Canongate Lates: Manchester Literature Festival 2014

Young Digital Reporter Alexandra Sutton reviews our Canongate Lates event with authors Emma Jane Unsworth, Zoe Pilger, Anneliese Mackintosh and singer-songwriter Karima Francis…

Upon arrival at the International Anthony Burgess Foundation, I bought my self a large glass of wine. I then nursed that glass of wine for the following hour – I was so excited to be in a room with four great, great women, that I had arrived comically early. Fortunately, I was not to be disappointed. Canongate Lates, featuring three groundbreaking writers and one strikingly original musician, was the type of event I’ll still talk about in years to come.

There was a lovely feeling of camaraderie – I got the sense that everyone was as geekily excited as I was to be there, including our tip-top host, Katie Popperwell. She welcomed us with a wise and witty speech about common depictions of women writers (let’s all stop using the phrase ‘chick lit’, please) and how the writing presented at the event felt like a ‘shift in the literary landscape.’

First up was Zoe Pilger, art critic for The Independent, PHD student and author, reading an excerpt from her debut novel, Eat My Heart Out. A tale of ‘modern hipsterdom’ and second wave feminism, her novel explores what it is to be a young woman caught between a hardcore feminist mentor and a love of Queen Bey (amongst other things, of course). Pilger noted how she and her fellow women writers are often referred to as ‘literary bad girls’, and questioned whether this was at all appropriate. I’m with Zoe on this one – these women are not ‘bad girls’, they are just women, honest, open women writers whose works are not close to the bone, rather they hack through the bone altogether.

After Zoe came Anneliese Mackintosh. Annaliese read from her collection of short stories, Any Other Mouth, and her reading was for me the most beautifully intimate and poignant of the night. She reads like a seasoned performance poet – her writing is epigrammatic, enticing and endearing, and is perfectly suited to a night of live literature. She carried us all with her through a list of funeral requests – a Roald Dahl revolting rhyme to be read, her 6 most recent lovers to attend, how she above all wants her mum – and it was just superb. ‘Each little one a howl’, said Annaliese of her stories. For me this one was a beautiful, painful swan-song.

Our final reading of the night came from Manchester’s own Emma Jane Unsworth. At risk of sounding like a complete fan-girl – I love, love, love her book. After the gentleness of Mackintosh’s reading, peppered with moments of hilarity, Unsworth’s reading was the perfect follow up. After listening to her read from Animals, my face was actually aching with laughter. I could whip out all sorts of deep, intellectual comments on her work, but surely that has to be the biggest compliment. Unsworth’s fabulously familiar accent, self-deprecating delivery and assertion that she really did meet a man in the Village named ‘Chicken Sandwich’, had us all hooked. Animals is the story of an aspiring writer and her manic-pixie-nightmare best mate, tearing through the streets of Manchester and through each other. Her novel is messy, methy, Mancunian magical realism – read and be amazed.

In a lovely end to the evening, Karima Francis played a very special acoustic set. She came straight from the studio and belted out several never-before-played songs like a complete dream. Her voice is simultaneously powerful and vulnerable – it doesn’t tug at the heartstrings, it positively tears them out. I sat back and let it all wash over me – she was the perfect counterpoint to an evening of laughter, intensity and personal insight. Ultimately, that’s what live literature should be all about – connecting with an audience who usually only feel you through the pages of your writing.  As Katie Popperwell noted, these writers offer us ‘political portraits’ that are often shattering, powerful and entertaining, but above all they are intimate and personal – these qualities shone through at this cracking event.

Singers who can't sing and cultural (s)expectations

Bob Dylan, Tom Waits, Nick Cave, Joe Strummer, and Shane McGowan have something in common. They are the distinctive voices 20th century music: raspy, gravelly, soulful, familiar, they can each be recognised after a only a few notes, and we love them for it. They have interesting voices. But, interesting covers all manner of sins, doesn't it? In this case, it's a sort of euphemism. It means, amazing and wonderful and striking, but let's face it, it also highlights the fact that none of these singers are exactly pitch perfect.

Now, I'm not saying that every musician must be tuneful - singing is a very personal thing, voices can be loved or hated, and many of the chaps I just listed are bluesy storytellers, whose voices preach like performance poets, much like modern hip-hop artists. However, there does seem to be a bit of a double standard when it comes to female artists and the quality of their voices.

We have our soul singers, Dusty Springfield, Etta James and the gang, we have pop princesses like young Miley and Taylor Swift, or folksy alternatives such as Laura Marling, amongst many, many others. The difference is, the majority of successful, mainstream female artists are just, well, in tune - at least to my untrained ear. They may have unusual styles and be distinctive, they may not all sound like Disney princesses, some of them may be autotuned (Britney, I'm looking at you here) but it's extremely rare to find a famous female singer who corresponds with the rough and ready boys club. 

Perhaps its a self-perpetuating thing. Liam Gallagher loved The Beatles, and teenage busker-boys the world over love to play Wonderwall in return for spare change and the hearts of teenage gals. If I had a pound for every indie boy I've seen mumble gruffly into a microphone, I'd be able to buy myself an auto-tune machine. 

Obviously, this isn't a catch all theory. Every now and again we get a lady-singer with a weird and wonderful anti-voice. Janis Joplin sounded like sandpaper, steel and whisky, Patti Smith like an ethereal-but-angry-Cate-Blanchett-as-Galadriel-style-wonder-woman, and Karen O, well, she takes the stage like some kind of amplified banshee goddess. These women are iconic and they are interesting, but most notably, they are marginal. You're far less likely to see a young girl take the stage at a local music night professing herself to be the new Bjork, than you are to see a gangly four-piece lad-band attempt to harmonise the latest Arctic Monkey's track. NB: A strong accent does not necessarily a solid performance make. 

An exception to this rule, as ever, is the punk scene. Bands such as Los Campesinos!, Sonic Boom 6 and the US noise-group Sleigh Bells feature female singers whose voices are completely tuneless, and it completely doesn't matter. Their voices texture the music - it just wouldn't be the same with a sickly sweet pitch perfect voice. 

However, the double standard still remains in prominent solo artists - women are expected to have either powerful voices, or sweet voices - anything less and they'll edit yo' tuneless ass. Maybe it's a relic of an angelic-voice ideal, maybe people believe that girls really can charm birds from trees with their vocal chords, or maybe, just maybe, it is yet another example of cultural (s)expectation. It's a shame really - I quite like my dulcet tones. 

Top 5 Singers Who Can't Sing

1) Bob Dylan

2) Janis Joplin

3) Los Campesinos! 

4) Tom Waits

5) And finally, Phoebe Buffay. The bad singers' singer. 

Thoughts on Festivals

Festivals are weird, aren't they? On the one hand, they are a beautiful concept; people coming together to share music, take a break from day to day life, meet people and experience a different outlook on things. On the other hand, they are completely bloody stupid; 15,000 people chucked together in a field, laced with an increasing variety of intoxicating substances, poor sanitation and insufficient wet wipes. It's like paying £150, not to mention shaving a few months off your life expectancy, to be kettled.

However, it is this bizarre juxtaposition that makes the festival such a fascinating human ritual. Rarely do you experience a totally heavenly, or a totally hellish weekend. There are glimpses of both, from the euphoria of seeing your favourite band play against the back drop of a sentimental sunset, to watching a stranger be put into the recovery position and left, alone and vulnerable, at the side of the stage. It's unnerving. It's also exhilarating. 

This unique feeling of exhilaration found at certain festivals is also what fuels (and perpetuates) a lot of the madness. At this point I should say that I have been to several smaller, family friendly folk festivals (Shrewsbury and Cropredy, you paragons of goodness) but here I am referring to the larger and slightly wilder institutions such as Leeds, Reading, Latitude, Boomtown and the like. Everyone has their own festival nightmare tale, be it tents on fire, belongings stolen, or in some very sad cases, serious illness and even death. The majority of these incidents, alongside the wonderful experiences, are the results of a series of choices. So, just what is it that makes festival behaviour and the choices we make at them such a seemingly idiosyncratic phenomenon?

Well firstly, it isn't that idiosyncratic. In any large group of people there can be hints of the old mob mentality model - in a highly concentrated festival environment this can either lead to a pseudo-dystopian every-camper-for-themselves nature, or, rather more cheerfully, an inflated sense of camaraderie, company and body glitter all over everything. The way people behave at a festival can usually be traced to everyday human traits, it's just that in an enclosed space, a short time period and an extremely stimulating environment, everything becomes heightened. For example, when I attended Boomtown Fair this year, I was aware of its reputation at "The UK's Maddest City", but I was surprised to realise that the catchy tagline was, if anything, an understatement. It was bloody mental - anarchy exemplified, tucked away in a pleasant Winchester field. Waiting beyond the sniffer-dog-guarded gates was a sensory assault; too much colour, too much noise, too much alcohol and, if the citizens of this festival town were anything to go by, too many drugs, but it sucked you in within seconds and spat you out in an alternate reality.

I think for many people, that's what the modern festival is; a disordered, alternate reality, free of the constraints of everyday society - a diluted 21st century answer to Bacchanalian revelry. It's about more than music, it is about the character you can be come when you're there, and the boundaries you can push that just wouldn't be acceptable anywhere else. Or at least, that is the romanticised ideal. Often there are darker aspects. Amidst the colour and the music and the realm of the "free-spirit" (a part-time role that can be discarded come the next working Monday), you'll find a few people staggering about, a few people lost, and occasionally a few lay on the floor that won't be able to get up again. During this year's Boomtown Fair, me and my pals saw a man collapse during a gig, and though people stood around and helped as much as they could, there was a sense that, well, there was no sense - people had become totally desensitised to some of the more disturbing sights. Half an hour later and the gig was cancelled, the crowds were herded away and an ambulance had carted the man off. I felt a bit weird, but I carried on into the night and had a great old time. I'd gotten over seeing someone have a potentially life-threatening collapse in an hour or two because the rest of the festival was still so exciting. The next day rumours spread, two, three, possibly four dead, bad batch of ketamine, etc. It was an eye-opener to say the least.

It turned out that not all the rumours were false, and that one girl did die at the festival. Obviously, it could have happened in a variety of other situations, but it gets you thinking. Are more risks taken? Do people behave differently? On the whole, I would say yes. From opportunistic theft, to risk of injury, to dressing more outlandishly, people are affected by the environment. There are seemingly less consequences and almost no visible authority, and people thrive off it. Now, this isn't a morality tale and I'm not suggesting that festivals are completely unsafe. In many ways the change in character can often be liberating, exciting and above has the appeal of being temporary. Indeed for many people the festival experience genuinely is a way of life, and catching a glimpse of that every summer is a wonderful thing.

For me, the festival will always be an intoxicating vignette; vibrant, immersive, but above all fleeting. I have had some of my most important experiences, conversations and memories at festivals, and I genuinely don't think they would have happened were it not for the particular chemistry of that environment. For better or worse, it is something to see, so for all the behavioural analysis one can muster, I think the best thing to do is take a step back now and then, talk about it, think about it, then get back in the mud and the music and the dirty, glorious nature of it all. On reflection, I'll be doing just that.