A heavy beat blared from the beaten up van. Hardly an original act of provocation, though he had always taken pleasure in the disapproving looks from passers-by . Truth was, the weekend’s drinking was taking its toll. The familiar feeling, as though the body was bruised on the inside. Monday wasn’t supposed to be a working day.
The combination of these factors darkened his mood. He recklessly swung the van into the parking space, narrowly missing the parked car behind him.
‘You have reached your destination.’ toned the disembodied woman from the SatNav.
“Hello. Joe isn’t it?’ said the young guy who answered the door.
“Yeah, yeah. You’re Mark, I assume. Hi. Hi. Yeah. Take care.”
The handshake had already gone on longer than necessary by the time it had taken him to say all that, and Joe was now aware that some mild form of polite tourettes had slipped from his lips. The handshake continued.
“Take care?” asked Mark, reasonably enough.
“Oh…Yeah. That’s what you say at the end. Not when you meet someone, right? Right. My bad.” Joe shrugged. Mark raised his eyebrows, as they finally finished shaking hands.
Mark chuckled nervously, noticing the badly parked, graffiti strewn van.
“That’s your van?”
“Certainly is,” Joe proclaimed proudly, as someone might respond to being asked "Is that your Porsche?"
“Oh. Ok.” Mark seemed apprehensive now, not that Joe noticed, or particularly cared.
“I’ll be in the van.”
“Ok. Give me a minute.”
Joe turned the music on, but at a reasonable level now, as his hangover was getting steadily worse.
“Come on, mate..” he mumbled to himself, impatiently shaking his left leg up and down.
Mark had barely time to sit down and put his seatbelt on before Joe had swung the van out in front of an approaching car. A horn sounded, angrily.
“Jesus!” said Mark.
“Woah, sorry man. What am I doing? That’s right. Oops. Right, where are we. Um, yeah, first gear. That would help.” Joe was gibbering.
“Careful mate.”
“Yeah, yeah. Sorry. I mean, woah, right? Jeez.”
“Mm.”
Mark chewed on a fingernail that was already bitten away. It was another minute or two before either spoke again.
The first word was an excited proclomation.
“Tune!”
Another dangerous, over excited lurch of the van. Another horn.
It at least broke the silence, and Joe had appeared to decide at this point that any more silence would be a terrible thing. His chatter was incessant for the rest of the journey, topics changing seemingly from the approaching autumn, to how hard it was to find somewhere that serves good coffee. Joe would randomly discuss the plots of various films, then seemed annoyed when Mark offered a short contribution. Keeping a constant rhetoric seemed to be Joe's only concern, so his passenger fell quiet.
Mark’s insecurities lay away from the social awkwardness clearly being experienced by his companion. It was in the fact that Joe would look at him for extended periods of time when talking, appearing to forget he was driving. Making pleading nods towards the road didn't seem to help much, but Mark didn’t consider picking up a sofa for the new flat worth a fatal motorway accident.
He gripped the seat apprehensively as Joe leant across him, and fumbled in the glove box.
They were stood in a empty room on the fifth floor of a block of flats. Empty except for the spotless white sofa and armchair. The girl selling the sofa, Kate, and Mark made small talk, as Joe stared out of the window, vacant.
“Well, yes, it’s served us well.”
“Yeah, it looks great to..”
“That horseshoe will bring that house bad luck,” offered Joe suddenly, raising a finger to demonstrate that what he was saying was important. He was referring to the house opposite, which had a lopsided horseshoe attached to the wall.
“Umm,” said Kate, unsure what to say.
“It’s bad luck to have it on its side like that.”
“Well, thanks Kate," Mark said, interrupting the silence. "My wallet’s in the car. I’ll pay you as soon as we get it in the van.”
Joe suddenly came around.
“Right!” he exclaimed. “I’ll get the rope?”
Mark laughed. At least he’s got a sense of humour, I suppose.
Joe, however, was shrugging, as if to say ‘What’s funny?’
“No. I’ve got a rope in the back of the van. We’ll tie it round the thing and I’ll lower it down to you out of the window.”
Mark laughed again. Another little shrug in response.
“You’re…You’re not joking?”
“It will be quicker.”
Kate covered her hand with her mouth, mixed feelings of amusement and embarrassment. She went into the kitchen and pretended to busy herself.
“It’s..It’s a £100 sofa”
“It’ll be fine!”
“I’d really rather not do it that way.”
“What? Why?”
“Because we’re paying quite a lot of money for it.”
Joe was genuinely incredulous. It was as if Mark’s objection was completely unreasonable.
“Well, alright. Fine. We’ll at least get the rope round the armchair. No bother there.”
“I think we’ll carry them down the stairs. You seriously want to tie a rope around..?”
“Oh, for christ sake..Right! Come on then!”
Joe was visibly annoyed.
“Clearly you know best. Come on, we’ll get the armchair first.” He flung one of the cushions across the room, and kicked the other one out of the way. Mark was too stunned to respond.
Joe turned around, holding the armchair up behind his back. Kate had returned into the room and she and Mark exchanged brief, perplexed looks.
“Hold it straight!” Joe barked, and continue to grumble under his breath for the four or five trips up and down the stairs it took to load up the rest of the sofa.
They were back in the van. Silence had returned between them. Joe kept shaking his head, still visibly irritated that his rope idea had been rejected. Mark preferred it this way, the chances of a motorway pile-up having been slightly reduced.
“How much is this guy charging?” Mark asked in a text to his girlfriend.
The reply was rapid.
“Says fifteen an hour on the website.”
Joe pulled into a garage.
“I need thirty quid in the tank. Have you got it on you?”
“Well, is it not 15 an hour?” They had been an hour or so, so far, and were twenty minutes from the flat.
“Thirty for the job.”
“Oh..”
Joe got out to fill the engine, paid for it and got back in the van.
“Are you going to argue with me?”
“Sorry?”
“It’s thirty. Are you going to argue?”
“It says fifteen on your website.”
“It’s thirty.”
Mark, weighing up the situation, considered it to be reasonable enough, considering it was fairly difficult to load up and would be just about two hours by the time they got home.
“That’s fine.”
Joe started the engine, drove back and didn’t say another word for the remainder of the journey, shaking his head incredulously throughout. Mark sat there, trying not to laugh by this point.
As Mark handed the money over, Joe had one final thing to say.
“Wet-wipes.”
“Sorry?”
“Good for getting out marks on sofas.”
“Right.”
And with that, Joe the furniture deliverer drove away with a screech, with a bemused Mark staring after the van in the plumes of exhaust smoke left behind.
Wednesday 9 November 2011
Thursday 27 October 2011
We need to talk about Kevin
The unsettling opening shot of a white net curtain dancing silently in the breeze sets the scene of Lynne Ramsay's superb adaptation of Lionel Shirver's novel, 'We need to talk about Kevin.'
Shirver himself has praised the film, something used prominently in advertising the release, the author's seal of approval stamped across promotional posters and trailers. Adaptations of best selling novels usually lend themselves to negative press. For every half a dozen people that enjoy the film in its own right, there will always be a 'not-as-good-as-the-book' naysayer standing with arms folded from the sidelines.
This doesn't seem to be the case here, and justifiably so. It was announced last night that 'We need to talk about Kevin' had triumphed at the London Film Festival, winning the award for 'Best film'. John Madden, chair of the jury, praised it for being "a sublime, uncompromising tale of the torment that can stand in the place of love." The amount of hyperbole being directed towards the film certainly seems in no danger of running dry.
The film explores a mother's inability to cope in the aftermath of her son committing a high-school atrocity, and the tell-tale signs that lead up to the event. Set around the sort of tense score that Radiohead's Johnny Greenwood is becoming so accomplished at, (There will be blood, Norwegian Wood) the director's use of symbolism in imagery and colour is consistent throughout, from the barefaced metaphor of Eva's inability to scrub the red paint of her graffiti ridden house from under her fingertips, to Kevin's deranged enjoyment of preparing a snack, deliberately spilling a jar of jam across a slice of bread whilst his mother attempts in vain to engage him in niceties. Harrowing montages of Eva driving or lying awake in bed, with flashes of disturbing dialogue and snapshot images of the event itself leave the viewer breathless. Her dilapidated house is attacked by trick-or-treaters on Halloween, whist she cowers in a corner. Director Lynne Ramsay makes you feel Eva's sense of isolation so painfully, it is impossible not to be drawn to her plight. Tilda Swinton turns in an incredible performance as Eva. She seems to thrive on playing this sort of feminist, tragic role, and is perfectly cast here.
The film raises the question of whether someone can be born a sociopath, or if this occurs through the way a child is nurtured, or as a consequence of troubling events that happen throughout their lives. We see Kevin as a baby, unable to stop crying, as Eva battles with the daemon of an unwanted child forced upon her. In early childhood, Kevin is reluctant to speak and refuses to toilet train. Eva's attempts at developing and caring for her child are met with an unflinching resilience towards her. We know that Eva never wanted this child. Is it Kevin's awareness of this from an early age, and the development from being slightly resentful of her, to bitterfully so that perpetuates the crime? It is on a particularly frustrating morning, with Kevin still refusing to speak, that she tells him as a toddler 'Mummy was happy before you came along. Without you, Mummy would sill be in France," and we get the sense that Kevin takes this on board, aiding to his feeling of animosity. Certainly there are signs that suggest that Kevin is already detached and monstrous from a young age. When Eva breaks his arm in a sudden rage due to Kevin's misbehaviour and disregard for her, as opposed to being upset, Kevin calculates that he can use this to his advantage, and as leverage against his mother in their ongoing battle.
Eva's isolation is apparent throughout the narrative, and her husband's naivety in the assumption that he has a normal teenage boy highlights the point. Eva's ongoing battle with herself is whether she should feel responsible for his terrible crime. Certainly there are enough signs that her son is drastically unhappy and in some cases disturbed. He considers his mother taking him out to dinner to spend "quality time together" to be futile. A typically teenage attitude perhaps, but it is the way he takes delight in belittling Eva and paints an opinion of the world which lends itself more to nihilism than to teen rebellion. She suspects him of being responsible for blinding his sister. Something unconfirmed, but again there is an unspoken malevolence in the way that Kevin revels in making his mother know that he is responsible.
The film adaptation makes less of Kevin's loneliness than the book, instead focusing on his family relationships, detachment and unwillingness to follow normal social constraints. Kevin is portrayed excellently by the three actors cast for him. Particularly impressive is six-year-old Rock Duer, who, during a reluctance to participate in a simple game with Eva of passing the ball back and forward, shows the audience signs where the character is moving towards.
'We need to talk about Kevin' makes for uncomfortable viewing. At times, toe-curling and at at others desperately sad, it is nevertheless a superb and engaging film that explores uncomfortable issues that are very rarely dealt with. To say this is a film about a student high-school massacre would do it an injustice. It functions on a much deeper level, dealing with the fractious nature of a relationship between a mother and son, and showing the development of a disturbed mind, and how something so violent and tragic can occur as a result of this.
Shirver himself has praised the film, something used prominently in advertising the release, the author's seal of approval stamped across promotional posters and trailers. Adaptations of best selling novels usually lend themselves to negative press. For every half a dozen people that enjoy the film in its own right, there will always be a 'not-as-good-as-the-book' naysayer standing with arms folded from the sidelines.
This doesn't seem to be the case here, and justifiably so. It was announced last night that 'We need to talk about Kevin' had triumphed at the London Film Festival, winning the award for 'Best film'. John Madden, chair of the jury, praised it for being "a sublime, uncompromising tale of the torment that can stand in the place of love." The amount of hyperbole being directed towards the film certainly seems in no danger of running dry.
The film explores a mother's inability to cope in the aftermath of her son committing a high-school atrocity, and the tell-tale signs that lead up to the event. Set around the sort of tense score that Radiohead's Johnny Greenwood is becoming so accomplished at, (There will be blood, Norwegian Wood) the director's use of symbolism in imagery and colour is consistent throughout, from the barefaced metaphor of Eva's inability to scrub the red paint of her graffiti ridden house from under her fingertips, to Kevin's deranged enjoyment of preparing a snack, deliberately spilling a jar of jam across a slice of bread whilst his mother attempts in vain to engage him in niceties. Harrowing montages of Eva driving or lying awake in bed, with flashes of disturbing dialogue and snapshot images of the event itself leave the viewer breathless. Her dilapidated house is attacked by trick-or-treaters on Halloween, whist she cowers in a corner. Director Lynne Ramsay makes you feel Eva's sense of isolation so painfully, it is impossible not to be drawn to her plight. Tilda Swinton turns in an incredible performance as Eva. She seems to thrive on playing this sort of feminist, tragic role, and is perfectly cast here.
The film raises the question of whether someone can be born a sociopath, or if this occurs through the way a child is nurtured, or as a consequence of troubling events that happen throughout their lives. We see Kevin as a baby, unable to stop crying, as Eva battles with the daemon of an unwanted child forced upon her. In early childhood, Kevin is reluctant to speak and refuses to toilet train. Eva's attempts at developing and caring for her child are met with an unflinching resilience towards her. We know that Eva never wanted this child. Is it Kevin's awareness of this from an early age, and the development from being slightly resentful of her, to bitterfully so that perpetuates the crime? It is on a particularly frustrating morning, with Kevin still refusing to speak, that she tells him as a toddler 'Mummy was happy before you came along. Without you, Mummy would sill be in France," and we get the sense that Kevin takes this on board, aiding to his feeling of animosity. Certainly there are signs that suggest that Kevin is already detached and monstrous from a young age. When Eva breaks his arm in a sudden rage due to Kevin's misbehaviour and disregard for her, as opposed to being upset, Kevin calculates that he can use this to his advantage, and as leverage against his mother in their ongoing battle.
Eva's isolation is apparent throughout the narrative, and her husband's naivety in the assumption that he has a normal teenage boy highlights the point. Eva's ongoing battle with herself is whether she should feel responsible for his terrible crime. Certainly there are enough signs that her son is drastically unhappy and in some cases disturbed. He considers his mother taking him out to dinner to spend "quality time together" to be futile. A typically teenage attitude perhaps, but it is the way he takes delight in belittling Eva and paints an opinion of the world which lends itself more to nihilism than to teen rebellion. She suspects him of being responsible for blinding his sister. Something unconfirmed, but again there is an unspoken malevolence in the way that Kevin revels in making his mother know that he is responsible.
The film adaptation makes less of Kevin's loneliness than the book, instead focusing on his family relationships, detachment and unwillingness to follow normal social constraints. Kevin is portrayed excellently by the three actors cast for him. Particularly impressive is six-year-old Rock Duer, who, during a reluctance to participate in a simple game with Eva of passing the ball back and forward, shows the audience signs where the character is moving towards.
'We need to talk about Kevin' makes for uncomfortable viewing. At times, toe-curling and at at others desperately sad, it is nevertheless a superb and engaging film that explores uncomfortable issues that are very rarely dealt with. To say this is a film about a student high-school massacre would do it an injustice. It functions on a much deeper level, dealing with the fractious nature of a relationship between a mother and son, and showing the development of a disturbed mind, and how something so violent and tragic can occur as a result of this.
Tuesday 18 October 2011
Heligoland
Every once in a while an album will slip you by on its release, only for you to realise a year or two later that what you dismissed as an average record first time around is actually brimming with quality.
The album in question is Massive Attack's 'Heligoland.' The self-ordained sin of believing an album to be sub-standard, before giving the necessary investment is particularly true here, considering I hold the band in the highest regard. I am of the opinion that they are responsible for some of the most soulful and captivating music of the last twenty years.
Perhaps it was the album's predecessor, '100th window', that was the problem. At least that's how I'll try to pass it off. Devoid of any of the creativity and determination to provide the kind of tangible atmosphere rarely heard on record that could be attributed to previous work, '100th window' felt more than flat. It was as if this once great power, at the forefront of a much revered scene throughout the previous decade had faded away. As if someone had dimmed the lights to near darkness. The ashy remains of what was once a fire burning brightly.
Such was my disappointment, and such was the long seven year wait before Heligoland that my faith was lost. My approach to the announcement of a new album was one of ambivalence. A few proven vocalists drawn in to help with proceedings, and the return of Del Naja and Andy Horace didn't necessarily mean the band could ever get close to repeating the accomplishment of crafting some of the best records of the 1990s.
It was one track in particular that inspired me to revisit the album. Paradise Circus, with its off-kilter beats and the super-seductive vocals of Hope Sandoval was a track that I had already initially considered to be a highlight of an otherwise mediocre collection. On reflection, it could be one of the finest songs the band has released. The balance between the playfulness of the vocals, and the ethereal death of the soundscape is certainly as affecting as the driving bass of Safe from harm, say, or the terrifying hollowness of 'Inertia Creeps.'
Such was my unjust attitude to the album that this track has remained the only one I'd given repeated listens to.
Imagine my surprise then, on deciding to give the whole album another spin. The Horace Andy tracks are as sublime as previous tracks he has appeared on. Daddy G's angry growl about the banks being bailed out on Splitting the Atom resonates as a genuinely felt proclamation about the state of the country, demonstrating the sort of social awareness that you would be given to expect of the band. The dubby groove finds Massive Attack doing what they do best. 'Girl, I love you' is 'Angel''s weaker sister-song, but still wouldn't be found out of place on 'Mezzanine'.
The guests appearance from indie vocalists, despite my initial scepticism upon the album's release, actually prove to be yet more worthwhile contributions to the album. Damon Albarn's melancholic, soulful addition to 'Saturday Come Slow' feels like another highlight, as do the haunting vocals Guy Garvey lends to 'Flat of the blade,' a piece of displaced electronica that is fully realised, and relevant to the current sort of innovators operating in this particular field.
Martina Thorley-Bird's vocals fail to measure up to the heights reached by Tracey Thorn and Liz Fraser before her, though the tracks she appears on are still worthy of mention; 'Pysche' in particular makes you sit up and take notice, sounding like nothing else around at the moment, something that the band has always achieved so well.
So, apologies to Massive Attack, and for doing one of my favourite bands a dis-service. Let's hope they continue to make music this good some day soon.
The album in question is Massive Attack's 'Heligoland.' The self-ordained sin of believing an album to be sub-standard, before giving the necessary investment is particularly true here, considering I hold the band in the highest regard. I am of the opinion that they are responsible for some of the most soulful and captivating music of the last twenty years.
Perhaps it was the album's predecessor, '100th window', that was the problem. At least that's how I'll try to pass it off. Devoid of any of the creativity and determination to provide the kind of tangible atmosphere rarely heard on record that could be attributed to previous work, '100th window' felt more than flat. It was as if this once great power, at the forefront of a much revered scene throughout the previous decade had faded away. As if someone had dimmed the lights to near darkness. The ashy remains of what was once a fire burning brightly.
Such was my disappointment, and such was the long seven year wait before Heligoland that my faith was lost. My approach to the announcement of a new album was one of ambivalence. A few proven vocalists drawn in to help with proceedings, and the return of Del Naja and Andy Horace didn't necessarily mean the band could ever get close to repeating the accomplishment of crafting some of the best records of the 1990s.
It was one track in particular that inspired me to revisit the album. Paradise Circus, with its off-kilter beats and the super-seductive vocals of Hope Sandoval was a track that I had already initially considered to be a highlight of an otherwise mediocre collection. On reflection, it could be one of the finest songs the band has released. The balance between the playfulness of the vocals, and the ethereal death of the soundscape is certainly as affecting as the driving bass of Safe from harm, say, or the terrifying hollowness of 'Inertia Creeps.'
Such was my unjust attitude to the album that this track has remained the only one I'd given repeated listens to.
Imagine my surprise then, on deciding to give the whole album another spin. The Horace Andy tracks are as sublime as previous tracks he has appeared on. Daddy G's angry growl about the banks being bailed out on Splitting the Atom resonates as a genuinely felt proclamation about the state of the country, demonstrating the sort of social awareness that you would be given to expect of the band. The dubby groove finds Massive Attack doing what they do best. 'Girl, I love you' is 'Angel''s weaker sister-song, but still wouldn't be found out of place on 'Mezzanine'.
The guests appearance from indie vocalists, despite my initial scepticism upon the album's release, actually prove to be yet more worthwhile contributions to the album. Damon Albarn's melancholic, soulful addition to 'Saturday Come Slow' feels like another highlight, as do the haunting vocals Guy Garvey lends to 'Flat of the blade,' a piece of displaced electronica that is fully realised, and relevant to the current sort of innovators operating in this particular field.
Martina Thorley-Bird's vocals fail to measure up to the heights reached by Tracey Thorn and Liz Fraser before her, though the tracks she appears on are still worthy of mention; 'Pysche' in particular makes you sit up and take notice, sounding like nothing else around at the moment, something that the band has always achieved so well.
So, apologies to Massive Attack, and for doing one of my favourite bands a dis-service. Let's hope they continue to make music this good some day soon.
Monday 10 October 2011
Must try harder
There seems to be some sort of internal dilemma facing you in your mid twenties. A feeling of personal guilt, coming from sitting about for too long, indulging more than is advisable, eating fairly irregularly and not exercising properly. Your limbs are starting to ache more than they should. Your stomach is becoming noticeable, and your muscles less so. There's a nagging voice in your head that perhaps you should do something about it.
You go through the options.
A bike ride. For some reason cycling always evokes romantic connotations of riding leisurely through the countryside with a picnic, to a spot with a nice view. Then taking a nap under a leafy oak tree, before rolling back down the hillside to arrive home before the light begins to fade.
The reality is less captivating. You're more likely to be immediately confronted with the undesirable challenge of a monstrous hill to conquer. You begin to ascend and your legs start to deceive you. Spiteful legs. You haven't used certain muscles in them for some time and it's time for their revenge. Stubbornness to conquer the hill and submission for the pain in your legs, blurred vision and lack of oxygen battle each other in the fight to make you get off the blasted thing and push it. Finding the right gear is another constant losing battle you have to fight. The high gears punish you. A condescending feeling, as your legs go around as if you were an anquished lobster lying on its back. Anything lower causes more effort than you feel able to afford.
Feeling slightly light-headed, you sway around, no longer in full control of the bike. Cars speed past you, blasting their horns. It's just started to rain.
Before considering all this it probably should have dawned on you that you don't own a bike.
A run then. People like running. Seems quite nice. Listening to your ipod, with nothing but your own thoughts in your head. The first time you don't quite get it. For some reason, you think it's all about pace. A good work-out should push you, after all! You run quickly up the street for about 500metres before coming to a prompt end, crouching down, gasping for breath and holding your sides.
The second time is a little easier. The more experienced runner having told you that your method is perhaps not the best. You enjoy it for a while. Maybe this is it. A born runner! Then the creeping realisation that you've been going for half an hour and feel like like you can't run another yard. You're two and a half miles from home. It's just started to rain.
Swimming? It has its merits. Certainly a good way to get some exercise. You look on the internet for a local pool. The nearest public pool is two miles away!? To go and bathe in a river of child's urine and oppressive chlorine that will make your eyes burn for the rest of the day? I'll pass thanks.
You're running low on options to do some exercise that doesn't involve another participant. And everyone's busy. A game of football is rarely on the cards. Not enough people to play. No one owns a tennis racket. You realise the only option left is the gym.
The gym, it then dawns on you, is perhaps the most undesirable place on earth. The gym, you reailse, is the place where you'd most likely find sanctuary when a new ice age is ushered in, but not before.
Why anyone would part with money to run up and down on the spot on a conveyor belt is baffling to you. You could always go and lie down and attempt to lift some weights above your scrawny frame, while a man built like a tree leers down at you contemptuously.
You resort to five push-ups, before collapsing and realising that the carpet is actually a lot more comfortable than you first thought.
You go through the options.
A bike ride. For some reason cycling always evokes romantic connotations of riding leisurely through the countryside with a picnic, to a spot with a nice view. Then taking a nap under a leafy oak tree, before rolling back down the hillside to arrive home before the light begins to fade.
The reality is less captivating. You're more likely to be immediately confronted with the undesirable challenge of a monstrous hill to conquer. You begin to ascend and your legs start to deceive you. Spiteful legs. You haven't used certain muscles in them for some time and it's time for their revenge. Stubbornness to conquer the hill and submission for the pain in your legs, blurred vision and lack of oxygen battle each other in the fight to make you get off the blasted thing and push it. Finding the right gear is another constant losing battle you have to fight. The high gears punish you. A condescending feeling, as your legs go around as if you were an anquished lobster lying on its back. Anything lower causes more effort than you feel able to afford.
Feeling slightly light-headed, you sway around, no longer in full control of the bike. Cars speed past you, blasting their horns. It's just started to rain.
Before considering all this it probably should have dawned on you that you don't own a bike.
A run then. People like running. Seems quite nice. Listening to your ipod, with nothing but your own thoughts in your head. The first time you don't quite get it. For some reason, you think it's all about pace. A good work-out should push you, after all! You run quickly up the street for about 500metres before coming to a prompt end, crouching down, gasping for breath and holding your sides.
The second time is a little easier. The more experienced runner having told you that your method is perhaps not the best. You enjoy it for a while. Maybe this is it. A born runner! Then the creeping realisation that you've been going for half an hour and feel like like you can't run another yard. You're two and a half miles from home. It's just started to rain.
Swimming? It has its merits. Certainly a good way to get some exercise. You look on the internet for a local pool. The nearest public pool is two miles away!? To go and bathe in a river of child's urine and oppressive chlorine that will make your eyes burn for the rest of the day? I'll pass thanks.
You're running low on options to do some exercise that doesn't involve another participant. And everyone's busy. A game of football is rarely on the cards. Not enough people to play. No one owns a tennis racket. You realise the only option left is the gym.
The gym, it then dawns on you, is perhaps the most undesirable place on earth. The gym, you reailse, is the place where you'd most likely find sanctuary when a new ice age is ushered in, but not before.
Why anyone would part with money to run up and down on the spot on a conveyor belt is baffling to you. You could always go and lie down and attempt to lift some weights above your scrawny frame, while a man built like a tree leers down at you contemptuously.
You resort to five push-ups, before collapsing and realising that the carpet is actually a lot more comfortable than you first thought.
Monday 3 October 2011
Running from the Forest?
A man with more ups and downs in his career than a hotel elevator, the latest blow to Steve McClaren's managerial career saw a poor 3-1 defeat at home to Birmingham leave boos ringing in the manager's ears, chasing him all the way out of The City Ground and away to the sanctuary of Sherwood Forest.
The stage had been set for a successful return to English football. Having failed to achieve qualification into Euro 2008 as England manager, McClaren had sensibly moved to Holland, escaping the ever vitriolic English press.
Seemingly having undergone sessions of intensive hypnotic therapy to make him forget the last period of his career, and affecting a Dutch accent in the process, success quickly followed. McClaren led Eredivisie side, FC Twente, to an unprecedented league triumph for the first time in the club's history.
After a much less happy time at German club Wolfsburg, McClaren had been handed a nine month break from football. Nottingham Forest had seemed like the perfect English club to return to. A new season. A club on the verge of achieving their long overdue return to the top-flight. Few Forest fans would have argued against the evidence that McClaren was an appropriate choice by the board to be the man to achieve this feat.
Having gathered just eight points, and sitting just above the relegation zone, it is unfortunate that McClaren has decided that ten league games in charge is enough. It was a tenure that capitulated before it had a chance to take off, taking chairman Nigel Doughty with it.
Difficult though, for the fans to be patient. A feeling that resonates strongly through the Forest fan base is that this is a club that belongs in the top division. They've been getting closer. It's understandable that some might see McClaren's short-lived reign as a frustrating step back. Realising this, perhaps McClaren wisely decided to jump ship before he was pushed.
The stage had been set for a successful return to English football. Having failed to achieve qualification into Euro 2008 as England manager, McClaren had sensibly moved to Holland, escaping the ever vitriolic English press.
Seemingly having undergone sessions of intensive hypnotic therapy to make him forget the last period of his career, and affecting a Dutch accent in the process, success quickly followed. McClaren led Eredivisie side, FC Twente, to an unprecedented league triumph for the first time in the club's history.
After a much less happy time at German club Wolfsburg, McClaren had been handed a nine month break from football. Nottingham Forest had seemed like the perfect English club to return to. A new season. A club on the verge of achieving their long overdue return to the top-flight. Few Forest fans would have argued against the evidence that McClaren was an appropriate choice by the board to be the man to achieve this feat.
Having gathered just eight points, and sitting just above the relegation zone, it is unfortunate that McClaren has decided that ten league games in charge is enough. It was a tenure that capitulated before it had a chance to take off, taking chairman Nigel Doughty with it.
Difficult though, for the fans to be patient. A feeling that resonates strongly through the Forest fan base is that this is a club that belongs in the top division. They've been getting closer. It's understandable that some might see McClaren's short-lived reign as a frustrating step back. Realising this, perhaps McClaren wisely decided to jump ship before he was pushed.
Moving house
A lack of entries in recent weeks has been down to me moving house, and the lack of access to the internet. More posts soon!
Wednesday 7 September 2011
Mercury Music Prize gets it right (for a change)
The Mercury Music Prize has justifiably been the subject of much discussion and conflict over the years. Claiming to reward the best British album of the year on merit alone, the nominations can be slightly perplexing.
For instance, the inclusion this year of Adele's best selling album, '21' sits rather awkwardly against other competitors for what is widely considered to be the most coveted of awards. Not just because it has sold a lot of records. In most people's mind, the point of the prize is to reward an exceptional album outside of the mainstream. Not one that fills the silence pleasantly enough in family homes throughout the country. It's fair to say it's the type of album never likely to win, but then why include it amongst the nominations in the first place?
More often than not, the result of The Mercury Prize is met with a shrug of the shoulders and largely ignored by even the biggest champion of alternative music. 2005 and 2009's decisions to respectively deem Anthony and the Johnsons and Speeche Debelle worthy winners being very noteable examples of this.
Other years, the integrity of the award has been brought into question. When M People's 'Elegant Slumming' was chosen in favour of Pulp, Blur and Suede in 1994, many were heavily critical. Needless to say, Melody Maker and NME were up in arms(!) The subsequent years saw excellent albums by Portishead and Pulp rewarded, and with it came renewed respect for the prize.
Frustrating then, that as recently as 2007 the prize was given to The Klaxons. Surely the most undeserving winner of all. A gimmicky, 'blink-and-you'll-miss-them' passing fad of a band. Something that should have been obvious to even the most susceptible of folk.
This year saw strong nominations. Ghostpoet's lyrical and relevant take on contemporary London life for the underclass; 'Peanut Butter Blues and Melancholy Jam,' should have been a strong contender. The inventive and svelte sound of Metronomy's 'The English Riviera' another worthy nomination.
It is rare that the frontrunner takes home the award, but this year the judges made the right choice. PJ Harvey's Let England Shake is the sort of record that is rarely made anymore. In an age of music being available at the click of a button, it requires patience and dedication to sit down and listen to an album through in its entirety, without being distracted by whatever else may be on your itunes. 'Let England Shake' demands this in the most pleasurable of ways. For something that deals so heavily in themes of war and death, it is remarkable how accessible a record it is. It's testament to the quality of the song-writing. You can very readily hear the craft and invention that went into the creation. Far from being just a collection of songs, it's idiosyncratic nature makes it a very complete piece of work.
For all the failings of The Mercury Music Prize in the past, it was nice to see that this year, an artist received truly deserved adulation.
For instance, the inclusion this year of Adele's best selling album, '21' sits rather awkwardly against other competitors for what is widely considered to be the most coveted of awards. Not just because it has sold a lot of records. In most people's mind, the point of the prize is to reward an exceptional album outside of the mainstream. Not one that fills the silence pleasantly enough in family homes throughout the country. It's fair to say it's the type of album never likely to win, but then why include it amongst the nominations in the first place?
More often than not, the result of The Mercury Prize is met with a shrug of the shoulders and largely ignored by even the biggest champion of alternative music. 2005 and 2009's decisions to respectively deem Anthony and the Johnsons and Speeche Debelle worthy winners being very noteable examples of this.
Other years, the integrity of the award has been brought into question. When M People's 'Elegant Slumming' was chosen in favour of Pulp, Blur and Suede in 1994, many were heavily critical. Needless to say, Melody Maker and NME were up in arms(!) The subsequent years saw excellent albums by Portishead and Pulp rewarded, and with it came renewed respect for the prize.
Frustrating then, that as recently as 2007 the prize was given to The Klaxons. Surely the most undeserving winner of all. A gimmicky, 'blink-and-you'll-miss-them' passing fad of a band. Something that should have been obvious to even the most susceptible of folk.
This year saw strong nominations. Ghostpoet's lyrical and relevant take on contemporary London life for the underclass; 'Peanut Butter Blues and Melancholy Jam,' should have been a strong contender. The inventive and svelte sound of Metronomy's 'The English Riviera' another worthy nomination.
It is rare that the frontrunner takes home the award, but this year the judges made the right choice. PJ Harvey's Let England Shake is the sort of record that is rarely made anymore. In an age of music being available at the click of a button, it requires patience and dedication to sit down and listen to an album through in its entirety, without being distracted by whatever else may be on your itunes. 'Let England Shake' demands this in the most pleasurable of ways. For something that deals so heavily in themes of war and death, it is remarkable how accessible a record it is. It's testament to the quality of the song-writing. You can very readily hear the craft and invention that went into the creation. Far from being just a collection of songs, it's idiosyncratic nature makes it a very complete piece of work.
For all the failings of The Mercury Music Prize in the past, it was nice to see that this year, an artist received truly deserved adulation.
Thursday 18 August 2011
Back before it really went away
It returns long before you realised you missed it. A new football season. Just as a collective nation is sighing in resignation that the two weeks of sunshine at the end of May are unlikely to be repeated.
So nine more months of it. Sitting in slow moving traffic on a cold, damp Tuesday evening on the way to watch your team play out a bore draw. The struggling windscreen wipers indicating that perhaps the decision to come was unwise.
Memories of childhood excitement. My father's pipe smoke's comforting smell, and the obligatory tube of mints. The cheap, portable red radio pressed up against a near frozen ear to check the latest scores.
Gloved hands clutched around weak cups of tea in polystyrene cups. Screwed up faces, full of anxiety, braced against the ceaseless drizzle. Everyone suddenly outraged. The contagious, over-powering outlet to utter all grievances and frustrations. Howling obscenities and shaking your fist. Utterly outraged at the sheer unfairness of it all. The momentary elation of some dogged goal in the seventieth minute of the match. All soon to be forgotten after the full time whistle blows. Lying in bed that night wondering if that was really you; out of your seat, letting the world know exactly what you thought of the referee.
Reluctantly walking around freezing shopping centres on a Saturday afternoon with loved ones before Christmas. Skillfully slowing down on approaching Curries or William Hill to check the never-ending run of scores on the vidiprinter. (You never get to see what you want to know.) "Come on, you can look at the football later." A gritted teeth grunt of submission.
In the pub attempting to nurse a pint until the half time whistle. Endless discussion. The most passive of spectators fleetingly transformed into an opinionated braggart when discussing the merits or failings of a particular player.
The international language. The conversation starter. The conversation filler. The beginning of friendships. The testing of relationships. The collective feeling of all consuming grief. The collective feeling of all consuming jubilation. The extremities of a lifetime of emotions condensed into ninety minutes of watching twenty-two men kicking a ball around a muddy field.
You awake the next day and nothing will have happened. Your job will still be not as fulfilling as you hoped. The money worries will remain. Your hair will be thinning, your stomach growing. You will be another day older. But nothing mattered for that ninety minutes.
I slip into grotesque cliche, but, to use another one that's football! There's always disappointment (well, unless you support Man United, but the majority of them miss the point of it all...)
Somehow, the despair is where the appeal lies. Some unspoken feeling of knowing that if you can get through the crushing low of your team's defeat, then you can prepare yourself for almost anything. Placing it above all else in life in terms of its importance for that brief spell. Of course you get over the despair a lot more quickly than other tragedies that might befall you, but it's a snapshot of grief. It's akin to receiving an injection of meningitis to prevent you from contracting it. A lesson for life in general.
I have often spent time wandering why I care. Wondering why it matters. The escapism? The welcome distraction? Are these really big enough reasons? But looking at the sheer delight on faces and hearing the roar of absolute and unquestionable ecstasy when an important goal is scored, and feeling that emotion yourself has always answered the question.
So nine more months of it. Sitting in slow moving traffic on a cold, damp Tuesday evening on the way to watch your team play out a bore draw. The struggling windscreen wipers indicating that perhaps the decision to come was unwise.
Memories of childhood excitement. My father's pipe smoke's comforting smell, and the obligatory tube of mints. The cheap, portable red radio pressed up against a near frozen ear to check the latest scores.
Gloved hands clutched around weak cups of tea in polystyrene cups. Screwed up faces, full of anxiety, braced against the ceaseless drizzle. Everyone suddenly outraged. The contagious, over-powering outlet to utter all grievances and frustrations. Howling obscenities and shaking your fist. Utterly outraged at the sheer unfairness of it all. The momentary elation of some dogged goal in the seventieth minute of the match. All soon to be forgotten after the full time whistle blows. Lying in bed that night wondering if that was really you; out of your seat, letting the world know exactly what you thought of the referee.
Reluctantly walking around freezing shopping centres on a Saturday afternoon with loved ones before Christmas. Skillfully slowing down on approaching Curries or William Hill to check the never-ending run of scores on the vidiprinter. (You never get to see what you want to know.) "Come on, you can look at the football later." A gritted teeth grunt of submission.
In the pub attempting to nurse a pint until the half time whistle. Endless discussion. The most passive of spectators fleetingly transformed into an opinionated braggart when discussing the merits or failings of a particular player.
The international language. The conversation starter. The conversation filler. The beginning of friendships. The testing of relationships. The collective feeling of all consuming grief. The collective feeling of all consuming jubilation. The extremities of a lifetime of emotions condensed into ninety minutes of watching twenty-two men kicking a ball around a muddy field.
You awake the next day and nothing will have happened. Your job will still be not as fulfilling as you hoped. The money worries will remain. Your hair will be thinning, your stomach growing. You will be another day older. But nothing mattered for that ninety minutes.
I slip into grotesque cliche, but, to use another one that's football! There's always disappointment (well, unless you support Man United, but the majority of them miss the point of it all...)
Somehow, the despair is where the appeal lies. Some unspoken feeling of knowing that if you can get through the crushing low of your team's defeat, then you can prepare yourself for almost anything. Placing it above all else in life in terms of its importance for that brief spell. Of course you get over the despair a lot more quickly than other tragedies that might befall you, but it's a snapshot of grief. It's akin to receiving an injection of meningitis to prevent you from contracting it. A lesson for life in general.
I have often spent time wandering why I care. Wondering why it matters. The escapism? The welcome distraction? Are these really big enough reasons? But looking at the sheer delight on faces and hearing the roar of absolute and unquestionable ecstasy when an important goal is scored, and feeling that emotion yourself has always answered the question.
Wednesday 10 August 2011
Field Day 2011
Bad organisation, over-crowding and sound problems marred what was otherwise an enjoyable Field Day in London’s Victoria Park.
Bemused faces all around the entrance gates, and with no visible turnstiles, punters pushed and jostled with each other to get in, developing scenes fully representing a cattle market.
From various reports, security either seemed to be one of two of extremes; overly aggressive or remarkably slipshod. Receiving the latter treatment, one could be forgiven for feeling rather irked at shelling out the price for a can of warm lager, given several could have been purchased for a similar price in a newsagent, but these are familiar festival grumbles.
The disorganisation of the day in general, however, was hard to ignore, particularly given that it was such a challenge to find the appropriate stage for where you wanted to be. One signpost in the middle of the festival, with indecipherable arrows pointing in the vague direction of where the stage you were looking for might be, was far from adequate.
It was also clear that far too many tickets had been sold. Manoeuvring through the crowds to get where you wanted to became a chore as the day wore on. Queues for the toilets, particularly for females, who did not have the advantage of the urinals provided, were reportedly as long as forty minutes.
The food on offer was a high point, with an ample amount of good quality choices, and barely any queues because of this.
It seems strange to only get around to talking about the music at this point, but such was the disorganisation that it made it nearly impossible to see as much as was on offer.
Cloud Control at the Shacklewell Arms stage, entertained the few who managed to get in. A short set of catchy songs that seem determined to stay with you. The stage itself had an unusual side entrance, so those unable to get into the tent itself were left feeling uninvolved, and many gave up on trying to actually watch anything here.
A surprisingly large crowd gathered for Mount Kimbie, given the sort of audiences the two were playing to last summer, and they received an enthusiastic reception.
Later, Kieran Hebden and James Holden, with their pioneering, immaculate understanding of the textures and complexities of electronic music, was a definite highlight, though would have been much better suited to a later slot. It was baffling as to why the organisers felt their 7.00pm appearance appropriate, given they had got it more or less spot on last year, putting Holden on during twilight hours.
Actress similarly suffered. A rare spell of sunshine during his 6pm slot meant few were in the mood to listen to the kind of threatening, near apocalyptic soundscape he was busy building at the Blogger‘s Delight stage.
As daylight fell away, Gruff Rhys and Wild Beasts were enjoyable, but the inexplicably quiet sound level meant that it was possible to have a conversation with the person next to you without raising your voice. Something many chose to do, which rather drew attention away from the acts themselves. The crowd response was decidedly nonplussed. On top of this, you couldn’t help but feel that these headliners would have suited much better during the afternoon.
I’ve never been to a festival as badly organised as Field Day 2011. Fortunately this was just about saved by the determination of people to enjoy themselves, and the fact that the initial line up was actually very strong, meaning it was possible to find some fulfilment throughout the day.
Bemused faces all around the entrance gates, and with no visible turnstiles, punters pushed and jostled with each other to get in, developing scenes fully representing a cattle market.
From various reports, security either seemed to be one of two of extremes; overly aggressive or remarkably slipshod. Receiving the latter treatment, one could be forgiven for feeling rather irked at shelling out the price for a can of warm lager, given several could have been purchased for a similar price in a newsagent, but these are familiar festival grumbles.
The disorganisation of the day in general, however, was hard to ignore, particularly given that it was such a challenge to find the appropriate stage for where you wanted to be. One signpost in the middle of the festival, with indecipherable arrows pointing in the vague direction of where the stage you were looking for might be, was far from adequate.
It was also clear that far too many tickets had been sold. Manoeuvring through the crowds to get where you wanted to became a chore as the day wore on. Queues for the toilets, particularly for females, who did not have the advantage of the urinals provided, were reportedly as long as forty minutes.
The food on offer was a high point, with an ample amount of good quality choices, and barely any queues because of this.
It seems strange to only get around to talking about the music at this point, but such was the disorganisation that it made it nearly impossible to see as much as was on offer.
Cloud Control at the Shacklewell Arms stage, entertained the few who managed to get in. A short set of catchy songs that seem determined to stay with you. The stage itself had an unusual side entrance, so those unable to get into the tent itself were left feeling uninvolved, and many gave up on trying to actually watch anything here.
A surprisingly large crowd gathered for Mount Kimbie, given the sort of audiences the two were playing to last summer, and they received an enthusiastic reception.
Later, Kieran Hebden and James Holden, with their pioneering, immaculate understanding of the textures and complexities of electronic music, was a definite highlight, though would have been much better suited to a later slot. It was baffling as to why the organisers felt their 7.00pm appearance appropriate, given they had got it more or less spot on last year, putting Holden on during twilight hours.
Actress similarly suffered. A rare spell of sunshine during his 6pm slot meant few were in the mood to listen to the kind of threatening, near apocalyptic soundscape he was busy building at the Blogger‘s Delight stage.
As daylight fell away, Gruff Rhys and Wild Beasts were enjoyable, but the inexplicably quiet sound level meant that it was possible to have a conversation with the person next to you without raising your voice. Something many chose to do, which rather drew attention away from the acts themselves. The crowd response was decidedly nonplussed. On top of this, you couldn’t help but feel that these headliners would have suited much better during the afternoon.
I’ve never been to a festival as badly organised as Field Day 2011. Fortunately this was just about saved by the determination of people to enjoy themselves, and the fact that the initial line up was actually very strong, meaning it was possible to find some fulfilment throughout the day.
Monday 1 August 2011
LCD Soundsystem - Sound of Silver review - For Guardian Favourite Albums Section
It was a track from LCD Soundsystem's first record that so accurately, and with razor sharp wit, surmised the affectations of the all-knowing hipster. The people who moved in exclusive circles, driven along by the sense of their own self-importance.
"I hear that you and your band have sold your guitars and bought turntables. I hear that you and your band have sold your turntables and bought guitars," Murphy scoffed, with dismissive sarcasm. A feigned sense of being impressed.
Ironic then, that at around this time, in an increasingly homogenised era for music, this maligned crossover; i.e. the electronic influence on guitar music, became more and more prevalent as the decade wore on. The sound of four white indie boys with nice melodies and guitars and drums, suddenly sounded outdated and uninspiring.
James Murphy’s great achievement is making a record that has great crossover appeal. It works just as well as a disco-inspired freak-out record, as it does as an album to listen to with headphones on the last bus home. An album just as likely to be loved by dance-floor seeking clubbers as guitar band obsessed kids with floppy fringes.
There are songs about mistaken nationality, (North American Scum), about break ups ('Someone great’), about the draining experiences of urban dwelling (‘New York I love you, but you’re bringing me down.‘) And there is 'All my friends;' A song that seems to be about how the desire to be a part of the cutting edge results in a loss of touch with a more important thing; companionship. It’s the assertion that "You spent the first five years trying to get with the plan, and the next five years trying to be with your friends again." This notion of becoming increasingly isolated by the desire to remain relevant and subversive. The end refrain of "If I could see all my friends tonight..." is as significant a line about the potential for a loss of touch with you your friends are in the club scene that has ever been asserted.
That so much can be drawn from the songs on an album that is essentially one that makes you want to dance is testament to its greatness. From the building rhythms and a singular syncopated piano chord on the opening track "Get Innocuous!" the music is as infectious as you could hope for. It is a record that you want to play as loud as possible. One that you want to jump around your bedroom to like an idiot. But it is also one that explores serious ideas of isolation and getting older, themes never usually appropriated for dance music. Here is a record that is playful but sincere; humorous but poignant. Pulling off these paradoxes so successfully, with music of such quality as this, is simply a magnificent feat.
"I hear that you and your band have sold your guitars and bought turntables. I hear that you and your band have sold your turntables and bought guitars," Murphy scoffed, with dismissive sarcasm. A feigned sense of being impressed.
Ironic then, that at around this time, in an increasingly homogenised era for music, this maligned crossover; i.e. the electronic influence on guitar music, became more and more prevalent as the decade wore on. The sound of four white indie boys with nice melodies and guitars and drums, suddenly sounded outdated and uninspiring.
James Murphy’s great achievement is making a record that has great crossover appeal. It works just as well as a disco-inspired freak-out record, as it does as an album to listen to with headphones on the last bus home. An album just as likely to be loved by dance-floor seeking clubbers as guitar band obsessed kids with floppy fringes.
There are songs about mistaken nationality, (North American Scum), about break ups ('Someone great’), about the draining experiences of urban dwelling (‘New York I love you, but you’re bringing me down.‘) And there is 'All my friends;' A song that seems to be about how the desire to be a part of the cutting edge results in a loss of touch with a more important thing; companionship. It’s the assertion that "You spent the first five years trying to get with the plan, and the next five years trying to be with your friends again." This notion of becoming increasingly isolated by the desire to remain relevant and subversive. The end refrain of "If I could see all my friends tonight..." is as significant a line about the potential for a loss of touch with you your friends are in the club scene that has ever been asserted.
That so much can be drawn from the songs on an album that is essentially one that makes you want to dance is testament to its greatness. From the building rhythms and a singular syncopated piano chord on the opening track "Get Innocuous!" the music is as infectious as you could hope for. It is a record that you want to play as loud as possible. One that you want to jump around your bedroom to like an idiot. But it is also one that explores serious ideas of isolation and getting older, themes never usually appropriated for dance music. Here is a record that is playful but sincere; humorous but poignant. Pulling off these paradoxes so successfully, with music of such quality as this, is simply a magnificent feat.
Monday 18 July 2011
Dylan Moran - Hammersmith Apollo - 15/07/11
There is no question Dylan Moran has built up a devoted fan-base over the last decade, born out of the ability to remain articulate and, for the most part, painfully accurate, whilst noticeably inebriated.
Around the time of his sitcom, Black Books, Moran had already perfected this character. The overtly cynical drunk, taking astute observations about the world around him, and turning them into sharply worked diatribes, that appeared random and off the wall, whilst actually being cemented in something that was instantly identifiable to people. His audience loved to imagine that he spent the majority of his days stumbling around his house, despairingly cynical of the world around him, similarly to his Bernard Black character.
In Moran’s new show, “Yeah, yeah,” the comic makes no secret of the fact he is comfortably approaching middle age. Somehow, one gets the impression that Moran is no longer as nihilistic as he makes out. The sketches about family life are predictably pessimistic, but underlined with a barely-disguised contentedness that perhaps slightly undermines the skit that he has become so accomplished at.
Representations of male/female relationships are of the woman as Mary Shelly, and the man the Frankenstein they have created. Despite this, it is also evident that Moran is actually very fond of his wife and children. This scarcely matters. It is clear from the knowing sideways glances couples exchange throughout his pessimistic observations, that people recognize the situations he creates, and coupled with his superb delivery, it makes for hugely enjoyable stand-up.
A section on dinner parties is familiar ground; the superfluous formalities (“No, I wouldn’t like the tour. I’ve got a house full of shit, why would I want to see yours?”) and awkward conversation are well illustrated and material appropriate to the educated middle-class that no doubt make up the vast majority of the crowd.
The suggestion that David Cameron’s inability to know what to do with his Big Society is best demonstrated by the two hand gesture of being unsure where to put a box down, gives an example of the rare ability he possesses to observe an apparently innocuous action and use it as a metaphor for something topical and relevant.
Elsewhere, there is talk of people from London having enforced stereotypes about the rest of the country. He expertly counteracts the point by showing how these same people conform to these very stereotypes, and suggests an idea of having supermarket self-service check-outs that reflect these ideas.
Over his time as a stand-up comedian, Dylan Moran has beautifully mastered the art of staying within the adopted character of the bitter, drunken Irishman, whilst managing to present superbly well-thought-through ideas in a flowing and lyrical manner. He takes for his routines subjects that are not rare in stand-up comedy; family life, religion, relationships etc. but through bizarre metaphors, and a unique and intelligent approach to such issues, Moran commands complete control over his audience, and the result is thoroughly entertaining.
Around the time of his sitcom, Black Books, Moran had already perfected this character. The overtly cynical drunk, taking astute observations about the world around him, and turning them into sharply worked diatribes, that appeared random and off the wall, whilst actually being cemented in something that was instantly identifiable to people. His audience loved to imagine that he spent the majority of his days stumbling around his house, despairingly cynical of the world around him, similarly to his Bernard Black character.
In Moran’s new show, “Yeah, yeah,” the comic makes no secret of the fact he is comfortably approaching middle age. Somehow, one gets the impression that Moran is no longer as nihilistic as he makes out. The sketches about family life are predictably pessimistic, but underlined with a barely-disguised contentedness that perhaps slightly undermines the skit that he has become so accomplished at.
Representations of male/female relationships are of the woman as Mary Shelly, and the man the Frankenstein they have created. Despite this, it is also evident that Moran is actually very fond of his wife and children. This scarcely matters. It is clear from the knowing sideways glances couples exchange throughout his pessimistic observations, that people recognize the situations he creates, and coupled with his superb delivery, it makes for hugely enjoyable stand-up.
A section on dinner parties is familiar ground; the superfluous formalities (“No, I wouldn’t like the tour. I’ve got a house full of shit, why would I want to see yours?”) and awkward conversation are well illustrated and material appropriate to the educated middle-class that no doubt make up the vast majority of the crowd.
The suggestion that David Cameron’s inability to know what to do with his Big Society is best demonstrated by the two hand gesture of being unsure where to put a box down, gives an example of the rare ability he possesses to observe an apparently innocuous action and use it as a metaphor for something topical and relevant.
Elsewhere, there is talk of people from London having enforced stereotypes about the rest of the country. He expertly counteracts the point by showing how these same people conform to these very stereotypes, and suggests an idea of having supermarket self-service check-outs that reflect these ideas.
Over his time as a stand-up comedian, Dylan Moran has beautifully mastered the art of staying within the adopted character of the bitter, drunken Irishman, whilst managing to present superbly well-thought-through ideas in a flowing and lyrical manner. He takes for his routines subjects that are not rare in stand-up comedy; family life, religion, relationships etc. but through bizarre metaphors, and a unique and intelligent approach to such issues, Moran commands complete control over his audience, and the result is thoroughly entertaining.
Thursday 7 July 2011
The demise of 'The News of the World'
So The News of the world is no more. A press statement from News International claims that the "wrong do-ers" in the scandal have "sullied the reputation of a good newsroom, and turned it bad."
Predictably, The Sun chose not to lead with the headlines dominating the rest of the country's media yesterday, and adopted the "buried head in the sand" approach. So instead of any word on the latest and most disturbing revelations of phone hacking, they lead with a front page of a blown up photograph of a heavily pregnant Posh Spice, accompanied by the headline "Victoria Becktum." A fine example of the "good newsroom" alluded to by News International, I'm sure. The irony that The Sun finds itself caught up in a scandal involving the hacking of a murdered child's phone, which means far more to any rational person than footballers cheating on their spouses, or politicians claiming expenses, has scarcely been mentioned.
The decision to axe The News of the World is not going to solve anything. It won't be long before Murdoch introduces something which operates in exactly the same manner. "The Sun on Sunday" being the most obvious and probable choice.
Even after the "wrong-doers" are appropriately punished, and the country has stopped shaking its collective head with the injustice of how disgustingly low a journalist can sink in order to get a good story, nothing will change. The build up over decades of an unflinching belief in the freedom of the press allows that there will always be journalists ready to prey on the vulnerable to get their story. News International and Rupert Murdoch's News Corp are all powerful. The general public will continue to read the tabloids and the tabloids will continue to operate in the same way. People's anger about the mistreatment of the poor murdered girl's family will fade, because the desire to know who's in Victoria's Beck Tum will ultimately always win out.
Predictably, The Sun chose not to lead with the headlines dominating the rest of the country's media yesterday, and adopted the "buried head in the sand" approach. So instead of any word on the latest and most disturbing revelations of phone hacking, they lead with a front page of a blown up photograph of a heavily pregnant Posh Spice, accompanied by the headline "Victoria Becktum." A fine example of the "good newsroom" alluded to by News International, I'm sure. The irony that The Sun finds itself caught up in a scandal involving the hacking of a murdered child's phone, which means far more to any rational person than footballers cheating on their spouses, or politicians claiming expenses, has scarcely been mentioned.
The decision to axe The News of the World is not going to solve anything. It won't be long before Murdoch introduces something which operates in exactly the same manner. "The Sun on Sunday" being the most obvious and probable choice.
Even after the "wrong-doers" are appropriately punished, and the country has stopped shaking its collective head with the injustice of how disgustingly low a journalist can sink in order to get a good story, nothing will change. The build up over decades of an unflinching belief in the freedom of the press allows that there will always be journalists ready to prey on the vulnerable to get their story. News International and Rupert Murdoch's News Corp are all powerful. The general public will continue to read the tabloids and the tabloids will continue to operate in the same way. People's anger about the mistreatment of the poor murdered girl's family will fade, because the desire to know who's in Victoria's Beck Tum will ultimately always win out.
Tuesday 5 July 2011
People in the Pub 2 - Worries for the future
Barely able to suppress her anxieties any longer, she stood by her blue gate and took a hard look at the street she had grown to know so well. Carefully maintained but barely noticed pot-plants in the upper windows. Contrasting gardens; some overgrown and weed-ridden, others neatly mowed; spring flowers beginning to bloom. Old bicycles were dotted around, chained to rusty railings.
The house in Cornwall was ready now, but she was procrastinating. Pubs had always provided her with the distractions she sought, and no more so than the one on the corner. She needed re-assurance, and a conversation with a stranger in the pub seemed like a good place to find it
The dogs might come in useful. She took them with her, mentally rehearsing the conversation starter “Well, they’ll certainly have a lot more to explore down in Cornwall,” line, as she walked down the road.
It turned out she didn’t need to worry. They were playing Joy Division. Now that was something she could definitely talk about, despite the apparent and slightly disheartening thirty-five year age gap between herself and the person listening to them.
Humming along quietly with the haunting tones of Ian Curtis as her drink was poured, she felt a stab of irritation at the look of surprise she received for doing so.
It had been 1979. She’d been thirty when working at the BBC as a sound engineer for Radio 1, and remembered the Joy Division session best of all. They were the last band she had been young enough to get excited about, having outplayed her punk albums over the last two years. They had seemed different. More considered, and just as expressive as the punk music she so loved. Now some guy in his twenties, who hadn’t even been born when this had happened, expected her to be listening to Engelbert bloody Humperdink just because she was the wrong side of sixty and looked it, despite the amount of blusher she used in a vain attempt to hide the wrinkles. Hadn’t he noticed the leather jacket and faded tatoo? Not really Joy Division though was it? He probably thought she was just some sad old woman, trying to appear young and with-it and failing miserably. Well, she’d show him!
‘Calm down,’ she reasoned with herself. ‘To be fair, there can’t be many people my age who….’….”Get down, Bailey!”
The dog was up on the table causing a nuisance as usual. Joy Division finished, and something more modern and unrecognisable came on. “Who’s this then?” she asked, screwing her face up. Not caring who it was in particular, her response to the answer about what was now playing on the I-pod was to say “1979!” as if she had just thought about it, and reached a conclusion, which instigated understandable confusion.
“Sorry?”
“Joy Division.”
“Oh…Yeah…That's right. Beofre I was born, anyway!”
She decided to forgive him the sin of not knowing her deep affiliation with the band.
“Lovely guys.” A self-satisfied mouthful of beer.
In truth, she had only passed a few words with them and none at all with the singer, but it was a way in, and it seemed to work.
“Why, did you know them then?” Raised Eyebrows. A good sign.
“Oh yes, we go back.” A doubtful look. A hastily responsive laugh; dismissive.
“That is to say, I met them once or twice, (‘It was once really,’) when I worked at the Beeb, you know.” She shrugged, taking a longer drink from her pint of continental lager. She exhaled contentedly. “I was a sound engineer for ‘em.”
“Oh right… Wow!”
A scan for sarcasm came out clear.
“You never would have guessed he would hang himself. Such an interesting chap to talk to. So much to say. So full of life.” Exaggeration was bordering upon downright lies here, and she was keen to change the subject to what she really wanted to talk about before exposing herself.
“Mm, I think it was quite a surprise for lots of people wasn’t it? Who else did you meet when you were there?”
In truth, she hadn’t done that job for long, and Joy Division were by far and away the most famous, or at least, the most credible and famous band she had worked with.
“Oh, too many to count!”…”Charlie! Bailey! Will you behave!” she shouted, and the guy shook his head from side to side gently, with a look that said “Don’t worry about it.”
“Sorry…They’re a pain.” She drained most of the pint.
“Don’t worry about it. What Joy Division session…”
“Of course, they’ll have a lot more to explore down in Cornwall….”
She was vaguely aware of the interruption, but considered that she didn’t have all day to start seeking advice about whether she was doing the right thing, even though she would probably have to say that the choice of timing for this well practiced remark may have been slightly off. He was thrown slightly.
“…Oh right. Holiday?”
“Nope,” she said triumphantly. “I’m moving down there for good!”
“Very nice.”
With that, he wandered off to collect some glasses, clearly more interested in nights she had not spent with Joy Division, and the intense discussions they had not had about how to develop their sound.
Very nice?! The months of fretting and doubting. The long, relentless effort to find the perfect place, with the perfect sea view. The sleepless nights of fear of how she would adapt to the coast after living in cities for her entire life, and the best she could hope for in the way of advice was 'Very nice?' Well, that wouldn’t do, would it?
She finished her beer. “Yes please! Same again.”
Watching her next being poured, she adopted her by-now well-accomplished nonchalance.
“D’you know, I think I might have some pictures of the house here somewhere?” And she rummaged through her bag, knowing full well they were in the front compartment.
“Oh yes, here they are!”
A few minutes later, and she was where she wanted to be in the conversation…
“Now Roger…Yeah, he’s my husband…Roger’s been down there for a month already. He’s settled so quickly. He doesn’t need to go to the shops, does he? That’s the thing. The man barely eats. God, he’ll be wasting away by the time I get down there. Wasting away. He’ll need feeding up alright. The nearest supermarket’s a half hour drive!…I mean I’ve got the bikes, but I’m getting on a bit. Half an hour! I’m too old to be riding the Harley. And what am I to do for fun? No you’re right. I can tell what you’re thinking. Plenty of pubs in Cornwall. Yeah. Fine. Plenty of pubs in Cornwall, you say, but no gigs, mate. Oh, I still go to gigs occasionally when I hear someone I like. I’m not passed it yet, mate. I doubt there‘s even a bloody cinema near by. I’ll be so bloody bored. Yes, you might think I’m too old, but I still enjoy it all, y’know. Yep. Still enjoy it…… The dogs will be happy though. And it’s nice to ride the bikes round there. Oh, it’s lovely it is. All those little coastal paths, winding their way up and down. So much to explore. But I’m getting a bit old to be riding that Harley. Looks a bit silly, at my age. Did I tell you that Roger’s already down there?….Oh, he loves it. Yeah, he’s happy alright. Man of simple pleasures, Roger. He‘ll be alright, I don‘t doubt it. Man of simple pleasures. But I need a little more, I don‘t know…”
She left the pub after an hour of mostly one-sided conversation with the occasional interjection of “Mm“ or “Yeah“. Tipsy, but decided. Cornwall wouldn’t be so bad after all.
The house in Cornwall was ready now, but she was procrastinating. Pubs had always provided her with the distractions she sought, and no more so than the one on the corner. She needed re-assurance, and a conversation with a stranger in the pub seemed like a good place to find it
The dogs might come in useful. She took them with her, mentally rehearsing the conversation starter “Well, they’ll certainly have a lot more to explore down in Cornwall,” line, as she walked down the road.
It turned out she didn’t need to worry. They were playing Joy Division. Now that was something she could definitely talk about, despite the apparent and slightly disheartening thirty-five year age gap between herself and the person listening to them.
Humming along quietly with the haunting tones of Ian Curtis as her drink was poured, she felt a stab of irritation at the look of surprise she received for doing so.
It had been 1979. She’d been thirty when working at the BBC as a sound engineer for Radio 1, and remembered the Joy Division session best of all. They were the last band she had been young enough to get excited about, having outplayed her punk albums over the last two years. They had seemed different. More considered, and just as expressive as the punk music she so loved. Now some guy in his twenties, who hadn’t even been born when this had happened, expected her to be listening to Engelbert bloody Humperdink just because she was the wrong side of sixty and looked it, despite the amount of blusher she used in a vain attempt to hide the wrinkles. Hadn’t he noticed the leather jacket and faded tatoo? Not really Joy Division though was it? He probably thought she was just some sad old woman, trying to appear young and with-it and failing miserably. Well, she’d show him!
‘Calm down,’ she reasoned with herself. ‘To be fair, there can’t be many people my age who….’….”Get down, Bailey!”
The dog was up on the table causing a nuisance as usual. Joy Division finished, and something more modern and unrecognisable came on. “Who’s this then?” she asked, screwing her face up. Not caring who it was in particular, her response to the answer about what was now playing on the I-pod was to say “1979!” as if she had just thought about it, and reached a conclusion, which instigated understandable confusion.
“Sorry?”
“Joy Division.”
“Oh…Yeah…That's right. Beofre I was born, anyway!”
She decided to forgive him the sin of not knowing her deep affiliation with the band.
“Lovely guys.” A self-satisfied mouthful of beer.
In truth, she had only passed a few words with them and none at all with the singer, but it was a way in, and it seemed to work.
“Why, did you know them then?” Raised Eyebrows. A good sign.
“Oh yes, we go back.” A doubtful look. A hastily responsive laugh; dismissive.
“That is to say, I met them once or twice, (‘It was once really,’) when I worked at the Beeb, you know.” She shrugged, taking a longer drink from her pint of continental lager. She exhaled contentedly. “I was a sound engineer for ‘em.”
“Oh right… Wow!”
A scan for sarcasm came out clear.
“You never would have guessed he would hang himself. Such an interesting chap to talk to. So much to say. So full of life.” Exaggeration was bordering upon downright lies here, and she was keen to change the subject to what she really wanted to talk about before exposing herself.
“Mm, I think it was quite a surprise for lots of people wasn’t it? Who else did you meet when you were there?”
In truth, she hadn’t done that job for long, and Joy Division were by far and away the most famous, or at least, the most credible and famous band she had worked with.
“Oh, too many to count!”…”Charlie! Bailey! Will you behave!” she shouted, and the guy shook his head from side to side gently, with a look that said “Don’t worry about it.”
“Sorry…They’re a pain.” She drained most of the pint.
“Don’t worry about it. What Joy Division session…”
“Of course, they’ll have a lot more to explore down in Cornwall….”
She was vaguely aware of the interruption, but considered that she didn’t have all day to start seeking advice about whether she was doing the right thing, even though she would probably have to say that the choice of timing for this well practiced remark may have been slightly off. He was thrown slightly.
“…Oh right. Holiday?”
“Nope,” she said triumphantly. “I’m moving down there for good!”
“Very nice.”
With that, he wandered off to collect some glasses, clearly more interested in nights she had not spent with Joy Division, and the intense discussions they had not had about how to develop their sound.
Very nice?! The months of fretting and doubting. The long, relentless effort to find the perfect place, with the perfect sea view. The sleepless nights of fear of how she would adapt to the coast after living in cities for her entire life, and the best she could hope for in the way of advice was 'Very nice?' Well, that wouldn’t do, would it?
She finished her beer. “Yes please! Same again.”
Watching her next being poured, she adopted her by-now well-accomplished nonchalance.
“D’you know, I think I might have some pictures of the house here somewhere?” And she rummaged through her bag, knowing full well they were in the front compartment.
“Oh yes, here they are!”
A few minutes later, and she was where she wanted to be in the conversation…
“Now Roger…Yeah, he’s my husband…Roger’s been down there for a month already. He’s settled so quickly. He doesn’t need to go to the shops, does he? That’s the thing. The man barely eats. God, he’ll be wasting away by the time I get down there. Wasting away. He’ll need feeding up alright. The nearest supermarket’s a half hour drive!…I mean I’ve got the bikes, but I’m getting on a bit. Half an hour! I’m too old to be riding the Harley. And what am I to do for fun? No you’re right. I can tell what you’re thinking. Plenty of pubs in Cornwall. Yeah. Fine. Plenty of pubs in Cornwall, you say, but no gigs, mate. Oh, I still go to gigs occasionally when I hear someone I like. I’m not passed it yet, mate. I doubt there‘s even a bloody cinema near by. I’ll be so bloody bored. Yes, you might think I’m too old, but I still enjoy it all, y’know. Yep. Still enjoy it…… The dogs will be happy though. And it’s nice to ride the bikes round there. Oh, it’s lovely it is. All those little coastal paths, winding their way up and down. So much to explore. But I’m getting a bit old to be riding that Harley. Looks a bit silly, at my age. Did I tell you that Roger’s already down there?….Oh, he loves it. Yeah, he’s happy alright. Man of simple pleasures, Roger. He‘ll be alright, I don‘t doubt it. Man of simple pleasures. But I need a little more, I don‘t know…”
She left the pub after an hour of mostly one-sided conversation with the occasional interjection of “Mm“ or “Yeah“. Tipsy, but decided. Cornwall wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Thursday 30 June 2011
People in the Pub 1 - Nostalgia for the past
He has a story to tell, but no-one to tell it to. Life hasn’t been easy since the return to London. The street looks the same; those rows of houses, each seemingly innocuous, but loaded with memories of youth. The day when his father had left with barely a goodbye, and the absence of twenty years that followed.
Happier times; the celebrations, crowds of familiar faces, arm-in-arm, singing songs joyfully and far into the night. The time when Brian had lost a bet and had had to streak all the way down the road, only to find a slow patrolling police car had chose that very moment to roll past.
He remembers the race riots in the early eighties. The appalling treatment of the Pakistani immigrants in the corner shop. The sour regret at feeling helpless to do anything to help them.
The pub is still on the corner, where he had his first drink, age fifteen. His uncle had allowed him a taste (after much persuasion) and had subsequently turned his nose up when he asked for lager. “Bloody Euro-fizz,” he had said. Strangely, this had subconsciously influenced his drinking habits way into his adult life.
The pub is different now. A group of Spanish students sit around a table, eating olives and drinking white wine. He likes to think of himself as a well-rounded sort of chap, happy to embrace people from other countries. Though as he sips his London Pride, this all seems so wrong. He mildly loathes himself for feeling this way, and sits on the bar stool quietly, half reading the sports pages of the Daily Mirror.
The dank smell of years of spilt beer and ancient cigarette smoke, the slight yellowing of the walls, the ancient clock with its roman numerals offer some comfort, but within these walls is a map of his past that no-one here could understand. The bad discos and ill-judged copulations with friend’s sisters. He allows himself a smile now at this memory; of the sheer terror as a gang of ten older boys had chased him down the street. There is a slight scar just above his left eyebrow. They had taught him a lesson that day that went far beyond the code about fooling around with friend’s siblings. They had taught him about the community, the importance of people close to you.
Resntful of finding himself middle aged and bitter, he plays up to this stereotype. Joan used to run this place. Third generation. He makes sure the barman knows it. The people he once knew have long since gone, and now the most prominent sound in the pub is not old George crooning a war song, dewy eyed and looking down at the remains of his seventh pint of Light and Pride, but a language and a youth he has no recognition of.
He orders another drink. His third. “You from round here then mate?” he asks as the young barman hands him his change. “No, been here just a few months.” He smiles, wryly.
Happier times; the celebrations, crowds of familiar faces, arm-in-arm, singing songs joyfully and far into the night. The time when Brian had lost a bet and had had to streak all the way down the road, only to find a slow patrolling police car had chose that very moment to roll past.
He remembers the race riots in the early eighties. The appalling treatment of the Pakistani immigrants in the corner shop. The sour regret at feeling helpless to do anything to help them.
The pub is still on the corner, where he had his first drink, age fifteen. His uncle had allowed him a taste (after much persuasion) and had subsequently turned his nose up when he asked for lager. “Bloody Euro-fizz,” he had said. Strangely, this had subconsciously influenced his drinking habits way into his adult life.
The pub is different now. A group of Spanish students sit around a table, eating olives and drinking white wine. He likes to think of himself as a well-rounded sort of chap, happy to embrace people from other countries. Though as he sips his London Pride, this all seems so wrong. He mildly loathes himself for feeling this way, and sits on the bar stool quietly, half reading the sports pages of the Daily Mirror.
The dank smell of years of spilt beer and ancient cigarette smoke, the slight yellowing of the walls, the ancient clock with its roman numerals offer some comfort, but within these walls is a map of his past that no-one here could understand. The bad discos and ill-judged copulations with friend’s sisters. He allows himself a smile now at this memory; of the sheer terror as a gang of ten older boys had chased him down the street. There is a slight scar just above his left eyebrow. They had taught him a lesson that day that went far beyond the code about fooling around with friend’s siblings. They had taught him about the community, the importance of people close to you.
Resntful of finding himself middle aged and bitter, he plays up to this stereotype. Joan used to run this place. Third generation. He makes sure the barman knows it. The people he once knew have long since gone, and now the most prominent sound in the pub is not old George crooning a war song, dewy eyed and looking down at the remains of his seventh pint of Light and Pride, but a language and a youth he has no recognition of.
He orders another drink. His third. “You from round here then mate?” he asks as the young barman hands him his change. “No, been here just a few months.” He smiles, wryly.
Thursday 2 June 2011
Musical Inspirations Project
I was about ten or eleven years old when I first heard the song by the band Pulp, 'Common People'. It was the first contemporary song that I can remember having any sort of effect on me. The album it came from, 'Different Class', was the first I owned, given as a present from an uncle, who himself is a keen musician. I vaguely remember him telling of his work colleagues' wry amusement at what they considered to be a rather inappropriate gift for a nephew on the cusp of his eleventh birthday; talk of drugs and sex prevalent throughout. Wouldn't Oasis be a better choice?
Of course, I had next to no clue about the song's social connotations at such a tender age, but even then, listening to it felt as though it was touching on something incredibly insightful. That, of course, and the trivial matter that it was catchy; something to sing along to that wasn't written thirty years previously.
In my opinion, 'Common People' remains one of the best pieces of social commentary ever put to music. The mid-nineties were notorious for the glamorisation of the working classes, brought on by the rise in popularity of Oasis and lad culture. Hailing from a working class background had become so synonymous with the formation of "Cool Britannia', the middle classes were now trying to hide their roots, in an attempt to appear fashionable or relevant. Rather than Jarvis Cocker supporting this idea, 'Common People' remains a stark and ever relevant reminder that actually, it's not much fun to be poor, and have little sense of direction in your life.
The song has a definitive narrative structure, that serves to build the tension of his frustrations. He begins slightly perturbed with the idea that his subject, (the student from Greece with a wealthy father) finds the idea of pretending not to have any money a good old laugh ("Yeah? but I can't see anyone else smiling in here.......") , right through to terribly accurate and poignant line that -
"You will never understand how it feels to live your life, with no meaning or control, with no where left to go...."
The passion and belief to which the song reaches its climax gives great weight to its message.
I think the ideas of champagne socialism explored in 'Common People'; of a desperate need for the privledged but liberally minded to affiliate themselves with the poor, and finding romantic notions in the struggle, completely relevant. Rarely does a song touch on a social issue with such reverence, understanding and accuracy, and it really took me by surprise when, having not listened to the song for many a year, that the line
"You'll never fail like Common People"
still had the rare ability to make the hair on the back of the neck stand up.
Have a listen back..
Of course, I had next to no clue about the song's social connotations at such a tender age, but even then, listening to it felt as though it was touching on something incredibly insightful. That, of course, and the trivial matter that it was catchy; something to sing along to that wasn't written thirty years previously.
In my opinion, 'Common People' remains one of the best pieces of social commentary ever put to music. The mid-nineties were notorious for the glamorisation of the working classes, brought on by the rise in popularity of Oasis and lad culture. Hailing from a working class background had become so synonymous with the formation of "Cool Britannia', the middle classes were now trying to hide their roots, in an attempt to appear fashionable or relevant. Rather than Jarvis Cocker supporting this idea, 'Common People' remains a stark and ever relevant reminder that actually, it's not much fun to be poor, and have little sense of direction in your life.
The song has a definitive narrative structure, that serves to build the tension of his frustrations. He begins slightly perturbed with the idea that his subject, (the student from Greece with a wealthy father) finds the idea of pretending not to have any money a good old laugh ("Yeah? but I can't see anyone else smiling in here.......") , right through to terribly accurate and poignant line that -
"You will never understand how it feels to live your life, with no meaning or control, with no where left to go...."
The passion and belief to which the song reaches its climax gives great weight to its message.
I think the ideas of champagne socialism explored in 'Common People'; of a desperate need for the privledged but liberally minded to affiliate themselves with the poor, and finding romantic notions in the struggle, completely relevant. Rarely does a song touch on a social issue with such reverence, understanding and accuracy, and it really took me by surprise when, having not listened to the song for many a year, that the line
"You'll never fail like Common People"
still had the rare ability to make the hair on the back of the neck stand up.
Have a listen back..
Thursday 19 May 2011
Rainy night in Camden Part 2 - White Denim in The Wheelbarrow
After the gig, Camden pulled out a nice surprise in the form of White Denim randomly playing in the pub opposite Koko (see below).
A quick pint was the proposal and that's what it turned out to be. The discovery that this band happened to be playing across the road caused great enthusiasm, but unfortunately they were towards the end of their set. Shame, as the venue was pretty perfect, and I would've been keen for more; low ceiling, sweaty throngs and lager out of plastic cups all present. From the couple of tracks I did hear, they were predictably raucous, while retaining that sense of impeccable timing they are known for. The crowd and bar staff seemed to be enjoying themselves too.
A quick pint was the proposal and that's what it turned out to be. The discovery that this band happened to be playing across the road caused great enthusiasm, but unfortunately they were towards the end of their set. Shame, as the venue was pretty perfect, and I would've been keen for more; low ceiling, sweaty throngs and lager out of plastic cups all present. From the couple of tracks I did hear, they were predictably raucous, while retaining that sense of impeccable timing they are known for. The crowd and bar staff seemed to be enjoying themselves too.
Anna Calvi - Koko - A rainy night in Camden
Seductive, sensual, beguiling. Seemingly, these are adjectives voiced collectively by an overwhelmingly enthusiastic wave of support throughout the music business for Anna Calvi. Certainly, at the best moments of tonight's set in Koko, during "The Devil" and "Desire", she is utterly captivating, possessing unquestionable ability in both her technique and understanding of her Fender Telecaster, and her effortless semi-operatic vocal talent.
This is music that belongs to no age, era, or trend, and for that it is possible to appreciate the performer for her talents alone. This is not to say that Anna Calvi has no obvious influences; PJ Harvey and Patti Smith being the most idle of comparisons. Idle maybe, but she attains that same rare and inherent ability to bewitch her audience; her sense of dynamics doing much to inspire that mesmeric attention. She can effortlessly glide to the kind of giddy and full on emotions of Jeff Buckley at his best. Then on a track such as 'No more words', she croons at almost a whisper, and the result is something which draws an almost tangible sense of sexual desire and dark allurement.
These affectations towards gothic themes; the devil, desire and self-possession are perhaps a little overplayed. In three different songs she reminds us that 'the devil is in me', 'my desire is so strong', 'the devil will come' etc etc. and this has a danger of becoming tiresome if Calvi chooses to continue with these concepts, and fails to find another outlet for her expression.
This quibble aside, her ability to create evocative feelings of unspoken urges and arcane desires can only be lauded. It is a unique talent to provoke such strong imagery through music, and generally, she carries this off with great aplomb. It takes on a formula, which could become too one-dimensional, but it is a formula that she manages to pull of, and with her musical gifts complementing this imagery, it makes her performance hugely enjoyable and one that is absolutely worth seeing.
This is music that belongs to no age, era, or trend, and for that it is possible to appreciate the performer for her talents alone. This is not to say that Anna Calvi has no obvious influences; PJ Harvey and Patti Smith being the most idle of comparisons. Idle maybe, but she attains that same rare and inherent ability to bewitch her audience; her sense of dynamics doing much to inspire that mesmeric attention. She can effortlessly glide to the kind of giddy and full on emotions of Jeff Buckley at his best. Then on a track such as 'No more words', she croons at almost a whisper, and the result is something which draws an almost tangible sense of sexual desire and dark allurement.
These affectations towards gothic themes; the devil, desire and self-possession are perhaps a little overplayed. In three different songs she reminds us that 'the devil is in me', 'my desire is so strong', 'the devil will come' etc etc. and this has a danger of becoming tiresome if Calvi chooses to continue with these concepts, and fails to find another outlet for her expression.
This quibble aside, her ability to create evocative feelings of unspoken urges and arcane desires can only be lauded. It is a unique talent to provoke such strong imagery through music, and generally, she carries this off with great aplomb. It takes on a formula, which could become too one-dimensional, but it is a formula that she manages to pull of, and with her musical gifts complementing this imagery, it makes her performance hugely enjoyable and one that is absolutely worth seeing.
Tuesday 10 May 2011
Baths - Cargo - London - 03/05/2011
There is a surprising air of nonchalance in London's Cargo that greets Will Wiesenfeld, the electronic musician who composes and performs under the moniker 'Baths'. Surprising because this is Shoreditch, and you'd think this blend of spasmodic beats and choppy vocal samples would be right up the street of the district best known, and sometimes derided for its alternative scene. Though perhaps the nonchalance is all part of the act.
The performer himself picks up on the affectations of his audience, and engages in some light jesting, loosening things up with some camp gesticulations. "I know this is London and you gotta act so dope, but I know you all got a bit of gay in you," he drawls.
Throughout his set, it feels natural to warm to Wisenfeld. He is witty, genuinely seems to enjoy what he does, and obviously doesn't take himself too seriously, even down to apparently giving no further explanation to his pseudonym other than he 'enjoys taking a bath.' Where as British contemporaries; Gold Panda and Mount Kimbie seem rather detached from their audience, 'Baths' is utterly engaging and you have the feeling that you are watching more of a show, with live vocals and some well engineered improvisation, rather than the play through of an album that the above acts could perhaps be accused of.
The music is compelling. Working in new tracks to material familiar from last year's excellent 'Cerulean' album, the beats are dense, without sounding over-crowded. Baths has very much mastered working in the sort of far-away, isolated vocal samples that have become increasingly popular in electronic music in the last year. Extra admiration must be granted for the fact that he sings his own vocal lines.
By the end, Baths has won over the difficult audience, and rather than making a quick exit, he descends from the stage, and the crowd surround him wanting to shake his hand and find out when his next record is out. For now, their facade has been broken by a genuinely talented performer.
The performer himself picks up on the affectations of his audience, and engages in some light jesting, loosening things up with some camp gesticulations. "I know this is London and you gotta act so dope, but I know you all got a bit of gay in you," he drawls.
Throughout his set, it feels natural to warm to Wisenfeld. He is witty, genuinely seems to enjoy what he does, and obviously doesn't take himself too seriously, even down to apparently giving no further explanation to his pseudonym other than he 'enjoys taking a bath.' Where as British contemporaries; Gold Panda and Mount Kimbie seem rather detached from their audience, 'Baths' is utterly engaging and you have the feeling that you are watching more of a show, with live vocals and some well engineered improvisation, rather than the play through of an album that the above acts could perhaps be accused of.
The music is compelling. Working in new tracks to material familiar from last year's excellent 'Cerulean' album, the beats are dense, without sounding over-crowded. Baths has very much mastered working in the sort of far-away, isolated vocal samples that have become increasingly popular in electronic music in the last year. Extra admiration must be granted for the fact that he sings his own vocal lines.
By the end, Baths has won over the difficult audience, and rather than making a quick exit, he descends from the stage, and the crowd surround him wanting to shake his hand and find out when his next record is out. For now, their facade has been broken by a genuinely talented performer.
A journey north
They're dressing the pub I work in with British flags. I feel like I am at the setting of the annual BNP spring party. I can't help but feel embarrassed at this display of patriotism; at such enthusiasm for the impending wedding day of someone whose only notable achievement was to be born into royalty. Looking around, this cynicism does not seem to be a feeling shared by others. It's the excuse to drink beer on the street and not be frowned upon, that I suppose is the attraction. Thankfully, it so happens that our holiday to Copenhagen and Helsinki conveniently falls during the time of this fiasco.
_______________________________________________________________________
It is not often that I read up extensively about a place before visiting it. I usually like to discover things for myself, but time is rather limited. Aside from the obvious attractions of the parks, canals and terraces offered by the 'Time Out' guidebook, Copenhagen's 'Freetown' of Christiania appears to be the most intriguing place to visit.
Formed in 1971, Christiana exists as a 'free state', living outside the laws and institutions of the rest of the city. Originally a military base, the first settlers are said to be people left homeless by the lack of affordable housing in the city, though the authenticity of these claims seem to vary depending on who you talk to. However, since its creation, we discover how the area has been the subject of much controversy, and this certainly shows in the people we meet throughout our time in the city.
Many Copenhageners see the area as some of hippy commune that has no place in a modern, cosmopolitan city. A history of relaxed laws on soft drugs and taxation, of run-down squats, and of its inhabitants practising yoga and meditation by the lake contributing pointedly to this viewpoint.
________
We are discussing our plans to visit Christiana over breakfast, when a German woman tentatively approaches, and warns us that she had been left disappointed the previous day, when she had found the whole area closed to the public. Feeling a mixture of intrigue and disappointment, we hasten to the hotel's front desk to find out more.
I politely ask the lady if Christiania is open to the public, but her reaction is akin to as if I'd just asked her if she knew if the local brothel was open for business. Visibly wincing at the very name of the place, it is fairly apparent she doesn't spend her time away from working in the hotel meditating by its lake.
"I've no idea," she sighs, with an exasperated shrug, suggesting she can't imagine why anyone would want to go to such a place. After a little more probing, her view is that if it is closed, she hopes it's for good. "Why should they not pay taxes like anyone else if they are using the city's resources?" she asks. It seems to be a fairly reasonable question and one that I myself, being a tourist, don't have an answer for.
Upon arriving, we discover that it is indeed closed, in protest to government pressure for Christiania's inhabitants to conform to Danish society like everybody else, and an increasing threat to sell off parts of the land, despite its people having lived there peacefully for forty years.
We approach an old guy in his sixties, to find out a bit more. Though hardly a suit and tie wearing sort of chap, he also hardly matches the stereotype of the "old hippy." Dressed in fairly everyday attire, he is welcoming; interested in us more than telling us about the existing conflicts, but when we do get him to talk about it, his outlook seems to be one of mild bewilderment, rather than appearing to be keen to spread the word about how unjust the situation is. Having lived in Christiania since its creation, he can't understand why the government and the public can't just leave them be, particularly given the compromises that have apparently already been set in place.
We are given a leaflet which boasts of the tourism the area brings to the city, and half-contradicts the lady in the hotel, by reporting that; "We pay for our water and electricity, we run our own childcare institutions, we look after the roads and sewers, and we pay property taxes for the area..." It goes on to say "We believe the ultimatum given by the Danish government about dividing up parts of Christiania will mean the destruction of the open, self managed, experimental and socially inclusive Christiania as we know it."
Again, strong arguments. Being liberally minded, it would be convenient to side with the inhabitants of the area, but it is an interesting aspect of the city that I am left wishing I had time to find more points of view about. Ultimately, we are left slightly disappointed that we are unable to visit, but make do with climbing the 'Vor Frelsers Kirke' and looking down at Christiania and the intricate network of canals and immaculate structure of Copenhagen surrounding it. We end the day sat on a terrace, having a beer or two, watching the endless cyclists ride past.
_____________________________________________________________________
Helsinki, Finland, and my girlfriend is sat across from me on the bus from the airport to the city centre. She has a heavy combination of loathing, disbelief and rage gradually spreading across her face. My passport is safely tucked into the back of the seat in front of me, that I was sat on that morning on the Blue1 10.05 flight from Copenhagen to Helsinki.
"Well don't just sit there, bloody do something!" she spits through gritted teeth, and she's right. I am sitting there paralysed, trying to weigh up the seriousness of the situation. I am not surprised. Anyone who knows me would consider this fairly typical, and had I have been alone I probably would have considered it very annoying, and rather worrying. But this was not just travelling to another city for her. This is a sort of homecoming . She has spent a year living in Helsinki, and I unfortunately know as well as she does that she considers it the best year of her life. It is unfortunate because rather than being concerned about the potential for a long camp outside the British Embassy, once the bank holiday is over, and great expense and trouble it is going to cause me if I don't retrieve my passport, my overwhelming feeling is one of guilt. She has spent the flight telling me of great times she had, of all the sights she wants to show me. Now she has tears in her eyes, and I know she has rarely felt the sort of contempt for me as she does right now, as I fumble around, desperately ringing numbers, and usually getting a recorded message in Finnish, saying something along the lines of "You English fool, what have you done? You're going to have to do a lot for her to make up for this. You've effectively ruined the trip she's so been looking forward to." Probably.
Despite me having weighed up that the situation was indeed rather serious, the (admittedly small) silver lining at this point, is it takes me about half an hour to discover everyone in Finland is incredibly willing to help. After being given a Britney Spears style headset/phone in the tourist office, it transpires the cleaners have my passport, and will drop it off at a particular point at Terminal 2, at some point this afternoon. Apologising to my girlfriend for the hundredth time, I leave her and her bemused friend behind, and hop back on the bus, spending the next hour and a half running around the airport like a mad bastard, being greeted with ladies with rahter bewildered looks at the gibbering Englishman before them, and am sent backwards and forwards between the terminals, before eventually returning with my passport in hand and tail firmly between legs.
Despite the understandably frosty reception I receive for the rest of the day, the rest of our time in Helsinki is, in contrast, free of drama and a great occasion. The people are almost unreasonably welcoming. The surroundings are suitably humble and understated. A trip out across the bridge to Seurasaari reveals secret shacks selling hot coffee and 'korvapusti' (warm cinnamon & cardamom rolls), friendly geese and squirrels, and silent shady paths.
____
It is "Vappu," which as I have been led to believe, is where the Fins, after their long, dark winter, take to the streets and bask in a well deserved celebration of daylight. Vast quantities of alcohol are obviously involved. The Fins seem no strangers to alcohol, despite it being rather expensive to attain and the range being noticeably limited.
A cynic would suggest it was rather ironic, given we chose to leave London behind when people are out drinking on the streets, to another European capital where people are doing the same; but the reasoning of throwing a party because "it's spring", which seems to be about the only explanation as to the history of the celebration, is something I feel a lot more like being a part of than celebrating some old toff's expensive wedding day.
The celebrations continue throughout the weekend. What seems to be the whole of Helsinki descends on the park, and continue to revel, in good-natured spirits, with the backdrop of the clear blue Baltic Sea in the weak sunshine.
We are invited for an afternoon drink on a boat moored in the harbour. The owner's have a three-month old baby on board, and have taken the boat out on the water that morning for the first time in six months. It is May 1st and I make some pathetic joke about how shouting 'May Day!' may be rather futile if they had encountered trouble, to forced laughs, and the rolling of eyes from my girlfriend.
What is most notable though, is how the relative strangers sat around us, treat us more like old friends than intruders, and it is their attitude that underlines the majority of encounters we experience in our short time in Finland.
_______________________________________________________________________
It is not often that I read up extensively about a place before visiting it. I usually like to discover things for myself, but time is rather limited. Aside from the obvious attractions of the parks, canals and terraces offered by the 'Time Out' guidebook, Copenhagen's 'Freetown' of Christiania appears to be the most intriguing place to visit.
Formed in 1971, Christiana exists as a 'free state', living outside the laws and institutions of the rest of the city. Originally a military base, the first settlers are said to be people left homeless by the lack of affordable housing in the city, though the authenticity of these claims seem to vary depending on who you talk to. However, since its creation, we discover how the area has been the subject of much controversy, and this certainly shows in the people we meet throughout our time in the city.
Many Copenhageners see the area as some of hippy commune that has no place in a modern, cosmopolitan city. A history of relaxed laws on soft drugs and taxation, of run-down squats, and of its inhabitants practising yoga and meditation by the lake contributing pointedly to this viewpoint.
________
We are discussing our plans to visit Christiana over breakfast, when a German woman tentatively approaches, and warns us that she had been left disappointed the previous day, when she had found the whole area closed to the public. Feeling a mixture of intrigue and disappointment, we hasten to the hotel's front desk to find out more.
I politely ask the lady if Christiania is open to the public, but her reaction is akin to as if I'd just asked her if she knew if the local brothel was open for business. Visibly wincing at the very name of the place, it is fairly apparent she doesn't spend her time away from working in the hotel meditating by its lake.
"I've no idea," she sighs, with an exasperated shrug, suggesting she can't imagine why anyone would want to go to such a place. After a little more probing, her view is that if it is closed, she hopes it's for good. "Why should they not pay taxes like anyone else if they are using the city's resources?" she asks. It seems to be a fairly reasonable question and one that I myself, being a tourist, don't have an answer for.
Upon arriving, we discover that it is indeed closed, in protest to government pressure for Christiania's inhabitants to conform to Danish society like everybody else, and an increasing threat to sell off parts of the land, despite its people having lived there peacefully for forty years.
We approach an old guy in his sixties, to find out a bit more. Though hardly a suit and tie wearing sort of chap, he also hardly matches the stereotype of the "old hippy." Dressed in fairly everyday attire, he is welcoming; interested in us more than telling us about the existing conflicts, but when we do get him to talk about it, his outlook seems to be one of mild bewilderment, rather than appearing to be keen to spread the word about how unjust the situation is. Having lived in Christiania since its creation, he can't understand why the government and the public can't just leave them be, particularly given the compromises that have apparently already been set in place.
We are given a leaflet which boasts of the tourism the area brings to the city, and half-contradicts the lady in the hotel, by reporting that; "We pay for our water and electricity, we run our own childcare institutions, we look after the roads and sewers, and we pay property taxes for the area..." It goes on to say "We believe the ultimatum given by the Danish government about dividing up parts of Christiania will mean the destruction of the open, self managed, experimental and socially inclusive Christiania as we know it."
Again, strong arguments. Being liberally minded, it would be convenient to side with the inhabitants of the area, but it is an interesting aspect of the city that I am left wishing I had time to find more points of view about. Ultimately, we are left slightly disappointed that we are unable to visit, but make do with climbing the 'Vor Frelsers Kirke' and looking down at Christiania and the intricate network of canals and immaculate structure of Copenhagen surrounding it. We end the day sat on a terrace, having a beer or two, watching the endless cyclists ride past.
_____________________________________________________________________
Helsinki, Finland, and my girlfriend is sat across from me on the bus from the airport to the city centre. She has a heavy combination of loathing, disbelief and rage gradually spreading across her face. My passport is safely tucked into the back of the seat in front of me, that I was sat on that morning on the Blue1 10.05 flight from Copenhagen to Helsinki.
"Well don't just sit there, bloody do something!" she spits through gritted teeth, and she's right. I am sitting there paralysed, trying to weigh up the seriousness of the situation. I am not surprised. Anyone who knows me would consider this fairly typical, and had I have been alone I probably would have considered it very annoying, and rather worrying. But this was not just travelling to another city for her. This is a sort of homecoming . She has spent a year living in Helsinki, and I unfortunately know as well as she does that she considers it the best year of her life. It is unfortunate because rather than being concerned about the potential for a long camp outside the British Embassy, once the bank holiday is over, and great expense and trouble it is going to cause me if I don't retrieve my passport, my overwhelming feeling is one of guilt. She has spent the flight telling me of great times she had, of all the sights she wants to show me. Now she has tears in her eyes, and I know she has rarely felt the sort of contempt for me as she does right now, as I fumble around, desperately ringing numbers, and usually getting a recorded message in Finnish, saying something along the lines of "You English fool, what have you done? You're going to have to do a lot for her to make up for this. You've effectively ruined the trip she's so been looking forward to." Probably.
Despite me having weighed up that the situation was indeed rather serious, the (admittedly small) silver lining at this point, is it takes me about half an hour to discover everyone in Finland is incredibly willing to help. After being given a Britney Spears style headset/phone in the tourist office, it transpires the cleaners have my passport, and will drop it off at a particular point at Terminal 2, at some point this afternoon. Apologising to my girlfriend for the hundredth time, I leave her and her bemused friend behind, and hop back on the bus, spending the next hour and a half running around the airport like a mad bastard, being greeted with ladies with rahter bewildered looks at the gibbering Englishman before them, and am sent backwards and forwards between the terminals, before eventually returning with my passport in hand and tail firmly between legs.
Despite the understandably frosty reception I receive for the rest of the day, the rest of our time in Helsinki is, in contrast, free of drama and a great occasion. The people are almost unreasonably welcoming. The surroundings are suitably humble and understated. A trip out across the bridge to Seurasaari reveals secret shacks selling hot coffee and 'korvapusti' (warm cinnamon & cardamom rolls), friendly geese and squirrels, and silent shady paths.
____
It is "Vappu," which as I have been led to believe, is where the Fins, after their long, dark winter, take to the streets and bask in a well deserved celebration of daylight. Vast quantities of alcohol are obviously involved. The Fins seem no strangers to alcohol, despite it being rather expensive to attain and the range being noticeably limited.
A cynic would suggest it was rather ironic, given we chose to leave London behind when people are out drinking on the streets, to another European capital where people are doing the same; but the reasoning of throwing a party because "it's spring", which seems to be about the only explanation as to the history of the celebration, is something I feel a lot more like being a part of than celebrating some old toff's expensive wedding day.
The celebrations continue throughout the weekend. What seems to be the whole of Helsinki descends on the park, and continue to revel, in good-natured spirits, with the backdrop of the clear blue Baltic Sea in the weak sunshine.
We are invited for an afternoon drink on a boat moored in the harbour. The owner's have a three-month old baby on board, and have taken the boat out on the water that morning for the first time in six months. It is May 1st and I make some pathetic joke about how shouting 'May Day!' may be rather futile if they had encountered trouble, to forced laughs, and the rolling of eyes from my girlfriend.
What is most notable though, is how the relative strangers sat around us, treat us more like old friends than intruders, and it is their attitude that underlines the majority of encounters we experience in our short time in Finland.
Sunday 24 April 2011
Sunday Morning
On the edge of the city, a gentle wind wakes the trees. It is springtime, and that usually unmoving time of the early morning. The invigorating Evergreens nourish the air, and the early morning bird's song can be heard. A glimmer of sunlight glances through the leaves.
The streets are empty, and there is a small path that winds its way up to the forest.
Thursday 7 April 2011
Syd Barrett - Art and Letters- Short Review
I went along to this the other day.
http://gallery.ideageneration.co.uk/newsitems/267/view
There is some sort of morbid fascination with Syd Barrett. He's the overly celebrated cliche of the eccentric rock star. He was the man whose career was infamously short lived, due to mental illness. In some circles, it's as if this was something to be championed, rather than be troubled by.
So it was with a certain amount of caution I approached this exhibition, concerned that the theme would be overly macabre, attempting to find evidences of a mental breakdown painted onto canvas.
I was relieved then to discover that there was little focus on the more disturbing elements that have been well documented about Syd's life. Rather, the exhibition is a series of drawings and paintings, which bare little resemblance to one another. Some showed him to simply be what he was, a moderately talented artist, who used inanimate objects, tending to focus on any unusual qualities they may have, and bring this to the forefront of his paintings.
As you might expect, some of the more visually arresting work from Syd's collection of paintings come from the height of his creative prowess, around the time of the formation of Pink Floyd. The most provocative piece, interestingly, is from his childhood. A painting of a circus in full swing, all angry lions and fireworks, and a face of an anonymous figure, remaining indifferent to the surrounding chaos, are pleasingly led to the observer's interpretation about whether this could be seen as a revelation of his psyche. It is marked only by a reference to where he was, and how old he was when it was painted. (Thirteen, i think.)
From faded watercolours of countryside cottages, done in the more reclusive years of his life, to the rather more psychedelically influenced pieces that you would consider it likely to find in a exhibition of his work, there is little reference to his mental state, more a demonstration of the man's considerable potential, both in music and art, which was unfortunately short-lived.
However, the letters section was less about Syd's talents and felt a little more intrusive. A series of correspondences with old girlfriends gave little insight into what it was what that made him such a revered talent. Personally worded, in tiny handwriting, they demonstrate how strongly he felt for the people around him, and although rather endearing in places, you can't help but feel overwhelmed by the sense that they were not meant to be gawped at in a public gallery.
Crude sketches, and seemingly detached thoughts run throughout these letters, and suggest a rather private and introverted character, but these are things that are already synonymous with the man, and little is to be gained by searching for proof of it.
However, it's nice to be taken back to a world before the age of technology, where people actually wrote letters to one another, rather than babbling away inanely via text messaging and social networking sites.
Upstairs, there are some rather excellent, intimate black and white photos of Syd and Pink Floyd's beginnings.
Overall, for anyone interested in Syd's work, the exhibition is certainly worth a visit.
http://gallery.ideageneration.co.uk/newsitems/267/view
There is some sort of morbid fascination with Syd Barrett. He's the overly celebrated cliche of the eccentric rock star. He was the man whose career was infamously short lived, due to mental illness. In some circles, it's as if this was something to be championed, rather than be troubled by.
So it was with a certain amount of caution I approached this exhibition, concerned that the theme would be overly macabre, attempting to find evidences of a mental breakdown painted onto canvas.
I was relieved then to discover that there was little focus on the more disturbing elements that have been well documented about Syd's life. Rather, the exhibition is a series of drawings and paintings, which bare little resemblance to one another. Some showed him to simply be what he was, a moderately talented artist, who used inanimate objects, tending to focus on any unusual qualities they may have, and bring this to the forefront of his paintings.
As you might expect, some of the more visually arresting work from Syd's collection of paintings come from the height of his creative prowess, around the time of the formation of Pink Floyd. The most provocative piece, interestingly, is from his childhood. A painting of a circus in full swing, all angry lions and fireworks, and a face of an anonymous figure, remaining indifferent to the surrounding chaos, are pleasingly led to the observer's interpretation about whether this could be seen as a revelation of his psyche. It is marked only by a reference to where he was, and how old he was when it was painted. (Thirteen, i think.)
From faded watercolours of countryside cottages, done in the more reclusive years of his life, to the rather more psychedelically influenced pieces that you would consider it likely to find in a exhibition of his work, there is little reference to his mental state, more a demonstration of the man's considerable potential, both in music and art, which was unfortunately short-lived.
However, the letters section was less about Syd's talents and felt a little more intrusive. A series of correspondences with old girlfriends gave little insight into what it was what that made him such a revered talent. Personally worded, in tiny handwriting, they demonstrate how strongly he felt for the people around him, and although rather endearing in places, you can't help but feel overwhelmed by the sense that they were not meant to be gawped at in a public gallery.
Crude sketches, and seemingly detached thoughts run throughout these letters, and suggest a rather private and introverted character, but these are things that are already synonymous with the man, and little is to be gained by searching for proof of it.
However, it's nice to be taken back to a world before the age of technology, where people actually wrote letters to one another, rather than babbling away inanely via text messaging and social networking sites.
Upstairs, there are some rather excellent, intimate black and white photos of Syd and Pink Floyd's beginnings.
Overall, for anyone interested in Syd's work, the exhibition is certainly worth a visit.
Tuesday 5 April 2011
Ideas of Individualism in 'The Century of the Self' - A few initial thoughts
I recently finished watching Adam Curtis's 'The Century of the self.' This incredibly thought provoking documentary draws a direct line through history, showing how human obsession with psychoanalysis has defined marketing, advertising and political movements throughout the twentieth century.
"There is a policeman in my head, and he must be destroyed",
In the third section of 'The Century of the Self,' Curtis explores how rebellious new methods of psychoanalysis in the 1960s were a direct rejection of the Freudian idea of suppressing thoughts and emotions in order to control the 'dangerous irrational' aspects of human nature lurking beneath. A huge social collective uprising was then born, in which the ideas of individuality, creativity, self-harmony, and rebelling against a society of passive consumerism were brought to the attention of the world. The changes in culture were embraced by the public to the extent that people in the world of advertising would have to change tactics in a dramatic way.
No longer would the product be shown to be a necessity to the needs of the public, but rather with the emphasis being on how it could appease the desire to be seen as an individual in the eyes of society.
The fantastic series 'Mad Men' demonstrates how the most creative minds in advertising were starting to harness these ideas in the early sixties, and certain methods were being developed. There was a definite shift in promoting how good a certain product was, and what a product could say about you as a person over this time period.
This notion of self-interest and individualism also spilled over into the world of politics by the end of the 1970s.
It would be hopeful to suggest a politician promoting the suggestion that society should work together would have a positive influence on people's voting intentions, but Curtis shows that research demonstrates otherwise.
Through a then new idea, originating in psychoanalysis, and harnessed by politicians, known as 'focus groups,' in which members of the public would be analysed to find out what people really wanted, it had become obvious that people are much more likely to vote based on selfish intentions about what the government could do for them personally. This was a discovery that Reagan and Thatcher both used to their advantage in their respective pre-election campaigns in the late seventies/early eighties, and helped to get them elected.
The idea that the collective feeling of positivity that surrounded individualism and expression in the 60s and 70s, was now being harnessed in a different way by the political right at the end of the 70s/early 80s, so steeped in associations of rebellious rejection against a brainwashing, emotionally docile consumerist society, I found to be a fascinating concept.
This demonstrates the deep shrewdness and manipulation that occurs in politics and big business. It would be rare to find someone supportive of concepts of freedom of expression promoted in the 60s and 70s, who would also think positively about the self motivated society that underpinned Thatcher's government, and made parts of Britain so deeply divided during this time. Though Curtis shows how certain ideas of individualism are a common occurrence in both.
In presenting the world of psychoanalysis, it is a startling realisation that the individual can be so influenced by a school of thought, and rather frightening to the extent that people can make themselves believe one particular idea about the workings of a human mind.
'The Century of the Self' is altogether brilliantly realised. By presenting the facts in such a focused and honest way, there is an underlying warning throughout about how dangerous the notion of individualism is, and how damaging to society it can be.
"There is a policeman in my head, and he must be destroyed",
In the third section of 'The Century of the Self,' Curtis explores how rebellious new methods of psychoanalysis in the 1960s were a direct rejection of the Freudian idea of suppressing thoughts and emotions in order to control the 'dangerous irrational' aspects of human nature lurking beneath. A huge social collective uprising was then born, in which the ideas of individuality, creativity, self-harmony, and rebelling against a society of passive consumerism were brought to the attention of the world. The changes in culture were embraced by the public to the extent that people in the world of advertising would have to change tactics in a dramatic way.
No longer would the product be shown to be a necessity to the needs of the public, but rather with the emphasis being on how it could appease the desire to be seen as an individual in the eyes of society.
The fantastic series 'Mad Men' demonstrates how the most creative minds in advertising were starting to harness these ideas in the early sixties, and certain methods were being developed. There was a definite shift in promoting how good a certain product was, and what a product could say about you as a person over this time period.
This notion of self-interest and individualism also spilled over into the world of politics by the end of the 1970s.
It would be hopeful to suggest a politician promoting the suggestion that society should work together would have a positive influence on people's voting intentions, but Curtis shows that research demonstrates otherwise.
Through a then new idea, originating in psychoanalysis, and harnessed by politicians, known as 'focus groups,' in which members of the public would be analysed to find out what people really wanted, it had become obvious that people are much more likely to vote based on selfish intentions about what the government could do for them personally. This was a discovery that Reagan and Thatcher both used to their advantage in their respective pre-election campaigns in the late seventies/early eighties, and helped to get them elected.
The idea that the collective feeling of positivity that surrounded individualism and expression in the 60s and 70s, was now being harnessed in a different way by the political right at the end of the 70s/early 80s, so steeped in associations of rebellious rejection against a brainwashing, emotionally docile consumerist society, I found to be a fascinating concept.
This demonstrates the deep shrewdness and manipulation that occurs in politics and big business. It would be rare to find someone supportive of concepts of freedom of expression promoted in the 60s and 70s, who would also think positively about the self motivated society that underpinned Thatcher's government, and made parts of Britain so deeply divided during this time. Though Curtis shows how certain ideas of individualism are a common occurrence in both.
In presenting the world of psychoanalysis, it is a startling realisation that the individual can be so influenced by a school of thought, and rather frightening to the extent that people can make themselves believe one particular idea about the workings of a human mind.
'The Century of the Self' is altogether brilliantly realised. By presenting the facts in such a focused and honest way, there is an underlying warning throughout about how dangerous the notion of individualism is, and how damaging to society it can be.
Tuesday 29 March 2011
A raging debate brings a barely suppressed yawn
The football debate in the sports pages this week is predictably dominated with talk of the England football team. The usual questions. Does the fact that they can dispose of a poor Welsh side demonstrate their potential against stronger opposition? Are the right players being played in the right places? Can player A play with player B? Blah, blah, blah.
Around the time of a competitive England match at any point in the last decade, you could pick out different newspaper articles, and it's more than likely you would find the same tired issues dominating.
The most painfully dull debate is that of the saga that surrounds the captaincy of doe-eyed Chelsea defender, John Terry. It's hard to imagine why anyone would even feign a shrug of interest about the personal life of 'JT'. The very fact that the issue of this monotoned, sad faced man's infidelity creates such a media storm is testament to the country's glorification of celebrity mishap, which undeniably has a detrimental effect. Terry, despite his 'charmless man' qualities, is probably befitting of the role of England captain. To have his captaincy stripped away in a world cup where England were dumped out earlier than anyone thought in the realms of possibility, demonstrates just how damaging the media frenzy really is to anyone who actually cares whether they succeed or not.
This is why I'm past caring. Surely the England football team, who undoubtedly have some very talented players, despite the majority of them having about the same amount of personality as a park bench, have got the best chance of succeeding if everyone just shuts up and leaves them to it. Every day there's another story on the BBC sports page about what John Terry or Rio Ferdinand said. Why are we constantly subjected to listening to the inane comments of these illiterate, yawn inducing men.
I was reading somewhere about Rio Ferdinand 'tweeting' Lily Allen about her mother's recipe for Shepherd's Pie. The very fact that I know this piece of information severely undermines my resolve to care about the fortunes of the national football team.
Around the time of a competitive England match at any point in the last decade, you could pick out different newspaper articles, and it's more than likely you would find the same tired issues dominating.
The most painfully dull debate is that of the saga that surrounds the captaincy of doe-eyed Chelsea defender, John Terry. It's hard to imagine why anyone would even feign a shrug of interest about the personal life of 'JT'. The very fact that the issue of this monotoned, sad faced man's infidelity creates such a media storm is testament to the country's glorification of celebrity mishap, which undeniably has a detrimental effect. Terry, despite his 'charmless man' qualities, is probably befitting of the role of England captain. To have his captaincy stripped away in a world cup where England were dumped out earlier than anyone thought in the realms of possibility, demonstrates just how damaging the media frenzy really is to anyone who actually cares whether they succeed or not.
This is why I'm past caring. Surely the England football team, who undoubtedly have some very talented players, despite the majority of them having about the same amount of personality as a park bench, have got the best chance of succeeding if everyone just shuts up and leaves them to it. Every day there's another story on the BBC sports page about what John Terry or Rio Ferdinand said. Why are we constantly subjected to listening to the inane comments of these illiterate, yawn inducing men.
I was reading somewhere about Rio Ferdinand 'tweeting' Lily Allen about her mother's recipe for Shepherd's Pie. The very fact that I know this piece of information severely undermines my resolve to care about the fortunes of the national football team.
Thursday 24 March 2011
Spring Scepticism
On Saturday morning I was awoken by a text message from a friend, with an over excited instruction - 'Quick! Look at the sunshine!' The overdue return of the ball of fiery light had taken on some strange phenomenon. A rare experience, not to be missed! Prefixed by a panicked desire to enjoy every fleeting second of it.
"Right then, get in the garden! Stare at it before it disappears! Oh shit, is it going behind that cloud? Is that an ice cream truck I can hear in the distance? I'm sure my shorts were in this draw. Oh, here they are..Wait, are these even mine? Arrhh!"
You get the picture.
On the streets, many are still dressed with a very obvious degree of distrust. Coats and scarves remain adorned. Damn those suspicious folk and their half done up zips and buttons. I bet you'd still find gloves in lady's handbags too. (One would imagine, I'm not in the habit of rummaging through...)
I'm horribly aware that my first post on this blog is about the weather. How delightfully mundane and typically English! But as it's all anyone can talk about this week, it seemed a reasonable place to start. Plus, it's obviously a lot more pressing than a country in the midst of Civil War, and the west's subsequent intervention. Or, for that matter, a country on the brink of nuclear devastation... but I'll save those trivial matters for a rainy day!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IcG4NUJAs6Q
"Right then, get in the garden! Stare at it before it disappears! Oh shit, is it going behind that cloud? Is that an ice cream truck I can hear in the distance? I'm sure my shorts were in this draw. Oh, here they are..Wait, are these even mine? Arrhh!"
You get the picture.
On the streets, many are still dressed with a very obvious degree of distrust. Coats and scarves remain adorned. Damn those suspicious folk and their half done up zips and buttons. I bet you'd still find gloves in lady's handbags too. (One would imagine, I'm not in the habit of rummaging through...)
I'm horribly aware that my first post on this blog is about the weather. How delightfully mundane and typically English! But as it's all anyone can talk about this week, it seemed a reasonable place to start. Plus, it's obviously a lot more pressing than a country in the midst of Civil War, and the west's subsequent intervention. Or, for that matter, a country on the brink of nuclear devastation... but I'll save those trivial matters for a rainy day!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IcG4NUJAs6Q
Wednesday 23 March 2011
Glasser - XOYO - 22/02/2011
Glasser Live Review 22/02/11
Glasser are a four piece band from Los Angeles, whose confident and immaculately produced debut album, ‘Ringer,’ has been spreading whispers amongst attentive indie fans since its release towards the back end of last year.
London’s XOYO is the venue, an intimate basement club on the edge of trendy Shoreditch. Over-priced, suspiciously watered-down lager out of plastic cups is customary here, and XOYO Bar Staff seem rather apologetic to the raised eyebrows given to the cost of beer.
Glasser’s sound is carried by the impressive vocal aptitude of Cameron Mesirow, which gives great warmth to the percussive electronics and absorbing synths that support her. At its best, the music is mesmeric, and is well illustrated on a stripped down, near a-cappella version of album highlight ‘T,’ which reduces the audience to near silence, as Mesirow’s salient, gliding melody absorbs the room. Allegedly, the band took their name from “a midnight vision of a figure hanging over the water,” and this imagery is never more befitting than here.
Elsewhere, ‘Plain Temps’ strangely invokes Enya, with a vocal chorus of nonsensical syllables over a dreamlike synth. ‘Tremel,’ and its tribal drumming, encourages the first signs of head-nodding from the rather stoic crowd, and ‘Home’ has a playful keyboard refrain, which gives ample opportunity for Mesirow to boast her finest twitchy dance. It’s easy to draw comparisons with Bjork in both her choice of outlandish outfit, and eccentric behaviour on stage. Comedy occurs when her peculiar 1920’s milkmaid style dress, held together with safety pins, begins to unravel. “I feel like Janet Jackson at the Superbowl,” she claims, to submissive sniggers.
After playing the album in its entirety, Mesirow returns to deliver another stunning unaccompanied piece, which demonstrates that Glasser’s great advantage over their peers is the fact they have a vastly talented vocalist. In addition, it perfectly fits the sunny and ethereal quality of the music, which altogether makes them a very promising prospect
Glasser are a four piece band from Los Angeles, whose confident and immaculately produced debut album, ‘Ringer,’ has been spreading whispers amongst attentive indie fans since its release towards the back end of last year.
London’s XOYO is the venue, an intimate basement club on the edge of trendy Shoreditch. Over-priced, suspiciously watered-down lager out of plastic cups is customary here, and XOYO Bar Staff seem rather apologetic to the raised eyebrows given to the cost of beer.
Glasser’s sound is carried by the impressive vocal aptitude of Cameron Mesirow, which gives great warmth to the percussive electronics and absorbing synths that support her. At its best, the music is mesmeric, and is well illustrated on a stripped down, near a-cappella version of album highlight ‘T,’ which reduces the audience to near silence, as Mesirow’s salient, gliding melody absorbs the room. Allegedly, the band took their name from “a midnight vision of a figure hanging over the water,” and this imagery is never more befitting than here.
Elsewhere, ‘Plain Temps’ strangely invokes Enya, with a vocal chorus of nonsensical syllables over a dreamlike synth. ‘Tremel,’ and its tribal drumming, encourages the first signs of head-nodding from the rather stoic crowd, and ‘Home’ has a playful keyboard refrain, which gives ample opportunity for Mesirow to boast her finest twitchy dance. It’s easy to draw comparisons with Bjork in both her choice of outlandish outfit, and eccentric behaviour on stage. Comedy occurs when her peculiar 1920’s milkmaid style dress, held together with safety pins, begins to unravel. “I feel like Janet Jackson at the Superbowl,” she claims, to submissive sniggers.
After playing the album in its entirety, Mesirow returns to deliver another stunning unaccompanied piece, which demonstrates that Glasser’s great advantage over their peers is the fact they have a vastly talented vocalist. In addition, it perfectly fits the sunny and ethereal quality of the music, which altogether makes them a very promising prospect
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