In a rare show of getting with the modern world, I finally made use of the Blu-Ray player in my Playstation 3 and rented Scott Pilgrim Vs The World. Though it should be pointed out I only did this because the rental place bribed me for my custom by offering five rentals for £5.
No matter. Based on the comic book series of a young Canadian bassist who must defeat seven evil exes to win the heart of the ever-hair-colour-changing Ramona, the film was directed by Edgar Wright, whose work I've never really taken to, though it seems everyone else loves one of either Spaced, Shaun of the Dead or Hot Fuzz. In any case, Scott's mission (of sorts) is the cue for a lot of fights involving weird powers that are never really explained, bar one ex who gains his psychic powers from being a vegan.
Adaptations of the less well-known comic books (i.e. those not from Marvel or DC) often seem to do better, perhaps due to the wider public not being as familiar with the source material. Pretty much everybody, for instance, knows who Spider-Man and Superman are. Pilgrim's adventures, until this film, I would expect were limited to a far smaller audience meaning casual observers such as myself have far less expectations of how the characters should behave or look.
Matters are also helped by a tight script by Wright and Michael Bacall and some fine acting by Michael Cera as Scott, though he's overshadowed at points by Kieran Culkin as Pilgrim's friend Wallace, who manages to keep a calm and detached perspective on odd events as well as enjoying a growing number of men in his bed.
Given this is a film about a guy who plays in a band, music features heavily and Scott's band Sex Bob-omb play songs written for them by Beck, which are all fine although all sounding a little bit the same. Stronger are the visuals, which take many cues from old-school arcade games, especially the well-shot fight scenes.
From what I gather, Scott Pilgrim vs the World didn't make a whole load of money, so a sequel may be unlikely. A good thing, I reckon, as it stands alone as good story worth seeing, with some fine acting, plenty of good tunes and more than enough moments to make you chuckle.
Friday, 29 April 2011
Tuesday, 26 April 2011
From the Ashes
As a Manchester United fan of long standing, I'm well aware of the part the Munich Air Disaster played in the history of my team. It's part of our history and mythology, both the tragedy of a team destroyed on the brink of greatness and the resurrection capped by the European Cup triumph of 1968, captained by crash survivor Bobby Charlton.
United, the BBCs dramatisation, came in for criticism from Sandy Busby (son of Sir Matt, the teams legendary manager) and goalkeeper Harry Gregg, another survivor who heroically climbed into the burning wreckage to save others. Some of this was to do with the depiction of Sir Matt - played by Dougray Scott - as a distant figure more Godfather than pioneering tracksuit manager.
Yet Busby was not required to be the central character in United. Instead, the limelight was put on Jimmy Murphy, played by David Tennant. Not being a fan of Doctor Who, I'd not given much attention to Tennant's acting skills before, but he was simply wonderful here, showing Murphy as the pure football man that he was.
Murphy has rarely got the credit he deserved outside dedicated United circles for his role in the rebuilding of the club. Absent from the crash due to his dual role managing the Welsh national team, he was left to scrape together a team in two weeks from reserves, desperate signings and - incredibly - Harry Gregg and full back Bill Foulkes. Both had escaped with minor wounds (at least physically) and the idea of surviving a plane crash and playing a game of professional football weeks later seems insane today.
United did a fine job of giving Murphy the credit he deserves from a wider public. The script managed to portray the differences between football in 1956 and today through touches like half-back Mark Jones smoking a pipe, Old Trafford being surrounded by factories belching smoke into the air and Bobby Charlton being discouraged from saying he's a footballer to impress women, as a plumber has better prospects.
By nature of it being a 90 minute drama, the story had to be condensed. Key figures from the club were missed out totally, such as top scorer Tommy Taylor and team captain Roger Byrne. They, along with Geoff Bent and Liam Whelan were only mentioned in a list of the dead. Aside from Murphy, the key figure was Charlton, played well by Jack O'Connell, going from hopeful contender who scores twice on his debut, to star player to shell-shocked survivor having to deal with being spared when his friends were not so lucky.
Perhaps my only slight criticism with United was that it didn't quite emphasise how the disaster didn't just effect United. Though a conversation with a policeman guarding the coffins when they were returned to Manchester shows they were loved by the nation, some words could have been said about how Taylor, Byrne and the great Duncan Edwards were all crucial parts of the England team due to go to the World Cup. Other players like Mark Jones, David Pegg and Eddie Colman would surely have made the team in time too and it's widely accepted that England may have won more than the single World Cup had they all lived - something for the knuckle draggers who sing Munich songs and make airplane gestures to think about, perhaps.
United, the BBCs dramatisation, came in for criticism from Sandy Busby (son of Sir Matt, the teams legendary manager) and goalkeeper Harry Gregg, another survivor who heroically climbed into the burning wreckage to save others. Some of this was to do with the depiction of Sir Matt - played by Dougray Scott - as a distant figure more Godfather than pioneering tracksuit manager.
Yet Busby was not required to be the central character in United. Instead, the limelight was put on Jimmy Murphy, played by David Tennant. Not being a fan of Doctor Who, I'd not given much attention to Tennant's acting skills before, but he was simply wonderful here, showing Murphy as the pure football man that he was.
Murphy has rarely got the credit he deserved outside dedicated United circles for his role in the rebuilding of the club. Absent from the crash due to his dual role managing the Welsh national team, he was left to scrape together a team in two weeks from reserves, desperate signings and - incredibly - Harry Gregg and full back Bill Foulkes. Both had escaped with minor wounds (at least physically) and the idea of surviving a plane crash and playing a game of professional football weeks later seems insane today.
United did a fine job of giving Murphy the credit he deserves from a wider public. The script managed to portray the differences between football in 1956 and today through touches like half-back Mark Jones smoking a pipe, Old Trafford being surrounded by factories belching smoke into the air and Bobby Charlton being discouraged from saying he's a footballer to impress women, as a plumber has better prospects.
By nature of it being a 90 minute drama, the story had to be condensed. Key figures from the club were missed out totally, such as top scorer Tommy Taylor and team captain Roger Byrne. They, along with Geoff Bent and Liam Whelan were only mentioned in a list of the dead. Aside from Murphy, the key figure was Charlton, played well by Jack O'Connell, going from hopeful contender who scores twice on his debut, to star player to shell-shocked survivor having to deal with being spared when his friends were not so lucky.
Perhaps my only slight criticism with United was that it didn't quite emphasise how the disaster didn't just effect United. Though a conversation with a policeman guarding the coffins when they were returned to Manchester shows they were loved by the nation, some words could have been said about how Taylor, Byrne and the great Duncan Edwards were all crucial parts of the England team due to go to the World Cup. Other players like Mark Jones, David Pegg and Eddie Colman would surely have made the team in time too and it's widely accepted that England may have won more than the single World Cup had they all lived - something for the knuckle draggers who sing Munich songs and make airplane gestures to think about, perhaps.
Friday, 22 April 2011
Catching the New Wave
It's amazing how much of a difference a single compilation album can make to your life. Sometime in the Spring of 1997, I saw an advert on TV for Once In A Lifetime, subtitled "40 classic New Wave hits" and not too long after I happened to be in the Workington branch of Tescos where it was for sale. After scrounging a couple of quid from my mother, I took it home.
As important purchases go, this was one of my most important. Despite the fact that it doesn't actually feature the Talking Heads song from which it takes the name, it was the first time I ever heard the Teardrop Explodes, the Bunnymen, Buzzcocks, XTC, Dexy's Midnight Runners, Psychedelic Furs, Orange Juice, the Pretenders, the Specials, Elvis Costello, the Icicle Works and Joy Division. All of these bands I've subsequently bought and loved albums by, my eyes opened by some cheapo cash-in album knocked together by Telstar.
A pretty seminal moment in my life, then. The Joy Division part being top of them all, as hearing Love Will Tear Us Apart got me on the path that led to me visiting a friend of my dad a few months later to pick up vinyl copies of Closer and Still, subsequently leading to me going out to buy my first bass guitar.
As a kind of summary of whatever "New Wave" was, it's fine, though you have to question what the Smiths are doing here. You've got the pioneers (Iggy Pop), the trendsetters (see above), the bandwagon jumpers (Boomtown Rats) and the slightly odd (Flying Lizards). I would imagine licensing issues prevent certain key bands of the era, like Talking Heads, from appearing, though barring a few exceptions, just about everything here is either British or Irish.
The album also compiles some great one-off hits like Pigbag's Papa's Got a Brand New Pigbag, Back of My Hand by the Jags and Echo Beach by Martha and the Muffins. Not quite sure what Young at Heart by the Bluebells is doing here, though, and it's a shame they used the re-recording of Pretty In Pink instead of the far better version the Furs recorded in 1981. But still, anything that ends it's first CD with The Story of the Blues by the Mighty Wah! is always going to be brilliant for me.
As important purchases go, this was one of my most important. Despite the fact that it doesn't actually feature the Talking Heads song from which it takes the name, it was the first time I ever heard the Teardrop Explodes, the Bunnymen, Buzzcocks, XTC, Dexy's Midnight Runners, Psychedelic Furs, Orange Juice, the Pretenders, the Specials, Elvis Costello, the Icicle Works and Joy Division. All of these bands I've subsequently bought and loved albums by, my eyes opened by some cheapo cash-in album knocked together by Telstar.
A pretty seminal moment in my life, then. The Joy Division part being top of them all, as hearing Love Will Tear Us Apart got me on the path that led to me visiting a friend of my dad a few months later to pick up vinyl copies of Closer and Still, subsequently leading to me going out to buy my first bass guitar.
As a kind of summary of whatever "New Wave" was, it's fine, though you have to question what the Smiths are doing here. You've got the pioneers (Iggy Pop), the trendsetters (see above), the bandwagon jumpers (Boomtown Rats) and the slightly odd (Flying Lizards). I would imagine licensing issues prevent certain key bands of the era, like Talking Heads, from appearing, though barring a few exceptions, just about everything here is either British or Irish.
The album also compiles some great one-off hits like Pigbag's Papa's Got a Brand New Pigbag, Back of My Hand by the Jags and Echo Beach by Martha and the Muffins. Not quite sure what Young at Heart by the Bluebells is doing here, though, and it's a shame they used the re-recording of Pretty In Pink instead of the far better version the Furs recorded in 1981. But still, anything that ends it's first CD with The Story of the Blues by the Mighty Wah! is always going to be brilliant for me.
Sunday, 17 April 2011
Laugh Till You Fall Apart
One of the first comedy shows I thought was my little secret (at least amongst my family and the few friends I had aged 13) was Newman and Baddiel In Pieces, a six part series that resulted in the end of a comedy partnership that had first hit the big time when they teamed up with Punt and Dennis to produce The Mary Whitehouse Experience.
I say I felt it was my own show as nobody else seemed to see it (that I knew) and more so, very few people that I know now can remember it, hence the fact I've seen it countless times over when I play the heavily faded VHS copy I made at the time, which has thankfully been transferred to DVD. Watching back, it seems obvious that the partnership was on it's last legs: the duo barely appear on screen much, barring the 'History Today' sketches that may well be the most recalled work the two did, due to it's "That's you, that is" catchphrase.
However, funnier work is to be found. Baddiel's monologues showed he actually used to be funny, though his obsessions with sex and insomnia seem to have set the tone for his subsequent career. Newman covered his existential guilt and loneliness, not giving much clue to his later development as a man whose novels covered globalisation and a policeman descending into madness. A nice sense of surrealism was brought by the excellent "People of Restricted Seriousness" pieces and cameos by the likes of Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine, Robert Smith and, erm, Jimmy Hill.
Also worth looking out for are appearances by a young Sean Lock (best as a deranged nature show presenter) and Simon Greenall as Baddiel's obnoxious flatmate. After the six episodes were broadcast, the duo went on a successful tour that culminated in a sell-out gig at Wembley Arena.
Soon afterwards, they split and the show were repeated as Rest In Pieces. Baddiel quickly hooked up with Frank Skinner to enjoy further success. Newman retreated from the spotlight to begin work as a novelist. Following his excellent third book, The Fountain At The Centre Of The World, he returned to television with A History of Oil one-off and a series The History of the World Backwards.
To my knowledge, it's not been repeated since. A shame - a DVD set of the show and The Mary Whitehouse Experience would be most welcome, if anybody from the BBC is reading?
I say I felt it was my own show as nobody else seemed to see it (that I knew) and more so, very few people that I know now can remember it, hence the fact I've seen it countless times over when I play the heavily faded VHS copy I made at the time, which has thankfully been transferred to DVD. Watching back, it seems obvious that the partnership was on it's last legs: the duo barely appear on screen much, barring the 'History Today' sketches that may well be the most recalled work the two did, due to it's "That's you, that is" catchphrase.
However, funnier work is to be found. Baddiel's monologues showed he actually used to be funny, though his obsessions with sex and insomnia seem to have set the tone for his subsequent career. Newman covered his existential guilt and loneliness, not giving much clue to his later development as a man whose novels covered globalisation and a policeman descending into madness. A nice sense of surrealism was brought by the excellent "People of Restricted Seriousness" pieces and cameos by the likes of Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine, Robert Smith and, erm, Jimmy Hill.
Also worth looking out for are appearances by a young Sean Lock (best as a deranged nature show presenter) and Simon Greenall as Baddiel's obnoxious flatmate. After the six episodes were broadcast, the duo went on a successful tour that culminated in a sell-out gig at Wembley Arena.
Soon afterwards, they split and the show were repeated as Rest In Pieces. Baddiel quickly hooked up with Frank Skinner to enjoy further success. Newman retreated from the spotlight to begin work as a novelist. Following his excellent third book, The Fountain At The Centre Of The World, he returned to television with A History of Oil one-off and a series The History of the World Backwards.
To my knowledge, it's not been repeated since. A shame - a DVD set of the show and The Mary Whitehouse Experience would be most welcome, if anybody from the BBC is reading?
Wednesday, 13 April 2011
Wasting Time in Numbers and Rhymes
Seeing an advert for some tedious Sun/Deal or No Deal link up Internet game reminded me of one of the great mysteries of my youth: what is the appeal of playing bingo?
When I passed my driving test at the age of 17, one of the duties delegated to me by my mother in exchange for being able to take off in the car on a Friday night to take me and my mates bowling in the next town up was to pick up my nan from the bingo on a Saturday evening. Sometimes I'd be early enough that the last game was still going on, but the doors would be open to let any early quitters out. Peaking in, I'd see rows of people (of which about 95% would be women) sat in silence, waiting for their numbers to be called out.
It baffled me. How was it fun to tick numbers off a card. It was like some kind of communist nightmare idea of entertainment, regimented and intensely well-ordered even down to the quips of the caller. Though I never saw her play myself, I was informed my nan was a bit of an old hand at the 'game' and at her peak could have six cards on the go.
Earlier in my life, I can recall a rainy holiday at Butlins (or Pontins), being bored to the point of brain death while my mother played sodding bingo with my aunt. I imagine my dad and uncle had sensibly retired to the bar, while I was left to hope we got a win so I could convince my mother to give me a few 20p pieces to go amuse myself playing Chase HQ or Rampage at the arcade. I wonder if these experiences in part were what put me off the whole idea of going away anywhere for holidays.
Amazingly, even in the days of video games, DVDs and the Internet, it seems that people are still playing bingo, judging by the number of halls I see around Manchester and Salford. TV adverts showcased groups of glamorous young women getting dolled up to head off to spend an evening gawping at numbers as it were an attractive lifestyle choice, which made no sense at all as far as I could make out.
Perhaps my view was jaundiced by the knowledge that Don Revie, manager of the evil and cynical Leeds United football team of the late 60s and early 70s, held games of bingo (and carpet bowls, whatever the fuck that is) between his players as a form of relaxation. Enough to put off anyone who preferred their rose red to white.
Needless to say, I certainly don't blame the eponymous character of the Fall's Bingo-Master's Break Out for ending "his life with wine and pills" after years of the job. I think a week doing that would be enough to have me chewing off my own arm in despair.
When I passed my driving test at the age of 17, one of the duties delegated to me by my mother in exchange for being able to take off in the car on a Friday night to take me and my mates bowling in the next town up was to pick up my nan from the bingo on a Saturday evening. Sometimes I'd be early enough that the last game was still going on, but the doors would be open to let any early quitters out. Peaking in, I'd see rows of people (of which about 95% would be women) sat in silence, waiting for their numbers to be called out.
It baffled me. How was it fun to tick numbers off a card. It was like some kind of communist nightmare idea of entertainment, regimented and intensely well-ordered even down to the quips of the caller. Though I never saw her play myself, I was informed my nan was a bit of an old hand at the 'game' and at her peak could have six cards on the go.
Earlier in my life, I can recall a rainy holiday at Butlins (or Pontins), being bored to the point of brain death while my mother played sodding bingo with my aunt. I imagine my dad and uncle had sensibly retired to the bar, while I was left to hope we got a win so I could convince my mother to give me a few 20p pieces to go amuse myself playing Chase HQ or Rampage at the arcade. I wonder if these experiences in part were what put me off the whole idea of going away anywhere for holidays.
Amazingly, even in the days of video games, DVDs and the Internet, it seems that people are still playing bingo, judging by the number of halls I see around Manchester and Salford. TV adverts showcased groups of glamorous young women getting dolled up to head off to spend an evening gawping at numbers as it were an attractive lifestyle choice, which made no sense at all as far as I could make out.
Perhaps my view was jaundiced by the knowledge that Don Revie, manager of the evil and cynical Leeds United football team of the late 60s and early 70s, held games of bingo (and carpet bowls, whatever the fuck that is) between his players as a form of relaxation. Enough to put off anyone who preferred their rose red to white.
Needless to say, I certainly don't blame the eponymous character of the Fall's Bingo-Master's Break Out for ending "his life with wine and pills" after years of the job. I think a week doing that would be enough to have me chewing off my own arm in despair.
Sunday, 10 April 2011
Road Tripping
Sometimes, despite the price of petrol these days, it's nice to just go for a drive, especially when the weather is like it is Manchester at the moment and you wake up feeling pretty good about life.
Obviously, Britain is a bit too small for proper road trips even if you could afford the juice. Despite that, if you happen to live in Manchester, you're ideally placed to have some top day trips out.
And if Bruce Springsteen taught me anything, it's that if you're going to hit the road, you need some proper music to match. Something too up-tempo, and you're going to get done by a speed camera, but at the same time, you need to match your mood, which for me today is very good. Here's a sample of what should be part of a playlist for a planned drive around Mam Tor way.
Flamin' Groovies - Shake Some Action
Power pop at it's finest. Don't know much about the band, only that this song sounds fantastic. If I remember right, Bill Drummond wanted to sign the Bunnymen to Sire in part because they released this single. It's sentiment is pure mod, from the title, and the lyrics talking of an urge to "bust out at full speed". The yell from the singer before the 50s rock and roll-esque guitar break is perfect for urging you to be a little more aggressive with the accelerator.
Teenage Fanclub - Sparky's Dream
Teenage Fanclub are, as anyone with any sense knows, blessed with three songwriters who know how to write a brilliant pop song. I could have picked any of about 20, but Gerald Love's finest moment gets the nod. It has all the things the Fannies do best: jangling guitars, wonderful vocal harmonies and loved-up lyrics about "needing a crystal ball to see her in the morning". Whoever Sparky was, they must have woken up in a very good mood.
Big Star - When My Baby's Beside Me
Related to the above, in terms of influence. The late Alex Chilton wrote a lot of excellent pieces of guitar pop and had a great voice to boot, but my favourite Big Star moment was one fronted by his songwriting partner, the also late Chris Bell. It's a straightforward song as you could hear, almost all leading up to the relentlessly catchy chorus. Hearing it only confirms why people these days are baffled that they were almost entirely ignored in their own time.
Psychedelic Furs - Forever Now I picked this Furs song on the basis that it came up on mp3 the other day and I remembered how amazing it still sounds: Richard Butler's usual throaty vocals, keyboards blurring in and out and, best of all, John Ashton's best guitar solo. I don't usually go for solos, but I make a big exception for this as it sounds so brilliantly triumphant, leading on from the final cry of "let it stay forever now".
Care - My Boyish Days
How can you go wrong with two of my favourite songwriters in the same band? You can't, at least not in terms of quality of songs. Care was Paul Simpson (Wild Swans) and Ian Broudie (Lightning Seeds) working together in the early 80s. Though only three singles were released, a fine compilation - Diamonds and Emeralds was later released and this is the highlight of their all-too-brief period of collaboration. The part where the strings kick in in the middle melts me everytime.
Crowded House - Weather With You
Neil Finn is, of course, one of the best pop songwriters of all time, able to write about the light and dark in life with equal genius. I picked this one as it reminds me of being ten years old and going places with my parents, as it seemed to be on the radio constantly in 1991. Plus it's easy to sing along with really loudly (and, in my case, badly) when driving with blue skies above.
Obviously, Britain is a bit too small for proper road trips even if you could afford the juice. Despite that, if you happen to live in Manchester, you're ideally placed to have some top day trips out.
And if Bruce Springsteen taught me anything, it's that if you're going to hit the road, you need some proper music to match. Something too up-tempo, and you're going to get done by a speed camera, but at the same time, you need to match your mood, which for me today is very good. Here's a sample of what should be part of a playlist for a planned drive around Mam Tor way.
Flamin' Groovies - Shake Some Action
Power pop at it's finest. Don't know much about the band, only that this song sounds fantastic. If I remember right, Bill Drummond wanted to sign the Bunnymen to Sire in part because they released this single. It's sentiment is pure mod, from the title, and the lyrics talking of an urge to "bust out at full speed". The yell from the singer before the 50s rock and roll-esque guitar break is perfect for urging you to be a little more aggressive with the accelerator.
Teenage Fanclub - Sparky's Dream
Teenage Fanclub are, as anyone with any sense knows, blessed with three songwriters who know how to write a brilliant pop song. I could have picked any of about 20, but Gerald Love's finest moment gets the nod. It has all the things the Fannies do best: jangling guitars, wonderful vocal harmonies and loved-up lyrics about "needing a crystal ball to see her in the morning". Whoever Sparky was, they must have woken up in a very good mood.
Big Star - When My Baby's Beside Me
Related to the above, in terms of influence. The late Alex Chilton wrote a lot of excellent pieces of guitar pop and had a great voice to boot, but my favourite Big Star moment was one fronted by his songwriting partner, the also late Chris Bell. It's a straightforward song as you could hear, almost all leading up to the relentlessly catchy chorus. Hearing it only confirms why people these days are baffled that they were almost entirely ignored in their own time.
Psychedelic Furs - Forever Now I picked this Furs song on the basis that it came up on mp3 the other day and I remembered how amazing it still sounds: Richard Butler's usual throaty vocals, keyboards blurring in and out and, best of all, John Ashton's best guitar solo. I don't usually go for solos, but I make a big exception for this as it sounds so brilliantly triumphant, leading on from the final cry of "let it stay forever now".
Care - My Boyish Days
How can you go wrong with two of my favourite songwriters in the same band? You can't, at least not in terms of quality of songs. Care was Paul Simpson (Wild Swans) and Ian Broudie (Lightning Seeds) working together in the early 80s. Though only three singles were released, a fine compilation - Diamonds and Emeralds was later released and this is the highlight of their all-too-brief period of collaboration. The part where the strings kick in in the middle melts me everytime.
Crowded House - Weather With You
Neil Finn is, of course, one of the best pop songwriters of all time, able to write about the light and dark in life with equal genius. I picked this one as it reminds me of being ten years old and going places with my parents, as it seemed to be on the radio constantly in 1991. Plus it's easy to sing along with really loudly (and, in my case, badly) when driving with blue skies above.
Tuesday, 5 April 2011
Language, Language
I can only assume it was a slow weekend for news, as I can't find any other explanation for journalists across the country acting like a fleet of Helen Lovejoys because Wayne Rooney swore after scoring a (somewhat important) goal on Saturday.
The Daily Mail seemed to enjoy putting the boot in, asking "why do we indulge football's neanderthal Wayne Rooney?" and stating that Rooney saying "what? Fucking what? Fuck off!" to a cameraman "left millions of armchair soccer fans appalled". Won't somebody think of the children?
I should say first of all that I am a Manchester United fan but really, can we get some perspective here? Millions? I would wager that a large section of those watching would also have been United fans, and would have at that moment been jumping around the room/pub celebrating our team taking the lead after being two down. Certainly my own language in those moments matched it.
Indeed, it's a sad state of affairs when one of the voices of reason in the media is Alan Shearer, who stated on Match of the Day that it was stupid, but he apologised (or the club did on his behalf) so let's move on. Shearer perhaps understands whatever emotions the 'offender' was going through at that time and that when scoring a vital goal at a vital time of the reason, common sense tends to vacate the area. Not that it stopped his colleagues on Match of the Day 2 re-examining it the following night.
What strikes me as the bigger question is why the hell Wayne Rooney is held up as any kind of role model in the first place. He's just some guy from Liverpool who happened to be born with a gift for playing football. Everybody knows he's a bit of an idiot judging by the way he carries on his private life, and I'm sure he'd never claim to be much of a thinker. And let's remember, it's not like he's stolen from someone, been caught drink-driving or shooting some kid with an air rifle.
On a personal note, I actually found it quite amusing that he told the cameraman to fuck off, as I'm pretty sick of seeing players kissing the camera after scoring, which perhaps reflects as to who they consider their true paymasters. And besides, if we were worried about the impact on impressionable children, then we best ban them from football altogether as during any game it's not unknown to hear thousands of people question the parentage and sexual activities (solo or otherwise) of the 23 people on the pitch.
The Daily Mail seemed to enjoy putting the boot in, asking "why do we indulge football's neanderthal Wayne Rooney?" and stating that Rooney saying "what? Fucking what? Fuck off!" to a cameraman "left millions of armchair soccer fans appalled". Won't somebody think of the children?
I should say first of all that I am a Manchester United fan but really, can we get some perspective here? Millions? I would wager that a large section of those watching would also have been United fans, and would have at that moment been jumping around the room/pub celebrating our team taking the lead after being two down. Certainly my own language in those moments matched it.
Indeed, it's a sad state of affairs when one of the voices of reason in the media is Alan Shearer, who stated on Match of the Day that it was stupid, but he apologised (or the club did on his behalf) so let's move on. Shearer perhaps understands whatever emotions the 'offender' was going through at that time and that when scoring a vital goal at a vital time of the reason, common sense tends to vacate the area. Not that it stopped his colleagues on Match of the Day 2 re-examining it the following night.
What strikes me as the bigger question is why the hell Wayne Rooney is held up as any kind of role model in the first place. He's just some guy from Liverpool who happened to be born with a gift for playing football. Everybody knows he's a bit of an idiot judging by the way he carries on his private life, and I'm sure he'd never claim to be much of a thinker. And let's remember, it's not like he's stolen from someone, been caught drink-driving or shooting some kid with an air rifle.
On a personal note, I actually found it quite amusing that he told the cameraman to fuck off, as I'm pretty sick of seeing players kissing the camera after scoring, which perhaps reflects as to who they consider their true paymasters. And besides, if we were worried about the impact on impressionable children, then we best ban them from football altogether as during any game it's not unknown to hear thousands of people question the parentage and sexual activities (solo or otherwise) of the 23 people on the pitch.
Sunday, 3 April 2011
Dancing About Architecture
My introduction to the works of Nick Kent came from reading a biography of Factory Records many years ago, where Tony Wilson claimed Kent fitted him up by inventing a quote that had him saying "Ian Curtis dying on me was the best thing that happened in my life".
Even from someone in love with the sound of his own voice as Wilson, I took his side of the story in that he never said it. I always assumed he'd loved Curtis too much to say something like that, no matter how many drugs he was on at the time. Therefore, Nick Kent was an arse. I'd heard all about The Dark Stuff, his collection of music writing but decided to ignore it. After all, this is the man Bowie dismissed as Nick "I'm as cool as Keef" Kent.
But with a voucher for a High Street record store burning a hole in my pocket, and the book going for all of £3, I decided I'd drop my prejudices and take a look. What I did read mainly confirmed what I suspected, yet with some kind of redemption for the author in there too. The Dark Stuff, it would seem, is all about musicians with a large appetite for drugs, drink and sex, from which they draw creativity to get on with their art.
The articles on the Rolling Stones seem to be the origin of this line of thought, which doesn't really cut any ice with this hack, as the Stones ceased to have any relevance to creativity from the early 70s and descended into the Freak Show of Nostalgia from which they've stayed ever since. The tales of getting wasted with Keith Richards are the worst kind of gonzo journalism: the back cover pic of Kent looked rake thin, long haired, leather trousered and with cigarette in hand would suggest that he never got over not being a rock star himself.
More pathetic is his article on Sid Vicious, entitled 'The Exploding Dim Wit'. Evidently, the writer never forgave that slap Sid gave him and concludes that Sid and Nancy had "at the age of 20 already wasted themselves beyond belief. Let them rot". Such bitterness is neither pretty or clever but not entirely surprising: he always seemed to prefer the Clash, possibly because they threw the Stones-esque shapes he loved, hence his putting the boot big time into Sandinista! for being some kind of betrayal.
The pieces on Morrissey/The Smiths, Sly Stone and Phil Spector are basic biographies of the subjects and offer little. But, but, but... Kent pulls the whole thing out of the mire was some outstanding work. 'The Last Beach Movie Revisited: The Life of Brian Wilson' is a tragic piece, showing one of the greatest songwriters of the 60s doped up to the point of having the mental capacity of a small child. He also captures Elvis Costello in his classic Angry Young Man phase, getting the "guilt and revenge are the only emotions I know about" line that would follow young Declan around for years.
Most poignant of all is an interview with Roy Orbison. Kent is, understandably, in awe of the man, stating "he looked perfect" at a time when the Big O's career was back on track after the best part of 20 years in the wilderness. Having being resurrected by the likes of David Lynch and Bruce Springsteen, hit the top with the Travelling Wilburys and recorded a new album, life looked good for the man. He states that "God has his plans, and I've got mine". Nine days after the interview, the man was dead.
"A modern classic, one of the few essential collections of writing on rock music"? Not a chance. Nick Kent is a decent writer who interviewed some of the most interesting and talented icons in 20th century pop music. Whatever the Dark Stuff is, it may well be more fun to actually engage in than read about.
Even from someone in love with the sound of his own voice as Wilson, I took his side of the story in that he never said it. I always assumed he'd loved Curtis too much to say something like that, no matter how many drugs he was on at the time. Therefore, Nick Kent was an arse. I'd heard all about The Dark Stuff, his collection of music writing but decided to ignore it. After all, this is the man Bowie dismissed as Nick "I'm as cool as Keef" Kent.
But with a voucher for a High Street record store burning a hole in my pocket, and the book going for all of £3, I decided I'd drop my prejudices and take a look. What I did read mainly confirmed what I suspected, yet with some kind of redemption for the author in there too. The Dark Stuff, it would seem, is all about musicians with a large appetite for drugs, drink and sex, from which they draw creativity to get on with their art.
The articles on the Rolling Stones seem to be the origin of this line of thought, which doesn't really cut any ice with this hack, as the Stones ceased to have any relevance to creativity from the early 70s and descended into the Freak Show of Nostalgia from which they've stayed ever since. The tales of getting wasted with Keith Richards are the worst kind of gonzo journalism: the back cover pic of Kent looked rake thin, long haired, leather trousered and with cigarette in hand would suggest that he never got over not being a rock star himself.
More pathetic is his article on Sid Vicious, entitled 'The Exploding Dim Wit'. Evidently, the writer never forgave that slap Sid gave him and concludes that Sid and Nancy had "at the age of 20 already wasted themselves beyond belief. Let them rot". Such bitterness is neither pretty or clever but not entirely surprising: he always seemed to prefer the Clash, possibly because they threw the Stones-esque shapes he loved, hence his putting the boot big time into Sandinista! for being some kind of betrayal.
The pieces on Morrissey/The Smiths, Sly Stone and Phil Spector are basic biographies of the subjects and offer little. But, but, but... Kent pulls the whole thing out of the mire was some outstanding work. 'The Last Beach Movie Revisited: The Life of Brian Wilson' is a tragic piece, showing one of the greatest songwriters of the 60s doped up to the point of having the mental capacity of a small child. He also captures Elvis Costello in his classic Angry Young Man phase, getting the "guilt and revenge are the only emotions I know about" line that would follow young Declan around for years.
Most poignant of all is an interview with Roy Orbison. Kent is, understandably, in awe of the man, stating "he looked perfect" at a time when the Big O's career was back on track after the best part of 20 years in the wilderness. Having being resurrected by the likes of David Lynch and Bruce Springsteen, hit the top with the Travelling Wilburys and recorded a new album, life looked good for the man. He states that "God has his plans, and I've got mine". Nine days after the interview, the man was dead.
"A modern classic, one of the few essential collections of writing on rock music"? Not a chance. Nick Kent is a decent writer who interviewed some of the most interesting and talented icons in 20th century pop music. Whatever the Dark Stuff is, it may well be more fun to actually engage in than read about.
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