gin soaked girl

From the pen of a semi-initiate

2008-05-17T08:48:00.000-07:00

If the definition of festival is 'having a good time with much revelry, jocularity and possibly hilarity included', then the spring anti-folk jamboree (come 'mutiny on the bounty' style insurrection) did nothing to counter that supposition. From start to chaotic finish the nefarious congregation kept me rapt and entertained like an agitated schoolgirl dropped unceremoniously by parachute into a surreal Alice in Wonderland type landscape for lessons in bohemian excess and abandon.

So how does the anti-folk festival differ from other festivals? Well for starters there's an almost despotic disapproval of all things sober and restrained. Not that other festivals I've attended have been temples of sobriety but this one in particular holds no boundaries for irregular and exceptional behaviour of all kinds ("that's not very rock and roll" the barman harangued me with when I started off the evening not with my usual gin but with a half pint measure of limited toxicity. "Yes, sorry for that", I replied, chastened).

Another source of singularity is the claustrophobic intensity of the setting; the 12 Bar leaves no place to hide for the introverted initiate or the mouse-like persona. Unlike other recent corporate sponsored festivals, there are no bouncy castles or chill-out spaces to detract form the musical onslaught. Just a subterranean bunker with a loud, shouty, scatological comic comparing a night of drink and debauchery, with some of the most bizarrely named bands you have ever heard of sharing in the scrimmage.

Alex Newby (ok, not too bizarrely-named to start with)

The appropriately named first act is good looking, quite serious, and a young man with obvious ambition. His songs are kind of interesting (in addition to the afore-mentioned good looks), and I'm sure there's a lot more to be heard and appreciated from him.

Naomi Hates Humans

Next up comes 'Naomi Hates Humans (with the Insufferable Fucks), who are one of those oddly named bands I previously mentioned, and whose misanthropic monicker is slightly less than enticing and seductive when first apprehended on the festival line-up. However, the titular Naomi has a gravely, throaty, earthy intensity that reminds me more of an authentic torch song icon than an offbeat, irreverent, outcast/insurgent (as do many of the other acts on the bill). Janis Joplin mixed with a smidgen of Alison Moyet and Eartha Kitt perhaps. The real thing, rather than the post-modern equivalent. In any case her tales of social deprivation and injustice indubitably recall another era's zeitgeist, confirming the miscellaneous nature of the acts on offer throughout this festival of lost souls.

Big Fibbers

The Big Fibbers are big fun, no lie. Their songs are touching ('Booze, madness and the ghost of love'), relevant ('I want to be normal, why can't I be normal?' - a song that pretty much everyone in the audience can identify with I speculate), and not least, nostalgic ('I scream/You scream/beside the seaside...sorry, didn't quite catch the full title). The lead singer's t-shirt says it all really; paying homage to the Monster Raving Looney Party, and it occurs to me that the festival itself could be construed as a fundraising enterprise for the aforementioned cult of eccentricity, flippancy and downright recklessness. Great British eccentrics they are indeed; with a medieval, Shakespearian feel to their merrymaking. I went to see King Lear at the Globe recently and some of Tom O Bedlam's rantings and ravings were not totally dissimilar in theme and import. They are the latter day Chas n Dave of anti-folk you could say, and might say, with a liberal dash of Keith Floyd thrown in.

Malcolm Kakosis

I sort of come a cropper here, with my positivity and upbeat appreciative banter. I'm not really sure what to say about this set; except that I don't somehow think it was aimed at me and my kind (i.e. female). No, I'm not really the right kind of reviewer, being of the XX biological designation, to give a totally unbiased appraisal of good and bad features. What with all the songs about the perils of dating girls with big arses and slovenly personal grooming habits, etc. Not that I object to grittiness and authenticity in song writing you understand, but there's anger, piercing honesty, then downright unpleasant grossness, and the subjects under musical discussion on this occasion seemed to veer strongly towards the bottom end of the scale, excuse the pun.

Scrappy Hood (Milk Kan)

Those in the know; i.e. closer to the anti-folk bone/the heart of darkness, inform me that Milk Kan are one of the shing bright nuclear hopes of antifolk (in the wider commercial universe), so my hopes are high as the proverbial kite before this set. And I'm not disappointed. Luckily, for once, my hopes are not dashed cruelly against a 10 feet brick wall and shattered into a thousand smithereens. In fact I love the set exceedingly. The entire audience seems animated and enlivened and spurred into spring-like action (despite the miserable claggy weather being experienced outside) when Mr Hood arrives. Even Mr Filthy Pedro was seen to be strutting his stuff during the frenetic rendition of 'God with an ipod', a song that epitomizes the eclectic range, literary referencing and astute lyrical maturity on display.

Filthy Pedro

First of all, GSG has to apologise to Filthy Pedro because for about 75% of this enthustiastic and vigorous set a befuddled and perplexed Irishman was quizzing me in quite some depth about the meaning, import and derivation of the term 'anti-folk'. To be honest, it was a bit of a struggle didactically to contain and explain the entire genre in a couple of condensed sentences (especially as I consider myself to be in no way a particular expert on the subject) at the same time as attempting to pay due attention to the music in progress, but I eventually managed to disentangle myself form what was turning into something of a high-brow conversation, just in time to catch the debut of a new song which seems to centre around the joys of Superfoods, broccali, carrots, and the 1980s chronicles of a fugitive antique dealer, Lovejoy.

Mertle

To the sweetly named Mertle I would like to give a big hug (of purely platonic intent), because by the time that her set got going there seemed to be a bit of a disruptive element in the room that diverted her attention and undermined her confidence to quite an elevated degree. Which is a pity, because her songs, including what seemed to be an audience favourite, 'Splish, splash, splosh', were funny and touching and well worth paying attention to. She started off in a confident vein alright, telling some dirty anecdote about Kings Cross and blowjobs, but then veered off into a cul-de-sac of low self-esteem and aborted intros. Maybe the guy in the audience who said (in quite an unnecessarily loud voice) that "they should have put her on earlier" was right, but I blame the presence of far too many jeering, lairy, bloke-off-the-street types, which turned the atmosphere into something decidedly un anti-folk like.

My last word

All in all, the bit of the festival I attended (there were four more bands after GSG crawled home in a musical stupour), was the usual whirligig vortex of the sublime and the ridiculous and the moderate entry fee would be more than worth it for anyone else considering sampling future events (they are held every quarter). Just don't come expecting anything in anyway mainstream or ordinary. If you like car crash telly and have what some people call a 'unique' or somewhat 'special' outlook on life, then you'll be more than at home here.

Definately NOT one for the kiddies.

GSG.

The last of the famous, international playgirls (Kate Jackson, not me)

2008-04-22T10:36:00.000-07:00

The Long Blondes at the Kentish Town Forum, Monday 21st April 2008

In her Betty Grable/Paulette Goddard/forties bellhop come land girl outfit (it’s not many people that can pull off those high-waisted hot pants, fair dos) Kate Jackson is on fire tonight, working the crowd into the highest point of frenzied activity during the coquettish, outlandish (‘Come out with me and find out what you really want’) new punk classic, Once and Never Again. The sweaty boys at the front spontaneously surge backwards and forwards trying to get closer and closer to the vamped up librarian (not sure if that was ever true or not), now self-styled femme fatale, and gsg has to take a couple of discreet steps backward to avoid getting too much unwanted bodily contact. Urgh. It’s not so much a Mexican wave as a Kentish Town scuffle.

Anyways, the night is uber successful with the grittier tracks from the first album colliding not too cacophonously with the newer, sleeker, dancier, euphoria-inducing tracks like Century from the new album “Couples”. The effect is somewhat schizophrenic however; it seems like the band has perhaps been hanging out a bit too often with the likes of Allison Goldfrapp and the Klaxons and some of the tracks like the new single, Too clever by half, totally fails to impress upon me I’m afraid; it just didn’t seem to get going melodically or lyrically; what is it about for Jesus’ sake? I kept straining to catch the drift of it but it was a totally quagmire live (this could be down to my failing hearing btw so don’t take my word for it; it could be like Shakespeare or something). I guess I’m just going to have to buy the album now and give it another go.

8.5/10. GSG.

Center Parcs, Center Percs, Center-field? Gin-girl goes rural on your/her ass…

2008-04-03T09:16:00.000-07:00

Hello, Hello, I'm back on the case after a short break away from the perils and tribulations of Blogland. What have I been doing with myself? Well, trying to avoid pecuniary disaster and damnation for one, but also getting all holistic and 'with the programme' when it comes to health and fitness. Not that I've given up the gin trail of course, but I've been trying to walking the tightrope between hedonism, reckless alcoholism and total despair a little more carefully. To be specific, in grand Dickensian style, I've just got back from Center Parcs no less! Me, hawking and falconing and even horse-riding! Stick a label on me and call me Priscilla, Tamsin (or some other pretentious horsey name)why don't ya?

Yes, I have gotten over my, definately partially class-based fear (me being common as muck and my parents, friends etc, never having done such a thing in my life), and made acquaintance with our equine cousins. To be honest, the horse I ended up with was a bit of a coach potato- 'She's a bit of a fat pony' the stable attendant said as she loosened the girth (I think that's the terminology); well, quite. In fact I have sneaky feeling that 'Secret' as she was called, would have preferred to have been tucked-up in a cosy stable watching Richard and Judy with a horse-sized bag of Quavers or cheesy Wotsits, than trudging my less than experienced bag of bones around a series of probably over-familiar fields. I tried to correct her once, in a moment of Grandstand-induced enthusiasm, and a desire to go slightly more than somnabulist-tortoise speed, only to be rebuffed with a theatrical 'I'll thank you not to tell me what to do' mane-toss. Anyway, we made friends and got to our destination without further incidence. I enjoyed the experience overall and 'Secret' tolerated me like a special needs tutor with a particularly remedial charge in tow. Guess she has to earn her oats somehow!

So what else was there to enjoy of the Center Parcs experience? Well, the falconry was good, and I correctly guessed that the adult male Barn Owl, Twinkle, weighed the same as my friend's recently newborn baby, Finlay, i.e. 71b. Not much to be sure, but I never win anything, so was well chuffed with this fleeting accolade. The 'Sub-tropical' paradise was also good fun, despite the numerous over-excited and excitable munschins that dominated the pool during the day (I recommend going after dark, and with a couple of glasses of gin-based cocktail in your belly to avoid them). I even went down the water rapids and the water slides with true Boudica-style bravado; kinda. There was no ransacking of Londiminium or savaging of Roman oppressors; just me on a kiddie slide, trying not to feel like a totally effing eejit. You see the truth is that I never did this kind of stuff when I was younger; my parents were slightly less than adventurous and I was a bit of a wimp truth be told. Riding on horses and shooting down water slides at top speed was not top of the agenda for mini-gin soaked girl, more's the pity. If I ever do have kids, and the likelihood is small at this stage, I'll definitely let them have more woodsy/adventurous/outdoorsy type fun. So there.

Well, back to the gin, sawdust lined pubs and other urbanite endeavours.GSG.

Ice cream heaven since 2005(?)

2007-08-20T05:10:00.000-07:00

Ben and Jerry’s Festival, Sunday 29th July 2007
It’s quite odd being at a festival on your own, not too mention a bit sad and lonely. Or at least traditionalists would have you believe. Indeed I thought so myself until very recently, when, grasping victory from the jaws of defeat (in the emotional sense), I found myself enjoying my rootless drifting around Clapham Common on a sunny Sunday afternoon. It helped that the weather was splendid of course, and that the village fete atmosphere had attracted lots of young families with babies and such like; not just paparazzi and moshers like at Reading or Leeds; but real genuine people who just want to have a good time in the sunshine and taste lots of free ice-cream. The timing helps make it feel special also- the 12 to 8 schedule is spot on for a more relaxed, chilled out vibe, and not having to scramble for a train at the end of an evening is very reassuring (does that make me sound old?).

So here I am with my camera and my determination to have at least some fun since the friend that was supposed to accompany me, redwineaddict, is suffering from an acute case of the spluttering-type lurgy (the evil demon). I don’t arrive too early, as being obviously on my own for that amount of time would undoubtedly make me feel self-conscious. But a 4.30 start suits me fine, and as I arrive I hear the bouncy fairground attractions that are The Holloways tuning up. I love the tub-thumping, social commentating, good time harlequins, and their catchy, but intelligent lyrics. Lyrics like

….May I remind you? That you don't live in poverty/ You got your youth/ and you got food in your belly.

Now you can’t criticise that kind of observational genius, can you? Anyway, an ice cream break is called for half way through their set and their rock chick girlfriends dutifully appear and deliver said dairy-based medicinal substances. Men it seems, must have their rock chicks and their substances…no matter how much of a social conscience they have.

After the Holloways have sung their latest single, Two Left Feet, and the ferociously paced track, Generator, not to mention the lovely ballad Most Lonely Face, I decide to go for a wander and take an amble over to the beer tent (I just happened to come across it), where I imbibe a spot of Magners, which is extremely good for the soul on a day like this. Then its ice-cream city, here I come. The flavours I sampled were (in no particular order): Berry Berry, Caramel Chew Chew, and Bohemian Raspberry. To be honest, that was enough for me (I’m an ice-cream lightweight, I confess). Anyway, there were all very nice in their own particular way, but Berry, Berry might have been my favourite for its overall fruity scrumptiousness (what more can you say about an ice cream, its not the Mona Lisa is it?). Seriously, you can’t criticise a festival where you get free ice-cream all day. The people that thought it up should be knighted, or given a dame-hood or whatever.

And so back to the stage, and its him of the chiselled features; the paparazzi favourite and Celebrity BB lover boy Preston (and the hangers on, sorry, Ordinary Boys). He’s a charmer in a East End, mockney, ‘I listened to lots of Madness records when I was young’ kind of way, and I can’t help warming to him a wee bit. He spurs people on to dance and even plays a rendition of the Beach Boys’ Do You Wanna Dance? to give us the opportunity to make hay whilst the sun shines. Unfortunately I think an over-indulgence of ice-cream has put the audience out of sorts and not much in the way of gyrating/twisting/shouting actually takes place (except for a man in a monkey suit who must have been sweating like an overheated crazy thing). I didn’t really know the Ordinary Boys' music much before this to be honest, but I quite liked their Seaside song, which seemed very appropriate. Bless their cotton socks.

Oh and there was some Scottish act (brothers I think) called The Proclaimers. Anybody know them? Sorry P and R. Yes, of course, I knew them of old and they delivered pretty much as expected. They were very jaunty on stage I thought and very prone to energetic clapping and stomping. I enjoyed classic Letter to America very much and also the new single Life With You is well worth a listen if you get a chance. In fact it was getting late and I fancied getting another look at the Vauxhall City Farm animals before I left, so I missed the last chunk of their set. Sound travels though, and I was serenaded by their Celtic warbling all the way to Clapham Common tube station.

Bye bye Ben and Jerrys. See you next year. GSG.

It's all a bit of a whirl...

2007-07-10T09:36:00.000-07:00

A long weekend in Amsterdam, 7-10 July 2007.

Amsterdam in my imagination used to be simple to define: big red cheese; boys with fingers in dikes; chocolate box windmills and oversized clogs. This is how the maternal liturgy went. So was it fair? Turns out that there’s a lot more to the Netherlands (to use its proper moniker) than I once thought, and I am now in possession of a much more sophisticated image and conceptualisation (ok, so I’ve been watching Shrink Rap) of the country.

Ok, there are cheeses of all kinds, not just Edam, and clogs, also of all kinds, (including furry clog-type slippers and clog-shaped plant pots), but the boys holding back torrents and chocolate box windmills were conspicuous by their absence during my visit. The truth is that the Netherlands is a prosperous modern country with a touch of Germanic Puritanism still, but also a great deal of the atheistic, laissez-faire spirit of the age and an enviable pragmatism when it comes to matters of transport and housing.

Question 1: what do you do when you don’t have enough room on the roads and need to get from A to B? Answer: buy a ramshackle but lightweight and practical bicycle and park it in a high-rise, multi-storey ‘bike-park’ that houses thousands of similar apparatus. Also, plan your city so that there are cycle tracks running along every main road and tributary and acquaint motorists with the idea that they do not ‘own the roads’ and have to accomodate different modes of transport when it comes to sharing space.

Question 2: what do you do when you run out of space to build new houses and apartments and there are lots of young people coming into the city? Answer: take to the (inland) seas and form a Bohemian-influenced houseboat community that brings a welcome touch of New Age quirkiness to the wider community. No need to worry about such insignificant issues as being seen naked or exposed in your domestic activities by passing tourists on candlelit tours of the canals and backwaters. Just give a short wave and go about your business.

Question 3: Feeling a bit fatigued on a Sunday afternoon, a bit down in the dumps with the sudden blast of torrential rain or thunder and lightening? Then take a seat at one of the many roadside cafe/bars (not to be confused with the plentiful collection of 'coffee shops' that serve a wholly different class of punter) and relax your bones. Order your favourite Belgian or other lowlander-type intoxicant (that's a Leffe Blond, Westmalle Dubbel or Palm beer for me) and think about your favourite things. Oh and if your hungry, indulge in some Bitterballen, but only if you're a truly dedicated carnivore.

In short, Amsterdam is the capital of a strangely antithetical city: both Bohemian/libertarian and stoical/Puritanical at the same time. A melting pot of influences just like every other major European city.

Oh and one small droplet of knowledge that I managed to collect on the trip; the Netherlands is definately not the same as Holland, which refers only to the western part of the country (2 out of the 12 provinces), so therefore do not use this term as it might be construed as a touch on the pejorative side to the inhabitants of the remaining 10 provinces. NB. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. GSG.

I was looking for a gig, and then I found a gig…

2007-07-02T10:45:00.000-07:00

The Wireless Festival, Hyde Park, 17th June 2007

It’s dull and overcast and the party spirit should have long since made its excuses and left for sunnier climes, but we’re British, and the desire for outdoors activities, nay pleasures, abound. Maybe it’s all that scouting and guiding and running up of flagpoles that we all enjoyed (with clenched teeth and goose pimples) when we were young and reckless. Good training for life, my elders said, and so it has proved, time and frostily, again...

It’s trying to crack a half assed smile when we arrive (the weather), and I am bravely sport nothing but a handkerchief-style, wrap-around cardigan (and vest top) with trainers in my personal attire, and am determined to get some fun out of this experience, God dammit.

So it is in a windblown grass-denuded landscape that myself and redwineaddict, another trooper of the ‘stiff upper lip’ kind, sit with our half pint of Pimms in plastic cups and absorb the wonders of the Japanese via Guantanamo Bay-style shenanigans of live wires, Polysics. Oh my God. Yes, orange catsuits and endless star jumps. Are they trying to distract us from the cacophonous music? It’s a bit like the end of the world with an electro clash soundtrack; choreographed by a half-mad, neurotic commandant. I did like the green guitars and the recorder solo though (or did I dream that?).

Where next? The XFM tent and Kate Nash of course- or Lily Allen’s little sister as sometimes known. A bit more on the sweet side and less of the acid-tongued songstress/’kick your ass if you look at me sideways’ vibe than Keith’s daughter but good value all the same. Caroline’s a victim was much enjoyed by the crowd and there was also something about butterflies, or birds or something. Birds I think it was, yes definitely, I liked that one. In fact I quite liked her performance overall, and was definitely, NOT AT ALL influenced by the fact that it was threatening to rain outside, oh no.

The next thing I remember is rubbery noodles and greasy black-bean sauce. And chemical toilets. What joys! A wierdly drunken bloke zigzagging between lines and jumping in front of people made queuing just that little bit more enthralling and joyful than usual. Glory be. The nuts and bolts of festival partaking really does get you down sometimes; especially when you’re old enough to fancy a nice cup of tea and chips over a joint or other illegal substance.

So on to the O2 VIP tent. La la la. Nice boys! Pretty boys! And a free drink. The Alverez Kings were a nice surprise for old ginnie and friend. Leather jacketed youthfulness and vigour encapsulated. The days of wine and plenty, hormone wise. Here on display. I could have gone up and said hi afterwards, but the prettiness, indie-boy factor was just too high for me. I couldn’t pretend I was anything other than enraptured. I’ve missed having a crush on someone far too young and unsuitable for me. The hidden passion, the angst-ridden soul searching. Just stick a red wig on me and call me Lulu.

And so to the main stage. The headline act. The Kaiser Chiefs- who I had so much fun with when they played the Astoria in April 2005. Oh how we jumped and laughed and giggled and waived our hands about with innocent glee. So much for that. The Kaisers, and I hate to say this, have morphed into unadulterated stadium-bait; underperforming, overcompensating, and yes, just no fun anymore- dressing like The Killer and pretending to be serious social commentators? ‘This is for all you fans out there’, give us a break. You’re getting way too big for your boots now. They shone briefly when Ricky Wilson, our former deity in the fun factory department, started mimicking one of the Polysics who had joined him on stage. But it was only short-lived. Spontaneity, thy name is definitely not Kaiser Chiefs. Kaiser Chiefs, thy performance is now leaden.

Get Willy

2007-06-05T04:15:00.000-07:00

Willy Mason at the Shepherds Bush Empire, 16 May 2007.

Willy Mason is the kind of singer/songwriter that makes you feel all warm inside. That is to say his songs are incredibly heartfelt, and ‘real’ in the ‘not at all pretentious’ sense of the word. He’s sings what he knows and knows what he sings, thereof, etc, etc. He’s a rough diamond and a good ole chap. I imagine him at home chewing on some old tobaccy and swinging on a front porch, with his guitar swinging right there beside him ready for a bout of creative inspiration (or maybe this is all just my fantasy world). In fact, both myself and my friend, redwineaddict, decided by the finale to this evening’s gig, that we’d rather like to just fold him up and put him in our pockets; that’s how down-to-earth charming he is.

Although young in age, he’s old in wisdom and learning- only 22, but about 65, if you just listened to his voice. It’s an earthy blend of bootleg whisky, solid virtue, denim dungarees, and political idealism. If that’s not good enough for you then I guess I’d say he’s part Johnny Cash, part Bright Eyes, and part Grandpa Walton. Whatever he is, we loved him. His performance is passionate without being manic. He talks to the crowd in a ‘gee, it’s so good that all you London folks came out to see me’ kind of way, and displays an attractive sense of modesty and bashful coyness. You feel ‘safe’ in his presence; protected in a mutual sense of altruistic good will and homespun philosophy.

This evening he takes the opportunity to play nearly ALL his material, both old and new albums, and I find myself singing along to almost every tune, especially my favourite candle-waving, uplifting ballad We can by strong with its swaying, deceptively simple lyricism. It’s like he really doesn’t want to leave us at all; he’s so taken with us, and we’re so taken with him. Everything feels so personal with Willy, and that’s what creates the afterglow of neighbourliness and civility that extends as far as the Shepherds Bush tube and into the next morning. There’s political content there, with the most obvious manifestation being his torch song Oxygen, with its overtly political message, but its never crammed down your throat- rather he leads to the message with a outstretched, beckoning hand.

The boy is just too good to be true…(and I got through the entire review without making a pun on his name). BRAVO.

Having fun, in the city, it’s alright

2007-03-23T12:30:00.000-07:00

The Rakes at Kings College, 7th March 2007

The Rakes come on like professional wrestlers tonight; all streamlined wizardry and choreographed jerkiness. Something’s gone missing in the opinion of some of my colleagues-in-arms however- in the battle for the big time (Brixton Academy, get you!), the poor distressed lads have lost their joie de vivre and got a whole heap of trouble and angst in its place. Yes, like Tony Blair after his first year in office, Mr Donahue has greyed visibly (not a literal greyness; he's far too young for that, but a spiritual malaise). He needs some sleep and a nice aromatherapy session I’m thinking. It all just seemed so much more spontaneous and heartfelt at the Islington Bar Academy in the halcyon days of June 2006 .

Not that we don’t have a good time however- for starters, we’re at the Kings College and that always gets me a bit excited; not over-excited, but certainly high-spirited (the lack of oxygen makes me feel giddy or something). Luckily for us the lifts to the fourth floor are working tonight and as we get into them, who do we spy in the corner skulking like a moody teenager, but a sombre, and very earnest-looking lead singer. Thirty something that I am, I still get the giggles slightly on these occasions (i.e. when famous people are in the immediate vicinity). So apologies for the embarrassment if you’re out there Mr Alan. Sir. (I’m sure he’s lovely when he smiles).

The Rakes are good value whatever night of the year it is, and however stressed they might be (‘just be grateful we turned up’ they seem to be saying; ‘we don’t need any support or nothing…we’re proper popular now’) and I rocked the night away down near the front, and enjoyed it all muchly- even if it was just a tossing of bones to the fan base- we’re grateful for the meat and gristle, yes indeed.
GSG.

Festive encounters of the anti-folk kind

2007-03-23T12:27:00.000-07:00

Antifolk Winter Festival, Friday 16th Feb 2007

So it’s my first proper anti-folk/fest type gig and I’m very excited. I’m a stranger to the anti-folk scene and on arrival at the venue I’m maybe feeling a wee bit out of place in my insecure, paranoid-fantasy type of way. Not that I’m a complete novice in the gig related world; I’ve been fairly prolific in my gig-going over the past couple of years (after an introspective early life in Wild Wales). Yes, I’ve travelled far and wide in my quest for my middle-age kicks, but this is something totally new, having only been alerted to the existence of the anti-folk scene relatively recently.

The 12 Bar

On first glance the venue takes me unawares; I’ve been to Bradley’s Spanish Bar and the Camden Barfly, and various other temples of sin and inequity (not to mention the mud-drenched Reading Festival), so I’m used to getting down and dirty in a gig and drinking den-type way, but nothing in my previous career really prepared me for the Blair Witch meets Twin Peaks type ambiance of the 12 Bar. In fact on first entrance to the downstairs pit area I don’t know whether to strap a guitar on, call 999, or howl at the moon like a demented tourist that’s got seriously lost a la An American Werewolf in London. However, the anti-folk folk seem like a friendly lot and I’m as happy enough after a couple of pints of Strongbow and the first couple of sets.

Poppy

First up was Poppy a torch-song kinda girl in the Joan Baez/Tracy Chapman tradition- except her subject matter tends more towards the chocolate biscuit and pizza end of things than the ‘overturn the establishment/down with capitalism’ rants of her forbearers. Anyway I liked her tales of purple wigs and superhero girlfriends and I particularly liked her winsome sailor hat. She has a big future I’m predicting. Her voice is strong and her delivery is unfussy and direct, which is just how I like my singer/songstresses to be.

Miss Sills

Second band up and Miss Sills are very traditional in a Snow White/Vashti Bunyon type of way. During their set I kept thinking about the 1980s flake advert and frolicking in fields full of daisies, romantic aspirations, four-poster beds, that sort of thing. Having said that I’ve always liked bands with lots of percussion instruments at their disposal and they were very proficient at what they do. I particularly like the blue plastic glockenspiel which reminded me of primary school music classes sitting cross-legged in the assembly room, shaking a tambourine.

Tim Tomlinson

Third up and the above mentioned singer songwriter and multi-instrumentalist seemed to be one of the most popular acts on the bill tonight with words of encouragement propelled like bullets at the stage during the course of the proceedings. And you can understand why when you listen to the stream of musical virtuosity emanating from behind the protective sheath of the artist’s music stand. His use of cultural referencing was wide-ranging and articulate and I kept thinking of the great American songwriter Daniel Johnston who has a similar style and mode of delivery (not to mention talent). If he could only get over some of his shyness, I’m sure that he’d do ‘great things’ in the words of the Echobelly song.

Blanket

Looking back on this set a week or so after the event all I could find to reflect my experience were the words ‘sleepy, sleepy’ in my notebook. That is to say all I can remember is the overall effect rather than individual melodies or occurrences. I’ve probably hideously underestimated their capabilities and attractions for which I apologise profusely, but then I was recovering from the previous set’s frenetic pace at the time. As a gauche newcomer, my stamina is probably not quite what it could be.

Filthy Pedro and the Carthaginians

Well I’ve seen Filthy and Co twice now and I have to say they’re growing on me exponentially. What I’m beginning to perceive to be one of the defining properties of the anti-folk scene, humorous self-deprecation, is much in evidence throughout the set and I almost feel compelled to partake of the opportunities for audience participation: particularly during the rousing ‘I’m too good for you’. Everyone seems to enjoy themselves during the set, even if the stage is rather overcrowded for the assembled collective and Penny, extremely glamorous chanteuse from the English National Opera, nearly knocks herself out as she attempts to clamber on to the stage (it really doesn’t pay to be above average height at this venue). I’m also impressed with the biblical pedantry on display- the rhyming of Neolithic and prolific in ‘Man of Old’ particularly caught my ear, as did the sampling of the Suzanne Vega track Tom's Diner, which was one of my own personal folk-tinged favourites from the late 80s.

Bobby McGees

I’m not sure what to say about the Bobby McGees except that there the oddest-looking band I’ve seen in ages- kind of a bit like a Scots Captain Nemo meeting the wandering minstrel circa 1968. Tonight is proving to be a bit of a Trojan horse musically- just when you think you’ve got it all pegged, something else jumps out of the box and takes you by surprise. But actually the BM’s are extremely entertaining and the hippy chick/nautical theme is brilliantly counterbalanced by the nihilistic content of some of the songs- I’m thinking here of ‘Got no friends’ and of course the anthemic ‘Kill yourself’ (not ones for understatement this crowd). Overall it’s a brilliant cocktail of the sublime and the ridiculous wrapped up in one. Absolutely hilarious.

David Cronenberg’s Wife

And so to (my) last band of the evening (sorry I had to go catch the last train, which I missed anyway). Being of a naturally curious psychological disposition I was looking forward to this band from the moment I saw there name on the schedule. Or at least intrigued; that’s probably a better description. I’ve heard of the film director David Cronenberg of course (The Fly, Naked Lunch), but where does the wife come in? Anyway, what I got was not dancing typewriters or men dressed as giant human bugs, but gyrating anti-folk folks forming a mini mosh pit. Actually I’m feeling a bit more at home here- I was at a Rakes gig at Kings College a few weeks back and there was a very similar reaction to ’22 Grand Job’ as there is to ‘Couldn’t get off’ tonight. Seems like this anti-folk crowd aren’t that dissimilar to their art-rock indie relatives after all.

Review in two parts

2007-03-23T12:25:00.000-07:00

The Spinto band at Koko, 15 February 2007

This is a review in two parts:

Part i- The music

The Spinto band are like a box of chocolates- full of soft centres and luxurious fondant. The songs oscillate between the Ray Harryhausen type stop start motion of Direct to Helmet (which tonight seems even more angular than usual; like a military band trooping the colour), and Oh Mandy which creates a swoopy swirly, kaleidoscopic, ‘wall of sound’ effect on the audience, making you want to twirl around and around (a la 1973), and then just fall to the ground exhausted but laughing (those were the days when we made our own fun). Not to mention the surreal triumph of Tiffany's I Think We're Alone Now- the set closer, which made me laugh even more.

Overall the gig tonight makes me reassess the band and hold them in greater esteem than before. They move around the stage with abandon and their set is much more energetic and dynamic than expected. Not that I was expecting them to be weeping and wailing about the stage, but I think I thought they’d be more static somehow. Basically if you’re fond of a dalliance with any of the current peddlers of heart-warming twee indie jinglemasters, e.g. the Delays/Peter, Bjorn and John etc., and indeed, any of their forefathers (Beach Boys, early Beatles) then you’ll definitely like a touch of the Spintos. They’re lovely creatures, they really are (mad as hatters, but).

Part ii- The venue

Koko-the venue, is as disorientating as the music. There are levels, and then more levels, and then even more opportunities to topple headlong into the dizzying depths of the auditorium. As I traverse the precarious edifice I imagine old Victorian gentlemen cavorting with doxies and harlots in secluded corners a hundred and fifty years ago; playing cards with fellow cads and inspecting their winnings with ridiculously large monocles. The giant glitter ball is also one of the biggest I have EVER seen, anywhere.

On the top level I take a weird photo of myself and my friend looking like disembodied corpses, and pass by a stranded barmaid desperate for custom or human interaction. She obviously drew the short straw, poor love.

Lower down we find a suitable stretch of balcony to view tonight’s entertainment and are surprised to find ourselves standing next to a shy and retiring Eddie Argos, of Art Brut fame- unmistakable to any indie-type acolyte worth his or her salt (it's the eyebrows). I find him attractive in an old-fashioned, Rudolf Valentino kind of way- a ‘sitting by the fire holding hands on cold winter evenings’ way; and I cogitate that if he had been born at the beginning of the twentieth century, he could definitely have been a silent movie star.

Throughout the night I wander like a gypsy queen among the rocks and crevices, with a sprinkling of Romany wander lust in my soul. I can see why some might not like Koko, but I enjoy its Victorian theme-park vibe, and wouldn’t be adverse to a second visit, given the right circumstances, the right band, and some rock climbing crampons perhaps.

“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven” (Ecclesiastes 3:1)

Wannabe indie?

2007-01-20T19:30:00.000-08:00

Tonight two fairly newish bands take to the stage at the womb-like Metro in an attempt to pierce the paper thin wall that separates the confirmed no-hopers from the wannabe, upwardly-mobile, ‘almost there now’, middle-rank arsenal of trendier, zeitgeisty, Lauren Laverne-loving types.

First up is Their Hearts Were Full of Spring, with violets, hyacinths, hollyhocks, bluebells and all that lachrymose/macabre, Nick Cave/Adams Family Values inspired imagery liberally sprinkled around the stage (microphones with floral attachments, it’s like SO Victorian melodrama meets Tim Burton).

The guys have come on leaps and bounds in recent times, especially since I last saw them at the Betsy Trotwood under the moniker The Bleeding Hearts, and they’ve definitely made acres of progress since their Boy Wonder incarnation. Lead singer (and aspiring cult leader) Markus is actually showing signs of amiablity and verbosity this evening. Whatever next? Audience participation? A group hug? You never know.

So on to the Bib, and something entirely different. In fact, the early Paul Smith (accountant chic) lead singer, and his Kill Bill/Yoko Ono sidekick for the night, are definitely several degrees of separation from the aforementioned melancholic tribe. The band of misfits are fun to watch and their repertoire has some stomping good toons in it, including Jobs online and other observational oddities about contemporary city life.

All together a fun night was had by all. I haven’t laughed so much for ages (in a good way). GSG.

Christmas 2006- tales of exhileration and amusement

2007-01-02T18:10:00.000-08:00

So my father’s finally got the message and decided to buy me a ‘little extra’ present this year, i.e. a wee bottle of Gordon’s gin, to comfort me during the long winter nights. Hurrah, my parent’s had a revelation. Yes, I am a grown-up. It’s official, bless him.

So what else has been happening? Well there’s been mulled wine drinking (of course), outdoor ice skating of the wobbly but not humiliating variety at the Natural History Museum (I always seem to stay at the same level, never getting better, never getting worse, but then I do only go once a year), plus work-type guzzling and gorging (including a seventies night where the haute de cuisine was spam fritters and black forest gateau), then there was the piece de resistance- the pre-Christmas slide-athon curtesy of the Turbine Hall at Tate Modern (slides are now ART, how great is that?).

My newbie friend, Guinessgal and I had a whale of a time what with the whole slippy-slidy retro experience. You can really let yourself go and take a trip back to your (in my case) far distant youth- plummeting headlong through the futuristic silver tubes that look like something out of seventies sci-fi fantasy Logan's Run or Buck Rogers in the 25th Century. In fact it’s impossible to go away without a smile on your face (GSG actually went a bit further and wanted to shout 'again, again, again' telly-tubby style). As the sign in the hall says ' The slides are fast and the experience is physical'. Yes, it's (literally) a blast.

NB. If you’re planning to go on the Herculean level 5 slide, then go straight up at your allotted time and what ever happens, DO NOT LOOK DOWN, as there’s a fair bit of screaming and flailing of limbs that goes on, from young and old alike (GSG and Guinessgal went on the 3rd floor slide, not from any lack of guts and gaul however, merely because it was difficult to get tickets when we arrived at 3.00 in the afternoon- getting scared out of your wits is quite popular it seems).

Who knew?

2006-12-04T19:30:00.000-08:00

Bent at the Trafalgar Studios, 4 December 2006.

Who knew Alan Cumming had it in him? Who knew the Nightcrawler could be so profound? Not that I’m knocking the X-Men because I loved those movies and thought that the divine Alan stood out from the mutant crowd with his portrayal of the tortured outcast who looks like an animated gargoyle (hard to make that convincing but he succeeds). But truth be told, I’ve always thought he wasn’t quite living up to his potential what with all those sitcom cameos and slimy caricatures. He seemed a bit too over-fond of the celebrity chat show circuit also.

But in Martin Sherman's play Bent at the Trafalgar Studios, he transcends all his previous parts (no pun intended). It’s what aficionados call ‘a bravura performance’ I believe. As the frivolous nightclub inhabitant and maverick cocaine dealer in 30’s Berlin, his character Max at the outset is not particularly likable. Vain and idle in equal measure, all he wants from life is to stumble aimlessly from one casual night of abandonment to another. Unfortunately for him, the harsh realities of history are marshalling their forces and preparing to crash in on him with stark and unrelenting savagery.

The decadence and frivolity of Max’s Berlin lifestyle is pitched against the incoherent brutality of the Gestapo. Breaking in on Max and his partner and ravaging their life completely in one ferocious attack, they are presented as a homogeneous black beast; without individual wills or identities of their own (maybe a little too cartoonish for a play that revolves around questions of moral ambiguity). On the run, hiding in a remote forest, Max contacts a sympathetic Uncle who offers him a way out, “Why couldn’t you just get married and pay for a few boys on the side?” he asks him. His courage in rejecting this offer in favour of saving his partner’s life is nullified by the full force of the beast- the nightmare that unravels on the train to Dachau.

What will anyone do to survive? Who would we betray? Who would we kill? Nobody really knows until they’re put in that position (of absolute degradation). On the train Max meets another ‘pink triangle’, Horst, and later in the camp, he starts to become emotionally attached to him; even enjoying a forbidden sensual experience with him (illustrating the power of words and images over action). But by this time he’s “done a deal” and is masquerading as a ‘yellow star’ because "pink is the lowest". He thinks he’s found a way to survive, but this new relationship forces him to rethink his whole philosophy. Is better to die honestly or to live at all costs? When it comes to the crunch his decision is the former.

It’s fair to say that there’s not much laughs in this play- there were weeps and audible sobs around me towards the end of the second half. The horrors of the concentration camps is nothing new- most people have seen Schindler’s List and The Pianist/Life is Beautiful, but the story of what happened to the ‘pink triangles’ is a fairly untold story- I certainly didn’t know much about it. As an important piece of education about history and as a deep and moving emotional experience, the play works on both levels. The staging is minimal and pieces of furniture are left as debris on the side of the stage- echoing the chaos and desolation inflicted on a larger scale across Europe during World War II.

As I said to start off with, Alan Cumming is brilliant; playing both the sexual adventurer and the brutalised prisoner. Poor Rudy, played by Kevin Trainor, who just want’s to be left alone to water his plants, and thinks that things might have been different if "we had only tried to explain things properly to the Nazis", is also brilliant. In fact all the cast are excellent. It’s harrowing stuff, but edifying, and you have to make the effort to see something edifying now and then. GSG.

Chocolate heaven (and the beer's quite good too)

2006-11-26T18:30:00.000-08:00

Visit to Brugge, 24 - 26 November, 2006

So I'm in Brugge and a lovely time I'm having to be sure. The beer (yes beer, sorry gin fans) is flowing smoothly and the chocolate is crumbling nicely, and then, joy of joys, we (GSG is accompanied by vodkaslut, whiskeydiva, and minesalager) discover chocolate/vanilla/assorted fruit flavoured gins! What could round off your first night on a binge-drinking voyage to a foreign city (no rowdiness mind, this all innocent fun) any better? The Belgians have got Christmas sorted - non of that 'win a teddy bear' nonsense in their winter fayres, oh no, they go for the straight up, 'come get your alcohol' type vendors. Hurrah for the plain-speaking Belgians!

Alcohol is good, I think that's the message I take away from my visit. Not that there aren't lots of cultural sites to visit and enjoy also- our boat trip along the canal on our last day was very enjoyable, and the Chocolate Museum was also very palatable (in every way), but basically, it's all about sensory enjoyment- 'Fill your face and drink to you can't say Aberystwyth' that's the message. 'Abstinence?', well its a wierd, puritanical British invention. Yes, over the long weekend I was there, I enjoyed more beer than I've ever drank before in the rest of my life put together, ever, and I consider that an accomplishment. I'm converted (or more broad-minded depending how you look at it)! Beer is wonderful, especially the dark stuff- Westmalle was a favourite I remember.

I particularly reccomend the 'pub of 300 beers' which was, ahem, appropriately named, and also Café Vlissinghe, the oldest pub in Brugge, which is about 400 years old, and stayed open especially for us it seemed (except for a couple of old men playing chess all evening in an authentic Belgian/Dutch way). The Belgians are extremely accomodating in their permissiveness and tolerence of drunk British people we found. They didn't even mind taking our photo for us, although we were all rather red-faced and 'deep in the mire' at the time. God Bless. GSG.

Blonde intentions

2006-11-23T19:00:00.000-08:00

The Page Turner at the Renoir, Brunswick Square. 23rd November 2006.

First of all, I’ve never been to the Renoir! I’m not sure why considering its indie appeal and plush interiors. The seats are very comfortable and the bar well stocked with wine and gin. Jackpot!

So on to the film. The Page Turner (Tourneuse de Pages). A Hitchcockian style French drama set in the effete world of classical music. C’est magnifique! What’s good about it? To start with the lead actress is the epitome of restrained anger and deferred vengeance in a role that demands a Catherine Deneuve/Tippi Hedren style presence. Hail the return of the glacial ice queen! The child actress that plays Melanie’s younger self is no less demonic in her self possession and control: the mannered way in which she carefully locks and seals her piano after her failed recital is accompanied by an all-time classic ‘I’ll get you later’ expression. And get her she does.

The film is remarkably restrained. In fact, at first it is underplayed to the point where you doubt that the genteel blonde Melanie can carry through her wicked intentions. She's so unassuming, so ordinary in her manner of dress; her well groomed hair, and deferential sense of decorum. She seems too polite to generate such sinister dark mischief. But when she goes to live with the family of her nemesis her true Machiavellian nature is gradually revealed.

She becomes flirtatious and sensual. She befriends the son, at the same time attempting to ruin his career and harbouring a homicidal intent towards him. Finally there is the masterly scene in which she wreaks her revenge upon the creepy Cellist who gropes her in a clumsy, schoolmasterly fashion. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned! Yes indeed (I don’t want to spoil it, but let’s just say that her vengeance hurts like a hole in the foot!).

There aren’t many films like this anymore; it taps deep into the primitive instinct for revenge, and tells us 'it's ok, so long as you don't go too far'. Basically, everyone has someone they'd like to take to task in a similar fashion. Melanie is just going that little bit further than most. The injury done to her is apparently so small that you might not think it warrants the action she takes, but what the film teaches us is that what's insignificant to one party, can be pretty damn substantial to another. Human beings are a lot more savage, and a lot more fragile than you think.

The film is brilliantly acted and brilliantly directed. It has etiquette and class. 9/10.

Reach out and (try to) touch me

2006-11-14T17:56:00.000-08:00

The Flaming Lips at the Hammersmith Apollo, 14 November 2006

Hurray for Wayne Coyne and his anti-establishment, drippy-hippy, psychedelic live show. ‘If George Bush hasn’t got the answers, then pass on the fight to somebody who does’ announces the bearded and frock-coat bedecked town crier at the start of the show. And there’s nothing disappointing about what follows. Balloons, balloons, and even more spherical-type objects fall from the sky with visual and kinetic aplomb- cascades of ticker tape and confetti follow them periodically and add to the jovial, carnival feeling. First song in, and I’m sure that this is going to be not only great fun but unlike anything else I’ve ever seen in my life before. And I’m right.

Does life narrow down as you get older? Does time squeeze the life and enthusiasm and sensitivity out of you? Are people who tell this to younger impressionable people cruel and vicious? These and many other questions are tossed into the audience like philosophical arrows during the course of the 2 hour live set/extravaganza offered by The Flaming Lips at the Hammersmith Apollo tonight. Wayne Coyne is a garrulous soul with a love of philosophical treatise of the meandering kind and his obvious enthusiasm encourages an already well-meaning crowd into a frenzy of audience participation, especially during the Yeah Yeah Yeah Song- ‘Come on now, sing it like you really don’t give a f**k’.

So what did we all learn at the end of it?

Well, me personally, I learned: 1. Puppets are good and can even be beautiful in the right hands. 2. Balloons are more fun than I previously gave them credit for. 3. The venerable profession of town crier is a lost art and very underrated (surely all gigs should be introduced this way). 4. Most bands really don’t make enough effort in the theatrical staging department- fact. 5. The next time I go to see a straight guitar and stripy top outfit I’ll be really disappointed.

Now I’m going to go and get high on orange squash, make a daisy chain, practice skipping, or something similarly childlike.

Librarian chic convention

2006-11-07T18:38:00.000-08:00

The Long Blondes at the Proud Gallery, Camden. 7 November 2006.

Free gig alert! Special, 'selected audience', not for the riff-raff, website-viewing, mail list signer-uppers only, album-launch type deal. Yeah, me- on the guest list like.

What can be said about the venue? Well, there were fake plastic horses a la Barbie's playmates, and balloons (lots of) and a red and pink theme, and giant dice, and sixties music (Stones etc) and lots of Kate Jackson and co, looky-likeys. Oh, and pink wristbands. Very nouvelle vogue.

So, we were relaxing, having a cool time, waiting for the gig proper to be announced or something, and then we notice that the stage area seems to be filling up rather and we have to make like squirrels and scamper over pretty sharpish. Ouch! God, there's a lot of people here tonight. In fact, what with all the balloons, it looks like a load of older, bigger kids with alcohol have taken over a kiddies party. Bad prefects! Anyway, vodkaslut reckons they're liggers in the main (and she knows how to recognise them). But hang on, does that mean us? To be honest readers (or reader), I'm not that hot on the definition of ligger- is it just someone who knows someone who kinda met the band once? Someone who does their hair occasionally? Industry people? Or anyone who didn't pay to get in? I'm guessing its not in the Oxford Dictionary, or I'd look it up. But it would be good to know.

Yeah, so then the band comes on and boy, they're on the small side- Tonka toy height in fact, or then maybe not; just normal size and standing on a very low stage. Anyway, they're fabulous- I think that Kate was wearing a lot of leopard-print and a pencil skirt, but can't be sure what with the being squashed to sardines thing going on. Luckily the atmosphere becomes less sordid (I got to know one young man standing in front of me very well that night) about half way through (I'm so proud of myself for standing my ground), and the crowd starts to regain its capacity to breathe in and out uninhibited. Phew. No fainting for me then. That would have been embarrassing.

The band were great by the way- Kate Jackson has a fantastic voice, really deep and resonant. Very Debbie Harry, Heart of Glass era. And is it me, or does she sound like Adam Ant a wee bit?

I'm loving the whole librarian becomes pop star scene- and the predatory, voyeuristic vibe of 'Once and Never again'. Genius.

8/10.

'I am not my body, I am me'

2006-10-31T19:30:00.000-08:00

Rock n roll by Tom Stoppard at the Duke of York’s theatre, St Martin’s Lane on 31st October 2006

So another year passes into a gin induced coma and time continues to travel at invidious speeds. I wish I could go back and tell me younger self to hurry up, to catch up to make the most of glowing skin and romantic opportunities but unfortunately no, I’m stuck with what I’ve got... However, there is still gin and merriment and friendships new and old to kindle/rekindle. All is not lost.

At the Duke of York’s my old favourite Rufus Sewell (I’d call my eldest born son after him but I’m afraid he’d get the sh*t kicked out of him on trips home to Wales), is holding court with a sensitive and measured (ooh, get her!) performance as Jan, an East European, good-looking, reluctant hero of the communist era in what is now the Czech Republic. An artist of the John Lennon ‘simple messages are good’ ‘give peace a chance’ variety, he struggles to come to terms with the oppressiveness of the state he’s living in. He doesn’t want to be a dissident or a leader but that exactly what occurs as he clings to his love of rock n roll to makes sense of the world, especially his beloved Plastic people of the universe who are censored to the point where they can’t play anymore and their fans are all arrested as deviants/enemies of the state.

Sewell is perfect in the part and there are other good actors in the play including Sinead Cusack, playing two parts- mother and daughter, across the generations. In the first of her roles, Eleanor, she argues with her husband about consciousness and the mind/body connection. Dying from cancer she battles bravely against an aggressive and debilitating enemy. One that’s destroying her body piece by piece but cannot diminish her spirit and her lust for life; she defiantly sticks two fingers up to the disease as she warns her student Lenka, ‘not to try and shag her husband until she’s dead’. Great stuff. In the second of her roles, Esme, she plays an under-achieving ‘flower child’ who struggles in her own battle against feelings of futility and worthlessness in face of her parents’ and daughter’s genius. In both parts Cusack is extremely effective.

The musical interludes that punctuate the drama are well placed if not a bit startling at first, and the sleeve notes add even more texture to the experience. Overall the play is complex and weighty without being unwieldy. It helps if you know something of the political era its set in before you go, but human relationships are at its core and that’s what sustains it. The set is simple but effective with Jan’s small apartment with its dusty shelves of vinyl and the house of Eleanor and her family with its familial comings and goings create a sense of harmony and intimacy with the audience. These people live in recognisable surroundings, even thought there lives are played out on an international stage.

Yes it was a great play and a great birthday treat. Serious issues, serious history, seriously good music. Thanks vodkaslut, Bulmersbabe, real ale boy, whiskeydiva, redwineaddict, and all the others for your support and encouragement throughout the year.

Let historical fact wait

2006-10-20T18:11:00.000-07:00

Marie Antoinette at the Barbican cinema, 20 October 2006

A war seems to have been raging about the merits of this one in the western press: is it all superficial hogwash, girlie outlandish folly…a moral and artistic-free zone, a profane, sickly-sweet confection- a classic case of a director with too much money and not enough sense? Well maybe.

However, it’s not without its assets. The film is great Friday night fare- not substantial enough to fill you up for the entire weekend, but a good way to wind down and rid your mind of workplace horrors and calamities. Certainly I would say that Jonathan Ross’ castigations on Film 2006 were a bit over the top- ‘not as clever as it thinks it is’ I think he said; or something like that. Well maybe. But I did quite like the Bow Wow Wow ‘I like candy’ video montage which he railed against on his show. If you’ve been jilted in love, the first thing you do (if you’re a girl) is reach for the credit card, gather your mates around you, and go buy shoes…What’s unrealistic about that?

It has got a very modern, 21st century sensibility, and the main subject seemed to me, not to be the titular Marie Antoinette, but rather the three Cs: confectionary, consumerism and celebrity (did she really say ‘Let them eat cake’; answer: does anybody care?). I do generally like to sympathise with my heroines more its true, or at least understand them better through the course of the film, but at the end of this I was looking forward to seeing them all have their heads chopped off (purely on the basis that if you get to live a life of luxury for that long, then it seems only fair that you should have a taste of hardship at the end of it). So by that measure, it did let me down a bit.

But overall I think that Jonathan Ross needs to open his mind to the feminine perspective a bit more- after all, this is a man who thinks that Adam Sandler is a comic genius; enough said. In my view Sofia Coppola is a genuinely gifted director who tried to do something a bit different with her dry and crusty material (although the BBC did a much better job of transforming the idea of historical drama with their Casanova). Did she totally succeed? Maybe she did and maybe she didn't, but one thing's for sure and that's that the film is absolutely beautiful to look at and captures the sumptuosness of the eighteenth century French court if nothing else.

I must confess I do have one major niggle with the film however: if Marie Antoinette (as played by at best size 8 Kirsten Dunst) was really eating that much cake SO consistently for SO many years (and this is important); wouldn’t she be fatter?

The end is nigh! You heard it here first

2006-10-07T19:00:00.000-07:00

Children of Men at the Stratford Picture House, 7 October 2006

So, well, it’s not for the faint-hearted, let’s start there. It’s not exactly Star Trek either- which is good or bad depending on your level of geekiness. What it is you could call a dystopian drama of sterility and collective self-destruction set in the year 2027; a society without dirty nappies, but also without hope for the future. Which is better? Um, it’s a hard one to fathom.

There’s a lot of dirt and grime in this movie- all the gangsters and terrorists look like nineties eco-warriors- Indeed Robin of Sherwood would not look out of place. Tribal living is on the resurgence (flagellators, repenters, all kinds of medieval-sounding factions) and a reactionary (obviously Conservative) government are sticking refugees in cages at tube stations to scare the natives into submission. Middle aged childless women hoard china bulldogs and a cloyingly sentimental type of ‘Britishness’ is rampant amidst the chaos.

So where lays the hope? In the old Croupier himself, Clive ‘was too good for that James Bond shit’ Owen of course. Theo, the reluctant saviour who’s just had enough of the whole damn thing and enjoys hanging out with his old hippy pal, Michael Caine, who’s lives in an idyllic rural retreat (as near to idyllic as imaginable when the world’s gone to pot) with his invalid wife; growing cannibis (“Strawberry cough"), for the refugees in Bexhill on Sea, polishing the memorabilia of his photo-journalistic heyday, and philosophising about the relationship between free will and chance.

I won’t give too much away about the plot because about half an hour the movie heads off in a brave and unexpected direction; I have too much respect for the film to even hint at what happens (if you know anything about salvation stories though you'll guess there's a baby involved). Needless to say, this is a great film- not a great mood-enhancer, but food for thought definitely. I loved the details- the stuff about Britishness I’ve already mentioned, but also the billboard that reads ‘Last one out, turn out the lights’. Love that grim humour.

Oh and dramatically it’s really gripping- the portrayal of Bexhill on Sea as a kind of besieged Sarajevo/Warsaw ghetto, all gun shells and routine killings by the roadside, is powerful and hard-hitting, and there’s one scene inside the camp which involves the inability of three of the main characters to get a door open for what seems like an absolute aeon…well, it'll drive you crazy if you let it.

Basically this is a film you should see for the sake of your soul…yes, it's depressing, but there’s lots of action in it too, and the teeniest tiniest glimmer of hope breaking through the primordial fog at its heart-rendering termination.

9.5/10. GSG. (would have been 10/10 except that Michael Caine’s woolly cardigan was a bit too Last of the Summer Wine for me).

I am young and I am hot!

2006-10-06T18:15:00.000-07:00

Maximo Park at the Brixton Academy, 6th October 2006.

Not me but the dynamic and frenetic Paul Smith who has increased hugely in stature and ahem, stage presence, since myself and vodkaslut saw him last at the teeny weenie Infinity club in Mayfair, back in early 2005 (two for one vodka shots and a late licence, it was fabulous). I really shouldn’t have left it this long between Maximo gigs, and I’m not sure how it happened as I always loved them big time, but here I am and ready to make up for lost time with added enthusiasm and dynamism of my own (the gin is flowing).

On the first occasion we saw them, Maximo Park were still on the up and up, still striking slightly pretentious poses, combing their hair over awkwardly (Paul Smith), and being generally viewed as a passing oddity. Being from ‘up north’ they were part of the new influx of Britpop/indie adventurers making their way south with a hop, a skip and a jerky, angular guitar riff forward. Unlike The Futureheads though, who we saw them support at the Astoria, Maximo seemed rather more cerebral, Bohemian, if not a bit foppish. The songs were oddball narratives with pedantic lyrics- ‘I’ll do graffiti/If you sing to me in French’ (Graffiti)...'I sleep with my hands across my chest/And dream of you with someone else' (Going Missing); The book-reading affectation (revived nostalgically at the Brixton Academy) confirmed the Daniel Day-Lewis predilections of the lead singer, and seemed oh so chic and sophisticated.

Back to the Brixton Academy in 2006 and the old fashioned intellectualism is still in evidence, but no longer seems in any way effete or marginal. ‘These songs mean a lot to us and we’re so glad you came to hear them tonight’, the elegantly suited and booted Mr Smith reassures the audience. With his white ‘Chinatown’ outfit and his fedora hat, he looks like a young Jack Nicholson or Humphrey Bogart, blended with a small spattering of Jarvis Cocker type geekiness. The band are HUGE in every way possible, and the crowd go stir-crazy when it comes to Apply Some Pressure with its rousing, messianic message ‘What happens when you lose everything/You just start again/Start all over again’. I’ve found inspiration in those words many times since I first heard them. And as for Paul Smith, he seems taller than when I first saw him…taller and broader. Or maybe that’s because the stage is just a wee bit bigger.

Give the boy a pat on the back. He’s done good.

Shiny happy mixed-up folks

2006-10-04T19:10:00.000-07:00

Little Miss Sunshine at Odean Covent Garden, 4th October 2006

Cheer up. Life's not so bad. Well, families suck, life's a bitch and love's an endless disappointment. But hey, there's beauty pageants to be sabotaged (come on, they deserve it- children should NOT be wearing fake tan and dressing like Thai prostitutes) and crappy vehicles to be vandalised, and bodies to be illegally transported... fun fun fun. Pull yourself together, abandon the hot water bottle and comfy slippers, and go see this sanguine, winter-melancholy- defying, mood-boosting rollercoaster type movie. Don't expect fireworks or moral affirmation, or pyrotechnics of any shape or form, but if the idea of a family of (somtime slightly hackneyed but overall well-played) eccentrics doing their best to pull together and make the best of a bad job, makes you chortle; then go for it, and be utterly satisfied.

Oh and I definately went to school with Dwayne- the quintessential disaffectted long-fringe wearing teenage boy, buth then everyone over thirty will probably think that. And Olive is so so cute. I havn't seen such a quirky looking little girl in a movie since 'Wellcome to the Dollhouse', although that was of course a much darker movie (you definately shouldn't see it if you're looking for something similar to LMS).

Overall the movie lives up to its name, and is excellent as an early winter palliative. 8/10.

GSG.

Lupen Crook doesn’t live here anymore

2006-09-25T18:21:00.000-07:00

The Old Blue Last, 25 November 2006

What have we got to trust in anymore? What can we believe in? Is humanity facing extinction; the world disintegrating into violence and chaos as East takes on West, Poor challenges Rich, ‘home and family’ becomes ‘nearest port of call’ to the displaced masses, and nature transforms into avenging angel?

In this world of fragmentation, you would at least think that the Indie/anti-folk faction could stick together and not let down its brethren as was displayed this Monday night at the Old Blue Last in grimy but uber-trendy Old Street. Or shabby=chic inc., as it likes to be known.

Poor Lupen Crook. So popular all of a sudden- is the pressure getting to him? Of course his lyrics and ‘call me a freak, I don’t care’ attitude presages some kind of looming disaster/incarceration, but I’d have preferred if it wasn’t on my watch; selfish GSG.

The main thing I objected to about the night was the attitude of the Old Blue Last. It was forgivable of them not to cancel and to replace the said Lupen, with a strangely similarly-named Andy Creek, followed by the imaginatively-titled It Hugs Back (nice lads, it wasn't really necessary or kind to heckle them with the downright nasty 'Can we go now?'), but really- could they not have put the notice advising of said action in slightly larger writing maybe? In a slightly more prominent position? In the corridor outside or a downstairs location? Could they not have written the notice in black ink, or maybe even a FELT TIP PEN? OBL, with this attitude you were really disappointing me.

True, it was slightly amusing to witness, in a ‘God, I’m not the only one whose been duped’ kinda way, the sad image of every person who entered the ahem, ROOMY environs of the venue, quickly losing their toothy smiles and replacing them with a look of mild embarassment that they got so dressed up for NOUGHT. And certainly, elbowing, nudging, pushing, shoving, tall megalith-type blokes- these things were not a problem tonight. But, gives us a break, oh Lord of all things Indie. Oh great gig-promoter in the sky. What have I done to deserve this?

I remember last year that I was totally put off and deflated when HAL failed to arrive at ULU for a gig I had invited my friends to and bought the tickets for, and I completely cut them off after that. But this time I might be a little more charitable, as I really do quite like the wierd and wonderful output of Mr Crook, especially The Dead Relative, Wendy’s House, and Matilda V. Thank God for the old Bombay Sapphire, that’s what I say. Gin is definately an important part of every musically disappointing evening. GSG.

Ignore the pulse

2006-09-10T18:06:00.000-07:00

Pulse at Cineworld St Helens

Ok so I've been on the move again- exploring the depths of sunny Liverpool and Widnes, and very nice it was too. Imagine me treading the path that the venerable Richard and Judy trode only a few short years ago at the rejeuvenated Albert Dock. How privileged I felt.

In fact culture-vulturing took complete precedence over the first day of my visit- and I can personally reccomend the Walker Art Gallery and the modern art collection at Tate Liverpool. Very enriching so it was. However, hungover and seeking some not-too-strenuous entertainment, my good friend chardonnayguzzler and myself headed off to the cinema in nearby St Helens the next day, where the only vaguely enticing film on offer was the anthology of derivative nonsense known as Pulse.

God knows what director Jim Sonzero and screenwriter Wes Craven (writing by numbers on this one) were thinking ('I've run out of ideas so I'll just pinch a few from some more talented creative types overseas' maybe), but a right-royal rehash of some perfectly sound horror movies they've made, oh yes. I havn't seen the original from which it's taken Kairo but I'm pretty sure that it's of a higher calibre that this version. Let's face it, Hollywood just can't too psychological terror.

To start with, the 'ghosts' which are let loose by some unwise computer/broadband tinkering by American computer boffins/college whizkids (sorry, can't remember the names and they're really not important), are low-rent imitations of the truly terrifying creature that came through the television screen in the iconic groundbreaker Ring. The jerky movements, the phasing in and out, the souless eyes- give us a break.

Next up on the plagiarism front is the goulishly derelict apartment building with Soviet era architecture and medieval standards of cleanliness, which has been transported piece-by-piece, stone-by-stone, from supernatural heartstopper/chiller Dark Water; another masterly Japanese shocker which delved into the secret fears of the single woman living alone. WARNING: IF YOU HAVN'T SEEN THIS, DO NOT WATCH IT ALONE.

Lastly, but not least, the voiceover narrative from the final reel is not only derivative but a near-xerox copy of the Terminator epilogue ('the world we know is gone...) . And I havn't even commented on the Sarah Michelle Geller lookylikey (aka Buffy without the spunk). It's really not all bad (a kindly impulse is taking me over) but God knows, we've seen it all before (anyone whose seen any major horror movie of the last ten years that is).

I love Japanese horror movies, but can the English-language remakes just like STOP NOW?

NB. The photo above is not from the movie Pulse- it if was the film would have been far more interesting. GSG.

Lovers, mothers, and other signs trouble

2006-09-06T18:14:00.000-07:00

Volver at the Curzon Soho, 6th September 2006.

Ok, so Pedro Almodovar loves woman, that’s clear. Worships them in fact. No greater proof of this is needed than his latest, arguably best film, Volver; which stars a very much enhanced (larger in every way) Penelope Cruz, playing the part of Raimunda with a blowsy, Bet Lynch type joie de vivre. Following in the footsteps of luminaries such as Joan Crawford and another Bette, this time Davis, she bestrides the small town Spanish arena of the film, like a colossus, surviving the worst of calamities including a murderous teenage daughter (arguably self-defence), a lascivious husband and father, and the apparently supernatural reappearance of her long-dead mother. It’s enough to drive the average person crazy.

In addition to the statuesque Penelope (jokes are made continuously about the size of her bosoms, e.g. ‘Have you always had those bosoms? Are you sure you haven’t had a little something done?), the film also stars the brilliant Carmen Maura, a survivor of earlier Almodovar films such as GSG favourite, Woman on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown, who plays the prodigal mother turned wise old crone/banshee, who appears dramatically to a superstitious village in La Mancha (Almodovar’s home town) after the death of her sister Paula, and who seems to have come back from the afterlife in order to mend some broken relationships that she left unresolved during her eventful lifetime.

Loneliness. Sexual violence. The supernatural. Almodovar knows how to handle all of it expertly. He has a knack of injecting humour into the darkest recesses of family and village life (for this read ‘global village’), and offers his characters, whether they be the teenage virgin-princess, the lonely spinster, or the town whore, an excess of compassion and understanding for their situation. Thus Raimunda’s closest friend in her apartment block is a prostitute whose earthy sense of humour and loyalty extends to even the grittiest of funerary labours.

It is in this that Almodovar’s vision becomes transparent as the community of women emerges triumphant. Women are the strongest social force out there; “We can manage by ourselves” is the last equivocal statement of the film, and it encapsulates one of the major themes of the movie. Women working together are the guiding influence that keeps families and wider communities together. Men are either absent, ineffectual or at the worst, predatory and vicious.

The World According to Almodovar is a female-centric universe (what is the opposite of phalli-centric?) and full of visual splendours (rapacious feasts; wine, cheese, pastries, etc.) which are in stark contrast to the aridness of the natural world. Life may suck sometimes, sexual relationships and misplaced romanticism inevitably let you down, but according to Almodovar's code, same-sex friendships and platonic love can be your salvation.

God bless Pedro Almodovar. Long may he reign.

Alice in Wonderland goes all rock chick again...Lewis Carroll turns in grave

2006-08-30T18:30:00.000-07:00

Tapes n Tapes at Dingwalls, Camden, 30th August 2006

I guess it's the last tryst of summer, the final attempt to spread merriment in the home camp; make hay whilst the British summer wanes and dies its sordid little death (the death of the invalid long out of sorts). Anyways, Tapes n Tapes, the Minnesota boys, will help us out.

French horns, cowbells, an itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny, drummer, tons of ear-thumping school of rock guitar action (apologies for the amateurishness of my description, I wish I could be more technical but I can't). Great music, great band, great venue ('the steps, the steps, all I see are steps, I think I've been transported to Russia in the twenties'). The band are a bit more grungy- less flamboyently mannered than other favourites, but the honesty of the music shines through, and at points, shreds your worldly exterior to the point of solitary madness (in a good way).

I've been going for novelty turns like Gogal Bodello recently (although obviously authentic in his own way), together with a dose of eighties-tinged ska revivalists like Larrikin Love (love the boy). So this is entirely different. I saw The Walkman back in May, and didn't like them at all, thinking them far too muscular and aggressive (I was actually cowering in a corner of the Barfly at one point), but the Tapes seem a bit more complex- less frightening to the unitiated. With the Tapes you get something more approachable- a little bit country, a little bit Spitalfields/a little bit all their own.

Get tough, play rough (but don't hit the fat kid), get Tapes n Tapes. GSG.

Wedding shenanigans in in the isle of the Celts

2006-08-19T18:37:00.000-07:00

My friend Bulmerbabe's wedding to the legendary real ale boy in Cork/Kinsale on 19th August 2006

Ok so I may not have come across as the soppy, romantic, frills and flounces type of girl in my previous writings, but oh boy, am I a sucker (in the best possible way) when it comes to traditional Irish weddings with all the trimmings, or so I've discovered this weekend. I'm totally besotted with the whole business. Oh yes. And I'm a lucky bunny to be invited to be bridesmaid with my advancing years (is their an age limit, because I might just be approaching it). Every aspect of the preparations, including trips to dressmakers, florists, drycleaners, churches and the like, was highly enjoyable. Visits to the primping, scraping and sun-tun applying establishments was particularly enlightening...

At 30+ I had actually never had a fake tan before, thinking erroneously that bronzed skin was simply 'not for the likes of (pasty-faced) me'. However, I was wrong. I admit it. I was both suprised and stunned to see that the end result was actually quite flattering in a 'she's had the full works' kind of way. I don't want to be too superficial but I absolutely loved being 'worked on' like a Joan Crawford/Barbara Stanwyck/Bette Davis stand-in in the forties- 'Just lay it on with a trowel and don't forget to make me look glam' was the order of the day. My eyebrows were even held in place with a gel-like substance of rather dubious, but sticky, origin. How wonderful to be fussed over; 'more eyes darling, yes, more, more, more. I want them to jump out at everyone present, I want to be the belle of the ball'. Fabulous.

As for the non-primping activities, they was equally fabulous, obviously in a different, more sombre, level-headed way. Brought up as a Catholic, but seperated from the flock a long time ago by mutual agreement, for the first time in a decade, I felt moved to receive the holy eucharist. I'm not sure why but I was moved somehow. Maybe it was just because I was in Ireland, where everyone is so friendly and inclusive, or maybe it was just because I was feeling vunerable after seeing my best friends merging together like amorous jellyfish in the gelatinous state of marriage, but I was definately 'feeling the moment' and thinking of my own lost loved ones...I went all soft and woosy inside so I did.

Oh and Kinsale was fun too. It's a lovely little fishing 'hamlet' with multi-coloured houses and lots of seafood-serving eateries (if you don't like fish, don't bother could be its motto). Vodkaslut and myself took a grand tour of the gifty-folky shops (abandoning more energetic pursuits) and spent our Euros on leather goods, painted-glass angels and shot glasses to remind us of our visit. Hey-ho. Fun in the, ah, slightly windy/rainy/blowy weather. Btw, GSG did commit one major no-no on this trip in that she accidentally complimented the father of the bride for looking like 'a peer of the realm'. Oops. References to lords and ladies and the like are definately not to be proffered to Catholic Irishman 'of a certain age' and lineage it seems. I think they all forgave me though in the excitement of the proceedings. I meant it as a compliment, really!

Three’s a crowd (pleasing combo)

2006-08-05T18:10:00.000-07:00

Peter, Bjorn and John at the Spitz, 5th August 2006

Recipe for a good night out- Take Rod, Jane and Freddy (seventies kids TV icons); add a sprinkling of Abba-esque harmonizing, a pinch of Concretes style Nordic modernism; plus a good dash of Buzzcocks impetuousness, and what do you get? Peter, Bjorn and John!

Tonight is a sixties nostalgia fest with bells on. Literally! The polo-shirted, espadrille-bedecked frontman (Peter I presume, they weren’t wearing nametags) with his harmonica, maracas, and versatile vocal chords, is like a modern-day Davy Jones in waiting (waiting for a makeover my nefarious alter-ego whispers in my ear). And I haven’t even touched on the fantabulousa whistling chorus which the current single ‘Young folks’ requires. Bring back One Man and His Dog that’s what I say. (With pipes like that he could shepherd for Sweden. Here boy!).

The whole thing leaves a vestigial smile on my face for the rest of the evening. It’s my idea of fun. There’s nothing like a twee Scandinavian in espadrilles to silence your inner demons and change your mood. Like orange squash and honey; Kiora for the mind. Yes, I’m happy as the proverbial Larry at the Peter, Bjorn and John gig. With my Magners, my mates, and my newly-acquired pretty, girlie fan, which vodkaslut purchased for me on her Spanish hols and just everyone in the sweaty, intemperate nightclub wants, nay, covets (one day I’ll go to foreign climes and find my Shangri-la, oh yes). Fair to say, I'm loving it, 'to The Max.'

One thing though- what was that creepy/quaint Owl mask that was sitting on the drums? And what was the weird, fat-Pete-imitating photographer doing STANDING ON THE STAGE? Get out the way and let the young-uns and the older, wiser, ‘last chance to have fun’ types, enjoy the evening. There’s publicity and then there’s living in the moment. I know which I think is more important and the band needs to sort out their priorities too. Fans or paparazzi? It should be an easy choice. GSG.

Nihilist paradise

2006-07-14T19:19:00.000-07:00

Bill Bailey at the Pleasance Theatre, 14 July 2006

A booming but friendly, next-door neighbourly kinda voice echoes into the overheated sub-tropical arena as Bill Bailey, comedian-extraordinaire, conservationist and Klingon-impersonator, conducts his own introduction. Before us in the Pleasance Theatre ( a mid-size fringe theatre with communal bench seating a bit like a minature House of Commons), is an empty stage apart from a lonely keyboard (the playing of which by Bailey always reminds me of Ross in Friends). Topics covered during the course of the evening run from Nihilism, to his love of wildlife conservation, to a universally applauded hatred for James Blunt (who doesn't hate James Blunt?).

On wildlife, Bailey recalls a recent trip to the Brazilian Amazon to try to track down jaguars (the animal not the car) for a Sky One documentary. As part of the programme he had to have his photo taken with a captive jaguar- but unfortunately received dangerously fallatious advice on how to approach the wild cat ('always approach from the front, hang on, no, NEVER approach from the front'). I guess you had to be there...

For me, the funniest part of the show involved the forementioned keyboard-playing and a childhood song which my youngest sister absolutely loved as a wee toddler, but with a subtle re-working of the lyrics-

The nihilists on the bus go 'what's the point? what's the point? what's the point?'
The nihilist on the bus go 'what's the point? Life is essentially meaningless'

Genius. Although it was wasted on some members of the audience - especially two would be shagbuddies sitting next to my mate vodkaslut, who, it was reported to me later, were laughing rather awkwardly in the fashion of two very eager to impress but uncomprehending 'younguns'.

Maybe BB should consider subtitles.

Laugh a minute, maybe he's not. Literate, esoteric, philosophical, meditative. Sure. Food for the mind/the antithesis of the bawdy antics offered by Russell Brand and his ilk (not that I'm not partial). Definately. Someone with a beard and extraneous body hair such as BB should be philosophical I think (tonight he tells a funny story about how once, when he wanted to get a tattoo on his chest, he was told that he really shouldn't 'unless if was of something hiding in a thicket'; v. funny). GSG.

Charge! GSG meets GSB, sort of

2006-07-06T19:20:00.000-07:00

The Divine Comedy at Somerset House, 6 July 2006

What a night. Ginsoakedgirl comes almost face to face with the ginsoakedboy that is The Divine Comedy's Neil Hannon. Yes, the skinniest, palest man in rock is back in the house and just as intoxicated and albino-like as ever. Thank heaven. I couldn't imagine him all sober and thick around the middle due to having been eating all the pies a la Carl Barat in his 'oh what shall I do next' phase. Mmm. Well tonight the DC are marvellous under a wondrous canopy of full-on sunshine and with the backing of a devoted crowd of admirers. Plus me (I don't know how devoted I am to anyone truth be told). So out come the hits- three songs in and its National Express followed by Generation Sex and later on as an encore we're blessed with The Perfect Lovesong, one of my favourites. Sadly a request for Gin Soaked Boy is treated with utter derision by an affable Neil; 'YOU MUST BE JOKING' was the exact response I believe. In any case, we are all happy and well. "We're all friends here, aren't we?" He asks, rather coquestishly, " We all love each other, don't we?".

Amid the nostalgia, new songs Diva Lady and To Die a Virgin also score a big hit. Taking the success of this performance and the response, only one question needs an answer and that is: why oh why are the NME so negative about new album Victory of the Comic Muse? Come on now, I now that yous all like to be cutting edge and stuff, but give the Dublin lad a break. It may not be the Hall of Fame treasure trove that we're used to from the Fin-de-Siecle and Regeneration years; maybe it doesn't strike you in the nether regions with riproaring heartbreak or elation in quite the same way, but it still deserves respect. Someone who's been so prolific over the years should be appreciated a bit more. You can't knock someone who wrote the theme tune for Father Ted now surely?

Still loving the Divine Comedy. For sure.

I'm converted!

2006-06-27T18:05:00.000-07:00

The Rakes at the Islington Bar Academy, 27th June 2006

Ok, so I've caught on at last. I've signed up, bought the t-shirt. Got the angular, spasm-inducing virus that has swept the nation, or at least the Spitalfields-liking, indie-orientated London crowd. I'm liking the Rakes now! Listening to cd and everything. Maybe it's because I was at a manageable, FREE, gig, not unduly bothered by inconsiderate oversized behemoths, not squashed and squeezed like a mouldy banana, or annoyed by throngs of polka-doted teens, AND I was drinking an inadvisable amount of Strongbow and wearing my new converse trainers, but I just got the whole vibe this time around. During previous encounters I've always felt a bit uncomfortable and slightly underwhelmed, but this time the intimacy of the surroundings made me feel just about as excited as I'll ever be at a Rakes gig, I predict. The presence of vodkaslut and cidertramp was also a bonus (God bless all drinking buddies). Converse, who organised the free event, should also be heartly congratulated. And, no, this is not a 'damn with faint praise' type review; I'm really warming to that bloke called Alan and his cohorts.

God bless all gangly-bodied, arm-waving, white-shirted, floppy-haired indie boys with a yearning for the days of scooter bikes, leather jackets and fistfights at seaside resorts. When I watch them I feel a bit of a yearning myself, of a type I'll keep to myself though if you don't mind. They seem old-fashioned somehow; I imagine them spending evenings in grotty pubs playing darts and talking about their 'dollybirds'. Oh and having wrestling matches at summer fayres on Clapham Common and winning a smoked ham as a reward.

Indie boys are good.
GSG.

No, it's not a joke!

2006-06-21T18:29:00.000-07:00

The Wireless Festival, 21 June 2006

Watching self-declared 'gypsy punks' Gogol Bordello at the Wireless Festival this year made me think all sorts of strange things:

1. Maybe I should stop straightening my hair, and let it cascade unfettered, like someone half my age
2. Maybe I should give up my soul-defacing job in the City and go live in a caravan, embrace life on the road, learn to play the fiddle
4. Maybe I should start wearing bells around my ankle
5. At the very least I should wear purple more, and velvet waistcoats, with covered buttons
6. And consider dating men with artistically coiffered hair and indecipherable East European accents (where I should find these men, I have no idea, there must be a special club or something)

Yes, that would be fun.

As for the rest of the festival this year, and I hesitate to say this as it featured cute and sexy bands like Dirty Pretty Things (working the black look so so well), The Raconteurs, and The Strokes (love that Casablancas guy), but it was rather lacklustre. Julian Casablancas did his best to reach out to the crowd during their headlining set, ‘because this stage is just too far away’ but the sound was all wrong or something, I’m not sure exactly what. The Pimms bus (yes, bus) was chic and visually right up my street (the product they were selling won multiple brownie points too), and I liked the sound sticks or whatever they were meant to be (but not the strange men on stilts, there's something decidedly creepy about that), but I really didn’t get to the whole ‘let loose and forgot what country you come from’ state of mind which has featured in previous jaunts to places of iniquity such as the Reading festival (2004-05). I know I’m getting older and I really shouldn’t expect this any more, but you can’t help remembering…

Oh, and lets make it clear, I do love the Strokes. Did I say that? But not the Pigeon Detectives. They so need an identity check. Are we Hot Hot Heat? or the Kooks? Will someone tell us who we are? It's always a bad sign when you leave the tent and straightaway can't remember a single song. GSG.

Up and strumming

2006-06-07T12:39:00.000-07:00

Larrikin Love at Kings College, 7th June 2006

Folk, punk, ska, reggae, fiddly-pop a la Dexys Midnight Runners circa 1982- exactly how many cultural influences do these guys need? Luckily for us the different rhythems blend together effortlessly tonight at the kiddie-jungle that is the Kings College (four flights up and no lift! GSG got plenty of impromptu exercise on her mission to sample the musical delights of the Larrikin Love universe, oh yes). The result is a seductive package; rich in content and surprisingly well-developed in style. The toe-tapping calypso-fusion is irresistible, infectious and incendiary, and the members of the band are all great, charismatic performers. Lead singer, Edward Larrikin is a particularly crowd-pleasing boy-genius and the supporting performers (tonight a trombonist and girlie guest singer) add to the feeling of spontaneity, generosity, and inclusiveness. All hail the Larrikins! And Kooks, take note- this is what a real up and coming band with potential (long-lasting not transitory) looks like. GSG.

That way madness...

2006-05-28T18:17:00.000-07:00

The Devil and Daniel Johnston at the Prince Charles, 28th June 2006

Sometimes we all think that we’re a little mad, (well actually I have been mad as a hatter a couple of times; when I got dumped, when I got bullied, when I nearly went bankrupt), but watching this film, you realise just how different some people’s perception of reality is to the vast majority of the general public. Basically there’s madness, and then there’s a bunch of girlie romantic meditations on madness. Daniel Johnston is the thing itself, without any kind of pretension or affectation. Creativity oozes from the very pores of his childlike, altar-boy visage (even now when his medication has bloated his body out of all natural proportions), and his imagination and mood swings govern his every waking moment. He is 100% genuine in the sense that he doesn’t censor himself in the way other people do or try to manipulate others. His sensitivity means that the religious upbringing he experienced in his childhood (dispensed by well-meaning but unworldly parents) had a profound effect on him and the mythology of the Christian church, including angels and demons, God and Satan, heaven and hell, are real to him in a very physical way. Because of his illness, he sees angels and demons everywhere. He falls passionately in love with the first pretty girl that’s nice to him (a college student) and idolizes her for the rest of his life as both angel and muse (she knows nothing of his obsession at first, although she obviously must know now). He also turns down a record contract because Metallica are signed to the same label and, as a Christian, he believes they will try to kill him.

Another aspect that the film draws out is the way that the people around Daniel respond to his illness, in particular the outbreaks of mania (trying to baptise people, walking into stranger’s houses, crashing his father’s plane with both of them inside it, nearly killing them). His first agent has him sectioned and taken away to the nearest institution because he can’t deal with the reality of a creative genius who is out of control. Whilst in the institution he meets his second agent who becomes totally devoted to him for the rest of his life in an old school, Colonel Tom Parker, svengali kind of way, even after he refuses to sign the record deal which has taken him seven years to prepare (the most memorable quote in the film is when he describe the first meeting of the parties involved stating that it was ‘as normal as any meeting between a major record label and an aspiring artist can be when the meeting is taking place in a mental institution’). Daniel’s parents, despite initial conflicts and misunderstandings, also stand by him, and support him with real, solid love and compassion. His father’s devotion in particular is extremely affecting and the progress of the illness has obviously been a learning curve for everyone involved.

The film is intensely moving and informative about bipolar disorder, how it develops and reveals itself gradually over time until the first crisis comes. The two phases are both brilliantly conveyed: the charisma and charm of the manic when they’re in the first hyperbolic/ecstatic, ‘I can conquer the world’ phase, thinking they can do everything and know everything, that they’re unstoppable and they will be the most famous person that ever lived…followed by the disappointment and confusion of depression when that other personality seems to be hidden or concealed and the medication gradually dulls the creativity.

Finally I should say that the film is not all dark and depressing. It also has a lot of visual humour in it, especially when The Nightmares, the band that Daniel plays with now, first appear on scream wearing their trademark ‘fuck Satan’ t-shirts. Subtle.

It’s a classy documentary which I’d strongly recommend.

Pugilists and puny-legged peddlers of popular music

2006-05-19T19:14:00.000-07:00

The Kooks at the Astoria, 19th May 2006

I still can’t make up my mind about the Kooks. What are they? An indie version of a manufactured boy band (Backstreet Beatniks?); a Razorlight tribute band (already?); a smart and sassy band of puny-legged protégés, with a shot at the big-time crossover market? One thing is sure though, and that is that front man Luke Pritchard is the spitting image of Johnny Borrell when he first appeared on the scene- all curly-haired boisterousness and vigorous self-aggrandizing rhetoric. Some commentators have imbued him with Dylanesque resonance but to me he's definately more Borrell than Bob. So are the Kooks the genuine article? Personally I’m a bit peeved by the presumptiveness of the name. They don’t seem that kooky to me...the Mystery Jets, Larriken Love, The Holloways, now they're real eccentrics. Plus the alliterative similarity with the Kinks is a bit of a lazy marketing gimmick- at least the Arctic Monkeys, another indie teen sensation, managed to come up with a totally original name that helped mark them out as something a bit different, something to be remembered and watched out for.

Despite my reservations, I do actually enjoy myself at the Astoria this evening. Myself and redwineaddict install ourselves on the balcony, spying like the voyeurs we are, on the crowd of pasty-faced detention-dodgers and fledgling fashionistas below. The support act, Dan Sartain, entertains greatly in a rough-hewn, hillbilly, spit and sawdust kinda of way (the words Buddy Holly tribute band will absolutely NOT pass my lips, oh no). The crowd at this point seem quite pleasant and lacking in any pugilistic intent, although retrospectively I think perhaps it was laced with an element of danger. The young crowd of girly polka-doted fans are complimented by a similar number of slightly older lager-drinking student types and the whole of the area beneath us is swaying to and fro in the manner of a rotten, leaking boat. Entertaining as this is, the end result is bound to be ungentlemanly, and sure thing, as the Kooks come out to rapturous applause, a fight breaks out, proper fisticuffs, and Luke himself makes a plangent plea to the crowd (heartfelt and oh so articulate): “ Could you fu**ers please stop fighting now?”.

Once the fracas has blown over, everything settles down, and the skinny-legged one is actually more likable than his nasal songsmithery and reputation as a silver spoon in the mouth, stage school engineered charlatan, has lead me to suspect. He's friendly and chatty in a minimalistic way eg "This song is called Seaside and was inspired by a trip to the seaside". Plus they have got good tunes. You Don’t Love Me, Sofa Song, and Naive are great singalong songs to be sure (although the over the top nasal quality of Naive repels me slightly). So I don't know what it is that continues to annoy me about the Kooks; they have promise but it feels as if they haven't quite got it together yet and have had way too much exposure, way too soon. They need to work on their persona and their musical sense of direction a lot more that's for certain. I don't want to knock them too much, honest I don't, just as I wouldn't kick a sick puppy who I accidentally stumbled over in the street. They're way too cute for that.

Poor Kooks, I really am going to have to shut up now. GSG.

I wish I could/turn into you

2006-05-16T18:31:00.000-07:00

The Yeah Yeah Yeahs at the Kentish Town Forum, 16th May 2006

Could I please? If it could be arranged…maybe some kind of metamorphosis of the Greek mythological variety, or a more vaguely plausible ugly duckling= swan transformation? It sounds as if we’re entering some kind of X-men territory here, but if it was in any way possible, I would love to turn into Karen O in this or any other lifetime.

Have I lost my mind? Maybe, but the atmosphere in the Kentish Town Forum this evening is magical. I’m mesmerized by the flamboyant spectacle taking place on stage and feel totally at home in the equally transfixed and enthusiastic crowd of fellow devotees, who surprisingly are not at all snooty or pretentious as you would expect at this type of gig (me and my gin feel totally at home).

Karen O and the rest of the YYYs are fabulous in a totally unfussy way- her totally eccentric and brilliantly ‘home-made’ fashion sense and her ‘almost too shrill but not quite’ Kate Bush-esque vocal performance is totally different to anything else around. Musically I guess the band have been compared to the Strokes as they have a similar genealogy and pedigree but the presence of a female lead singer with the on-stage charisma and glamour of Karen O, transports them to another sphere of influence altogether.

If Karen O (what DOES the O stand for? I think it must be ostentatious) was a dancer she’d be more of your Martha Graham than your Margot Fonteyn and that’s meant as a compliment. Arty and avant garde, the woman gives young girl rock groups something to aim for, and rock chicks something to be proud of. In the last century there was Siouxsie Sioux, Chrissie Hynde, Debbie Harry and Annie Lennox, but who do we have now? Anna Matronic from The Scissor Sisters? Kate Jackson from The Long Blondes? Karen O wins hands down.

An off-colour prophet

2006-05-14T18:28:00.000-07:00

Mozza at the London Palladium, 14th May 2006.

So this is where I have to come clean and confess to being a Mozza fan, for oh, say the last twenty years. It began when I first started working full-time and met up with someone who knew SO much more about the music scene than I had ever imagined- well, they had worked in HMV as a Saturday girl for a couple of years. I know that lots of people don’t get it and will ‘never be convinced he’s any cop’ (yes that’s you vodkaslut), and I totally understand their point of view, but to me he was a hero and always will be. He/They offered complex lyrical and narrative structures, and a poetic anti-establishment sensibility at a time of my life when all around me was nothing but frilly shirted dullards and popinjays. Duran Duran and Spandau Ballet were SO not my thing.

So after all that build up, it comes as a bit of a shock to find myself (even thinking of) using words like lacklustre, disappointing, and sluggish, to describe Mozza’s performance at the London Palladium on Sunday night. But sluggish he was.

It all started fairly well with the thunderous vibrating chords of How soon is now? shaking the rafters, and continued with the last single You have Killed me and I Will See You In Far Off Places (love that Turkish bazaar vibe), both from the latest album Ringleader of the Tormentors, plus a couple more newies. By the time we got to the classic Smiths song Girlfriend in a Coma I was getting rather excited, despite being about half a mile from the stage and having to peer through old fashioned theatre goggles like a street urchin who’s crept in from the cold to see some shady musical hall shindig. But then it all seemed to fall apart.

To be honest, I don’t think it was all his fault, I probably would have been a bit disappointed whatever, as I had worked it up in my mind to be more than it was- I spent the afternoon before looking at my old records and reminded myself of the lyrics of favourite Smiths songs (Shyness is nice, and/ shyness can stop you/ from doing all the things in life/ that you want to Were ever truer words spoken?). The main problem is I think that I really wanted to see The Smiths in their heyday and not an aged, slightly potbellied Morrissey.

I WAS greatly entertained when the great man started moaning about Radio 1 not playing his new single The Youngest Was The Most Loved and spent quite a bit of time complaining about it in the vein of "what do you f***ing have to do to get a single played on the radio in this country" and "you really shouldn't applaud that kind of song- it's too depressing, APPARENTLY". He later apologised for swearing, if I remember rightly, because he didn’t’ want to offend the ghost of Danny La Rue and other ‘Saturday night at the London Palladium’ luminaries. Ah bless.

The man really is a mess of contradictions and I think that’s what makes him so intriguing too so many people. In him they see someone who even more confused and mixed up than they are, and that makes them feel better, or marginally less alone, in a gauche naïve kind of way (I hold my hands up to having felt this way myself). I do still love him I have to say, once a hero always a hero, but maybe I have outgrown the worst of my own melancholic excesses, and therefore can’t quite identify with him the way I used to.

Taking everything into consideration, I’m glad I shelled out to see the man of misery, would have been down the front trying to touch the hem of the prophet if I could, and Morrissey’s voice I can report is just as poignant as ever, but £35 to perch like a limpet on a mountain rock is no joke, and I really think he could have made a bit more attentive to the troops. Despite earlier football terraces chanting of Morrissey, Morrissey, Morrissey etc, there was actually some desperate ‘it can’t be true’ style booing when Morrissey walked off stage without so much as a goodbye and the expected encore failed to arrive. Now that just seemed rude.

Poor, sad, beautiful boys

2006-04-28T19:00:00.000-07:00

C.R.A.Z.Y at Barbican Cinema 1, 28th April 2006

Oh the heartache, the gender confusion, the tears, the family dysfunction, the bad bad fashion choices, and the groovy soundtrack!

Zac, the main protagonist of the piece is a somewhat sensitive soul (wets his bed, wants a pram for his birthday) who possesses prodigious gifts of healing (according to his ultra-religious mother) and a tendency to ‘act like a fairy’ (according to his father). Growing up in a family of five boys, his brothers are either geekish, jocks, or brain-addled, drug-taking morons, and so it’s up to him to take on the role of outsider in the family- the cultured one into music and dressing up like David Bowie (as he gets older).

The film follows Zac through his youth and adolescence and has a sweeping episodic structure which feels a bit shallow at times; in my view they’re seems to be enough material for far more than just one film, maybe a whole miniseries in the ilk of The Thornbirds; Quebec-style. Zac's relationship with his childhood sweetheart is treated pretty superficially and there are other characters around the periphery, like the eccentric psychic who befriends him and tells him he is gifted, that we never get to know properly either.

What’s good about the film is that the character’s ambiguous sexuality is treated without a hint of sensationalism, and the general tone is warm and cautiously optimistic; representing the full spectrum of family life. The character’s relationship with his father is particularly interesting based as it is on an almost obsessive love of music- Patsy Cline on the father’s part, and David Bowie on the son's. It’s music that causes the father to feel proud of his son's achievements almost against his will, and music which helps heal the rift between them towards the end of the film.

Finally, the actor that played Zac reminded me of that other poor, sad, beautiful boy River Phoenix, and it made me wonder: is it ever possible to look like that and NOT be confused about your sexuality?

A tale of two club nights

2006-04-27T19:08:00.000-07:00

Insomniacs Ball at SeOne, London Bridge, 13th April 2006 and the Mighty Boosh aftershow party featuring Robots in Disguise at Plan B, Brixton, 19th April 2006

There are good clubnights and bad clubnights and downright disastrous ones. Well I guess you could say that these two experiences spanned all three variaties, and neither confirmed me in my club hating aversion, or opened my eyes to a whole new world of excitement and adventure which I will follow fervantly for the rest of my life.

To give you some background to this post, about ten years ago I composed the following poem;

I never thought much of clubbing
It's a pastime I've never enjoyed
All that pushing and groping and shoving
Just made me annoyed

Since then I may have changed quite a bit but never really gotten over my phobia (I think it began when I was molested outside the Square Club in Cardiff circa 1989). But this year I determined to overcome the past and give it another go.

Unfortunately for me the Insomniacs Ball was not the best place to start as the club environs (under the arches Eastenders style) were way beyond grimy/skanky whilst the overcrowding inside was of epic proportions (almost Hillsborough in its dimensions). GSG was quite scared at one point as myself and cidertramp made our way through the Art Brut inspired throng, only to be forced to abandon our attempts to get within a stone's throw of our indie artrock idols and stumble, CS Lewis like, into the adjoining chamber. There were good performance by a number of bands, including Art Brut, Dogs, Black Wire, and The Holloways, but the tempestuousness of the crowd was a bit too primeval for me (although it would have been ok at a festival in the great outdoors). The whole event seemed rather badly organised and the security seemed REALLY over the top (was it absolutely necessary to have five bouncers on the stage during The Holloways set- come on like, it's The Holloways not Oasis or Robbie Williams, for goodness sake).

In any case, I did like getting the first tube home- that was very serendipitous.

So anyway, the Mighty Boosh aftershow party at Plan B. V. different to the above, goes without saying. Indeed. Smaller, which was good. Shorter in duration (also good). More intimate. You're getting the picture. I really don't work well in large venues. I'm just not combative enough.

The Robots in Disguise were absolutely fabulous in a glam-rock, big boots, silver caped, besequinned way, and I enjoyed that muchly. Would like to see them again. The appearence of Noel Fielding of Mighty Boosh fame added to the revelry but it would have been just as good without his comedic presence as the girls, Sue Denim and Dee Plume, are of a rare and exotic genus and give great value, even inviting audience members on stage to join in the fun. My companions, cidertramp and vodkaslut, were ready to go by 2am as they had to work the next day, but I could gladly have gone on dancing for a few hours more. How ironic is that?

The night of the geek

2006-04-13T18:26:00.000-07:00

We Are Scientists at the Shepherds Bush Empire, 13th April 2006

Never before has geekdom been so cool or so appealing as it was last night at the Shepherds Bush emporium (excepting maybe Jarvis Cocker at his zenith).

Images of silent film stars Buster Keaton and Harold Lloyd kept running through my mind during the course of the set and the dynamic threesome's loquacious banter reminded me somewhat of that typically British double act Morcambe and Wise (with added Californian sex appeal). But despite echoes of comedy acts past, the evening was continuously entertaining with the infectious personalities on stage winning about a zillion brownie points with the amorous, intoxicated crowd (two people behind us were particularly enamoured; they never came up for air all evening).

Songs from the debut album With Love and Squalor were supplemented by a rendition of the Ronettes' Be My Baby which was a bit too cheesy for me, but all in all the gig left me with a definate case of the warm fuzzies which was very welcome indeed.

8.5/10

Time to excel yourself or Long live the Scream!

2006-04-06T18:32:00.000-07:00

Astoria, Tottenham Court Road, 6th April 2006

In the deep mid-winter/early spring (who can tell the difference?), in the heart of old London town, inebriated already on a half bottle of (medicinal) red wine, supped at the Phoenix theatre bar, myself and Vodkaslut amble our merry way down to the Astoria to witness the latest venture of the great revivalists and reinventors, Primal Scream.

Much to our delight, the Scream belt out their era-defining anthem Rocks not once but twice during the course of the evening, sandwiching in the dancy dancy psychedelic Screamadelica hits, and the anti-globalisation call to arms Swastika eyes to rapturous applause from the REALLY QUITE HAPPY INDEED audience (a couple of guys near us in the pit were well immersed in their own private universe).

Complaints? Not many. It was so good to be at a gig by a band that has a proper back catalogue and physically remembers the eighties and nineties, rather than just referencing them guilelessly (I'm in too good a mood to name names on that score) .

A rendition of ongoing favourite (I'm gonna) cry myself blind would have been nice, but I wasn’t too heartbroken over its absence and perhaps it would have ruined the upbeat vibe that dominated the evening. Instead we got new song Country girl which prompted the only intelligible intro of the evening from Glaswegian Bobby Gillespie (not that it was that inspired, basically it was ‘This is from our new album’).

All in all it was the best evening I’ve had at the Astoria since the Kaisers in 2005, and the best gig so far this year apart from The Strokes at the Hammersmith Apollo.

Purveyors of intergalactic cool. Long live the Scream!

Who are the Dogs? (I couldn't ask for anything more)

2006-03-16T18:30:00.000-08:00

Dogs at the Tutu's, Kings College London, Student Union

Should we be afraid of them? Are they comparable in looks to any member of the canine species? Are they just for hardened post punk enthusiasts? Certainly not.

In fact the band are looking and sounding as good as ever and vodkaslut, cidertramp and I all agree that the late night jaunt to Kings College SU was well worth it when they come up trumps with new music and old favourites London Bridge, Selfish Ways and She's Got a Reason, all blasted out with the usual Jam inspired panache. Johnny Cooke does look slightly tired at first but soon perks up and delivers his gritty Ian Drury-esque vocals like a well-rehearsed pro on serious uppers.

I’ve seen Dogs three times now, with and without the fervid maniacal fans who chant ‘we are the dogs’ and jump on stage at every available opportunity. Each time I've seen them has been different but each time they’ve got better and interested me more. As a thirty something without any great affinity or aptitude for the moshpit, and someone who might be considered a bit too genteel to be a Dogs fan, I still highly reccomend them not only to the fearless and the brave, but also slightly retiring music fans like me who are feeling a bit more adventurous than usual.

Last night we had a good opportunity to listen to the music in a less fraught arena than on previous occasions (the first time I saw them at 93 Feet East in particular was a bit like going into gladiatorial combat) and the experience was all the more rewarding for it as we had enough time and space to really appreciate the music without worrying too much about being divebombed.

Dogs give good value and nobody can deny them that. You just have to be up for something a bit more rough and tumble than other fêted indie bands of the moment. Kaiser Chiefs or Maximo Park they're not.

Oh and on a tangent I received an admiring comment regarding my new short fringe from a fashionista bleach blonde twentysomething at the cloakroom door which made my evening more than complete.

It really doesn't take much to make me happy anymore.

Good retro, bad retro, plus the frankly hilarious

2006-03-06T19:04:00.000-08:00

Shitdisco & The Klaxons & Dandy Wind @ The Metro Club, Tottenham Court Road, 6/3/06

Dandy Wind
First up this evening are Montreal-based glitterdisco queens Dandy Wind who’s lead singer strides across the stage with epileptic abandon and makes me think that perhaps she may have been overdosing slightly on a fit-inducing cocktail of Kids from Fame and Olivia-Newton John videos. Or maybe she’s Karen Carpenter’s deranged alter-ego projected violently into the 21st century. Who can tell? However her antics play well to the crowd and I’m particularly impressed by her sequined leotard/red polka dot scarf/marble-effect leggings combo. It’s the kind of outfit that Cyndi Lauper in her youth would have relished.

The Klaxons
What can I say? Not my kind of thing really. Loud mid-90s imitation rave junkies with an army of teenybopper fans plus the usual accoutrements (whistles, glowsticks etc.); suitable perhaps for an empty field or warehouse but not a miniscule indie venue in central London. I didn't like it the first time round and I don't like it now.

Shitdisco
Finally! Shitdisco, feverishly exciting as always and complete with their latest image change- this time involving a cowboy shirt, string vest and road sweepers jacket (I’ve previously seem them sporting full-on GLC leisure wear and the smart/tailored look). I do love those boys with their dirty seventies rhythems and their flair for the dramatic, however I have to say that tonight they remind me of an indie boy pick and mix, or perhaps a low-fi Village People (in the best possible way). Sorry boys.

Oh and there were a few famous faces in the audience, but I demure from naming them because it just wouldn't be cool (although one of them definitely need his moptop trimming). OK, am I cool now?

George the iconoclast

2006-02-25T18:30:00.000-08:00

Good Night and Good Luck- Barbican Cinema, 24/02/06

The wonderful world of George Clooney; how great must that be? You know in the world generally there are injustices, then inconveniences, and then there are the abominations of inequality that are typified by the gorgeousness of people such as George. Why should some men or women have so much in terms of looks and attractiveness? I know I’m delving into the muddy politics of feminism and 20th century commercialism (of course good looking people are touched up by the glossies etc), but really, it’s just not fair when they not only monopolise the world of physical beauty but start to traverse the divide between the geek and the supermodel, churning out really great movies such as this.

With Good Night and Good Luck George Clooney proves that he is someone to be listened to and whose opinion should rightly be sought on weighty political matters such the invading of foreign realms and the defence of civil liberties. Clooney’s father was a newsroom hound during the fifties and this has obviously inspired him to do just homage to the era. The claustrophobic atmosphere of the newsroom itself, not only but including the prolific smoking of cigarettes before, during and after each broadcast, is meticulously recreated, and I felt afterwards that I had lived and breathed the fifties for those 2 hours.

That McCarthyism was not a good thing, was not a startlingly new discovery for me but some of the subtleties and nuances of the period; the extent to which individuals had to keep secret facts about their life that we would consider totally irrelevant (such as having once had an ex girlfriend who was involved with someone who had once been a member of the communist party), because this could mean the end of their career, were a revelation for me. The film isn’t as profound as it might think it is, or aspire to be, but it is a well acted period piece that breathes authenticity and has more than a little relevance today. Oh and its good to see Robert Downey Junior paired up with Patricia Clarkson as a married couple; it’s a pairing of equals rather than the media moguls wet dream that we usually get (older distinguished man, young girly girl).

George Clooney, like Johnny (the cheekbones) Depp, makes movies that tantalise and enchant the cerebral senses as well as the corporeal. What are mere mortals meant to make of this? I guess we should be jealous but it’s made incredibly difficult by the charisma and intelligence of both men. How dare they be both clever and beautiful? There should be a law against it.

Standing in the moshpit, unafraid and undeterred

2006-02-18T12:24:00.000-08:00

The Strokes at the Hammersmith Apollo, 18th February 2006

So after a difficult couple of months battling against the distemper of winter and trying to regain my lost mojo in gig-going terms, I finally broke through the awful lassitude and enjoyed a rampaging evening of rock-god proportions in the uber-cool person of the fabulous Strokes of New York and universal indie fame.

In the past my devotion to the band has been rather uneven, with a certain wariness of what they do and did stand for musically. What were they about I wondered, and 'what are they FOR' my purist housemate asked. Well, they're about making uncool over thirty miscreants like myself twist and shout with old fashioned innocent glee. Oh yes.

The band were on great form and it was a sublime night from start to finish; with all my mates there (vodkasluts, Bulmersbabes and whiskeydivas, one and all) and my gin-drinking and gig-going mojo returned in glorious unison. Hallelujah.

Oh and Julian Casablancas has been totally reborn to me with his really rather attractive sultry masculine presence. His voice is deep and powerful and slightly, ahem, overwhelming. Well worth the hype. GSG.

Valentine's Day allergy

2006-02-15T18:28:00.000-08:00

Does anybody really like Valentine's Day? Really, it's just too omnipresent- post offices, coffee shops, supermarkets; it's everywhere. Infectious and invasive. You just can't get away from it. Teddy bears, heart-shaped chocolates, pink fluffy nonsense all over the place. It's like an annual outbreak of a particularly virulant and unpleasant disease.

Anyway, I've been thinking on it lots and trying to analyse why it annoys me so very muchly and came to the conclusion that, well, basically, it's pants. It's the lovey-dovey, sacharine, Radio 1/tellytubby version of human relationships, and it just doesn't relate to anything that has ever taken place in my life, at any time, whatsoever. Maybe this just reflects how sad and lonesome I am, or maybe I just have really good taste, who knows. I just hate the whole business.

On the other hand, I don't object to songs, movies and other stuff about love in all its colourful and varied manifestations. In fact I quite like a bit of a lovesong sometimes, but it has to be realistic, or funny, or quirky; something you havn't heard a million times before.

So here it is, my anti-Valentine's Day playlist, with new and old favourites. I hope you like it:

Belle and Sebastian – Funny Little Frog- gets an honourable mention if only because of its rhyming of the words poet and thro- at. It’s sweet and charming and articulate without making you want to puke.

The Smiths- Girlfriend in a Coma- What can you say; classic. ‘I know I know- it’s really serious’. Yes indeed. Bitterness and strife.

Art Brut- Rusted Guns of Milan- a blokey point of view but funny and honest and entertaining.

Super Furry Animals- Fire in my Heart- not particularly original lyrics but sung with absolute passion and conviction (but not overblown in an eighties power-balladish way)

The Cure- Love Cats, or Friday I’m in love- jocular and upbeat, classic Cure (before Robert Smith stopped making fashion choices and became his own parody).

Primal Scream- (I'm Gonna) Cry Myself Blind- 'Have you ever had a broken heart? Have you ever lost your mind?' The answer's yes to both these questions.

*This list is neither exhaustive nor authoritative in any way what so ever. Please feel free to suggest alternatives.

Second-hand rose

2006-02-09T18:13:00.000-08:00

The Rakes, supported by The On/Offs/Duels/White Rose Movement at the Astoria, 2nd February 2006

I’m not very good at saying bad things about bands and I don’t really want to say anything bad about this evening, but to be honest, it just wasn’t my sort of thing. I’ve thought about it and thought about it and it’s the only conclusion I can reach. I just couldn’t whip up fervour or swim contentedly in the ebb and flow of the crowd for love or money. The Rakes were great, it’s true, they’re a fab band with genuine, albeit minimalistic, charisma (Alan Donohoe must surely be Jarvis Cocker’s slightly less socially-awkward bastard brother?), but they’ll never be one of my faves for all the arm waving and rabble rousing in existence (although I do think the vid for ‘All too human' is very heart-warming).

The other bands on the bill were equally not my scene I’m afraid- especially the slightly politically dodgy armband-wearing Nordic blondes which are the WRM. I just can’t cope with that kinda imagery no matter what the context- I just automatically think of really bad things.

From the well meaning blokiness of the Rakes to the pink-shirted Liam Gallagher podman who fronts first support The On/Offs, it just wasn’t the night for me. Which was a shame because I really wanted to enjoy myself.

Or maybe I was just pissed because after my friend vodkaslut drew me forward so that I could see the stage when the Rakes came on, I was immediately thrown back again and rammed up against a parka wearing blokey type who was jumping up and down manically. Eventually me and my gin just has to withdraw back behind the giant grill that the proprietors of the Astoria have installed behind the sound desk (why oh why?)

Oh well, you can’t win them all.

A nice cuppa tea [TIME FOR A RANT]

2006-01-30T17:47:00.000-08:00

How great is tea? It’s a great British institution, maybe one of the greatest (it’s right up there with red pillar boxes and bowler hats), and it’s one that I’ve embrace wholeheartedly since childhood. My parents were great tea drinkers, oh yes, it was part of the fabric that kept our often sparring family together, but it means much more to me than simple nostalgia.

Think how shocked I was the other week then when BB contestant, Michael Barrymore, ended the scathing ‘I’m a bigger celebrity than you, you’re just a nobody’ argument with ‘coffee anyone?’. Are all our cherished ideals and standards slipping forever into transatlantic smog?

A cup of tea whatever anyone says, will always be more British, and more comforting than any latte, mocha, cappuccino-style nonsense you can mention. And another thing, why is it these days that you always get offered coffee first, and tea as an afterthought? Us tea drinkers must stick together to preserve our genteel traditions. If we’re not careful soon we’ll all be spelling colour without a u and praising the Lord at the drop of a hat.

Gin and tea are the only two drinks you really need in life… Mother’s Ruin and Mother’s little pick-me up. What more does anyone need? We need ‘tea and sympathy’ not coffee and schmaltz. {END OF RANT]

I'm a bit bored in January so going to the cinema lots

2006-01-23T18:15:00.000-08:00

Brokeback Mountain, Odean Covent Garden- 21st January 2006
A Cock and Bull Story, Islington Vue- 22nd January 2006

OK. So I said that January would be a dry month for gigs and so it has been. So to comfort myself and repel the increasingly suicidal urges my terminal lack of money has inspired in me, I’ve been going to the movies rather a lot this month.

This weekend I went to the movies not once but twice…

On Saturday I headed over to the Odean Covent Garden to see a movie that everyone I know has said is fantastic, and, joy of joys, it turned out they were right! Apart from the fact that Heath Ledger is barely audible through the majority of the film (although I’m sure his accent is very authentic), the brilliance of the other elements of the film (stunning mountain scenery, a totally unsentimental script) more than make up for some minor incoherence (there’s taciturn and then there’s ‘face like granite- what’s that he’s saying?’). Anyway, it’s good stuff, very sad and very true.

On Sunday I went to see A Cock and Bull Story in Islington and it was the complete opposite- that is, very very funny indeed. Rob Brydon, apart from being Welsh like myself, is a very funny man (likable idiot I think is the correct terminology) and by far and away stole the show from Steve ‘I’ve got a big fat ego’ Coogan, who, fair dos, seems up for a bit of self-parody and castigation, making fun of his own Roger Moore-esque philandering reputation. Basically it’s about the filming of a version of ‘Tristram Shandy’ but is really about the playfully competitive relationship between the two comics; the new Vic and Bob if ever one was needed.

Anyway, was well pleased with the outcome of my cinema-going excursions and would highly recommend both movies.

Christmas , miss much?

2006-01-12T13:55:00.000-08:00

Well, no. Christmas in Caerphilly, South Wales, goes pretty much like this- arrive Christmas Eve, drink two cans of cider (after usual greetings to GSG siblings), collapse on sofa, feel groggy with cider and snotty cold (yuk yuk), big fat tabby cat belonging to sibling jumps on chest, cough-cough. Oh it's Christmas Day! Presents exchanged (dvds, chocolates), Snowballs drank (2), dinner eaten in determined fashion, more coughing and choking, blood vessels in nose expanding, turkey very nice, trifle even better (very soft on throat). Any more details needed? Oh mad relatives visited on Christmas Day afternoon (seriously bonkers, us gin people are a bit cracked; it's in the blood), and on the day after Boxing Day we visit an out of the way pub in some God forsaken part of south Wales, don't ask me where, which my father insists on. To make myself feel slightly less tuberculer, and to innoculate myself againt the London smog, I eat a generous portion of garlic chicken. Then it's off back to London. You know smelly and hostile as it is, I'm actually glad to get here. Next 3 days spent in horizontal position.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

And the prize for the stickiest floor goes to...

2005-12-21T18:47:00.000-08:00

The Pogues at Brixton Academy, 20th December 2005.

Hey there, so the Christmas gig-going frenzy is over and January looks likes a very dry month, but last night the one last fling mindset took me all the way down to southern climes (well, Brixton) in search of some fun and musical frolics. With Bulmersbabe and real ale boy in tow, we started off with cocktails at the Living bar in Coldharbour Lane (I reccomend the Sicilian Kiss) and then headed swiftly over to the Brixton Academy.

Luckily for us the pogues were on great form, with Shane McGowen looking very hearty indeed (beer belly included). The stunning two hour set started with Streams of Whiskey and ended with a roaring Fiesta, and included pretty much all of their mammoth back catalogue.

Needless to say, fun was had by all and sundry, despite the presence of the stickiest floor ever known to the gig-going public. Beyond just average stickiness, the floor was positively-gluelike to the tread. Urgh! However after the first few songs and some strategic menouvering, I managed to avoid the worst patches and enjoy the evening by adopting the 'don't look down under any circumstances' philosophy.

I DO really like the Brixton Academy- it's just SO much better than the Alexandra Palace. So so much.

Move to LA? Not likely with music like this around

2005-12-13T18:16:00.000-08:00

Art Brut at the Barfly, 12th December 2005

If this is outsider art, then I’m all for it. Not completely mental, as with some of the abstract artists discovered by Jean Dubuffet, but certainly unique and ever-so slightly off the radar, lyrically and musically. When I first heard ‘Emily Kane’ my first reaction was ‘What the [expletive] is this?’; a common reaction I’m sure, but then I took the trouble to investigate further and discovered the less conventional (or less commonly expressed) sentiments of songs such as ‘Rusted guns of Milan’, ‘Formed a band’ and ‘My little brother’ more to my taste (I was never good with songs about falling in love, still being in love, la la la). The lyrics are funny and witty and at times esoteric, but without ever being pretentious, me thinks. In fact they are grittily down to earth and acessible to all; 'I saw her naked TWICE' he declares in 'Good weekend'. Well, good for you Eddie. Lucky girl.

In fact, Eddie Argos, the front man, obviously loves the crowd and on this occasion flops quite readily into the hungry arms of the assembled mob (don’t let the word mob mislead you, the fans are amiable enough) and makes it back to the stage still with shirt-buttons half-undone, the saucy chap. In fact he has a Cheshire cat grin on his face most of the time and creates an atmosphere of affectionate unity in the tiny venue- I want you all to go away and form your own band, this means a lot to me’; yes, yes, Eddie, I’ll do my best, I promise, honest; and for a moment I almost believe it.

An intelligent fantasist with a semi-political agenda and a sense of humour; well, stone me; it’s a rare occurrence in my experience. Oh, should say, Art Brut are definitely not for the stalwart Pete Docherty fans- ‘I’m sorry but that is a shit tattoo’ he declares- say it how it is now Eddie. I do like that man.

Take me anywhere but here

2005-12-06T18:30:00.000-08:00

Franz Ferdinand at the Ally Pally, 2nd December 2005

I suppose it’s inevitable that all aspiring indie rock stars end up playing at the Alexandra Palace sooner or later; I guess it’s a measure of how much popularity they’ve achieved, but judging by my experience on Saturday, it’s a move that favours the band’s reputation whilst damaging the ordinary fan’s experience of the music and of attending gigs in general. If that had been my first gig, frankly, I would never have gone to another one. It’s not really the band’s fault I guess; the music itself was faultless and they played for well over an hour by my calculation, it’s just that the venue itself is so souless and clinical. The outside of the building is impressive enough; with its elegant Victorian architecture, and it’s panoramic views over North London, but the journey to the venue is depressing (inadequate buses, disorderly scrambles), and the hanger-like interior is totally lacking in atmosphere. The floor of the great hall is completely flat, and consequently, if you’re less than 6ft tall, you’re completely buggered as far as actually seeing the band you’ve paid nearly £30 to see is concerned. On Saturday even the presence of one of my fave bands The Cribs (as the main support) couldn’t save the day. They seemed to be suffering from the same air of detachment as the crowd and battled vainly to make contact in the echoing dome. At the end of the gig, Ryan Jarman made a final ditch attempt to reach the crowd, but was pulled back unceremoniously by the over anxious guards (we can’t have any of that touchy-feely stuff here, oh no).

Finally, on the crowded bus home, violent contra-temps took place between a young girl and an older man whose daughter had apparently been insulted by said girl (a friend of mine, real ale boy, observed later that he seemed to be dressed as Victor Meldrew, but to my mind he seemed to have more of a Phil Mitchell vibe to him). Harsh words were exchanged and threats in the manner of ‘I’ll get you later’ and ‘bothered’ were forcefully exchanged. I was slammed against the bus door several times and the driver seemed to be totally ignoring the incident.

I guess everyone should go to the Ally Pally once in a lifetime, but if would be nice if FF could please play the Brixton Academy (whose sloping arena is more sympathetic to the vertically challenged) next time? Cheers.

NB. I know the band were apparently named after a racehorse and not the archduke ferdinand, but I just like this photo so much I had to use it.

Eighties throwback carnival

2005-12-01T18:30:00.000-08:00

Stellastarr* at the Metro club, Tottenham Court Road
29th November 2005

This one was definately a bit of a challenge- a challenge to get my head around as I really didn't know much about the band when I signed up for it. They were sold to me as 'what the Killers were aiming at' which sought of sounded ok, so I waded in, helped out by the fact that it was a smallish venue and in the right price bracket, at the right time.

But hey, it all worked out ok and it turned out I HAD been to the Metro years before; when I was still wearing my frumpy librarian garb, and feeling very self-conscious and out of place-y (we didn't go to see a band, just a club night, which I've never been very good at).

If you havn't been there before, the decor is amazingly womb-like; blood red walls with a cavernous, subterranean vibe. Agent Cooper would NOT be out of place here; indeed I half-expected the barman to start talking backwards, for the kitchen to start serving cherry pie, and for time to have stood perfectly still when we emerged after the evening's proceedings.

In fact time did not stand still, and the music was good to very good, in GSG's humble opinion.* I thought maybe there was an aspect of 'hey, we're too good for this dive really' about the band, but I could have been imagining that. They seemed likable enough, and well, quite pretty in the arty, mannered way which is par for the course these days (more eyeliner anyone?).

Still the band's sound references lots of eighties bands I used to like- most pleasingly The Cure, Joy Division and Blondie, and I particularly loved the final footstomping rendition of 'my coco-co' which got me jumping up and down ( with arms crossed however). I think they need to focus on what segment of the Indie market they really want to attract- are they Interpol or Hot Hot Heat? The Kaisers or The Editors? Moody and ponderous, or quirky and boistorous (because THEY are the choices). But overall, they are a band I'd like to see again. I wouldn't pay much more than a tenner for the privelage though. Sorry (to all diehard fans).

* All opinions in this blog should be considered suspect due to the author's predilection for gin

The Fog

2005-11-28T17:55:00.000-08:00

Loaded Dog, 26th November 2005

All of my old university pals were there; vodkaslut, Bulmersbabe, real ale boy, whiskeydiva, minesalager, and fanofthebitter. We hadn’t been all together for quite some time now, and in an ideal world, the setting would be a bit more conducive to such a large scale reunion. However, the Loaded Dog, a lately refurbished pub come lounge bar (shag pile carpet, cheesy mood lighting) in the east end would have to do, and we all soon settled into a night of dodgy (or dog-rough) cover music (pretendy Clash) and pleasant conversation. The flow of conversation was somewhat impeded however by the unnecessarily dim lighting and extraordinarily loud background music between the bands' sets. Call me old-fashioned, but I do actually like it when I can hear myself think, and when my friends’ genial banter is audible more than 5% of the time. The choice of actual music was fine- I’m as big a fan of ‘Love will tear us apart’ as any eighties miserabilist, but turn it down a notch please! Overall, it was a bit like trying to read semaphore in the middle of a ‘London particular’ what with the single candleflame we were allowed possession of. Oh well, at least there was gin; oh yes, and lots of it. So much so that I had to stay over at vodkslut’s because I didn’t have the energy to crawl home. Bad GSG!

Up for it

2005-11-25T18:38:00.000-08:00

23rd November 2005 – Water Rats Theatre, Kings Cross

Hey there, so last night I had a bit of wild time with an unplanned excursion to the Water Rats Theatre in Kings Cross. On the agenda were the similarly named Shitdisco (according to some sources you don't pronounce the T but this seems unlikely) and Eskimo Disco. The former were the main focus of mine and vokdaslut’s attention, although I hadn’t actually listened to their 'Disco Blood' single, only read a couple of glowing reviews in contemporary musical magazines. However, equipped with my limited arsenal of disco-based knowledge, I readily agreed to go along when cidertramp pulled out due to illness.

Armed with a desire to have an enjoyable evening, down a few gins, and frequent a venue which I’ve never been to before, I ventured forth full of unexpected joie de vivre (for a Wednesday night!) and enthusiasm. When we did arrive, the venue was rather insalubrious (shabby chic) but full of decadent Victorian glamour; the chandeliers and paintwork has seen better days but you could imagine that it was once a notable establishment. In any case, the architecture wasn’t what we came for, and we readily, after a couple of drinks, got down to the business of trying to listen to some music.

Unfortunately for the bands, and for us as it turned out, the place was half empty and those that were in attendance were rather of the ‘colourful character’ persuasion. A particular mention goes to the audience member (I choose my words very carefully), who saw fit to dance around half-cut and half-naked through most of Shitdisco’s set. The battle for the microphone which ensued during a gutsy performance of ‘I know Kung Fu’ ensured a place in my affections for the lead singer, as he showed what he was made of (not literally like the audience member in question) by sidestepping the interloper and reclaiming what was rightfully his. To observe his rumpled accountant demeanour (Rowland Rivron mixed with a splash of Robert Downey Jnr?) before the incident you wouldn’t have thought he had it in him, but, hey, people surprise you sometimes, and also they are from Glasgow so should be used to that sort of thing. Anyway, after the drunken ejit was ejected, the rest of the set was brilliant and I had a fab fab time.

Eskimodisco were equally good, although rather more on the um, well, gay side. The leader singer’s voice was incredibly high and donnasommerish, which I had read about, but was still surprised by in person. ‘The final countdown’ rounded off their set, which made this blogger go all nostalgic for the actual eighties rather than the pretendy eighties which we’re experiencing now. At one point, when the voice synthesisers starting to kick in I did start having flashbacks to a Chromeo gig I mistakenly wandered into a few months back, but that was only a minor hitch in an otherwise entertaining evening. I don't think I've ever been a gig which was quite so nuts and bolts before, but hey, it was an adventure, and that a good thing in my book. The wierder the better.

Cribs ahoy

2005-11-18T18:38:00.000-08:00

ULU, November 3rd 2005 & Somerset House, July 12th, 2005

The cribs are one of my favourite bands, and I've just found out from vodkaslut that I'm going to see them again when they support Franz Ferdinand at the Alexandra Palace in December- yippee. I first saw the Cribs at a Somerset House gig many moons ago (well, in July), supporting Bloc Party, and was much taken with the northern minstrels, despite their obviously unwashed state. Since then my opinion has been confirmed by another entertaining gig at the ULU on November 3rd. If anything Ryan Jarman is a little too crowd-friendly- crowd-surfing, bleeding gums, copious lager drinking; it all adds up to a near-riotous reaction from the fans. But still they are intrinsically likable, and the hilarious 'walking stick around the neck' type exit made by Ryan at the ULU (when he refused to leave the stage), as well as their gritty, down to earth demeanor on stage, only endeared them to me more. It was definitely one of my top gigs of the year- and a great round-off to my birthday celebrations. And did I say that I bounced up and down during one of the songs? I am thirty seven years old and I was jumping around like an idiot, thanks to the Jarman trio. I love the cribs, and I don't say that often. "I like you because you're strange", they sing, well I like them for the same reason, and I advise everyone to try and get to see them whenever they can.

Gin soaked girl goes to the cinema

2005-11-14T12:46:00.000-08:00

'The beat that my heart skipped' is a wonderful French film by director Jacques Audiard, who has updated an earlier film 'Fingers' from 1978. Going to see this film is one of those serendipitous spur of the moment things initiated by my friend vodkaslut. Everything works amazingly well- getting to the cinema (Odean Covent Garden, by far the best Odean in London because it's comparitively cheap and show a preponderance of Indie flicks), meeting up (just as I'm about to get the tickets vodkaslut turns up); and finally the film.

The film is about a young man (typically French, a bundle of nervous energy and internal conflict) who can't decide between a life of crime as an aspiring property-magnate come bully-boy, and a life of culture and artistry as a concert pianist. His loyalties are constantly divided and he finds it difficult to commit 100% to anything. His love life is equally complicated and he oscillates between the affections of his best friend's wife, the girlfriend of a gangster associate of his father, and his glacial Chinese piano coach. It's a difficult problem which may people will identify with I think!

One of the most interesting things about the film is the relationship between the father and son- Tom and his father have a passionate and highly-strung relationship which brings both parties into mortal danger. They love each other, but at the same time, the relationship is poison. The ending sees Tom come to terms with his past but resists giving the audience everything tied up in a neat package. However this is good from GSG's point of view as it's good to see a film where the audience isn't pandered to like a needy child.

Anyone who's ever had a disturbed night's sleep just before an important exam/interview/audition will also empathise with the main character as his old associates try to wreck his newly acquired sense of tranquility and drag him away to evict some squatters the night before his big chance to break free. My enjoyment of this part of the film was however spoilt by an inconsiderate, um, fellow patron, who's mobile phone lit up like a cannon at at the crucial moment- I HATE people who don't turn off their mobiles in the cinema. I'm using the word HATE here with forethought and intent.

Highly recommended.

Cut and thrust

2005-10-31T19:15:00.000-08:00

My 37th birthday! Yeah. And one of my very best friends, vodkaslut, bought us both tickets to a charity gig at 93 Feet East, in the heart of trendy Spitalfields. Bad news is I'm not going to past muster sartorially among the fashionistas, good news is that I don't care! I have a birthday to celebrate and nothing is going to get in my way. Hung over from a spectacularly drunken Halloween party at one of my more respectable friends' hacienda, I arrive at Liverpool Street Station bright eyed and bushy tailed. After meeting up with vodkaslut, we amble over to the ten bells pub and meet up with cidertramp and my old university pals, real ale boy and Bulmersbabe. Presents are given and platonic kisses exchanged, then vodkaslut asks me what I want to drink. The answer is of course the ubiquitous 'gin!'. Impressed by my ability to transgress the laws of science and aging, I bask in the kudos that this entails. At the venue, we observe fashionista territory in all its plumage- girls in fifties style dresses with asymmetric haircuts are the prevailing trend on show (what is that by the way, did somebody decide that all of a sudden we're not going to bother making things even?). Real ale boy is particularly impressed with a Britt Ekland lookalike whose hair is so backcombed that it'll take months to unravel. Still the music is good to variable. Rosemary made a particular impression on me, and The Holloways, just because they made the effort to dress up in bras ('how do you girls wear these things?' they comment, 'they're so uncomfortable' Well, d'you know what, we just put up with it). Further inane questions come from the tequila fuelled crowd of unruly Dogs supporters, who entertain me greatly until one of them turns and stares into my eyes with the concentration and glassy maniacal glaze of the truly obsessed. 'Where are the Dogs' they chant, 'backstage' I almost pluck up the courage to shout back, but then think better of it. Forget the village of the damned, forget Dante's vision of hell and the nine circles of Hades, these girls are on a mission to seek and possibly destroy their prey, which they almost do when Dogs finally come on stage and play a fantastic set unhampered by the lost souls who invade the stage at every opportunity. That Johnny Cooke (or is it the incarnation of Peter Cook gone slightly barmy?) is a brave lad to be sure.

All in all a quite adventurous birthday this year. 6 or 7 hours of drinking and gigging in one day. My feet hurt but my heart was uplifted. Let's hope I have many more like it.

Culture junkie for a day

2005-09-15T19:07:00.000-07:00

Billy Elliot- The Musical, 14th September 2005

At last a musical that doesn’t sound like an ALW cheese fest. At last a musical that genuinely represents the working classes and doesn’t patronise or condescend. Billy Elliot: the musical is a joyful and exuberant exploration of love, death and genderbending during the 1980s miner’s strike.

The eighties were an extraordinary era in which people still believed that ordinary people could make a difference to the way the country was run. Being being labour or conservative really meant something and politicians weren’t afraid to speak their mind and declare themselves wholeheartedly for or against something (CND anyone). They were much more polarised times, with more passionate, seat of the pants, politics.

The music soaks all this history up and reflects it brilliantly. Particular tunes don’t stick out in the way an audience fed on a diet of The Sound of Music, Mary Poppins or Evita might be used to (there's no balcony scene for starters), but the whole piece is much more that the sum of its parts; and has a lot more to offer. Billy Elliot: the musical is a bit like a socialist rock-opera and watching it even performed the minor miracle of making me think Elton John (who wrote it) an ok kinda guy (but I still don't like his solo stuff).

The overall impression is one of rabble-rousing grandeur and vitality, with its cocksure young actors stealing the show (apart from the dotty old granny played by an actress I'm sure I recognised from the classic eighties kids show Metal Mickey- very appropriate).

Ultimately, any musical that has Maggie Thatcher’s head on a stick and lyrics such as '“Merry Christmas, Maggie Thatcher, we celebrate today ’cos it’s one day closer to your death”, is pretty sure to win my vote. Oh and for the ladies there is a rather lithe (adult) male dancer that appears towards the end wearing little more than a snugly-fitting pair of tights. V. nice vicar.

Special Needs, now called The Needs

2005-07-28T18:30:00.000-07:00

27th July 2005 - The 100 Club

Ok so I met the lead singer in Bradley's Spanish Bar the year before and developed a little crush- I know I'm not special but hey, it gave me a lift for a little while and elevated my life out of the 'quiet desperation' category temporarily. Vodkaslut and myself have already been to see The Needs twice at the barfly, but this time it's just me and Bulmersbabe, my lovely Irish friend. On the way there we are standing in the stairwell and we realise that almost nobody else is paying to get in- how uncool are we? But onwards we go, and discover The 100 club to have a grungy but chilled-out, kinda school hall vibe, with an accessible stage and friendly bar staff. The audience is more heterogeneous than other gigs I've been to- with Japanese tourists and a lot more guy-type fans than have otherwise been observable. The pretty pretty girls are all very much in evidence however- ready to be seduced by Zach Stephenson's melodious crooning. Ah! And this he delivers- slightly intoxicated I suspect but hey, so is everyone else present- don't know why the band should miss out! The set is longer than usual and includes a performance of That Maddening Glare (with harmonica); a personal favourite due to it being performed a cappella on the occasion of the aforementioned Bradley’s encounter.

Afterwards, I consider making my way around to Bradley’s for a post-show tipple, but Bulmersbabe is much too mature and resists my oh so subtle hints ("Can we go to Bradleys *****, can we, can we?"). She has a fiancée to go home to after all- I'm really going to have to grow up sometime, but not quite yet!

That old chestnut or how I got my first real gig injury

2005-04-11T18:30:00.000-07:00

April 9, 2005

So I got hit on the head I can cope with that. So I was assaulted with a flying drumstick at an Interpol gig at Brixton Academy, to be specific, I can cope with that. It's all fine, a little concussion, a dirty yellow bruise in the middle of my forehead, and the minor ridicule of my friends, it's all ok. But to add insult to injury, I didn't even get the drumstick! Some blighter with no soul snatched it the precise moment after it bounced off my obviously resilient skull with a resounding crack (and yes, everyone did turn around and gawp). And it did hurt, for the record; yes, pointy flying objects of a wooden nature landing on the human skeloton hurts like buggery. All aspiring pop stars please beware. Why didn't I sue, or go to the hospital I hear you ask? Well to be honest, I don't think I was in my right mind, and vodkaslut's concerned 'shall we go to the ambulence' soon turned into 'shall we go and have a quick Chinese?'. It's amazing how quick these things lose their currency. Maybe the copious gin- drinking had helped numb the pain somewhat. Oh well, have to chalk that one up to experience I guess.