Fino alla fine

On three years of Italian football “trainspotting”…

Like many good Italian things, it all started in Tuscany: a balmy, midweek late summer evening at the Stadio Artemio Franchi (Montepaschi Arena) in Siena, and a Coppa Italia tie with Ternana. Aesthetically, the Artemio Franchi itself is nothing to write home about – three sides are temporary constructions – but the setting is one of the most beautiful I have ever watched sport in. Lying at the bottom of a tree-lined gulley, framed by views of the Duomo and Basilica Cateriniana di San Domenico at the top of the hill, special doesn’t do it justice, especially for a game at sunset in August. And it was only €2 to get in.

Stadio Artemio Franchi (Montepaschi Arena), Siena

Many of my friends probably suspected my decision to move to Italy for a few years was motivated to a large degree by my love of Italian football and desire for access to a rich seam of new grounds to tick off. To a large degree, they are probably right. My interest in the country, like many of my generation, was piqued by the Italia ’90 World Cup, and subsequently Channel 4’s coverage of Serie A from 1992.

The Italian football landscape I wandered into in 2010, however, was one blighted by corruption; the embers of Calciopoli barely having a chance to stop smouldering before Calcioscommese ignited. My 2010/11 season ended on a particularly sour note as I was present at the infamous AlbinoLeffe v Siena fixed game, which earned current Juventus head coach Antonio Conte a 9-month ban for his colluding part. There was also the supporter unrest triggered by the introduction of the Tessera del Tifoso. This ID card essentially compelled fans to record themselves on a police database just to be able to buy tickets to watch their team, and understandable caused uproar among the more passionate elements. I wrote a couple of pieces for When Saturday Comes on this* at the time so don’t want to get into it here, but suffice to say it cast a shadow over the period and occasionally affected my ability to get in to games.

So, back to Tuscany. I had barely a month of the season in the region, but managed to get in six grounds, and some wonderful games in predictably glorious weather. Possibly because of this and the fact it was my first residence in the country, some of my best football memories are from this short period. I will, for instance, never forget the passionate and unwavering support of the 30-odd L’Aquila ultras at Prato. Despite being baked in 34° heat, and their team being baked 3-0 on the pitch, they never let up for a minute. I had seen my “Channel 4 team” AC Milan both home and away on previous trips to Italy, but this was my first experience of the frenzied type of support any British fan of calcio hopes to witness.

Red Blue Eagles, L'Aquila ultras

The heat could actually be a bit of an issue at times. Those fascist era roofless concrete bowl stadiums that trap and intensify the heat are really not the most sensible design for a country where it does tend to get a bit warm. Poggibonsi and Viareggio, two more grounds oddly tucked away in pine woods, were notable examples of this. How the old guy with the walrus-like moustache roused himself to lead the Viareggio chanting as they closed out their victory over Virtus Lanciano, I will never know. I was ready to pass out.

From here it was something of a shock to the system to hit the cold and damp north following my move to Milan. If I thought I was leaving all possible beautiful viewing locations behind in Tuscany, I was wrong. Lecco’s Stadio Rigamonti-Ceppi, painted almost entirely in vivid sky blue and yellow inside and surrounded by mountains, is really something to see. Their ultras Gruppo Psycho with their Homer Simpson x-ray logo are highly entertaining too. I found another true oddity on a trip to see one of the most famous old names of Italian football, Pro Vercelli – trees being allowed to happily continue growing inside the ground. You wouldn’t get that in the Premier League.

It’s not that I was only trawling the lower leagues for my football fix though. A significant driver of my desire to live in Milan was to fulfill something of a dream to be a regular attendee at San Siro. On this front, I struck gold, as AC Milan won their first championship for a while in my first season there. Along the way I got to see my first Champions League game, and most gloriously, the derby. The time, effort and money that goes into the ultras’ pre-match displays at these events is unimaginable. The results are truly spectacular, and in most other contexts would be considered genuine works of art or artistic expression. At the Juventus game that season, I even got to be in the middle of one. As much fun and enjoyment I got out of the small games, ultimately this was why I was really out there.

Getting heated at the Milan derby

Frustrated by the über-zealous security arrangements in the professional leagues associated with the Tessera del Tifoso (nobody should ever need THREE attempts to get in to see Pro Patria), I found myself slipping further down the tree and investigating non-league. Serie D, like in England the highest level of non-league being the fifth tier of the overall structure, was  a particularly happy hunting ground. Also as in England, you find a number of ex-league clubs fallen on hard times, and with entry prices never usually more than a tenner and no ID required, it can be a more enjoyable experience than going to games in the Lega Pro (equivalent of English Leagues One and Two). My geographically most local club Pro Sesto were stuck down there after a brush with bankruptcy, and provided a nice easy afternoon out when I lacked the motivation to venture further afield.

My Italian football odyssey ended in 2013 on a suitably high note as I met my friend Matt, a fellow obsessive of the Channel 4 generation, in Rome for the final of the Coppa Italia. Not only a cup final, but a Rome derby to boot. Arriving in the area of the stadium a good four hours before kickoff, we found a wild street party already underway. Distress flares, smoke bombs, stun grenades; a passerby would have thought that Lazio had already won. Or that war had broken out. As it happened Lazio did win, and celebrated with ultras on the pitch and a live eagle being paraded with the cup. The oddities it seems do make it to the top level after all.

Those three years living in Italy contained as many high and low points as you would expect from a period living abroad, and were well reflected by my experiences with Italian football. There were certainly lows: being locked out of several games due to the ludicrous bureaucracy, the afternoons in murderous heat or brutal cold and rain when I doubted my sanity, some unnecessarily epic journeys on the idiosyncratic railway network. But the memorable moments always made up for it: the sound of a massive stadium falling utterly silent in an instant as Napoli’s did when Torino equalised with the last kick of the game, the entire Pro Vercelli team swallow-diving into a giant pool of standing water on a barely playable pitch, an aged Seregno club official getting into a physical fight requiring police intervention after instructing the ballboys to waste time during a relegation play-off. It may have its defects, but ultimately it is still the beautiful game. Fino alla fine, forza ragazzi.

National anthem and pre-match displays by the Roma and Lazio ultras before the Coppa Italia final

 

*Italian fan ID card gets off to a bad start

The Italian fans' ID card system is still not working

 The Spectre in Italy - grounds visited:

Atalanta 

Brescia

Caronnese 

Chievo Verona

Como

Cremonese

Empoli

Fiorentina

Lecco

Monza 

Napoli

Novara

Pergocrema

Pizzighetonne

Poggibonsi

Pontisola 

Prato

Pro Patria

Pro Sesto

Pro Vercelli

Real Milano 

Renate

Rondo Dinamo

San Siro (AC Milan and Internazionale)

Sandonatese

Seregno

Siena

Solbiatese 

Stadio Olimpico (Roma and Lazio)

Torino

Varese

Viareggio

This Is Music

On getting the band back together…

This week my band Black Night Crash had its first rehearsal for eight and a half years, as we prepare for a show to mark our tenth anniversary. This has caused me to reflect on my involvement with music, and why this feels so massively important. 

I had an invaluable foundation in music, spending a number of years playing cello in youth orchestras. I didn’t always enjoy it at the time, taking up most of my Saturdays as it did, and as I since realised completely scuppering my football playing ambitions. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing though: I’m a far more competent performer on a stage than I’d ever be on a football pitch. What it did give me was a huge appreciation of live performance, and that indescribable buzz you get from being in a group producing something that people genuinely enjoy.

That group dynamic is vitally important. I loved listening out, observing, and thinking about how everything in the orchestra would fit together to produce the complete work, and the same goes for all kinds of music. I’ve performed solo in the past as well, but it was never really my thing. I much prefer feeling like part of something bigger, creating and sharing together. 

By my mid teens, I’d realised that playing bass in a rock band was ever so slightly more cool than being an orchestra nerd. Most people of my age were swept up in the tsunami of resurgent popularity of guitar band sparked by Oasis and the like, and me and my school friends were no different, bashing out ropey covers of Supersonic, Live Forever and Parklife (just to show we weren’t biased). From there we began trying to take things a little more seriously, writing our own material and becoming pretty decent, I’d like to think. The high point came at one packed out, sweaty show where the crowd bounced around and sang along with words I’d written in songs we’d crafted. Once you’ve had a taste of that kind of rush, there’s very little that can top it.

Fast forward a few years and we reach the era of Black Night Crash. From the very outset it was deadly serious, all or nothing stuff, meticulously planned. In the end, that level of pressure that we put on ourselves was probably our downfall. Aiming impatiently for 100% professional perfection and large-scale success, we fell apart under the weight of our own expectations. Ultimately, it just wasn’t meant to be, for want of a better cliché.

But that’s not to say we didn’t have fun, because believe me we did. Some of the shows we did were incredible. The festivals, particularly Beached, Middlesbrough Music Live, and Guilfest were amazing experiences, playing to big, new, and appreciative crowds. The mini tour we did supporting west country outfit BlackBud I think we would all rank as a proper time-of-your-life episode. 

For me a lot of the stuff out of the public eye was just as enjoyable. When it was just the four of us in a rehearsal room or recording studio, that’s when I felt the most pride and wonder in what we were doing, pushing each other to create the best music we possibly could. A large part of the live performance is just that – performance. You’re a showman, entertaining the people in front of you right at that moment, which of course is fantastic and a vital part of the whole package of being in a band. But when you’re writing and recording, you’re purely a musician, and that’s when you can drink it all in and live that creative output.

People often ask why I pretty much completely stopped playing music when Black Night Crash finished first time around. I suppose for that I would go back to the second point there. As well as those guys being some of my dearest friends, musically we clicked in such a way that I could not possibly imagine reaching those same levels of enjoyment in the simple playing of music with anybody else. The amount of emotional energy invested in the band didn’t leave anything left for anyone else in any case. At our first rehearsal back this week, we immediately hit upon that winning formula again. Clearly some ingrained muscle memory had us clicking straight away, with a tightness that shocked and delighted us all. Most thrilling was getting straight on with working on some new material, and feeling that familiar old buzz as the creative energy started to fizz once more. 

How far will we take it this time? Honestly, I’m not sure. Right now there’s no grand plan and no pressure. We’ll write, record, perform and most importantly, enjoy it. Music is one of the greatest, joy-bringing life forces, and to be able to create it and simply enjoy it is about the greatest thing a person can do. It’s good to be back.

Black Night Crash play Fibbers, York, on Saturday 24 May. Tickets on sale now.

Fashion Statement

On needlessly controversial marketing...

The fashion industry is one that throughout much of its history has wilfully courted controversy as designers seek to push boundaries further in the quest for the new look and more importantly how to sell it. However, somewhere there must be, you would think, the odd boundary line between the edgy, the innovative, the distasteful and the downright offensive. Recently controversy erupted over high street hipster chain Urban Outfitters selling a women’s top emblazoned with the word ‘depression’. The outrage on social media moved the company to pull the item from online sale, but the storm was already unleashed.

Urban Outfitters of course have plenty of previous, selling tops with messages encouraging binge drinking, eating disorders and the general objectification of women. As Jessica Wakeman suggested in The Guardian, a cynical mind might come to the conclusion that these periodic scandals could well just be shameless publicity stunts. From that point of view they certainly work, if you take the line that all publicity is good publicity.

The offending garment was designed by a label from Singapore, also called Depression. This small label had been flying mainly under the radar until now, but has now found itself caught in the fallout of the latest scandal engulfing their insensitive client. Their name itself raises the same questions as the infamous t-shirt, but herworldPlus.com report that their co-founder Kenny Lim says: “Depression ‒ the label ‒ should not be confused with depression ‒ the illness. We were creatively depressed and this [the fashion label] was to be our outlet.” This I would say is a pretty weak explanation, and while I’m sure Lim and his partner were not intending to cause offence or controversy, the choice of that name seems at best naive. Still it’s worth noting that of all their garments in their collection, the selection by Urban Outfitters of this particular top, the only one covered with the offending word, clearly shows their intentions.

It’s not just personal and health issues over which Urban Outfitters have upset people though. In 2011 they made enemies of Native Americans by using the Navajo trademark on a range of garments, which were also made to look like they had been made by Native Americans (an illegal act in America). 2012’s brouhaha was triggered by the release of a t-shirt that featured a star-like motif which seemed to resemble the kind of clothing Jews were forced to wear during the Holocaust. Then last year they managed to offend the Hindu community with a line of socks featuring an image of Lord Ganesh. The reaction to these items caused them to be withdrawn and apologies issued. These apologies though seem to have as much sincerity behind them as Father Jack Hackett saying sorry to Bishop Brennan in Father Ted. Of course the apology is irrelevant as the objective of shameless exposure has already been achieved. 

Artists should be given freedom of expression of course, but is this really within the artistic spectrum? Other labels and retailers seem to save it for the adverts rather than the actual clothes themselves – Sisley’s depiction of two girls snorting a vest strap as though a line of something far less innocent, and both Calvin Klein and Dolce&Gabbana using imagery that appeared to portray gang rape being recent examples. Urban Outfitters sell a wide range of items so the fact that they pull these occasional controversial garments from sale as soon as the predictable storm blows up (seemingly on an annual basis) suggests they are most likely a marketing tool rather than a fashion statement. 

Should we really be so offended by this style of branding? To some extent, yes. More though these publicity stunts are just that – stunts. They are puerile and insensitive and deserve to be treated with disdain as much as anything else. But the cases identified of using mental conditions as marketing tools seems particularly crass, and can potentially undermine the efforts of awareness groups and campaigns which have made so much ground in recent years to change opinions with regard to them. Depression and eating disorders are not cool by any definition. How to combat this retailer's unpleasant marketing policy? Quite simply don’t shop there. Falling profits will get the message across soon enough.

Like what you like

On postmodernism, culture and taste...

When you are in the “getting to know” phase upon meeting a new person, an easy starting point for most conversation is ‘what music are you into?’ The standard response is usually ‘all kinds of stuff’, which with a bit further probing can often be pinned down to whatever is on Radio 1 or whatever is on offer at Tesco: a fairly narrow range. But there are others, and I would include myself in this, for who ‘all kinds of stuff’ really means just that. Personally I’m “into” everything from classical to punk via house and many stops in between. Does this make me somehow a better person? No, of course not.

I grew up playing classical music in orchestras and listening to old 60s/70s guitar bands at home. After the typical pre-teen dalliance with pop I found Britpop/indie and began playing in rock bands, and from here my taste exploded in every direction, seeking to discover and try as much as possible. Today I absolutely love radio shows such as Nick Luscombe’s Late Junction on Radio 3 and the Sunday morning show with Cerys Matthews on BBC 6 Music, both of which delight me in providing a deluge of material of any genre you can imagine that would never have previously crossed my path.

What I can’t stand is people decrying any artist or genre just because it’s not to their personal taste. Justin Bieber is not rubbish, he’s just not your bag. Similarly I find it hard to fathom those who appear to force themselves to like things out of a desire to appear more cultured and right-on. It’s OK to like Girls Aloud: they produce fantastic pop songs. It’s OK to dislike African music: it doesn’t make you a racist or any less of a liberal, if that’s what you’re striving for.

While studying English at university, I fell upon the concept of postmodernism and as is my wont took some bits that I liked and applied them universally to everything. Generally speaking I was not a great student, in that I did not particularly enjoy the studying aspect. I loved reading and writing, but I hated the academic study of literature and literary criticism, feeling that enjoyment should always take precedence over the whys, wherefores and hidden meanings (perceived or real). Dr Mary Klages at the University of Colorado sees postmodernism as ‘...rejecting boundaries between high and low forms of art, rejecting rigid genre distinctions,’ a view I took and applied to the nth degree. Pushed to extremes you could, as I try to, say that nothing has any intrinsic value – take everything as you find it and like what you like.

Postmodernism of course is a critical concept too, and here’s where it probably loses me. I am not always keen on some of the elements of what are considered traits of postmodernist literature –chaos, pastiche, rejection of grand narrative, fragmentation and all kinds of other craziness. In fact another philosophy I latched onto at university was the New Puritan Manifesto, which itself rejected many of these features of postmodernism, espousing pure narrative storytelling in its basest form. That said, look at any list of what are considered postmodern novels, and you will find some of my favourite authors: Kazuo Ishiguro, Don DeLillo, Kurt Vonnegut and Italo Calvino, to name a few. Sometimes I’m in the mood for some surreality, sometimes I’m not.

Back at that time I also used my postmodern approach to reject the canon, eschewing the classics, carrying a fairly infantile opinion of old = boring = bad. Thankfully I have mellowed somewhat in recent years, even giving Dickens a go and discovering that there’s a bloody good reason that he is considered in such high regard. I still recall though being bored pretty much to tears at university by the works of some other notable names in the literary pantheon. I still don’t recognise the canon as such, but I would no longer discount a work just for being part of it.

I suppose what I’m getting at in this piece is cultural snobbery, the scorn of some people towards another’s personal tastes, and how ridiculous it is. In terms of culture, the arts, any forms of entertainment, I’ve come to be of the opinion that nobody should ever be criticised for what they like. As long as people have a passion or enjoyment for something, that should be enough. Personally I can’t stand Dan Brown’s writing, but I can appreciate why it appeals to many. Not many in the world of high-end literature would have much good to say about him, but I wouldn’t criticise anyone for enjoying his novels. At least they are reading.

Film is another medium very much open to this kind of discrimination. Personally I do not like action films, these days finding them dull, formulaic and predictable and difficult to enjoy even on an ironic, disconnect-brain level. But I know plenty of cultured folks who will happily keep going back to the cinema for the latest blockbusters, and I fully admit that there are some in the genre that I love. Whether you appreciate the work of Fellini or the American Pie series really isn't important as long as you enjoy what you watch.

Culture and entertainment are such subjective concepts. I have friends in the music and fashion worlds who to put it politely can’t comprehend my obsession with sport, and likewise many of my football comrades would struggle to see the appeal of poetry or arthouse cinema. Some weekends I feel like getting drunk and watching lower division football while on others maybe I’ll prefer to wander around an art gallery for a few hours. I know plenty who would make fun of me for either choice. Ultimately, what’s the difference? It’s all entertainment in the end. To anyone unsure about trying something outside their cultural comfort zone, I would quote the philosophy of Steve Coogan's character Pauline Calf: ‘If you like it, do it. If you don’t like it, do it – you might like it!’

Here is your homework...

To read:

Tales From Ovid  – Ted Hughes

Goalkeepers Are Different – Brian Glanville

Other Voices, Other Rooms – Truman Capote

To watch:

Office Space – dir. Mike Judge

Le Souffle ­– dir. Damien Odoul

The Angels’ Share – dir. Ken Loach

To listen to:

Maman a tort ­– Mylène Farmer

Piano Concerto No.2 in C Minor (Op.18) – Sergei Rachmaninoff

Lipstick Lickin’ – Milburn