Death of a ´60s bridge. In Brum.

In his excellent book Ghosts of Spain (Faber and Faber, 2006), Guardian correspondent Giles Tremlett argues that Spain's obsession with modernity entails "a certain disrespect, even contempt, for the old". And so, the story goes, a remarkable heritage of old buildings, churches and fortresses are being neglected or even pulled down for the benefit of office blocks and contemporary architecture. Tremlett adds that, from Madrid to Valencia, Seville to Bilbao, even the 'old new', that is to say modernist buildings, are being swept away.

His work is distinctly part of that family tree of books penned by Brits abroad as they dissect Dark Hearts, Merdes and Ghosts crowding their adoptive countries. All have one thing in common, that is stoical failure to keep hold of old sayings like "pot calling kettle black" or "look who's talking". And, just perhaps, Tremlett could do with a quick trip to Birmingham, the epitome of a city ransacked by office blocks and battery apartments. Throughout the 50s and 60s, stunning old buildings like 1861's Wycliffe Baptist Church on Bristol Street, the old Central library (1863), the Woodman pub on Easy Row and dozens more were all criminally torn down, paving the way for 'gems' like Paradise Forum and Lee Bank. The result is a Birmingham that earned its fame as the capital of concrete and distinct lack of pre-WWII heritage.

You'd have thought the lesson's been learnt. If anything, one could argue, Brum's vast collection of 60s architecture is testament to a specific architectural drive. Although debatable, it still harbours a certain charm. Yet, look at today's never-ending slew of demolition sites dotted around the city. I understand the need to improve and modernise and few would doubt Birmingham was in need of a bit of slap. But it's difficult to discern any notion of communal improvement when the old, glorious Museum of Science and Industry turned into fertile land for yet another urban splash apartment block. Or think of John Madin's Birmingham Post & Mail modernist jewel ending up worse for wear in last year's encounter with the planners' wrecking ball. Not least, there are increasing rumours that the Central Library is to go - yet again- pledging a legacy of a massive building site right in the middle of the city.

They don't restore in Birmingham, they bulldoze. Eddies no.8 mysteriously self-combusted and the strategically-located Flapper too may soon make way for more overpriced city-centre-living. The victims of Brum's knock-down frenzy are, simply, too many to mention. But it broke my heart to see (and film) my favourite pedestrian bridge- the unique 60s flyover that used to spiral across the two sides of Smallbrook Queensway-from Snobs to the Mailbox, ending up in a pile of rubble.

You may need Quicktime to view the video.

Hawley in Barcelona. Photos.

As promised, here's a few photos I took last Saturday at Richard Hawley's gig in Barcelona. Feel free to peruse, but please do quote the source. Otherwise, you're in for castration (for caballeros- ladies are to be let off lightly).

Richard Hawley, Sala Apolo, Barcelona 27 Oct 2007

A Review

Life's bizarre circumstances: I never managed in England, and it's in Barcelona I get to catch a glimpse of my new musical hero.

The bar next door to Sala Apolo is packed with 30 or 40-somethings sipping the local equivalent of Carling (a lager that goes by the moniker of Estrella Damn) and sporting New Model Army t-shirts…

For a second I ponder at the unusual music taste combination…did they in any way find some sort of connection with Hawley's vintage brand of rock'n'roll…or is senility getting the better of me as I totally forgot NMA were to play the venue next door? I've dragged my girlfriend along tonight. She's no Hawley fan, but is willing to keep an open mind.

And so we head for the entrance. Difficult to judge from a 30-second experience but bouncers appear a touch friendlier than the power-crazed ex-convict-bunch back in the UK…no-one ever died from a smile and they seem to be aware of it.

We make for the upper level and Sala Apolo is, quite simply, beautiful. If expectations are anything to go by, the surreal setting heralds a great night: a cross between 'Cabaret' and vintage 50s dancehalls. In fact, the ballroom scene in 'The Shining' could have easily been filmed here.

It's a cosy, red-tinted little venue, donned in vintage lanterns and tasteful decor. Most strikingly, as we approach the stage, we find out there are no barriers. None. I can't help but think that if the guy standing next to me is going to be sick - not unlikely given the state of him- Richard Hawley's monitors will be in for early retirement.

Again, amazingly, capturing the best spot exactly right at the front is as easy as piss. Staggering pisshead on my left included, the audience are incredibly well behaved. Any gig I watched in England before, and I mean any, there was always a fucker or two completely off their head, spoiling it for everyone else. But thankfully not here, not tonight.

Javier MacKenzie, the one-man opening act, displays remarkable talent - though it's difficult not to think he could do with a band. Soon it's ten o'clock and Hawley-time.

Aside from his absolutely amazing, mesmerising voice, melodies and arrangements - as well as the compelling atmosphere his records evoke- what drew me to Richard Hawley in the first place was the obvious affability of the character.

As he walks on stage, Chelsea boots, jeans complete with turn-ups, white shirt and black blazer, it's quite obvious the word pomposity doesn’t fit into his dictionary. Before strumming a single note, he clocks the guy on my left (who's at pains to articulate a slurred "kr-ooh-nher!" at him) "You're pissed, aren't you mate? 'Ammered!" he smiles, "I'm going to get pissed myself after the gig".

Hawley's friendly banter with the crowd includes a Partridge-like moment when he asks for a ceiling fan to be turned off. He looks puzzled for a split-second and then proceeds to put it right "I don't mean these fans! I don’t wanna turn you off! I want to turn you on, you know!" he protests. Only to add, with a smile, "And oooh, by the way…I feel quite turned on tonight".

Later on, he'll introduce himself as "Maria, a crossdresser from Barcelona", and as I ask him if The Washington, a Sheffield pub owned by Pulp's Nick Banks, is still standing, he quips "It is still standing, but it's shite!"

When I decided to find out more about him I couldn’t believe he started his career in The Longpigs. Thankfully, his music is miles away from them. With a voice as magnetic as nothing else on earth, the guy was born to sing his own music. Morrissey tried to give voice to his rockabilly instincts and I'm still not entirely sure he managed to pull it off.

Hawley, instead, he's cracked it exactly right and he's turned me into a hardcore fan. Which I didn’t think would be possible past the age of 25. Music can convey the intensity of emotions like nothing else on earth but you won't know the full extent until you soak in, in silence, each one of Richard Hawley's records, Coles Corner and Lady's Bridge in particular. You'll almost feel reluctant to breathe in case you frighten the moment away.

Live, he's even more effective. He performs most of his new album Lady's Bridge with subtlety and style, striking that perfect balance that makes him sound epic without, in fact, being epic at all. I can't remember who said that it's not the notes that matter, it's the spaces in between and Hawley and his band are testament to that.

Valentine is the perfect opener, followed by a gentle rendition of Roll River Roll. It's quite obvious his voice is in fine form tonight and his band know exactly what they're doing. Just Like The Rain is followed by the fact-of-the-day that the video was filmed in the Spanish city of Almeria, and Tonight The Streets Are Ours is so heartfelt it's like an emotional air-raid condensed in a three-minute classic.

Coles Corner subtle-swelling chord progression captures the hall and I'm basically transfixed. Hawley introduces the graceful Lady's Bridge adding that "it's not a euphemism" while the wonderful Hotel Room is "a song about addiction", conjuring up a cinematic mood that would give David Lynch a run for his money. Darlin Wait For Me is "for our wives cos we're soppy old gits really" and what follows is one masterpiece after the other; the timeless Born Under A Bad Sign -my personal favourite - and the new single Serious.

Were it not for the British public being obsessed with trends and fickle notions of cool shoved down their throat, it would easily be a chart-topping contender. There's still time for the classic Something Is off his debut album: "I'm going away my sweetness, don’t you cry, cos tonight is the best time that we've had", he sings.

You know the old cliché that time flies when you truly enjoy something. Well, it's the encore already. The Barcelona crowd are clearly engrossed - can you blame them- and they're treated to the moody, almost spectral, Tonite and a lump-in-your-throat rendition of The Ocean, (initially spoilt by a pillock behind me laughing out loud until his own girlfriend had the sense to shush him).

"Gracias", Richard Hawley pronounces as he heads off. I look at my girlfriend and she proudly announces she's totally fallen for his music. And then it's time to go. Already.

Ming Campbell resigns!

And so the story goes that Menzies Campbell managed a flimsy 18 months.

He admitted that, in spite of his competence and integrity, there was no chance he could halt the Lib Dem's downward spiral. Since he took over from Charles Kennedy in January 2006, the party has been trounced at all local elections and in all opinion polls. Campbell was, to put it bluntly, totally uninspiring.

This is the right time to for Kennedy to throw his hat back into the ring. When you look at the desolate, depressing British political sytem, where they all look the same and the difference between Tories and Labour amounts to the width of a rizla, Charles Kennedy is the right person to take up the challenge. He may trip up while he speaks, he may not be a Blairite-style automata, but at least he's not like the other politicians. Get him back!!!

Two-wheeled cunts

Motorbikes are right up my pet-hate table, high as they are there in the league of all-time straight-to-your-nerve-centre annoying noises, on a par with mosquitos, in-aircraft toddler-crying and Celine Dion's voice.

Brum is simply packed with tossers riding about in their souped-up bikes, overly concerned with proving macho credentials through one-wheel swerving, left-right-and-centre overtaking and racing miles above speed limits. Race bikes, of course, are the most annoying. "Oh the freedom, maaaan", they would inform you. Freed from traffic, traffic lights and basic road rules, along with the hip pull-a-rock-chick imagery they evoke, aren’t motorbikes the coolest vehicles on earth?

Except for one, actually two, things. In 2005 motorbikes accounted for over 50% of road accidents. That's a huge amount if you think of the totality of vehicles in circulation. Coincidence? It may as well be. To me, it just proves most bike people are amongst the most selfish, self-centred, inconsiderate motorists alive (how long for?) given that it's not just their own spinal liquid they're going to spill out, but other people's too.

And that's without dwelling on the enormous noise those things produce. There are times you walk down the streets hearing industrial pneumatic drills throbbing about only to realise that of course there's no sign of road works nearby: it's just a hyper-cool souped-up bike roaring past you. And there's no way you can get sensitised. Play me the Titanic soundtrack CD everyday. I'll puke each time, like clockwork.

In Oldbury there's even more bikes around- only louder. If karma is anything to go by, the only conclusion is that my new strategically-located abode serves me just right. The sense of smugness as I signed the tenancy agreement was quickly followed by the bombshell of having a motorbike retailer as a corner shop and a bike repairs as you take a left. I'll go and have a kip.

Cold calling

For the past few days my UK phone has been telling me of several missed calls from a Manchester number. Yesterday I finally managed to catch them. "Sir, we're from [classified] services", was all they said, quickly moving on to their script: an almost incomprehensible succession of "selling our products" and "customer services", all the usual crap. They spoke so quick I'm not even sure it was **B. It could be **M, or even LSD, or anything. I told them I wasn’t interested and that was that. So far, nothing unusual.

Except. Same again the following day. **B -whatever that stands for- on the phone, with the specification that it was a [classified] that had given them my details. Nice. The guy the other end of the line then went: "For security purposes, we need to ask you to confirm your personal details. What's your date of birth?" I said: a) you're the one calling me, I don’t know you, and you're asking for my personal details. Shouldn’t it be the other way round?" b) quick answer: are you trying to sell me something, yes or no?

And the man went, "for confidential reasons I can't answer that question, sir".
Goodbye, then.

Richard Hawley, Lady's Bridge

A review

Mid-August 2007. My holiday. Sitting at a cafe' bar in the pretty lakeside town of Iseo, in Northern Italy.

Were it not for the appalling dress-sense displayed by a couple of German tourists, the bloke sporting the infamous hiking sandals/white socks combo and his missus the baggiest most masculine t-shirt that's ever graced the earth, you'd conclude it's a pretty unremarkable early afternoon.

On the radio, Gloria Gaynor's I Will Survive is followed by a previously unheard tune. I look at my girlfriend. "I like this one", I utter, the melody, the arrangements and the texture feeling just right and thirty seconds is all it takes for me to want to find out more…The 1950s romance aura rings incredibly familiar. Then the singer's voice, warm and melancholic, comes in. It's Richard Hawley and that's his new single Tonight the Streets Are Ours.

Dedicated in memory of his father, a former steelworker from Sheffield and the real influence behind Hawley's fondness for 1950s' rock'n'roll and rockabilly, Lady's Bridge is no doubt as addictive as his previous work.

Compared to the critically acclaimed Coles Corner, the music may have lost a touch in intensity, but it's certainly picked up kudos in maturity and grace. It's quite possibe that in the heart of many fans Hawley's filled the gap left by Morrissey when the former Smiths singer packed his bags for Land of Egomania and decided that giant spangly MORRISSEY neon letters sculpted on stage would do.

Richard Hawley's distinctive retro style is well-suited to the ongoing themes of introspection, absence and loss. The sleeve is so carefully studied and the imagery alone suggestive enough to leave you daydreaming for a couple of hours. To me, that’s what a timeless record is about.

The title track is just sublime, musically and lyrically, as it takes the cue from The Ocean off Coles Corner, but with a less claustrophobic effect, "Take me with you when you go I'm tired of living life on hold"- he sings, while the frail and tormented Dark Road has the charm of a Johnny Cash ode: "One day from the darkness I'll come rapping at your door and I'll never walk this road anymore".

With Serious and I'm Looking For Someone To Find Me things go up one notch. The double bass, doo wop vocals and steel guitars are evocative of a lost world where ballrooms and dancehalls were punctuated by puffa skirts swirling round in pirouettes.

"Macho Music is Stupid", Hawley is keen to let the world know on the CD sleeve. That alone makes it money well spent.

Interview: Francis Gilbert

A conversation with the author of Yob Nation

Q: What do you reply to those people who claim that 'crime's always been there' and that the idea that it's spiralling out of control is a 'misconception'?

A: Firstly, I'd say look carefully at the crime statistics. The government's own figures show that violent crime has risen tenfold since 1979, with violent crime rising sharply in the last few years.

Secondly, I'd say speak to the people in the know: the police. They all say that it's getting worse, except the policemen who are required to be "on message" by the government.

Thirdly, I'd say take a look around you: the alcohol-related violence that you can see in any city or town centre on any Friday or Saturday night simply didn't exist on the same level as it did a few decades ago, when public binge drinking was confined to a small minority of men. Furthermore, it was the problem of "teenage gangs" while always an issue since the Second World War, wasn't on the scale that it is now: there were seven teenage murders in eleven weeks recently, a statistic unheard of even a decade ago.

Fourthly, look at the way our system of law and order is breaking down: the Home Secretary himself said recently that his department is "not fit for purpose".

Fifthly, look at the wider culture: the internet, the rise of violent video games, the increasing yobbishness of TV etc is immeasurably different from 1960s and 70s, when if if someone swore on TV it was debated in parliament.

Q:You carried out a thorough and extensive research as you wrote 'Yob Nation'. If you were to think of one factor, what was the most shocking episode or aspect, that you saw or came in contact with?

A: Obviously, the thing that had the biggest impact on me was being attacked myself on a bus, an episode which prompted me to write the book. Witnessing people being glassed in Cardiff was shocking, as was the fights between girls I saw in Ayia Napa. But by then I'd become hardened, having spoken to so many victims and perpetrators before then.

Q: What's your opinion of the comments Tony Blair made last month in Cardiff when he said that the black community "need to be mobilised in denunciation of this gang culture that is killing innocent young black kids"?

A: As with so much of what Blair says, it sounds great but what exactly does it mean? I think it's just hot air. The most important thing the government can do is impose some firm law and order on the streets, in our schools and in our public places. The government's greatest failure has been its education policies which have given no hope to young children from poor backgrounds.

Q: The topic is obviously incredibly complex. But why do we drink as much as we do in Britain? If you were to think of a particular factor that would explain it, what would you say?

A: We've always had a culture of binge drinking, something which the city banks exploited when they took over the breweries in the early 1990s: they saw a chance for a massive expansion of the industry -- it's been expanding by 10% every year ever since, and amounted to 3% of our GDP. The government also felt that it could regenerate our cities and towns by encouraging bars and clubs to open in their centres. This has led to a big upsurge in drinking amongst all ages and classes, and to, as I have mentioned, a big increase in alcohol-related violence.

Francis Gilbert is the author of several successful books such as "I'm A Teacher Get Me Out of Here", "Teacher On The Run" and "Yob Nation". Find out more about him here.