The Lowry, Salford Quays, until 4th November - admission free (donation possible)

Bill Brandt’s dark and satanic Halifax sets the tone for this evocation of the northern myth, all factory chimneys and two-up, two-downs. Even in the more beautiful images, such as Denis Thorpe’s Wellington Mill, where the sun at least manages to burn through the smog, the atmosphere remains grim and grimy. Humphrey Spender’s quietly poetic industrial landscapes cannot lift the gloom of Marin Parr’s lonely monochrome city, and a forbidding Ena Sharples is left to survey (and personify) the endless slate terrace rooves. Though in colour, John Bulmer’s urban landscape is amazingly grey, and Parr’s garish, rubbish-strewn Merseyside casts a lurid shadow from which even Shirley Baker’s sunlit girl, swinging from a lamppost, cannot escape. John Davies’ majestic view of Agecroft Power Station, Colin Jones’ unassuming docker, and Ian Beesley’s proud sportsmen all strain for something positive, but ultimately remain neutral.

The images of northerners at leisure are often uncomfortable, and an oppressively sunny Blackpool beach is crowded to the point of claustrophobia. Spender lends the resort a little late-evening romance, and a rudimentary glamour of sorts is provided by Coronation Street stars on donkeys. But the sombre timbre soon returns with Colin Jones’ morning drunk lying on the prom, still sleeping off the night before, and the rudimentary living conditions to which he might return, as depicted in various Shelter and Labour Party images. The Smiths’ grittily captivating Pat Phoenix record sleeve is perhaps the nearest we get to allure. Even levity is only ever subtly present, be it Beesley’s comically observed bowling green or Tony Ray-Jones’ surreal dancers.

While other media are used in the show, notably painting (Lowry tips the balance from misery to melancholy), the bleak mood is generally in keeping with the photography. The North of myth is indeed a dismal, inhospitable place, and it is little wonder some folk are still reluctant to venture north of Watford Gap. But despite its gloom, it is also a fascinating myth, and one which photography has played no small part in making.

Review by Simon Bowcock