"I'm not the kind of person that talks about myself at all, so it was weird"

Any book in which the author enthuses about Low and The Jesus & Mary Chain is bound to be right up my street - even more so when the author in question is Stuart Braithwaite.

With the publication of the Mogwai man's autobiography Spaceships Over Glasgow yesterday, White Rabbit continue their mission to utterly bankrupt me. Forget the cost of living crisis - there's a cost of keeping up with their publication schedule crisis.

The early reviews have been glowing, with many commenting on the way the book's pages are infused with its author's infectious and relatable passion for music. But you don't have to rely only on second-hand opinion to get a flavour of the contents, with both the Guardian and Rolling Stone publishing excerpts to whet the appetite.

In the former, Braithwaite raves about The Stooges ("druggy, dumb and completely primal") and recounts the experience of going to see Iggy Pop at Glasgow Barrowlands in 1991 ("A unique frontman laying everything on the stage, performing as if it was his last night on Earth"), as well as recalling discovering the delights of solvent abuse.

In the latter, he gives a colourful insight into the madness of Mogwai's five-month-long tour of Europe before the release of Come On Die Young, featuring interpersonal tensions, serenading NME journalists with renditions of Madonna's 'Frozen' while off their boxes on prescription drugs, and hobnobbing with Aqua behind the scenes of a French chat show.

As part of the promotion for the book, Braithwaite spoke to the Guardian's Emily Mackay, admitting (in amongst chat about long-term allies Arab Strap, Scottish independence and UFOs) that "raking over some things that happened that are painful wasn't the easiest thing". The reviews certainly suggest that putting himself through that process was worth it.

"I like my pictures to be dark and I like being in the dark"

Reading his memoir Aperture, you get the impression that the late photographer John Downing was rather relishing the opportunity to recount his escapades in various hellholes around the world over the years. There's an element of male bravado about the many tales of tight scrapes and near misses, and he seems to have been able to blank out the terrible scenes he saw and captured on film, or at least to switch off in between assignments.

Not so Don McCullin, who in this interview with the Guardian's Stuart Jeffries comes across as genuinely haunted by his experiences in such places as Northern Ireland, Beirut and especially Vietnam. "Wherever I go", he says, "there seems to be violence and death."

He also appears to be painfully conflicted about the fact that he's made a career as a war photographer: "I certainly feel guilty. I'm constantly persecuting myself with thoughts that make me uncomfortable. They snatch away the joy I could probably have enjoyed." By contrast, such concerns don't seem to have troubled Downing greatly - or at least they don't receive much of a mention in Aperture.

Like Downing and David Hurn, McCullin was fortunate to work during the golden age of photojournalism, before the circulations of daily newspapers plummeted and when photographers' work was still seriously valued. Understandably, his blunt declaration "There is no photojournalism any more" has attracted criticism, perceived as the view of an arrogant dinosaur ignorant of or belittling the work of those who have followed in his footsteps.

It's not true, of course, and what Jeffries doesn't point out to his interviewee is that photojournalists have long been fascinated by the supposedly mundane, trivial and/or frivolous; contrary to McCullin's claim, this is not a recent development. Indeed, McCullin himself took to referring to his close friend Hurn's subject matter as "tinsel society" in the 1960s without necessarily implying that Hurn was any less of a photographer as a result. Perhaps, then, the statement is best understood simply as an old man seeking to crudely mark out his own remarkable legacy.

"There are entitled arseholes everywhere"

If this extract is anything to go by, Lush vocalist/guitarist Miki Berenyi's forthcoming book Fingers Crossed: How Music Saved Me From Success will be a perfect companion piece to Luke Haines' Bad Vibes: Britpop And My Part In Its Downfall. 

Like Haines, Berenyi is nicely spicy on the subject of Britpop, unafraid to name and shame the most odious individuals during a period when music was "hijacked by elitist dickheads", infantile behaviour ruled, there were ego-fuelled rivalries between bands and the only recognised measure of quality/success was record sales.

And like Haines, she admits to being embittered, because Lush, like the Auteurs, predated Britpop but found themselves unwittingly sucked into it and swept along by currents they couldn't control.

For Berenyi, though, the biggest problem was the "constant, relentless sexualisation" she experienced at the hands of journalists, photographers and other musicians - a reminder that Britpop, far from being a progressive force, went hand in hand with the rise of lad culture: "The claim that Britpop celebrates sassy women in bands is a veneer."

It's worth quoting the last two sentences of the excerpt in full, just to savour them: "So: sorry for being a party pooper, I know a ton of you had a blast, but I fucking hate Britpop and I'm glad the whole sorry shit-fest ended up imploding. I just wish it hadn't done so much damage while it lasted." You and me both, Miki.

Magic Eye

The Workers Gallery has form for taking artworks out to the people - but it's currently bringing a snapshot of the Eye Festival to the Rhondda Valley. The exhibition A Look In The Eye, which runs until 30th October, features images by some of those scheduled to speak at this year's event in Aberystwyth, including Matt Black, Melanie Friend, Anita Corbin and organiser Glenn Edwards.

Last night saw Edwards - a former UK Press Photographer Of The Year - in conversation at the Workers with his one-time teacher/mentor and now friend David Hurn. The pair inevitably talked about Hurn's documentary photography course in Newport, and particularly its practical focus on learning how to make a living out of taking pictures. When Hurn asked Edwards what motivated him to go into a profession that pays so poorly, he recalled stating in his application form that he wanted "to show people what they want to see - but also what they don't".

Edwards revealed how he got his big break through serendipity; a school visit to photograph some pupils learning to play bowls alongside pensioners while he was studying at Newport led indirectly to a number of trips to India to capture the voluntary work of a Welsh doctor. Dozens of foreign assignments followed, frequently with NGOs, as he racked up experiences that many people can only ever dream about. If there are two key qualities you need to become a successful photographer, he would argue that they're an inquisitive nature (or the more blunt term he prefers, nosiness) and an ability to network effectively.

Hurn and Edwards might have different working methods and approaches to making the job pay, but both bristled at the suggestion that photojournalism might no longer be relevant. That said, Hurn readily accepted that he was fortuitous to live and work during a golden age for the profession, and that times have changed. These days, he sounds rather despairing of the younger generation, arguing that they seem more interested in themselves than in the world beyond them, that they don't have enough creative/inspirational ideas for pictures and projects (or certainly not the sort he would want to steal), and that everyone now considers themselves a photographer simply because they have a camera phone in their pocket.

Edwards admitted afterwards that he hasn't taken any more pictures for his A470 project - not least because he's been working on a forthcoming book, Yucker's Year, for which he shadowed a Newport-based boxer for 12 months in the run-up to a British heavyweight title fight, back in 1983 during his final year as a student. Some of the images are currently on display in the Workers' window, and a full exhibition opens at Ffoto Newport on 30th September.

Organising and promoting the Eye Festival also takes up a considerable amount of Edwards' time, and some of the talk revolved around the various challenges involved - particularly securing funding and generating interest and ticket sales - as well as possible options for the future. To stay in the present, though, here's hoping that this October's event is a success. Like the Workers itself, the Eye is a gem that deserves enthusiastic support.

Going underground

With a nine year old obsessed with archaeology and after a lockdown spent devouring old episodes of Time Team, it was inevitable that we would be itching to get our hands dirty as soon as the opportunity arose. So when we heard about CAER Heritage's summer excavation at Trelai Park, we seized the chance to go along, learn more and pitch in.

Here's my Buzz report on a dig that turned up some remarkable discoveries.

"There's something about being open and vulnerable that is conversely very powerful, maybe even transformative"

It shouldn't come as much of a surprise to any fan of Nick Cave - and especially any regular reader of his site The Red Hand Files - that he should be an eloquent interviewee on difficult, heavy subjects. And yet this excerpt from new book Faith, Hope And Carnage, published today by Canongate, is astonishing even by his standards.

In it, Cave talks to journalist/friend Sean O'Hagan about the tragic death of his son Arthur, the "terrible beauty of grief", the creative/healing process, the nature of religion and the fact that songs can be mystifyingly and disturbingly prescient - "little dangerous bombs of truth".

One revelation that caught me off-guard was that 2019's Ghosteen - an incredible album that Cave describes as an attempt to communicate with Arthur, "to not just articulate the loss but to make contact in some kind of way, maybe in the same way as we pray" - was recorded at the Malibu studio owned by Chris Martin. I never thought I'd be grateful to the Coldplay frontman for services to music, but there you are.

Never a Dulli moment

So many interviews see musicians being asked about the same old things - which is what frequently makes Stereogum's We've Got A File On You features a fascinating novelty. As they put it, the articles represent an opportunity for artists to "share the stories behind the extracurricular activities that dot their careers: acting gigs, guest appearances, random internet ephemera, etc".

This interview with the Afghan Whigs' Greg Dulli is a perfect case in point, covering everything from playing the voice of John Lennon in Backbeat, being the sole contributor to the Foo Fighters' debut LP other than Dave Grohl and signing to Sub Pop, to performing with Usher at SXSW and living with Mark Lanegan. (I wouldn't have had Lanegan down as a reliable cat-sitter, to be honest.)

And what of the new Whigs album How Do You Burn?? Well, it's not as good as Pitchfork's Stuart Berman makes out, but there's still plenty on there to justify recommending that you give it a try. Opener 'I'll Make You See God' is not only "Hommeage" (to borrow Berman's splendid term) but possibly the best-titled song of the year, and the LP's strength does arguably lie in its commitment to diversity rather than consistency.

The great indoors

Time was when Reading and Leeds over the August Bank Holiday weekend marked the end of the festival season. First, it was extended by End Of The Road. And now there's Camp Good Life in Hawarden, which looks to be a much more palatable version of Alex James' Big Feastival and has been taking place this weekend, playing on the fact that we're on the cusp between summer and autumn.

From here on, the festivals just keep coming - though, understandably, they move indoors. For instance, Brighton's Mutations, on the first weekend of November, has a seriously eye-catching line-up including Black Country New Road, Squid and Pip Blom and boasts an incendiary closing party featuring Bob Vylan, Benefits, Grove and Scalping all on the same bill.

Closer to home, we've got Swn and the Festival Of Voice here in Cardiff on consecutive weekends at the end of October. The former features Sea Power, Sweet Baboo, Plastic Mermaids, The Lovely Eggs, Grove, bdrmmm and Obey Cobra among many others, while the pick of the bunch at the latter has to be the Cate Le Bon/Black Midi double bill.

Perhaps most intriguing, though, is Cwtch, which will see a host of acts descend on St Davids as October draws to a close. The Magic Numbers headline on the Saturday night, and Peaness, Penelope Isles and Sister Wives are also on the bill. But over the course of the weekend, there's a strong Welsh presence, with Buzzard Buzzard Buzzard and Adwaith performing together on the Friday, and Melyn Melin, DD Darillo and The Gentle Good also scheduled to appear. My concern is whether the festival will find an audience - will there be enough people already in the area or willing to travel and pay for accommodation to be able to attend?

Fingers crossed it works out - it would be nice to see more events like this, Focus Wales and Ara Deg springing up around the country for the benefit of those outside the capital.

Hard to stomach

Back in the mid to late 00s, I was a regular at Abergavenny Food Festival. It felt like there was no better way to spend a September Saturday than by snacking and sampling your way around the stalls, as just one of many attendees attracted by the market town's transformation into a foodie paradise. The sun always seemed to shine; one year, somewhat surprisingly, one of the sponsorship partners was the record label Domino, which meant excellent freebies; and it's where I tasted a cheddar so spectacularly good that I still remember it vividly more than a decade on.

So it was disheartening and disillusioning to read this piece by former chief executive Aine Morris setting out how, in her behind-the-scenes experience, the festival is a total shitshow (or, at least, had become one by the time she left in 2019). As she describes it, the problems are/were legion: stuck-in-their-ways bosses; unacceptable employment conditions; non-existent production systems; slashed budgets; unpaid guest speakers; and a broken relationship with residents, sick of their town being inundated by English visitors drawn to an event catering only for those with deep pockets, and no effort to repair it.

Morris acknowledges that had she laid bare these issues soon after her departure, it may well have been "dismissed as an angry takedown by a disgruntled ex-employee" - and indeed it still might be. Publishing the piece on the eve of the festival may also strike some people as cynical, designed to be as explosive as possible. But the fact is that it shines a spotlight on alarming and precarious practices behind what is (on the surface) a well-run and well-regarded annual institution, and on the physical and mental toll on the organisers. If the problems haven't been fixed since Morris left, then there's much work to be done.

Mclusky do Cardiff - twice

MCLUSKY / JARCREW, 8TH SEPTEMBER 2022, CARDIFF CLWB IFOR BACH

MCLUSKY / JOHN, 9TH SEPTEMBER 2022, CARDIFF CLWB IFOR BACH

As residencies go, Mclusky's two-night stand at Cardiff's Clwb Ifor Bach is hardly Prince's three-week sojourn at the O2 Arena in 2007 or Kate Bush's 22-date Before The Dawn run at Hammersmith Apollo seven years later. But its significance lies in the fact that it sees the band - reformed and reinvigorated, with an infusion of fresh blood - back where it all began. As Andrew "Falco" Falkous observes in the run-up to the first show, the view from the stage of Clwb's upstairs room was pretty much the only one he knew prior to 2003. That's probably as close as he'll ever get to misty-eyed nostalgia.

To ensure it's just like old times, though, Mclusky have invited some Cardiff contemporaries and compadres to open up. Jarcrew don't play very often, so this represents a rare opportunity to see them in action. Kelson Mathias notes that this is actually the first date of their tour, with the second and final one in Newport next month: "We're middle aged and lazy. Minimal travel!" Later, demonstrating the twisted sense of humour that meant he slotted straight into the early line-up of Falco's post-Mclusky project Future Of The Left, he urges the audience to take a step closer to the stage: "We've all tested negative ... but not for herpes!" Somewhat alarmingly, Mathias is now a dentist. As Falco commented when Mathias made a guest appearance with Mclusky in this very room three years ago, "If you let this mad cunt near your mouth, then you're a braver man or woman than me."

Back in the early to mid-00s, Mclusky's influence reverberated loudly around the city. Everywhere you turned, it seemed, there were bass-heavy noise-punk bands whose hooks packed a punch and who refused to take themselves too seriously. Jarcrew were very much a case in point, their particular brand of punk making them too weird and warped for classification other than, perhaps, as a six-fingered cousin of Les Savy Fav. But enough of the past tense - Jarcrew are once again a going concern, and there are new songs to savour tonight and thus the tantalising prospect of a return to the studio.

By contrast, Mclusky are relying solely on their back catalogue - but when that back catalogue includes the Steve Albini-produced Mclusky Do Dallas, a record whose reputation rightly continues to grow two decades after its release, no one's complaining. The ambling, sardonic self-loathing of 'Fuck This Band' gives way to the shortsharpshock intensity of 'Lightsabre Cocksucking Blues' - imagine your skull is a walnut and the song is a wrecking ball - and we're off.

Drummer Jack Egglestone is a gurning blur behind his kit (Falco: "He doesn't know how good he is. If he did, he wouldn't be here - he'd be off playing with anyone ... The Lighthouse Family."). Snake-hipped bassists Damien Sayell - on long-term loan from The St Pierre Snake Invasion - asks a barefooted chap at the front "When's the last train back to the Shire?" and limbers up between songs with a shoulder-shrugging move he christens "the Del Boy" (Falco: "You look like you're getting ready to steal some Doritos from a child"). Meanwhile, Falco himself - Kelly Jones possessed by the demon spirit of Henry Rollins, wearing a black T-shirt presumably out of respect for our departed monarch - is cast in the unlikely role of peacemaker early doors, intervening to calm an overzealous bouncer agitated by the liveliness of the moshpit, but otherwise dishes out trademark wit so caustic it could clean a student's oven, savaging everything from Eric Clapton and The Pigeon Detectives to "maverick clapping".

Guitar tech Andrew "Bernie" Plain joins for one song, taking them up to what Falco claims is the maximum acceptable number of shorts-wearing members for the music to remain good (two); a punter interrupts proceedings by wandering onstage to take a photo of the crowd; we all enjoy a good old-fashioned singalong to the line "Our old singer is a sex criminal" ('She Will Only Bring You Happiness'); and before you know it, an hour of musical violence and lyrical absurdity has passed.

"We've got two songs left", Falco announces. "'Freebird'!" a voice cries immediately. "We've got one song left, and you can blame that guy. Find him and skin him. Actually, don't do that. I forgot we're in Cardiff - very suggestible crowd." 'To Hell With Good Intentions' follows, and we leave with riffs and obscenities ringing in our ears. I'm sure it's what Her Maj would have wanted.

24 hours later - after a (semi-ironically) noise-interrupted night's sleep at Cardiff Queen Street Travelodge and a bizarre encounter with "some old blugger" at Roath Park Lake claiming that selling ice cream in the wake of the Queen's death "wasn't patriotic" - and Falco's back at his spiritual home.

Tonight's support act announce themselves in trademark fashion ("I'm John, he's John and together we are John") but in reality need no introduction, having performed warm-up duties at those Mclusky gigs here in 2019 and then headlined themselves a year ago to the very day.

John Newton prepares for action by removing his glasses, like E from Eels performing a Clark Kent move or Louis Theroux bracing himself to fend off an aggressor after an overly intrusive interview question. The power with which he pounds his drums is astonishing given that he's also on vocal duties. Johnny Healey, meanwhile, looks ceilingwards as though summoning the wrathful gods of guitar to rain vengeance down upon our skulls. These two bulls would not only wreck the china but raze the shop - though they're actually at their best when they ease up slightly on the head-down thrashing, making mild concessions to melody and sounding like No Age pumped on steroids.

A set heavy on material from last year's excellent Nocturnal Manoeuvres LP - which showcased greater range and dynamism than before, without sacrificing much in the way of force - receives the seal of approval from a pair of metalheads with Pantera backpatches who plunge eagerly into the pit. Newton also lets us into a bit of a secret, revealing that Mclusky are "lovely people, even if you're scared of Falco. He's like a Ferrero Rocher - soft on the inside. Don't try to give him a hug, though."

The ensuing Mclusky show seems even more unhinged than the previous night - perhaps partly due to a crowd high on Friday feeling (and craft beer) and the absence of any security at the front of the stage. 'Lightsabre Cocksucking Blues' descent into wordless gabbling is paradoxically more articulate than most bands' entire oeuvres; on 'Dethink To Rethink', Falco screams "DANNY BAKER!" like an apoplectic caller to 606 apparently actively trying to burst a blood vessel; 'Collagen Rock' is the Pixies in total meltdown; the opening lines to anti-inveterate bullshitter anthem 'Gareth Brown Says' ("All your friends are cunts / Your mother is a ballpoint-pen thief") remain as brilliant as ever (even if Falco admits to being bored by the rest of the song); and 'Alan Is A Cowboy Killer' stakes a serious claim to being the finest five minutes of live music I'll experience all year.

A fan provides uninvited guest vocals before a calamitous stage dive; Jack is temporarily rechristened Susan; Damien battles throat cramp to propose a tribute act called Red Hot Caerphilly Peppers and to claim that, like Prince Andrew, he doesn't sweat; and Falco observes "I think I've gone down a belt size up here". His default setting may be a manner and tone so acerbic it could melt through steel, but he can't disguise the fact that he's having a blast.

If, as closer 'To Hell With Good Intentions' has it, "we're all going straight to hell", then we're doing it with smiles on our faces.

(An edited version of this review has been published on the Buzz website.)

20 not out

As ridiculous as it seems (to me, at least), today this site is two decades old. Yes - 20 years of invective, opinion and nonsense. 8,093 posts.

Looking back, I was a relatively early adopter when it came to blogging. The world has long since moved on, blogs are considered quaint relics of the pre-Facebook/Twitter era, and a middle-aged man with a blog is now regarded as almost - or perhaps equally - as tragic as one with a podcast (been there, done that too...).

I may have other outlets for my writing these days (Buzz, principally) so posting has become a little less frequent, and I'm acutely aware of how blogging is at root an undeniably egotistical pursuit. But it remains both a personal compulsion and a genuine source of pleasure, so Silent Words Speak Loudest still has life left in it yet.

Speaking truth to power

I've written regularly on here about the various challenges threatening live music venues, but their resilience has been remarkable, with many managing to survive even through the enforced pandemic shutdown. The latest threat, though, may prove to be the most dangerous and deadliest yet: exorbitant energy bills.

In the last few months, the focus has naturally fallen on the cost of living crisis, as this affects everyone, but there's also a cost of entertaining crisis. As the Music Venue Trust (MVT) recently reported, one established venue recently received a bill that had ballooned by a staggering 646 per cent. Needless to say, even much more modest increases would be enough to render a lot of music spaces no longer financially viable, given that many are already operating on very fine margins.

As the MVT's Mark Davyd told Rolling Stone last month, a price cap for businesses was desperately needed to prevent absolute disaster. For once, the government has actually heeded a call for urgent assistance and introduced a cap. However, as Clara Cullen, the MVT's Venue Support Manager, points out, it's still not enough. The current cap is only temporary and should be made permanent, while there needs to be significant investment in ensuring an energy supply that is "affordable, reliable and sustainable".

We have a new Culture Secretary, Michelle Donelan, who surely can't be as clueless and spiteful as her predecessor Nadine Dorries - but with climate denier Jacob Rees-Mogg now responsible for our energy policy, the prospect of a progressive approach looks slim.

Margin Walker

It may have escaped many people's attention, but WWE wasn't the only form of American entertainment in town on Saturday night. Amid the Clash At The Castle chaos, Clwb was a very welcome sanctuary, and the rich and protean music of Ryley Walker and his band a source of considerable succour.

Buzz review here.

Progressive rock

While there's a lurking danger that the excellently named Ultimate Thunder might find themselves labelled and therefore pigeon-holed as a "disability rock band" (rather than simply a rock band), things such as this short BBC video piece are very much to be welcomed. It hints at the liberating and empowering aspect of making and performing music and at what those with learning disabilities can achieve if given the right funding and support.

Anyone whose interest in the importance of open access to music making has been piqued would be well advised to read Richard Phoenix's eye-opening Rough Trade publication DIY As Privilege: A Manifesto - which, for me, was a real eye-opener.