It's been a while since I published anything on my blog - I've been a bit busy writing elsewhere. Below is my review of M83 at Brixton Academy last night.

M83 - Brixton Academy

M83 have moved far away from the shoe-gaze tinged sound of early records like ‘Dead Cities, Red Seas and Lost Ghosts’. Tonight’s show at Brixton Academy is a fitting reflection of this - a celebratory finale of their European tour, matched by a spectacular light show that should carry a health warning about the possibility of a seizure.

There are times when the band’s music runs the risk of becoming homogonised. It can be a cacophony that builds gradually, but when the risk of tedium rears its head, M83’s sound crescendos to a pulsating momentum that a dazed audience can do little but nod appreciative heads to.

‘Hurry up we’re dreaming’ is the name of the group’s latest record - rather appropriate given the starry eyed expressions on faces during the set’s more reflective moments such as on ‘Wait.’

The rabble of chatter from the back of the Academy compliments the track rather than interfering with it – as if the music is a dream immune from being disturbed, drifting on regardless of attempted intrusion from the outside world.

The band’s set comprises of songs mostly from the last album - by far their most commercially successful. The euphoric single “Midnight city” was a catalyst for this, and when played, inspires punching of the air by the audience - fully justified by what has become their anthem. An inspired saxophone solo plays the song out.

It would have been an imaginative fan of older M83 to predict future scenes like this at one of their gigs, but the Pitchfork-reading members of the audience in My Bloody Valentine t-shirts are not completely left out in the cold. Older tracks like ‘Sitting’ and ‘Graveyard Girl’ are given an airing here.

Anthony Gonzales and his brother Yann inspire frenetic energy. Yann in particular - continually leaping about the stage, engaging in musical flirtations with vocalist/keyboardist Morgan Kibby, face to face to no doubt develop a mutual connection with the music, but also to jump up and down rather a lot. 

If there is something truly memorable about the evening it comes in a light-show it is impossible not to be impressed by. Those who didn’t get to any firework display are given a visual feast far outweighing a consolation.

The spectacle is no more impressive that it is on set highlight and closing track ‘Couleurs’, from 2008’s ‘Saturdays=Youth.’ The affinity for shoe-gaze guitars is put aside and replaced by a thrilling 10 minutes of pulsating electronica, where lazer beams become indistinguishable from one another in a tumultuous climax. The indie gig is transformed into the atmosphere of a club, but just as the audience is putting on their dancing shoes, it’s all over.

It is only half 10 in the evening, but the Brixton audience has no doubt been left inspired to carry the party through to the small hours.

Collected pieces for The Hackney Citizen:

http://hackneycitizen.co.uk/tag/james-wood/

AN ENGLISHMAN IN AVIGNON

An escaped convict is dodging his way through the tourists. His feet are chained as he shuffles down the cobbled street away from the Palais Des Papes.  French police, dressed in 1930s uniforms make up the chase. “Arrět!”  they cry, truncheons aloft, and the throngs of people respond with appreciative smirks on their way to the shaded street side cafés. Posters for events inside and out of Avignon cover the stone walls around the square.  The theatre has arrived on the sun-soaked streets.

Nothing is considered out of the ordinary during July in the old city. Further down a jazz trio is playing Old Nat King Cole jazz standards, backing up a toned, petite girl with a voice to charm even the most hostile local, perhaps more accustomed to sipping a second glass of rosé in the restaurant behind where the band has set up in peace.

The restaurants are teeming. A waiter spins a tray of drinks on one hand, dancing around the maze of tables, setting down glasses rhythmically in their places, appropriating a certain nobility to the profession that is far removed from the eighteen-year-old sloshing wine down on the table with an embarrassed mumble of apology.

There is plenty for all to see, even for an Englishman with a limited understanding of the French language.

The amateur dramatics experimentation, ‘The coming storm’, involves a group of English actors exploring the art of storytelling through a humorous series of sketches, which occur  both simultaneously and then by interrupting each other. It poses questions about what it is that holds our attention and what it is that makes a story. This premise is dealt with in a very English way, with typical self-deprecation and silliness, which would no doubt have an English audience chuckling, but unfortunately serves to alienate some of the rather serious French theatre goers, who, not quite grasping the concept, leave mid way through.

The French singer, Camille, performs away from the city, at the most breath-taking of venues; a hidden hillside quarry, named the Carriérre de Boulbon. A dry and dusty pathway winds up and away from the car park to reveal a marquee bar and glimmering lights where the singer will delight a packed audience under the stars. The type of eccentricities displayed can this time be appreciated unanimously between the French and the few Brits in the crowd. The rudimentary band set up and rootsy vocal display accompany the eerie spectre of the singer on the cliff face behind. In sweet contrast, the performance is one of a playful and melodic nature, which encourages the crowd to imitate small animals and come up onto the stage to dance. The show is nothing if not original, and finds the captivating Camille stamping her feet, singing whilst beating her chest to create vibrato and generally experimenting with the limitations of what the human voice can achieve.

Can science and art occupy the same space? It seems a brave choice of theme for a play, but there is no better place for such experimentation than the Avignon festival. William Kentridge’s ‘Refuse the hour’ is a thought-provoking but, at times, confusing affair, which blends a colourful array of musicians, dancers and actors, while concurrently investigating how the concept of time has materialised. A narrator runs through ideas, incorporating Newton’s idea of absolute time and Einstien’s theory of relativity; the distortion of space-time created by the “black hole” phenomenon. No, me neither. It is entertaining enough as a performance piece, and certainly provocative, but suffers from its attempts at combining too much, and subsequently feels more exhausting than exciting.

Best of all, is Simon McBurney’s moving and powerful adaptation of ‘The master and margarita’, the Russian novel by Mikhail Bulgakov. Set in the grounds of the the Palais Des Papes at night, the imposing arena and magnificent palace make it hard for any director to create a sense of intimacy, but McBurney uses the setting to his advantage, with the simple use of a projector and a hand-held camera, incorporating impressive moving graphics of Moscow, and an inspired use of close-up facial expressions on the palace walls. The plot moves from a Stalinist, Cold War Moscow, where ordinary citizens are institutionalised for non-conformist views, to parallels with heaven and hell, blasphemy and redemption. As the programme notes venture, without underestimation, this is a reworking of an “enormous novel”, dealing with many aspects of human nature and mortality, and McBurney’s adaptation translates superbly to the stage; an exhilarating two and a half hours of theatre.

Away from the theatre, on July 14^th, it is France’s national day, and preparations are on-going throughout the city. Exuberant spreads are set out and distant relatives gather together to celebrate the occasion. It is a day to indulge in pleasures of food, drink and good company, and at this, the French are champions. Everyone stumbles down to the riverside at dusk, looking out across the water at the notorious bridge. The fireworks are set off, the famous song is played and the crowds sound their appreciation.

Back at the palace at around midnight, there is a tangible sense that something is about to happen, but it is difficult to decipher exactly what. Then a lady appears at a window of the courtyard and addresses the sizeable crowd. It is translated to me that she is talking about the history of the festival, how it was started in 1947 by Jean Viler as a rejection of class snootiness, in an attempt to bring the theatre to everyone. A noble desire. There follows a thoroughly baffling hour of activity. About seventeen things are happening at once, from a Mosaic being re-worked, videos of street performers and interviews with the public being projected onto the walls by people moving around the space on mini-cranes, right on through to a giant golden key being carried through the crowd.

It is a carefully orchestrated confusion that is a befitting tribute to a thrilling July at the Avignon festival. 

“Le changement, c’est maintenant.”

On the cusp of seven o’clock I arrive at a crowded French bar next to London Bridge. A low murmur of anticipation is spreading through the compressed throng of people. Some are standing on chairs and tables, precariously balanced, a glass of wine in hand, ready for the celebration. Everyone jostles for position, necks craned to catch a glimpse of a stuttering projection of French television. At the front, they are complaining about the technological issues the venue is experiencing. There is something about the sense of unfairness in the bar’s disorganisation being discussed, as they are making rather a lot of money from the occasion. It is so befitting of the event, it is difficult to witness this and resist a smirk at the irony, and the fact that it is apparently escaping them.

It is election night. This is the Parti Socialiste in London. In a Europe plagued by right-wing governments, tough austerity measures and rising unemployment, the people gathered here are hoping that the result of the evening can pave the way for change; not just in France, but throughout the continent, by electing their candidate, François Hollande, to the presidency. There is a feeling of genuine hope amongst them.  

Overwhelmingly, it is a young crowd, too young to remember a time when the French last had a socialist president. As is pointed out to me, it has been seventeen long years since Mitterand, and as an outsider, I am slightly surprised to be rather taken by this notion that I am about to witness something historic and triumphant.

Being used to general elections in the UK, where the nation collectively attempts to stay awake at 3am, as a blurry David Dimblebey finds new ways to tell us that the results are inconclusive, I am caught out at the immediacy of the announcement. A big cheer erupts from the front, next to the misbehaving projector, quickly making its way back to the masses gathered outside. There is jubilation. People are throwing their arms around each other as supporters of a football team might celebrate a last minute goal in a cup final. Chants of “On a gagné , on a gagné!” (We’ve won, we’ve won!”) and “François – President!” ring out. Some are more discreet about the victory, but grin at each other in spite of themselves; an expression which seems to be contagiously developing. One girl stands with her back to me after I’m introduced to her, staring into the middle distance; not through a stereotypical French antagonism for the Englishman turning up, as I first fear, but in what appears to be a pensive relief that the campaign she has been helping to run has ended in victory. It is a glazed look of someone who hasn’t quite taken in the news. My ‘congratulations’ sounds rather vacuous; the sentiment of an outsider. She pauses. “Thanks, I’m just a bit emotional.”

The conga begins. There’s unbridled joy. “Tous ensemble, tous ensemble; so-cia-listes!” (“All together, all together; Socialists”) and “Sarkozy, c’est fini” (“Sarkozy, it’s over”) are the popular chants, rising to a peak when Axelle Lemaire, the legislative candidate for the French socialists in Northern Europe turns up.

The relief is well founded in a France that has seen nothing but misery since the now former president, Nicolas Sarkozy took office in 2007, deemed as ‘unapologetically bling-bling’ by his adversaries, whilst they watched him parade around with his ex-supermodel wife Carla Bruni. With rising unemployment, tax cuts for the rich and dramatic slashes in public spending dominating his presidency, it has served to isolate the poor and create divides and a sense of unrest throughout the country.

The election wasn’t all about a return to the left. Rather alarmingly, the far-right candidate, Marine Le Pen of the Front National scored highly in the first round, amassing 18% of the overall vote, and coming in third place. This is serving as a warning call to the French socialists that managing to get their man elected for president is just the beginning. With many of Le Pen’s votes coming from disaffected and poverty-stricken young people living in the suburbs, it is François Hollande’s post-election promise that “no child of the Republic will be neglected,” that is a major focus. The abandonment the poor have experienced has led to feelings of xenophobia and anger, and the socialists know that there is a long way to go before France, and indeed the rest of Europe, can stamp out such abhorrent judgements from these sections of society. A return to the left is something to be celebrated, but France is now leading the way, with the responsibility to show the rest of Europe that the values and economics of the left can work.

The elder people speak cautiously, celebrating with more restraint, and happy to talk about other things, such as London pubs and how incredible The Shard looks by night. People in their twenties, who canvassed extensively throughout London for the last two months, are less self-controlled. A young French socialist in spectacles and a tartan shirt with red braces breaks into an explosion of joy every ten minutes, jumping up and down and occasionally managing to make people join in with his chants.

The party continues into the small hours, until almost every bottle of wine in the house has been consumed. Everyone seems to be aware that this is only the beginning, but for now, as a rousing second rendition of the national anthem, “La Marseillaise” breaks out, causing an Englishman to shiver slightly with goose bumps, it is hard to begrudge them their victory. 

Beach House - Bloom - Review

Beach House have become adept at crafting a brand of soaring pop music that it’s hard not to be charmed by, and although ‘Bloom’ finds Victoria Legrand and Alex Scally in familiar territory, this, their fourth record, may just be their best offering yet.

The band makes little attempt to break new ground here, but this is rendered irrelevant due to the quality and craftsmanship of the song-writing, which manages to combine being joyful, tender and pensive all at once. Lead single ‘Myth’ sets the tone, an amateurish drum machine giving way to a glittering, euphoric refrain that eloquently fills the space between these basic foundations. Whereas ‘The Hours’ is another excellent example of the kind of song Beach House excel at; a dense, reverb heavy vocal harmony, dreamy soundscapes, catchy melodies and the near-perfect chemistry between Legrand’s ethereal vocals, the bright synths and Scally’s charming guitar licks.

Elsewhere, the wind-up music box intro of ‘Lazuli’ somehow evokes an image of a calm lake in summer, where ripples from fallen pebbles disturb the water. “Like no other you can’t be replaced,” Legrand confusingly repeats over the outro, but there’s a sincerity there, and you can forgive the bad grammar when the sentiment feels this genuine.

As was true with Beach House’s last album ‘Teen Dream’, the second half of ‘Bloom’ is less affecting. They’ve found their niche, and it’s understandable that they’re reluctant to change a winning formula. The aesthetics of the music are consistent and unchanging, and for this reason, it can be frustrating that the band makes the decision to pack all their best songs at the beginning of their records. Over-excitement maybe; it certainly comes across that Beach House enjoy making music, and when most of their songs tend to rely on the same tricks, it’s perhaps logical that they rely on the immediacy of pleasure the listener experiences when they’re at the top of their game.

The final track, ‘Irene,’ is something of an anti-climax, not quite reaching the counter-point between blissed-out euphoria and subtle sadness that the best of their songs do. A rather jarring two minutes half way through this insipid number is unexpectedly thrust into the mix, a droning note played repetitively on a keyboard catches the listener off guard, wondering whether the record is skipping and pressing the stop button with a shrug that says “Ok, so they ran out of ideas.”

These quibbles aside, ‘Bloom’ mostly packs the punches in the right way. When the band are at their best, the arrangements are splendid, the combination of Legrand’s plaintive, fertile vocals and the brightness of the synths and chiming guitar work from Scally working wonders.

The Riots - Piece for GoldenRoom

The frustrations of an unequal society facing people in the poorest and most deprived areas in the country are hardly a revelation. Conversely, the ideas of the great chasm between classes in Britain have been a subject of discussion for centuries.

Why is it then that this divide still exists? As youth unemployment soars, and the rich continue to escape heavy taxation; as tuition fees treble and the government remains determined in its attempts to privatise the NHS, there is little wonder that there seems to be an increasing sense of isolationism in the poorest sections of society.

The riots of last summer were called unprecedented, mindless opportunism; sheer criminality, brought about as a reaction to the never-ending glorification of material possessions that consumes our society. However, subsequent research, such as the Guardian/LSE enquiry, has revealed a depth that had previously been dismissed.

The findings suggested that while it was perhaps true that this wasn’t a united, politically conscious uprising, in at least some of the notions of opportunism were accurate, it was important to look at the bigger picture. What the Guardian/LSE enquiry and ‘The Riots,’ a play by Gillian Slovo, performed at The Bernie Grant Arts Centre, have revealed is the extent of the disaffection of people in deprived areas.

The enquiry showed young people who believe that there are no opportunities available to them, and who felt they were being mistreated in constantly being targeted by an over-aggressive police force. They spoke of the relentless reminders of all the things they can never have, through advertising and a national obsession with obtaining the best quality products.

It is widely suggested that the resentment is borne out of seeing the privileged acquiring material possessions and education so easily, whilst their struggle is being ignored. The riots may not have been overtly politically conscious, but there were reasons to feel angry, undermined and left behind.

Gillian Slovo’s play, ‘The Riots’ was a portrayal of real life accounts and interpretations of the riots in London last summer, covering all perspectives of those involved, from the participants to the politicians, to the police. One of the most compelling stories, taken from the many hours of interviews and research that went into compiling the play, was a portrayal of a Hackney citizen’s take on ’The Great Clean-up’ that occurred in the aftermath of the events. Here was a character not directly involved in the riots, but a woman living in a deprived Hackney council estate, and closely affiliated with people who were. For her, to witness an army of middle class ‘do-gooders’ coming to ‘fix the broken streets’ was an act of severe patronisation, serving as a powerful visual representation of the misunderstandings and divisions between classes that exists today.

Some analyses of the events were less measured. David Starkey, a respected historian, took to the BBC’s Newsnight to give his opinion that the influence of “Black culture” had some part to play in events. “The Whites have become Black,” he argued, to widespread and deserved condemnation. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OVq2bs8M9HM)

The notion that the riots, as some have suggested, were in any way to do with racial orientation has been dismissed, given there is no evidence to support this. No overwhelming percentage of one particular ethnic minority was involved.

In a society where so much division already exists, it is dangerous that some are intent on creating more. It is also unfortunate that the targeting methods of young Black teenagers adopted by the police force and some sections of the media can lead to such animosity.

Parallels can be drawn between recent events in the UK’s major cities and The Brixton Riots of 1981. The Brixton Riots came about in the wake of a recession, just as in 2011.
One night, youths from a deprived area of London watched the police intervene disastrously in an incident involving a Black teenager being stabbed. Police allegedly led the bleeding youth away to be interrogated, rather than calling for the medical assistance he obviously required. The crowd jostled with the authorities, which resulted in a greater police presence in the area. This ultimately caused an isolated event to escalate tensions; and a whole group of disaffected people decided to fight back. Unemployment figures for people in Brixton stood at 13%. Unemployment among Black youths in the area was estimated at 55%.

In 2011, the shooting of Mark Duggan, and the mistreatment of his family by the police lit the torch paper for the events that were to follow. Though talk of institutional racism in the police force carried less weight, as many accounts of socially deprived White teenagers spoke of incidents in which they were being similarly mistreated.

The events of last summer showed a whole section of unemployed youth demonstrating their anxiety and anger in the most ruthless way, regardless of ethnicity. It is perhaps true that racism is less of an issue in 2011 than it was in 1981, but it is difficult to say how far things have moved forward. The overwhelming amount of similar accounts of the trials facing deprived young people suggests that social divides are just a much of an issue today as they were in 1981.

Reactions of two Prime-ministers have not helped the argument that there is a parliamentary understanding of the wide divisions that exist. Margret Thatcher dismissed talk of unemployment and racism being behind The Brixton Riots in the 1980s. ‘Nothing can justify what happened,’ she had said. Calls to increase investment in deprived parts of the inner cities were met with similar disdain by Thatcher. ‘Money cannot buy trust or racial harmony’ she opined.

In 2011, David Cameron, and members of his cabinet blasted the riots as ‘sheer criminality’, before an investigation as to why they happened was able to take place.

When there is a lack of understanding of the problems facing the poorest in our society from our country’s leaders, how is the divide between classes ever going to become narrower? How are the increasing amounts of unemployed people, living in over-crowded council estates throughout the country, ever going to feel comforted and reassured by a government made up of highly privileged, expensively educated politicians?

These are difficult questions to answer, but it is only by being aware that the divide exists and is a fundamental problem that we can begin to try and rectify the situation.
There are ways to make stepping-stones. By giving increased funding to the arts and apprenticeships, we can give all people the chance to get involved with something positive, regardless of social background. There are schemes in place that have worked in the past, and have led to many who were involved in crime previously, giving their devotion towards something positive and being given a taste of success.

Of course, these are troubled financial times, but it would be nice to one day look back and be re-assured that a whole generation of disadvantaged people haven’t been left out in the cold.