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.
Thursday 18 August 2011
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.
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