Jones Is Dying

Intense...

2012-02-02T23:27:00.002Z

If you can make it all the way through, it may just change your life.
Words fail me...

Tyranny and Mutation

2012-01-30T21:32:00.009Z

A weekend's viewing of both J Edgar - Clint Eastwood's biopic of the FBI's founder, and The Iron Lady - Phyllida Lloyd's look at Grantham's most famous daughter. The link? Two somewhat sympathetic films about notorious right-wingers made by left wing intellectuals.

Writing from the standpoint of someone whose first experience of voting in 1979 was spoiled by the milk snatcher herself taking control of the country, I was already grimly determined that this was not going to be an experience I could stomach. Is my generation doomed to end up as right wing as our parents seemed (well, mine did - they read the Telegraph, and my father, in a rare outburst of political candour, once admitted to an admiration of William Whitelaw - coincidentally the man who stood against Thatcher in the second round of the leadership battle for the Tories in 1978)? Like the tendency to complain about loud music in restaurants and to feel the cold increasingly - are we doomed to gradually go from Red Wedge-supporting yoof to something slightly to the right of Genghis Khan?

Luckily it's not that simple. Both films display a healthy enough grasp of the contradictions at the heart of each story. Politically, there's never a straight black and white divide in great figures' lives. Hoover, for instance, is portrayed as having a racist mother (Judy Dench) but is also known for eliminating the Ku Klux Klan, and his hatred of Martin Luther King seems to stem more from King's moral indiscretions than any colour issues. Thatcher's Darwinian capitalism was espoused by a woman who wholeheartedly supported the decriminalisation of homosexuality, although this isn't mentioned in the film. In fact, as a portrait of the UK's political landscape The Iron Lady is fairly hopeless. I mean, Anthony Head as Geoffrey Howe? John Sessions as Edward Heath?!? Do me a favour…

But balancing this with the avowed intentions of screenwriter du jour, Abi Morgan, this is hardly surprising. Her approach is that of the most interesting form of feminist: one who prefers the macrocosmic to the overarching political landscape; the human over the historical. The most important speech of the film doesn't actually involve Meryl Streep's amazing turn, but features Alexandra Roach as the younger Maggie telling (a very good) Harry Lloyd as Denis that she won't 'die washing tea cups'. This jibe actually has the ring of truthfulness about it. And of course the idea of an Oxford chemistry graduate who then turned to law and politics while simultaneously raising a family is incredible. I have enough trouble making coffee in the morning.

The crux of Morgan's treatment lies in the relationship of daughter Carole (played brilliantly by Olivia Colman) with a mother who's losing it in her twilight years. As Morgan says, 'I have dementia in my own family so I recognised that as an experience and I’d observed it but I do think it’s more of a universal story. I don’t think it’s a political film. I think it’s about the study of power and the isolation of power, but that’s also set against the isolation of old age and in particular, the isolation of dementia, in a way.'

This is all very well, and as such the top and tail of the film are masterful. Yet, ultimately, The Iron Lady is really only half a movie. The portrayal of one woman's descent into dementia is utterly disarming, and ramped up to an incredible level by both La Streep's fabulous portrayal of a woman in her 80s and Jim Broadbent's ever-dependable affability as the hallucinatory conscience Denis, goading her for her weaknesses after a life of toughing it out at the highest levels of government. But when we get onto the typical episodic, biopic approach to the grocer's daughter climb up the greasy pole, things unravel.

As Liz Hoggard points out during her discussion with Peter Lilley, quite a few of the dramatic incidents (ie: poll tax rioters banging on her limo windows etc) never actually occurred. The portrayal of her first day in parliament shows her as a lone female in the House of Commons. While women were very much the minority in 1961 she was far from being alone of her sex. And I certainly found her transformation into some black clad S&M goddess while helping unite Europe (as her compadres plotted her downfall) slightly disturbing. The message seemingly being that her finest moment on the world stage equated to some kind of apotheosis as a sexy witch queen straight out of C S Lewis.

J Edgar on the other hand shows a far surer grasp of both genre and subtext. While Leonardo DiCaprio's performance is every inch the equal of Streep's (IMHO) he doesn't quite pull of the prosthetics so convincingly, although apparently his weight gain (amusingly referred to several times in the film a 'solid weight') was quite real. And Armie Hammer's turn as Hoover's closest ally, Clyde Tolson is plain silly - using a comic tremor and liver spots as shorthand for age. Yet the central premise of a demonised public figure finally brought low by the hands of time is identical. Still, J Edgar displays a far more even hand - balancing significant private facts (the dominance of his mother, his early insecurity which resulted in his (ha) machine gun delivery earning him the nickname 'Speedy', and of course his well-known closeness to Tolson combined with a confirmed batchelor life) with the same episodic approach.

And while, at times, the editing veers close to confusing there are enough clever touches to contextualise the narrative in our present time (cf: J Edgar's first date with Naomi Watts as Helen Gandy; where one can't help feeling that Hoover's display of library card indexing as a precursor to a national criminal database predicts the internet. And did anyone spot the fact that, by the end of the film, Hoover's biographer/confessor had transformed into an Obama lookalike?) But as Tolson tells J Edgar at the end of the movie - barely any of his confessions are true - his supposed presence at the takedown of all those gangsters was PR fluffery designed to net the Bureau a bigger budget, reminding us in canny Citizen Kane style that all reminiscence is untrustworthy.

The leftist principles of both writer and director never let Hoover off the hook: his power games, his confusion of personal drive for moral righteousness: all are dealt with capably and with due respect for a man who, if confused by the hypocrisy of power, also DID help establish modern investigative methods.

Ultimately - J Edgar succeeds not only from having a more experienced director at the helm, but by choosing its subject more cleverly. The film (if you believe the James Ellroy-style rumour mill) could easily have been a scurrilous hatchet job of a hated man's already-twisted reputation. By avoiding the obvious references to conspiracy theories behind JFK's assassination as well as not dwelling too long on his 'private files' (here used as an analogy for his paranoia as well as trust invested in one person - his PA, Ms Gandy), Eastwood manages to pin down the life of a man with few friends and a genuine drive to bring order to post communist USA, despite the odious ways in which he often did it. Also note that they cleverly bypass the legendary rumours of cross-dressing by having J Edgar merely try on his dead mother's dress in a moment of pure grief. There's respect but it's tempered by their unerring even-handedness.

The Iron Lady fails on the same criteria: Morgan's script is a more than competent look at dementia but stumbles when it's attached to a political landscape that's not only more than fresh in my generation's minds but also is attached to someone who is, lest we forget, still very much with us. One can't help but feel that the only reason that this wasn't presented as a analogous fiction (cf: Polanski's The Ghost) was because everyone at the studio knew that Meryl could pull of a brilliant (unnerving?) impersonation of Thatchbag. And for my money the subject of the effects of dementia on an enduring relationship were covered more effectively in Iris (which had... oh, Jim Broadbent as the dependable partner). The inevitable oscar is well-deserved but it doesn't excuse such a brutal subject's rather cavalier treatment. We owe a vast amount of our modern woes to MT's plucky home economics. It's far too early to forget this.

Brainy Is The New Sexy

2012-01-17T15:38:00.010Z

'In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a lover he would have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They were admirable things for the observer — excellent for drawing the veil from men's motives and actions. But for the trained reasoner to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which might throw a doubt upon all his mental results. Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as his. And yet there was but one woman to him, and that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory.'
Sir A Conan Doyle - 'A Scandal In Bohemia'

So, unless you've been living under a rock, you've probably noticed a certain amount of fuss over the latest television incarnation of Dr Wh.... sorry, Sherlock Holmes. Well, it's an easy mistake to make isn't it? Both are unbearable show-offs, with lesser companions to contextualise their clever-dickery. Both have brains the size of planets, quirky dress sense and most importantly (SPOILER ALERT) both have the rather useful ability to transcend death and become reborn.

Ignoring the obvious Christ analogies, this trick of recharging/reanimating a withering franchise was quite possibly Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's greatest legacy to scriptwriters, producers and directors. The sleuth's reappearance from the dead after his tussle with Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls at least normalised the device of bringing back heroes from seemingly impossible dead ends. From Superman to Ellen Ripley; we owe it all to Sir Arthur.

But back to the timelord comparisons...The genetic makeup of the modernised Baker Street sleuth and the causes of his massive success are largely down to the men who have successfully taken Conan Doyle's original text and coated it with 21st century slickness and gadgetry: Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss. Both wrote for Dr Who (it's worth noting that Sherlock directors Euros Lyn and Toby Haynes also directed the Gallifrean) and both are quite obviously people who, as school children, didn't quite get out enough at break time; preferring to pore over books and other such girly things. Dr Who (at least from the reign of Russell T Davies onwards) has been revenge of sorts of the sci fi geek: Sherlock's furtherance of this gold-plated success has shown that a deep and abiding love plus obsessive familiarity of the principles and twists that made up the mechanics of Sir A's books (and let's not forget that Conan Doyle wrote a lot of sci fi as well) really does prepare one for world TV domination. For, once you get the balance of scientific method and sexual politics right, you have the makings of something unbeatable. As Irene Adler (she of the quotation above) says in A Scandal In Belgravia, the first episode of the recently finished series of Sherlock: 'Brainy is the new Sexy'. And how...

Moffatt and Gatiss have served us up a world where plots and on-screen CGI trickery almost fall over themselves to scream, 'look! I'm being clever!', whether it's with animated texts popping up in the air or via whip smart scripts that combined humour with the most important sleight of hand needed in a detective thriller: subtle exposition. In all three parts of this second series, original plots were hinted at just enough to make the connoisseur chuckle (The Speckled Band became the Speckled Blonde, the appearance of the deerstalker - although in the books Holmes never wore one), recurring jokes rewarded the regular viewer (ie: the constant denial of Holmes and Watson's homosexuality) and above all none of the details were over-explained, although a certain amount of plausibility was maintained. After all: Sherlock is nothing if not the very embodiment of rationalism versus superstition. But that isn't to say that our modernised titular hero had no soul or even any desires.

Take another look at that opening paragraph. Conan Doyle's original existed in a different era: one that worshipped the rational above all. Adler is admired more than other females because Holmes was bested by her; ultimately by escaping with her (unused) blackmail material and with a new husband, to boot. Interestingly, the character of Irene Adler has been used time and again by those who sought to extend the franchise, as a cypher for the one woman (THE Woman) who could get to Holmes' heart. Billy Wilder's The Private Life Of Sherlock Holmes is probably the most famous example. But in the most recent incarnation the power play is markedly shifted.

Putting aside recent attempts to brand Moffatt's treatment of Adler as a lesbian dominatrix as sexist, the episode featuring Sherlock's encounter with a woman who doesn't bore him (the one quality he abhors in all of humanity) takes a new turn with the old plot device. Here Sherlock's admiration quickly turns into something approaching mystification. To all intents and purposes, lovelorn, following her supposed death, on hearing that she still lives he literally floats down Baker Street to his front door. We see the one thing that Conan Doyle's hero never displayed - he's confused; dumbfounded at the effect of another human on his world.

But that's not to say that only one episode was sexy. Episode two's take on the Hound of The Baskervilles (plural hounds in this case) was spiced up by default, not only by Watson's chatting up technique, but also by the mere presence of Russell Tovey, BBC Three shorthand for desirability (although his 'stunned taxi with its doors open' act does nothing for me). It wasn't quite as alluring, but luckily the biggest guns were reserved for the finale. Andrew Scott's Jim Moriarty chewed scenery but made something of a mark by luring Sherlock, not with his very own viciously camp charms, but by appealing to Holmes' greatest love... himself.

While it could also be argued that the trio of Moriarty, Watson and Holmes made up a very palpable male love-triangle, ultimately Holmes' downfall was effected by the one thing that was obvious all along: his narcissism. How he loved to show off. It is a portrait of a man who needs unconditional admiration from the whole world but saves the messy stuff for his own head. Moriarty's lustful defrocking of the genius says more about the arch-criminal's need to get his attention, but in the end, as Sherlock (MORE SPOILER ALERTS) watches Watson cry at his graveside, it becomes apparent that other's love for him is merely baffling; for no one loves Sherlock quite as much as Sherlock.

The fact that I've expended several hours and some paltry brain power on a mere detective series confirms to me that this was great telly and superb drama. Benedict Cumberbatch, Martin Freeman and Andrew Scott all shone, although on second viewing I found Lara Pulver's Adler somewhat more stilted than it previously appeared. I must have been somehow distracted...

And that's exactly why Moffatt and Gatiss deserve our thanks. In using such subterfuge, distractions and trickery, they're easily the equal of Moriarty himself. Brainy, sexy nerds. I look forward to series three.

Set the controls for SE24

2012-01-12T15:44:00.004Z

Just to prove I've not atrophied on the sub-standard, drone-y space rock front; here's something the EBP mixed of ours, recorded last week. Recommended for those quiet moments in your life...
Condor by Jonesisdying

Blowing Bubbles

2012-01-04T14:55:00.010Z

A few weeks back I went to see the Uk's premier legacy space rock act, Hawkwind.

Stop laughing at the back, there...

Now I fully understood, with only one original member on board the notional spaceship, that this wasn't going to be the best of musical evenings. I've seen the 'Wind many, many times (as Betty Marsden would say) and at various points in their journey through the cosmos. These gigs have been, at times, transcendent. I was a fanboy - worshipping at the altar of their early United Artist years as they melded Krautrock-ish motorik grooves with Michael Moorcock sword and sorcery; I went to Robert Calvert solo shows in Soho; I even saw them with Ginger Baker on drums more than once, and I doubt even Ginger remembers THOSE gigs. Now, with only lead singer/writer Dave Brock at the helm, the object of the night was more ageing curiosity than the expectation of being transported by the spirit of the age of afghan coats and Liquid Len's legendary lightshow. But what I got was far more depressing for several reasons.

Firstly, the band (and let's not forget that part of their charm was the beautifully cavalier approach to 'musical chops' in an age of flashy technique: ie: they were plodding three chord rockers with synthesizers) were pretty inept. Leaving aside the fact that Tim Blake - a man whose issues with substance abuse would have possibly rendered him more incapable than many - was the musical star of the evening, the rest of the band seemed desultory at best. Frankly I wasn't too taken aback by this, but Brock's disdain for the crowd (and the sartorial choice of wearing a pair of UGGS) coupled with a truly appalling sound system rendered the whole experience a bit like watching a screensaver with a migraine.

Brock relegated most singing duties to a large dude in a German WW2-style biker helmet and those awful goth biker boots that you only see worn in Camden on a Saturday afternoon. I think he was hoping that the two dancers and naff computerised graphics of fractals and cannabis leaves would distract us from the paucity of the deal we were getting. Certainly, the vast array of inappropriate pony tails and beards in the audience seemed fooled. But this, in itself, was surprising considering the average age of the punters. Was no one aware of the disrespect being flung at them?

Look at the photo above. Yes, the silver, stilted dancer is impressive, in an arts collective, circussy kinda way. But pay closer attention to the banners at the side of the stage. See that image of an art deco panther? Here's a detail:

This is artwork taken from the band's legendary Space Ritual album. The album sleeve - a fabulous folding puzzle of a thing in its original vinyl edition (and actually well- reproduced in its CD incarnation) was one of the finest examples of the work of none other than Barney Bubbles.

Those who know me will be aware that I am currently writing a book whose background is centred on the early '70s counter-cultural landscape of West London's Ladbroke Grove. No such book could pass without at least a veiled reference to Bubbles. A deeply troubled man who eventually took his own life - until recently Barney (or to give him his real name, Colin Fulcher) was a forgotten figure of 70s music: a designer/artist whose work challenged modern notions of typography, packaging, logo design and even promotional material. He was an idealist, inveterate stoner and was at various stages ripped off, ignored and ill-treated by the artists he served as well as the record companies he worked for. A recent book (Reasons To Be Cheerful by Paul Gorman) sought to change that, with an introduction from Peter Saville outlining the debt modern designers owe to him and a comprehensive cataloguing of classics rendered for clients as diverse as Strongbow Cider (the logo), Stiff records and the NME.

Simply put, he was the in-house designer for early Hawkwind. In the same way that Roger Dean almost single-handedly created the look and feel of Yes' prog zenith years, Bubbles provided fascinating sleeves and posters for the band that featured his trademark early '70s amalgamation of art nouveau, deco, 50s pulp comics and mind-expanding mandalas. Albums came with origami-like housings, complete with booklets, garish inner sleeves and more than made up for any musicological shorfalls contained on the grooves therein. My favourite of his was always Doremi Fasol Latido (which also happens to be Hawkwind's finest album) - its silver and black sleeve with the radiator grill logo never lost its allure.

So, at the Shepherd's Bush Empire in December I was suddenly gripped by a notion more saddening than even Captain Brock's sorry attitude to his 'fans'. It was the realisation that, 40 years after the fact, Bubbles' work is stil being used to prop up an establishment (and yes, I'm aware of the irony of such a word, applied to such a 'people's' band, known for free gigs and communty fund-raisers when they had people such as Lemmy in their ranks) and (I'm guessing) NO ONE is being paid. It's one more insult to the memory of a man who really did change our ideas about how challenging popular culture can be, if you go that little bit further. Possibly far more than some of the acts he added a touch of class to.

As if that wasn't enough, this week Radio 4 played this. A documentary about the 'life' of Bubbles. At best perfunctory (how can be anything else in a mere 30 minutes?) - I was disappointed to find that no reference was made to Paul Gorman or his book. As it turns out, he was allegedly told he was unwanted. So, while we did get a little insight from old mucker Nik Turner (a man who seems to be constantly at war over Hawkwind's legacy with Brock) and some very touching words from his sister, we got little or no plaudits or critical insight into his work from actual designers or artists, and were left knowing only that he did some groovy stuff, took too many drugs and eventually found life too awful to bear. Frankly, half an hour on Google will get you more detail. It was a massive wasted opportunity. And while I still urge anyone to listen (while you still can), it's pretty thin gruel. I urge you to buy the book, LOOK at the amazing stuff he created, and avoid anyone who, at the age of 70 is still trying to charge you 20 quid for the mistaken belief that they're trying to uphold any anti-establishment values or change the world.

None More Black

2011-12-20T16:12:00.011Z

A delayed response to the Black Mirror series which has aired over the last three Sunday nights on Channel 4. Executive producer, Charlie Brooker, has already written at length about his thinking behind the series, and any regular visitors here will know that I’ve always had a soft spot for his own brand of cuddly misanthropy. So what more is there to say?

Most reviewers, both mainstream and blogwise, have approached these broadsides at the way social media has changed our lives from the viewpoint of its status of a TV drama/comic satire; admiring the intelligence behind the plots but focussing mainly on their entertainment value. Possibly because they’re aired at a time that’s usually reserved for more escapist fare (it being a school night).

This is all well and good - both acting and scripting have been variable throughout, with episode one (The National Anthem) being the most tightly written and performed – but it’s the concepts behind the series that have been the most thought-provoking and have yet to be fully digested. To describe it as satire is possibly underselling it. While Brooker IS an arch-satirist, the idea of this being black comedy (along with Brooker’s recent nomination in the British Comedy awards) seems to be the media’s attempt to water down his messages.

Basically, Black Mirror fulfils all the criteria for perfect science fiction. It takes current trends, contemporary attitudes and up-to-the-minute moral dilemmas and explores those themes in the context of a near future where technology has either grown to its logical full potential or in an alternate universe, with just the names changed to protect the not-so-innocent.

The second ‘episode’, Fifteen Million Merits (co-written by Brooker and partner Konnie Huq), gave us a derivative/Orwellian dystopian future which obviously drew from Brooker’s own background as a gaming critic/reviewer. Weirdly it was this episode which made me laugh the most. It was not just a swipe at the freak-show complicity of reality talent shows but (more importantly) also at the way in which we now filter our ‘reality’ through technology that has become so invasive as to make us unable to recognise true feeling or emotion. The central rebellious youth was, of course, finally subsumed into the system, just as Brooker sails close to mainstream acceptance (more of this later).

But it was parts one and three that were most brutal in their dissection of the ways that our inner lives have become inextricably linked with the body politic and simultaneously ripped away from the previously cosy notions of personal privacy.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m not one of those carping troglodytes that see social networks as merely ciphers for invidious corporations stealing our souls (and PIN numbers) – we have more control than the Dail Mail would have you believe. Yet the main thrust of these two episodes was the way in which we have walked through a door that may well have closed behind us and what social media may have consigned us to.

The National Anthem was, perhaps the wrong episode to start with, focusing as it did on the ratings-winning idea that there could very plausibly arise a situation wherein the Prime Minister would be forced to have sex with a pig, live on UK television. That sentence looks all wrong, but anyone who watched the show will know that it was ultimately pretty believable. Here the brush of satire WAS used, mainly as we learned (SPOLER ALERT) that it was all a huge performance art piece, created by some nihilistic Banksy-clone (who, to be fair, did commit suicide at the close).

No one really came out of this well – politicians, the BBC, Youtube - but (as with a lot of Brooker’s own work) there was a kind of romantic sadness in the story’s conclusion: the public’s natural response (following the initial knee-jerk pointing and laughing) was to finally turn away in disgust, while a premier, forced at virtual gunpoint to perfom the unthinkable by his party, won public approval but lost at a personal level (the love of his wife). Unfortunately such a high bench mark couldn’t be matched by the rest of the series, thus losing viewers who would have benefitted from the dark messages contained therein.

The Entire History Of You (the finale) suffered from lesser acting but carried the most deeply personal warning – ie: how much do you REALLY want others to know about your life, especially when it comes to personal relationships? A glossy, ultra-irritating world of 30-something aspirational clones bicker over previous flames and flings while being able to record each moment of their lives in horrid HD quality. While you hated all the characters, you squirmed at the recognition that we now inhabit a world where someone is Googling you. Now. Innocent memories are fast becoming damning indictments in a world where hypocritical moral codes replace true depth of feeling. Maybe the cyber stalker you fear is lying right next to you… It’s a chilling thought.

But what has really been the most fascinating aspect of the reception to Black Mirror? Why, the seeming inability for social media itself to refuse to engage with the subjects raised. When I say ‘social media’ I mean in fact the peers that comment on, make a living from and theorise on those platforms that we currently call social media. I say’currently’ because it’s fairly obvious that what we used to call the internet or indeed barely any media which we now consume or create has a social aspect to it, of course, making the term almost meaningless.

A few reviews point to the fact that the series has ‘split critics and viewers’. Well, quite right, too. Because the real punch of Black Mirror is that of a mouth definitely biting the hand that feeds it. A snapshot of the reaction across twitter, blogs, facebook etc. reveals that while discussion online following the first episode has exponentially dropped there were still 35,500 mentions of the show during its run. 95% of those were on Twitter, but tellingly very few were from anyone who’d be remotely classed as ‘influential’ in social media (or in fact plain ‘media’) circles. The most notable comments came from either stars such as Gavin and Stacey’s Matthew Horne or from people who were actually in the show (MC Bashy – who played one of the reality show judges in Fifteen Million Merits). It really seems as though most media commentators have shrugged or faintly applauded and moved rapidly on.

This looks like the result of one of two scenarios: either the uncomfortable feeling that letting Brooker (a former TV critic) too close to the inner circle of taste arbiters would be dangerous, or that these home truths about the deeper sociological effects of society 2.0 are not worth considering in a world that runs on notions of progress (and marketing potential) above all else.

Either way – I hope that on the day that we finally realise what it is we’re doing (or stop to consider it properly for a second) we’ll remember these three nuggets of truth and alarm.

Smile, when your heart is breaking...

2011-12-07T15:06:00.021Z

Inspired by a late night conversation with the EBP, I decided to do a one day census of what’s now gone beyond ‘ubiquitous’ into ‘insanely overproduced’ territory – the Xmas comedy DVD. Over the last month your eyeballs couldn’t swivel, whilst pacing the corridors of the London Underground, without being assailed by gurning stand-ups hawking their wares in time for that most special of days: a grim evening in mid-January when you finally get round to taking off the shrink-wrap and hearing those same jokes that you’ve mildly chuckled to over the course of the last year; all delivered in a live context, to howls of approval.

And what quantities of mirth-juice have been digitised this year! In a single afternoon of snapping and googling I found no less than 23 ‘major’ names in stand-up had produced DVDS; and all of them released in a single fortnight at the beginning of November. Undoubtedly someone more learned than I will point out that in times of recession we NEED to laugh more. As a fan of the BBC’s digital radio channel 4Extra, I’m well-versed in the type of radio fare that kept our post-war lives slightly less tainted by food shortages and Luftwaffe-sponsored bombsites. The British are masters at the self-deprecating, ‘you’ve gotta laugh unless you cry’-type of humour in times of stress. But at least in those far-off days we didn’t have to LOOK at these faces urging us to cheer the fuck up.

OK, I’m being a tad cynical here, and as an avowed fan of some of these names I have to admit to enjoying their regular appearances on, well, just about any quiz show or stand-up variety package broadcast after 9pm on terrestrial TV. I’m just shocked by the overwhelming quantity as well as the notion that anyone would really want to watch such a thing more than once… or twice if you really are a student of the art of timing/delivery/being hilariously offensive. EBP mentioned that he was more fascinated to uncover the hidden meanings in the various stances/expressions/states of rictus displayed on these throwaway artefacts. So… let’s look at the categories, shall we?

I’m mad, me!

Zany, wacky, bonkers, madcap… how many irritating ways can you choose to take up oxygen? Like Dave Lee Travis writ large, these loonies want you to know that when you push the disc into the maw of your player you’ll be transported into a magical world of ‘surreal’ comedy. This mis-use of the word has always stymied me. Let’s go back to Andre Breton’s peerless definition: ‘n. Pure psychic automatism, by which one proposes to express, either verbally, in writing, or by any other manner, the real functioning of thought. Dictation of thought in the absence of all control exercised by reason, outside of all aesthetic and moral preoccupation.’ In this context, a description of Milton Jones as ‘King of The Surreal one-liners’ seems a little wayward doesn’t it?

Both Jones and Tim Vine operate in the same area of wordplay that I find amusing. But backing it up with a silly shirt/hairstyle/costume seems over the top. This is probably why I prefer Milton on the radio (The Very World Of Milton Jones). Also, to be fair, neither of these have appeared on a tube wall, to my knowledge.

Lee Evans’ stance is actually a fair representation of his physical schtick. He does come at you like Norman Wisdom on speed, and becomes just as irritating as well. At the heart of Evans is a very serious man who works ridiculously hard to make himself seem ridiculous. No work for a grown man.

Alan Carr at least drips with irony. The fake twinkle, the nod to glasses NOT being sexy, the camp lustre of lurex and leather: very knowing, and probably not as bad as it seems. His Radio 2 show is often most diverting and I get the impression he’s pretty intelligent. It’s just a shame he had to soil his CV so heinously, and so early on by working with that prize c*** Justin Lee Collins.

Finally we have Greg Davis, who seems to have achieved something actually surreal with his semi-naked avec topper stance. Not even looking at the viewer, Davies is a stalwart whose appearances in Who’s Line Is It Anyway? onwards always seemed too non-threatening to allow him to be that mainstream.

Raised Eyebrows = lowered expectations

It pains me to include Sarah Millican in any of this. Her faux chat show on Radio 4 with Simon Day this year was priceless; her stand-up is simultaneously mumsy and outrageous, and she constantly reminds me how North Easterners (as opposed to Liverpudlians, but we’ll get round to THEM in a moment) are possibly the naturally funniest people on the planet. But here she is, a minxy sideways glance and those eyebrows which denote: ‘I’m a bit cheeky and am liable to make observational quips.’ Likewise the Patrick Monahan effort, where he looks like he just soiled himself and despite his years, still finds this funny. Jimmy Carr, as far as I can work out, only has two expressions: eyebrows up, or in a frown. Obviously he’s used up his other on previous tapes, so it’s the surprised mode we get this year. The pink background merely denotes ‘bored marketing designer trying desprately to catch your eye’. Actually I quite admire the meta-obvious title. Straight to the point, and no mistake.

Micky Flanagan’s eyebrows are basically his USP, so if he didn’t lift the buggers he’d end up looking like a cross between Ron Jeremy and a hedge. Note also his provocative finger pointing. We better listen to his routine because it’ll make us think. Other cheeky pointers include Kevin Bridges and, likewise, Stephen Merchant (whose stand-up is actually pretty good, despite his work with you-know-who) – although Merchant breaks the mould by having a REPRESENTATION of himself in vaguely geeky hyperreal fashion. It’s undeniably intriguing, although the title detracts. Russell Kane also seems to have done something vaguely ‘naughty’, possibly in a childish attempt to gain attention. Let’s ignore him…

John Cleese’s painfully venal release tries, vainly, to straddle the eyebrow-lifting and madcap expression divide. Strengthened by what looks like the bastard offspring of Mr Bean’s ‘teddy’ on his shoulder, the result is demeaning in the extreme. This man once starred in the Life Of Brian. Oh dear.

Cleese’s DVD also straddles a sub-genre which is made up of one other release: Peter Kay’s: appearing from behind a curtain. ‘His first new DVD in 8 years!’ proclaims the poster. Well, he could have waited a little longer, surely? His boyish (by now photoshopped, I’d imagine) grin makes me want to maim. Enough of him and his frankly pants observational style.

Comedy is a SERIOUS BUSINESS

The ‘wry’ smile’ or the lack of any smile at all either denotes a new-found wish to be regarded seriously, or that the comedy may be slightly political or awkwardly personal/self-confessional. First up is Russell Howard. His appearances always mar Mock The Week. His BBC Three series seemed aimed at students with the IQ of ten-year olds. No, I’m, not a bloody fan. And I’m not going to be won over by his grungy shirt and product-drenched hair. Fuck him. Mark Watson won't look at you. he's SENSITIVE. Next we come to Jason Manford, the first of my least favourite scousers. Following a woeful attempt to woo prime time pensioners on BBC’s One Show (and blowing it spectacularly by some indiscrete texting) he now reappears looking world weary and… like he’s stolen the shirt of Syd Barrett. Good grief.

Dylan Moran is just funny, so shut up, we won’t dissect him too much. And Reginald D Hunter seems to have gone SO far into the desecration of his own visage (with SERIOUS words) that you are in no doubt that his rather good comedy will be laced with HOME TRUTHS. Andy Parsons is, by nature political and relies on his cynicism to pack the punch needed in his stand up. He deserves extra kudos for lying down. Which brings me to John Bishop. God, I hate John Bishop. His slurred delivery, hopeless timing and down-to-earth Liverpool take on life all make me feel like I’ve taken some kind of tranquiliser that slows the world down to a crawl. Will he ever get to the punch line? And when he does, was that really IT? He’s wearing a suit: that suit denotes ‘I’ve arrived and I’ve sold out a kerzillion seater stadiums’. If one of these DVDs denotes the parlous state of our nation it’s this. Dreary, anti-intellectual and barely articulate. And he’s here all week…

(Note: NOT included here were Billy Connolly's 'Greatest Hits' package which furthered his desire to be thought of as some safe old rocker by having him leaning on a JUKEBOX (see what he did there?), and the latest one from Angelos Epithemiou & Friends - which features a character actor and a cast larger than one. And it's probably quite funny, too).

It Means Nothing To Me

2011-10-23T13:51:00.005Z

Just back from Vienna where Sonnamble were performing with drummer extraordinaire, Paul May (seen above with Mr Marsh), at the lovely aNOther festival of contemporary experimental and electronic music. Met lots of lovely creative people, but special thanks to Wei-Ya Lin and Johannes Kretz who looked after us so very well. I'm still recovering.
It was hard work, photographing the festival as well as filming and documenting the band's rehearsals and performance. The Estimable Bass Player is currently editing the moving images while Conor Curran sweeps up the audio treats. Photos of the band enjoying themselves are here, while EBP's can be caught here. Enjoy...

Look Up - It's a Huge Metaphor!

2011-10-05T13:35:00.008Z

So I went to see Melancholia, the latest Lars Von Trier epic. And this one IS epic. It's about ending it all as a big blue planet careers towards the Earth. As a caveat to this post: I have not really been up to speed on the controversial Mr Von T in recent years. Aware of the shock, awe and reportedly wilful baiting of audiences and critics alike, I was not prepared for this - I was expecting 'pretentious', 'perverse', 'sexist, and maybe even 'gratuitous'. Of course in modern parlance these are merely code words for 'challenging', 'thought-provoking' or even 'deep'. One suspects that if it was by Bergman (and it does belong in that fine tradition of Scandinavians getting all existential on our asses) it would have been praised to the rafters.

At just over two hours it's no Magnolia, and criticism of its pace dragging merely serves to highlight contemporary audience's goldfish attention span. Other reviews that judge it on its Sci Fi chops miss the point as well. The best Sci Fi is always metaphorical, holds a mirror up to our world. And like most previous arthouse attempts at the genre - this relies on few special effects and is all the better for it (Tarkovsky's Sacrifice springs to mind). But that's not to say that Lars don't manage some incredible montages and uses of hi tech toys. In fact the first ten minutes are amazing; HD fantasy accompanied by Wagner's overture to Tristan und Isolde. That this lushness gives way to a much more dogme-like handheld approach only makes the whole more poignant. Only the last few minutes disappoint slightly - the silhouette of the three main protagonists holding hands in their 'cave' made of sticks as Melancholia consumes them all is straight from the Speilberg book of apocalyptic sentimentality. But this really is the anti-Emmerich last days film.

Reviews have been somewhat galling in their inability to get over their obvious dislike of Von Trier the man. And they also show a worrying inability to handle either real representations of mental issues or what are fairly straightforward metaphors. David Sexton in The ES, talking of the film's opening claims: ’This overture is a collage of haunting, inexplicable images.’ Inexplicable? In what way unless you didn’t stay until the end of the movie? In this stunning prologue the use of a high speed camera captures each key moment in the film to follow, often rendering ‘real’ events as allegory but still accurately mirroring the plot (Kirsten Dunst tells of being feeling dragged back by tendrils of wool, her horse sits beneath her when beaten, Charlotte Gainsbourg’s character does indeed suffer traumatic events on a putting green etc etc).

The sisters (Dunst as the depressive Justine and Charlotte Gainsbourg as the continually tense Claire whose wealthy husband, Keifer Sutherland, bankrolls the lavish and disastrous wedding of the movie's first half) are the two planets. Locked on a collision course, the power balance moves subtly between the two. Gainsbourg is the fretful soul of modern society, Dunst, like the big blue nemesis, sucks the atmosphere from others in her self-interested misery, and revives as disaster becomes inevitable. Cleverly and ironically it's Sutherland who commits suicide in the face of his rational world falling apart.

Von Trier has made a brilliant film about depression. A MODERN film about depression but one that rejects the cold intellectualisation of the rich surroundings in which it is set. I think the key moment in the whole film is one that could almost be overlooked. During the wedding Dunst enters a library and suddenly takes all the books of modern art on display and replaces them with older images – Brueghels filled with allegory and human nature, as opposed to Maleviches – cold abstracts pushing the cold nihilism of formalism. This is an almost perfect representation of the tendency of depression to seek warmth in inappropriate places.

The moment where the two sisters cross the Last Year At Marienbad-style lawn under the equal glare of both moon and baleful blue planet marks the turning point, where the spectre of melancholia outshines the rationality of moonshine. Justine bathes naked the reflected glow of Melancholia - possibly the only reference to eroticism throughout the whole film. Sex is either unwanted intimacy or a self-berating form of release. But to sufferers of depression the tropes are stark and ultimately TRUTHFUL. The selfishness, the lack of empathy, the childish reliance on cheap sentimentality (Justine's love of her eccentric father played by John Hurt, while she obviously takes after her coldly dismissive mother, played brutally by Charlotte Rampling, a previous generation's very own Charlotte Gainsbourg), the relish in the idea of oblivion: not just for the individual but the whole sorry mess that we call civilisation. And let's not forget the BATHS. Mother and daughter both choose to retreat to the womb at the most inconvenient part of a wedding reception.

This is not a masterpiece, but it's serious, not to be dismissed lightly and to anyone who's ever owned a black dog, unmissable...

Bloggin'

2011-08-09T11:17:00.003Z

Like all stupidity, it began with a late night conversation with the Estimable Bass Player. Here are the results. You have been warned...

Even more camp...

2011-07-13T10:53:00.002Z

Apologies to ex-colleague and friend Simon P Hopkins for the delay in posting a link to his latest work on Bandcamp (he's been most generous in bigging up my and Pete's podcast).
Check out his latest work here - it's very very good.

Going East

2011-07-13T10:03:00.004Z

My good friend and former colleague Bridget, along with her partner, Graham, is currently doing something so hardcore it makes me ashamed. The two of them are fulfilling a lifelong dream of cycling from the UK to Central Asia.
Yes, cycling... Good grief, it's impressive. What's even more impressive is the blog and photos which they are using to document the trip. I urge anyone with an interest in the current state of Eastern Europe and Asia to head on over and take a look. As far as I know they're just leaving the Ukraine and are crossing the Black Sea towards Georgia. The eventual destination being Kazakhstan, Blimey.
Anyway - of course, it's for charity and I urge readers to head on over to the blog and be amazed.

Camp

2011-07-07T16:59:00.002Z

My Bandcamp page has had a little makeover (and the addition of a new collection of recent stuff which you can now buy.
Dig it!

Transmutation

2011-07-05T10:40:00.004Z

My latest opus (ha) is now available for your delectation on Soundcloud. This is a 15 minute drone piece constructed in a systematic but somewhat oblique fashion. (No, none of Brian's cards were used for this one).

What, on the surface sounds remarkably like a whale stuck in a train shed is, in fact, something fairly complex. My work always seems to have an element of 'archaeology' about it. That is: it usually has some fairly complex work lying beneath the surface area. Layers of grit, dirt and even ugliness. Life is about bad as well as good. We exist in both states.

Myself and the EBP were discussing this methodology the other night and I realised that a lot of my work is assembled rather in a visual manner. Not surprising for someone schooled in Art History, I guess. The closest analogy would possibly be abstract expressionism, where random elements combine with surrealist principles to create something dredged from the deeper part of my subconscious. It's not MEANT to be a personal statement, but often seems to reflect various stresses and directions prevalent in my life at the time. Interestingly you'd assume that most of my work right now would be akin to Napalm Death but considerable work with various meditational techniques and mindfulness exercises appears to be having fairly remarkable results. If I were incredibly pretentious I'd liken what I've done in Transmutation3 to a Rothko - all glowing calm on the surface floating over deep and disturbing undercurrents. Pah…

The work began as a piece based on my own experience of depression and its essential nature of repetition, habit and laziness. A series of short rhythmic guitar pieces for both acoustic (heavily treated) and electric (using delay pedal) were recorded, edited down to one or two bar snippets and combined with some synth and drum patterns on patterns based on sevens. And yes, the number 7 has significance here.

Eventually ending up with a set of 19 snippets in 21 bar lengths, I then proceeded to edit these together in regular cross-fading patterns, applying a vast amount of processing. This was Transmutation1. Then I doubled the pattern length - it was now Transmutation2. Finally, at EBP's suggestion I slowed the whole piece down to, again double the length and using one mixdown at half speed, one of the same length pitch-shifted back up to normal pitch, and two of the Transmutation2 mix edited together to make a piece equal to the half-speed version. Crossfading according to multiples of seven again - I mixed this down into the completed Transmutation3.

This half explains the title. What was really at the heart of this piece was a conscious intent to reflect some recently read teachings on the ability to use mindfulness to transmute anger, pain and sadness into compassion and release.

So, as a whole the piece reflects a huge moment in my life whilst still allowing the universe to play its part. Good grief, i sound like Jon Anderson now… I won't make it better if I also tell you the piece is in the keys of C and G: the corresponding frequencies for the root chakra - Muladhara and the throat chakra - Visuddha. If you want to know the significance of THAT have a look here.

Anyway - I hope you enjoy it. It is meant to be enjoyed. And it's sent with an open heart.

New music

2011-05-31T13:39:00.003Z

The last couple of months have been in equal quantities exciting, creative, maddeningly depressing and just plain sad. But in the midst of this my 'work' continues.
More explanations of methodology/intent and the deeper stories behind a lot of this stuff will follow, but for now, here's a couple of links to what I've been up to.
The first is a link to my latest work posted on Soundcloud - mainly solo work, although Peter Marsh plays on a lot of it.
The second is a link to the latest downloadable podcast on the Forwind website. Forwind is a label run by Conor Curran and Shane Lawlor out of Hackney which specialises in new ways to make music. The podcast is the result of some home-recorded sessions with myself and Peter on guitar and double bass. Mixed by Mr Marsh - it's not bad, even if I do say so myself.
As you can tell, my work's getting more minimal by the day.
This, I believe, is a good thing.
Watch this space...

Pooch Of The Day #1

2011-03-09T14:30:00.001Z

Gimme Dat Harp, Boy - The Captain and Me....

2010-12-18T12:33:00.014Z

I'd been considering how and when to return to the writing game for a while now, but didn't really want to be nudged into it by this. Captain Beefheart is dead at the age of 69 - someone who genuinely changed my life. I loved the Captain's work but I'd be lying if I said that I'd not given up on ever hearing new music from the man. He'd long since retreated into semi-retirement, and was well-known to be seriously ill. His work was so singular that it demanded a singular kind of attention too: despite his protestations, he obviously channelled the blues. But also far more than channelled: he mutated it; stretched it; warped it; moulded it like sculpture's clay until it fitted around his own personal vision like a pair of crow's wings wrapped around a fabulous luminescent deep sea creature. The touchstone/key text of 1969's Trout Mask Replica takes the legacy of the Delta and pulls and twists it to breaking point. Notoriously awkward, it resists all but the most dedicated of attention spans until it finally reveals itself to be stunningly complex, remarkably hummable (really!) in places, seriously funny (no one else ever got a laugh out of the words 'fast and bUUUlbous') and, ultimately, startlingly ORIGINAL. A pure distillation of West Coast liberalism, art school smarts and a passing love of free jazz.

Like many of his peers, Don understood the value of mythology in the role of the (then) modern rock icon. Spotting (as did say, Bowie or indeed Zappa) that pop stars were our contemporary myths and deities in the making, his life was a glorious patchwork of half-truths, whispered rumour and blindingly obvious talent. Don (Van) Vliet (even the 'Van' was disputed) was a childhood artistic prodigy who appeared on TV and barely attended school? Maybe. An eight octave vocal range that could perform magical tasks? Probably not (Rock's Back Pages contains a vintage interview by Miles with Don at the time of the original Zappa-led sessions for Shiny Beast (Bat Chain Puller) where he claims to be able to shatter a glass with his voice alone. He fails - blaming tiredness). Forcing the Magic Band to learn and rehearse Trout Mask Replica for six months in a run down house on minimum wages and existing on a diet of soya beans while Don spent huge amounts on getting the trees in the garden looked after by a tree surgeon due to the negative effects of the music? Definitely true in parts, if you believe Bill Harkelroad (whose book about his tenure as Zoot Horn Rollo is well worth hunting down). Hypochondriac, megalomaniac, radical ecologist, craven opportunist, poet, abstract expressionist, rampant self promoter and oddly-old-soul-within-a-young-body: he was all of the above and much more.

The chances of ever hearing the thing that drew us to him in the first place were zero - so his passing is made easier, albeit obviously too soon (when isn't it?) and robbing us of any more of his fabulously oblique if often concisely accurate insights. I first heard Don played on an edition of 'My Top Ten' (a Radio One programme featuring an artist of note's favourite tracks), wherein Jethro Tull's Ian Anderson chose 'Yellow Brick Road' from Safe As Milk. From the opening announcement (''The following tone is a recording tone…'') it was obvious that this was equally repellant in its oddness and alluring in its equally odd tunefulness. So THIS was the infamous Captain Beefheart? It was several years - via brief brushes such as Trout Mask Replica overheard at a teenage party (how many parties these days would have THAT playing?), or Don glimpsed in his commercial nadir on the Old Grey Whistle Test - before I finally bought TMR. And again it was a few years before I finally both understood what that album was about, and that not all of Don's work was as tricky. From that point I was hooked, and I had to have it all…

Textually? The Captain's work, like all great artists, was variegated and diverse, falling into distinct camps. The Howlin' Wolf grit of the early years (with Ry Cooder on Safe As Milk) which still contained the wild strains of psychedelia (cf: Electricity - ''lighthouse beacons straight ahead, straight ahead'') And what about Strictly Personal? A transitional work of phased blues genius that Don allegedly disowned due to Bob Krasnow's far-out mixing job? Another eminently disputable 'fact'. And then the quantum leap to Trout Mask Replica, funded by school friend Zappa and (again) supposedly dashed off in a day after all the graft of transcribing the wild imaginings of the Captain from his hastily scribbled piano doodles (he couldn't play the piano). And from this point (for me) the band (and by this time it was definitely a band) went through an extraordinary arc that began with the arguably MORE challenging tangle of Lick My Decals Off, Baby towards the swampy grunt of The Spotlight Kid (with its remarkable cover shot of Don resplendent in a genuine Nudie's suit) and thence the shiny west coast zenith of Clear Spot (I can't help it, I know it's an easy one in the canon, but the band are ridiculously tight by this point and the whole album rocks like no other - it's the ultimate meeting point of avant garde and commercial for me).

From here the push towards monetary rewards became to much for an obviously conflicted Don. The move to Virgin; discarding of the original band, the double dismay caused by Unconditionally Guaranteed (which even went as far as to even feature the Captain grasping the greenbacks on the sleeve shot) and Bluejeans and Moonbeams: the truth is that Clear Spot was just as calculatingly mainstream - but wins over these two albums because of the ensemble playing, the classic Ted Templeman production and the fact that the Virgin albums are just somewhat cloyingly crass. By the mid 70s Don found himself mired in legal problems and relying on Zappa again (which fortuitously resulted in the fabulous semi-live Bongo Fury, wherein Don intones, grunts and parps his was over the last great incarnation of the Mothers). And although it resulted in a rift that would never be healed between the two pals it also resulted in the happy ending-of-sorts of Don's last albums, from a re-recorded Shiny Beast (Bat Chain Puller) to Ice Cream For Crow and Doc At The Radar Station. These are albums that find Don far more at ease with his muse, now aware that a whole new generation regarded his dust bowl surrealism as sacred text and also matching his lateral mindset with another first class band. These are not my favourites, but they are undeniably good, sacrificing visceral thrills for more abstract approach. From here it was one step to a caravan in the Mojave, married life and quiet contemplation of his first love - visual art, while failing health stalked him.

His influence was possibly more conceptual than musical - he at least gave us the term 'Beefheartian' though many artists owe him a huge debt (Tom Waits for a start) - but on a (strictly) personal level, he was a guru in the true sense of the word: flawed, human, mercurial, wise and foolish in equal measure. So, Mr Zoot Horn Rollo, hit that long lunar note, and let it float...

Remake, Remodel

2009-09-23T11:59:00.005Z

Over the weekend (whatever happened to my regular 'Weekend Views' slots? Answer: I got a life), I saw Casino Royale - Daniel Craig's first foray as our favourite vodka martini drinker - for the very first time. Only three years too late, I know. But it set the grey cells a-whirling on the subject of meta-movies. I'd be interested to know if many others have posted on this. But essentially what we're talking about is a film belonging to a long-established franchise that assumes such a level of knowledge from the audience that they can effectively 're-invent' the whole series and start again for a new market.
Casino Royale may not have been the first movie to do this but it certainly was the most notable (and I'm not counting the Star Wars franchise here, as Lucas just went back and filled in details rather than re-starting the whole thing). Here we're quickly introduced to a black and white Bond and his first two pre-'00 status' kills (the requisite number to complete before you become designated as such). From this point the directors can play fast and loose. There's M (Dame Judy) as always, but as we progress through the (frankly quite believable compared to other Bond movies) plot we discern a darker edge. The hero is borderline psychotic. He's vulnerable. He doesn't crack wise at every opportunity, making it twice as incongruous when he does ('That last hand nearly killed me'). He passes on the easy shag for WORK (following a terrorist to Miami) and he doesn't CARE if his martini's shaken or stirred. It thrills because it flouts convention for those millions who think they know what to expect from the film while still making reference to what's missing. And thankfully they've removed the first quarter irritation of Q and his gadgets. We see them when they're being USED only.
But on another level it's a fantastically visceral action movie that stands on its own for anyone either born on another planet or two young to remember what a Bond movie is 'supposed' to do. Voila: meta movie. So post modern that it spits at its own conventions while pumping new life into something that was existing by rote.
JJ Abrams, of course, also did this in 2009 with Star Trek. Using some dodgy time travel guff and a cast that were all excellent impersonators of the originals, Abrams reset the clock at zero and reinvented the franchise for the new millenium.
Any more examples out there?

Spotty

2009-09-16T15:06:00.004Z

In a month that's seen the Spotify app adoption go through the roof, it's interesting to note the pluses and minuses attached to what initially seemed a benign and liberating phenomenon. Already noted by my friend, the Estimable Bass Player here, the main problem for us lucky, lucky (ish ) early UK adopters is the strange reverse psychology of ad funding that's so annoying as to drive users to the subscription button. In past weeks they've quite obviously employed the same psychologists who felled Pinochet using music. The intense irritation factor seems to have gone off the scale, wherein twenty minutes of aural balm can be scrubbed clean away by some (usually) self-voiced ad by an 'artist' who, even if you were ambivalent about them beforehand, you'll probably hate after you've heard their lousy promo. Sigh...
But following a 'talk' (read: propaganda speech) from their UK Sales Director at my old place of employment, pre-their attempt to stump up the cash to launch in the US (has anyone noticed how, like showbiz acts in the 60s and 70s, you can only claim success in new media if you've 'cracked the States?), several things became clear:
1) The plucky Swedes peddle the same 'we all love music' schtick. While whole books could (and are) written about the way this post iTunes pick and choose/everything all the time attitude devalues and corodes ideas of taste, individuality or worth. Being deliberately snarky about how competitors such as the (still wonderful) Last.fm are 'finished', highlighted the deficiencies of the model in terms of cultural worth. An app that allows a blanket fee to access millions of tracks while apeing their commercial download rivals' interface is akin to taking some great original ideas and squeezing revenue, rather than adding or furthering the industry of human happiness. Don't get me wrong, I use Spotify (esp at work) and it's a useful tool to share and point people at things they may have missed or love. But compare it to Last's genuinely peer-driven database which connects and recommends, or allows discussions and networks to be established. Charts? Stats?? New ways of approaching something which, in commercial terms began to look shaky ten years ago??!? No, Spotify just keeps on squeezing because , well, someone had to. Which is kinda grim...

2) Their attitude to artist rights is a tad 'swiss cheese', at least if you actually listen to any artist who's in the lucky position of owning their own rights, as opposed to letting their label handle them.

3) For 'deep' musicologists the database holds some real oddities, but also is as full of holes as it is surprises. And is it really helpful to put release dates as the date of reissue? No, it isn't.

In the end this is the test for Spotify. With little increase in take-up of subscriptions it appears that their model hangs on a knife edge. Wave free stuff at people and they won't thank you. They'll take it and leave as soon as something cleverer comes along. Too much too soon, maybe?

Where it's at

2009-09-11T07:55:00.003Z

Garuda is currently back here, doing a little contract work. In fact what I'm doing is incredibly interesting. More to follow, as I'm attempting to engage with an online community in a way that all my time here never even got close to. And that includes the country music message board at Radio 2 ;-)
Basically the h2g2 site is a piece of wonderful anachronism from back in the day, founded by the marvellous Douglas Adams. Its denizens are rabid, passionate people who have held their ground, because a publicly funded corporation gave them the freedom to express themselves as harmlessly as possible. The result is like Wikipedia's rather odd uncle. I've yet to really find out how these people have the time or the motivation to keep what is essentially a volunteer run site going, but they do. And while it may LOOK like a weird peice of technological archaeology, it's really an example of a totally separate way of useing the web to talk and share. Tweeters, Facebookers and suchlike will scoff. Let 'em. This site has legs and following a planned relaunch could be destined for something amazing.
It's like a science experiment that got left in a jar and forgotten, the scientists returning a few years later to find that it's teeming with strange new lifeforms. More to follow...

Sorry isn't always the hardest word

2009-09-11T07:35:00.005Z

It's not often that a Prime Minister can almost reduce me to tears, but this is genuinely moving. Imagine a world where all politicians could say sorry. Too little, far too late...

Oasis - The Truth

2009-09-02T15:12:00.004Z

While the world and his/her respective partner have all chipped in with their take on the freres Gallagher finally relieving us of the duty of listening to any more dullard, reactionary, three chord effluent, the real reasons behind the split are obvious.
In my final months as arbiter of taste at a certain corporation I penned what must be the ultimate in fence-sitting journalism: replacing an all-out attack on their last album, Dig Out Your Soul, with a poncy piece of what was described in the Guardian this Saturday as 'snark'.
Look, there it is, at the top of the review it says 'return to form'. And of course I didn't mean it. What I cleverly did was delay the irate gruntings of their zillion fans by burying the true critique in the body of the review. Go on read it; you'll see that I really, really hated that record.
So... months later the band are on tour. Their immediate joy at being told that the album sees them back at the 'top of their game' (which, let's face it, was never that high a benchmark) has been slowly whittled away as the Mancunian sluggards - never fast readers one imagines - finally let the full weight of my time bomb prose take full effect. Well, Noel probably has. Liam's still working out how to turn on the laptop.
But yes, readers, that's why after years of taunting us with faux splits, tiffs and girly taunts, the monobrowed marvels have called it a day.
You may now shower me with praise, for indeed, my pen is mightier than a uselessly handled Epiphone and a sweaty parka. Now begone Oasis, and never darken my doorstep again.

Outlandish

2009-09-02T12:24:00.007Z

A minor pleasure is still a pleasure worth sharing. My love of B movies, whether they be old or new (and I'll fight anyone who says they're not being made any more), drew me to this little beauty.

Outlander (Howard McCain, 2008) attracted my fleeting attention because of its premise. Aliens vs VIKINGS? Like, awesome, man. And so it proves to be...

Jim (James) Caviezel (The Passion Of The Christ, The Thin Red Line and Number 6 in the forthcoming reimagining of The Prisoner) plays a man from another galaxy who crash lands on Earth in the year 709AD and inadvertently sets free the Moorwen, a bioluminescent beast, in the heart of olde worlde Norway. Like all the best B movies it makes no bones about its mongrel origins (one poster even called it 'Beowulf meets Predator', which is just about what you're getting here, down to the finale's big cave face-off and a lot of non-historical nonsense about shield maidens, mead and suchlike). In this way it differs from a film like Sunshine (which I talked of many moons past here), where although the thievery was rife it still tried to pass itself off as 'serious'.

No such nonsense here: Jim, the handsome hunter, Kainan, from the stars, does a good Christian Bale-with-fighting-skills act. Sophia Myles plays the feisty (ie: no make up and a good way with a blade) heroine, John Hurt brings a little gravitas as King Rothgar and there are some great cameos from the likes of Ron 'Hellboy' Perlman who plays Gunnar, the rival chieftain with a nice line in skull crushing war hammers.

The alien is an amalgamation of, well... the Alien, Predator and something out of Jurassic Park.

It's a hoot and, as it's just getting a release in this country on DVD, I heartily recommend it for an evening's jolly entertainment. C'mon... Vikings, aliens, big swords, decapitation; how could you resist? Which is ironic as at the box office everyone DID. Apparently it only grossed 6 million dollars worldwide against a budget of 47 million. Pah.

Little Things That Mean So Much pt2

2009-08-26T10:29:00.005Z

As a follow-up to a recent post here's another prime snippet that always makes me smile.
Traffic - The Low Spark Of High Heeled Boys (The Low Spark Of High Heeled Boys 1973)
Point of interest: 11'16''

This time it's Paul Weller's favourite soul hippies: Traffic. From their jazziest (and best) album, this is definitely a case of: 'we're not going to do any better than that, lets' keep it, boys'. Especially so as this moment comes right at the end of an otherwise flawless track: A stately samba with some sublime sax from Chris Wood followed by a Canterbury-esque slice of fuzz Hammond from Winwood (sacrelegious, I know, but I always considered SW a better instrumentalist than either singer or writer), then back into verse and chorus and a final flourish on the organ from Stevie. But right at the end of the flourish? A chord which takes the breath away with its WRONGNESS. A bum note or a brave attempt at Schoenberg-like atonality? The devil's triad? Who knows... but the best thing about it is that Stevie, in the true spirit of the improviser, lives by his mistake and lets it hang for a full 15 seconds before fading. It's genius, and I don't often say that about anything Paul bloody Weller likes (apart from Nick Drake, John Martyn blah blah blah).

Les is (no) more

2009-08-13T16:32:00.004Z

Very very sad news: Mr Les Paul has passed away at the age of 94. It's particularly poignant, not just because I own a guitar that carries his illustrious name; not because he was a true innovator who not only revolutionised the solid body electric guitar industry and was also a pioneer in multi-track recording techniques (paving the way for amateur herberts like myself); but because I saw him last year performing his regular Monday night spot in Times Square, New York.
It was at this very concert that I proposed to my wife.
So I feel sorrow at the passing of a true artist and all-round clever geezer who could melt the fretboard and create those amazing jazzy, science fiction sounds (along with ex-wife Mary Ford), but I also feel lucky because I saw him (in excellent form) before he went, and my wife, she said yes. Thanks Les. I've got a lot to thank you for...
Here's Les and Mary in happier times:
POSTSCRIPT: As of the 17th of January 2012 I am no longer married - sorry, Les, but your show was till special.

Little Things That Mean So Much pt1

2009-07-22T16:32:00.010Z

A rather obscure, some may even say 'anal' one this. But listening to the Pink Floyd (as one does) the other day reminded me of something I've been meaning to do for a loooong time: start cataloguing the tiny, almost imperceptible things that make a record retain its place in your heart. I'm talking about those inexplicable noises, glitches and boinks that somehow, in some way make you love them even more than you should. For some reason these imperfections, whether they be deliberate or no, weld the public to the personal. It's actually one of the reasons that a vast quantity of music these days is UNlovable. The bottled, freeze-dried rebellion of guitar rock these days, processed to an inch of its life, may be loud or intricate, but it has an unrelenting purposefulness to it all. If Green Day want you to know that they're signifying loud and snotty it will come packaged with a guitar sound that came box fresh off the effects rack. There's a track on the first Ramones album where you can HEAR the speaker cones collapsing under the assault. The two are totally different beasts. But this isn''t a rant about how digital technology has stolen the soul of modern music. If you use your brain you can still introduce the elements of both randomness and mystery. No, this is about those tiny moments that make a record special. Contributions and suggestions as always welcomed.
Here's five to start with:

Pink Floyd - Remember A Day (A Saucerful Of Secrets 1968)
Point of interest: 2'40''

Syd Barrett's last hurrah with his old band. He plays the eery slide (with the obligatory ciggy lighter, natch). Over the rolling toms of Norman Smith (not Nick '4/4' Mason) Syd's wayward runs up and down the neck turn Rick Wright's rather lovely English psych classic into something far darker. Quite right too. But as the last echoes of his solo fade, to be replaced by a fuzz drone, we hear... something. A guitar being unplugged? Syd leaving the building in search of his marbles? Who knows. But it's a great clunk.

Brian Eno - Julie With (before And After Science 1977)
Point of interest: 1'15''

There's million Eno moments that endear the bald one to all right-thinking folk. But this was always my fave. From one of my personal top three Eno albums. It takes its own sweet time to come floating in, like the boat holding the titular Julie (there's a whole essay to be written about Eno's connection with water, rivers and the sea). And over some lovely backwards keyboards, sighing guitar and pulsing bass, resembling a warning buoy rolling in through some fog, comes the tolling of a bell. Bells are pretty evocative things at the best of times. But this one is the best. Ever.
It comes back at 3'33'' btw.

Gong - A Sprinkling Of Clouds (You 1975)
Point of interest: 8'42''

The last of the 'Radio Gnome' trilogy and the one where the band precariously balance some extended freak outs with Daevid Allen's penchant for quirkier stuff. This track ending the original side one has always been a big favourite (you should also check out the live version on the reunion gig album, 'Gong Est Mort'). Beginning with a glissando, synthesizer, tabla and bass raga, at the four minute mark it becomes a odd-metered fusion work out that transports you every time into the ether blah blah...
But representing the return to earthly hell at around the five minute mark is some fierce guitar wrangling from Steve Hillage which eventually dumps you on some desolate shore with only some drones and pan pipes for company. Then inexplicably we hear a buzzer and some bells in quick succession. It's an incongruous jolt which seems to signify 'your time on the planet of the Pot Head Pixies is OVER' Goodness knows why, but there it is. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

The Webb Brothers - Powder Pale (Maroon - 2000)
Point of interest: 0'59''

From the bruvvers' way underrated album that's all about how nasty a drug cocaine is. A song about a girlfriend od'ing? Who knows. But to reflect the tragic, empty space that coke fiends inhabit all the songs on this album come with a string-assisted grandiosity that's at once beautiful and terrible. Beginning with the orchestra and grand piano, it's like the ELO, well... on coke. Then as the vocals come in over a metronomic drum machine tick describing the girl turning, yes, powder pale, you suddenly hear the guitar getting all cranked up to burst loose over the recurring theme. Its impressive because it really signals the intention to get overblown, it sounds fucking amazing and ragged. And it may be the only song I know where the chorus has no words. Clever boys. Wonder where they got it from? (addendum: if anyone says that the chunks at the beginning of the chorus of Creep by Radiohead are better, they're wrong.)

Dusty Springfield - Just A Little Lovin' (Dusty In Memphis - 1969)
Point of interest: 0'07''

Yes, just seven seconds not only into the song but the album itself comes this beauty. The first time I heard it I was amazed. How could such a pinnacle of performance, songwriting and production be flawed? It's an almost comical guitar plink (is that you, Reggie Young?) that, for some unknown reason, made it past the ears of both Jerry Wexler AND Arif Mardin. maybe they recorded it live and it was far and away the best take, but boy, it always makes me laugh. And it also makes me love this wonderful, grown up slice of blue-eyed, southern-fried soul even more.
Go on, dig out your copy now and have a laugh...

Puckish

2009-05-12T08:54:00.004Z

A heaven and hell proposition is currently available on Radio 3's website: Mendlessohn's music for Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream performed at Middle temple in London. Conducted by Charles Hazlewood. It's a combination of the text and the music which you can watch online.
Heaven, because it's one of my favourite plays combined with some of my favourite music (my Mother used to play it to me as a child).
Hell, because only a blind person would have approved the eyeball searing Lichtenstein/cartoon graphics in which the offering is wrapped.
Treat people like children and they'll act like children. This is NOT the same as 'reaching out to a broader audience' or whatever committee-born half-witted excuse for rationalisation came up with something so ugly.
Still, the music and the performances are exquisite.
Ye spotted snakes etc...

They don't make 'em like that anymore. Pt 578

2009-05-11T11:44:00.006Z

You know me: can't resist a bit of clever cloggery. Which is why I've already blogged about this bunch. As a teen I dug their smart subversions of pop in singular form. As an adult I finally discovered their four albums (as the original four piece) and was predictably smitten all over again.
But what set them apart was their studio craft just as much as their songwriting chops. Many conversations with the Bass Player about how the band, esconsed in their Strawberry Studios base in Manchester using the STUDIO AS AN INSTRUMENT recently prefigured the sudden synchronistic appearance of this on the BBC. Grab it on the iPlayer while it's hot folks!
It's a delight from start to finish. The combination of Gouldman's early diet of easy listening and fab four, Stewart's love of James Burton and Godley and Creme's art school background as well as a healthy dose of smart Jewish humour made for something that was every inch as clever as Steely Dan, but without the slavish devotion to jazz.
The BBC's Record Producer series, hosted by Richard Allinson, is old school programming that satisfies because it goes one step further than straight biogs by getting a real record producer to run through the original masters, highlighting studio chat and outtakes and pinpointing excactly how the bands got THAT sound. previous triumphs have included one on Britain's very own Phil Spector: Roy Wood!
Anyhoo, listen as the band fluff Donna, use drums that were messed around with by Paul McCartney for a previous session in the studio or decide to invent the Fairlight years before digital technology was available, by using separate tape loops to recreate the chromatic scale and using the mixing desk as the instrument (I'm Not In Love).
Of course, your scribe can't stop there. Unable to stomach the post Godley and Creme years (despite Eric's awesome geetar) I'm drawn to the even-cleverer-cloggier sounds of the aforementioned duo. Be warned folks, it's strong stuff.
Obvious fans of Zappa, vast quantities of weed and Hollywood musicals (weirdly Godley describes 10cc's early hit, The Dean And I as Doris Day meets Frank Zappa), from their triple concept album (featuring Peter Cook AND Sarah Vaughan!), Consequences, to the pop genius of later hits like Cry and Wedding bells, these guys obviously loved to a) tell stories; b) multitrack voices like muthas; c) play with sequencers and d) tell jokes, albeit bleak, dark ones.
Ignoring the dubious joys of involving Andy Mackay etc. it's still an acquired taste. But never, ever boring.
We shall not see their like again.

You called it WHAT?!?

2009-05-05T10:06:00.002Z

I've started a new intermittent set on Fickr (can two photos be a set?) for Inappropriate Shop Names in London Town. Oh the hilarity. Any additions welcome. We could make it a GROUP! Enjoy...

This is the end, beautiful BSG

2009-03-18T14:28:00.003Z

All good things etc. But how ridiculously hard it's going to be to say goodbye to the very last season of BSG. In as much as it's been a stop start ride, necessitated by the writer's strike, it's also been as full of amazing acting, nicely skewed story lines and (lest we forget this is Sci Fi) fucking amazing special effects as we've come to expect from THE SINGLE BEST TV SERIES FOR THE LAST TWENTY YEARS. Like all great art BSG has made me think in totally new ways about the world around me. Over the last few episodes the tale that's addressed topics as pertinent to our times as war, torture, fundamentalism, religious bigotry, racism, the role of the family and just good old human relationships has one rather big card to play. The end of the humanity itself.
It's come to me as a slow creeping feeling of grim resignation and almost depression. Every day I get on an overcrowded tube train and smell hear and almost drown in the weight of a city at near breaking point. And while it may seem odd to compare the fate of a planet bulging with a species that over-consumes and over-pollutes its home to the point of destruction with the story of a race that's almost too few to continue, and without a home, the parallels are inescapable.
BSG shows us a deeply flawed, selfish, half insane society, tearing itself apart and at war with its own technology while squeezed into a constricting space. The world this society has left itself (let's not forget that the Cylon rebellion was man's sins come back to visit them) is drab, almost universally grey and literally now collapsing under their feet. The last few episodes leading up to this Friday's denouement have featured one element that's added to the sense of approaching disaster and apocalypse: the sound of the old battleship herself, groaning as she stutters towards her last battle. I urge anyone who's a fan to watch the last one or two shows wearing headphones. If the sound designer doesn't get some kind of award this really isn't a fair world at all.
So, this may be a television show about robots and spaceships and such, but it's also turning in its last moments into a commentary of how truly frakked (hem hem) we all are. It's brutal, ugly and by no means pretty, but it's as true as you can get in this day and age.
For anyone yet to experience this show: you better grab it fast. It's so of its moment that in five years it may look oddly pessimistic (or ridiculously optimistic, depending on this brave new dawn we all live in).
Personally I will feel the loss of all of this cast like i would the death of a close friend or relative. And if you think I'm being stupidly over the top, ask someone else who watches BSG. I bet they agree.
So, farewell angry, contrary, feisty, irritating Starbuck. Bye bye old man Bill Adama with your face like a car crash and voice like gravel. Toodle-oo one-eyed drunken Tigh; slut-supeme Ellen; self-doubting, essentially decent Chief; self-serving, slippery Gaius; calm yet oh-so-passionate President Roslyn; bombshell bland Six/Caprica and all the others. It was a doomed, miserable affair, but sometimes misery needs company. So say we all...

More Garuda

2009-03-17T11:53:00.001Z

Further to the previous post. I've also gathered everything together on this site.

Live From The Ciguri Lounge

2009-03-10T14:14:00.004Z

I was going to sit on this stuff for a while, but what the hell...
Have a listen to my new EP. It's got lots of Astrogarage on it too...

Too Bad

2009-01-30T11:38:00.002Z

Already 50 million blog posts will have eulogised and set in ones and noughts the way a whole generation (probably two, more accurately) felt about the passing of John Martyn at the age of 60 yesterday.
I saw him four or five times and was lucky enough to have only witnessed one drunken travesty (he was actually canned offstage by an angry polythechnic crowd) - otherwise all my memories are of a man who, when on form could capture your heart and make you wonder why everyone wasn't so beguiling - he made it look so easy. And who else combined folk, jazz and dub in such a way?
Only a couple of other things to say really. Solid Air changed my life. Who knew that an Echoplex could make a guitar sound like that? Along with Steve Hillage he probably influenced the direction of my own playing (in terms of what I wanted to sound like) more than anyone else.
And i still have a memory of him at the Hammersmith Odeon around 1980 - as soon as he stepped onstage a great cloud of smoke arose above the crowd. That won't ever happen again.
He was Johnny Too Bad - a man who spread chaos and love with equal abandon. Someone asked me yesterday, 'Why am I so upset? I didn't know him'
The only answer I can give is that for people of a certain age, he was ONE OF US.
Bye Johnny...

Urban Blight

2009-01-15T10:29:00.012Z

Believe it or not folks, I used to BE in a band called Urban Blight. We were going to be called Victorian Depression until I pointed out to the guitarist that it could be shortened to VD), but I'm not going to bore you with tales of teenage punk bands who rocked Coventry in 1977. Instead I want to rant about the state of a part London's cityscape.

I work just round the corner from Old Street, in the heart of bustling Hoxton/Shoreditch. How trendy! you cry. Well, no. Admittedly if you take a stroll DOWN Old Street towards Columbia Road or Brick Lane you'll be delighted by the tourist-friendly rebirth of the East End (with or without the excuse for 'art' by Banksy). But round Old Street station itself? Oh dear.

The picture at the top of this post is the first thing I see as I emerge from the brutalist bunker/labyrinth that constitutes the Underground hub. Imagine this sight compounded by the smell of rotting garbage (and some idiot trying to stuff a Metro in your face) and you get the general idea of what I'm trying to convey. Urban blight indeed. And that door on the right hand side of the wall? This must surely be one of the famed entrances to hell ;-)

A brief glimpse behind you reveals the roundabout itself. Tantalisingly beckoning you towards the utopia of The Barbican (I'm actually a FAN of brutalism when it's done right) or the intriguing maze of the reborn old city, or even the bourgeois sand pit of Islington, it remains an eyesore by any standards, with its glowering steel gyroscope/advertising hording/erm...thing.

And proceeding to work: as if this gorgeous wall of shame isn't enough when you walk around the corner it's a plethora of chicken shops, shodddy overpriced sandwich emporiums and the like. Let me tell you, if you've just endured the armpit embracing fun of a few tube rides this is NOT inspiring stuff. It's a dump, and it's actually, literally and demonstrably DEPRESSING for God's sake. At what point do planners/architects/councils/local authorities/THE MAN ...whoever it is, begin to realise the effect that this kind of landscape has on the psyche.

Without wishing to sound like Prince Charles on skunk (great band name!) we humans need some beauty to feed the soul, make us feel that everything's not really as bad as it obviously is and that the city we live in cares for us. I may make this a regular rant now, because as I type I start to think of more and more examples of this kind of appalling ugliness that shows London not to be a shining metropolis but a seething cesspit of badly thought out road planning, ridiculous public transport infrastructure and absolutely USELESS architecture/town planning. For this reason alone 2012 will be a total fiasco.

Any regular readers out there are encouraged to send in other examples of this kind of soul-sucking detritus that we mindlessly tolerate on a daily basis here in our wonderful capital. Yes, I KNOW London's really cool, and I love it dearly, but like a lover who's really let themselves go, it pains me to see such abject lack of care. Rant over...

Happy focused new year

2009-01-05T14:28:00.004Z

A Xmas break of the non self-indulgent kind strangely saw your correspondent actually getting down to some proper work. CREATIVE work, that is. The results, questionable though they may be, are located HERE.

Many, many thanks to Peter for his encouragement...
I'm available for festivals and soundtracks ;-)
And if you visit my profile on Last.fm, please vote for one of my pix will ya? I'm kinda depressed that my name is associated with a defunct tech metal band from Texas.

Hydrated!

2008-09-01T22:26:00.004Z

Well I did warn you...enjoy. Dogs welcome.

Hey Manhattan

2008-09-01T16:47:00.004Z

A new camera and a new location - check the results here...
A collection of the fire hydrants of New York to follow
No...really....

In the Court of Times Square

2008-09-01T15:30:00.012Z

It's been a couple of weeks, so apologies for anyone gasping to know how my latest tustle with the mighty Crimbeast, incarnation no.316(a)) went. Frankly flying out to New York on a Thursday (to see a show the same evening, resulting in a straight 24 hour day) was perhaps a little over-ambitious, but at the point that I booked I only had a confirmed place on the Thursday night. The rest of the shows (four in all) were sold out.

Naturally, meeting up with friend, employee and general good-guy, Sidney Smiff made the whole thing an even deeper pleasure. There was your humble hack, ready to just enjoy one show and a night or three in a scuzzy hotel, and what happens? I get to go backstage, watch a sound check/rehearsal, meet at least three fifths of the band and indulge in some major prog chinwaggery. And get offered guestlist for the following nights. Urgh, how dull....
To the shows:

Thursday. Despite what was described by Adrian Belew as 'the worst soundcheck we've ever done', the band were, at least as far as my lagged brain could tell, firing on about 4 and a half of their six cylinders. The immediate difference to the hardened KC watcher is the addition of Gavin Harrison (drums) to the fold. Beefing up the beats has twisted the dynamic in some weird and wonderful ways. This being the last run of the present tour, the boys (BOYS??!!??) had ironed out a lot of the creases. However a few remained. Tony Levin's stick bass ruminations had a little trouble fitting into material that was hand-tooled for Trey Gunn's more delicate fingers, and oddly both Belew and Fripp's six string contributions seemed a trifle tentative at times. It was a splendid mixture of 80s new wavisms (including a bludgeoningly wonderful Neurotica) rather neglected double trio treats (Vroom sounded mighty fine), and at least three 70s classics in The Talking Drum, Larks Tongues Pt2 and Red (yay!). Levin's stick STILL sounds incredible however...
Best of all was the last quartet's Level Five, which, with its new double drum middle section, absolutely crushed the front few rows of adoring fans.
The low point was the version of Indiscipline which Mastellotto and Harrison's beats made too four-square. I missed Bruford's jazzy mischief.

Friday - needed a night off. To 'cleanse the pallette', as Sidney said...

Saturday: well, maybe it was the Jack Daniels beforehand, maybe the vantage point from the VIP balcony, but my god...I was SO glad I hung on for more. This was one of those nights that almost instantaneously fade into legend even as you watch. From a raised position stage right I could now see Fripp (he's taken to now playing BEHIND his racks of signal processors and midi gear, meaning that unless you're twenty feet tall or sitting right over on stage left you won't see a thing). As each second passed I wanted to preserve the whole thing in...erm...aspic. Reports of RF now actually displaying genuine joy at playing this stuff were confirmed as your correspondent saw him openly laugh, point, grin and generally get off on his bandmate's antics. Belew fluffed a line: He chortled. Pat and Gavin blew down the house: He guffawed. Amazing. But it wasn't hard to see why. What, on the previous occasion was ridiculously proficient, now became something totally OTHER. It was KING CRIMSON. Lofty, intellectual, complex, sensuous, rowdy, boisterous, sexy (YES sexy) and altogether transcendental.
The setlist varied in spots. One Time, Sleepless (how long since THAT was aired?) all dashed off with aplomb. Level Five again shone. Even Indiscipline was a jollier affair. A final Marine Coda left the Nokia Theatre awash with Frippertronics from somewhere off the edges of Alpha Centauri.
I was speechless.
So, many, many thanks to the KC. A million more thanks to Sid Smith.
Billed as possibly the last outing for RF and KC, this 40th anniversary tour brought me home again. It was worth the jetlag.

Back back BACK!!!!

2008-08-26T13:21:00.002Z

Yes that's right, I'm bloody well back, after a lengthy hiatus. I only did it so I could use the word HIATUS. hehe...

Imminent return

2008-05-14T16:45:00.002Z

I'm about to come back - so here's a nice embedded link to the wonderful Wolfgang's Vaults to herald Garuda's comeback...

A Bit Mickey Mouse

2007-06-20T12:08:00.001Z

Sunday night was spent in utter bemusement. I popped down to the 'newly refurbished' RFH to catch Hal Wilner's Forest Of No Return - his newly updated tribute to Walt Disney: part of Jarvis Cocker's Meltdown festival. The portents were not good. The show started over an hour and a half late. This may have been to ensure that everyone was liqcoured up enough to withstand the shambles that was about to unfold. As the most painfully hip crowd I've EVER had the misfortune to attend a live concert with (spotted in the space of about two minutes were a couple of Mighty Boosh people, a Magic Number and some other people who were so famous I didn't recognize them) took their seats some idiot MC came out and harangued the crowd about 'being grateful' for Jarvis for putting together such an amazing bill. No apology for the wait, then...
Instantly we were plunged into a concert that beggared belief with its ineptitude. Missed cues, knocked over mikestands, feedback, bass rumbles that made the air conditioning vents over the rear stalls rattle; it was clear that not everyone on stage had been to any rehearsals.
Having said all this there were some highlights. Grace Jones singing 'Trust In Me' was irresistible in her blow-up dress and horns, Pete Doherty singing 'Chim Chim Cheree' was surprisingly together (and knew the chords - respect). Nick Cave singing 'Hi Diddly Dee' was hilarious and David Thomas was constantly good value. Also seeing jarvis, Nick, pete and Shane McGowan howling like hounds on 'Home Sweet Home' was something to tell the grandkids.
The orchestra were fine, though the acoustics don't bode well for the future and the bloke on the saw was too ubiquitous. It was equal parts eye-popping and utterly embarassing. A misssed opportunity on every level.
A final note on the RFH: The bars may have been refurbished but the old carpet's still there. There are half-completed bits of stuff everywhere and they've still got far too few toilets. The bar staff on the upper levels were mind-blowingly slow and were also spotted later getting drinking water from the toilets. Nice. All in all it was hard to see what had changed that much. Some re-launch...

Over and out...

2007-05-23T09:17:00.001Z

A double dose of the Chicagoan alt country genius of Wilco this week. Firstly at Shepherd's Bush Empire on Sunday followed by a visit to the Later With Jools studios last night to see the programme being made. Sunday's show was simply mind-bogglingly good. I've rambled on before about how much I love this current line-up with free-jazz geetar wrangler Nels Cline (unbelievably tall) and multi-instrumentalist Pat Sansone (unbelievably pretty) but even their awesome Kicking Television album didn't really prepare me for the intensity of it all. This is a band at the top of their game - having toured their asses off for the last two years.
Cline comes across as a kindly older brother to Jeff Tweedy, goading him on to wreak sonic mayhem. It's a lovely thing to watch. VCDH sez that the new twin/triple guitar attack reminds him of Steely Dan. What better compliment could you pay?
Tweedy was strangely truculent for the first half, but he was just messing with the crowd. London crowds do have a real reputation for being difficult to please, apparently.
Other highlights were the guest appearance (the first in over 30 years) of the legendary Bill Fay for the last number, and a special mention to Glen Kotche who's a really fine drummer who can go from soft to bombastic in the blink of an eye. But top marks all round for the simple fact that the sound was possibly the best I've ever heard at a full-on rock gig. One minute you were bathing in the aural assault of "Via Chicago', the next getting up close and cozxy on "Sky Blue Sky". Quite a trick...
For Later...the band played it down and were obviously tired, bless 'em. Other guests were the totally self-obsessed Bloc Party who would be a truly great band if they lost their hopeless lead singer, and LCD Soundsystem who, despite my utter hatred of their faux-80s disco/punk nonsense, kinda won me over because James Murphy is a total non-star and obviously quite a nice chap.
Jools Holland though did nothing to increase his standing at Garuda Towers. After a billion years 'presenting' live music shows you'd think he'd have improved his interview technique a little. But no. His 'chat' with Alex james was unbelievably awful. But what can you expect from the man who once interviewed Andy Summers and, after being told that Summers liked Ornette Coleman and John Coltrane, said: 'so what about Jazz? Do you like any jazz musicians?' Moron...

Dwellings

2007-04-22T08:08:00.001Z

More photoshop shenanigans

Weekend views and self referential rubbish

2007-04-15T10:46:00.001Z

A weekend or two of working on chronicling the entire history of 'rawk' music for my old paymasters has left me a bit frazzled, but not too frazzled to write nonsense folks! Witness what pretty moving pictures I have seen on a piece of white fabric stretched in front of my glazed eyeballs! 2007 is turning into the year of eye candy. And about bloody time, say I. DISPENSE with plot! FIE on linearity! TISH and (probably) PISH to narrative. Let's all get wrecked and look at the colours. Three movies have proven this to be no bad thing. Firstly the real silliness: 300 was as bombastic and (I think) right wing as it promised. But boy, within 5 minutes, as you realise that no one even BEGAN to consider the idea of realism when pitching this, the inner comic-reading child in all of us goes 'ooh...goody! PRETTY PICTURES. And they are most pretty too. It's kinda weird when you consider that, for a movie that prides itself (like Sin City) on closely resembling its 2D origins, the most cartoonish thing is of course the acting. Each fleck of blood and drop of storm-driven rain is polished to a pixel, but who cares what the lousy humans are doing. It's just as well as the message here seems not to be about how small nations can overcome tyranny (which is kinda anti-imperialist, and therefore not right wing at all) but about how it's very, very important to resist the onslaught of blinged-up gay folk...with big rhinos. Or something. Whatever, beneath the shouting and chiaroscuro is the liberating knowledge that you really can, now, do ANYTHING on celluloid. Hurrah!
The second visual treat came last week with the BFI's eminently sensible decision to unearth the new print of Alejandro Jodorowky's psychedelic western, El Topo. A simple tale of man and naked son revenging a massacred town, abandoning offspring with Franciscan monks, fighting four mystical desert master gunslingers, being shot by lesbian lovers, meditating for 20 years under a mountain with a bunch of inbred dwarves and freaks and finally self-immolation; El Topo (The Mole) is the Chilean master's greatest triumph. After 35 years it's as bonkers as ever. Suffused with the tarot and biblical allegory, it was John Lennon's favourite film and is worth seeing just for the COLOURS alone. The blood (and there's LOTS of it) never even comes close to realistic. Quite right too. Otherwise I couldn't have written about it in an article of how realism in cinema sucks.
Finally, despite warnings of the direst kind, I went to see Sunshine, Danny Boyle and Alex Garland's homage to, well...just about every sci fi movie they've watched. I suspect it's actually an homage to every sci fi movie they've watched while stoned, but never mind. Riddled with inconsistencies - which a colleague insists are the major failing of every such film - it nonetheless (and considering its tiny budget) takes your breath away. Colour is the main character here, too. Lots of blue grey interiors contrasting gorgeously with all that orange and yellow. Yummy. But apart from the utterly predictable plot (and I mean by this that any 5-year old could guess at every turn what will happen next) and the luscious palette, the most fun is actually clocking the references long after it's finished. Boyle and Garland must have LOVED the thought that a zillion nerds would ponder the references. Beyond the obvious 2001, Alien and Event Horizon touches (touches?!? more like slaps across the face) you'll end up waking up in the night going 'Last best hope for mankind? Ah! Babylon 5!' or (as I did last night) 'Akira!!' (anyone get that one?). This is a film that's designed to be digested posthumously and isn't remotely bothered that it hasn't got an original bone in its body. Fair play. Maybe now we can get on with making properly abstract films that aren't tied to all that story stuff.

Phun wiv Photoshop

2007-03-27T09:52:00.001Z

Late night games...here are the results.

Current Buns No.19

2007-03-24T13:40:00.001Z

Ok, enough about stoopid sci fi TV shows, whether or not they have eye candy or perplexing plot details. There's a new Wilco abum on its way. And what can I say that you won't expect? You know I LOVED the last, live album and that the band's revitalised line-up with Nels Cline may be the best gigging band in the WORLD right about now. This one, under the lovely title of Sky Blue Sky, is a mellower, less experimental offering than Ghost Is Born. The krautrock tendencies have been shorn in favour of Allmans-style twin lead action, subtley decorated with Cline's jazz filigree and still bearing the rusty scars of Jeff Tweedy's Neil Young-alike manglings. It's ace. Buy it in May. You heard it from the Garuda...clever Americans.
Talking of Ol' Neil. I 'm still reeling from the one-two of his finally liberated 'Archive' releases (heralding the BOX in the autumn, Shakey fans). Both Fillmore 1970 (with the Horse) aand Massey Hall 1971 have the stamp of greatness on them. I've upset so many Americans in the past couple of years by not buying into the curmudgeon's latest waxings. God knows, I wouldn't moan if I didn't truly believe that he still has the power to come up with the goods again. I love the man. I was a member of the fucking FANCLUB for a while ferrchrissakes. But when you hear the full versions of ''Cowgirl In The Sand'' or ''Down by the River', or his early rendition of ''See The Sky About To Rain'', well...it just makes you realise how far he's letting us down these days.
I even got a copy of Journey Through The Past the other day, for the very first time. And even THAT, the most-maligned and disowned album he ever released (his argument being that it was a soundtrack that Warners released without his permission after shelving the film it acccompanied), sounds awesome compared to most things. Even the church choir bits that don't even have him on them and the recorded-off-the-TV Buffalo Springfield clips! Wayward genius, indeed.
Anyway it's ALL better than the other so-called major release that's been squatting in my consciousness over the last few days (due to shared offices I can't avoid this stuff sometimes. Blessing AND a curse etc) - the Sound Of Silver by LfuckingCfuckingD Fucking Soundsystem. Good god. James Murphy, if you're reading this, I hope you end up being feted as a top producer and you have to work with vacuous pop c*nts like Madonna and Robbie Williams, polishing their empty, worthless, nothingness into cool-sounding stuff that twenty-somethings can ignore and bray over in Shoreditch clubs. I shall say this only once. It's not cool to repeat everything 50 million times over a relentlesss faux-white boy disco post punk approximation. For those of us who are old enough to actually remember the early 80s this is all very, very stupid. Dumb Americans, indeed. Urgh...

Hello Damon!

2007-03-24T13:15:00.001Z

(Firstly, an apology: I promised myself I wasn't going to write another word on the shark-jumping spectacular we call Lusht here at Garuda-towers. But bear with me. Normal service will be resumed etc. etc.) Yes folks this is it. I've finally turned into another of those chuckleheaded idiots who get so involved in their drama that they start to think that the TV IS TALKING DIRECTLY TO THEM. In other words, I watched this week's partial return-to-form episode of Lusht (The Man From Talahasee) and suddenly realised that Damon Lindelof had left me the biggest possible clue as to who 'The Great Man' aka 'Jacob' aka the leader of the Hostiles etc may be. It's ME! Good grief, I know this show was kinda interactive but come on...I never saw that one coming etc. etc.
Re-watching the mind-bending sequence where evil Ben and born-again Locke chatted about the Island and its powers (and let's not even talk about the weird hamster-related clue) I suddenly noticed what Ben had on his dining table. Yes, it's a GARUDA (see pic!!!). Call me paranoid. But are those crazy guys at ABC going inside my head? What next? Let's hope they look at my Last.fm page too. Then we'll get King Crimson instead of all that Mamas and Papas and Three Dog Night nonsense ;-)
So Lindelof, you can write to me here when you want my character to appear on the programme. But I don't get out of Streatham for less than 20 quid, y'hear?

Stung...

2007-03-24T09:36:00.001Z

Avoiding anything contentious, I thought you might like to know what is floating my musical boat right about now. It's this wonderfully silly bit of retro nonsense by The Bees; The Isle Of Wight's best band since Level 42 (joke). The album, Octopus, is out this week, and it's the usual mixture of reggae-inflected silliness and stoner soul. I just love it. It makes me feel warm and fuzzy. And so will you when you watch this lovely animation. Hey, it's not John Zorn and it's full of all the best bits of your old records, but it's still worthwhile...

That Moist feeling

2007-03-09T09:45:00.002Z

This morning's crush on the Northern line (thanks to the imbecile reading Proust for that) was tempered by the thoughts of last night's rather splendid gig by London's number one prog jazz metal band - Moist. Now due to the fact that half the band's line-up consists of my colleagues or ex-colleagues and the fact that I supported them a while back I've been kinda loath to write about the boys for fear of seeming merely creepy. But after over a year of Garrick Theatre-style residency at East London's Fleapit on Columbia Road these muthas are still on a rather fine upward curve.
It was probably helped by the fact that the support act last night were the newly-minted Linear B who have another ex-colleague as their leader/pianist. LB were awesomely good in a Stan Tracey-ish rather moody sax, piano drum 'n' bass kinda way. Despite a slightly tentative sax player they are , like, REAL jazz (man).
Goaded on by such stuff, Moist seemed to come alive in a way that was quite wondrous to behold. Sax monster, Ralph Littlejohn wailed most cosmically, drummer Andy Cato was tighter, louder and more engaged than I've ever heard him, and goddam it, guitarist Simon Hopkins was staggeringly together: Elements of Frisell and Hillage all put through a big raga-inflected blender. Oh, the bass player (on antique fiddle, natch) was pretty fecking hot also ;-).
Dunno when the next night will be, but if you like a bit of cosmic stew in your jazz, get down there. You'll thank me! (ps: guys, make the cheque out to 'Jonesisdying'. Oh, and I'm sorry but the above photo is rather old. The band all now have beards and wear dresses.)

Me And My Big Mouth (another PLOT SPOILER!)

2007-03-07T14:34:00.001Z

Typical. In my last post I sang the praises of Katee Sackhoff - Kara Thrace AKA Starbuck in Battlestar Galactica, the most irksome, infuriating, contrary, warm, lovable, sexy and downright HUMAN character on the whole shebang and what happens? Yup, THEY KILLED HER OFF!!!
Now I'm paranoid. Is someone at the Sci Fi channel reading this?
Of course not.
But after everything I said about the whole family schtick that BG has goin' on, this hit hard. Too hard actually. It can't be healthy to grieve for a fictional character can it? But it just goes to prove that I was on the money too. This series is awesome and (by all accounts ) will continue to be so right up to the last episode of this season.
Meanwhile, bye lovely Starbuck. You were frakked-up, but still wonderful...sniff. See you on the other side...

(ps I KNOW she'll be back, so don't write to tell me)

Lost in Space

2007-02-28T17:56:00.001Z

Now that Lusht has returned from its 'hiatus' (ie: 'hey guys, how do we make this thing start moving again?'), let's look at exactly how wayward it's become shall we? Firstly the two month break was an insult that no amount of calling it a 'mini-season' could disguise. Don't be surprised if a slew of time-wasting episodes followed by an eight week disappearance affects your ratings, you morons at ABC. Frankly I would have thought that the success of the thing so far would have guaranteed some kind of top-level solutions as to how to get it back on track. But no...
From this you have probably gathered that I'm losing my patience. OK, I've lost it. maybe that was the point of the title all along. They could have a new mega billboard campaign with the words: 'HAVE YOU LOST IT YET?' hovering over the lush jungle. Or a picture of one of Jack's fabulous Jackfaces! Boy, they've been plentiful over the last couple of weeks.
Of course the real problem was that when they started revealing stuff the whole edge-of-your-seat feeling was going to decrease exponentially. Like Pandora's box, no amount of trying to retrospectively stuff things back in will stop its steady decline. Thus we end up with a dismally extended section on the awful 'others' and their 'it's more complicated than that' explanation-avoidance stuff that they trot out instead of actually summing it all up in one sentence and thus making the next two years completely redundant. The people who watch this aren't total idiots (apart from the subscribers to this kind of nonsense) and can only take the same type of disappointment so many times before we know that any question posed will only result in some kind of vague obfustication that delays any gratification for the sake of franchise extension. This week's episode (plot spoil...oh who CARES?) was a fine case in point. Hurley's questions to the returned Sawyer (after weeks in the Others camp) amounted to 'Where's Jack?' (answer: the doc didn't make it) and were left at that. See? Even the main characters have given up hoping for anything but vagueness!
To be fair the series is still high on production values - this week's meteor strike was both hilarious and impressive, while still filling the viewer with the usual post 9-11 dread at it came whistling outta the sky (see pic). Plus it contained some genuine laugh-aloud moments - Sawyer's getting ALL the good lines these days. It still manages to produce a palpable sense of mounting edginess that gets the heart pumping. So, pace, editing etc - not bad, but as I say now we know that one mystery just leads to another, less-interesting one (cf: the Others' 'real' home ferchrissakes. I'm starting to wonder if there's an infinite number of islands now). It means that no matter how many weird bits the writers gratuitously shove in (the brainwashing room, the man with the eye patch, Desmond's life flashing before his eyes, Claire's incredible changing hairdo - in fact EVERYONE'S hair. Jack's appears to have just stopped growing etc.) you can't help shake the conviction that whatever happens will be a disappointment. Oh well, for one and a half seasons it was awesome...
Which brings me to my other televisual obsession, Battlestar Galactica. At approximately the same point in the run (season 3) as Lusht, it may have vaguely gone into hibernation with a couple of holding-pattern episodes about racism and unions in time of war (small-time stuff, then), but it's still the most compelling thing on MY screen these days. (I know, I'm missing Heroes, Deadwood, the Sopranos and err...Primeval out here, but frankly, I've only got a spare 40 minutes here and there these days, and life goes on). I know, I know - I'm even losing friends to this series, I keep banging on about it so much. But it occurred to me - as I wept like a pussy the other night as The Chief got the President's approval to begin union negotiations with the government and Admiral Adama demonstrated gritty determination in the face of Baltar's evil faux-prole scheming (I wish he HAD put Cally in front of a firing squad, mind) - that the big difference between Lusht and BG is the ability to make you care. While BG has just as much manipulation and nonsense it involves you by making you part of the family. Lusht just leaves you slightly satiated and wondering about all the enormous plot holes (and I'm not just talking about the imploded hatch).
There, I've said it; these people ARE like a family, with all their bickering, dysfunctionalism and deep, deep love (Starbuck's a fine case in point: never have I simultaneously hated, admired and just plain fancied a character). I used to wonder why the person who writes the TV Without Pity summaries got so deeply upset by the characters' moral and spiritual foibles until this week, when I realised I was doing it too. It sounds heavy, but frankly it's cathartic and all the healthier for it. PLUS it makes you think about the real world, while you're digging the awesome space-based action. How cool is that? Still on the agenda are the extremes a state/race will go to ensure its survival, the notion of one god verses a pantheon, and the true existence of fate. Such trivia.
Look, you can get the DVDs of the first two series on box set. Do it. You'll thank me. Honest...

Brought to B(r)ook(er) 3

2007-02-25T10:38:00.002Z

My ambivalent relationship with bookshops due to a decade long career managing the bloody things has meant that I can easily miss out on stuff until it's been out for ever. Thus, while finally getting round to buying the latest M John Harrison novel I picked up Charlie Brooker's Screenburn, the collection of his TV criticism pieces from the Saturday Guardian dating from about 2000 onwards.
There's something utterly charming and comforting about reading a column which makes your own misanthropy look like mild irritation with a broken shoelace. Brooker hates for the UK, and all of his targets are utterly deserving. What's more he's incredibly fair-minded. While he bemoans the idiocy of reality show contestants, minor celebrities and Pop Idol contestants, he reserves his real ire for the complete c***s who think this stuff up. Not for nothing did Brooker invent the incredible Nathan Barley back in the day when he ran TV Go Home - the website that regularly had me laughing my tea through my nose (my favouritist ever TVGH character was Teeterlegs Jackson - the furious black 4 ft high detective who went around on stilts).
Not only this, but he's almost a poet in his use of language. No, really. Anyone who can describe Nigel Lythgoe as looking 'like Eric Idle watching a dog drown' or Anne Widecombe as having a face like a 'haunted cave in Poland' has to be some kind of genius.
But the real genius is the index. On its own it would make a great half hour read; with entries like Baker, Tom: has limbs torn off in space, 292 or Aspel, Michael: is considered dull, 8; possibly excretes eggs, 26; might as well fellate guests, 27. Whoops there goes my tea again...

PS: His Screenwipe on BBC Four is also fantastic. Try to catch it.

AND we're back...

2007-02-25T10:06:00.001Z

Apologies again to the 5 saddos who may read this thing. As anyone who actually knows me is aware, I've just moved jobs from here to here. So, no change at all really...
Not that I've got any excuses. My mate the VCDH just left the warm embrace of the establishment too and his blog's not suffered. Bloody workaholic etc.
And why did he leave? To help the exquisitely named Tyler Brule (inventor of Wallpaper - no, not the flock stuff, the design magazine) set up the snootlily entitled Monocle.
This is the kind of stuff that usually makes me shout abuse at my laptop. For example go here and watch Tyler describe what is a big fat magazine/book/periodical about art, culture, economics and STUFF as a 'vertically-integrated media brand'. Sheesh...
But hey, it's got my pal working on the website and frankly despite being touted as creating a '...community of the most interested and interesting people in the world.' and aimed at 'offering original, never-before-seen content to an audience of well-heeled, intelligent opinion leaders around the world.' I'll reserve judgement until I've actually saved up enough to buy a copy. As I'm not well-heeled. Or intelligent. And no one gives a flying fuck for my opinion. God, I already feel like I shouldn't be allowed to read it. Ho hum...More later, print fans.

R.A.W R.I.P

2007-01-17T17:09:00.001Z

A new year (and a lengthy blog hiatus - sorry Jones fans) broken with sad tidings. Not only has Alice Coltrane shuffled off, but one of my original heroes - Robert Anton Wilson.
It was originally his Illuminatus! Trilogy which fried my imagination as a young whippersnapper. Whereas most of my peers were getting 'turned on' by the usual suspects such as 'Zen and the Art...', 'On The Road' and Carlos bloody Casteneda - I fell for RAW's healthy, playful, questioning agnosticism and love of connectivity in the universe. Probably the modern father of conspiracy theorists, he was a prankster of the highest order and introduced me to more esoteric lore and leftfield theorists than was healthy for a young man ;-)
Hail Eris, and goodbye Bob. The next 23 spliffs are for you...

Weekend Views No.11 (are you watching closely?)

2006-11-12T14:11:00.002Z

It being November, there are actually some quite good mainstream bits of cinema to be enjoyed. Yesterday off to see Christopher Nolan's masterful The Prestige. How was it? Damn, I just said it was masterful didn't I?
Nolan's been on fire since day one, but this time he really seems to have come up with a true follow-up to Memento, his masterpiece of reverse logic and time-bending, synapse-frying cleverness. From the opening shot of a woodland floor littered with black top hats it's gripping, dark, funny and filled with some really good performances.
Dispensing with the already common complaint that Nolan doesn't give women much to do (Rebecca Hall is actually very, very good, while Johansson is kinda wasted) this film belongs to Christian Bale whose pugnacious cockernee magician, Alfred Borden is a tour de force. Mind you, probably more surprising is Hugh Jackman's turn as the swankier rival, Robert Angier. There's more to him than Van Helsing and Wolverine! As for reports that Dame Bowie's portrayal of Tesla is 'weird'?: No, he's precise, amusing, well-timed and obviously really enjoying himself. What's really interesting is how the only representative of 'science' in the film is also the only one who actually gives it its only real magic as opposed to mere illusion.
Actually, the real star of the show is Nolan (and his brother)'s script. Twisting time like a conjuror cutting a lady in two with some of the most bravura flashbacks ever, the surprises are plentiful and never predictable. Up until the last second this is a film that keeps giving. See it.

Plotspoiler quarterly (Lusht jumps the shark)

2006-11-12T13:34:00.001Z

Got that? I'M GIVING STUFF AWAY HERE! Ok, for all you Sky-watching freaks, stop now.
However, it's my sworn duty to report on what appears to be a severe crisis at Lusht production central. Now into its two-month 'hiatus' (ie: christ, let's really go back to the drawing board before we get cancelled, guys) until February. The first 6 episodes of series 3 of the national tourist board of Hawaii's premier TV show (Check the utterly Lushtous pic below) is floundering badly. The trouble is, I still enjoy it.

The initial trick (as mentioned earlier) of making Jack quite a sympathetic character has been dulled by the endless dragging out of the whole Henry gale/Ben plotline about his bloody spinal tumour. Maybe it's the fact that the 'Others' are turning out to be as unpleasant, bitchy and disorganised as those island inhabitants who stupidly flew Oceanic, but the 'mysteries' behind everything seem to be mere placeholders to keep an increasingly flimsy series of illogical events in place. Not even the reappearance of the 'monster' in the latest episode could bring back the old magic. And why take a character like Eko to whole new bad-ass levels (the murderation in Yemi's church was ace), only to squish him against a tree? Eko's opposite number, John Locke, is looking increasingly less like the keeper of deeper knowledge and more like a middle-aged fuck up floundering through portents and visions (but at least we now know that he knows how to grow weed, hehe).
There HAVE been some great little moments. Ben/Henry telling Kate how unpleasant the next two weeks were going to be; Desmond's strange psychic/future vison stuff, and who is the man with the eyepatch???
But boy, the whole Others stuff at the Hydra station is really beginning to feel like the producers have NO idea to go until they get their big screeen version in the pipeline. At first it seemed that the mind games were all very cool, but now it just seeems as though we're gonna have to go with Kate, Sawyer and Jack's 'Escape from Stalag Lost' and just put up with EVERYBODY'S inability to answer a question in a straightforward manner. Meanwhile the beach dwellers continue to flail pointlessly until someone decides to give Desmond a bigger role, stop Sayid being so fucking serious (ok, I know he's been through a lot) , throw Charlie in a hole and give us more about the Hanso stuff. Hey ABC, I'm still here, but it's looking more and more likely that, like Twin Peaks, a cutting-edge piece of psycho-drama is turning into a bloody expensive soap.

Gliss bliss

2006-11-12T12:58:00.001Z

A belated report of last weeknd's rather spiffing Gong Family UnConvention which was held over three days at Amterdam's Melkweg. The venue, it transpires, was where Daevid Allen first had one of his seed visions of the 'electric temple', whatever that means ;-). But seriously, it was an utterly splendid event, immensely well organised and filed with surprisingly great performances.
While my love of the Pothead Pixies goes all the way back to my schooldays in the early 70s I'm not such an uber fan as to forgive the somewhat suspect ramblings of all of the 'family's' many branches and offshoots (viz: kangaroo Moon, hem hem). Thus it was a cherry-picked smorgasbord, interpsersed with some great food, gallery visits and general digging of the civilized vibe prevalent in such a wonderful place. Canaltastic.
Friday's treat involved the Gliss Orchestra (see pic), featuring both Allen, Harry Williamson, various Acid Mothers, Steffie Sharpstrings of Here and Now and, best of all, Steve Hillage - who gave his all over the three days. Here and Now were a rather mixed bag, though Keith The Missile seems to have matured into the Mani of the Hippie set. Saturday's highlight was the four-to-the-floor techno of System 7. A guilty pleasure fer sure, as their brand of dance music is somewhat dated these days but Hillage and Giraudy make one hell of a groovy racket for a pair of 50 somethings and Steve's soloing was somewhere gorgeous between Manuel Gottsching and the Orb.
Sunday's climax was the double-header of Hillage's band (with Mike Howlett on bass), recreating most of Fish Rising followed seamlessly by Gong themselves with as near to the original 'classsic' line-up as was posssible, despite Pip Pyle and Pierre Moerlen having shuffled off over the last year. While many may see the Anglo French jazz rock jesters as a whimsical footnote in musical history, I was, and still am, inspired buy their irreverence, playfulness and benign wisdom combined with frankly fearsome playing. Allen's glissando technique is peerless, while Didier Malherbe's Coltranesque soprano still adds just the right dash of cosmic jazz (proof here, folks). He doesn't appear to have aged a day either. Ditto Hillage who, I confess, is still an idol for me. (I heartily reccommend the forthcoming re-releases on Virgin). The finest moment came about ten minutes into his preceding set when someone shouted in unbelieving wonder: "Steve Fucking Hillage!". I knew exactly what he meant. After 30 years it was simply incredible to see this man still being as deft, articulate and unashamedly FAR OUT. When I was in my early 20s I used to DREAM about seeeing him live again, especially with Allen and co. Observers have told me I had the biggest sh*t-eating grin all night. They played for hours and as we finally staggered into the Netherlandish night there was a genuine feeeling of having been part of something at once intimate and special. One for the 'best gigs ever' list...

They wouldn't put up with this in the States y'know...

2006-10-26T19:40:00.001Z

(Alt. title: The License Fee - The Case Against)
God knows, I'm not one to rock the boat, especially when it may contain the hand that feeds me ;-) BUT my exposure to the first two episodes of Dr Who spin-off, Torchwood, last night did result in me doing my rabid dog impression. Honestly, are there really no half original ideas left in the UK? Obviously not.
Ok, ok I'm probably the worst person to judge such lightweight fare, especially as I've spent all year getting frustrated (which can be a good reaction to evoke in your audience) by Lusht and frankly floored by Battlestar Galactica - both of which are now into their third seasons, more of which later - but even compared with its parent show, which is designed for KIDS, it sucked on many, many levels.
Let's deal with the issue of CHEAPNESS first. Ooh, we're back to FZ again - and as he says: 'i LOVE cheap monster movies, in fact the cheaper the better'. Frankly we KNOW that the BBC's publicly funded budgets don't come close to those of ABC or Fox. The amount spent on an entire series of Torchwood would probably just about pay for Matthew Fox's face coach. But for some reason, the Beeb feels it necessary to try and poorly emulate the things that have long since become the norm for prime time adult Sci Fi in the US. Dr Who's recent resurrection saw perfectly fine CGI work (though clunky by comparison with even something like Lexx) which was leavened by amusing multi-levelled scripts and not-at-all-bad acting (though I don't totally buy the Billie Piper reappraisal. She's still only one level above X Factor stage school scum). Sure, it raised the bar, for a BBC drama, but had it tried to give us anything other than what was, at heart, nothing more than the old skool favourite with a fancier wrapping it would have failed miserably. Torchwood tries to repeat the rather quaint style but, in combining this with its more 'adult' themes, it draws attention to its huge deficiencies rather than letting you say 'bless, it's all just a jolly silly romp innit?'. Despite the fancy HQ set and the flashing lights you found yourself getting annoyed at the rubber antics of the 'Weevil' and the derivative nonsense of a purple alien sex fiend gas which, frankly, could have come from a 1967 episode of Star Trek. Of course, to cap it all, the feeble excuse to film it in Cardiff, of all places, because THE PRODUCTION TEAM IS BASED THERE was laughable. Despite numerous in-jokes to deflect its naffness ('CSI Cardiff, I'd like to see that' etc etc) it remains a deeply unsexy place to base anything, let alone a prime time Sci Fi drama. Oops there go my Welsh readers...
Which brings me on to the 'sex' aspect of Torchwood. A lot has been made of the ambiguous sexuality of the 'team'. How was this demonstrated? Well, by having the obnoxious Owen pick up both a man and a woman in a morally suspect use of alien sex pherenomes; by having the 'human interest' bore, Gwen, get some girl-on-girl action, and by constant references to Captain Jack's love of shagging anything that moves. The really clasy bit was when he snogged the alien sex fiend host/victim, giving her some of his cosmic 'juice' if you will, and then arrogantly proclaimed something like 'imagine what the rest of me's like if you get that from a kiss!'. Pillock.
This is not an 'adyult' depiction of sexuality. The whole charade had the smell of 16-year old boy's bedroom about it. In fact the whole sorry thing was like some adolescent comic fan's version of grown up land. In battlestar galactica recently we've had sex used as a bargaining tool with the enemy, as a desultory cure for the sheer mind-numbing boredom of war and as an allegory for political underhandedness. Now THAT'S entertainment...
The script, containing such gems as 'we're outside the government, outside the UN, outside the police etc etc.' veered wildly between in-jokes, dull ponderings on the gulf between cosmic shenanigans and cozy domesticity and hilariously ponderous declamations on SF gobledegook.
Which brings me on to the acting. Not ONE of the cast can do it. Seriously. Humour, timing, emoting, pathos. these are just a few of the things that Torchwood cannot ever deliver. It's bad enough that Captain Jack is (pointlessly toadying towards US conventions) a yank who looks like Gary Numan without the make up in his sub-goth trenchcoat, but Eve Myles as Gwen takes the biscuit. Here's how she describes herself: "She's a very down-to-earth girl, kind and generous, but extremely ambitious, feisty, intelligent and witty. But she's also very human - she's really the girl next door. Because I'm playing her, I put a lot of me into it and I take a lot of my own characteristics.".
Well, as far as I could tell she brought ALL her characteristics, leaving no room for a character at all. Whingey and devoid of any skills required to kick alien ass, she was crowbarred in to keep it 'real' presumably. Urgh...
As to the plotlines, I shall pass, except to say that anyone who's seen a fraction of TV or cinema from the last 30 years will have guessed the outcomes aeons before they happen.
Here's what (ex) BBC Three boss Stuart Murphy said: "Torchwood is sinister and psychological... as well as being very British and modern and real."
No, it's ill-conceived, ratings-chasing, provincial nonsense....
Meanwhile back at TV heaven we have a Battlestar Galactica which gets bleaker by the second. Cylon mind-fucks, treachery by those we hold dearest and an increasingly damaged crew make this (along with some of the best effects: stylised beyond reason and all the better for it) about the best Sci Fi you'll see this decade. How ironic that while the UK produces TV for adolescents under the guise of 'adult' entertainment, the USA sneaks grown-up TV into a show format that was originally aimed squarely at early teens. I'll be doing a proper round-up later.
As for Lusht. Well, it may quite possibly have jumped the shark, but it still looks great and hangs together far more coherently than Torchwood. Which is some going when you consider their making it up as they go along. Episode One of the new season was dripping with evil, and even Matthew Fox got my sympathy. Way to go Jack! Cry, you sad man! You're NEVER getting the wife back!!!

Strange Dream

2006-10-25T16:29:00.001Z

Sometimes sleep is the land where, instead of kicking back and taking a little vacation around the twisty corridors of your subconscious, you actually do proper things and devote quite a lot of mental energy to completing meaningless tasks. Take this dream which I had last night which left me weary as f*** and feeling like I'd already spent a day in the digital sweatshop polishing those ones and noughts:
For some unknown reason I had to pitch a fabulous new idea for a reality TV extravaganza that embodied the values of web 2.0. My idea? A japanese-style endurance/game show where 100 people around the globe were all given 60GB iPods, full to the brim with NOTHING but the collected (and repeated) works of severely overrated so-called hip hop geniuses, OutKast. And ONE track by hopeless scally indie nobodies, Cast. Each contestant would sit in front of a webcam, observed by adjudicators to make sure they never hit the skip button, and would have to constantly listen to the fearsome stylings of Andre Whatsisname and Big Boi until the one odd track came up. The first to reach the Cast track wins.
In my dream the show was called 'Outcast' (it involving the names of both bands and being a play on the term 'podcast'. See what my subconscious did there?) People would watch it solely for the chance to see 100 people go slowly INSANE in a small room to the strains of 'Ms Jackson'.
As you can see dear readers, it's been a tough month.
Back to the usual stuff soon folks...

Put your clothes ON when you dance...

2006-09-29T08:55:00.001Z

I have peculiar reading habits. While I love a good read of something new on the train/tube/bus/in bed and consume ridiculous amounts in very short time periods (a habit I never lost from college days) I reserve my 're-reading' matter to, yes you guessed it, the WC. Ok, I've gone too far haven't I? Well sod it...
Yes, I will pick at old texts, reacquaint myself with loved paragraphs and generally bone up again on stuff that I've forgotten. This is why reference books are great, as well as short story collections and collections of essays. Robert Christgau's 'Rock Albums Of The 70s' is a doozie, as are Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, Anthony Lane's 'Nobody's Perfect' and my beloved hardback of JG Ballard's 'Complete Short Stories'.
So it is that I've recently been dipping into Frank Zappa's deeply-flawed-but-still-fascinating 'autobiography/rant' The Real Frank Zappa Book and was amazed at how , well, CLEVER he was sometimes. Not just with the black dots and lines, but in his analysis of our hell-in-a-handcart mentality when it comes to CULTURE. I was particularly struck by his chapter for his Dad, which not only puts forth the views that the music business has only been rubbish since young people took over in A&R (because they're far more conservative than their forebears) and that we all stand a good chance of dying a truly entropic death by ever increasing slavery to NOSTALGIA, but also this little gem:
'No Change in musical style will survive unless it is accompanied by a change in clothing style. Rock is to dress up to. No musical innovation will ever succeed on a large commercial scale without the full involvement of the industries which profit tangentially from it: clothing and 'merchandise'.
Wow. Frank Zappa said that. Really...
Maybe this explains why, in London, the so-called cultural capital of this country, everyone under 35 dresses EXACTLY THE SAME. Homogeny is king (unless you count the idiots who think dressing like Russell Brand are being somehow radical). Boring clothes? Boring music scene. Simple.
This is gonna sound stupid and mawkish, but every day I miss FZ a bit more. I really do...

I wanna Wyatt of my own...

2006-09-19T16:43:00.001Z

A colleague pointed out this new phenomenon to me the other day, and I have to say I'm equally sceptical AND overjoyed. The juke box used to be a quite significant means of self-expression back when I were a lad. many's the night I poured a few 10 pence pieces into the box in the corner and waited with baited breath until that Roxy Music b-side caused my friends to go 'what's THIS?'. It usually took about 3 hours, mind you.
But this 'Wyatting' is perhaps just a logical reaction to the general blanding of 'popular' music as we know it. Who wouldn't long to metaphorically kick all those Jack Johnson and James Blunt fans in the teeth by forcing them to listen to Terry Riley or Merzbow on a Friday night in Islington's more desperate pub approximations? Just common sense as far as I can see.
As to this article's claim that some people see it as '...just a way for those who feel superior, both in terms of class and musical taste, to bait those beneath them.' Well, if I feel superior already, surely I don't need to have a go at those less fortunate? ;-) And maybe it's just a nicer thing to have on in a pub. The origins in NY with Eno's Thursday Afternoon seem to bear this out. Rather that piece of loveliness than the Scissor Sisters' hysterical conservatism any day.
Frankly, forget the references to Adorno, it's good fun and a natural result of the ubiquity of media in our social spaces. Just redressing the balance.
Maybe it will lead to the removal of music from such spaces altogether. And maybe that's what we all need. Some space. As Adam Ant said...do us all a favour...

iTunes 7 - Mind The Gaps

2006-09-18T09:25:00.002Z

As previously mentioned, I've been a bit slow on the uptake when it comes to the full potential of how iTunes can take over your life. With my lovely Lacie hard drive rapidly filling up with nonsense I spent a large chunk of Friday night getting to grips with the new iTunes 7. I was, I admit, seduced by a colleague in the T&D dept at work showing me the swanky new album art display/interface thingy. The joy of seeing my albums displayed properly (and with rather nifty glossy reflections, natch) was too much to resist. What I didn't pay attention to was the issue of GAPS.
Already, last week, the word 'gaps' had entered the lingua franca of the big brains who know about such things and write blogs about Ruby Rails (or some such woman). Oh yes, iTunes 7. It's got gaps-aplenty.
For an old-timer the issue of metadata within the digital age is key. Frankly a 4x4 crappy reproduction of what we used to call 'sleeve art' is rubbish. I won't go on - just read this. It tells you all you need to know and more. For anyone with a background in the graphic arts this is distressing enough. (cf: my interview with God-king of 'sleeve art', Mr Roger Dean!) But add this to the need to KNOW who/when/what/why about the music I'm consuming and, were it not for my inherited knowledge attained by 40-odd years of listening, I'd be in the dark. There are analogies here in the visual arts. ie: what changes when we know the context within which a piece of art was created, and how does that affect our perception..blah, blah, yada yada...In other words, the old chestnuts.
Returning to iTunes 7; it sucks. After an hour of registering and running the consolidation process I had a motley connection of sleeve art examples, many of which were incorrect. Now, I know my tastes can tend to the (very slightly) arcane, but I was appalled at how Steve Jobs and his crew, within an hour, had made me feel like I'm just plain weird. No artwork for Led Zeppelin? (in fact it gave me a Dread Zeppelin sleeve 20 times) None for King Crimson. Wow...those are obscure. With Greatest Hits packages it gave me a different sleeve for each track (ie: Donovan) and as for tracks culled from free CDs...don't even go there. I was REMOVING more than it had found. And I'd put the success rate at about 10%.
So much for the so-called 'long tail'. If a mega-corporation can't do better, and seems to regard mainstream acts as too wilfully obscure (by dint of them just being OLD) then we're frankly fucked. Maybe the long tail is only long because of a lazy attitude to cultural heritage?
I tried resorting to Apple's new widget that sucks the sleeves of 'currently playing' tracks from Amazon. But in the face of 4000 albums I'm kinda guessing I may not have the time. Anyone out there got a better solution?
On top of this I found the fact that displaying the fancy 'hit parade' (as I'm calling it in my head) stops certain functionality on the keyboard; and the whole thing seems more intent in getting us all to consume 'video' and after 2 hours of fannying about I'd gone back to the old skool settings and wished I'd never bothered.
Harumph...

Submarine captain ahoy!

2006-09-15T13:04:00.001Z

For anyone going to Amsterdam in November...here's a nostalgic treat (albeit with guitar tuning problems!)

Popular TV as political allegory (beware the Cylonic jihad! etc)

2006-09-06T17:35:00.001Z

It being the end of the summer and with nothing but the mighty CSI (which, one day, I will bore you to DEATH about hehe) on the TV, I've been steeping my brain with box set binges. Notably series one of the reversioned Battlestar Galactica. While worrying that maybe I was taking it all a bit too seriously I read this and realised that it really IS something quite special (I need critical back-up in these times of blog paranoia to allow me to form an opinion, natch).
More post-9/11 than Lusht (though it uses the same clever metamedia ideas to keep its fanbase involved), more pointedly dealing with bad recent history than an Oliver Stone movie, BG is a real eye-opener, especially for those who still subscribe to the wrong-headed notion that dumb USA makes dumb TV.
It takes the late 70s original which was all post-Watergate/sub-Star Wars laser infused disco fantasy and turns it into something predictably darker, and then some...
People old enough to remember the original (hem hem) will have fun initially with the inversions. Starbuck's a woman (as is the president). Colonel Tigh is white. Gaius Baltar is a jittery English sex symbol. The Cylons look like us! etc etc. This final point isn't just an excuse for cost-cutting though. The old Cylons are there in all their metallic CGI glory, but the new ones, naturally ramp up the paranoia factor.
They're TERRORISTS. We get ships loaded with nukes ramming the Battlestar, suicide bombers, security breaches and an enemy that's religiously fanatical. Meanwhile the humans are drunks, liars, sexually wayward, prone to bickering, bigoted...oh, and religious fanatics.
The reason the human race fails? Because of the internet - we learn that networked computers led to the first defeat at the hands of a technologically advanced enemy with a good idea how to plant viruses. What's more WE created the enemy.
Sci Fi is so good at this stuff - I remember my film tutor telling me that Star Trek was 'imperialism in space' - and while I know that for any film student raised (as I was) on basic theory it will seem a little heavy-handed, but in this day and age, and from a nation whose president makes apocalyptic tales of mankind's demise seem that much more feasible, this is something special.
Now I'm wading through series 2 and the fact that the producers are political science majors is really starting to shine out. Somehow they manage to reference the assasinations of JFK and Lee Harvey Oswald, make pertinent points about the true nature of democracy and still fit in a few good battle scenes (I LOVE the way the CGI is all shot as though with hand-held - in fact the camera work is all super-dynamic. Adding to the rushed, panicky, ragged feel of the whole thing). I get the feeling this is subversion by stealth. While the pilot was competent, the first series became gradually more insane in its exposure of the desperate straits of a race on the brink of extinction yet split by internal politics. Now, beginning series two you get the idea that this could stretch out to be the first long-running series since Twin Peaks that could have the ultimate in downbeat endings (as Leslie Halliwell used to say). At times you even question whether the human race SHOULD survive. Now that's dark...
I know all you West Wing fans will be screaming 'nothing new here!' but I urge anyone who wants a really good idea of how America is coping with the war on terror to watch this as soon as possible.
POSTSCRIPT: Since I wrote this I've entered the considerably darker world of Series two. If Season One was bold, this one beggars belief as to how the hell it even got made. halfway through and I feel as drained and strung out as the crew. As to the basis in contemporary political atrocities...let's just say 'abused prisoners of war' and leave it at that...

Weekend Views No.10 (animating Dick)

2006-09-06T09:59:00.001Z

A birthday treat for myself? Obviously it has to be a film about drug dependency and dysfunction set in a future Los Angeles where governments collude to promote addiction and identity becomes defined and fractured by surveillance and paranoia.
All presented in an hallucinatory animation style.
With Keanu Reeves.
So hurrah for Richard Linklater, who's repeated what he did with Waking Life and used a team of crack animators to turn a live action film into a strangely dislocated (and utterly beautiful) narrative.
Philip K Dick's A Scanner Darkly is, imho, his greatest work (and believe me, I've read nearly all of 'em). Towering above even greats such as Ubik or The Man In The High Castle (two more films waiting to fry the brains of those who thought Total Recall was the zenith of Dick adaptations). So it's up there with Solaris in terms of the 'oh god, what have they done with my favourite book?' stakes. Luckily, like Solaris (both versions) - it DOESN'T suck.
My initial response at seeing the trailers was horror. Reeves? Ryder? OMG. But amazingly they are kinda perfect for the roles of distracted, emotionally and socially stunted addicts, failing to connect. Well, duh...;-)
The crucial scene, which I loved, is the one where Keanu and Wynona - as Arctor and Donna - try to normalise their 'boyfriend/girlfriend relationship after Bob tries, unsuccessfully to even hug Donna. The camera/pen focusses on their hands disconnecting as she attempts to console him. They're a million miles apart in their own worlds.
This is a central point of the film and one which, I think, has alienated audiences. The premise being that all drug addicts are essentially selfish and closed off to the world. The world we see through Linklater's paintbox vision is a totally subjective one. As if through a scanner darkly. Yet the film manages to retain the hilarious stoner dialogue, delivered in show-stealing performances by Robert Downey Jr, Woody Harrelson and the awesome Rory Cochrane as the hapless Freck, beset by imaginary aphids and interdimensional beings (reading his sins to him for all eternity). It's in turns funny and painfully accurate, while the final half hour is as devastating as the book's denouement. Linklater even retains Dick's postscript which is entirely apt, considering that the book's essentially autobiographical.
Drugs are (sometimes) bad, but governments are badder, boys and girls.
How's that for birthday fun?

Pip Pyle RIP

2006-08-30T15:31:00.001Z

Just heard the news that Pip Pyle, formerly of Hatfield and The North, Gong, National Health etc etc, passed away on Monday at the age of 56. Pip was a true exponent of the Canterbury sound in more ways than one. Not only was he a great jazz rock drummer, but he was also a great songwriter. "Fitter Stoke Has A Bath" from the mighty Hatfield's Rotter's Club is still one of the loveliest things I've ever heard.
A huge talent.

Current Buns No.18 (Old Gringo returns)

2006-08-25T12:41:00.001Z

Another five years, another Bob Dylan album.
Worth the wait? Well, yes, but probably not for the reasons you were expecting! Some idiot rambles on quite eloquently here, if you need a proper summing-up. But quite simply, it's a playful, jocular, nostalgic and, most importantly, confident little gem. From Time Out Of Mind, through Love and Theft (with a brief stop-off at literary corner, natch) to here is a smooth, totally transparent journey of one man, coming to terms with his place in the world. Maybe Bob D's in lurve, but he's cracking wise, getting all biblical on G Dubya's ass and even managing to sound like a mutant hillbilly member of the Hot Club de Paris while he's at it. And he sings about Alicia Keys, so he's obviously 'keeping it real'.
For those of you who found the above para totally incomprehensible (yes, I'm aware that my idiosyncracies, worn on my sleeve in such a fashion make me somewhat undesirable to the cooler cats in town. I think this explains why I work alone hem, hem. I DO like ELO as much as Fennesz. That's why my credibility is shot ;-)) - other small silver round things making me smile are the three early Ultravox reissues (all arch Berlin Bowie pastiche, very silly but grown somehow cuter with extreme age), and the latest Del Boy Bailey disc. How's that for diversity?
Another gem that I picked up for a quid just the other day was Howe Gelb's 'Ogle Some Piano'(2004). Described as a cross between Thelonious Monk and Les Dawson (on the sleeve!) - Gelb's ivory tickling (in)capabilities really came to my attention on the wonderful 'I Am The Resurrection' - the tribute album to John Fahey. The above description is perfect. At times it's inept and disarming, at times he really can whip it out in a perfectly fine jazz stylee. Plus, the titles are hilarious. The man's a creative powerhouse. Met him back in about 2001, and he was the sweetest guy imaginable. far nicer than Kurt Wagner, who walked into the interview halfway through and was just plain rude.

iTuning up

2006-08-23T14:22:00.001Z

Always the last on a bandwagon (actually, the band usually don't LET me on the wagon at all hoho) - Garuda has been finally getting around to properly loading up the mass of plastic onto his swanky new external hard drive. Yes, after three years, I'm finally learning to LOVE iTunes. Talk about retro...
Christ, how many HOURS has this eaten up? I'm up to about 500 albums (out of approx 4000) and my evenings seem to have descended into marathon sessions of staring at a screen desperately urging the little thingy to get above 10x.
But more interesting is the way this has revitalised my listening habits.
Yes, I KNOW that mp4s aren't giving me perfect reproduction (some tracks sound TOTALLY remixed. Anyone else get that?) and I know Steve Jobs is the antichrist (now that Gates has given all his money away and left this earthly realm behind), but the excitement garnered by just wondering WHAT will come next on my (almost) heavenly jukebox is almost palpable. No, seriously. It's really good fun to hear your entire listening tastes re-engineered in front of your ears. The Rezillos morph into Arild Anderson who turns a corner and bumps into the Aphex Twin, who quickly duffs him up, steals his bass and fences it to Skinnyman who then decides to give it all up and join the Monkees etc. etc. Is this mere aural masturbation (apologies to my sensitive readers) and ego stroking, or is it the soundtrack to my own personal, endless party? I would argue the latter, as the real beauty of iTunes is that it lets you drop in stuff that you're not too sure about, because you KNOW that you're only gonna get one track occasionally. By osmosis you can, again, become an audio adventurer!
Suddenly (and annoyingly, after buying a new TV) I spend ALL EVENING listening to music again. Handy-size chunks of ones and noughts make for such a breath of fresh air. What's more, if you spice up your library with a fair smattering of Monty Python, or Boosh (no clips over a coupla mins) or whatever silliness takes yer fancy, the thing starts to sound like the best radio station ever invented. Awesome.
Now if only I could get someone to do the other 3,500 cds...

This is a Mann's world

2006-08-18T10:42:00.001Z

A series of mixed reviews won’t put me off seeing the latest Michael Mann film, no siree! So me and VCDH hit the Odeon in search of some truly mannly film action in the shape of Miami Vice. The disappointments were negliglible. The film delivers in spades.
A lot of negative reviews seem to bemoan the lack of chemistry between Crockett and Tubbs compared to the original TV series’ Don Johnson and Philip Michael Thomas. What they fail to take into account is Mann’s pedigree. VCDH’s hyperactive webness pointed me into a couple of articles that filled me in on some pertinent material to chew on. I discovered that I didn’t know nearly as much about Mann as I thought. For example, I didn’t know he wrote the first four episodes of Starsky and Hutch. So anyone who says that he’s not an expert on crafting cop/buddy plots is plain wrong. The film is peppered with amazing subversions of the classic two-shot. At the beginning you get a fantastic shot of them on a roof. In the background is the twinkling cityscape of Miami, Both are on their lovely mobile phones (this film is littered with fabulous technology, natch) facing away from each other. But Mann’s not implying a lack of chemistry; what he’s doing is concentrating the link to implicit body language. By mirroring each other they become the yin and yang of the law enforcement mechanism. Mann’s made so many of these kinds of connections (Heat’s De Niro and Pacino are the same person split across the legal borderline) that he’s now able to break away from the usual framing mechanisms and really subvert the way in which the relationship is portrayed. But time and again you get these muttered, terse, shorthand conversations between Sonny and Rico that seem like the kind of coded conversation that older couples indulge in. All private jokes and code that we’re eavesdropping in on. You’re left in no doubt that these men love each other (as the gloriously downbeat ending – true to the melancholy spirit of the original series: Sonny was always losing the woman because of the job etc - shows). Sight and Sound‘s in depth review focuses on a scene that struck me as well. Following Rico’s ‘love’ scene with fellow cop, Trudy (Naomie Harris), Sonny wanders into the kitchen and sits at the table opposite Tubbs. Their feet almost meeting, the woman relegated to blur in the mid distance. However the 'macho' tag that people always attach to Mann's work doesn't apply. It's about men, for sure, but the women in MV are assertive, tough, clever and totally in control of their worlds. cf; the shoot-out at the trailer park section (where Elizabeth Rodriguez gets to reprise Clint Eastwood's classic 'do ya feel lucky, punk?' speech).
It becomes obvious that the reason Mann returned to remake MV (apart from the fact that it was Jamie Foxx's idea!) was that he's honed his technique to an almost minimal degree - enough to remake a cultural signifier representative of the glossy, vacuous nature of the 80s into a tour de force of style over substance. Who CARES if it's shallow? It's just fabulous storytelling with pictures. What is most thrilling about MV's bravura technique is how it has the stamp of an absolute master all over it. It's the product of years of refinement.
Which brings me on to the BEST thing about MV: Its look. Why critics whinge about the ‘plot’ being flimsy is beyond me. For half the film I couldn’t HEAR most of the dialogue – but Mann’s so good he doesn’t need dialogue. That’s for PLAYWRIGHTS man. The implied violence of the white supremacist kidnapping at the beginning (only at the end do you find out that the victim’s head has been blown off with a noose of explosives) is masterful, with the camera lingering on the corner of a trailer with only a blurred tattooed forearm giving a clue. The camera seemed intent on leading you AWAY from the action at times. Crockett’s wandering gaze out to sea as a supplier is coerced; shots of crumbling villas in Colombia etc. He knows the value of location. He’s already painted glorious pictures of LA, but Miami seems even more suited to his visual language. How many thunderstorms glowered in the background? How BLUE were the glows of those mobile phones? Even a man squished under a truck was made somehow poetic. The cross cutting between DV and film gave incredible immediacy (the gun battle at the denouement was audaciously shot in its seeming randomness – while still making you feel that bullets were whizzing past your head).
But on top of all this pretentious guff lies the fact that MV is fun, fun, fun. 'Go Fast' boats, mejitos in havana, impossibly chic clubs, cars that shoot blue flames from the twin exhausts and a bad guy's lair that is (as VCDH put it) INSANE. Seemingly perched on a cliff high above some Colombian waterfall. Actually, Jamie Foxx's haircut is eqally insane ;-)If the film has any downsides they would have to be the somewhat sickly love interest bit in Havana between Farrell and Gong Li (looking v good at 41!), the slightly dodgy music (one gets the feeling that Mann hasn't really engaged with 21st century music - but at least he didn't resort to 80s retro and there's a MAD remake of Phil Collins' In The Air Tonight over the closing credits!) and the fact that at one point Tubb's girlfriend turns on a laptop and the scrolling code makes that SOUND that computers DON'T make as they show text. Apart from that, I think Mann's made another great movie. I predict in twenty year's time this will be up there with Heat. Give it time...

Monkey business

2006-08-16T17:03:00.002Z

Browsing VCDH's super blog I was drawn to the new video by Japanese maverick electronic pop tart, Cornelius. I urge you to check it, but in the typical Youtube serendipitous way, I was then drawn (hoho) to the following, which was inspired by inkjet printers and made with Masakatsu Takagi. Enjoy!

Weekend Views No.9 (oh, beehive! etc...)

2006-08-15T13:15:00.001Z

Do you know that feeling, when you've perhaps been out too late/not got enough sleep etc. and a film greets you on the television that is SO BAD that you find it kinda comforting in your depleted state? The dialogue is so stilted, the performances so phoned in, the effects so crummy, the plot is negligible/defies any logic - but it all means that instead of having to be a)moved b)think or c)care - you just let it wash over you in all its cheesy glory. Such a film is The Swarm: Irwin Allen's 'three strikes and you're OUT' final disaster movie.
Let's look at the cast, eh? Michael Caine (notorious for his 'take the money and run' performances - so he hardly counts); Katharine Ross (a woman so devoid of charisma you'll think your television is an oil painting while she's onscreen); Fred McMurray (hold on, he was in DOUBLE INDEMNITY ferchrissakes!); Slim Pickens; Cameron Mitchell; Richard Widmark (who looks like he's trying not to laugh throughout); Richard Chamberlain; Jose Ferrer!; Olivia deHavilland!!; Ben Johnson!!?!; HENRY FONDA!?!?! NEVER has such a cast been so wasted in the pursuit of a story about some pissed off insects.
I apologise to those out there who already know of the legendary awfulness of this piece of tripe, but I have to say hats off to the exec at Channel 5 who managed to not only put it on, but put on the DIRECTOR'S CUT which ran to a mind-boggling 2 and 3/4 hours!!! Gee, thanks.
But strangely I'm feeling like a better-rounded individual having seen how inept the US government were at handling billions of angry African Killer Bees (who flew in from South America - spot the mid-70s paranoia) who, in a rather unfortunate scripting move got referred to as just 'Africans' in the latter parts of the movie (ie:' How are we gonna stop these Africans spreading all over the country?'). Houston got burned to the ground. That's not such a bad thing is it? And Michael Caine in the final hopeless scene couldn't even be BOTHERED to kiss the girl. I urge all my readers to see it asap. It defies belief...

Weekend Views No.8 (in a field)

2006-08-09T19:23:00.001Z

Back from a weekend, not in Shropshire as I stupidly put in my previous post, but Gloucestershire where a load of fairly posh white people get together in a field and pretend like it's 1969, or something. Actually, The Big Chill (pix here) was a super-fine festival this year. I managed to tick all the 'ooh, I MUST see them'; boxes. So that means I was blown away by the awesome Toy who beautifully recreated their slightly dark Hamleycore laptop fun. Sparks - the Gilbert and George of clever pop (making the Pet Shop Boys look like Erasure) - were also quite stunning. The entire album, Hello Young Lovers, was performed, along with their fabulous multi-media show, to rapturous applause, followed by a greatest hits medley. Swoon.
This year's biggest disappointment was the aforementioned Malcolm Cecil and Tonto's Expanding Headband. Amazingly I DID meet him! And we did talk about Steve Hillage!! But then he spoilt it all by doing something stoopid, like PLAYING. Ten minutes of footage nicked from BBC's Soul Deep harping on about his work with Stevie Wonder, followed by some frankly rubbish noodling ona cheap synth sent 90% of the crowd packing (including me). Still, he was a lovely man...and here's the proof!
Other highlights included the Heritage Orchestra with Deodato (despite them being signed to Gilles peterson's label), John Metcalfe (with Max Richter and on his own with, amongst others, Andy Gangadeen of the Bays)Amadou and Mariam and, best of all several blissed out hours spent staring at Brian Eno's '77 Million Paintings' installation (see pic at top). Can't wait to buy the software...

Wirey

2006-08-09T17:12:00.001Z

As previously mentioned - I'm currently battling with the laptop and a bunch o' wires to produce something approximating music to share with Mexico. EBP's generous loan of a Korg Prophecy (messing with my purist use of only things wiv strings) has opened up a whole new universe which I'm currently trying to expand to fill.
Basically I'm finding the whole experience (linked with the recent purchase of a loop station) has set my synapses alight (ie: I'm getting no sleep as I sit in my little nest of cables and flashing neon) as I go back and erase and overdub and erase and overdub until I end up with soundbeds that I feel would make interesting starting points for more polished 'compositions' (and I use the term very loosely).
What amazes me is that I end up making diagrams such as the one affixed to this post and that the simple act of pushing buttons twiddling knobs and pressing black and white keys in such a RANDOM fashion always seems to end up conveying remarkably precisely where my head is AT (to use the muso parlance hehe).
I LOVE the element of chance in making music. It's like lifeblood to my thought processes, and yet a circuitous path still sends me to the same destination as a rigorously planned one. How does this happen? What's more, I agonize over the 'credibility' of such a wayward methodology, yet I then hear a track like Peter Namlook and Klaus Schultze's Three pipers At The Gates Of Dawn (from Dark Side Of The Moog) which consists of ONE NOTE and I realise that I'm still TOO FORMAL. Confusing, or what?
Of course, I should now present examples. They will follow shortly. But trust me when I say that my subconscious seems to be stronger than my waking psyche. Way stronger. I'm in a dark space. But it's good...

Off to see the wizard...

2006-08-03T17:08:00.001Z

Boy oh boy...I'm about to visit the Big Chill (for my foreign readers - a festival of startling civility, filled with musical eccentricity, somewhere in Shropshire.) On this year's bill are the mighty Sparks, Toy and, most excellently of all - Tonto's Expanding Headband! Picture your humble servant discussing Stevie Wonder and Steve Hillage with Malcolm Cecil. In a field.
Well, you never know. It might happen...
See you next week folks.

Bottom Of The Despised(s)

2006-07-30T19:05:00.001Z

Well, I knew it wasn't gonna be pretty, but I've just witnessed the shambles that passed for the last ever Top Of The Pops and it was one of those occasions where you honestly didn't know how to laugh or cry.
Initially, especially for someone of my advanced years, the reaction to seeing the terminal patient that used to be 'Britain's Number 1' having its plug pulled is to offer sigh of relief. For too long now has this 'institution' been obviously completely irrelevant to every single music-loving person in the UK. But, hold on...wasn't it always thus? Anyone who can remember what it was like as your whole family gathered around to witness the travesties of chartdom paraded, unconvincingly miming, before your eyes (and that's a lot of people) will know that TOTP was ALWAYS naff. Obviously. But by the end of this hour of 10 second clips and ill-chosen 'highlights' from the last 42 years I got all nostalgic. Because yes, it was always terrible. Just as Radio 1 was always terrible because it was a political move to lure teenagers away from the license-dodging pirates; the Pops was born of a desperate attempt to capture a teenage market already won over by Jack Good's ITV-based Oh Boy (his earlier 6.5 Special which was on BBC was fatally marred by the beeb insisting on putting educational material in the mix. They also tried to ban tennagers from the audience) and Elkan Allen's Ready Steady Go.
Yet it was a central part of my childhood. Like everyone else, I had my middle-English value system worn down by a series of eye-popping delights over the years. And these made me the mensch I am today. Keith Moon's leer; Freddie Mercury's overbite; Pan's Peoples legs; Noddy Holder's top hat; Alice Cooper's rapier; Arthur Brown's flaming headdress; blah blah etc etc. And so much more. Every week you knew 90% was going to be taken up with Englebert Humperdinck, Boney M or even, God forbid, Ken Dodd's new atrocity, or the like. But still, there was the chance to glimpse (and this is where I lose my younger readers) something cool. Maybe.
There was virtually (unless you were allowed up to watch the Old Grey Whistle Test, and this was even before stuff like the Tube, Revolver or even - gulp- Rock Goes To College) NO pop music on TV.
So even though the DJs were all super-annuated creeps (except for the mighty Blackburn, and the strange period where Peel and Jensen got all subversive), the fact remained that it was kinda mandatory watching. Thus, to see this awful smorgasbord of sublime and utterly awful tonight broke my heart. I found myself shouting at the screen when (in, I guess, an attempt to explain to an audience of under 25s who wouldn't even understand WHY this was a poignant moment) they wheeled on several no-mark contemporary Radio 1 jocks and some modern clips that, frankly, served to underline how pop music used to be good, but isn't really any more. Beyonce flouncing around doesn't really stand up to Bowie and Ronson camping it up to Starman. It just looked like a sexy black girl shouting at the TOTP crowd 'are you with me?' a lot. Charmless.
And who let Edith bleedin' Bowman read out the final top ten countdown? Even next to DLT she looked and sounded about as charismatic as a Glasgow docker.
In fact there was a dearth of the legendary names we used to love to hate in them days. Where were Bates, Powell, Freeman, Jensen, Edmonds, Brooks and even Diddy David Hamilton? This could have been SO much fun...
The new DJs represent a generation that doesn't give a flying fuck about such programming. And neither should they. Andi Peters isn't evil (well, much) because he failed to rescue the show and turned it into a pale shadow of its former glory. No, it was dead in the water years before. Anyone in their teens now has choice up the kazoo and a zillion ways to get the stuff. Why WOULD they care about it? We watched this crap for years so they didn't have to. As such any attempt to represent anything from the last ten years was a waste of air time. We didn't need to see Gnarls Barkley (despite it being, actually one of the more creative uses of the TOTP stage in recent times). It was only ubiquitously on the radio about five minutes ago.
So shame on you BBC. Not only did you bury the show without honour or care, you managed to remind us all how empty and sad most of modern life is, too. Cheers...

Weekend Views No.7

2006-07-25T20:09:00.001Z

Sometimes life is synchronous to the point of madness. Take this example: I'm halfway through the latest collection of short stories by Haruki Murakami - Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman - and i'm reading it on my journey home from Manchester's Futuresonic Fiasco. By the time I'm on the tube to Brixton I'm reading a story called 'Tony Takitani'. As I reach Brixton I just finish the story, walk up the escalator, step onto a bus and as I sit down I look up. The bus is passing the Ritzy cinema, and up on the hoarding it says, between Superman and Pirates of the ~Carribean...yup, you guessed it...Tony Takitani!
Weird. I'm sure all you film buffs out there will be screaming 'we knew that film was out!!' but put yourself in my place. I'd never heard of this film, and suddenly, seconds after READING this story, there it is on the silver screen. I nearly fainted. Especially as Murakami's tales are FULL of strange coincidences and almost surreal twists of fate.
Of course, I HAD to see it.
Jun Ichikawa's film of Murakami's tale of a lonely man whose wife cannot stop buying clothes is wonderfully minimal. Set to a suitably sparse piano score by Ryuichi Sakamoto it's shot in muted greys and with stylised panning shots seperating each quiet scene. Two actors play the four main characters with only their interjections into the spoken narrative providing most of what amounts to dialogue. Hardly anything happens, but that doesn't matter one bit. Now THAT's film making. What's more you get to see some beautiful clothes.
To think, if this chain of coincidence hadn't alerted to me the existence of this film, I might never have seen it. Wowser.
Life is strange sometimes...

Nonsensical pub argument time

2006-07-24T21:25:00.001Z

This is Graham Gouldman. You know, the tall geezer who played bass with Manchester's second best band ever (they'd win if Magazine didn't exist). He was fairly succesful before he joined the clever boys and started making clever pop rekkids that took the piss out of pop; long before the Pet Shop Boys thought about it. Anyway after EBP mentioned he'd watched the band in an archive gig on BBC Four we got talking about how his previous career had been as a staff writer of hits for early 60s bands such as the Hollies (Bus Stop) and the Yardbirds (For Your Love) and it suddenly occurred to me that, even more than being the bass player for Manchester's second greatest combo, he had a greater claim to fame.
This man made Eric Clapton quit the Yardbirds. Faced with recording another pop nugget from GG's pen (Heart Full Of Soul, actually) he upped and quit; claiming that he was devoting his puritanical, hypocritical ass to THE BLUES. Like he'd received the tablets from Robert Johnson himself. Pah.
Anyway, this, as any self-respecting pop scholar can tell you, opened the floodgates to the might of Jeff Beck, and even later, James Patrick Page. Clapton, of course went on to make, erm...great psychedelic POP records with Cream and then took up heroin. But this all happened because of GRAHAM GOULDMAN. Pivotal or what? What would have happened if GG hadn't written that song? Would EC have stuck with the, frankly, not quite stellar Yardbirds? Would Beck have made it anyway? Would he have, instead, formed an even better band? The what ifs come pouring out don't they?
So: Graham Gouldman - hero or lanky pretentious bass player with an extensive knowledge of show tunes and complex chords? Go and have a pint and get back to me ;-)

Toys R Us

2006-07-19T12:23:00.002Z

A fallow period blogwise - mainly due to my brain (and fingers) being otherwise occupied with new recordings for my friends in Mexico City. Don't all rush over to Myspace, fans: nothing to show and tell quite yet! But I became well and truly lost in something-approximating-music due to the purchase of a new Boss loop station. Phew...
This combined with EBP's Korg Prophecy led me into murky (ie: GOOD) territory where I was stranded with few reference points. This could be the jolt I needed. watch this space...
Meanwhile, if anyone's going to this I'd be happy to meet up and talk rubbish over a drink or two. I shall be at the back, looking longingly at Fennesz on Friday night ;-)

Hurry up the pie...

2006-07-13T13:50:00.001Z

In a week beset by loss, fractiousness (is that a word?) and moving office (sigh...) it's good to retain one's sense of humour. I'm sure the whole world knows of Weebl (and his friend Bob), but if not, it's worth checking out these two insightful depictions of the true condition of JAZZ: here and here. Well, it made me laugh...

Sometimes...

2006-07-13T13:31:00.001Z

...this prattling, buzzy, semi-pointless chatter we call blogging approaches the condition of poetry. But only sometimes...

Syd RIP

2006-07-11T14:11:00.001Z

Just heard the news about the sad demise of Roger Keith 'Syd' Barrett, psychedelic explorer, childhood hero and...oh fuck it, I can't go on with a eulogy in this type of forum. Within hours the blogosphere will be filled with tributes by 20 year old whippersnappers from Italy about 'ze genius madcap. Shine on...etc etc' and none will come close to WHY this man was special. And why I'm so sad about his passing...
Let's face it, he was deeply disturbed and didn't want our attention for most of his life. But for a very brief coupla years Syd made this world a better place. Piper At The Gates Of Dawn has remained in my top 5 albums of all time since I first heard it at about the age of 13. I'm so old I can just remember seeing the Floyd on Top Of The Pops when I was 7, doing See Emily Play. Even at that age I knew it was better than most things. Syd was one of the very first stars who proved you didn't have to sing in a fake American accent. He was Edward Lear, Lewis Carroll and the Tibetan Book of the Dead rolled into one totally English psychedelic experience. Without him there would be no David Bowie, Julian Cope, Kevin Ayers or Andy Partridge. His guitar-playing influenced such luminaries as Daevid Allen and Fred Frith. And me ;-)
His solo albums were semi-baked documents of weary doom and bewilderment, but still completely original and precious.
I'm too sad to write much more. When I was a teenager I wanted to be him. Now I just hope he's at peace. Bye Syd...

Weekend views No.8

2006-07-10T16:39:00.000Z

A weekend full of nice stuff, really. Picnics, yoga and such. But of course you don't come here to read about my chirpy, London-style hedonism...you come here for incessant ramblings on what I watched on TV! And it was a weekend of two cinematic halves (as always). Saturday night saw me hunkered down in front of Species - starring the scenery chewing antics of Ben(dhi) Kingsley, the macho bullshit of Michael Madsen, the under-used talent of Alfred 'man of a thousand accents' Molina, the over-used 'look at me I'm a sad man' join the dots-stylings of Forest Whitaker and a script ludicrous enough to be great fun. Awesome. Whatever happened to Natasha Henstridge? Oh yeah...she made Species 2 and...err...Species 3! Top alien sex fiend action.
But this pales into insignificance next to Sunday's offering. In a weak attempt to woo viewers away from the Wimbledon Men's Final ITV came up with one of my all-time fave movies. I love a good western (no, we're NOT talking Audie Murphy or Randolph Scott here, pardners). John Ford's Searchers is, possibly, my favourite movie. Full stop.
So roll on Destry Rides Again (1939). James Stewart in pre-war innocence meets tart with a heart, Marlene Deitrich, in the frontier town of Bottleneck. This B&W gem has it all. Cattlemen vs townsfolk; girl-on-girl bar room brawls; and Deitrich singing some GREAT numbers. Stewart as Destry cleans up the town without the aid of firearms (until his friends get killed, natch) and everyone gets what they deserve. Perfect Sunday afternoon viewing. beats two men hitting a furry ball back and forth for three hours, anyhow!

A whale of a time...

2006-07-04T09:20:00.001Z

Last night, myself and EBP set the controls for the heart of Leicester Square to witness the premiere of Da Pink Floyd's Pulse DVD at the Vue cinema. Normally the prospect of an hour and a half of the Cambridge hippies in late-period (Division Bell tour) mode wouldn't have tempted us, but there was the added bonus of seeeing three of the (ahem) boys in a Q&A after the showing. Huzzah! Here was our chance to find out exactly how Nick Mason's drumming lessons are going and whether David 'don't call me Dave' Gilmour was still partial to the odd jazz ciggy.
Truth be told the screening was actually quite diverting, with the band opting wisely to show the entire Dark Side section of the show. I must admit that the rendition of the 'Great Gig In The Sky' left me with a small tear of emotion in my eye. That Sam Brown - she's got a lovely voice. Or maybe it was the free beer and the 5.1 re-mix that was doing it.
Anyhow, on shuffled DavID, Nick and Rick. Nick, fresh from his stint as traitorous scum with ol' Grumpy Roger in Hyde Park two days previous was obviously the butt of some private jokes between the other two - but on the whole it was damn entertaining. They wryly fielded ludicrous questions from mad Belgians and dullard journos in those plummy public school voices and quote of the evening came from Big Dave as someone asked where they could get one of Storm Thorgerson's giant eyeballs that grace the cover of the DVD (and were perched either side of the stage). Without missing a beat Gilmour said - "They were plucked from the eye of a blue whale". Nice...careful with that spliff, David.

Current Buns No.17

2006-06-29T11:55:00.000Z

Ok, another slow-off-the-mark posting by yours truly on this month's re-issue par excellence - Bob Fripp's awesome, mighty and totally unclassifiable Exposure.
For so many years the fading memory of my vinyl copy along with a useless CD edition made me feel that this snapshot of everything good about the early 80s post punk NY scene was somehow only good in parts. EBP used to shake his head in disbelief when I, a fully paid-up member of the 'Deify Fripp' brigade, used to talk sniffily about this as 'not his best'. How wrong I was. Hats, scarves and indeed any other outer garments off to Simon Heyworth. The sound on this two-cd special edition is unbelievably good. Finally we get to hear what old Mr Wimborne was actually trying to do.
Except, of course, that I've already called this album 'unclassifiable', which means it not only makes unbelievable leaps in style and pace, but that it contains hybrids for which there are no names. Sure, you get the early Frippertronics (at their utter peak on the quite mesmerisingly bleak "Urban Landscape") along with a series of wryly amusing audio verite clips by Fripp, Brian Eno, J G Bennett and Fripp's mum. But the transitional nature of the work allows elements to creep in that the modern-day composer wouldn't ever sanction (one suspects). This is most apparent in the choice of drummers. Narada Michael Walden and Jerry Marotta's looser styles mean that proto Crim tracks such as "Häaden Two" or "Breathless" come across as punk-prog fusion. Mahavishnu Pistols, if you will. I also LOVE the fact that Tony Levin plays just like John Wetton on this album!
Elsewhere it's the vocalists who push this anomalous document into unfamiliar waters. We can finally compare both Daryl Hall and Peter Hammill's efforts on the same tracks and it's a complete tie imho. Both are on peak form. Mind you, Hall's rendition of "North Star" is peerless. Better than its close cousin "Matte Kudesai"? You decide, dear reader.
Overall the best thing about Exposure is that it allowed Fripp to be HUMOROUS and self-deprecating, removing a lot of the more pretentious overtones that blight his reputation with non-believers. OK it was part of his mysterious 'drive to 1981', but this is the sound of a man who'd been through the music industry ringer and come out as a human being.
Anyway, I'd like to apologise to EBP, Robert and everyone else for so horribly getting it wrong for all these years. The shame of it...

Guilty pleasure (with Dobly)

2006-06-24T13:49:00.000Z

To the Scala last night for an evening of semi-enjoyment. Thomas Dolby was doing a warm-up for his Wireless Festival appearance on Sunday and I had to catch the old geek for old times' sake. A short set composed of all the hits (Hyperactive, She Blinded me..., Windpower, One Of Our Submarines, The Flat Earth, Hot Sauce, Airhead, Heading North, I Live In A Suitcase etc etc) went down well with the balding audience. It was 50% pure nostalgic guilty 80s pleasure and 50% cheese. Like a cross between a nerdy electronics convention demo (as he used a head mounted camera to show us what all the boxes did on the big screen) and a poignant revival of post industrial techno pop. He even got his three kids up on stage at one point (dressed as mini Dolbys). One couldn't help but be won over by the warmth of the reception the crowd gave him, but the trouble was the whole one-man schtick. After the first number the software crashed and from that point it all felt a little too precarious and like watching a man recreate epics in his bedroom. Bleepy noises tended to crash the mix too loudly. Midi is clever, sure, but it doesn't really make up for a BAND. Still, gawd bless him...

London life no.2

2006-06-23T09:06:00.001Z

This from the marvellous Londonist made me laugh. A lot. Well, at least it stopped me crying...Anyone who has had to endure those recent tv screen abominations on the bus (and in taxis too) will know what I mean.

Brought to book No.2

2006-06-19T20:20:00.001Z

The big advantage of going on yer hols is, of course, NOT to get a good dose of skin cancer and ozone followed by rich food and trinket buying in some foreign field. Oh no. It's so you can grab the latest hardbacks in those handy to carry (not) 'airport editions'! So it was that I grabbed the latest David Mitchell opus, Black Swan Green.
Initially put off by the back cover's description of it being the experiences of a 13-year old growing up in a midddle English village in the early 80s, my doubts were further confirmed by a tendency to try far too bloody hard to place the reader back in 1981 (lots of references to pixie boots, Spandau Ballet and asteroids - for which I think we can blame the Andrew Collinses of this world). But hold on...this is David Mitchell, and he's GOOD. Veering wildly from the magical realism of his previous 3 novels he has power over words that lifts what could be a mildly funny, poignant picture of adolescence (shiver) into a poetic and gripping read. His best trick is to make you think all is mundane and then show you that even suburbia is as dark and arcane as any fantasy world. I laughed, I cried, I want more...

The Sparks of life

2006-06-19T19:45:00.000Z

Back from my hols and straight into work mode; but work of quite a pleasant type. having (nearly) finished my bout with Robert Palmer's Island back catalogue, I'm now embroiled in the sleevenotes for Sparks' 'Indiscreet' album. And thus to a quick afternoon meet wiv da brudders Mael in a pub on Marylebone High St. Not only were they as charming as ever, they remembered me from our last interview about three zillion years ago when 'Lil' Beethoven' (a modern work of genius imho) was unleashed on an indifferent world.
While a fellow hack interogated Ron about 'Propaganda' I got to chat to Russ. As the sole constant interpretor of Ron's muse, Russell is a brave and clever man (with a voice that no one could mistake). We discussed how the album has avoided the ravages of time and fashion by being so OUT THERE in the first place as to be in a universe all of its own. My kinda music in other words. 'Indiscreet' remains a pinnacle in the brothers oeuvre. By using Tony Visconti as the replacement for Muff Winwood in the producer's chair they savvily employed a man who could finally turn their skewed mini-operatic narratives into fully-realised slices of perverse prog powerpop. Listening to it again last night filled me with wonder. I mean, how many albums with songs about pineapples, disability, imperialism, breasts and infant sexuality can YOU name? A bit like Steely Dan crossed with Gilbert and Sullivan and T. Rex (god, I sound like a bad press release). If you don't know this gem, well, wait until it gets re-released, then you can read me rambling on about it at even more tedious lengths!
Oh, and re: the pic on the rear sleeve (if you know it) - the horse had to be sedated apparently...

Current Buns No. 16 (Holiday listening)

2006-06-09T06:48:00.000Z

Off today for a much-needed week in some sunshine. So what kinda music do I shove on the iPod to make the whole experience that much more AUDIOVISUAL? Why, hours of post-punk nonsense of course! Been listening to the works of Howard Devoto and Magazine recently. Surely if a band deserved a more lofty place in history it's this Manchester five piece? John McGeoch's John Barry-meets-Hank Marvin guitar lines; Dave Formula's cheesoid synth; Barry Adamson's bendy bass; all topped off by Howard and his obliquely disdainful dadaism. Luvverly. Saw 'em five times when they were still around back in the day and they still inspire me. Some things you never grow out of...
So, lots of that, as well as the new Dixie Chicks album which is somewhat dourer than their previous effort, due in no small part to Rick Rubin's somewhat flat production. But maybe quality will out. I'll let you know in a week. Byeee....

Noodling (for coins)

2006-06-06T11:23:00.000Z

Recovering from what Mr F would describe as a 'devil bug' I've been back to the old digital drawing board to see if my fingers are better. The result was an e-bowed cover version of Frank Zappa's 'Watermelon In Easter Hay' - a tune so lovely that even I can't balls it up. However after sticking it on my Myspace account I had a crisis of confidence and took it down again. Maybe if I get enough requests I'll unleash it. Until then welcome to another piece of noodling entitled 'Two Face'...go and listen, but don't say you weren't warned...

The power of editing

2006-06-01T12:19:00.000Z

I've been ill. No, not through watching too much Lusht...but because I got a nasty lung infection that's kept me at home for the last three days, feeling sorry for myself and playing old Procol Harum and Todd Rundgren albums for comfort (on which note; did anyone see the truly awful programme on BBC2 about the Summer Of Love last saturday? It was only partially redeemed by Gary Brooker's lovely rendition of "A Whiter Sade Of Pale" at the piano. His voice doesn't appear to have changed in the slightest..). Even laughing has been agony - But THIS made me laugh so much I thought I'd end up in hospital. Genius editing, whoever you are Mr fkappreciative. And a zillion points deducted for the man who claims that Dream Theatre will save prog. It's not dead, it just smells funny....

Lusht end of term report (ENORMOUS BLOODY PLOT SPOILER AHOY MATEYS!)

2006-05-30T15:25:00.000Z

Firstly: big apology for this posting to anyone who doesn't watch Lusht...
Well, i've watched it three times and I'm still scratching my head. The double-length finale was a tasty mix of revelation and more obfustication that left you quite breathless. Well, we'd all be disappointed with our favourite sci fi soap if it didn't make us do that, now wouldn't we? I even made NOTES for god's sake. I wrote a list of the characters and their interconnections, but decided that was essentially a waste of time. I read all the message boards and forums. Two things become clear:
1) There are a lot of totally crazy theories being generated by this thing and...
2) I devote FAR too much thinking time to trying to figure out how it's all fitted together. I went on a meditation weekend and found that instead of my babbling ego all I was confronting were the endless permutations of how the plot might develop. Sigh...so this posting isn't any kind of deep thinking, more a purgative to cleanse me until Season 3 wrecks my life again.
Firstly let's hear it for Desmond. Whatta guy. What an actor actually. His despair at his plight after killing Kelvin (Solaris connections here?) was truly moving. No, really. The bit with the whiskey bottle, the letter and the beautiful linking of his and Locke's despair was truly masterful. And despite the stereotyping (he's Scottish, so he DRINKS) he presented probably the first truly sympathetic character. By the end I was praying that the failsafe wouldn't wipe him out of the plot for good (though I have a feeling his sacrificial redemption kinda cancels that out). Compare his emoting with Jack's binary style. Jack's either Dr intense and moody or he's just doing that 'I'm really upset and betrayed' look (see pic). Mind you, he was well in order with that one as he finally 'outed' the useless Michael. (please STAY on the boat and DON'T come back. Though, isn't Walt gonna start whinging when he realises his dog's been left on the island? ~And what about that nasty rash? Is that supposed to imply the infection?).
Yes, Des had it all. Well all the clues anyway. On the 'Our Mutual Friend' front, I'm fighting shy of reading too much into the inclusion of the book (especially as the Owl Creek thing was a bit of a red herring methinks), but it occurs to me that Des' fave author is notable in this context for his use of ridiculous COINCIDENCES. Yup, just like Lusht, old Charles loved to link his characters in somewhat unbelievable ways.
McDes also managed a double whammy of having both a rather attractive girlfriend, Penny Widmore (was that Jim from Neighbours as her dad?) AND bringing back the lovely Libby (albeit in a ridiculous wig. What is it with the make-up dept on this programme? Can't they make hair believable? That's Jack, Locke and Libby all made to look laughable). Mind you, handing over a cool 42,000 dollar boat marks her as SUSPICIOUS when coupled with her appearance in Hurley's asylum. Other great clues of note:
a) Kelvin - the awesome Clancy Brown, formerly the 'spook' who taught Sayid to cut off digits - refers to the Others as 'hostiles' (and thus, so does Des). This implies that the Others - referred to by Henry Gale as "the good guys' - are opposed to the Dharma Initiative in some way. Meaning that the plane crash survivors are part of the experiment.
b) Why did Radzinsky - Des' predecesssor who left his brains all over the Swan station ceiling - make edits to the orientation film?
c) come to that, why the hell did he feel the need to draw an INVISIBLE map on the blast door? And why was Kelvin continuing it? Did they KNOW they were being observed?
d) Des' reference to there being nothing out there and being in a snow globe seem to imply a big an self-contained space. Snow man jokes? Also Des headed West, whereas Michael was told to head to 325 on a compasss, that's NNW. Also Des had one of the the best lines in the series. "I think I crashed your plane'. So yes, the button DID do something and it was to stop the Swan station turning into the set of Carrie. Quite honestly, this section was making very little sense 10 minutes after the show ended despite as an excuse to pile on the special effects (shame on you for using the running away from a blossoming explosion cliche). Ok, the bit where all the metal gear was flying about was great and I LOVED the bit where the timer imploded. You broke the clock guys! Talk about comic timing, especially twinned with Locke's 'oops, I kinda fucked up there, didn't I?' look. It would only have been funnier if the little heiroglyphics had popped out on springs while going 'boing'. And what WAS the failsafe? Obviously big and magnetic (cf: the also amusing quarantine door nearly taking out dullsville Bernard), but was it kept secret because its use would give away the location of the island to the outside world (which we now know exists)? Kelvin Inman's drunken explanation (which he subsequently denied) wasn't really that helpful was it? Though it did point back to Rose's faith healer's statement about parts of the earth's crust having magnetic anomalies. So is that it for the station? With Jack, Sawyer and Kate all going to the Others' 'home' it's looking increasingly likely that either new characters in the remaining survivors are brought in, Sayid and Jin take the reins or that Hurley and Charlie are gonna start acting grown up. What was it with Charlie? Is he being nasty and disingenuous about Locke and Eko not returning? Why won't he talk about the incident? And do he and Claire deserve each other? His hobbityness continues to annoy intensely. Actually, thinking about this a bit more it would seem that Sayid, Jin and Sun, with Des' boat are well-placed to rescue Dr Jack et al (probbaly just before they find out anything about the others)...
More really good stuff was the revelation that Henry was maybe 'HIM". His line about Mr Friendly's beard was the second best in the series. I'm starting to really like him. His greeting and little bow to the gagged Jack was hilarious, and he's really good at delivering lines with just the right amount of sarcasm. You couldn't help but imagine that his 'bon voyage Michael' line was not entirely heartfelt. So WAS he on his way to get Locke? He obviously lied about not pressing the button. I was concerned about his reference to the fact that Walt was more than THEY could handle - does this mean the writers are just gonna ignore all the weird psychic stuff?... Gawd, I'm going on a bit here aren't i?
So what else was good? The statue? I couldn't work out what was more disquieting: the fact that the rest of the statue was missing, the fact that it had four toes, or that Sayid chose to use the word 'disquieting' to describe it. I can't help thinking that the producers threw it in to make all those theorists ramble on about Atlantis, the Colosssus at Rhodes and time travel (again). Most American blogs seem to regard it as a rather inane Simpsons reference... Doh!
The production values continued to soar in most areas except in the case of the Hurley bird (the one that catches the worm?) which was, frankly, useless. C'mon guys, get a better CGI crew in quick. It was a weird green blurry thing. Which reminds me. Whither the MONSTER? Forgotten that one hadn't you? Maybe the budget ran out for more wiggly black smoke. But the island continued to whisper its sweet 'aloha's to the viewer. The rock formations near the cove where Des' boat was anchored were sweet (although they'd been used before when the tail section group were travelling across the island) and as the Walt rescue party came over that hill I just sighed at the verdant loveliness of it all. Why does no one ever say, 'Wow, this is beautiful man. Just like err...Hawaii'?
The final mindfuck was neat (if only because it promised the return of the lovely Penny next season) but here's the biggest weirdness - WAS that Matthew Fox playing a dorky portuguese chess-playing scientist in the employ of Ms Widmore? If so, the producers are denying it, but come on...they, like the Others, are prone to lying through their teeth. I wondered if it could be another of their little jokes. The whole twin thing is perplexing, but look at the screen grab. If that's NOT him, I'll eat my Dharma issue hat.
So, to sum up, it's all nonsense, but it's made me write all this just to try and put it into perspective. I grow more and more disturbed by the contemporary isssues signposted in the plot details. The plane crashed on Sept 22nd (a little too close to 9/11 for comfort), Sayid's Gulf war experiences, references to global catastrophe - it all adds up to post-millenial discomfort. Yup, it's disquieting...
Critics are already muttering 'shark jumping' and predicting the end of Lost. Some people hate to be messed with TOO much, and the producers' clues about more 'romance' in series 3 DO look worrying, but it still beats Big Brother. But the writers neeed to iron out their obvious 'making it up as we go along'ness if they don't want to risk losing the more sane viewers (hey, the nerds will always dig it). Actually, I DO know what's gonna happen. It's all Vincent's doing. Anyone notice that while the sky was turning violet there was no sign of the demon pooch (who always seems to turn up at BAD times)? That's coz it's all in his doggy mind. Really.
But one last thing...if JJ Abrams ever reads this - can we have the Polar bears back please?

Addendum: The marvellous TVWP have posted their hilarious recap of the finale. I was particularly moved by this concise summing up of the series in the thank-yous at the end: 'thanks to ABC for turning the exercise of broadcasting a simple television show into as much of a cynical mindgame as anything Dharma could come up with -- what with the screwy schedule, four clip shows this season, few-minutes-past-the-hour running times, crass projects like books and websites that you like to call "interactive" but are really just excuses to try to grab more advertising revenue'
See you in the next life, brother...

Totally tubular, man...

2006-05-25T08:46:00.000Z

Yes, I KNOW everyone in the world is digging YouTube right now. But boy, the treasures seem to be never-ending, like that story that Limahl used to bang on about. Of COURSE everyone's seen the fabulous Gonks Go Beat clip, featuring the Graham Bond Organization mixing it up with some happening longhairs (and Kenneth Connor) on a beach...with a stuffed tiger. Awesome stuff, if only for Dick Heckstall Smith, Jack Bruce and Ginger Baker being reprimanded for not being 'happening' enough and a 'blink and you'll miss it' appearance of a pre-fusion John 'ey up' McLaughlin.
But 5 minutes of browsing discovered some more dark secrets which have turned my world upside down. For instance, check this promo of Syd's Floyd performing "Jugband Blues", with Roger and Rick on tuba and trombone! I mean, christ...I NEVER knew that Syd was even remotely together enough to do this, and legend always seemed to imply that by the time they cut the song that Gilmour had been drafted in and Syd was well on the way out. So WHEN was this recorded? Mind you, check Syd's vacant stare. Nick Mason's expression says it all really.
It's Mason again who sums up the band's feelings on this other prime slice of Barrett careering off the rails as they plough manfully through a British TV performance of "Apples And Oranges". Note how Waters looks embarassed (and daggers at Syd) and Wright grins inanely, as though he's desperate to show that he's having fun. As ever Mason looks wryly amused, while the producer desperately tries to avoid pointing any cameras at a lead singer who is so obviously SOMEWHERE ELSE in the cosmos. Cracking...
But wait, there's much more than this standard psych history on the site. My overwhelming love of all things prog and Greek led me to unearth these beauties. Check a pre-666 Aphrodite's Child as they mime appallingly through "Rain And Tears" in a garden full of Greek statues (see what they did there?). Dig Vangelis' groovy Carnaby St threads and moody stare. Marvel at Demis Roussos looking only slightly less enormous than he did in later years. And smile at the drummer, obviously wishing he was somewhere else with a bottle of Ouzo. Let's face it, they look like a bunch of lysergic goat-herders (and all the better for it, too).
Talking of the mighty warbling man mountain from the Aegean, this is also worth a quick look. I love the way he seems to be cueing the bass player at the beginning of the clip (despite miming badly) and how, for him, hair care was obviously NEVER an issue. What a voice though...

Brought To Book No.3

2006-05-18T14:57:00.000Z

Finally finished Joe Boyd's 60s autobiography-cum-anecdote fest. Unfortunately it left me a trifle cold (and believe me, anyone who knows me will tell you that Joe's subject matter is of primary interest to moi) though I'm now kinda bookending the experience (hoho) by embarking on Graham Bennett's mighty tome on the Soft Machine, Out Bloody Rageous!. Anyone who's read Wrong Movements and Gong Dreaming Vol1, and who has a passing interest in what was shaking in London or Canterbury in the mid 60s will be familiar with a lot of the material, but Bennett's thorough approach finally ties it all together in an accurate manner with a style that's hardly emotive, yet still readable.
I find it fascinating how Daevid Allen was such a mover and shaker back then (worked with Burroughs and Gysin etc) and, as Robert Wyatt points out, was so very influential in his guitar stylings, having no roots in blues or R & B whatsoever. His raga style was very influential in London in the summer of love, though he himself admits that his awesome glissando technique was born while watching Syd Barrett playing at the 14 Hour Technicolour Dream. Still, no Allen, no Hillage. And I believe Fred Frith rates him too. Praise indeed...
One last thing Allen did was come up with the best band name, ever: Mister Head. Long may he continue to do whatever it is he does. Time, nor anything else, seem to have diminished him one jot. See you in Amsterdam in November!

Current Buns No.15 (Great Scott!)

2006-05-14T15:49:00.000Z

In total contrast to the last posting - mine ears are also currently doing battle with the mighty new Scott Walker album, The Drift. Many have already waxed lyrical in a far more erudite fashion on this somewhat...ummm...'challenging' work than I ever could, yet I feel inclined to put in a two centsworth just to show that I'm no slouch in the 'out there' stakes (as if)...
The fact of the matter is that it's a big ol' beast of an album. Its subjects (Mussolini's mistress, Elvis' brother as analogy for twin towers etc) all show a man who's both extremely eager to NOT be obscure (check the sleeve notes) and also THINKING about stuff. Hardly that avant garde, then. What IS challenging is his ability to cling to his crooner's method of vocal expression, when matched to the brooding soundscapes that lurk round every corner on every track (never has an album seemed to lapse so much into near silence). I found myself having to explain to a total Walker virgin the other day why the Drift is prone to make even hardened free jazz nuts in my office shudder. Imagine trying to map out his journey - from mum-friendly hits like "The Sun..."and "Joanna" to stuff that gets namechecked by people to signify their Wireness (a new adjective I'm quite proud of) - to someone who's never heard a thing he's done since "No Regrets". And gawd bless him for being so damn contrary. But really, he's just being, well, European. No one would have made such a fuss in Paris in 1968. Which is, I think, where Scott still is, in his head.
The Drift is definitely unpleasant and uncomfortable, but it's also beautiful, heartening and inspiring to anyone who feels that modern music has run out of steam. His voice is strange and mannered, but then, so is Bob Dylan's. I'm just glad he is still around and able to do such things to my lazy, complacent head. I'm not ready to turn into Nick Hornby yet...
Last thing: I caught an interview with the other Walker brothers (you know, John and Gary; the ones who didn't really do anything except look pretty) on Classic Gold. Universal are releasing another Walker Brothers compilation...a coincidence? I think not. And one that really should be ignored. Yes, I LOVE the Walker Brothers. But don't cloud the radar, man. The Drift deserves ALL your attention.

Current Buns No.14

2006-05-12T14:03:00.000Z

Through office osmosis I've rediscovered Manchester's greatest band. Stuff the Stone Roses (and Uncut's frankly lame attempt to get them back together), the Smiths and the god-awful New Order - the city's most talented sons have to be 10CC! Oft described as the British Steely Dan, these guys came from a similar background to Walter and Donald (former cogs in the 60s pop production line etc.) but instead of a shared love of Duke Ellington, it was musicals, 50s doo-wop and the Beatles that fuelled their 'post-modern before post-modern' approach. They share the same traits as the Dan: Self-referential ("The Worst Band In The World"), cynical ("Oh Effendi!"), adult ("Iceberg"), and still able to drop a hook at the drop of a hat (just about all of their singles); sometimes at a dizzying speed of knots. Check "I Wanna Rule The World" - it's like five great songs rolled into one (for a great vid of this check here).
And the guitar work! Creme and Stewart were, at times, a veritable Betts and Allmann of the UK chart scene. Of course it all went pear-shaped when Lol Creme and Kevin Godley left to form, erm...Godley and Creme. Half of the cleverness went, replaced by a saccharine quality that had been kept in check until then by the duo's acerbic (and very Jewish) humour. I always suspect that Gouldman and Stewart didn't have the taste and style of the other pair, which explains how they came up with something as awful as "Dreadlock Holiday". Mind you, there was always Godley and Creme's "Snack Attack"...
Earlier work such as "Rubber Bullets" displayed far more edge-pushing in the guise of pure pop. How many chart songs could get away with a line like 'I love to hear those convicts squeal. It's a shame these slugs ain't real...'? Genius.
One album I've never heard is the reunion album, ...Meanwhile. Anyone know if it's any good?

Brought To Book No.2

2006-05-11T13:20:00.000Z

Currently halfway through Joe Boyd's long-awaited opus, White Bicycles. It's been in the pipeline for a few years now and unfortunately, while it does give one a genuine thrill reading the words of a man who was literally there at several of the cultural turning points of the 60s (bringing Muddy Waters to England, Dylan at Newport, 14 hour Technicolour Dream at Alexandra Palace etc.), it's obviously the work of a man who understands music but doesn't really have the words to match. hardly ever does it rise much above the level of anecdote. Too many times you get a rollercoaster ride through a star-studded incident (the book reads like a counter cultural who's who) filled with incidents that would be far funnier from the pen of someone more experienced and, finally, get a really deep but brief insight into the way Boyd actually thinks about music. His description of Aretha Franklin's performance of her classics to a predominantly white audience is wonderful:
'Waves of self-congratulatory affection passed back and forth between them: she claiming credit for recognizing what they wanted to hear; the audience adoring themselves for being so hip as to want the 'real thing'. The music was caught in the middle, lifeless and predictable.'
But these snippets (also including his theories as to why English people despise their folk heritage) are too spread out between long passages of 'yes, I was there' stuff.
His analysis of the cultural differences between his native USA and Britain also make compelling reading. We forget how damn HIP we were back then - he describes how he realised this when hearing white teenage English girls screaming for John Lee Hooker in the early 60s, when most Americans didn't even know who he was. It's just a shame that we also have to know how he once had dinner in the same chic French restaurant with Picasso. In all of this it's hard to see Boyd as a person rather than just some superhuman cultural fixer who always knew a good thing when he heard it. To be fair he does constantly refer to himself as an eminence grise but alittle more contextualisation would have been nice.
On a final note , while Joe mixed it up with some of the late 60s mostr eminent 'faces' (Syd Barrett, Mick Farren, Sandy Denny, John 'Hoppy Hopkins, Caroline Coon, Michael X etc.), it's interesting to note that all the best stories are about the Jazz musicians who he handled before 'rock' was born at Newport. The story about Elvin Jones' dog is priceless...

Travelling man (goes anywhere etc.)

2006-05-05T17:03:00.000Z

This represents where I've been - 8%! pathetic

Lusht does the right thing (not the black and white thing etc.)

2006-05-05T09:00:00.000Z

Erm...POTENTIAL PLOT SPOILER ALERT (like no one reading this has access to the internet. Duh) but thank the Lord that ABC and the writers and producers of my favourite dumb/smart high/low concept soap/existential mindf**k have allowed the awful Michael to do something right for once: Rid us of uber grump and gun-totin' rogue cop Ana Lucia. Within seconds of her feeble impression of Vasquez from Aliens she was loathed by fans and commentators alike. Her acting skills ran the whole range of scowl to half scowl making the rest of the cast look like the bleedin' RSC and her self-pitying schtick made us all wish she had run off to the hills to be alone as she wanted in episode 4 of series 2.
What's more interesting though is the sudden rather bleak twist the series has taken. While writers continue to deny the 'limbo' theory, the whole good vs bad concept is getting a little too simplistic. Like some second rate slasher movie Ana HAD to die. Why? BECAUSE SHE HAD SEX! And was it the real Michael or one of these fabled 'bad twins'? Who cares, I prefer the bad ass one. At least he isn't screaming 'Waaaaaalt!' every ten seconds. However I'd completely forgotten another reason for disliking him was his appearance in the second and third Matrix laugh-riots as the woefully dreadlocked Link.
Over the bank holiday i decided to give the sequels another last glimpse for any redeeming features. As expected: all eye candy and nothing else. And I mean NOTHING. I watched both when they came out and found that I couldn't remember a thing about them apart from there being lots of Agent Smiths (possibly the only injection of humour in the whole sorry trilogy apart from Keanu Reeves' inadvertent quip 'whoah...I know kung fu') and that there was a battle scene that went on forever. The sub plots about humanity and family were sickening, the battle scenes lifted wholesale from some dreadful WW2 melodrama and sure enough, by the final scenes where Reeves reaches the machine city I was praying that the robots would renege on their flimsy deal with the humans and wipe them out anyway. If all we can amount to is dreadlocks, kick boxing and cheesy techno bring on the apocalypse etc.
Final word on the island of Lusht souls; there's a new version of the Hanso Foundation site now live in the interweb (just try signing up for the newsletter). This all suggests that the scientific/mad scientist strand is gona come on strong as the series nears its (lack of) conclusion...

Garuda remixed!

2006-05-02T16:39:00.000Z

The EBP has been up to his devilish tricks and done and gorn and remixed me! The awesome (and frankly spooky ) results can be heard here.