The North by Paul Morley: Warmth, decency, truth and proper beer, with a side order of menace

For everyone who is exasperated by Morley’s oblique, mazy, impressionistic style, there will be others who will be seduced by its heft, even if they don’t realise quite how good it is.

The North: and Almost Everything In It
Paul Morley
Bloomsbury, 592pp, £20

The BBC doesn’t have a south of England correspondent. It always has one for the north of England, though, as I’ve noted elsewhere. Usually he’s one of their more “lived-in” presenters – a stocky man in his early fifties, with jowls and a salt-and-pepper beard and clad in Gore-Tex. He looks like he might have played rugby league in his time and knows where you can place a bet or get a Guinness in Oldham at six in the morning. He’s most often to be found looking tense outside a courtroom in Bolton at the conclusion of a major drugs trial, or standing in front of yellow police tape by a burned-out Mondeo on a Yorkshire sink estate where some sort of armed siege is occurring.

There’s no south of England correspondent because there is no need for one, which is a tacit acknowledgment of how events within the M25 beltway dominate our national agenda. In a similar vein, no one has ever been accused of being a professional southerner. There’s any number of people of whom you might say it – Suggs, John Terry, Alan Sugar, pretty much everyone on Radio 4’s satire shows, the Queen, Rick Stein – but the idea is somehow absurd . . . possibly apart from Chas’n’Dave.

None of this is to be heard in a register of high dudgeon, complaint or, heaven forbid, chippiness. It’s just to realise that the north is different, other, singular, even weird. Depending on where you’re standing, it means desolation, a cultural wasteland, arctic temperatures, whippets and limited dining opportunities. Or warmth, decency, truth and proper beer, with a side order of menace.

The books about the north could probably fill a shelf of your local library by now, if you still had one. I have to plead guilty to adding to the load. They range from the thoughtful and sympathetic, such as Graham Turner’s sadly out-of-print The North Country, to the sweet, sticky homilies of Gervase Phinn, to sneering dismissals, as in Charles Jennings’s rotten Up North. Paul Morley’s weighty new work probably deserves a section to itself: the poetic, stream-of-consciousness, socio-historical, non-linear memoir-cum-gazetteer.

There are the things you’ll expect from Morley if you’re familiar with his oeuvre. He soars above the landscape with daring and verve and ambition and brings it to life with his usual heady and mesmerising prose gymnastics. There are delicious, dizzying switches of perspective, Escher-like switchbacks, blind alleys and diversions. He is catholic in his tastes, and thinks nothing of corralling the inscrutable novelist W G Sebald and blowsy Julie Goodyear, Coronation Street’s Bet Lynch, in a single paragraph.

This is the sort of stuff that’s had many of us hanging on his every word (and there are generally lots of them) since his NME days. But there are things here that will surprise even devotees. There’s history, geology, geography, all conveyed with clarity and concision. There are delightful, unexpected riffs and obbligatos, such as a paean to “the crystalline elegance” of cricket.

This being Morley country, there are also constant but consistently illuminating digressions, meandering from Alan Turing through to Bernard Manning to the abandoned slip road in the sky just off the Mancunian Way. I learned something on pretty much every page – how Norman Foster’s architectural vision took shape in a terraced house in Levenshulme, Manchester, where he dreamed of clean lines and uncluttered form, or how Henry Moore’s aesthetic was formed in a similar tiny terrace in Yorkshire.

George Orwell once wrote that “only by resurrecting our own memories can we realise how incredibly distorted is the child’s vision of the world”. I, for one, was convinced as a small child that the spacecraft in the Gerry and Sylvia Anderson puppet series Fireball XL5 was launched from the abandoned colliery behind my grandmother’s house. An excursion to find it when I was about four caused my parents, and subsequently me, no small pain.

It seems Morley moved in a world of similar misconceptions and rumours. He is superb at conjuring the orbit of a northern child in the Sixties and Seventies – a small, proscribed world of adverts, tinned food and cramped bedrooms with the sense, beyond that pool of light, of a barely understood adult world and a darkness in the hills that stood at the end of every street. A darkness made flesh in the shape of Myra Hindley and Ian Brady:

The illustrations alone give a flavour of the book’s charming and eccentric eclectism. Viv Nicholson, the Sex Pistols in Manchester in 1976. Wittgenstein flying a kite in a muddy field in Glossop circa 1908. Hylda Baker and Jimmy Jewel in Nearest and Dearest, Scafell Pike, the Preston by-pass. Best of all for this reader was the evocative rainy snap of the locally famous orange-and-white “Fried Egg” buses run by Selnec which, despite sounding like the kind of shadowy organisation bent on world domination à laSmersh, was actually just a bus company.

Those looking for an overarching narrative in The North will be disappointed, as will those in the market for a briskly chronological history or a neatly plotted travelogue. The book unfolds like a recalcitrant OS map, opens up like an advent calendar, accrues meaning and detail like barnacles, but core themes and threads anchor it in Morley’s experience. Stockport, or more specifically Reddish, is at the centre of it, and he describes how, for a child, a few streets, a park, a shop, a patch of waste ground, become the limits of the known world.

For everyone who is exasperated by Morley’s oblique, mazy, impressionistic style, there will be others who will be seduced by its heft, even if they don’t realise quite how good it is. Yet it is more than just an ox-stunning tome. It is rich and dense, and its sprawling nature encourages one to luxuriate, exploring it at your leisure and finding the odd tracks that link say, Ken Dodd to L S Lowry.

I would have liked a few more laughs perhaps, possibly because I know how funny both Morley and the north of England are. It is a particular kind of humour, as T S Eliot noted: “Lancashire wit is mordant, ferocious, and personal.” Morrissey had this. Frank Randle had it. It is as much a recognisable landmark and feature of the region as the Pennines or Blackpool Tower.

Then again, Morley has done well to find the right voice and tone for this huge, kaleidoscopic work and he sustains it, measured but lyrical and with a kind of bottom note of melancholy. Maybe wisecracks and asides would have jarred. As it is, this is a book to lose oneself in, as long as you’re not too worried about where you emerge or when you might get there.

Whether you have to be northern to set out on the journey or not, I’m not sure. For those – and there will be some –who find The North baffling or unnavigable, Morrissey has the perfect riposte: “But you’re southern. You wouldn’t understand. When you’re northern, you’re northern for ever, and you’re instilled with a certain feel for life that you can’t get rid of. You really can’t.”

The Yorkshire town of Hebden Bridge, c.1950. Photograph: Getty Images

Stuart Maconie is a radio DJ, television presenter, writer and critic working in the field of pop music and culture. His best-selling books include Cider with Roadies and Adventures on the High Teas; he currently hosts the afternoon show on BBC 6Music with Mark Radcliffe.

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On the trail of Keith Jarrett's melodies

Lose focus for a second and you can quickly drop the thread of Jarrett's complex improvisational techniques.

“So, this is a piano,” said Keith Jarrett, sitting down at the one that had been placed centre stage for him in the Royal Festival Hall on 20 November. Blowing on his hands to warm them, he acted as if he had never encountered such an instrument before, raising a chuckle from the hundreds of fans who had turned out to see the man in the flesh. For 40 years, Jarrett has been giving concerts like this – alone with the piano, playing his improvised music to a room full of rapt devotees. Notoriously grumpy – and now as well known for his tirades against cameras and coughing audience members as for his early days playing with Miles Davis – he has an almost eerie focus onstage, relieving the tension only very occasionally with his barbed observations about the excellence of the instrument, or the shuffling in the auditorium.

Jarrett gave us a series of short pieces, each rendering separate and distinctive musical ideas. He began with an intricately woven flash of notes in both hands, criss-crossing the melodies that were by turns dark and haunting, or light and dancing. At particularly complex moments, when his arms were crossed over and the notes were flowing from his fingers faster than anyone could imagine them into existence, he leaned his ear down towards the keys, as if physical closeness could help his ideas more swiftly become sound.

A couple of folk-inflected ballads followed; heart-achingly sweet melodies picked out above rumbling, sour arpeggios. Like Glenn Gould, the Canadian pianist best known for his recordings of Bach’s Goldberg Variations, Jarrett can’t help adding vocalisations as he plays, which are all the more evident in his quieter compositions. He rose and fell from his stool; we heard his guiding hum along with the melody, as well as the odd strangled shout, yelp and grunt. He might insist on absolute silence from the audience but his own noises seem completely uninhibited as the music spins around him.

Although notorious for his curmudgeonly attitude to his fans, Jarrett was mostly restrained in this outing, allowing himself just one short, sweary outburst about killing a “f***ing camera”. At the age of 70 and with the power to sell out his concerts in just a few hours, you do wonder how much of the persona is genuine and how much of it is just giving the audience what it expects. A case in point came near the end, when he yielded to clamouring and gave a surprisingly simple and straightforward rendition of “Danny Boy”, an encore that long-time fans know well.

Given that this recital was under the auspices of the London Jazz Festival, there was surprisingly little in Jarrett’s programme that could easily be identified as jazz. One piece, full of brisk rhythms and chunky chords, gradually revealed itself to be based on a modified 12-bar blues structure and another had haunting overtones surely pulled from the classic American songs of the first half of the 20th century. Indeed, this musical ghosting becomes a major preoccupation when you see Jarrett live. It is too easy to distract yourself in trying to follow the auditory trail he has laid for you – was that a bit of Debussy, or Bach, or Glass just then? – and lose the thread of what he plays next. The improvisational technique might have more in common with jazz but now, 40 years on from his bestselling live recording The Köln Concert, it’s difficult to characterise Jarrett’s output as anything other than contemporary classical music.

If it needs a classification, that is. At one point, I became convinced that a particular piece was a Jarrett riff on Beethoven’s Bagatelle No 25 in A Minor – or Für Elise, as it is more commonly known. I was sure it was all there: the extended opening trill, the rising arpeggios in the left hand, the melody cascading from treble to bass and back again. Except, by the time I surfaced from my musing, there was no trace of Beethoven to be heard. A clashing, almost violent melody was dangling over a long drone in the bass. If you try too hard to pin down Jarrett’s music, it moves on without you.

Caroline Crampton is web editor of the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 November 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Terror vs the State