Coffee-Table Notes

Leith Depot, Edinburgh Four stars   “Does anyone know what they’re doing?”   This is a question posed by Callum Easter as the first headline act to play the all-new Leith Depot. Given that Edinburgh venues don’t exactly open every day, Easter’s question works on several levels, as Leith Depot moves its live music operations into an adjacent ground floor unit next to its popular community centred bar.    Having survived a proposed demolition that would have seen the end of both the bar and its former upstairs space that had become one of Edinburgh’s most significant grassroots venues, and then forced to navigate assorted Covid induced lockdowns, Thursday’s official opening night resurrection was a considerable show of strength.    First up was Romanian Radio 3 favourite, Lizabett Russo, whose mix of traditional folk stylings played on a vintage acoustic guitar and wedded to vocal loops made for an ethereal and charming form of chamber pop.   Wielding an accordion and accompanied by a th

  Awopbopaloobop Alopbamboom!   That's pretty much how rock'n'roll started - not with a bang, but with a guttural shriek of libidinous intent. As the opening line of the song, Tutti Frutti, as inimitably delivered by Little Richard, the phrase lent itself perfectly to John Byrne's TV drama series about a first-generation r'n'r band's late flowering revival beyond the chickenin-a-basket cabaret circuit.   Byrne's Tutti Frutti was about the fallout of that initial musical explosion, in which emigre art student Danny McGlone returns to Glasgow from a decade in New York for the funeral of his brother and lead vocalist of beat boom veterans, The Majestics, Big Jazza McGlone.   It wasn't quite 20 years ago today that Tutti Frutti hit our screens, but, with a mere four terrestrial channels to play with then, it feels like it comes from a more innocent age. Originally shown in a graveyard slot on BBC1 opposite ageing-biker drama, Boon, its mix of pathos, int

  Milky coffee is dripping off John Byrne's moustache. Given his facial hair's already droopy protrusion, the effect is somewhere between wild west and cartoon comic. We're sitting in the Tuesday morning heart of Nairn's cafe society, ostensibly to discuss the Traverse Theatre's 25th anniversary production of Byrne's play, The Slab Boys, which opened this weekend.For those not already aware, The Slab Boys moseys through a day in the life of Spanky and Phil, a couple of likely lads who work as factory fodder in a 1950s carpet factory in Paisley. Both have ideas beyond their station, and fully intend wise-assing their way out of town and to the top.   It sounds a simple enough yarn now, but, coming as it did at the fag end of the 1970s, it set the theatre world alight, reaching the west end, and later Broadway. With its follow-up plays, Cuttin' A Rug and Still Life, it formed what we now know as The Slab Boys Trilogy, which will be performed in full in the new

  John Byrne looks like an artist. Well, he is an artist. And a playwright, film director, and set designer. But, in the studied cool of his dungarees, waistcoat, and carefully groomed moustache ensemble, he looks like an artist, full of beatnik bohemian cool as he takes a fag break from rehearsals of his latest play. And, in art as in life, image and self-mythology is everything. Byrne understands this, as do too the wave of self-conscious self-promoting art stars of the Emin and Hirst variety. And, way way back, before we were famous for 15 minutes and counting downwards, Robert Colquhoun and Robert MacBryde understood it, too.Who?     Okay, the two Roberts, both graduates of Byrne's own alma mater, Glasgow School of Art, 25 years before him, may have been all but airbrushed out of art history, but in the forties and fifties, before their Scotsman abroad act became a parody of itself, they created a considerable splash in the prissy London gallery scene and were recognised as the

When Arthur Melville died in 1904, the Forfarshire born artist left behind a life as rich in incident and colour as that in his paintings, several of which are held as part of the Fleming-Wyfold collection. The Scottish National Gallery in Edinburgh highlighted Melville’s importance as an artist in 2015 and 2016 with the tellingly named exhibition, Arthur Melville: Adventures in Colour.   In death too, it seems, Melville’s legacy continues, as a plan to restore his desecrated grave in rural Surrey in South East England runs on apace. This follows the discovery of a broken headstone for Melville’s grave by Jon Leech of the Brookwood Cemetery Society, the voluntary body who, with full support from the surviving members of Melville’s family, are seeking support from collectors of his work to help them restore the grave to its former glory.    Melville’s grave isn’t in Brookwood Cemetery itself, but, as explained by BCS founding member John M. Clarke in his book, London’s Necropolis – A Gu

Alberta Whittle took a while to get to the Venice Biennale with her film, Lagareh - The Last Born. Originally commissioned before the world closed down due to the pandemic, Lagareh finally made the trip as part of the Barbados born, Glasgow based artist’s deep  dive (pause)   uncoiling memory  exhibition that formed the Scotland + Venice 2022 programme. Focusing on Scotland’s connections to the Transatlantic slave trade as well as more contemporary losses of Black lives to racist violence, Lagareh has now come home, as Whittle’s labour of love tours cinemas for a series of screenings that began in September.    “ This is the film I've wanted to make for a long time,’ says Whittle of Lagareh. “I arrived in the UK the year Stephen Lawrence was murdered, and that always stayed with me. I remember when Sheku Bayoh lost his life, how that shook me even further, and for a long time, I wanted to find some way to really speak of these groundbreaking moments that shake you to your core.’  

Carolee Schneemann embodied an era of late twentieth century live art that was all about pushing boundaries. Works such as Meat Joy (1964) indulged in orgiastic celebrations of bodies in motion in collective acts of play. Meat Joy itself saw near naked participants roll around in bucket loads of paint while assorted foodstuffs rained down on them like an action painting come to full liberating life.   While Barbican’s overview of Schneemann puts photographic documentation of such works at the centre of her half-century of iconoclastic wildness prior to her death in 2019 aged 79, this epic homage goes a lot further. This is clear from the insistent thwack of a mechanically controlled mop beating the top of the television set it is attached to that permeates the air as you move through the exhibition. It is clear too from Schneemann’s declaration quoted at its start.   ‘I’m a painter,’ Schneemann said. ‘I’m still a painter and I will die a painter. Everything that I have developed has to