“Around Rockvilla”

A fantastical journey through Glasgow’s canal hinterland

This is the text of a talk I delivered at the National Theatre of Scotland for Doors Open Day, September 2017, looking at the history of the site of their new “creation centre” Rockvilla and the surrounding area, including Speirs Wharf, Possil, Lambhill and Maryhill. 

Welcome to Rockvilla, the brand new home of the National Theatre of Scotland.

From HOME to HERE | National Theatre of Scotland

I’m here partly because I used to work here. “Here” meaning the National Theatre of Scotland; not “here” at Rockvilla. I started just as NTS was gathering momentum before its opening series of productions, “Home”. I ran the website and produced the programmes, brochures, various bits and bobs. Happy days.

One of the first things I produced at NTS was a publication called “From Home to Here”, a lavish piece of trumpet-blowing from an organisation that was barely two years old at the time but clearly had big ideas.

The title was telling. Right from the beginning it was evident that the National Theatre of Scotland was deeply concerned with matters of belonging, matters of place.

Submarine Time Machine | National Theatre of Scotland

I left the NTS shortly before the Rockvilla project got underway so I’m as new to this place as you are. In the years since, two of my jobs have involved working in historic canal-side buildings in Glasgow so I’ve picked up a fair bit of local lore which I’m going share with you, on a “fantastical journey through time”, as it were, in a big anticlockwise loop, beginning and ending here at Speirs Wharf, taking in as much of the surrounding area as I can get away with.

Matters of place have always been integral to what NTS does, which is the genius of the “theatre without walls” model that was built into its DNA. It’s not just about its touring remit, its responsibility to the communities of Scotland, its role as cultural ambassador – artists constantly have to consider and respond to the conditions in which their work is going to be seen. Which is kind of unique for a national theatre company. And these physical spaces – disused power stations, empty warehouses, abandoned garages, deserted drill halls, even actual theatres – that the National Theatre of Scotland has performed in are all (and always) remarkably fluid. A theatre space could literally be anything, be anywhere.

ADAM EVE | National Theatre of Scotland

In 2017, the artistic programme of the National Theatre of Scotland is just as concerned with these things as the 2007 programme was.

I’m not going to say much about Rockvilla, the amazing new building we’re gathered in. The building sort of speaks for itself. And what it can’t articulate, one of the architects responsible for it is here to give voice to that.

Rockvilla - architects sketch

As for what goes on artistically at Rockvilla, who better to give you an insight than Simon Sharkey. As Learn Director, Simon has been a key member of the NTS artistic team since the very beginning. Who better to describe the creative forces that drive the great engine room of Scottish theatre, that have propelled it to enormous acclaim amongst audiences and participants at home and across the world.

I use the phrase “engine room” deliberately, of course, given that we’re sitting by the Forth & Clyde Canal in an area synonymous with the heavy industry that grew the city’s fortunes in the 18th & 19th centuries. 150 years ago the place would have been throbbing with engine noise.

Engine Room | National Theatre of Scotland

There’s always been a metaphorical “engine room” at NTS. Even when we were operating out of a couple of ramshackle offices in Atlantic Chambers at the bottom of Hope Street, different departments liked to think of themselves as the “engine room” of the organisation. These days, the website describes the whole of Rockvilla as the engine room. It’s also the name given to a new nationwide artist development programme.

What’s interesting, I think, is the appropriation of industrial terminology to describe cultural activity. In the face of the terminal decline of not just the heavy industries, but the electronic industries that grew up to replace them, we developed culture as an industry; indeed, the fastest growing parts of the economy are the “creative industries”.

But with that phrase, it’s as if we’re saying that industry itself wasn’t always creative. Some of the greatest creative minds our country has seen proved themselves – invented new processes, new technologies, transformed the world we live in – through the application of creativity and industry. And many of them hatched their ideas, made their fortunes right here, along the canal.  

St Rollox Bleaching Works Springburn

Like Charles Tennant, for example, who refined the bleaching process and whose chemical works in Springburn (pictured above) grew to become the largest in the world. Its chimney rose 130 meters into the sky above St Rollox, just half a mile away and was visible right across the city. If you could see through the smog, that is. Its chimney, known as the Tennent’s Stalk, was for a time the tallest in the world. His business partner was Charles Macintosh, whose name is synonymous still with fancy waterproof jackets.

Boats tied up at Spiers Wharf

The whole area was a bit busier in its heyday, safe to say. A cursory glance at a couple of old maps tells us that within one square mile of where are standing, there would have been: saw mills, flour mills, gas works, glass works, brick works, pickle works, soap works, oil works, refineries, foundries, breweries, distilleries, power-looms, engine rooms, wharves, gantries, depots and sheds, horses and carts, boats and trains.

One. Square. Mile. Can you imagine?

Rockvilla arial view

Also within that same square mile, there were:  parks and ponds, tenements, churches and ministries, wash-houses, poor houses, houses for the sick, cemeteries for the dead. The place was teeming.

Also noisy, smelly and dangerous.

Here’s the first Ordnance Survey map, surveyed around 1850.       

Ordnance Survey map 1850, Rockvilla

Here’s the second edition, surveyed about 50 years later.

Ordnance Survey 2nd Edition 1894

Rockvilla’s kind of a debatable name. No-one’s really sure where it came from. As we’ll see, there are lots of debatable names around the north of Glasgow. One reason Rockvilla was so called is possibly because large amounts of rock had to be blasted through to build the canal and to create the road that passes under it. The name was given to a house originally, then a sawmill, and a cotton mill, then a bit further up the road a church. Eventually it was given to this whole area here between Possil Road, Craighall Road and the Canal.

Rockvilla School was demolished in the 1990s and stood roughly where the Whisky Bond car park is now. You can still see traces of the building as you come up.

Rockvilla School entrance

The project to create a new facility for the National Theatre of Scotland’s was set up under the auspices of the previous Artistic Director, Laurie Sansom. The decision to call it Rockvilla came about because of a desire to connect with the heritage of the site. Sansom liked it because, “It’s snappy and has a kind of cheeky irreverence.”

He said, “I really love the rock ’n’ roll name.”

Another possible reason Rockvilla got its name was because prior to it becoming a centre of industry, the area was full of quarries. Possil generally was full of quarries. And pits. Lots of pits. More of which later.

Here’s James Dorret’s map published in 1750. It’s not conclusive, but you get the idea.

James Dorret, map of Scotland

Connecting new places with old names is of course exactly what we’ve been doing since the beginning of time. Glasgow’s rife with it.

Drawing of Macfarlane's Saracen Foundry

To give you just one local example. Saracen Road and Saracen Cross just up the road take their name from the great Saracen Foundry built on the site of Possil House in 1860. They made all the cast iron stuff you associate with Victorian buildings – bandstands, fountains, railway station canopies, fancy public park railings, iron cemetery gates and the like – and they exported their products all over the world.

The owners, William Macfarlane Ltd, named their new foundry after the original location of their business at Saracen Lane in the Gallowgate, about three miles away. The Lane’s now gone but the name lives on in the Saracen Head pub, the original incarnation of which, famously visited by James Boswell and Samuel Johnson after their highland adventures, was on Saracen Lane. The Saracen foundry closed in 1965 but its legacy remains in the vast suburb of Possilpark, which was built to accommodate its workforce.

And nor is Rockvilla the first time the National Theatre of Scotland have chosen to pay homage to the heritage of a place in one of their buildings. The rehearsal room on Burns Street just down the hill on the other side of the canal was called The Glue Factory – because that’s exactly what it had once been. And the previous HQ – along the road – was named on the same basis, with a nod to the heritage of the building.

Civic House in 1960

Here it is circa 1960.

In 2009, NTS outgrew its ramshackle suite of offices in Hope Street and moved into the Speirs Wharf neighbourhood, just as the area was developing into a bit of a melting pot for the creative industries. For seven years, the home of the National Theatre of Scotland was an old printers building called Civic House. Not quite as snappy as Rockvilla. Bit dull. Bit municipal. Very council. Not very NTS.

But the name preserves a link to the history of the Civic Press who operated from the building around the end of the 19th century into the 20th, right up until the 1970s.

They specialised in left-wing publishing and printing – election posters, leaflets and placards for demonstrations.  Here’s a few of their publications.

In 1969 they published a pamphlet by Emrys Hughes, married to Nan Hardie, daughter of Keir. It was called “The Prince, the Crown and the Cash” – reporting on the cost of the monarchy to the British public, specifically the prince of the title, Prince Charles.

Civic House in 2017

It might not look much nowadays, but its white rendered brickwork with its numerous windows – installed to allow rows of typesetters to work in ample daylight – would have been quite the dish in its day. Set next to rows of traditional sandstone tenements, which were cleared in the 1960s, as they were being cleared all over the area to accommodate the new M8 motorway, Civic House would have seemed fresh and clean and modern.

Civic House is a survivor of radical political and cultural activity in the early to mid 20th century. Which turns out to be rather NTS after all – they couldn’t just take over any old printer’s building. Had to be a radical printers building. Appropriately enough, it’s now been taken over by a group called Agile City to be used as a creative learning space for progressive forms of city development.

Talking of radical activity, I attended a performance during Glasgow’s 1990 City of Culture celebrations called The Second Coming.

It was set in of all places, the abandoned St Rollox locomotive works in Springburn, about half a mile from here. It was utterly extraordinary, one of the greatest performances I have ever experienced. It combined physical performance, music and text in a way I’d never seen before. Teams of boiler suited performers running full pelt with huge banners streaming behind them across a performing space maybe about a quarter of a mile long. Clanging live percussion played with metal tools on rusting railway sleepers and piles of old wheels. Massive bits of moving machinery rumbled ominously out of the gloom. Swinging cuboids of crushed railway steel crashed thrillingly into each other. All on a vast, vast scale. Literally, an industrial scale.

According to the programme notes, which I still have, “The need to find order, comfort, pride and purpose from the past is nowhere more apparent than in the meteoric growth of the heritage industry. It coincides with a nostalgia for a world which seemed stable and unchanging, unless it changed in Britain’s favour.”

The script by the journalist and writer Neal Ascherson concerned itself with a world where the heritage industry had taken over actual industry. People didn’t work in coal mines any more, they visited coal mining museums. People didn’t make steel any more, they made films about the steel industry. Everything was being absorbed into an endless self-referential feedback loop. It was written at the high water mark of Thatcher’s reign, shortly before she was ousted. But it could have been written today. These days our economy is largely a heritage economy.

Flyer for Rave at the Rollox, Test Dept Productions

The Second Coming was produced by Test Dept, whose Artistic Director Angus Farquar is still making extraordinary things happen in abandoned spaces with his organisation NVA which evolved from Test Dept in the 90s. Test Dept had made a name for themselves by turning unlikely industrial spaces into fertile creative territory. In many ways, NVA and Test Dept paved the way for the theatre without walls model adapted so successfully by NTS. They kind of wrote the book on it.

The space that was used for The Second Coming has long gone. It’s now, appropriately (or not), a massive Tesco. But the name of St Rollox still resonates. It certainly resonated with me when I was preparing this talk. I mean, it’s only down the road. Half a mile tops. So I’m thinking Rollox. Rockvilla. Could they be related? There’s also a school called St Roch’s in the area. Hmm… Roch’s. Rocks. The names are all a bit too similar to be a coincidence. Are they connected? Or is it just a load of old Rollox…

Statue of St Roch

Well, it turns out they are! Well, at least a bit. St Roch was from Languedoc in the south of France, born in the 13th century. But how on earth did a medieval Occitane saint end up here? According to his entry in the dictionary of saints, he was patron of: plague, cholera, epidemics, skin diseases, skin rashes, knee problems, cattle, falsely accused people, invalids, surgeons, bachelors and tile makers. Which actually kind of makes him the perfect saint for the north of Glasgow. Right down to the tile makers.

A chapel dedicated to St Roch was built in 1506 near where Castle Street is now, in an area formerly known as Garngad, now Royston. After plague broke out later in the 16th century, victims camped in huts surrounding the chapel to pray to St Roch for healing. This then gave rise to a hospital and later a school dedicated to this French patron saint of the sick. (And the tile makers. Blessed be the tile makers.)

Curiously, there was a small loch slightly to the south of the chapel, known as St Roch’s Loch. Now. Try saying that together a few times when you’ve had a couple of drinks on a Saturday and you’ll see where we get the Scottish variation, Rollox.

The name Roch is apparently a Germanic name deriving from the word for rest – the connection with Rockvilla is probably circumstantial. As we saw earlier, the likely explanation for the name of this area comes from its origins in the quarry trade.

Rockvilla is situated in the ancient land of Possil, an estate which goes back into the furthest reaches of antiquity.

Here’s Roy’s Military survey of the lowlands from 1752.

Roy's Military Survey

And here’s the old Possil House, photographed by Thomas Annand, which was cleared to make way for the Saracen Foundry in the 1860s.

Possil House, photographed by Thomas Annand

These days Possil is associated with the kinds of long term social deprivation that come hand in hand with long term industrial decline. For us Possil is a pretty negative word, rightly or wrongly synonymous with a range of specifically Glaswegian ills, from drug use to child poverty, third generation unemployment and low level crime.

But things are turning around. There’s a charity in the area called Possobilities, set up in 1984, running a variety of programmes to look after people in the Possil area. I love how they turn the name into a positive – but Possil is one of the oldest names in Scotland and in fact means “peaceful place”.

It comes from a variation of the Brittonic language, known as Cumbric, which was lingua franca round these parts until about the 11th century. It was spoken throughout the north of England to the southern lowlands of Scotland. It’s a bridging language between Welsh and Scots Gaelic, and it has given Glasgow a number of its place names –  including the name Glasgow itself (which translates as “green hollow”). Other names that derive from Cumbric include Partick (“little grove”), Govan (“small hill”), Kelvin (“reed river”), Cathcart (“small wood on the River Cart”). The linguist Simon Taylor has done a lot of work on this, if you’re interested.

One can easily imagine pre-industrial Possil, as its Cumbric name suggested, as rather a peaceful place. It would be mostly tenant farmers, fields, cattle – and sheep. High Possil farm stood about a mile dead north of here, up Balmore Road, roughly where St Agnes’s church is now in the area known now as Lambhill. For three hundred years, the Lambhill Estate had been the seat of the Hutcheson family – the brothers George and Thomas who had established Hutchesons’ Grammar School and Hutcheson’s Hospital in Ingram Street.

Possil, as we’ve noted, was full of quarries, and an increasing number of pits yielding mostly ironstone and coal – about which more later. Then in April 1804, The Herald and Advertiser newspaper reported an event that quite seriously disrupted whatever peace was to be had.

“Three men at work in a field at Possil, about three miles north from Glasgow, in the forenoon of Thursday the 5th April. were alarmed with a singular noise, which continued, they say, for about two minutes, seeming to proceed from the south-east to the north-west. At first, it appeared to resemble four reports from the firing of cannon, afterwards, the sound of a bell, or rather of a gong, with a violently whizzing noise; and lastly they heard a sound, as if some hard body struck, with very great force the surface of the earth.”

It was a meteorite. The exact area it landed in was a quarry and, amazingly, for a massive rock from outer space landing in a pile of massive rocks, they managed to recover it. It was the first of four ever recovered in Scotland and only the second in Britain. It reportedly weighed several pounds initially but broke in two and the larger chunk was lost in the quarry rubble.

Possil meteorite, Hunterian MuseumThe rest has since been chopped and chipped, sliced and diced in the name of science, but a tiny fragment of the space rock remains on permanent display at the Hunterian Museum at Glasgow University. And don’t be fooled by the big commemorative stone on the far edge of Possil Marsh, should you ever venture round – it was located about a mile from the landing site because the council were afraid it would be vandalised by Possil locals…

Since it’s Doors Open Day I should make a plug for Lambhill Stables. It’s run as a community hub and cafe, great place to stop in on a walk along the canal.

I was until recently Heritage Coordinator for a local history project in Lambhill called Coal, Cottages and Canals investigating the lost miners’ rows – or Raws – on the edge of the Possil and Kenmure estates. Mavis Valley, Laigh Possil, Kenmure and Lochfauld – which was nicknamed The Shangie.

These cottages sprang up with the advent of coal and ironstone mining operations around the north of Glasgow, around 1850, reaching their peak around 1890. 

Washer women in Mavis Valley early 1900sThese are miners’ cottages we’re talking about, not yer granny’s heilan hame, or some cheesecloth n kailyard country but n’ ben affair. We’re talking no heating, no running water, no electric, no carpets, no shops.

The cottages were built by the Carron Ironworks in Falkirk to house the miners in the nearby Cadder pits. They mined principally for ironstone to feed the foundries. What coal they dug up was of pretty poor quality and was mostly used domestically. The house came with the job – one of the most dangerous jobs there’s ever been – so if the breadwinner died, got sick or maimed, grew old, or got fired for smoking a fag where he shouldny – as happened more often than you’d think – the whole family were evicted and thrown to the mercy of the Parish or the Poor House. Unless you took a lodger. Or found a new husband.

With mining operations brought to a halt after the Cadder pit disaster of 1913, the rows went into steep decline and by the 1930s most of the families had packed up and left. In the cottages that remained, mostly in the better constructed houses of Mavis Valley, squatters took over, occupying them until the late 1950s.

Possil Row in the 1930sThere were a number of people I worked with on the project, one of them pictured here as a baby in front of Possil Row, who had personal associations with the rows. Many could trace their ancestry to one or more of the rows, some even remembered visiting them – especially the row at Lochfauld, known locally as the Shangie.

No-one really knows why Lochfauld was nicknamed the Shangie. The place had a bit of a reputation for rumbustiousness – all the cottages had a bit of a reputation for rumbustiousness. The row opposite, for example, Kenmure Row, was nicknamed Mutton Raw after the theft of a sheep from a neighbouring farm and its subsequent butchering and distribution among the inhabitants brought collective shame and infamy to the row.

Legend has it that the Shangie was given the name because a passing sea captain, well-travelled, saw the state of the place from the bow of his barge and declared it reminded him of Shanghai.

Which apart from being a terrible slur on the good people of Shanghai, stretches the imagination somewhat to think that a shabby row of some forty odd cottages could resemble a bustling Far Eastern port city. A likelier explanation comes from the Scots language, where a shangie is a nuisance or troublemaker. It can also mean scraggy or gaunt. Both definitions could conceivably describe Lochfauld’s impoverished residents

Further along the canal, heading west past Maryhill, there’s another vanished neighbourhood with a mysterious local nickname: the Butney. You don’t find the Butney on maps, but everyone in Maryhill knows where it is. The Butney is formerly that triangle of streets around Bridge Street and Kelvin Street running up towards Maryhill Road. It’s called Skaethorn Street now, I think. Locals still know it as Butney Brae, with the canal lock flight and the old Kelvin Docks on the right. A new housing estate stands on the old Dawsholm Gasworks on the left.

Images of the Butney, by Kelvin Dock

Kelvin Dock, incidentally, is where the Clyde Puffer was born, at Swan’s Yard in 1856.

Until the puffer was invented, goods were transported on the canal by scows, 60 foot long barges 13 and a half feet wide, operated by two boatmen, a horse and a horseman. The Glasgow – Edinburgh Railway line had opened in 1842 and the canal was facing some serious competition. An engineer called James Milne acquired an iron-built scow and fitted it with a two-cylinder steam engine which made the distinctive “puffing” sound that gave the vessel its nickname and which gave rise to a whole genre of small cargo carrying ships which were to be the backbone of cargo transport on the canals and on the Clyde and proved to be “vital” links to the islands and communities along Scotland’s west coast for the next hundred years .

The Kelvin Dock’s still there. You can walk around the graving dock, which is more or less intact. Or do competitive extreme uphill swimming in the Red Bull Neptune’s Steps event that’s held there every year. Whether you’re tempted to go for a pint in the rum-looking Kelvin Dock pub on Maryhill Road, is entirely up to you.

Ask a local why the Butney was called the Butney and you’ll get the same salty sea captain confidence you get with the Shangie. Because it’s by Kelvin Dock, legend has it that’s where they loaded the prison ships to take the rank bad yins of the Parish to Botany Bay.

Botany. Butney. Obvious.

Except. Since the transportation of convicts to New South Wales ended in 1840, why would anyone load prisoners onto a horse drawn barge miles inland when all the big ocean going boats were being loaded on the Clyde at Broomielaw or Port Glasgow.

I spoke to a local historian who had spent twenty five years researching the area and he didn’t buy the Botany Bay banter either. His theory was that when the canal was being built, it attracted a certain kind of worker – the navigation engineers, navvies – who were billeted in lodgings around the dock. So maybe the Botany Bay thing came about because the hard-working, hard-drinking, hard-fighting men that built the canal were the type likely to end up in Botany Bay.

Someone else I met reckoned there was a pub or cafe in the area called the Botany Bay. But no-one can find any trace of it. And anyway, did the pub give the name to the area, or did the area give the name to the pub.

Another theory concerns the handloom factory by the Dalsholm Printworks. The section of the factory given to the removal of buttons from used fabrics was called – “the Buttony” . . .

Nolly Brig, Dawsholm Road

A less debatable name is the “nolly”. A kind of kids’ nickname for the canal. Shangie. Butney. Nolly. Some great names up here. Happily, the etymology is easier with this one. You need to go full Glaswegian to get it. Canal. Canaul. Canaully. Nolly. Like rhyming off Latin declensions. Canal, canolly, canaul…

This is the Nolly Brig just by Firhill Stadium as it was in 1955. It’s a bascule bridge, a particular piece of canal infrastructure once almost ubiquitous across the network, sadly mostly all gone, that lifted up to let high masted boats through. Bascule’s a French word for a see-saw. The new concrete road bridge was built in 1990, and formalised the nolly nickname with an inscription carved in ’90s Glasgow Mackintoshy lettering on the underside.

The Canal was commissioned in 1763 and closed on 1st January 1963. The bits in between saw the rise and demise of Britain as an imperial power and the polishing and tarnishing of Glasgow’s crown as Second City of Empire. It’s important to recognise just how pivotal a role in all of that the canal was.

I mentioned the Carron Company earlier, who built the miners’ rows at Mavis Valley and Lochfauld. The ironstone mined there was transported by canal to the Carron foundries and used to make the cannons – the Carronades – that launched the artillery that crushed the colonies.

War is bound up with the story of the canal, inevitably. The Luftwaffe used the canal as a bombing run, following its glinting silvery moonlit path all the way into Clydebank.

There was a very real worry that the canal itself would be a bombing target during the Second World War, and a number of defensive gates or stoplocks were installed. If the Germans had scored a direct hit at, say, Possil Road aqueduct at Rockvilla, you’re looking at a serious amount of water flooding the city. The next nearest lock gate on the Edinburgh side from that point is 17 miles away at Wyndford.

Stoplock, Stockingfield Junction

This is the stoplock at Stockingfield Junction, where the canal branches off in one direction towards Bowling and the Clyde estuary, and in the opposite direction in a three mile spur towards Port Dundas.

It’s called Port Dundas after Sir Lawrence Dundas, one of the major financial backers of the Great Canal and its first Governor. Glasgow city merchants were worried that a new port at Bowling would move the import-export trade on the Broomielaw many miles further downstream, bypassing the city entirely. They were eager to make sure the new canal came as close to the top of the town as possible, so paid for this extension.

Remains of stoplock at Speirs Wharf, 2010

A defensive stoplock was also installed at Speirs Wharf. Just in case. This picture’s from 2010.

The German bombers luckily never landed a direct hit on the canal. Some 60 years earlier, a group of Irish revolutionaries, known as the Skirmishers, led by Jeremiah O’Dononvan Rossa, who were  devoted to the cause of Irish national liberation from British rule, had obviously identified the same destructive potential of a well-placed explosive on the canal. The Skirmishers trained men from Ireland, Scotland and England in the use of dynamite with the objective of seeking the “destruction of British life and property.”

On 20th January 1883, an off duty soldier called Adam Barr accidentally disturbed an explosive on the Possil Road aqueduct at Rockvilla. Had the bomb exploded, it would have flooded the city for 16 miles. The Skirmishers placed three bombs that night. One exploded in Tradeston, causing massive damage, knocking out street lighting across the city and creating a situation of mass panic and confusion. Less than an hour after that, a second exploded in in a disused coal shed at Buchanan Street train station, damaging windows and chimneys in nearby houses and busineses, luckily injuring no-one.

Arguably, the greatest peril the canals ever faced – and still face to an extent – is lack of use, irrelevance. Since the waterways closed in the 1960s there was much talk of the canal being filled in and converted to walkways and motorway – as happened with the Monklands Canal and the Paisley Canal. The stretch of the M8 that runs along from Cathedral Street past the Provan gasworks in the east end was built on canal infill.

Here’s some images of the canal being filled in in a more recreational way, pointing at a possible future for the canal. In 1850, the Rockvilla timber basin froze over and was used as a curling rink. In 2010, a group of dedicated fixed gear cycling enthusiasts ran a keirin championship on the ice.

Newspaper clipping from 1972Here’s a clipping from 1972. The M8 was still a new fangled sign of the modern age. The Bruce Report, compiled in 1945 but still holding sway amongst city planners many years later, had recommended turning busy trunk roads like Maryhill Road and Springburn Road into motorway – which explains why Springburn is the schizophrenic deadzone you see today – a once vibrant community bifurcated by concrete canyons and speeding vehicles. Neighbourhoods separated from themselves.

Maybe it was too expensive to build all these roads, maybe there were other better ideas out there. But the canals were saved by the work of a number of highly dedicated individuals and canal enthusiasts who worked tirelessly throughout the 1970s and 80s to keep them clean with a view to opening them again to boat traffic. And in 2000, they got their wish. The canal was reopened with £80m of public money. The Falkirk Wheel connected the Forth & Clyde with the Union.

The future of the canal as an inland waterway, like many of the names and places along its length, is debatable. Speaking purely from experience Scottish Canals are difficult and aggressive landlords, defensively territorial and, to be fair, being only partially funded by the Scottish Government, they need to make the canal work financially. It was ever thus: the canal was cut for commerce. But the result is that you don’t see many boats travelling through. You need to pay a crew to open the locks for you. Plus transit charges, navigation licenses. Mooring fees aren’t cheap either. The bill just for taking a boat across the 37 miles of canal from one side of the country to the other can run into hundreds of pounds. Also, given that there are 21 locks to navigate, it takes the best part of a day just to sail the first few miles of the canal from Bowling to Lambhill. As a functioning waterway, it’s just not very attractive for boat operators – though the Forth & Clyde Canal Society who run the big blue boats you see on Doors Open Day – the Voyager, the Gipsy Princess – will tell you their regular boat trips have never been more popular.

The most valuable parts of the canal you can’t monetise. It’s a vital part of the city’s green infrastructure. It provides safe walking and cycling routes away from heavy traffic. There are canoeing clubs. Cycling clubs. Extreme uphill swimming events. Swans and herons. Butterflies and damselflies. Stories galore.

But who ever made a buck out of telling stories? 


Gullible Travels – for Russell

There’s nothing like the death of a dear one to make you ask all the big questions.

Why do we do what we do?
How do we know who we know?
Why do things die when they die?
How does friendship survive?
How does love thrive?
What’s the point of doing anything?

The older I get, the longer I live, the more I think that the point of living is simply to make life that bit more bearable for other people.

Colin and Russell, Worcester MAYou don’t know it, my friend, but you kind of showed me that. Not just for me but for countless others who knew you and loved you. You had an amazing talent for looking after people. You even made a living out of caring.

You took people in to your heart, your home. You gave them your time, your space, your energy, even when it cost you, even when it irked you, even when it pained you. Whoever it was, you always had your eye on their angle of vulnerability, and you did what you could to make it better.

Now we’re all taking in the news that you’ve gone. Suddenly and without fuss or fanfare you just slipped away quietly one night, hoped we wouldn’t notice. But we noticed. We’re going to be noticing for a long time that you’re no longer with us.

You were always such a plotter, a planner, a schemer. There was always a project to be getting on with, always a new destination to be setting off for. When we met that time back in East Kilbride at the end of 2015, some twenty years since the last time, it was the day before my birthday and everything was up in the air with both of us. I remember saying to you how much I had always admired this aspect of you, that you were always so firmly future focussed.

And suddenly we were the best of friends again, swapping music crushes, sudden pashes, flash-in-the-pan fads, new raves, old faves. Like twenty years were nothing. I assumed from that point on we’d stay friends into our old age, checking in, hanging out.

It was music that made friends of us back then, at that draughty old rehearsal studio out in the country lanes by Auldhouse. It was music that brought us close, that started conversations, that led to deep discussions long into the night.

IMG_2735You had my name listed as “Sax” in your phone (was that the joke? “Sax in ma phone”?) which made me laugh, even though I haven’t played the thing in earnest in years. For me, Russ, you were all about the bass.

There’s so much music in my life because of you. Things I’d never have listened to in a lifetime have become lifelong companions because of you. There are bands who are indelibly stamped in my mind with your passion and enthusiasm, like a rock n’ roll tattoo. There are songs that conjure places, people, gigs, jams, days spent wandering, nights spent smoking menthol cigs in cars and bars in East Kilbride, Glasgow, London, New York, Boston, Worcester MA.

It’s impossible to list every single piece of music that magically sings of you, but here’s a few things kicking about my shelves at home that conjure you as I best remember you.

Supertramp - SupertrampSupertramp
Supertramp (1970)

You liked proper proggy muso music. Long songs, extended solos, big looping bass lines. I only really knew Supertramp from their hippy-haired Top of the Pops hits; you were all about their early stuff, which I grew to love. Try Again was your favourite, you said, and my first entry point into your musical universe. Weird, trippy, slightly gothic, melodic, mellifluous and emotional.

But it was there in the air that we share in the twilight
Humming a sad song, where was our day gone
But in the dark was a spark, a remark I remember

Traffic - Eagle

Where The Eagle Flies
Traffic (1974)

It’s really all about that one song, Dream Gerrard, and that incredible wah-wah tenor sax. I remember buying a wah-wah pedal for £25, using it a couple of times on my own horn in the rehearsal studio then eventually passing it on to you (who made much better use of it). The song appeared on one of the mix tapes you made that I played a lot, which also contained another Traffic track that’s quintessentially you – The Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys – as well as a song you wrote and recorded yourself, called Gullible Travels, which I liked a lot.

Gullible travels
Baby’s gone and papa’s dead
Gonna leave this place now
It’s cold and sick
And I’m feeling blue
cos I’m leaving you

You were amazed I even remembered the song, never mind quote the chorus to you…

Edie BrickellShooting Rubber Bands at the Stars
Edie Brickell & The New Bohemians (1988)

I’m not usually big on lyrics, as you know. I’m paying more attention to them now though, especially the first song of this album, What I Am, and I wonder if the reason you loved it so much was because it seems to sum you up so well.

I’m not aware of too many things
I know what I know if you know what I mean

What I am is what I am
you what you are or what

Or maybe it was just the wah-wah solo. I remember you describing me once as a “Bohemian”, which I thought was preposterous. But by East Kilbride standards, though, I suppose both of us probably were.

Queen (1973)

I’m thinking, obviously, of the first track, Keep Yourself Alive. It’s a rather cruel and ironic title given the circumstances, but I bet you’d allow yourself a chuckle. Or even a LOL. I never got on with Queen, though God knows you tried to win me to the cause. I eventually bought this album at your insistence and listening again now I think I hear something of what you heard. Adrenaline pumping hard-rockin bombast, a bunch of guys acting as if they were already superstars, doing wildly inventive things with guitars, and a massive flouncing fatally flawed show off in the middle of it all. It’s basically your anthem.


Moving Pictures
Rush (1980)

Another key piece of genetic material in your musical DNA. Not hard to see what appealed to you about this triumverate of turbocharged neo-prog hyper-rockers. And the 1991 Roll The Bones gig was a big one for us.

Again, the lyrics in the first track, Tom Sawyer,  seem to say meaningful things about you.  I don’t know. Pick a lyric.

Don’t put him down as arrogant
He reserves the quiet defense
Riding out the day’s events

Always hopeful yet discontent
He knows changes aren’t permanent
But change is

The world is, the world is
Love and life are deep
Maybe as his eyes are wide

Janes Addiction RitualRitual de lo habitual
Jane’s Addiction (1990)

We played the bejesus out of this. Manicmetal. Mischief music. The song about shoplifting caught your ear by accident late one night on MTV, you passed it on like a flu bug. Every few days another track became a fevered favourite. Like we’d invited a pyromaniac worm into our ears. You’ll find this weird, but I always think of the song Of Course… as being about you and me. I have no idea what the song is actually about, but these lines spoke to me of our relationship: simultaneously close and aloof, affectionate and brusque, concerned and indifferent. Like brothers in music.

When I was a boy,
My big brother held on to my hands,
Then he made me slap my own face.
I looked up to him then, and still do.
He was trying to teach me something.
Now I know what it was!
Now I know what he meant!
Now I know how it is!

Anna Meredith (2016)

You used to send me things in the post. Ruth Gordon’s autobiography appeared one day – the Harold and Maude actor you had a massive thing for. You were so delighted to have found it from an ebay seller halfway across America. There was the card you made from a photo you’d taken congratulating me on a new job. Mostly it was music, of course – Future Islands, Tame Impala, couple of other things, chief among which was this album by the Scottish artist Anna Meredith which I grew to love enormously. I bought tickets for her band show in March at the CCA that I wanted you to come to but by then you were doing the First Bus thing and you couldn’t commit the time. Things moved so very quickly after that. The year passed in a blur and I saw you only a couple more times.

Empire State and Twin Towers 1993The Anna Meredith thing was so typical of you in so many ways. You were so open to new and interesting stuff. For every Rush or Bryan May gig we went to, there was an equivalent Ornette Coleman & Prime Time or John Zorn. And as much as you loved big bombastic cockrock, you could be just as passionate about female artists – Joni Mitchell, Ricky Lee Jones, Tracy Chapman, Oleta Adams, Aimee Mann.

Only latterly I found out we had a shared love of St Vincent. Now, since you’ve gone, I keep returning to her song about love and loss and New York. It always transports me to our week there in 1993 when you were heading to Worcester, MA, to begin a career in care and I was off on a transcontinental train trip.

All the things we did. That first sunset taxi ride into Manhattan from JFK, taking in that breathtaking skyline – a waterside city the height of the clouds, the colour of rust and diamonds. Staying at the Chelsea Y. Endless wanderings. Walking downtown to Battery Park from 110th St. Dinner in the Dojo. Tasting tahini. Camp Kiwago. Nights with Carolyn. Seymour’s house full of whales in Jersey. Then returning the next year when you were settled in Worcester and the madness of all that.

I was in New York recently and the wide city streets still ring with those memories.

She sings,

I have lost a hero
I have lost a friend

and boy do I know it.

Tubular Bells

Mike Oldfield
Virgin Records (1973)

mike_oldfield_tubular_bells_album_coverThis was a pretty big record for me. It shaped a lot of my musical tastes at just the right time, pointed me in lots of different directions, down a few a few cul-de-sacs too, and gave me my first teenage musical hero.

I came across it in round about 1984-85, aged maybe 13 or 14. I’d been given records for Christmas by a groovy auntie and every now and then I spent my pocket money on cassettes of dorky stuff I thought my parents or my music teacher would approve of. Like  Handel’s Water Music. Or like Dermot “Dancing Fingers” O’Brien (I was a student of the accordion from an early age). Tubular Bells was the first music I can recall buying that was just for me.

The album entered my life when I was an impressionable second year high school pupil. We had an English teacher who was younger than the rest, a bit off-the-wall, bursting with mad ideas. One term’s assignment, for example, was to invent a pop band. We had to come up with a name, write their songs, design their posters, write a gig review etc. The next term he set us up as a university style debating society, which went about as well as can be imagined.

One day he came to class with an 8-track player and a bag of cassettes he’d bought that weekend. He was evidently extremely pleased with himself and he proceeded to give us a one-man show-and-tell. He sat at the front of the classroom and raved about the technical superiority of the eight-track system and, with diagrams, demonstrated how the thing worked. The tape in the 8-track was ingeniously looped so that you never had to turn it over to play the other side. It was designed specifically for playing music in cars – I think he drove an old Ford Cortina, which was pretty retro even then.

The one album he played was Tubular Bells, played the whole thing in class. He told us all the stories – Oldfield the boy genius playing all the instruments, Richard Branson and the start of Virgin Records, five years in the top 40, The Exorcist etc.

I was utterly electrified. I’d never heard anything like it. I lapped it all up: the music, the lore, the lot. I adored the album immediately and after my next birthday, armed with record tokens, I made the trip to John Menzies…

John Menzies in the Plaza in East Kilbride town centre was a major pocket-money magnet. Downstairs was all sweets and crisps, books and magazines and stuff to stock your school pencil case. Upstairs was toys and games, music and video (LaserDisc!). It was always chock-full when I started making regular Saturday afternoon trips with pals, cash from grannies and aunties and chores burning holes in our pockets.

There were a few shops in East Kilbride that sold music back then – but they were generic places like Boots and Woolworth’s that stockpiled Greatest Hits records and top 40 stuff. I wasn’t cool enough to go anywhere near Impulse, the only proper record store in town. It was a hang out for a certain kind of kid. Stunt hair. Stunt shoes. Fashion and a fuck-you attitude. Perhaps piercings. Was it punk? Was it post-punk? Was it New Romantic? Was it indie? Whatever it was, peevish wee spods like me who listened to accordeon music weren’t it. I was barely even cool enough for Menzies. I didn’t dare go anywhere near.

In fact, I never felt entirely comfortable anywhere in the town centre. I still don’t. As well as the post-punk/ new romantic mob at Impulse, casual football culture was finding its moment too. Swaggering tribes of well-togged youngsters roamed the place – sharp wee guys dressed in Pringle sweaters and “waffle” trousers, looking for trouble. Everyone had to have a look. I always felt conspicuously, blandly different, an awkward wee alien boy dressed by his maw.

Eventually, I discovered my own refuge in the music section of East Kilbride Central Library. People with sharp haircuts and clothes with names never seemed to go there. Hardly anyone did, especially when it was temporarily relocated to the basement of the Civic Centre.  I loved it down there. I went every week. I prized my four yellow Music Library tickets and would spend hours browsing every Saturday, then leave with a full fresh compliment of albums tucked under my arm, their see-through protective sleeves slipping awkwardly all the way home. I’d spend the rest of the afternoon listening and studying liner notes, absorbing facts and details, tracing conductors, personnel, songwriters, producers, for any kind of clue as to what I should go looking for next week.

So what prompted me to want to own my own copy of Tubular Bells when I had a ready supply of free music on tap from the music library? I suppose it was a realisation that perhaps I wouldn’t want to take it back, that this was a piece of music that I wanted to live with. I wanted not only to possess this music, but to inhabit it. My world hummed with it for months. I fantasised about playing the mandolin and the glockenspiel. I wanted to own a set of tubular bells. I was going to be a composer. It was a visceral longing to get inside and understand the textures of the music. Incredible feeling.

It’s the very same copy I bought in John Menzies all those years ago that I’m listening to now. It still sounds like nothing else on earth, but I can more easily trace the paths that run through and around it. I’m struck by how folky and mellifluous it all sounds. All those mandolins and 12-strings, those gentle melodies, those rolling rhythms. The influence of Philip Glass and Terry Riley is apparent, but doesn’t dominate – there’s no trace, for instance, of the hard city edges of the New York minimalists beyond those repetitive arpeggiating piano and organ lines that weave through the opening sections. Some of Tubular Bells suggests introspective English pastoral rock music, the likes of Nick Drake, Fairport Convention, Jethro Tull, Pentangle etc, without sounding much like any of them. You could call it folk minimalism if you like, but mostly Tubular Bells just sounds like itself.

Thanks to the East Kilbride Music Library, I went through a period of several years obsessively listening to all Mike Oldfield’s records to date. Ommadawn (which I never really warmed to), Hergest Ridge (even less so), Five Miles Out, Crises, Discovery, the live one, the orchestral one, etc. I liked everything he did – not for the music so much as for him. There was something about the man himself that I heard in his music that I completely identified with. Maybe it’s just something that happens to you when you’re a particular age. You need a spirit guide, some kind of hero to project all your desires and ambitions on to. Someone to point the way.

Mike Oldfield felt like my kind of guy. I liked the tone he set in his music. I was to hear it later in others, too. Bill Frisell, maybe. Ornette Coleman. Erik Satie. These are people whose music, for me, is about more than just the music. They seem to open up something about themselves in the music they create in a way that deeply affects me. There’s certainly an honesty and integrity to it, but you kind of expect that of all artists – I think what I’m getting at is about more than just self-expression. Good artists offer us a way of feeling about the world – because of who they are, because of how they feel, and because of how they can transform that feeling into art – that wouldn’t otherwise exist. This is truly what the “creative industries” create: ways of being, ways of seeing.

Ways of hearing, too. I love the journey that listening to this album has taken me on, even though I’ve seldom returned to Oldfield’s music since then. Tubular Bells opened my ears at the right time, but more than that, I think it showed me the kind of person I wanted to be: a bit of a freak, perhaps, a bit of an outlier, of his time, happy to be nothing more, nothing less than just like himself.