MOST of this column is a tribute to Paul “Jacko” Jackson, creator/inspiration/force behind The New Adelphi Club in Hull, a hero of the wider indie scene and a friend for 42 years, who died on March 31 and whose wonderful funeral, packed with friends, musicians and local cultural activists, took place on Mayday. He was my absolute favourite promoter/owner of my absolute favourite venue of all time. A great friend, co-conspirator, sparring partner, comrade. 

The last weeks of his life were spent in a hospice in Hull, at the other end of the country from me. I saw him twice there, the last a couple of weeks before he died, alert in mind to the end, body ravaged by the diabetes he had lived with his whole life. We said a very special goodbye, one of the best I’ve ever experienced. 

We were kindred spirits on opposite sides of the scene and the bar: he the DIY venue owner, me the performer. Two driven, confident, extrovert, extremely assertive individuals (!) absolutely committed to spending our lives earning our living doing what we loved, entirely on our own terms, spreading ideas, having fun and drinking beer. Not worried about “being famous” or “hip” — just determined to be ourselves. Which is the best way to be. 

He took over a run-down drinking club in 1984 and turned it into a very special place. On the one hand, stars were born there – Housemartins, Stone Roses, Pulp, Carter USM, to name a few. On the other, it was a regular stopping off point for those of us with a loyal following but too weird and niche to become “famous,” people like yours truly and Jacko’s favourite US antifolk performer Hamell on Trial. Jacko was a DIY legend, an inspirational figure in the independent scene, a man who lived for music. We’re going to miss him so much – but the Adelphi is now a CIC and his legacy is secure. 

I reckon I did 24 gigs there in 41 years, mostly tied in with Brighton fixtures in Yorkshire. It’s a hollowed out terraced house in a residential street with a car park created by the Luftwaffe: I remember the astonishment I felt when I first walked in in 1985. But Jacko’s smile made me welcome, the packed-out gig was fantastic, and it became a home from home. A ritual began. A football match, a trip to the Adelphi with my mates, a lovely gig, a load of beer and then a chat with Jacko, Swift Nick and various other reprobates long into the night. Then finally to bed — in my youth in our sleeping bags on the stage (sticky) and once on the flat roof in the summer. These days, in my dotage (ha!) it’s a nearby hotel. 

Long live The Adelphi! The toilets are legendary, the atmosphere unique. Jacko’s dog, Yosser (RIP) was an 80s/90s canine character beyond compare. His sound person of 40 years, Jim, is as much part of the Adelphi as the pool table in the front bar. RIP Paul Jackson, you lovely, irreplaceable man. A message to all: if you like weird music and unusual venues, and you’re visiting Hull, do yourself a favour and walk into a unique place.  

And now I have an astonishing announcement. My wife Robina likes the new Laibach album. There is a reason for this: it is most definitely post-industrial. On Musick, Laibach have turned into the Pet Shop Boys. For tactical reasons, obviously. And I love the Pet Shop Boys as much as she does, so it works on all levels for me.

But there’s more: a big helping of mastermind Jani Novak’s mentors Kraftwerk, a smattering of Carter USM, a whiff of Balkan turbofolk. What there isn’t is anything you’d remotely expect Laibach to do, which is exactly what you’d expect Laibach to do. Laibach exists to contradict itself. To turn itself inside out. This is self-satirising pop: we love music, but sometimes it makes us sick. (Hence the special K).

Musick is mind-bogglingly, toe-tappingly, earwormily, syrupilly (?) catchy. It has tracks we would hate if anyone else did them, but we love because they’re Laibach. It is pure social surrealist subversion – and it is time, Jani, that you took your creation to the Eurovision Song Contest. 

Slovenia, douze points.

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