The Blue Nile
Linn Records (1989)
Working night and day I try to get ahead
But I don’t get ahead this way
Autumn 1990. Second year of university. Riding the 20 into Glasgow. Listening to this opening track as the sun comes up, golden and magical, over the hillsides of the town. My bag on the seat beside me, saving it for L, hoping the bus doesn’t fill up too much before her stop. The prospect of a cold nose pressed to mine and a sweet sticky chapsticky kiss. This album is dedicated to that memory.
I can’t go on and I can’t go back
I don’t feel so, matter of fact
I tried and tried to make good sense
What’s the good to try it all again?
This album is also dedicated to the feeling of trying to be in love with someone you know is wrong for you.
The music was always richly nostalgic, even when it was just released. It’s music with an old soul. It spoke of old truths we were only just beginning to learn for ourselves. These are songs of experience. They’re the songs of a young man, borne of world weary wisdom.
How do I know you’re feeling? How do I know it’s true?
It’s dedicated to the Glasgow we used to know, to the Glasgow we knew before we knew Glasgow. The lights we saw as children. George Square at Christmas. Sauchiehall Street. The La Scala. The Irn-Bru clock. The Corporation buses. The window displays at Frasers and Goldbergs. The cafes our grannies took us to. The places that made our early memories of the city seem tinged with sadness and distance even as we entered our 20s.
We. Our. You can get mawkish with this stuff. Indeed, there’s a whole cottage industry around Glasgow nostalgia. But this album’s not that. Its poetry celebrates the city in its ordinary aspect, doesn’t get lost in particulars. Long after it feels the song should have faded out, the final chorus of The Downtown Lights presents a perfect imagist poem of the city. There’s nothing in it that especially suggests Glasgow. It could be anywhere. But just read it:
The neons and the cigarettes
The rented rooms, the rented cars
The crowded streets, the empty bars
Chimney tops and trumpets
The golden lights, the loving prayers
The coloured shoes, the empty trains
I’m tired of crying on the stairs
The downtown lights
How could it be anywhere else?
There was a time when Glasgow was large and held many mysteries, the names of the streets still had things to declare, secrets to reveal. Whole areas remained unexplored. It was full of people I had yet to meet, had yet to fall in with, fall out with. The place had promise.
Where the cars go by
All the day and night
Why don’t you say
What’s so wrong tonight?
The parts of the city I knew from childhood were the well-worn lines between Carntyne, Cardonald and East Kilbride. Views from the back seat of my parents’ car as we did the Sunday visiting rounds. Later, the freedom of the city, pocket money bus trips into town. A few shops. The Walrus and Carpenter. The Clyde Model Dockyard. My accordeon teacher in his tiny tenement dunny above Biggar’s. From the M8, tower blocks loomed dangerously in the distance, totems of a Glasgow that was, for us, foreign and unknowable. We never went west.
I know a place where everything’s all right, all right.
It’s incredibly healing music for me. It’s an album I need to hear up close, with darkness and raindrops at the window. I need to feel it reverberate gently inside my ears, wash warmly into my heart and reassure me that everything is going to be all right. And Paul Buchanan is a singer you trust with every single breath he sings with. You believe him absolutely, even as your heart is breaking.
And if in love she cried
Something wasn’t right
Hearing this album again after a very long time, I’m curious to note that cars feature rather prominently. Neon, rain, cigarettes, trains, bars. Yes. Also cars. Which should come as no surprise, really, for a city that has long since lost its soul to the motor car.
Headlights on the Parade
Light up the way
I love you
The song is named for Alexandra Parade in Dennistoun, with its eponymous headlights shining in the shadow of the monstrous M8 motorway half a mile away. The Parade itself leads to the old Edinburgh Road – former escape route to the genteel city. My grandparents lived just off that road, on Morningside Street. I once loved a girl who lived in actual Morningside in Edinburgh. Strange connections.
My Dad’s from round here. I always assumed I’d carry on the tradition, always imagined I’d find love and live along the Parade. Walking arm in arm on a rainwashed Saturday night at teatime, going out somewhere we both like, cars swishing rainwater into our shoes. But listening closely to myself here, to these songs, I’m astonished at how much of this album has infected my dreams and desires.
The city wins while you and I
Can’t find a way
I ended up living in Dennistoun for a short time, further down towards the Duke Street end, and had a romance that outlived my stay there, but not by much. I returned several years later looking to rent or buy, and every window I looked out from, across the city I could only see memories I never had, and the lights of the Parade glinting like sweets lined up in jars.
From a late night train
Reflected in the water
When all the rainy pavements
Lead to you
This is dusk music. Crepuscular. The musical arrangements are painted in soft oils with hard edges. The band’s great skill here is to place the listener into the landscape. We’ve all been on that train.
For me, it’s the line that runs through High Street. Looking out left as you leave the city centre, high up and heading east you see the Necropolis, etched out in silhouette against a darkening sky. A girl gets on with a wet umbrella. A short story fragment, a tiny drama.
I know it’s over.
But I can’t let go.
I never really shared my love of this music with L. It was kind of a given. Everyone loved The Blue Nile. They were never a fashionable band, but they were never a corny 80s turn either. This album is so very of its time, but the music hasn’t dated. They weren’t Hue & Cry, for example, or Deacon Blue, who were exactly contemporary and who weren’t running shy of the whole pop thing the way this lot were.
I don’t know.
I stopped listening to the album after things fell apart with L. The music and the feeling of falling in love were inseparable. To hear these songs, that voice… for years the mere mention of The Blue Nile was to remind me of rejection and failure.
Who do you love?
Who do you really love?
Who are you holding on to?
Who are you dreaming of?
Who do you love?
When it’s cold and it’s starlight
When the streets are so big and wide
And I still wonder, if it weren’t for the music, would I have fallen quite so suddenly, quite so deeply for someone quite so wrong – or fallen quite so hard on my face…