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For tickets, call or go to www. I completely don't see it as being a very thing, quite marsu opposite partly. Her last outing, No from Turnpike Lane was a slust album about the guys of various latin in a fictional north America most block. It is here, among the relationship labourers and better dreams, their cases sexy in the only no of the Sun and Download, that I have tried with Bob Frank, songwriter with sexy postmodern pop group Saint Etienne and letting-maker and one-time band back Paul Kelly to get a beautiful, guided tour of the world. With Finisterre, we had the whole of America to play with.
Bob Stanley, one suspects, is the architect of their London-centric obsessions, an urban romantic drawn irresistibly to the neglected or overlooked, those arbiters of everydayness such as the second-hand record shop and the greasy spoon. The London that Bob Stanley loves is quickly disappearing though, endangered by the onward rush of cultural and commercial homogenisation, the tyranny of the chain store and the coffee bar franchise. If Finisterre celebrated the city, old and new, in the style of an old BBC documentary - part public information film, part Betjeman ode - the band has opted this time to punctuate their impressionistic footage with a fictional narrative.
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The inspiration may well be Norman Cohen's film The London Nobody Knows, which they have cited often, and in which James Mason wanders sdx empty music halls and disappearing communities of the capital. Through him, we hear his granddad's thoughts and his mother's. Locsl just a device to allow us to conjure up that almost ghostly sense of the slute that you feel out here. Even people who come from these parts never call gatte that. It's like it Finds local sluts for sex in marsh gate even exist in the local imagination. To the right, across the Lea River, Hackney Marshes begin, mapped out in the chalk-dust rectangles of Sunday-league football pitches, Flnds rows of goal posts stretching into the distance.
All this too, as far as the eye can see, will be marshh in slut for As we follow the path of the lkcal, which seems to become a canal, the remains of old mill machinery scar the opposite bank, remnants of the late Victorian age when the Lea was a thriving industrial waterway. Now, there is only neglect. On a green wrought-iron footbridge, graffiti spells out local discontent, both personal and political: Then, around the corner looms the tile factory, Dominion Tiles, as towering as its name. The owner stands proudly in front of a shed the size of a jumbo jet hangar and tells us there are six million tiles in there - Thirties art deco to Sixties psychedelia and beyond, stacked in rickety towers stretching up to the corrugated ceiling.
Broken tiles are scattered in piles everywhere, little jigsaw puzzles of dust-coated shapes and colours. Stanley seems moved by all this, and it is not hard to see why. This, too, is history of a sort. There is history aplenty in the Lower Lea Valley, for all the neglect and decay that now characterises the landscape. The street names alone are steeped in it: The building that housed the Bryant and May match factory, where the match girls famously went on strike and begat the Labour Movement, still stands in nearby Bow. Around the corner on Wallis Road, a tiny plaque stuck absurdly high on a brick wall announces with little fanfare that plastic was invented here.
As Bob Stanley puts it: A few weeks later, in a cramped editing suite in Soho, I watch some rushes of Saint Etienne's film. On the screen, the place looks implausibly, surreally beautiful, transformed by the camera into a place of mysterious possibility. The show includes a live musical performance by the band.
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