Northern Rock
Axes, hammers and footballers’ wives in Manchester.
And you, forgotten, your memories ravaged by all the consternations of two hemispheres, stranded in the Red Cellars of Pali-Kao, without music and without geography, no longer setting out for the Hacienda where the roots think of the child and where the wine is finished off with fables from an old almanac. Now that’s finished. You’ll never see the Hacienda. It doesn’t exist. The Hacienda must be built. - Ivan Chtcheglov, October 1953
It was a typical night: about 50 odd people in this large space. Another nail in the coffin for the economically suffering nightclub. But to me, it was fantastic. The DJ was playing something fresh that I hadn’t heard, the bar was open and I had finally set foot on the hallowed turf that was called The Hacienda. I was to go again. It was fine. Probably a lot better than the first time. But as is usually the case – that first time is special. But that memory too, has been blurred. As much by the wine as by the fables of an old almanac.
Now, I am back at the scene. About 15 years has passed. I am standing on the corner looking at where the 1890’s red brick warehouse once was the centre of Universe. Beside me flowers spell the word TONY and underneath are more flowers, not spelling anything but all in unison saying what a sea of notes, cards and even a scribbled on vinyl record is saying; ”RIP Tony, thanks for the memories, you made this town what it is”.
Anthony H. Wilson, the founder of Factory Records, sadly passed away, defeated by cancer, a few days earlier. Ironically only two weeks before the Hacienda 25-year celebration night (hosted at present day nightclub Sankey’s Soap), and at a time when FAC491 – Hacienda The Exhibition has just opened at the architecturally flashy Urbis Centre. Now, the former yachting showroom which later became the nightclub that imported Madonna, House music and Ecstasy to Britain, created the Madchester scene and in the process was singled out as the birthplace of the nineties, is no more. But the spirit lives on. ‘The Hacienda Apartments’ reads the big sign on the wall of the building. I glance through the window to the tenant’s private parking garage. Between the parking spaces I see pillars with the recognisable hazard warning stripes on them. I look at the pillars, turn around and look at the flowers. And towering behind I see the Manchester Hilton Skyscraper. Times have changed. I walk up towards Oxford Road.
When I started to come to Manchester I was around twenty. It had everything I was into. There was the music, there was the nightlife and of course, there was the football. At the time, Manchester seemed very rough. In contrast to London, where I always felt safe, in Manchester I had the feeling that I always had to look over my shoulder. It might sound strange now, but that was part of the attraction. The old industrial giant wasn’t doing as well as in decades before. Old run down buildings dominated the cityscape and the drugs and the tough environment had media create the terms ‘Gangchester’ and ‘Gunchester’. I didn’t see much of it on my visits. And when you’re young you don’t really recognise the dangers and threats around you. There are a few incidents that spring to mind though. Once, I had made a call from a phone booth and was going to walk the two minutes back to the house where I was staying in the run down area of Hulme. There was only one problem. Between me and the front door were three or four people around an impromptu bonfire. It wouldn’t have seemed as much of a problem unless one of them was wielding an axe, repeatedly hitting it on the ground. I took a slight detour and put on my most fearless look trying to act as if this happened to me every day. I received a fistful of verbal abuse but stayed clear of the axe.
A second incident came after we had followed Manchester City to an away game at Everton. As we left Liverpool Lime Street on the last train of the night, a good few hours after the game, me and my friend (the editor, ed) realised that we didn’t have any accommodation sorted so we were sounding out the possibility of staying the night at some other fan’s place. The lads said no problem and this curly bloke named Stewart volunteered to take care of us. He lived in Moss Side. An area which during the ’70s and ’80s was dubbed “The Bronx of Britain” and could very well have been one of, if not, the roughest neighbourhoods in the country. Like most flats, Stewart’s place had a front door. The difference was that his stood beside where it was supposed to hang which meant that anyone could have walked in to the apartment at any time. No particular worry to Stewart (neither was the broken windows temporarily fixed by cardboard), but me and my friend insisted on having a hammer and a cs-gas canister respectively in our hands under the pillows that night. And we did hear a loud bang, but weren’t sure if it was a gunshot or not.
Then of course, I was once chased through Platt Fields park by three nutcases and on another occasion a friend and I happened to find ourselves surrounded by a black youth gang on BMXs who wanted to know our business around Princess Road/Claremont Road at the wrong time of day. I mean what WERE we doing there anyway? Two Swedish guys, we couldn’t even understand their mancunian street lingo. When they realised that we were neither looking for drugs nor had anything worth stealing they shook their heads and sped off.
But all those things could have happened anywhere. You probably do find things like that in just about any town in England if you ventured into dodgy areas. But the city centre wasn’t very rosy either. And passing through metal detectors when you go to a club is something I wasn’t very used to.
I suppose you can still find all that today, but nowadays Manchester seem to be a million miles from the run down image it gave visitors 15 years ago. Few places have seen so many cranes at work simultaneously, old houses knocked down, swish glass facade buildings erected instead. It seems modernism, design and new urban thinking are reviving the city’s image, torn for so long. Among those many symbols of the new fancy looking Manchester is the Lowry Hotel. We are not staying there but decide to go there for a drink. A pleasant environment, good cocktails and with a bit of luck perhaps even some eye candy.
The bar is divided in four or five half open rooms with four tables in each. As I find my way to my friend Johan, with a cocktail in each hand, I see that most irritating football player from Manchester United, Ronaldo. More to do with a table in the restaurant being ready than with me arriving on the scene I hope, his company gets up to leave as I walk in and sit down at the next table.
Every detail of the interior has clearly been evaluated before being installed. We wonder if they ever thought about placing us here or if they would have preferred us over in that corner? We reach the conclusion that we are better off here because of the colour of our shirts. The service is impeccable as are the cocktails and the atmosphere is very laid back. Maybe that’s why it attracts footballers, because the next people to walk in and sit down in our little room are England player Owen Hargreaves and his good looking girlfriend, who Johan immediately falls in love with. He always claims he can play a bit, but I’ve never seen it, and I tell him to forget it. She plays paper, scissors, stone with Owen and we don’t really see who’s winning but the prize was apparently sushi because five minutes later two star struck Swedish boys had their eyes firmly fixated at this Canadian temptress (yup, she’s Canadian, Johan looked it up on the web) as she was unsuspectingly (we hope) munching away on the no longer leaping salmon.
To make the scene even more surreal, the next people to walk into our little area of the bar is our compatriot Sven-Göran Eriksson and his two Swedish assistants. Sven and Owen seemed to be very good friends and Sven rushes up to his room to get some brochures because Owen, just like Sven, was house hunting. We say hi to Sven’s assistants, one of whom has been working as a pundit at the same TV channel where Johan works – which was good or we would have felt like complete stalkers.
Soon we’re walking along a quiet Deansgate. We pass the indie Mecca 42nd Street where I suspect time has stood still since 1995. Along with 5th Avenue they were places that we would frequent in the mid ‘90s when a good friend of ours was going to Manchester University. Those were the times when college girls, Charlatans The Only One I Know and a kebab at Abdul’s were the three vital ingredients for a successful night. Now, we’re trying to look for the changing face of Manchester. So we move on and venture into a bar or two on our way back to the hotel, but find nothing worthy of a mention.
The next day I’m on a walking tour of the city to see all the existing architecture as well as whatever else is on its way up. A project called Spinningfields catches my attention. A completely new business and shopping district in the middle of the city. The six-acres of public realm large project is to hold offices for 25,000 people, 400 apartments, a five star hotel plus 400,000 square feet of retail space where, among other things, you’ll find a Giorgio Armani flagship store. The sophisticated architecture, contemporary piazzas and an emphasis on lighting are cornerstones in their aim to create a vibrant and cosmopolitan area that will rival anything you can find around Europe.
Glass facades are apparently the flavour of the month because most of the new buildings I see in town seem to have them. One such building is the Manchester Hilton, where someone has made the nice gesture of putting our names down on the list for their skybar Cloud 23. They would be happy to see us talk about their bar in print according to the person putting our names down. We arrive stone cold sober and see intoxicated office types in all kinds of clobber ahead of us in a cue to the elevator. A blonde woman approaches us with a long list in her hand. Perfect I think, they have a hostess to make us feel welcome. She says that unfortunately we won’t be let into the elevator and up to the bar. I am not sure, but I think it’s our shoes. We’re both wearing trainers. Johan is in a pair of clean, smart looking Prada while I’m wearing Christian Dior. I kindly introduce myself, explain my business here and say that my name is on the list. Without looking she replies no it isn’t and that more or less was that. Johan laughs, but hey, there’s many other places in Manchester we could go too. And it’s only 7.30.
We are hungry so we head for one of the tapas bars on Deansgate – La Tasca - where we sample their kitchen, drink wine and talk to people. This we do for a long time. Too long. Then we go home.
Another step in the dramatic transformation of Manchester has been the Ancoats revival. Ancoats, a 15-minute walk north of the city centre, used to be a thriving industrial area during the height of the city’s cotton trade, and what made Manchester one of the wealthiest cities in the world 150 years ago. As the industry quietly died down, the empty multi storey mills and warehouses stood as the foremost symbol of the ensuing decay. The tremendous riches amassed during the industrial revolution seem long gone. But with multiple cranes working and housing developments such as New Islington you can see that the area is slowly springing to life once again. In the wake of the last decade’s economic boom and rising property prices, a few newly erected luxury apartment and office buildings are carefully dotted around the area – looking very alien and not yet completely at ease in their new yet to be completed surroundings. Just like in the city centre, the invigorating clash between the new and the old is drastic and remarkable.
Ever since we ran out of use for cotton and corduroy and the industrial world no longer had Manchester as its hub, only music and football has kept Manchester on the map. And football is another area where the clash between the old and new is ever so apparent. To be honest I’m a nostalgic. I miss the terraces, the dire football, the snowy pitches and the some times orange ball of the eighties. The atmosphere will never be the same in this age of corporate hospitality and prices that many of the old football-going working class no longer can afford. Football has sold its soul. The change has been dramatic, the atmosphere is not what it once was. But you still find a lot of the vibe from old times if you know where to look. In the pubs around Eastlands, The City of Manchester Stadium, on a Sunday morning in August for example. Within a couple of hours Manchester will see their two teams clash in the quest for bragging rights. Very few games in Britain can match up to this fixture. The passion is immense and the hatred is clearly visible. In the large and unbelievably packed beer garden and adjoining car park, hundreds of ‘grizzlers’ are downing ‘stellohs’ or any other preferred drink of choice with a remarkable speed in between singing a vast array of Man City songs. And this is the quiet part of this massive pub. Inside the doors a few hundreds more are bouncing around to the DJs predictable choice of Oasis, The Smiths, The Doves, New Order, Stone Roses and Happy Mondays. Every song amplified by the 500-strong sing-along choir before they drown the sounds out with yet another Manchester City ditty. We stay on the outside. Not that we have much choice. Here you pretty much go where the crowd wants you to. Before it used to be like this in the stands too. Now we’re about to get a two-hour rest from the mayhem when inside the stadium. Maybe it’s for the better anyhow, it feels like I’m getting old.
The seats are comfortable, the leg room enough, the view incomparable to that in the old times and the beers and hot dogs are unbelievably pricey. The contrast of seeing all these people who might seem to not behave very civilised and the plush surroundings they find themselves in is weird. Most people aren’t so fond of the change, and with this being the derby anyway most will just stand up for the majority of the game.
The place virtually explodes half way into the first half. Geovanni, one of City’s new Brazilian players, bends in a shot from distance and 40,000 plus go absolutely mental. As the score remains the same until the final whistle the singing grows louder and louder before everyone (well, almost) goes home with a smile on their face. No matter how the rest of the games go, bragging rights for the next six months firmly belongs to the fans of what someone dubbed Réal Manchester.
What better way to celebrate what was a very good football result for the whole free world than to have a quiet meal with a lady in a nice restaurant. We had a table booked at the stylish Malmaison, which I previously only knew did nice rooms and comfy beds from a prior visit in Belfast earlier in the year. It turned out that they did at least as good food as they do rooms. The exquisite dinner and perfect wine recommendation aside, another great pull with the Malmaison is the interiors. It’s intimate and atmospheric, and they seem to have built this whole venture round the concept of a dramatic and eye-catching gothic style. The colouring goes from bright red to black with every shade in between, and the dim lighting add to the experience. And if you’re just not hungry, seriously contemplate a visit to their bar for a glass of wine.
Full, tired and tipsy we tip toe past Piccadilly Gardens and pass by St. Peters Square before turning into Oxford Road where we pass the legendary headquarters of Manchester’s long running funky club night Electric Chair. I immediately get the bouncy beats of new song Get Up by Elektrons (who organise Electric Chair) on my brain. We crash into bed in our hotel - the Palace. The classic hotel with its famous clock tower on Oxford Road might not be as trendy as the aforementioned Lowry or Malmaison but if you value history and character it is a very good choice. Personally I love the location too, mostly from spending very much time in the southern part of the city 10-15 years ago. A recent refurbishment made the Palace four star standard too.
New day. Fortunately I wake up at the same place where I fell asleep, the giant bed that takes up most of the room. Not really in the mood to leave that comforting place, and if I had too, there was only the bathtub I could see as an alternative.
The Manchester Evening News with the headlines CITY ARE BACK and BLUES IN DREAMLAND convince me otherwise and this one young lady use my urge to read the paper as a cunning plan to get me downstairs to the breakfast restaurant. The highlight of the morning is neither the eggs nor the muesli; it’s the way the Manchester Evening News have presented the Premiership table. With Man City sitting proudly at the top, they had made it even better looking by omitting the bottom four to give the impression that Man United were last. Sweet.
FAC491 – Hacienda The Exhibition is on show at the Urbis Centre until February-08.
Words Peter Steen-Christensen
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