever. "Don't even try to justify...there's no way...to justify...." It ends with "Smoking Room", slow even by their standards...and yet gently uplifting, as if someone's raised your crestfallen chin with a caring hand. With one of Immerwahr's loveliest lyrics ("The world is frozen now...it glitters, sparkles and shines..."), Codeine fade to a silence which seems so much more absolute than when the record began. 

That was it. There were no messy attempts to follow The White Birch; the band's subsequent parting was private and quiet and, it seems, as amicable as these things can be. The reunion tour was appropriately concise; the discipline and restraint and good judgement evident in every detail of the band's sound applied with equal rigour to its place in history. They're gone again already. That's how it should be: there's no need for embellishment, addition or explanation; the opportunity to hear them again, to thank them again, is wonderful but ultimately unnecessary. The post-White Birch silence is mercifully undiminished and unblemished.

There's no cult of personality around these records, no shape-throwing guitar heroes or confessional singer-songwriters, no Curtis or Cobain or whoever. Codeine removed themselves from personal autobiography completely. You don't need to know the lives and the stories behind these songs...there's nothing hidden, their depth is still and clear. If you don't understand them instinctively, then, frankly, you need to stay in more. The sound of defeat, a singular and resolute sound.

You couldn't listen to Codeine forever. You couldn't be in Codeine forever. But, my heavens, how vital that they existed, how unerringly they fulfilled that need. Whatever they do in the rest of their lives, I wish them peace and I wish them happiness. They've given me a lot of both.

Let the Right One In

When you think about it - and it's difficult to stop thinking about it, such is its subtle, indelible tinting of your world - one of the most astounding things about Let the Right One In is that it is a horror film. It doesn't subvert the genre, it doesn't twist its well-worn rules; it embraces all of that fully, punctuating the two-ish hours with acts of shuddering violence, albeit that we're shielded from full view of most of those acts. It is a horror film, pure and simple.

And yet, the words that it requires of you are from a different world entirely. The one that won't let go is "exquisite", for there is so much here that is the very antithesis of crass, dumb shock-value cinema of any genre. There is so much here that's so delicate and tightly-coiled that you barely dare breathe; it's that tension, the tension of the awkward, difficult, desperate friendship at the heart of the story, which leaves you drained by the end.

The film circles silently around that twelve-year-old friendship as it evolves. An astonishing use of depth-of-field echoes our and their nervousness, the camera feeling its way through each scene by bringing different elements sharply into focus and then letting them slip, never daring to linger for too long. As a work of art, even at its most bloody, it feels every bit as fragile as those held inside it.

Horror has never been this intimate, has rarely been as concerned with the tragedy of its characters' lives. And cinema has rarely been used to capture a chilling, icy loneliness so perfectly.

Exquisite.

"Two Davids in a world of Goliaths"

As you'll know if you've been reading this blog, the plays and readings at the tiny Bookshop Theatre in the back room of John Calder's bookshop have been varied, surprising and, more than occasionally, very fine indeed.

As the bookshop and the theatre face a battle to stay open in the face of rising costs, the Godot Company is putting on a series of performances throughout March, comprising, among other things, some of the best bits of last year's Beckett programme. You should go.

For more information, see the Godot Company website.

Samuel Beckett: Footfalls / Rockaby / Enough

It's entirely possible - and this is still sinking in, some three weeks after the event - that this might've been the last Beckett of the year. Heavens. It had to end somewhere, and the failure to secure tickets for Harold Pinter's performance of Krapp's Last Tape in October means that it probably ends here. In many ways, that's perfect: it seems absolutely inconceivable that Pinter could find any way to improve upon John Hurt's Krapp, perhaps the most monumental of all the centenary's peaks. And it'd be such a shame to end this journey with a sense of anticlimax.

Besides, this is just right. Back at the bookshop, a triple bill of female roles offers both conclusions and fresh beginnings. In a way, it feels as if we've finished, as if there's a firm underlining and a solid full stop on the end of the sentence. All done. It feels like that watching Footfalls, a piece that - and this is rare, contrary to perception - is just a bit obscure, a bit inaccessible. A bit difficult. Somehow, it doesn't have the clarity and purity of Beckett's finest writing, and there's visible effort in Virginia Byron's performance as a consequence.

It isn't helped, perhaps, by the context. Some of these plays have taken on a wonderfully intimate warmth in this little backroom...but this is a ghostly world that seems to require a bigger, emptier space. It needs distance, for things to hang in the air, for footfalls to echo, for breath to become mist. As if to emphasise the point, Rockaby immediately shows us that intimacy, that warmth...and it suddenly all works beautifully again. The most musical of Beckett's plays, it's nudged gently along by a reserved, conservative reading from Tamara Hinchco...and that's a genuine compliment, for these are lovely, familiar, cherished words that require nothing more than to be let out of the box from time to time. We briefly wonder whether the addition of an echo on the key phrase - "Time she stopped..." - falls into the category of unnecessary fiddling; we decide that it does, and yet that it just about works. Just about. But, really, when it comes to Rockaby, you will never be wrong if you play it safe. It ain't broke.

Which, after a short interval, leaves us with Enough, and one last revelation for the road, the dot-dot-dot to open up that sentence once more. Because this is why it seems impossible to tire of Samuel Beckett, why there's always something to revive your interest. Why it's never really finished. A quiet, understated performance of an unfamiliar prose piece in the back room of a bookshop...and it simply takes your breath away.

Alison Stillbeck perches on the edge of the stage, almost within touching distance, and politely implores us to understand her relationship with a mumbling, crippled, belligerent other. She does so with captivating energy, eyes shining with love, face beaming with the desire to communicate; it's more than an expressive reading, it's a striking and brilliant piece of characterisation. Apart from a brief stumble, writing and performance are in complete harmony: one, deft and subtle, with shades of humour, love and, somewhere in the background, the darkness of cruelty and abuse; the other, letting the words cascade and flutter around the room, as if re-living the most contented times. Wherever you choose to spend your evenings, you could not possibly wish to see anything finer.

The last Beckett of the year, then. Which ought to be the occasion for grand conclusions and so on and so forth...and sod it, there's no conclusion, for there's no end. This is writing that lives...sparkles and fades and always lives. Maybe that won't be so forever; maybe there'll come a time when it's not possible to find something new and surprising in Samuel Beckett's work. Then, it'll be time for conclusions. For now....

Howard Hodgkin at Tate Britain

You're already too late. Sorry. Howard Hodgkin's life-spanning exhibition at Tate Britain finishes this very day; come the morning, the moment will have passed. One imagines that it won't be the last time that a significant body of his work is exhibited in this space; one hopes, at the same time, that it won't happen again for a while.

Because he hasn't finished yet, quite clearly. One of the most striking aspects of a genuinely joyous experience is that Hodgkin's most recent paintings, gathered together towards the end of this chronological collection, have the same vitality as those from what would generally be considered to be the peak of his career. Indeed, they offer a couple of mighty highlights to send you on your way: "Come Into The Garden, Maud", clusters and swirls of petal-like colours on a bare wooden frame, is particularly breathtaking.

But it is not alone. There is almost too much here, certainly too much to describe in detail. There are too many paintings that ask politely for your time and reward it many times over; from the very first room, in which Hodgkin enthusiastically starts to evolve his distinctive style, this is a wonderfully conversational exhibition. Some paintings shout and scream, others hang silently and indifferently. But Howard Hodgkin's paintings talk to you: they're intelligent and literate, sure, but they're also funny, kind, dramatic, and occasionally a bit rude. In short, they're great company...and I still haven't tired of them after two loops around the exhibition.

Of course, his colours dazzle most. They're bold and yet subtle, full of thought and feeling...and, just once, they're removed altogether to leave something black-and-white-and-grey, a bolt from the blue. Tellingly, the catalogue cannot capture any of this: it tells us what the paintings look like, but it doesn't tell us how they feel...and how they feel is what they are.

Above all, it's the range of which Hodgkin is capable that really astonishes. His style evolves gradually over time, but it's a means to an end...or to a number of ends, more accurately. Few painters can reach so far: this is a body of work that covers all manner of subjects, moods, thoughts, and yet never feels in any way compromised. Each painting is something different: a tranquil garden, perhaps, or a passionate love affair. A heartfelt tribute to a close friend, or the memory of a quarrelsome dinner. A room, a city, a landscape. Each time, the title gives a gentle hint to help you get along, and then you're left in the company of the work itself.

In the end, it comes down to this: it made me smile and laugh and gasp and frown and raise an eyebrow and mutter to myself in a slightly deranged way ("My God, that's fantastic!"), and I went around on my own. It filled me with innocent, teenage enthusiasm. It made me want to share it with anyone who'd listen, immediately.

My New Favourite Painter.

Samuel Beckett: Ohio Impromptu / The Old Tune

Back to the bookshop, mercifully rather less stifling than last time. And back to the start, for Ohio Impromptu was one of the pieces that kicked off this Beckett marathon at the Barbican back in March.

The first of many highlights, in fact: Harry Towb and Peter Cadden's rendering of an old, firm favourite was genuinely sublime, reaching deep into the heart of the writing to find something mournful and musical. To expect similar things of a small-scale production in the back room of a shop would be unreasonable, I suppose. And yet. And yet....

It is patently absurd that a very simple, very sparse play which, including stage directions, barely covers four pages of its creator's collected works should continue to reveal itself on, from memory, the fifth viewing. Absurd, and true. Even more absurd is that Ohio Impromptu doesn't feel especially elusive: it is an enigmatic piece of work, certainly, but it's also one of Beckett's most visually striking stage paintings, and it leaves a strong impression after just one viewing.

In many ways, this returns us to one of those old, tired clichés: that by being so specific in his instructions, Samuel Beckett left no room for anyone to interpet his work. That's utter nonsense: he just didn't let them interpret his work by messing about on the margins, rearranging the furniture and changing the costumes. Instead, there is enormous scope for any actor who concentrates on the language, finds how it works with their own voice, discovers where the music can take them. These are subtle variations, of course...but great writing means that such variations can be deeply significant, deeply felt.

Here, Michael Howarth, whose tones are rich and peaty, takes the role of reader and Peter Marinker is the silent listener. The whole thing is so familiar that I could pretty much recite it along with them...and yet. And yet, they've found something distinctive, another layer down. The variation is typified by what we refer to as "the joke", a little piece of gently twinkling humour amid the general sobriety. Here, though, it appears to be something quite different: a moment of genuine intimacy and shared kindness as the listener stays the hand of the reader as if to spare them both the pain of remembrance. Such a tiny detail, yet it reverberates through the performance. A sombre, sad performance, full of pauses that seem to allow the air to thicken and gather closer in the gloom. A truly memorable performance.

After which, The Old Tune, Beckett's adaptation of a Pinget play, provides an interesting but probably unnecessary counterpoint. Beginning with, and punctuated by, the lunatic seesawing of a broken fairground organ, it offers occasionally amusing thoughts on the passing of time, and a particularly daft moon-based gag that, without knowing any better, one is tempted to attribute to the adapter rather than the adaptee.

That's the problem, in essence: without knowing the original work, it is impossible to see where Robert Pinget ends and Samuel Beckett begins. So, we're left with a fairly ordinary, generally unremarkable play, one whose essentially conservative style contrasts extraordinarily with the main attraction. Crucially, you discover this: that Pinget's play deals solely with externals, with dialogue and scene-setting and character. Its only memories are shared: old friends, family, remembered and misremembered names. And that's partly why Beckett is still so precious and still so powerful: for his capturing of internal spaces, of the bit between your ears and the bit behind your left breast. The bits that really matter, when it comes down to it. The essentials.