LINER NOTES: THE EVOLUTION OF THE MIX-TAPE [1992-93]

No one would have believed in the last years of the twentieth century that the word 'mix-tape' would continue to resonate well into the next. The physical archetype practically obsolete, it has been superseded by the 'playlist', but the concept is the same and the term 'mix-tape' is understood as its equivalent.

There was nothing wrong with cassette tapes. With the right equipment, you could record onto them from vinyl, compact discs, the radio, and other cassette tapes. The point of engagement was controlled manually and so periods of protracted silence before and after a particular tune could be edited away. Volume could be regulated too, although you needed to have an ear for it. Finally, they normally came packaged with a J-card insert and a set of rectangular labels, allowing for a DIY aesthetic that other formats have since lacked. Their weakness lay in a tendency to physically unravel, and the fact that you couldn't determine very accurately how much free space there was left to record upon; a song might cut out at the most inopportune moment. Tape 'hiss' was also a thing, but you got used to it.

Cassette tapes were superseded, with respect to the making of mix-tapes, by the MiniDisc. People who used them remember them fondly. Their size – and of the MiniDisc players themselves, compared to portable cassette players – was conveniently diminutive. The MiniDisc could be edited with unprecedented precision. Track listings could be shuffled at will and undesired periods of silence retrospectively isolated and excised. You could delete individual tunes if you got bored with them and replace them with others.

The format’s only evident drawback was its packaging. The sheaves those 68 x 72 x 5 mm housed discs slotted into offered small room for manoeuvre, and it was often a challenge to annotate track listings of any length, or those of groups and songs compromised of many characters. Another concern was the same that plagues all digital forms: once a disc or machine begins to play up, that's that. I’ve disentangled many a cassette from its player and, using a pencil hexagonal in section, wound the tape back around the spools. There is no equivalent remedy when faced with a malfunctioning disc.

The MiniDisc began to die off sometime during the first decade of the 21st century. The iPod was undoubtedly responsible, and the MP3 player soon became ubiquitous. This represented more than simply a change of format. In some sense the MP3 player is an entirely disposable device. Portable cassette and MiniDisc players were something to be valued in the same way that hi-fi systems once were (still are by people who take an interest in such things). The iPod and the MP3 player, while not necessarily unattractive, did not leave so much of an impression, the size being prohibitive to the variance in configuration and design enjoyed by their predecessors. They were utilitarian, mere conduits designed to be tucked away into a top pocket, to travel light with. Moreover, the absence of any external data storage device, to be manually inserted into your player, meant that the mix-tape became something that existed as a file in Your Documents, and later as a playlist on Mixcloud or Spotify. It was no longer a physical thing. It was now an abstraction, a concept, and a malleable one at that. The 21st century is not interested in permanence.

This more disposable approach is not altogether a bad thing. Since owning a laptop, and utilising MP3 technology, I’ve been able to create notional playlists at will, as and when I acquire the digital information to satisfy them. Moreover, the means by which data is obtained (downloading, ripping) are not as awkward as the real-time transference that recording on or from a tape or MiniDisc required. A playlist can be realised in a very short space of time, almost frivolously, and edited ad infinitum. Still rather have some sort of physical evidence that your playlist constitutes more than just digital information? Then burn it onto a CD.

This is what I’ve been up to. Not long ago I suffered a meltdown of my laptop and feared I may lose the playlists I’d pieced together since surrendering myself to the MP3 format. Fortunately, I succeeded in backing up most of my content before the laptop finally packed itself in. A piecing-together process ensued, and I decided I’d better get around to what I had intended to get around to years ago. The discs themselves aren’t so important. I may never even play them and will more than likely be able to transfer the material over to future laptops (or onto as yet uninvented data forms) by way of the memory stick.

The exercise is one of consolidation. Over the years some of my playlists have become distorted, or have gone missing entirely, in between format changes and the migration of information. I have had to reconstruct certain arrangements from memory alone. In some instances, I am no longer certain they existed at all. They are the sum of many parts, but they do represent something or other: a time and place, a house lived in, a particular pub, a state of mind, or maybe a journey taken to a foreign land.

The autumn of 1993, and I'd not purchased a hip hop album since The Pharcyde's Bizarre Ride II the Pharcyde nearly a year prior. I sensed this purchase to be symbolically conclusive of something, or an indefinite cessation of affairs at least – a result of the fashion for ‘gangster rap’ that had begun to proliferate, which I wasn’t into. In the interim I'd enjoyed a dalliance with Acid Jazz, my father's collection of jazz proper (by no means exhaustive), and an incipient interest in 'indie' music that I was intent on developing.

It was an odd period of my life. From 1988 through to 1992 I’d listened almost exclusively to hip hop, which lent itself to the compiling of compilations, but now, in this transitory phase, almost none – or nothing that was not already in my possession. Had I ever put something together to represent 1992/93 – my A-level year, the year I turned 18, an enjoyable year – it could have run something like this:

1.  Besame Mucho – Wes Montgomery
2.  Far More Blue – The Dave Brubeck Quartet 
3.  Poova Nova – The Dudley Moore Trio
4.  Afinidad – Erroll Garner
5.  Call Me – Jimmy Smith and Wes Montgomery
6.  Hercules – Aaron Neville
7.  Grounded – Gloria Taylor
8.  The Girl Who Was Death – Corduroy
9.  BNH – The Brand New Heavies
10.  Riot On 103rd Street – Mother Earth
11.  New World Order – Galliano
12.  Retro-Active – Too Darn Hot
13.  Atlas – The Robin Jones Seven
14.  Little Green Bag – The George Baker Selection
15.  Hounds of Love – Kate Bush
16.  Shallow Then Halo – Cocteau Twins
17.  Dusted – Belly
18.  World Leader Pretend – R.E.M.
19.  Someone Keeps Moving My Chair – They Might be Giants
20.  Weirdo – The Charlatans
21.  So Young – Suede
22.  Rid of Me – PJ Harvey

This list chronicles a more enthused excursion into soul and jazz than I’d cared to remember, but it explains how I must have got by on not adding to my hip hop collection. A couple of these tracks resurfaced on future compilations, and around the turn of the millennium I would explore the genre in greater depth.

The inspiration in the first instance was hip hop, especially those acts who sampled jazz and funk. This was compounded by the discovery of a club night called Jelly Jazz taking place every Wednesday at the Quay Club, a small establishment overlooking the Barbican in Plymouth. My forays into nightclubbing had been generally disappointing up until this point: Ritzy, the Warehouse, house music all night long, and the spectre of violence. Jelly Jazz provided an alternative outlet and broadened my musical palate to incorporate soul, funk and Latin music. I'd go there with a few friends, wearing a Brand New Heavies T-shirt, but also a pair of Dr Martins because I had yet to discover the desert boot or old school sneaker. The crowd that gathered there were eclectic bunch, so it didn't really matter. I don't suspect drugs were particularly prevalent, although I’d have been oblivious to it even if they were. There was certainly never any fighting. Some local cat used to stand around wearing flared jeans, a roll neck jumper, Chelsea boots and a leather jacket. My friends and I thought he was really cool but didn't have the confidence to plagiarise his look.

Acid Jazz was a strange phenomenon. Groups such as Corduroy and the James Taylor Quartet took their lead from the swinging sixties – E-Type Jags, Michael Caine, the Hammond organ. The Brand New Heavies and Mother Earth erred towards the funkier, seventies end of the spectrum, with soulful vocals thrown over the top of their retro wig-outs. Corduroy and the James Taylor Quartet wore their hair short, were clean shaven, almost beatnik in appearance; The Brand New Heavies and Mother Earth were more hirsute – especially the latter – and wore beads and flares and Cuban heels. It was all very retro before retro became the thing, before the independent music scene appropriated it.

Acid Jazz was also a record label that as well as releasing records by current artists re-released rare grooves dating back to the 1960s and ‘70s. Taking the the Acid Jazz compilation Totally Wired 6 as an example, of the nine tracks that comprise it only six are contemporaneous. Interestingly, of the three that aren’t, I’ve included two on my notional compilation: 'Hercules' by Aaron Neville and 'Grounded' by Gloria Taylor.

Looking back, it's hard to know when and why I started listening to indie music. I know where I got the stuff – off my friend Dan, at his discretion – but what was it that piqued my interest? It certainly wasn't anything to do with ‘grunge’ – Nirvana held no sway – and the prevalent vernacular among my comrades was dance music and rave culture (although there was probably more interest in alternative music than I observed at the time).

It could have been this: Sheffield Sound City 1993: 'One Week of Music Live to the Nation on Radio 1'. I chanced upon it, an incidental sally into uncharted territory. I recall hearing 'Weirdo' by the Charlatans, which was great; something by the band Kingmaker, which begged indifference; and 'Glam Racket' by The Fall, which bewildered and intrigued in equal measure.

This was after 'baggy' and before 'Britpop'. These were the years in between when indie bands didn't tend to bother the top ten and being into this kind of music could invoke the rancour of those who weren't. Youth culture was clearly demarcated, and even a fondness for something as ostensibly benign as the Red Hot Chilli Peppers could attract negative attention. If you were into The Levellers then you'd better watch out (I liked neither).

What was it that drew me in? What was it that made me buy the April edition of Select magazine without knowing anything about the band names featured on the cover, and what was it that I could have possibly got out of it other than the free Reservoir Dogs poster? Did in fact my desire for a Reservoir Dogs poster inadvertently determine the course my record collection would take over the years that followed?

STADIA: FRATTON PARK (PORTSMOUTH) AND HOME PARK (PLYMOUTH)

The Good Companion pub on Eastern Road, less than half a mile from Fratton Park, where the fans of Plymouth Argyle have gathered before the game against Portsmouth. This assemblage cannot be offered as a cross-section of Plymothian society, but they are legion: the total attendance of away fans on the day will reach 2,405 – way above average for League Two. Many of the older supporters look out-of-shape, unwell, lacking any concern for their appearance. The younger are more neatly dressed but have drank too much, some of them spilled over tables next to barely touched pints, others behaving more boisterously. The bar is at least three deep, and this is not a small bar. The staff is doing its best to chronologise service, but it cannot be guaranteed. There is queue for the men’s toilet that leads well out of its door. Approximately 90% of those present are male, all are white. There is nothing to fear; the partisan is reactive, moved to oppose only when opposed. The atmosphere is congenial, if unrefined. Pasties are being hawked in the car park.

The North–South divide is mythic, a dichotomy that supposedly hard northerners perpetuate when wishing to denigrate supposedly soft southerners. I determine so because whenever I've travelled somewhere in this respect considered 'north' – Edinburgh, Sedgefield, Leicester, Nottingham, Grantham, Cardiff, small towns and villages in Wales and Lincolnshire – I've found the manner and attitude to be comparable in tone to that found in places like Plymouth, Bristol, Exeter, Torquay, Southampton, Portsmouth, small towns and villages in Cornwall and Somerset. The implication is predictive by dint of geographical allusion: it is not a North–South divide at all but a South East–the rest of it divide.

This still doesn’t quite satisfy. Romford and Southend hint at trouble, Cambridgeshire is as bleak as hell, and I’ve heard the Medway towns are very rough also. Jonathan Meades talking to The Quietus:

I don't think the South is a paradise, that's a complete nonsense. I have a friend who grew up in Liverpool 8 above a pub, and he went to university in Southampton and he said that Liverpool will kick you but then say, ‘Sorry, whack,' but Southampton will just kick you. We're talking about places that are hard, without any doubt, especially port towns – Plymouth and Portsmouth as well. Say if you go to the Medway towns, they're very hard and rough places.

My formative years spent in Plymouth give credence. Whenever I return from London I’m reminded of the variance in mood, the dissimilar mores. The city isn’t as violent or shabby or parochial as it was, yet there’s still something inured about many of the residents. Not a more pleasing quality necessarily, but maybe more sincere.

Specks Lane around the back of the away (‘Milton’) end at Fratton Park, the sort of passageway you wouldn’t want to be caught walking along, having visited as an opposing spectator, by an active mob of Portsmouth fans coming the other way. The rear gardens of terraced houses look over it from behind breeze-blocked walls and incongruously large flat-roofed garages. Facing this are graffiti covered concrete slabs aligned vertically, like a portion of the Berlin Wall. This is by far the cared less for quarter of the ground. Signs assert “No Smoking”. Fag-butts, ubiquitously littering a weedy declination held in place by those concrete monoliths, suggest otherwise. This is what all inner-city football grounds were once like, built ad hoc, giving rise to strange wasted spaces with no access; buildings born of utility, it is the spectacle within that counts.

The view from the Milton End may be the best Fratton Park offers: the South Stand to the right, North Stand left, the Fratton End straight ahead with just four spindly stanchions required to carry the corrugated iron roof above it. If the goals go in here you won’t miss a thing. The South Stand is by far the most interesting, dating back to 1925, designed by Archibald Leitch (responsible for the Johnny Haynes Stand at Craven Cottage, Ibrox, much of Villa Park, etc.) and one of the few examples of his work that remains. The North Stand exhibits a certain charm too: its rectangular shape is compromised at one end, rather like Everton’s Goodison Road stand. (It is unclear why as behind lies simply a car park, as opposed to the residential housing that hampers at Goodison.) Both stands are double tiered but the South Stand more elegantly so. The Fratton End is an example of the sort of single-tiered structures built over the last twenty-odd years where clubs have been unable to redevelop, or move away from, their existing ground – or there just isn't the attendance to justify it. In and of themselves they’re rarely much to look at but are usually raked more steeply and their roofs cantilevered, which benefits sight-lines greatly.

Portsmouth was competing in the Premiership as recently as 2010 and had intended to build a new stadium elsewhere in the city. Following the club’s calamitous decline these plans were shelved. Vague ideas concerning the redevelopment of Fratton Park have since been proposed but such schemes are unlikely to come to fruition while Portsmouth remains playing in League Two. Yet how many other clubs’ home fans get to enter their ground via a mock Tudor façade dating back to 1898? And despite the business parks to the west (a contemporary conglomeration of hotels, supermarkets, gyms and fast-food establishments) and north (red brick industrial units and warehouses), much of the surrounding area is still residential. There are parks nearby too.

View from the Milton End. Archibald Leitch's stand is just visible to the left.

Central Park, not New York but Plymouth. See it on a map, it’s no token recreational space. There is: a library; a clinic; pitch-and-put; 5-a-side; extensive leisure and sporting facilities in the form of the Plymouth Life Centre; allotments; a cemetery; a number of playgrounds; a bowling green; a baseball field; more allotments; ample seating; Home Park – residence of Plymouth Argyle Football Club.

Central Park is 'trust land', which is how it continues to exist – only leisure related facilities may be raised upon it. Like much of Plymouth, it undulates. Home Park occupies the western apex of the park adjacent to a large open carpark that adjoins Outland Road (a component of the A386, which continues up to Dartmoor and ultimately as far as Appledore on Devon’s north coast). To the east this verdant landscape falls away, meaning the stadium’s profile appears more elevated from its eastern aspect than from any other vantage point. When observed from the higher ground of the suburb of Hartley the impression is of a stadium almost twice its actual size.

In fact Home Park is of modest proportion, always has been. In 2001, the ground underwent redevelopment. The Lyndhurst Stand and Devonport and Barn Park Ends were knocked down and a continuous all-seated U-shaped structure built in its place. This reconstruction contributed little in terms of capacity and was focussed mainly on comfort and improving viewing angles, as well as complying with legislation that applied to the leagues Plymouth was rising towards at the time. Phase 2 of Home Park’s development was to involve replacing the existing Mayflower Stand with a new multi-tiered grandstand that would have granted an all-seated capacity of 18,500. Like at Portsmouth, the project was put on hold, and the Mayflower as it was survives to this day, restricting the capacity to around 16,000.

Artists’ impressions tend to deceive, so it’s hard to say whether Home Park has missed an opportunity or benefitted from a stay of execution. Clad in corrugated aluminium, the Mayflower may be outmoded but it simultaneously remains a far more arresting structure than the Devonport/Lyndhurst/Barn Park combo presently surrounding it. It looks like another Archibald Leitch job but was in fact built some ten years after his passing, a testament to his influence in the field. With a shallower rake, the grandstand rises only a little higher than the rest of the ground but its two tears impose a much more commanding disparity. Only from the air does it appear insubstantial.

Not to say that progress should be resisted. The old Home Park was a rickety and disjointed affair. None of the roofs stretched as far as the goal-lines; the Barn Park End didn’t even have one. The Devonport End was set at a funny angle and the uncovered junction separating it from the Lyndhurst – the Spion Kop – lacked cohesion. The Lyndhurst – rectilinear, fan-trussed – afforded a little more protection, and actual seats were installed toward the end of the 1980s. (The crowd leapt out of them and jeered as Gascoigne’s reputation preceded him in a pre-season friendly against Tottenham Hotspur.)

But for all that, the general feeling was one of openness and of free movement (despite the perimeter fencing, which was deemed reasonable back then). You could look towards the Barn Park End and see Hartley rising up above the dot-matrix scoreboard (prone to malfunction) and the trees beyond. Like at Portsmouth – and at Fiorentina to a fanciful degree – there were separate sections you could move around in, with views towards the rest of the ground that were unique to where you stood. Light permeated almost throughout. There was shade if you preferred. Now, aside from your allocated seat, the only place to loiter is within the industrial interior of the stands themselves. Try to imagine what it might be like having a quick pint in your local B&Q.

Home Park pre-development. Plenty of space to move around in.

Fratton Park and Home Park feel comfortable in their surroundings. So do many modern stadia, but when you consider that those surroundings are more usually out-of-town industrial estates then maybe that’s not so much comfort. It becomes not so much a question of architecture relating to its surroundings – although it is still that – but finding surroundings worth relating it to. In the case of Portsmouth and Plymouth, if undertaken with sufficient regard, their surroundings could have a positively mitigating effect. My fear is that, when it finally comes to pass, these grounds will be subject to either the cheapest tender or the demented ego of some preening architect, determined to leave their mark where it’s not welcome.

STADIA: WEMBLEY STADIUM AND THE EMIRATES, LONDON

The fad in England for fabricating stadiums from scratch is relatively new. Take the Premier League. Anfield, Goodison Park, White Hart Lane, Old Trafford, Selhurst Park, Stamford Bridge, The Hawthorns, Turfmoor, Vicarage Road and St James's Park have all evolved over time, unbeholden to any overarching scheme or long-term vision. Like Theseus's proverbial ship, they have mutated, in fits and starts, and resemble little their nascent self. (At Old Trafford they have aspired to create the illusion of architectural forethought, but those horribly disjointed corner sections fool no-one.) Conversely, the Emirates Stadium, Britannia Stadium, King Power Stadium, Kirklees Stadium, Liberty Stadium, Vitality Stadium, St. Mary’s Stadium and Falmer Stadium are all ‘new builds’. That’s a lot stadium, constructed to replace grounds that were deemed variously to be too small, too old, too awkward, too dangerous, too uncomfortable, or too ugly – and irredeemably so. Unfortunately, from an architectural perspective many of them can be found wanting. Much of them look like they have been assembled by the same firm that knocked up your local supermarket (and may well have been). They have also been divested of their original name, to be rechristened in honour of the patrons who pay money to be honoured.

It is a matter of cost and spatial constraint. The clubs that have developed their existing homes remain where they are. Those that have built new stadiums have done so out of town, or – particularly in London where out of town can manifest itself as somewhere else entirely – on derelict land, probably at greater cost. Indeed, out-of-town developments appear to be all the rage, again echoing the sort of cheap and prefabricated buildings that are more usually built on the fringes of urban conurbations – supermarkets, factories, storage facilities, head offices.

Other stadia have neither been razed to the ground nor replaced stand by stand but built upon and expanded upward and outward. This has certainly happened at Old Trafford, and it is in the process of happening at the City of Manchester Stadium (upon a stadium purpose built in the first instance but now regarded as lacking capacity). This approach has precedence elsewhere, particularly in European countries lining the Mediterranean: the San Siro in Milan; Bologna’s Stadio Renato Dall'Ara; the Stade Vélodrome in Marseille (hard to tell since they wacked a roof on it); the now demolished Estádio das Antas in Porto which was extended downward to increase capacity; Barcelona’s Camp Nou, Estadio Santiago Bernabeu in Madrid, and stadiums in Spain generally; as well as the Philips Stadion in Eindhoven, where the effect is reminiscent of that at Old Trafford.

It has been suggested that by the time Wembley Stadium had been rebuilt its design was obsolete. The conceit is that it was the last of a generation of stadia constructed in the mid-1990s through to the early 2000s that might be said to include grounds such as the Amsterdam Arena (opened in 1996), Stade de France (1998), Cardiff's Millennium Stadium (1999), Lisbon’s Estádio da Luz (2003). The supplanting of the original Wembley Stadium (and whether or not its iconic twin towers could be incorporated into any notional design) was conceived in the late 1990s, scheduled to commence in the year 2000 – ground was eventually broken in September 2002 – and completed in 2007, by which time it was one of the most expensive projects of its kind.

The economics, politics and general shambles of the whole affair aside, the new Wembley Stadium, with its iconic new arch, appeared to go down rather well. I suspect that those who applauded it didn't bother too much appraising its exterior but were pleased with the scale and uniformity of its interior, which wouldn't look out of place hosting American Football (which it does from time to time). In comparison to its predecessor, the thing is luxuriant.

And what of its exterior? It is inoffensive enough, and from the air the roof imparts a certain fragmentary appeal. The arch, which can be illuminated, seems less of a gimmick now than when it was first proposed as some sort of conciliatory exchange for those famous twin towers. Overlooking the decision to install bright red seats, it is a decent enough stadium, albeit, in an architectural sense, a very predictable one. It presents as a rotunda of glass, steel and plastic, just like any other inner-city edifice.

It was perhaps Munich’s Allianz Arena that underlined the fact that stadium presentation had moved beyond more familiar modes of urban planning. From within, the Allianz Arena doesn’t appear to break any moulds, although the seats are a pleasing shade of grey, which in itself is refreshing. From outside the stadium’s ambition is immediately apparent. Shrouded completely in Ethylene Tetrafluoroethylene – a fluorine-based plastic – when illuminated the effect has been compared to that of a paper lantern, or lampshade. You get the feeling the whole structure could at any moment float upward like some benign zeppelin. Moreover, the roof can be scrolled backward in sections to let in light and aerate the interior as required. Wembley’s roof can move about a bit too, but more laterally and with a greater sense of burden.

Wembley’s lack of imagination is not confined to its sense of inertia or its garish seating. The matter is not one merely of materials, or that it could so easily be mistaken for something else. The removal of the twin towers, and the arch in its place, is forgiven. What disappoints is that the design for Wembley Stadium was so obviously derivative. It looked around at what other cities were building and elected to do blandly the same, just on a slightly larger scale.

The Emirates, home to Arsenal FC, doesn’t suffer from the same deficiencies. By embracing its financial limitations, and making a virtue of them, an idea relating to its specific purpose is embraced. Ostensibly, this ground is as conservative as Wembley: oval, the seats are red again, oscillating top tier, plenty of glass and steel. But these constituents have been arranged differently, with more thought. The almost perfectly elliptical perimeter of the building is broken up into alternating sections of glass, then concrete, glass, then concrete, etc. The fashion for cladding has been resisted, nothing is hidden, utility defines it. There are pleasing touches, such as vertical slits cut out in these concrete sections that reveal the stairwells behind them. The glass fronted portions of the building are canted and protrude slightly, overlapping over the joins with the concrete. The underside of the roof is smooth, reflective, and supported by steel trusses painted in white. Overall, the structure is not as cumbersome, more airy, and doesn’t impose so evidently upon the surrounding (and less industrial) environment. It conveys that what goes on here is something out in the open. I stare at Wembley Stadium and imagine a thousand office workers sat at their desks.

STADIA: ESTADIO LA ROSALEDA, MALAGA, AND ESTADIO DE MESTALLA, VALENCIA

The Estadio La Rosaleda, home of Málaga CF. I recollect the football ground from Inglis’ great work The Football Grounds of Europe, but it is much altered since that was published. You might come at it from a southerly direction, along either side of the Rio Guadalmedina. If it is summer this river will be dry, dusty, dormant. The area around the stadium itself is residential in nature but the watercourse allows a clear view of the mountains to the north. La Rosaleda occupies its own space, contrary to the dense and moderately high-rise surroundings. Because of its riparian setting, you may regard it from a variety of angles.

The structure itself is typical of many a Spanish stadium (although this may not hold true for those constructed over the past decade). It possesses a Modernist aesthetic: the rectilinear concrete struts attached to the two main stands support the roofs in the same way many mid-20th century buildings employ a series of reinforced concrete columns to bear their loads. Such a retrospective approach towards architecture – if you choose to see it that way – has precedence elsewhere. I am considering in particular Valencia's Ciudad de las Artes y las Ciencias, a concrete extravaganza, albeit one mantled in white paint. Valencia's City of Arts and Sciences is considered something of an architectural indulgence. Conceived of and built in the 1990s it should not be tied too neatly to the strain of thinking that elected to work so prominently with reinforced concrete in Malaga: José Segui Pérez, if it was indeed he who was responsible, did not opt to have La Rosaleda painted white – or painted at all.

It must be emphasised that these concrete abutments are primarily functional: they support the roofs and partition the executive boxes that run along underneath. We know this because before they were built, between 2000 and 2005, the upper tiers adjacent to the touchlines were set lower than those facing the goal-lines. Initially they weren’t. Instead, the curves of the second tier rose upward away from the main stands only to stop abruptly at the point where they might be expected to join the lower, shallower rake of the upper tiers overlooking the goal-lines, as if anticipation that the upper tiers were to be extended upwards at a later date. The upper tiers of the main stands could not be raised to the same height because of the road behind one of them and the river to the rear of the other. This is where these more solid concrete columns come in. The roofs could have been set at the lower height of these opposing tiers but would have then been subordinate in aspect to the rest of the stadium – you should be able to imagine why this was undesirable. To allow, then, for the height of the new roofs to correspond with the uncovered upper tiers behind each goal, the struts were angled outward to overcome the spatial restraints on the ground. Furthermore, this permitted the inclusion of the executive boxes in the newly created space between.

You sense these days that architects are a little bit funny about exposed concrete. Perhaps they think it looks cheap – cheaper than the rough paint or cladding commonly used to cover over it up. The point can be taken on board within a climate harsh upon the patina of this material, but Spain generally doesn’t have to worry about such precipitous scarring. The 38 concrete columns – 19 either side – at Estadio La Rosaleda have been left proudly exposed. The opportunity has been taken to build a concourse around the stadium using similar techniques, although the concrete supports in this instance have no reason to be anything other than perpendicular and are much more slender, conveying a sort of lattice-like quality to the surrounding colonnade.

With a capacity of 55,000, the Valencia C.F.’s Mestalla Stadium is the fifth largest stadium in Spain. As at Estadio La Rosaleda, it comprises of a rectangular concrete bowl with rounded corners, and a flimsy, brown corrugated roof covering what might be reasonably described as its ‘grandstand’. The lower tier is continuous, the second tier is not. The second tier of the grandstand recedes backward and upward to expose much of the tier that lies beneath (the Tribuna Baja) and therefore stands taller than the second tier sections overseeing the goal-lines (the north and south ends), but not the portion of the second tier facing it (the east side of the ground), which rises to approximately the same height.

At least this is how the stadium looked in 1997. The logical thing would have been to extend the north and south tiers backward so that they lined up with the already augmented east stand. Instead, a disjointed third tier was added following the existing edges of the north, east and south stands, thus replicating the irregularity that existed prior to expansion; it appears as if the third tier of the east stand has been cut away and moved diagonally backward by 15-odd rows. The grandstand remained as it was, on account of its shallower rake. Strangely, its shabby (cantilevered) canopy meant its visual impact as the ground's focal point was undiminished. Resting upon a dense trellis of metal, it is hard to make out exactly how the roof is supported. The two glass fronted pavilions (or ‘radio cabins’ as Inglis refers to them) that sit either side of the top tier look to have nothing to do with it, and the impression is one of weightlessness.

Until relatively recently the seating used to be mostly a tasteful shade of blue (the lower tier’s seats were white) which contrasted well with the brown of the roof. These have since been replaced with predominantly orange ones: the grandstand is completely orange, the rest a mixture of orange and white, save for black chairs forming the image of a giant bat stretched over the three tiers of the Mestella’s east side. The exterior of the stadium has been given a similar treatment. The breezeblock walls and concrete lattice structure have been painted black, the underside of the balconies and metal gates orange, and the railings lining the balconies white – as have those within the ground itself, of which there are many, especially among the seats of the very steeply raked third tier.

The Mestella is an exercise in the economy of space. It’s also in thrall to the concrete that forms it, and probably why it’s been painted so exhaustively. Trees line its perimeter, roads run around it, and residential blocks sit opposite. It is a wonderful stadium, and the lack of available space must make for a delightfully claustrophobic – and intimidating – atmosphere, especially after dark.

In 2007 Valencia C.F. began work on the ‘Nou Mestella’ only for the project to be put on hold  after the financial collapse of 2008. It’s getting to the stage, apparently, where the structure may be unsalvageable: the concrete skeleton has been left exposed to the elements for too long. This new ground is/was intended to hold 61,500 spectators – just 6,500 more than the present stadium. You wonder whether it was ever really worth pursuing.

STADIA

If 25-odd years ago you’d asked what my favourite book was, with complete sincerity I would have told you this: The Football Grounds of Europe by Simon Inglis. My reading then was more usually a means to an end – school work, which bored me – but this book was something else: it satisfied both my appetite for sport (football in the main) and a passing interest in architecture.

A substantial hard-backed tome, it covers in great detail the stadia selected, built or modified for the 1990 World Cup, held in Italy, and many more besides (but not British football grounds – Mr Inglis had written a separate book on that subject a few years before). No mere glossary, the history, architectural detail, and cultural and social relevance – where it applies – are all explored, and there is substantial photographic coverage too. It really is a wonderful thing. As research, Mr Inglis toured Europe extensively, making notes, taking pictures, asking questions. He would go on to write a column for World Soccer magazine, and he now stewards a website called Played in Britain that concerns itself with chronicling, and where possible preserving, sporting sites of historical and cultural significance and interest.

            My interest in stadia persists and I make a point of journeying to them when I travel abroad: am often thwarted by geographical limitations, time constraints, and the lack of interest on the part of whoever accompanies me. I should try harder, but many a ground can be found on the periphery of its host, involving convoluted and time consuming journeys to reach them, although I have travelled farther for less.

Other more normative and diminutive stadia have been chanced upon: the Stadio Artemio Franchi in Siena, and Prague’s FK Viktoria Stadion for instance. Where I have made the effort I’ve only sometimes gained entrance, normally at football grounds deemed worthy of being granted entrance to: Barcelona’s Nou Camp, Madrid’s Santiago Bernabéu, Valencia’s Estadio Mestalla. With others I’ve had to make do with inspecting their exterior, with varying degrees of satisfaction: Bulgaria’s Vasil Levski National Stadium is barely discernible as being such; the San Siro in Milan could be little else; Istanbul’s Şükrü Saracoğlu Stadium appears like an industrial building of the sort found near motorways and airports. The fact of the matter is that a lot of football grounds aren’t very pretty, and were never intended to be. That is not to say they don’t have character or charm, but sometimes it can be hard to tell from the outside. Like I said, I’ve not often gained entrance to find out either way.

ROT RATING HANGOVER CLASSIFICATION SYSTEM

 

The International Rot Rating Hangover Classification System [©2015] explained:

Rot 1: A little spaced but otherwise all good. The only real sign you've been been drinking is the missing cash from your wallet.

Rot 2: A bit tired and a bit doddery. You can tell you've had a few the night before, but nothing a packet of crisps wouldn't sort out.

Rot 3: Thirsty and 'jumpy' with the hint of a headache. Work is manageable, providing human interaction is kept to a minimum.

Rot 4: As above, but communication has now become problematic. You feel very thirsty and your work rate has slowed down. You fancy a cooked breakfast.

Rot 5: A proper headache, with added paranoia. You can just about cope with work, although it's an effort. Must have water.

Rot 6: You demand ibuprofen and feel queasy and fatigued; a fried breakfast is no longer so appealing. Communication is a real chore. If you have to work then phoning in sick is under consideration.

Rot 7: Headache is debilitating, you feel nauseous but at the same time hungry. A horizontal position is desired. You may actually still be slightly drunk. Hair of the Dog could probably sort things out.

Rot 8: You are definitely still pissed but not in a good way. Your eyes hurt, your head is pounding and you may very soon be sick. You can only tolerate certain food stuffs, like crisps and toast. Noise offends. Hair of the Dog no longer an option.

Rot 9: As above except eating is right out. If you haven't already thrown up then you might think about inducing it. Movement of any kind makes you feel ten times worse.

Rot 10: You can't move, except to be sick. Your head feels like it might explode, the mere sight of food repels, and you have succumbed to a deep depression. You would sleep it off if you only could, but instead toss and turn relentlessly and vow never to drink again.

MY NEW BIKE

I have a new road bike, my fourth in as many years. I first bought a Raleigh Record Ace, probably manufactured towards the end of the 1970s, maybe the early '80s. It cost me something like £140 and I sold it for about the same within mere months of acquiring it; needed too much work, the wheels were an unusual size, which limited the choice of tyres, and I was very much fumbling in the dark with the whole thing.

Next I purchased a rather charming, heavily chromed velocipede with a funny name – called Carlos – whose components were a little tired, but the general condition of the frame was reasonably good; I'm guessing it was about 30-odd years' old. I rode that for about 6 months before suddenly deciding to sell up and look for something else. It didn't take me long and I inspected a number of solutions before committing myself to a metallic blue Romani with Shimano 105 group-set, Wolber rims, Campagnolo brakes, in pretty good shape all-round with just a few scratches but no actual rust. The look of the frame and its various components suggested the bike was put together in the very late 1980s. It was upon this bike that I would ride three consecutive London-to-Brightons: 2013, 2014 and 2015. I made the decision to replace it in late 2014 but couldn't find the appropriate bicycle, so by default it partook in three of these charity rides instead of just two.

In the spring of 2014, I added a carbon Look 566 to my stable. The nature of this bike, the material it is made from, how much it cost me and the sort of cycling I undertake on it, excludes it from being meditated on alongside the rest. There is no danger of it being supplanted, just as it wasn't bought to supplant anything else. It is its own thing.

'Carlos'

For the moment I still have the Romani, but I have also its successor, a yellow Fondriest with 130 mm spacing between the rear drop-outs, which allows for 8 sprockets and the potential for more should I ever want to augment its capability. This vehicle is probably little more than 20 years old, and this is obvious from looking at it: the yellow paint job with black and pink spray painted geometric detail is typical of the era. What is also clear is that this bike represents a move on from the Romani, just as the Romani exemplified the progress made since the Carlos, and the Carlos in turn since the Raleigh. In other words, I have bought my bikes chronologically and they can be used to measure certain developments in the field over time. Considering the gears alone, I have moved from 5 at the back, to 6, then 7, and now 8. The actual gear ratios have steepened too. The braking mechanisms were friction operated on the first two bikes, indexed on the third, and integrated now with this fourth. Wheels seem lighter, appear more modern, may have fewer spokes.

This is a natural, if unwitting, progression. When I acquired the Raleigh I was already riding a single-speed bike that was attractive in its simplicity and coloured a pale green olive. Aesthetics were at the forefront of my mind when I bought that bike, continued to be so, but more practical concerns have gradually come to the fore. If I could afford a mint-condition metallic blue Rossin dating back to 1982 – such as the one I saw selling on eBay a while back – then the look of the thing might take precedence. I can’t, so I’ve come to approach my subject from more pragmatic angles. The Fondriest in not unattractive, but what drew me towards it was the vintage, the integrated gear shifters, its dimensions and overall condition. The fact that it is yellow – although I do like yellow – is neither here nor there – I would prefer it if was sprayed a metallic pale blue, as the Romani is, but that now lies low on my list of priorities.

The sequence implies a fifth bike, probably with a 10-speed rear cassette, in at least 3 years’ time, the duration of ownership having risen exponentially. But I don’t intend on this being the case. For one, buying and selling bikes is quite a drag. Second, I would have happily persisted with the Romani, maybe invested in new components, had it not been slightly too small for me. Finally, the Fondriest represents a sort of apogee in cycling design: thereafter aluminium and carbon began to dominate, and the steel framed bikes that have been made since have followed more contemporary geometries and technical advancements. I will draw the line somewhere, and that line coincides with about the time that top-tubes began to slope, rear derailleurs became long in gauge, stems moved to being threadless, rims became very deep. Unless I want something bespoke – and I have considered building a bike from bought parts – then there is nowhere I can go from here.