LINER NOTES: AS DOES THE SUN [2024]

 

        1.   She Knows – The Goon Sax
        2.   Slab – Wombo
        3.   David’s Dead – A. Savage
        4.   Canines – Lewsberg
        5.   Uncle Roy Orbison – Vehicle
        6.   Doubt – Stereolab
        7.   The Games You Play – Broadcast
        8.   You Look Certain (I’m Not So Sure) – Mount Kimbie
        9.   Lember Kuring – Yanti Bersaudara
       10.  Engine Number 9 – Wilson Pickett
       11.  I Want to Thank You – Otis Redding
       12.  Happy Survival – Ifeanyi Eddie Okwedy & His Maymores Dance Band
       13.  The Rain Falls Down – The Rising Storm
       14.  Tudo Comeca De Novo – Nelson Angelo E Joyce
       15.  This is the Way – The Chills
       16.  The Fix – Jon McKiel
       17.  Sin – Rick White and The Sadies
       18.  As Does the Sun – Look Blue Go Purple
       19.  Dart – Joel Gion
       20.  Dust – Parquet Courts
       21.  Memory Man – The Lovely Eggs
       22.  IDGAF – Sam Evian
       23.  Tell Me Myths – SHOLTO (featuring Elle Musa)
       24.  Look at You Now (You’re Crying) – Comet Gain
       25.  Palliative Care – Jeff Clarke
 
 
'Goon sack' is Australian slang for bag-in-box wine – specifically the bladder itself contained within the box that holds the wine. The word 'sack' is self-explanatory, but 'goon' is an abbreviation of the word 'flagon', a vessel often associated with the storage of booze. The advantages of such a delivery system is its enhanced capacity, its weight, the reduced price, and the fact that the bag slows down the rate of oxidation. The disadvantage is the quality of the wine, or lack of.

The Goon Sax are from Brisbane, Australia. ‘Sax' is clearly a reference to ‘saxophone’, so what we’ve got going on here is a play on words. Such punnery is usually a bad sign, but The Goon Sax are actually rather good. Or were. They split up in 2022 after releasing three albums over a six year period, which isn't a bad innings by any means.

It should perhaps be said that lead-vocalist Louis Forster is the son of Robert Forster, co-founder of The Go-Betweens. He doesn't sing on 'She Knows', James Harrison does, whose father I know nothing about. I heard this song playing in the St Margarets Tavern at the tail end of 2023, and almost a year later I'm not remotely bored of it.
 
Made up of 25 tunes, this year's compilation comes in at around 1 hour and 20 minutes. Compare this to the playlist I compiled in 2023, which was 24 songs long and lasted 1 hour 43 minutes. Or the one in 2021 that amounted to just 23 songs but went on for 1 hour and 39 minutes. This is to say that many of the tracks on this year’s anthology are on the shorter side, which was not premeditated.

At 1 minute 48 seconds, 'Slab' by Wombo is a case in point. Spotify recommended it in March, along with a load of other stuff I’ve already added to previous playlists. Wombo are another three-piece, from Louisville, Kentucky. Lead singer and bassist Sydney Chadwick reckons she’s a concrete slab and ‘don't align with nothing’. ‘Slab’ is taken from the EP of the same name, released in 2023.

A. (for Andrew) Savage is co-frontman of the indie-rock band Parquet Courts. He’s also recorded two solo albums: 2017’s Thawing Dawn and 2023’s Several Songs About Fire. Driving somewhere or other, Gideon Coe (standing in for Cerys Matthews) played ‘David's Dead’ (a BBC 6 session version, dated 7 Feb 2024) taken from the latter. The track was soon added to my playlist, and I ended up buying the Several Songs About Fire after finding it on sale in Eel Pie Records in Twickenham. Savage has a wonderful way with words, and ‘David’s Dead’ is no exception: ‘... and I remember what you wore: a turquoise dress and tequila grin, a mirthful mess when you walked in the door.’

Lewsberg are from Rotterdam. I was introduced to them during the same Spotify session that introduced me to Wombo. My impression of Rotterdam revolves around a squat party I went to in the year 2000, where the order of the day was drum and bass and hard techno. Lewsberg are not that. Their sound, if their 2023 album Out and About is anything to go by, revolves around a Parquet Courts/Velvet Underground type of groove with words half-spoken over the top of it. ‘Canines’ even adds a violin.

Another Spotify suggestion, but this came much later, in July. Vehicle are from Leeds, and as much as I like their name, it makes finding any information on them rather difficult – try running an internet search for Vehicle band Leeds and see what you come up with. They have an Instagram account but that doesn’t give much away either, other than that they’re snappy dressers. ‘Uncle Roy Orbison’ is the group’s second single and sounds a bit like The Stranglers with Steve Harley standing in on vocals.

In my liner notes for 2002’s Come on Let’s Go I claim that I own ‘most’ of Stereolab’s albums. Although this is strictly true, there’s an awful lot of material I don’t, if only because of the sheer weight of it. I keep meaning to buy the first Switched On compilation to add to volumes one and two (there are five in total) but have yet to get around to it. In the meantime I’ve downloaded ‘Doubt’ off of Stunning Debut Album, which is actually the name of Stereolab’s stunning debut single. It wouldn't sound amiss on many of their later records, demonstrating that the 'groop' knew what they were doing pretty much from start.

'The Games You Play' by Broadcast is taken from Spell Blanket – Collected Demos 2006–2009, the third and penultimate posthumous release since Trish Keenan's untimely death in 2011 (not counting reissues or repackaged compilations). It is in fact a re-working of the instrumental track ‘DDL’, a kind of noise experiment that appeared on a ‘various artists’ compilation entitled All Tomorrow's Parties 1.0 and was later included on The Future Crayon, a collection of rarities and B-sides that Broadcast put together in 2006. Thereafter, Trish Keenan added her vocal melody, possibly with the intention of including it on the album Broadcast were working on when she died. Given in its nature, there’s a lo-fidelity, unfinished quality to it that is actually quite pleasing. The vocal, though, is crystal clear.

‘You Look Certain (I’m Not So Sure)’ by Mount Kimbie (featuring Andrea Balency-Béarn) is another hangover from 2023, again heard in the St Margarets Tavern just across the road from where I live. [Like the London Apprentice in Isleworth, the Tavern is owned by Greene King, and they often play the same things. I made enquiries, and it transpires that their music is supplied by head office.] Mount Kimbie are part of the ‘post-dubstep’ scene, such as there is one, and have in the past collaborated with James Blake. I wouldn’t know if ‘You Look Certain’ is typical of this genre, but I suspect not. In some ways, taking into consideration Balency-Béarn’s vocal, it’s not too dissimilar to what you could imagine Broadcast doing if they were still around. It’s no coincidence that I’ve put these bands next to each other on this compilation, or that Stereolab precede them.
 

Rome

I don’t watch much television. I have no idea what precipitated the decline, but it's been like this for a while. After travelling to Naples in March and Rome in April, my partner persuaded me to watch the Netflix mini-series Ripley, which is set mainly in Italy. I was captivated, by the performances, the dialogue, Steven Zaillian's direction, Robert Elswit’s black and white cinematography, the sparing use of music, the clothes, everything.

We would all do well to dress a bit more like Dickie Greenleaf, Marge Sherwood and Tom Ripley. Instead, modern society has variously embraced: tattoos, fake tans, fake nails, fake eyelashes, multiple piercings, augmented lips, re-formatted eyebrows, a panoply of beards and moustaches, the occasional mullet, more tattoos, sportswear, trainers you can’t train in, ‘hoodies’, socks with sliders, shoes without socks, items of clothing designed to be worn indoors worn outdoors, an overly loose fit, an overly tight fit. There is nothing you can put your finger on, no defining look. The unifying quality is that there is no unifying quality.

Ripley doesn’t impose upon the viewer the era in which it is set – the early 1960s. To do so would be to invite pastiche and distract from the characterisation and the narrative. It would be equally diverting to disregard the period altogether, so we get a subtler version of it, and probably a more authentic one. It’s not just about what the characters wear but the whole mise-en-scene. The visual detail isn't beholden to any particular time or place, and the cinematic compositions might rather invite painterly comparisons to Caravaggio, Edward Hopper or de Chirico (as well as film noir).

But the clothes! There’s not much to them really, but if you want a description then you might reach for the adage ‘less is more’.

In January I was summoned to Leeds for a company meeting and a sort of belated Christmas do, which meant staying the night in a hotel. The following day I had a couple of hours to spare before the train back to London, and so took the opportunity to walk around town, Kirkgate Market, the Victoria Quarter and the Corn Exchange. I noticed how many more older buildings there were in Leeds compared to southern cities – cities that were bombed more heavily during the war – and a greater variety or architectural styles, and it was better for it. (I thought a similar thing about Liverpool, and yet that city's bombardment was second only to London's.)

The Belgrave Music Hall & Canteen is a bar on the northern edge of Leeds City Centre, specialising in pizza and live music. On my visit the DJ played some interesting records, and one in particular caught my attention: ‘Lember Kuring’ by Yanti Bersaudara, an Indonesian group comprised of three sisters. The self-titled album it came from was released in 1971, re-issued in 2023, and is described on Discogs as belonging to a genre called Indo-Pop. To my ears it sounded soulful and ever so slightly psychedelic.

I found ‘Engine Number 9’ by Wilson Pickett while trying to identify the samples used in ‘Fade to Black’ by LA Star, a rap tune dating back to 1990, and an old favourite of mine. She borrows two elements: the percussion that kicks in towards the end of ‘(Get Me Back On Time) Engine Number 9 (Part II)’ off of Wilson Pickett in Philadelphia, and the organ that features in both parts I and II as well as ‘Engine Number 9’, which is merely a shortened version of the same recording released as a single. The extended mix is better, but I felt the abridged iteration was better suited to this compilation.

The soul ballad ‘That's How Strong My Love Is’, written by Roosevelt Jamison, is covered by the Rolling Stones on their album Out of Our Heads. That same year (1965) it also turned up on The Great Otis Redding Sings Soul Ballads, a record that I do not possess. Jagger’s performance on ‘That's How Strong My Love Is’ is a strong one, but because I already know it, it’s not allowed on this playlist. Nor is Redding’s rendition; it also crops up on The Best Of Otis Redding (1972, ATCO Records), a record that I do possess. I’d somehow overlooked this fact, but it didn’t matter. On listening to The Great Otis Redding Sings Soul Ballads, it was another track, ‘I Want to Thank You’, that grabbed me. Highlights include Steve Cropper's abrupt guitar and the way Redding enunciates the line 'all of your sweet loving charm' at the end of the second and third verses.

Not for the first time, I tried tracking down the samples used by Billy Woods on the 2022 track 'Haarlem' (still no joy). In the process I somehow ended up listening to 'Happy Survival' by Childish Gambino, featuring Khruangbin, from his latest album Bando Stone and the New World. The tune is credited to both Khruangbin and a Nigerian musician by the name of Eddie Okwedy, who produced the song in its original form in the early 1970s. It is entirely appropriate that I found the song this way, given that the Billy Woods record from whence 'Haarlem’ comes from – Aethiopes – deals with slavery and colonialism, while 'Happy Survival' concerns the effects of the Nigerian Civil War, which was indirectly caused by the very same thing. 'Happy Survival' is an example of (Igbo) Highlife, a genre that originated in Ghana around the turn of the 20th century combining traditional melodic and rhythmic structures with western instrumentation.

The Rising Storm was a garage rock band from Andover, Massachusetts, known for their 1967 album, Calm Before. A lot of bands of this ilk are recognised for individual songs, rather than whole albums, which makes them something of an anomaly. An original pressing of Calm Before can fetch a four-figure sum, which is a lot of money by anybody’s standard. It is hard to understand why. It’s certainly a good record, but is it better than those of their contemporaries, by The Sonics, The Seeds, The Left Banke? Is it just down to scarcity? In any case, it’s worth a listen, even if over half the tunes are covers. Written by guitarist The Rising Storm’s guitarist, Rich Weinberg, ‘The Rain Falls Down’ isn’t one of them.

In February, to support the release of his new book, In the Jingle Jangle Jungle: Keeping Time with the Brian Jonestown Massacre, online magazine The Quietus invited Joel Gion to detail the thirteen records that helped shape his life – his ‘baker’s dozen’. Some artists seem to look at this as an opportunity to impress the reader with their musical literacy, reeling off names you’ve never heard of, which is not to say that their choices are disingenuous. They are, after all, in the music business and we should expect them to know their stuff.

No such grandstanding where Joel Gion’s concerned, he shoots straight from the hip. Beggars Banquet by the Rolling Stones, Revolver by The Beatles, What’s Going On by Marvin Gaye, Scott 3 by Scott Walker. These are not wilfully obscure selections but works that are integral to the canon. He even throws in A Storm in Heaven by (The) Verve, describing Nick McCabe’s guitar as sounding like a ‘giant wave’.

There’s still room for paths less travelled, and I followed him down a few of them. The most interesting was Nelson Angelo E Joyce by Nelson Angelo and Joyce Moreno, a one-off collaboration between two Brazilian singer-songwriters, released in 1972. It’s got a sort of folky bossa nova vibe to it, with another hint of psychedelia. The track you find here – ‘Tudo Comeca De Novo’ – is reminiscent of ‘Friends’ by Led Zeppelin, with added percussion, a softer vocal, and bells.
 
In 2023 I discovered the Dunedin Sound. It was The Clean that did, and Spotify soon started suggesting other bands that were part of the same scene, like The Chills, whom I had heard of, and Look Blue Go Purple, whom I hadn’t. The Chills are probably the best known of all the Dunedin bands, as became evident from the press coverage that followed when founding member and principle songwriter Martin Phillipps died in the middle of the year. The ‘way’ defined by him in ‘This is the Way’ is to, ‘Fill your head with alcohol, comic books and drugs.’ When I was listening to this in late spring I assumed he was pointing a negative finger at people who withdraw into themselves. Turns out that although Phillipps had been living clean for quite some while, it hadn’t always been that way, which was a contributing factor towards his relatively premature death. The lyrics, then, may well have been directed towards himself, and bring with them a sense of tragedy and loss.

I found out about Canadian singer-songwriter Jon McKiel on Spotify, prompted by the realisation that my compilation was short on minutes. Despite having never self-imposed the stipulation, I also wanted more tunes that were current, just because I think it’s a good way to anchor my playlists in time. ‘The Fix’, from McKiel’s latest album Hex, helps on both counts. ‘Sin’ by Rick White and the Sadies was discovered earlier, in June, but serves the same purpose. They’re also Canadian but have more of an alternative-country thing going on.

Look Blue Go Purple were one of the Dunedin scene’s later bands, and as a result less well known. This might also be attributable to the fact that they were an all-female group and thus not taken as seriously as some of their peers – or didn’t ask to be, or didn’t want to. It certainly wasn’t down to the music, which is great. They only released three EPs, all on Flying Nun Records – the Dunedin Sound’s primary means of communication – repackaged in 1991 as Compilation and again in 2017 as Still Bewitched. ‘As Does the Sun’ is fairly typical of Look Blue Go Purple’s work, but maybe not so much of the Dunedin Sound. What sets it and them apart is Norma O'Malley’s flute, as if Jefferson Airplane had been reincarnated as a Sarah Records’ band.

After I finished reading These Things Happen: The Sarah Records Story by Jane Dufus – quite a hefty tome – I finally made a start on In the Jingle Jangle Jungle: Keeping Time with the Brian Jonestown Massacre. Aside from the amusing anecdotes, it describes in some style what it’s like to be young and skint but somehow having the time of your life; of not being in a position to have separate summer and winter wardrobes and how a particular item of vintage clothing can mean so much. Such was my enjoyment, I thought I may as well check out some of Joel Gion’s own music. I went for Apple Bonkers, and it’s surprisingly good. ‘Dart’ is its best track, which sounds like something off of Their Satanic Majesties Request, replete with Mellotron.

Readers of my liner notes might recall how the 2020 Tour de France highlights on ITV4 contributed to that year's compilation: specifically, ‘Broadway Jungle’ by The Maytals, which played over the end credits for Stage 13. (They might also recall the phrase 'Readers of my liner notes might recall' which I used in corresponding liner notes: ‘Readers of my liner notes might recall that The Poets kicked off my 2005 anthology with “That’s the Way It’s Got to Be”.’) Whoever makes these thematic connections normally does a good job, as they did with this year’s Stage 9. Stage 9 incorporated no less than fourteen separate gravelled sections, much to the consternation of the riders challenging for the general classification. Chaos reigned. Entering one of the steeper, narrower sectors, many of the riders lost their momentum on the chalky surface and could be seen frantically pushing their bikes up the hill. Where traction was sustained, dust kicked up all around them. Hence ‘Dust’ by the instantly recognisable Parquet Courts.
 

Albarracin

Musical artistes I have seen live two times or more: Stereolab, Tindersticks, Pavement, Pulp, Corduroy, Delta, Dylan Rabbit, The Fall, The Research, Field Music, Weird War, Chain & the Gang, Escape-ism, Comet Gain, Herman Dune, Holiday Ghosts, Sleaford Mods, Public Enemy, The Clientele. And, as of October 2024, The Lovely Eggs.

My partner and I went to see The Lovely Eggs at The Garage in July 2021, an event that was scheduled for April 2020 but pushed back, numerous times, because of Covid. That had been a lot of fun, so we decided to go and see them again. It is that sense of ‘fun’ which sometimes gets in the way of the music. What with the wacky online presence (see EGGS TV), amusing song titles and the duo’s general good nature, you can sometimes forget just how good The Lovely Eggs really are.

Less than a week later, I was off to Albarracin in Spain with my bouldering pals. We flew into Valencia on the morning of the 30th October, the day after a catastrophic flood that resulted in over 230 dead. We hadn’t known the extent of it when we left England, or even immediately after we landed. The devastation was revealed to us once we’d picked up our hired van and driven away from the airport and towards the centre of Valencia itself (which was pretty much unaffected). From there, we began our steady ascent through the mountains towards Alabarracin. The Florist was in control of both the vehicle and the music, as he had been when he’d last driven us to Fontainebleau in 2022. It didn't begin well, but after a few of us complained he put on some randomised playlist more in keeping with atmosphere generated by our surroundings: long roads, rolling hills, wide open plains, that sort of thing. This was the point at which I became aware of Sam Evian.

‘Tell Me Myths’ by SHOLTO (all caps artist’s own) was something Huey Morgan played on his radio show. This addition to my playlist was impulsive, but I was still short on minutes and it’s another contemporary release. Hard to describe what it is, but SHOLTO’s Bandcamp page alludes to a fondness for ‘jazz, soul, and ‘60s and ‘70s soundtracks’. Gilles Peterson would probably play it – probably has played it.
 
Back in February I was seconded to the London Metropolitan Archives in Clerkenwell for what ended up being about a month. Despite the hour long commute, I quite enjoyed it. The people there were friendly and I liked the area. After work on Fridays I would stop off for a quick pint in the Betsey Trotwood, a lovely pub and respected music venue. It was here that I returned on my way to see Comet Gain at The Lexington in July. Stephen McRobbie of The Pastels had the same idea, although he was with friends whereas I was alone, having found nobody to accompany me.

The week before I had spoken briefly with Comet Gain's Rachel Evans at The Garage (to see The Gories), who warned me that her band were under-rehearsed. (I think she vaguely recognised me from when I'd accosted her at the Make Up gig at The Dome last year). She needn't have worried. It was a great gig, which triggered a detailed investigation into Comet Gain's back catalogue, filling in the gaps. A good place to start, for anyone with similar inclinations, is Broken Record Prayers. A collection of singles, B-sides, Peel Session tracks and various oddities, it includes 'Look at You Now (You're Crying)', their contribution to Fields and Streams, a double-CD compilation released on Kill Rock Stars in 2002. The song starts off predictably enough, but at the beginning of the second verse it descends into wall of noise and distortion. Against this backdrop, Rachel Evans holds steady, her intonation just right. They didn't play it at The Lexington, although it was a very good set.

Jeff Clarke is yet another Canadian, although he appears to have moved to Berlin, or at least that is where he recorded the single ‘Palliative Care’. According to his record label, Jeff’s recent work represents ‘a stripped-down, melancholic change of pace’ from his previous work with garage rock outfit Demon’s Claws. I infer from this that their brand of garage rock must be quite different from The Rising Storm’s. At any rate, Bretford Records’ description seems apt, and it's exactly the sort of note I like to end a compilation on. Unless, that is, I hear something I like in Bilbao at the end of the month.

[Listen to here.]

STADIA: STADIO OLIMPICO, ROME

The received wisdom is that the 1990 World Cup lumbered Italy with a whole bunch of white elephants: ill-conceived stadiums that prioritised form over function, that were badly built, badly designed and then badly maintained. There is some truth in this, but it is a truth that applies to anything and everything: shopping malls, office blocks, warehouses, schools, leisure centres, airports, train stations, bus stations, parks, carparks, highways, bridges, public housing, mansions, palaces. The built environment can date very quickly, can fall apart very quickly.

In fact, the fate that has befallen the twelve venues that were selected for Italia ’90 is not in any way equal. Two of the stadia no longer exist: the Stadio Delle Alpi in Turin and the Stadio Sant'Elia in Cagliari. Udine's Stadio Friuli has been remodelled – only the tribuna, which predates the World Cup, survives – and the Stadio Artemio Franchi in Florence is undergoing a similar process. The condition of the remaining eight is various. Until recently, Bari’s San Nicola was in a bad way, but has since  been smartened up. The same can be said for the Stadio Diego Armando Maradona, but only of its interior – its exterior is a mess. Bologna and Palermo seem to be doing ok, at least from a distance, while Genoa and Verona look to be on a gradual downward trajectory. The only grounds that have retained their character, while still being regarded as functioning international venues, are Milan’s San Siro and Rome’s Stadio Olimpico. Some will complain about the condition of the San Siro but what they’re really griping about is the lack of corporate facilities; its general condition is actually rather good. The condition of the Stadio Olimpico, on the other hand, is very good.

The Stadio Olimpico was opened in 1953, though it was conceived of in 1926. Originally known as Stadio dei Cipressi (Stadium of the Cypress Trees), it was to be part of a larger sports’ complex commissioned by the Opera Nazionale Balilla (ONB), named the Foro Mussolini. A Fascist initiative, in other words. The architect Enrico Del Debbio was given the task of realising the project, with mixed results. The Stadio dei Marmi, which is a training facility rather than an actual stadium, appears as some sort of neoclassical joke. The Palazzo della Farnesina, however (which was not part of the same project but nonetheless overlooks it), exhibits signs of Italian Rationalism. This was Fascist architecture all over, a collusion between the modern and the ancient. In any case, Del Debbio never got to finish the job; just a single tier of it, dug into the ground. Not what modern stadia – especially not totalitarian stadia – were made of.

Stadio dei Cipressi was located on an area of marshland at the bottom of Monte Mario, which despite being the highest of all the hills in Rome is not one of the seven that the city is known for. When it was decided to enlarge the ground in 1937, with an eye on hosting the 1940 Summer Olympics, Debbio’s replacement, Luigi Moretti, simply built into the hill itself, utilising the displaced soil to raise to level the playing field by four metres. The sides of the stadium that didn’t lean into Monte Mario were built of concrete.

There would be no Summer Olympics in 1940, and the stadium as it was saw little in the way of sporting action. Instead it welcomed Adolf Hitler on his state visit to Rome in 1938, staged a military celebration of the Tripartite Pact in 1941, and was used as a storage facility by Allied troops in 1944. After the war, control of the stadium was handed over to the Italian National Olympic Committee, suggesting that the idea of accommodating the Olympic Games and never gone away. In 1951, work began on redeveloping the site, headed by the engineer Carlo Roccatelli and architect Cesare Valle. (Annibale Vitellozzi, who had designed Roma Termini railway station, became involved after Roccatelli passed away in 1951.)

Central to the refurbishment was doing away with the structure’s reliance on Monte Mario. This part of the stadium was completely demolished, the hill excavated and a continuous tier built in its place, clad in travertine and enveloping what remained of the old one. The pitch was countersunk by 4.5 metres to limit the height of the stadium outside to 13 metres – it was felt that the structure shouldn’t dominate the buildings that surrounded it, nor compete with the hill. The Stadio dei Centomila (Stadium of the 100,000) as it was provisionally called, actually had an official capacity of 65,000, but considering how few seats there were it could easily hold more; at least 80,000 were present for the Italian national team’s inaugural match against Hungary. In 1960 the Olympic Games would finally come to Rome, by which time the stadium was being referred to as the Stadio Olimpico. It would be another 30 years before the ground changed in any overtly recognisable way.

 

1950s

If the World Cup final was to be played in Rome then it needed a stadium worthy of the occasion, which the Stadio Olimpico wasn't. A number of options were considered: build a new national stadium in the EUR district south-west of the capital, expand the Stadio Flaminio just down the road from the Stadio Olimpico, or renovate the Stadio Olimpico. Enlarging the Stadio Flaminio was quickly dismissed due to a lack of surrounding space, while building a new stadium from scratch was deemed too costly and too time-consuming. The Stadio Olimpico, then, would have to do.

The problem was the criteria in place for hosting a world cup final, which included a minimum all-seated capacity of 80,000 with at least two-thirds of that to be undercover. The Stadia Olimpico at that time had room for approximately 70,000 and no roof to speak of. Moreover, the stadium lacked a strong visual identity, which might not have strictly mattered but probably did, given what was happening in Milan, Genoa, Bari, Turin.

The solutions to the first two problems were relatively simple: knock down and rebuild the curved ends to bring them closer to the action, extend the Tever and Monte Mario grandstands to increase capacity, and put a roof over it all. In doing this, the curvature of the end terraces, which stood some way back from the goal-line, was reduced, bringing them 10 metres closer to the field of play. These new curvas would be 80 rows deep, meaning that the tribunes had to be extended by 20 so as to meet up with them at the top.

Once work began, it became apparent that the Monte Mario’s foundations were in no fit state to sustain the planned extension and had to be demolished. Its replacement was rebuilt in a manner that more gracefully followed the sweep of the new north and south curves, without the jarring intersections that would inflict the tribuna opposite. (It also had the unintended but beneficial consequence of freeing up room for various service facilities that would have otherwise been housed in temporary, external structures.) Meanwhile, aluminium terraces supported by wooden, lamellar beams were appended to the back of the Tever – as had been planned for the Monte Mario. The original façade was preserved, bookended by two cylindrical stairwells wrapped around columns that also upheld the roof, the only visible trace of the original construction.

The roof itself was more problematic. The initial design called for eight reinforced concrete towers with the roof suspended from it, but the Ministry of Cultural Heritage objected, successfully, on the grounds that it would negatively impact the view towards Monte Mario. Its replacement did away with the towers, thus maintaining a much lower profile, and was arguably the more attractive solution anyway. Comprised of an elliptical, reticular metal frame with a triangular cross-section, it rested upon 16 columns encircling the stadium’s perimeter, four of them made of concrete – incorporating the aforementioned stairwells – the rest steel. From the frame were attached 78 52-metre long galvanised steel cables, rather like the spokes of a bicycle wheel, which held in place the roof covering itself, made of a translucent glass-wool membrane coated with PTFE (the actual name for Teflon).

A final detail of note is the band of dark glass panels that runs around the stadium’s exterior, pausing either side of the unadorned Tribuna Tever. It was an odd choice for a building so beholden to the nature of its environment but isn’t as obtrusive as it might sound, reflecting back at you the many stone pines dotted about the area.

It has been pointed out that the Stadio Olimpico and Stadio Diego Maradona are of a similar vintage, although this neglects the fact that the Stadio Olimpico was almost entirely rebuilt for the World Cup. The point still stands. Rome has never let the situation get out of hand. It has tended to the upkeep of its stadium and to the condition of the immediate surroundings.

It is not the prettiest of stadiums, nor the most architecturally daring. The roof is the most interesting thing about it, and was even ahead of its time, but the structure itself is born out of pragmatism. The cool blue running track blends in harmoniously with the similarly coloured seating, imbuing the place with a sense of calm. Renovations carried out in 2007/08, in readiness for the Champions League final in 2009, weren’t radical but cemented the ground’s status as UEFA 5-star venue. That it was used for the opening ceremony of 2020 European Football Championships was no coincidence.

THE SARTORIAL ELEGANCE OF SERIE A: UDINESE CALCIO, 1987-90 [ABM]

 

Anyone with more than a passing interest in Italian football will probably know that the country's first football club was Genoa, established in 1893. But how many of us can name the second? Answer: Udinese, established in 1896. Just as Genoa began life as Genoa Cricket & Athletic Club, Udinese operated under the patronage of the Società Udinese di Ginnastica e Scherma (Udinese Gymnastics and Fencing Society). Such multifaceted sporting arrangements were not uncommon back then, and many an Italian team can testify to such origins. There normally came a point, however, when the football-oriented wing of these organizations would seek to establish its own identify.

For Udinese that point came in 1911, with the formation of the Associazione del Calcio Udine. Exchanging their all-black jerseys for black and white halved ones, the club registered with the Federazione Italiana Giuoco Calcio (FIGC), and were duly allocated a regional place in the 1912-13 Promozione. Pitted against Unione Sportiva Petrarca and Calcio Padova, Udinese came second in their group, which was enough to gain entry into the Veneto-Emilian section of next season's Prima Categoria, where they remained up World War 1.

Conflict over, Udinese became part of Associazione Sportiva Udinese, and the team's colours were again tinkered with: black-trimmed white shirts paired with white shorts and black socks. It was in this kit that Udinese made it to the first ever final of the Coppa Italia, losing to FC Vado by one goal, in 1922. [It should be noted that most of the so-called 'bigger' clubs in Italy were at the time registered with the Confederazione Calcistica Italiana and not eligible to compete in the Italian Cup, which was the initiative of the FIGC.] The same year the club was promoted into the newly created Prima Divisione, only to be relegated the following season.

Meanwhile, Udinese's mounting debts precipitated a separation from the Associazione Sportiva and would have ended in dissolution had the club's president, Alessandro del Torso, not raised enough money to keep them afloat. A reconfigured Associazione Calcio Udinese were promoted back into the Prima Divisione in 1825, but were relegated the year after into Group B of what was also called the Prima Divisione, given that the highest league had been rebranded as the Divisione Nazionale.

           
In 1930 Udinese advanced into a newly conceptualized Serie B as champions of the Prima Divisione, after coming top of Group C (Northern Division) and then defeating Palermo 3-1 in a played-off final. By now Udinese were wearing black and white striped shirts, a combination they would wear consistently over the course of the next five decades. Their form would remain consistent too, in a sense. The 1930s would be played out in Serie C, the 1940s saw Udinese competing in Serie B, the 1950s in Serie A, and the latter half of the '60s and most of the '70s spent back in Serie C.

It was towards the end of the 1970s that club began to revive itself. Having moved into a newly built stadium in 1976 – the Stadio Friuli, with its distinctive elliptical arch – Udinese completed a treble of sorts, finishing top of Group A of Serie C and winning both the Coppa Italia Lega Pro and the Anglo-Italian Cup. The following year, after abbreviating their name to Udinese Calcio, they were promoted into Serie A as champions of Serie B. Finally, in 1980, Udinese defeated Čelik Zenica in the final of the Coppa Mitropa.

 

After decades of sartorial stability, Udinese decided it was time for another change. Discarding the traditional black and white stripes, the club opted for a shirt con palo – literally, 'with pole'. In other words, white with a wide, black vertical stripe straight down the middle. Made by Pouchain it also featured a new crest, designed by the great Piero Gratton, depicting a zebra's head inscribed within a green circle. The badge didn't last long and was replaced in 1981 with a white shield displaying an inverted black V with a red Z beneath it – which stood for the home appliance manufacturer 'Zanussi', who had recently taken the club over – and the words 'udinese calcio' (lower case) printed above it. [For 1981-82, the jersey itself, produced by the Italian fashion brand Americanino, was adorned with the Z on its own, which I don't suppose went down very well.]

In 1984 Diadora succeeded Americanino as technical sponsor and made further alterations. The new shirt was essentially black but with a thick white band running diagonally from the left arm down across the torso, and also bore the name of a commercial sponsor, Agfacolor. Then in 1986 ABM took over from Diadora but left the shirt well alone.

 

Things came to a head in 1987. The Brazilian Zico had come and gone and Udinese's results hadn't been going their way. The club's involvement in the 1986 Italian football betting scandal saw them hit with a nine-point penalty deduction, resulting inevitably in relegation. As if taking stock, ABM reverted to the evenly gauged black and white stripes of Udinese's past. A new sponsor too: Rex, a high-end subsidiary of Zanussi. Writ in amber against a black background, and with a deliberately misaligned E, it brought welcome relief to an otherwise achromatic template – as did ABM's red, angular insignia. A neat, trimmed collar completed the look.

Udinese rounded off 1987-88 season in a mediocre tenth place, although the appointment of Nedo Sonetti as head coach in December had brought with it an improvement in form during the second half of the season. So it proved. In 1989, with the collar now removed, Udinese finished third, which got them back into Serie A. Foreign players were then purchased in an effort to stay there – the Argentines Abel Balbo and Nestor Sensini, Spanish veteran Ricardo Gallego – and a new coach too – Bruno Mazzia – while ABM reinstated the missing collars.

It didn't work out. Udinese were condemned to Serie B on the last day of the season, despite beating Inter 4-3. The club subsequently became embroiled in another match-fixing scandal that deferred their return to Serie A for a couple of years. Adidas replaced ABM before Lotto came along and ruined everything. Now firmly entrenched within Serie A Udinese's gear is currently provided by Macron, who have seen fit to experiment with the various formats of their predecessors.

STADIA: STADIO DIEGO ARMANDO MARADONA, NAPLES

 

They don’t build stadiums like the Stadio Diego Armando Maradona/San Paolo anymore. They never really did, at least not in Europe. It is an approach more common to South America.

What is this approach? An elliptical, continuous terrace with a raised, uncovered tier overlooking it, made of concrete. There are other Italian grounds built in a similar style – Lecce’s Stadio Via del Mare, Avellino’s Partenio-Adriano Lombardi – but they are much smaller and partially covered. The trend in Italy generally has been for cheaper ‘stadium’ shaped stadiums: obround arenas with straight sides and curved ends. Rectangular football grounds, traditionally referred to as ‘English-style’, used to be a rarity, which is no longer the case.

The Stadio del Sole (it officially became known as Stadio San Paolo in 1963) was constructed between 1952 and 1959 after the previous ground, in the hilltop district of Vomero, proved too small to accommodate SSC Napoli’s burgeoning popularity. Designed by a team led by the rationalist architect Carlo Cocchia, the new stadium had a capacity of 85,012. By comparison, the San Siro in Milan stood at around 82,000, having undergone a major overhaul in 1955. Both stadia were uncovered and had two lines of symmetry.

They also shared an aesthetic quality. Although shaped differently – one an ellipse, the other a rounded rectangle – the two grounds were constructed from reinforced concrete, and no attempt was made to disguise the fact. Whereas Italian stadia built during the interwar period had hidden, quite literally, behind the façade of Italian Rationalism (which used to be Cocchia’s thing, incidentally) the San Paolo and San Siro leaned towards Brutalism.

The San Paolo went further than the San Siro in that its infrastructure was left completely exposed. The nineteen 200-metre long helical ramps that enveloped the San Siro presented a solid geometry; the 56 vertical concrete ribs that supported the upper tier of the San Paolo did not. In between these ribs, at semi-regular intervals, were perpendicular stairwells working their way upward along the underside of the bowl. In common with the San Siro, plenty of empty space surrounded it providing enough distance from which to appreciate the shape and scale of the building.

Pier Luigi Nervi (responsible for the Stadio Flaminio in Rome and Stadio Comunale in Florence, and a dab hand when it came to reinforcing concrete) was said to be impressed with Cocchia’s work. It is not known whether he was similarly appreciative of Armando Ronca’s.
 

1950s

Napoli didn’t perform as well in their new environment as might have been expected, succumbing to relegation within two years of moving in. That said, the club won promotion back into Serie A at the first attempt, winning the Coppa Italia – their first major trophy – in the process. It would be another 14 years before Napoli won another, although they were consistent enough in the league, generally finishing in the upper half of the table.

In the meantime, the San Paolo was proving its worth. As well as playing host to the Italian national team, it was used for football in the 1960 Olympic Games, was the main venue for the 1963 Mediterranean Games, was selected for the 1968 European Championship (one of three grounds chosen), the 1980 European Championship (one of four) and the 1990 World Cup (one of twelve).

It was in preparing for the 1990 World Cup that the San Paolo’s troubles started, a project to be supervised by Fabrizio Cocchia, son of the original architect. Certain improvements were straightforward enough. The lower tier was reconfigured to allow for a steeper rake. The lack of facilities, and space for them, was dealt with by erecting a raised concourse around the base of the stadium. New dressing rooms were constructed beneath the running track, as well as an underground multi-storey car park with room enough for 2,000 vehicles. Red seats were installed throughout, reducing the overall capacity. The upper tier was to be extended upwards to offset this reduction, and was, but not until after the World Cup.

And then there was the roof. Not the roof we see today but the one that the architect Giuseppe Squillante had envisaged. The issue was steel and a tender involving 8.5 million kilos of the stuff. Squillante’s more elegant design only required 2 million, and so was vetoed. The covering built in its place (engineered by Luigi Corradi) wasn’t unpleasant to look at but the twenty-eight L-shaped steel masts needed to support it were. The roof itself was made up of what the manufacturer, Caoduro, called ‘thermoformed radial tunnels’ – translucent polycarbonate panels, semi-circular along the length of the overhanging beams, like inverted gutters, and triangular in between, creating a sort of concertina effect. A sizeable gap was left between the perimeter of the upper tier and the underside of the roof, letting in light, ventilating the interior, and giving the impression that the canopy was somehow floating in mid-air.

From within it didn't look at all bad. From without it was a different story. Surrounded by steel pylons, the impact of the concrete bowl was lost. The extension to the upper tier, once finished, added yet more steel and detracted from the stadium's pre-existing rim, one of its most pleasing features. The effect was of something incomplete.

1990

The 2019 Summer Universiade (University Games) provided an incentive to address some of the stadium's shortcomings, but not many. This 'restyling project' involved replacing the faded red seats with a pleasing mix of blue, grey, white and yellow ones, refitting the athletics track, installing two large digital screens, and refurbishing the changing facilities and the sound and lighting systems.

What it didn't address was the stadium's exterior, which needed, and still needs, a lot of work. The underside of the concrete bowl is spalled and the area that surrounds it is a mess. It is accepted that the best thing to do would be to dismantle the tier extension – and even the roof – but it appears that there's not enough money to be made in salvaging all that steel. Other issues include poor sight-lines, the rarely used athletics track, the perpetually empty car-park, and a reduced capacity of 54,732, which is decent enough by most club's standards but insufficient by Napoli's. The club's president, Aurelio De Laurentiis, has mooted the possibility of building a new ground somewhere else, free from the municipality's intransigency and lack of investment, but you can't see it happening anytime soon.

Yet the Stadio Diego Armando Maradona, as it has been known since 2019, is the scene of the some of the greatest moments in Napoli's history. Moreover, it generates an atmosphere and has a unique charm that can be hard to find in more modern constructions. It will gladly do for the time being.

THE SARTORIAL ELEGANCE OF SERIE A: SEVEN SHIRTS

Football shirts in the late 1990s described a sartorial nightmare, and this was as true in Italy as anywhere else. That grey and black horizontally striped 'third shirt' that Ronaldo wore for Inter. Juventus away, in which they won their last European Cup. Fiorentina jerseys sponsored by Nintendo, made by Fila. Parma in yellow and blue hoops. If they had fitted, that would have been something. Instead, they flapped about like an artisan’s smock.

One of the reasons for this was the rise of football as a global phenomenon, promulgated by the theatre of Italia '90. Hitherto, replica shirts had been aimed primarily at kids; hooligans didn’t tend to wear them for fear of attracting the wrong sort of attention. All of a sudden, football was cool, and the fashion at that time was for loose fitting clothes. Companies that had only a passing association with the game, such as Puma, Reebok and Nike, decided that they’d like a piece of the action, which obliged more established firms, such as Adidas, Diadora and Kappa, to adopt more adventurous strategies. Nothing wrong with this from a business point of view, but fashion is not the same thing as good taste. Ergo, as football became more popular, the shirts became more ostentatious.

Up until the early 1980s, they hadn’t been ostentatious enough. What changed was the introduction of polyester and the right for clubs to bear commercial sponsors. It is counter-intuitive that things like this could make a difference, but they did. Something else: back then, club badges and manufacturers’ emblems were sewn on, rather than printed, dye-sublimated or ironed, which gave the shirts a tactility that belied their true value. As well as all that, they fitted properly, were invariably V-necked, and had collars.

Here are some of the finest examples.
 

INTERNAZIONALE, 1988-89

When Uhlsport took over from Le Coq Sportif in 1988, not much about Inter’s shirt changed: the sponsor remained the same, the club’s crest, the number of vertical stripes. What did change – aside from the manufacturer’s insignia and – was the textile: polyester in place of acrylic. This had an effect on the shade of blue, making it lighter, but it also allowed Uhlsport to radically overhaul the away shirt, which was white, installing a band of alternating blue and black rhomboids printed across the front of the shirt (the same motif would be adopted by the club generally, adorning flags and tickets).

The uppercase font of the sponsor, MISURA, is a delight, as are the two red dots that form part of it. The collar is simple, sleek and in harmony with the V-shaped neckline. Finally, Inter’s now defunct biscione ensign, with the gold star above, and Uhlsport’s logo, a black stylised letter U set against a white square with a red border. It was probably cheap to make but didn’t look it. How much of this was by design is another matter.

 
 
 

SAMPDORIA, 1988-90

 

Sampdoria’s shirt rarely fails to deliver, but Kappa’s effort towards the end of the 1980s is the best of the lot. (Ennerre’s wasn’t bad either.) Oddly, what sets it apart, aside from the sinuous neckline and collar, is the italicised typeface of the sponsor, ERG. Everything else about it is routine. It has to be because there’s so much going on: the red, white and black horizontal stripes, the stemma San Giorgio at its centre, the manufacturer’s trademark. Maybe this is why in 1981 Ennerre decided to move the club’s crest to the left sleeve – to tidy it up a bit. At any rate, in doing so they made room for the coccarda, reward for winning the Coppa Italia. Sampdoria lifted the trophy in 1988 and again in 1989, so this particular jersey was never without it.

ASICS took over from Kappa in 1990 and barely changed a thing. They did, however, use a thinner material, which had the effect of altering the colour slightly, making it a touch lighter. 

NAPOLI, 1988-90

The jersey in which Napoli won their first ever scudetto is regarded as one of football’s greatest, but on closer inspection it can be found wanting. The sponsor, Buitoni, certainly looks the business, but the material – usually acrylic, sometimes cotton – belonged to a different era. In 1988 Ennerre finally got with the programme. While they continued to issue shirts made from their trademarked lanetta (acrylic by another name), they also produced a polyester version, designed more than likely for the summer months.

At the same time Mars succeeded Buitoni as the club’s sponsor, initially written in white and then, later, black – presumably to improve visibility. Napoli won the UEFA Cup in 1989 and a second championship in 1990, whereafter the form of Diego Maradona began to deteriorate. It didn’t matter: he had become synonymous with Napoli and brought them unprecedented success, immortalising Ennerre’s shirt in the process.

 

FIORENTINA, 1989-90

 

When a friend introduced me to the delights of 110 Goals Italia Style in 1989 (on VHS) it wasn’t immediately obvious just how good Fiorentina’s shirt actually was. This is because they were wearing it with purple shirts and white socks, which detracted from its magnificence. When we sat down to watch the sequel in 1990, it became apparent (about a quarter of the way into it, as Baggio curls a diagonal ball into the back of Ascoli’s net) that Fiorentina were now wearing white shorts with purple socks. As well as that, they were sponsored by local rag La Nazione, rather than non-alcoholic aperitif Crodino, whose yellow and white lettering was less conspicuous than Crodino’s yellow and red.

The shirt itself, made by ABM, was micropatterned, employing subtle shifts within the texture of fabric to create a pattern out of ABM’s logo – a stylised ‘S’ for Sportivo. It had a ribbed collar, a V-neck and was of a moderately loose fit. The badge was the same that was reintroduced in 2021: a red fleur-de-lis appended to the letter ‘F’ set against a white circle with a purple border, far neater than the distended diamond-shaped crest Fiorentina used before and after. The following year ABM reinstated the purple shorts and Roberto Baggio was sold to Juventus.

A.S. ROMA, 1990-91

Roma had to wait until 1990 before Ennerre saw fit to provide them with polyester shirts, by which time the trend for micropatterning had begun to really take off. Strangely, Ennerre seemed to hedge their bets, supplying a plain, silky version as well as micropatterned one. (Napoli were presented with the same dilemma). The micropatterned version was hardly used, yet it is the superior iteration. The NR logo, repeated within the fabric of the shirt, is a neat design, and the jersey itself is a deeper, more satisfying shade of red. This, combined with Piero Gratton’s lupetto badge and the white italics of the sponsor, Barilla, qualify it as the club’s best shirt ever. Roma did well in it too, reaching the finals of both the UEFA Cup and the Coppa Italia, losing to Inter in the former and defeating Sampdoria in the latter. 

JUVENTUS, 1990-92

While AC Milan got to dress up in polyester as early as 1987, Juventus had to wait until 1988. Strange, considering that Kappa – the firm that issued both teams their kit – was a subsidiary of a larger firm called Maglificio Calzificio Torinese. The shirt in question, when it arrived, was sponsored by Ariston, the same company that had its name emblazoned upon the acrylic sarks Juventus wore the previous season. Then in 1989 Upim replaced Ariston, whose rounder font complimented the jersey’s simplicity. However, it still lacked something, which was colour. Juventus won the Coppa Italia in 1990, which provided it. Turns out they needn’t have bothered. Kappa, in a moment of genius, decided that their logo would now be coloured green. This seemingly innocuous detail meant that when the coccarda was removed in 1991, the shirt sustained its visual impact. In fact, it looked better without it, the green insignia on the right singularly complementing the two gold stars to the left. Danone succeeded Upim in ’92, and the svelte neckline and collar – the same that had graced the shirts of Sampdoria and Milan – were exchanged for something more substantial. Still a good effort, but the 1991-92 iteration takes the honours.

TORINO, 1992-93

By 1992-93, Italian football strips were on the slide, Umbro and Lotto being the main offenders. There were still some quality shirts knocking about – Brescia, Roma, Milan, Pescara, Juventus – but only one that really mattered: Torino’s. ABM were responsible, in a working relationship that stretched back to 1990. Nothing much changed throughout their three-year tenure, save for the sponsor in ‘91 (from Indesit to Beretta) and the introduction of a polo-style neck opening in ’92. (ASICS did a similar thing with Sampdoria’s jersey the same year but couldn’t resist adding horizontal stripes beneath the placket; less is always more.) Unlike with the shirts they’d supplied for clubs like Fiorentina, Pescara and Piacenza, ABM never embellished the fabric with their emblem. As a result, the deep burgundy really jumps out at you and contrasts nicely with the small amount of blue that features in Torino’s badge. It’s that collar that does it, though.

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If football tops like these were typical of the late 1990s, then they would be highly prized, the reason being that people of a certain age became fans of Italian football off the back of Gazzetta Football Italia, which ran from 1992 through to 2002. It’s question of cognitive bias: not of objective value judgements but subjective realities based upon nostalgia and fond memories. Precedently, football shirts had been governed by practical necessity, and were all the better for it. Thereafter, they became fashion accessories, as preposterous now as flares, bubble perms or a particularly bushy pair of sideburns.

[For a more in-depth analysis of each of these seven shirts, follow these links: Inter, Sampdoria, Napoli, Fiorentina, Roma, Juventus, Torino.]