Music doesn’t always have to be glorious. It’s not always arenas, outfits and flamboyance. It’s not always a sweaty night in an underground venue. It isn’t always your favourite band, you singing along to every word, wearing a t-shirt bearing their name, thinking you look cool but in reality, they think you’re a stalker. The sound quality isn’t always great, the drinks don’t have to be overpriced. The acts don’t even need to have a name. That’s the beauty of music right? All you need is three or four guitars, three of four amps, a drum kit, maybe some keyboards, microphones, brass instruments and then something that doesn’t actually cost a shit tonne of money, a handful of talent – even that isn’t always necessary. Simple, right?
Even cover bands have become slightly glorified. The Clone Roses, Antarctic Monkeys, The Fillers, Mexrissey, they’re all playing and selling-out large venues across the country, and they continue to do it year on year, even if the band they are ‘tributing’ (I prefer, ripping off), haven’t released anything new. Antarctic Monkeys still sell-out venues (maybe an option for the unlucky many who missed out on Monkeys tickets this year) despite being unable to perform tracks of AM’s new album, Tranquility Base Hotel + Casino, but then again, anyone heading to an AM tribute band probably don’t want to hear any of those songs anyway. I digress. The point is, if there even is a point here, whilst most of the music industry is a flamboyant mess of money or even a small sweaty night watching the next biggest thing, there are some occasions where music can be brought back to basics, and the past few months at a tiny student pub in Newcastle have proved just that.
A night at the pub. Friends, laughs, beers and more, even a band if you’re lucky. The Hancock pub, situated next to Newcastle University’s two libraries, has had a do-up over the summer. The rotting walls and unreliable match-powered heating replaced with clean booths and button-powered heaters. There’s not a Carlsberg in sight, we drink ales at the Hancock now, it’s bougie as fuck. Adopting a cliche New York feel, a neon sign sits behind the bar and the constantly dim lighting is a nod to the speakeasies of the past. Is it gentrification gone mad? Not really, it’s pub-evolution. The Hancock felt homely, a classic student hideout. Perfect location, when the work gets to much you can just pop down for a pint or two, or a night, maybe more? Who knows. Anyway, I’m getting sidetracked. The Hancock didn’t NEED a makeover, it did its job perfectly. It maybe needed a new lick of paint, a little bit more space, better heating. Did it need a re-branding? Maybe not. I didn’t think so, the students didn’t think so, but it clearly wanted to up it’s clientele. Students still appear in dribs and drabs, mainly banished outside or to the new upstairs section to try their hand at pool, snooker, whatever you call it. Football plays out relentlessly, although the commentary gets turned off on a Friday evening for some light (but loud) entertainment, there’s much more to do nowadays than sit, shiver and sip.
It’s a bougie little hangout now, the students have migrated elsewhere, The Hancock has adopted the feel of old Osbourne Road, the hub of Jesmond, Newcastle’s student prison, where RAHs roam around with mullets, tracksuits and disgracefully posh accents, where a Greggs is seen as stepping out of one’s comfort zone, seen as trying out the local cuisine, where the Waitrose is busier than the Tesco’s, where Land Rovers roam and Daddy’s money is spent non-stop, specifically in Bar Blanc, the epicentre of RAHness, the savanna of the posh in Newcastle.
The Hancock is so bougie in fact, they allow live music there now. Not up-and-coming new bands to push forward the DIY underground scene thriving in Newcastle right now, no that wouldn’t fit the new image, the new coat of paint on the walls, the big screens, the expensive pints that invite in the older, and stick a middle finger up to the younger. Yer da’s formed a band with his pals and scoured his 70s record collection, picking out the most obscure hits from that period of punk, as well as a few Britpop monstrosities to round the set out. Can they sing? Just about, at the very minimum level I guess. Musically talented? Sure they can play guitar, fast-fingers ‘n’ all, they’d be alright in the Wild West, those quickfire shootouts, these lot are made for it, fingers flying across the guitar’s neck, middle-aged men in V necks never looked so cool. Why give the up-and-comers and chance when you can let Neil and Steve live out their childhood dreams? Each week we rock up, rounds begin, the band plays. Maybe we’ll hear something new tonight, maybe a song from this decade? Nope. Dakota again. I never knew so many men desired Kelly Jones so much. For one night and one night only, just let them be, they just want to be Kelly, and we just sit there and let them play out their childhood fantasies. No longer are they performing in a garage, the neighbours begging them to stop, they’re not performing in front of a mirror holding a hairbrush as a mic. No no no. This is the big time. Who needs Alex Turner or Brandon Flowers prancing along to overplayed hits as you watch on from the back of a 20,000 capacity arena when you can watch Yer Da prance around also playing overplayed hits but from the comfort of a booth in the new-look pub you’ve spent more time in than you have lecture theatres since arriving up Norf.
Except these boys, and they are always boys, sometimes there’s a token female on keys who gets to sing her one ballad but it’s always lads – it’s 2018, get some fucking variety will you! Anyway, these lads aren’t playing the hits of today, no no no, Mr. Brightside is reserved for Flares and Flares only up here, instead it’s all The Rolling Stones, The Jam, Stereophonics and a token Snow Patrol song, almost always sung by the token female in the band. Which is fine I guess. The Hancock doesn’t want students in anymore. They want an older crowd yearning for their youth once again and so Friday night at The Hancock is nostalgia night. After all, to attract in the students with live music you’d need some wanky disco bangers or one of the latest grime artists, and we don’t really want that either because then the evening would become *too* serious and despite our heavy criticisms labelled at these over-aged wannabes spending their Friday’s playing to a disinterested crowd of people aiming to discuss the horrendous antics of the past week, at least we can laugh at how bad they actually are. So whilst we mock and criticise, it’s always a nice evening watching some free live music at The Hancock, but thank fuck they’ve sorted the heating out, that way we don’t have to sit inside and actually listen to it…
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