Naming yourself after a galaxy is one way of setting down a marker of how you’re going to sound. With their previous album Saturdays=Youth, M83 (or just Anthony Gonzalez, if you prefer) seemed to be stretching towards a soundtrack for dreamy stargazers. With Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming, it feels at times as if we’re listening to a trip through space.
The whole idea of a “double” album seems obsolete in the CD/digital age, something the Clash and Springsteen made a bit more credible after years of abuse from prog rock. Past the 80s, the idea of a double CD album was most frequently used for compilation albums and the like. After all, to fill two discs would take 140 minutes of music. Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming isn't that long, and could probably have fit on the one disc. Seems it works more as an idea than anything, splitting the album into two distinct halves.
If Gonzalez makes one mistake with this, it’s that he hits the peak too soon on both sides: Intro, Midnight City and Reunion are all superb, sounding like little else out there at the moment. I've read some criticisms that he only knows one trick – make it more epic. It could be true, but it’s a good trick to have. Like Kim & Jessie from the previous album, there’s a wonderful soaring quality that creates a great atmosphere. Many of the songs that add to this are fairly short, offering brief respite from the bigger sounds, as with Train to Pluton before Claudette Lewis. The latter sees some top slap-bass playing amongst the rattling synths.
Side two is perhaps a little more sedate, though the one-two of New Map and OK Pal would initially suggest otherwise. It’s in the slower songs that M83's past dalliances with shoegazing come back to the fore, especially when compared to Slowdive’s later work, though another comparison might be a cross between Talk Talk’s last two albums and their first two: mournful post-rock with shedloads of keyboards.
There are flaws, naturally: lyrically, it at times verges on the banal with the suspicion they’re there to stop some songs being instrumental. Also, doing so many songs means quality control drops: Raconte-Moi Une Histoire, a number narrated by a child going on about frogs, does not warrant repeat listens. Finally, one personal quibble is the lack of Morgan Kibby singing, given her contributions on Saturdays=Youth were particular highlights of mine.
As a piece of work, however, Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming is nothing but very impressive. It got in a load of “Top Album” polls last year for good reason, and if I’d got myself together to have bought it on release, I’d have done the same. There’s plenty to put off a lot of people (those with an aversion to early 80s synth-pop may well end up retching), but those coming from a similar place as Anthony Gonzalez – and with the album making the US top 20, it seems there may be a growing number – will find it an essential listen.
Monday, 30 January 2012
Friday, 27 January 2012
Oddly Compelling
If you like action films, the 1980s was a great time. You could choose from those with a sci-fi slant (The Terminator, Robocop), heroic everymen (Die Hard) and murderous aliens out for cheap kicks (Predator). Something for everyone, in fact.
However, a select group decided to avoid issues such as “plot”, “character development” and “acting”. These peaks of filmmaking instead cut straight to the chase: musclebound male leads carrying guns that weigh more than me and offering pithy one-liners after they used them on unsuspecting mooks. The success and sequel of The Expendables shows there’s obviously a lot of love out there for these, so here’s some of my favourites of this top genre.
Commando (Arnold Schwarzenegger)
One time Special Forces bod John Matrix (curiously armed with an Austrian accent) has retired to a life in the countryside with his daughter, chopping wood and questioning Boy George’s gender – a role model of a single dad. All is ruined when one time teammate Bennett decides the only way to deal with his latent homosexuality is to take over a small Latin American country and so kidnaps the little girl to ensure Matrix helps out.
Obviously, our man isn't going to stand for that kind of cliché lying down and so goes on a philosophical journey of self-exploration involving slaughtering several hundred soldiers, some involving the clever use of garden tools. Legendary pay-off line “Let off some steam, Bennett!” somehow missed topping the “Top 100 Movie Quotes” poll.
Cobra (Sylvester Stallone)
Renegade cop Cobretti has managed to stay on the force despite dubious methods and a silly first name. But when a baffling plot device involving some cult ritually slaughtering people hits LA, he’s the man to protect the one living witness, played by Brigitte Nielsen in an inspired bit of casting.
Despite his top detective skills in working out the complex conspiracy, the chief isn't buying it and sends Cobra, his partner and the witness out into the hills to hide. Tagging along is a police woman who also happens to be in the cult, which is handy for all concerned, and moves things along so that it surprisingly leads to a big shoot-out at the end. Andrew Robinson (Scorpio from Dirty Harry) has a dignified cameo.
Raw Deal (Arnold Schwarzenegger)
Kicked out of his CIA job and working as a small town Sheriff, Mark Kaminsky (curiously armed with an Austrian accent) is offered a way back by his old boss. Not pleased at the murder of his son by the Mob, the chief wants our Mark to go undercover to bring those SOBs down – but the catch is that he’ll have no back up if things go South, as the job is strictly "off the books".
With Hitchcock-esque building of tension, our boy ingrates himself with the baddies with top acting skills (his playing drunk is a talent to behold) before deciding the best option is to just kill them all. Highlight is a sequence in a gravel pit in which the hero drives around at speed, sniping goons out of the window with expert precision while Satisfaction by the Stones blares out of his tape deck.
The Punisher (Dolph Lundgren)
In the right hands (i.e. Garth Ennis), Frank Castle is one of the great comic book characters. Here, he’s reborn, in an unusual move, as a Swedish muscle machine. Which works on some level, somewhere, I guess, but where’s the skull shirt? Eh?
So, the Punisher is an ex-cop understandably gone troppo after his family cop for a mob hit put on his head. Rather than hope for the forces of law and order to sort it out, Frank decides the best solution for all is huge amounts of violence. However, a spanner is thrown in the works when the Japanese mafia roll into town and kidnap their Italian rivals’ children in a severe bit of negotiation. Our Frank has his arm twisted by the Head Don to ride to the rescue, and does so leaving a large pile of bodies. At the climax, with all the Japanese people out of the way, he executes the mob guy he’s been helping on front of his own son. Really! I mean, that’s not going to send him on a roaring rampage of revenge when he grows up, is it?
Red Heat (Arnold Schwarzenegger)
Top Soviet cop Ivan Danko (curiously etc etc) is left miffed when his mark escapes to the capitalist West, killing his partner in the process. I’m assuming he’s miffed, as the acting doesn't really offer much of an insight beyond 'stoic'.
The bad guy is subsequently nicked in Chicago for littering or something, and Ivan is sent to pick him up. Thankfully, the hand over goes bell-end up and our Communist Chum has to team up with another stereotype (fat, chain-smoking wise-cracking Jim Belushi) to pick up the pieces via the use of bullets. At the end, Danko is so inspired by Regan’s America, he goes back to the USSR, destroy the regime and teams up with David Hasselhoff to tear down the Berlin Wall.
However, a select group decided to avoid issues such as “plot”, “character development” and “acting”. These peaks of filmmaking instead cut straight to the chase: musclebound male leads carrying guns that weigh more than me and offering pithy one-liners after they used them on unsuspecting mooks. The success and sequel of The Expendables shows there’s obviously a lot of love out there for these, so here’s some of my favourites of this top genre.
Commando (Arnold Schwarzenegger)
One time Special Forces bod John Matrix (curiously armed with an Austrian accent) has retired to a life in the countryside with his daughter, chopping wood and questioning Boy George’s gender – a role model of a single dad. All is ruined when one time teammate Bennett decides the only way to deal with his latent homosexuality is to take over a small Latin American country and so kidnaps the little girl to ensure Matrix helps out.
Obviously, our man isn't going to stand for that kind of cliché lying down and so goes on a philosophical journey of self-exploration involving slaughtering several hundred soldiers, some involving the clever use of garden tools. Legendary pay-off line “Let off some steam, Bennett!” somehow missed topping the “Top 100 Movie Quotes” poll.
Cobra (Sylvester Stallone)
Renegade cop Cobretti has managed to stay on the force despite dubious methods and a silly first name. But when a baffling plot device involving some cult ritually slaughtering people hits LA, he’s the man to protect the one living witness, played by Brigitte Nielsen in an inspired bit of casting.
Despite his top detective skills in working out the complex conspiracy, the chief isn't buying it and sends Cobra, his partner and the witness out into the hills to hide. Tagging along is a police woman who also happens to be in the cult, which is handy for all concerned, and moves things along so that it surprisingly leads to a big shoot-out at the end. Andrew Robinson (Scorpio from Dirty Harry) has a dignified cameo.
Raw Deal (Arnold Schwarzenegger)
Kicked out of his CIA job and working as a small town Sheriff, Mark Kaminsky (curiously armed with an Austrian accent) is offered a way back by his old boss. Not pleased at the murder of his son by the Mob, the chief wants our Mark to go undercover to bring those SOBs down – but the catch is that he’ll have no back up if things go South, as the job is strictly "off the books".
With Hitchcock-esque building of tension, our boy ingrates himself with the baddies with top acting skills (his playing drunk is a talent to behold) before deciding the best option is to just kill them all. Highlight is a sequence in a gravel pit in which the hero drives around at speed, sniping goons out of the window with expert precision while Satisfaction by the Stones blares out of his tape deck.
The Punisher (Dolph Lundgren)
In the right hands (i.e. Garth Ennis), Frank Castle is one of the great comic book characters. Here, he’s reborn, in an unusual move, as a Swedish muscle machine. Which works on some level, somewhere, I guess, but where’s the skull shirt? Eh?
So, the Punisher is an ex-cop understandably gone troppo after his family cop for a mob hit put on his head. Rather than hope for the forces of law and order to sort it out, Frank decides the best solution for all is huge amounts of violence. However, a spanner is thrown in the works when the Japanese mafia roll into town and kidnap their Italian rivals’ children in a severe bit of negotiation. Our Frank has his arm twisted by the Head Don to ride to the rescue, and does so leaving a large pile of bodies. At the climax, with all the Japanese people out of the way, he executes the mob guy he’s been helping on front of his own son. Really! I mean, that’s not going to send him on a roaring rampage of revenge when he grows up, is it?
Red Heat (Arnold Schwarzenegger)
Top Soviet cop Ivan Danko (curiously etc etc) is left miffed when his mark escapes to the capitalist West, killing his partner in the process. I’m assuming he’s miffed, as the acting doesn't really offer much of an insight beyond 'stoic'.
The bad guy is subsequently nicked in Chicago for littering or something, and Ivan is sent to pick him up. Thankfully, the hand over goes bell-end up and our Communist Chum has to team up with another stereotype (fat, chain-smoking wise-cracking Jim Belushi) to pick up the pieces via the use of bullets. At the end, Danko is so inspired by Regan’s America, he goes back to the USSR, destroy the regime and teams up with David Hasselhoff to tear down the Berlin Wall.
Wednesday, 25 January 2012
Where Did You Get That Blank Expression?
Until he rocked up in the excellent Justice League Unlimited cartoon series, the Question was pretty much a forgotten character in the DC universe, almost relegated to the status of somebody he might have been.
After falling out with Marvel, comics legend Steve Ditko signed up to Charlton and was allowed a greater deal of creative freedom. The Question first appeared in a Blue Beetle comic – introducing us to TV journalist Vic Sage, whose investigative skills nevertheless require a secret identity. Using inventions created by Professor Rodor, when needed Vic takes out a mask from a hidden belt compartment. This also releases a gas which bonds the mask to his face and changes the colour of his clothes and hair, but the best part is that the effect given is that our hero no longer appears to have any facial features, creating an unnerving effect to the villains he encounters.
Under Ditko, Sage/The Question took a stance inspired by the creator’s interest in the works of Ayn Rand. On his news show, Sage would attack his viewers for enabling criminals to prosper by using the illegal services they provided. Incorruptible to the core, he would refuse to tone down his (somewhat hectoring) stance, which carried over to his Question identity. This saw him refuse to help criminals in risk of mortal peril, musing that their activities had seen them put in a situation in which they would receive their just punishment.
Ditko would take these Objectivist ideas further still with Mr A, who had an absolute black and white view of the world, which doesn’t settle too well with this reader, who believes in a world full of various shades of grey. The Question pretty much slid from view until the 80s, where he was resurrected by another superb writer, Dennis O’Neil. That this happened soon after Alan Moore’s Watchmen was released, with its Question/Mr A expy Rorschach, may not be a coincidence.
It’s in this run that I came to the character, which may explain why I think O’Neil had Vic Sage nailed down the best. This Sage was given up at birth and brought up in an orphanage as Charles Victor Szasz, taking on his better known name when he appears in Hub City to work on the TV station. Professor Aristotle “Tot” Rodor provides a role as his mentor, voice of reason and best (only?) friend. In the first issue, we see Hub City as a deeply corrupt place with a drunken major being controlled by Reverend Hatch, who can best described as slightly hatstand. As both Sage and the Question, our man has been causing problems for the bad guys, and lured as his alter-ego into a trap, he’s beaten close to death by mercenary martial arts master Lady Shiva then shot in the head and dumped off the end of a pier for good measure.
As ever working for her own reasons, Shiva rescues Vic, heals his knackered body and arranges for him to spend time with Richard Dragon, a somewhat philosophical kung-fu dude who lives in the mountains. After a time, he returns to Hub City with a new line in Zen thinking to aid his honed fighting skills. Over 30-odd issues, we see him try to avoid falling back into his old ways as all around the city begins to collapse into absolute disorder with seemingly only the Question and bent-cop-now-reformed Izzy O’Toole fighting the other corner.
Though the overall tone is serious, Sage – in true comic book tradition - does have a good way with a line. Often asked about his (non) face, he replies “Overdosed on acne medicine”. Yet his jokes hide a man constantly at war with himself. As the series progresses, Sage spends less time meditating (or “going inside”, a technique he uses to put together seemingly obtuse clues) and more engaging in brutal fights as the fabrics of Hub City unravel.
One amusing sidenote sees Sage buy a copy of Watchmen to read on a flight and admiring Rorschach’s moves. Later, he adjusts his combat style to sheer brawling and get’s his arse handed to him on a plate, leading him to muse that “Rorschach sucks”.
As a collection, for me it’s only equalled by Watchmen and Garth Ennis’ run with the Punisher on the Marvel Max imprint. Vic’s work as the Question is shown to be more a search for identity: at times he seems to think that his actual name is the Question, as his original name was given to him at the orphanage and Vic Sage merely one he gave himself. A telling moment towards the end of the run has Sage save a man from a mugging and asked “who are you?”, to which he answers “A reasonable question. At least for now”. Earlier issues had seen him answer similar inquiries with “Good question”. We’re led to wonder, as Izzy O’Toole does, whether he will eventually crack and start killing criminals rather than just beating seven shades of shit out of them.
In the now and then, I believe the Question is still out there, albeit under a new identity: Renee Montoya taking on the mask after Sage died of lung cancer. As stated at the top, he returned on our TV screens as an oddball character convinced of various conspiracy theories involving boybands and the tips at the end of your shoelaces. Think of Fox Mulder in a cool coat and hat combo. Though miles away from previous incarnations, this Question worked in large part due to the brilliant voicework of Jeffery Coombs and a memorable scene where he confronts Lex Luthor on his latest plan for world domination with objectivist logic: “A is A, and no matter what reality he calls home, Luthor is Luthor”.
After falling out with Marvel, comics legend Steve Ditko signed up to Charlton and was allowed a greater deal of creative freedom. The Question first appeared in a Blue Beetle comic – introducing us to TV journalist Vic Sage, whose investigative skills nevertheless require a secret identity. Using inventions created by Professor Rodor, when needed Vic takes out a mask from a hidden belt compartment. This also releases a gas which bonds the mask to his face and changes the colour of his clothes and hair, but the best part is that the effect given is that our hero no longer appears to have any facial features, creating an unnerving effect to the villains he encounters.
Under Ditko, Sage/The Question took a stance inspired by the creator’s interest in the works of Ayn Rand. On his news show, Sage would attack his viewers for enabling criminals to prosper by using the illegal services they provided. Incorruptible to the core, he would refuse to tone down his (somewhat hectoring) stance, which carried over to his Question identity. This saw him refuse to help criminals in risk of mortal peril, musing that their activities had seen them put in a situation in which they would receive their just punishment.
Ditko would take these Objectivist ideas further still with Mr A, who had an absolute black and white view of the world, which doesn’t settle too well with this reader, who believes in a world full of various shades of grey. The Question pretty much slid from view until the 80s, where he was resurrected by another superb writer, Dennis O’Neil. That this happened soon after Alan Moore’s Watchmen was released, with its Question/Mr A expy Rorschach, may not be a coincidence.
It’s in this run that I came to the character, which may explain why I think O’Neil had Vic Sage nailed down the best. This Sage was given up at birth and brought up in an orphanage as Charles Victor Szasz, taking on his better known name when he appears in Hub City to work on the TV station. Professor Aristotle “Tot” Rodor provides a role as his mentor, voice of reason and best (only?) friend. In the first issue, we see Hub City as a deeply corrupt place with a drunken major being controlled by Reverend Hatch, who can best described as slightly hatstand. As both Sage and the Question, our man has been causing problems for the bad guys, and lured as his alter-ego into a trap, he’s beaten close to death by mercenary martial arts master Lady Shiva then shot in the head and dumped off the end of a pier for good measure.
As ever working for her own reasons, Shiva rescues Vic, heals his knackered body and arranges for him to spend time with Richard Dragon, a somewhat philosophical kung-fu dude who lives in the mountains. After a time, he returns to Hub City with a new line in Zen thinking to aid his honed fighting skills. Over 30-odd issues, we see him try to avoid falling back into his old ways as all around the city begins to collapse into absolute disorder with seemingly only the Question and bent-cop-now-reformed Izzy O’Toole fighting the other corner.
Though the overall tone is serious, Sage – in true comic book tradition - does have a good way with a line. Often asked about his (non) face, he replies “Overdosed on acne medicine”. Yet his jokes hide a man constantly at war with himself. As the series progresses, Sage spends less time meditating (or “going inside”, a technique he uses to put together seemingly obtuse clues) and more engaging in brutal fights as the fabrics of Hub City unravel.
One amusing sidenote sees Sage buy a copy of Watchmen to read on a flight and admiring Rorschach’s moves. Later, he adjusts his combat style to sheer brawling and get’s his arse handed to him on a plate, leading him to muse that “Rorschach sucks”.
As a collection, for me it’s only equalled by Watchmen and Garth Ennis’ run with the Punisher on the Marvel Max imprint. Vic’s work as the Question is shown to be more a search for identity: at times he seems to think that his actual name is the Question, as his original name was given to him at the orphanage and Vic Sage merely one he gave himself. A telling moment towards the end of the run has Sage save a man from a mugging and asked “who are you?”, to which he answers “A reasonable question. At least for now”. Earlier issues had seen him answer similar inquiries with “Good question”. We’re led to wonder, as Izzy O’Toole does, whether he will eventually crack and start killing criminals rather than just beating seven shades of shit out of them.
In the now and then, I believe the Question is still out there, albeit under a new identity: Renee Montoya taking on the mask after Sage died of lung cancer. As stated at the top, he returned on our TV screens as an oddball character convinced of various conspiracy theories involving boybands and the tips at the end of your shoelaces. Think of Fox Mulder in a cool coat and hat combo. Though miles away from previous incarnations, this Question worked in large part due to the brilliant voicework of Jeffery Coombs and a memorable scene where he confronts Lex Luthor on his latest plan for world domination with objectivist logic: “A is A, and no matter what reality he calls home, Luthor is Luthor”.
Monday, 23 January 2012
Avoiding the Scores
There’s a famous episode of top 1970s comedy Whatever Happened to the Likely Lads? that sees our heroes, Bob and Terry, try to avoid the score of an England international football match so to fully enjoy the televised highlights later that night. Acquaintance Brian Glover knows the outcome and tries to spoil their fun by revealing it, leading up to an amusing conclusion.
That was a long, long time ago. Try doing the same thing now, and you have to contend with a lot more than a slaphead from Yorkshire. For the last few weeks, I’ve been trying to get through my Saturdays without finding out the football scores to ensure I watch Match of the Day with a heightened sense of drama. This is, of course, because my own beloved team have been playing on Sundays for the most part.
For those not in the loop of English TV, Match of the Day is a show that’s been going since the mid 60s. In it, we’re shown all the goals of the day’s football with analysis of the key points. Now, the analysis tends to be on the substandard fare of us watching a guy on £100,000 a week miss an open goal and the pundit saying “he should be scoring from there”. Enough to make you want to gnaw your own ears off, pretty much.
It’s on around 10.30pm anyways, which means if you want to watch all the action with no knowledge of what’s happened, you have most of the day to avoid any news sources. A trip to the shops becomes a gauntlet: I just managed to switch off the radio when the words “sport, now, and in football there was…” came over the airwaves. Walking round the aisles, you attempt to devolve into some zombie status, lest you hear people talking about the results.
Bob and Terry never had to worry about mobile phones either. Any message could be from a friend expressing joy/disbelief of our rivals’ results. It gets to the point where you get a message and you have to ask a stranger “is this a text message from Chris?”, to which they look at you as if you’ve escaped from a local mental health unit and reply “no, it’s from ‘Mam’…”
To be extra safe this Saturday just gone, I banned my own better half from looking on Facebook all evening. Why? Because her older sister is a Bolton fan and would no doubt post some message expressing her feelings on the game and on reading this, I would doubtless be able to divine the result from her facial expressions using my Super Derren Brown Skillz*.
In the end, I was able to settle down that night with a sense of anticipation of what was to come. Plenty of goals I didn’t know were coming, Liverpool getting spanked, Chelsea only drawing with the mighty Norwich and the sight of Fernando “Fifty Million Quid” Torres once again playing like, well, me. On a bad day. With a nuclear-level hangover. It was all even worth sitting through Gary Lineker’s smug face for.
*Which I don’t really have. Sadly.
That was a long, long time ago. Try doing the same thing now, and you have to contend with a lot more than a slaphead from Yorkshire. For the last few weeks, I’ve been trying to get through my Saturdays without finding out the football scores to ensure I watch Match of the Day with a heightened sense of drama. This is, of course, because my own beloved team have been playing on Sundays for the most part.
For those not in the loop of English TV, Match of the Day is a show that’s been going since the mid 60s. In it, we’re shown all the goals of the day’s football with analysis of the key points. Now, the analysis tends to be on the substandard fare of us watching a guy on £100,000 a week miss an open goal and the pundit saying “he should be scoring from there”. Enough to make you want to gnaw your own ears off, pretty much.
It’s on around 10.30pm anyways, which means if you want to watch all the action with no knowledge of what’s happened, you have most of the day to avoid any news sources. A trip to the shops becomes a gauntlet: I just managed to switch off the radio when the words “sport, now, and in football there was…” came over the airwaves. Walking round the aisles, you attempt to devolve into some zombie status, lest you hear people talking about the results.
Bob and Terry never had to worry about mobile phones either. Any message could be from a friend expressing joy/disbelief of our rivals’ results. It gets to the point where you get a message and you have to ask a stranger “is this a text message from Chris?”, to which they look at you as if you’ve escaped from a local mental health unit and reply “no, it’s from ‘Mam’…”
To be extra safe this Saturday just gone, I banned my own better half from looking on Facebook all evening. Why? Because her older sister is a Bolton fan and would no doubt post some message expressing her feelings on the game and on reading this, I would doubtless be able to divine the result from her facial expressions using my Super Derren Brown Skillz*.
In the end, I was able to settle down that night with a sense of anticipation of what was to come. Plenty of goals I didn’t know were coming, Liverpool getting spanked, Chelsea only drawing with the mighty Norwich and the sight of Fernando “Fifty Million Quid” Torres once again playing like, well, me. On a bad day. With a nuclear-level hangover. It was all even worth sitting through Gary Lineker’s smug face for.
*Which I don’t really have. Sadly.
Wednesday, 18 January 2012
Into the Atom Age (and Beyond)
It's a pretty safe statement to make to say that nobody wants to look really stupid. Even the seemingly endless supply for complete morons they get to queue up to audition on shows like X-Factor think they have talent. They may be stupid, but they aren't all that aware of it.
A state of being that may well come to all of us with the onset of time. After all, don’t we in the present age like to have a good chuckle at how people were in the past. “Oh, how quaint, they used to think the earth was flat! And they used to have 20 children per family, all of which had rickets and scurvy!” It’s called progress – the same reason our girlfriends and mothers don’t just have to be baby factories anymore. Now they can come to work and lead a slightly less meaningless life.
Patrick McGoohan, genius creator of The Prisoner, felt that progress in the 20th century was going too fast. His show saw his character Number Six depersonalised to a number, his dreams, perceptions of reality and even his physical identity manipulated by technology. He saw the Prisoner as a warning of sorts, and felt we needed to slow it down some.
An understandable stance, perhaps, especially in the age of Nuclear Terror. But I’m an impatient man and I want my hover boots, damn it.
One good thing about the last century that we can say is that, despite the numerous genocides, world wars and other horrors, we’ve come a long way in a short time. The Industrial Revolution may have been important but when all was said and done, the average pleb was still living in conditions best described as “shit”. Now, at least here in leafy England, even the lowest of underclass scrote has an X Box and access to numerous TV channels of mind numbing cack.
The internet may well be the great invention of our time, enabling us as it does mass communication across the globe. Why, my own dear readers can be sat wherever they may be and think “I wonder what that stupid tosser Harrison is thinking today?” and know in a matter of seconds. Teenage boys around the world no longer have to hope someone has thrown pornography into the bushes for their first chance at seeing a naked woman.
Yet it is this very progress that means we will one day be comparatively seen as little more than prehistoric cave dwellers. When humanity has evolved into beings of pure energy (or something), we will look at our time, with our “iphones” and “eating habits”, in the same way we gawp at insects on Richard Attenborough documentaries. This is our inescapable collective fate, unless we conspire to blow up the planet before then, which you still wouldn't hedge your bets against.
All of which is why I tell anyone who knows me that when I expire, I want to be thrown into a fire rather than buried in the ground. The nightmare situation is that in 1000 years time, I'll be dug up by a 30th century version of Tony Robinson’s Time Team and laughed at as an example of Ancient Humanity. This also has the added bonus of meaning I can never rise as a member of the undead army and eat my friends and family. Always thinking ahead – it's the reason we go forward as a species.
A state of being that may well come to all of us with the onset of time. After all, don’t we in the present age like to have a good chuckle at how people were in the past. “Oh, how quaint, they used to think the earth was flat! And they used to have 20 children per family, all of which had rickets and scurvy!” It’s called progress – the same reason our girlfriends and mothers don’t just have to be baby factories anymore. Now they can come to work and lead a slightly less meaningless life.
Patrick McGoohan, genius creator of The Prisoner, felt that progress in the 20th century was going too fast. His show saw his character Number Six depersonalised to a number, his dreams, perceptions of reality and even his physical identity manipulated by technology. He saw the Prisoner as a warning of sorts, and felt we needed to slow it down some.
An understandable stance, perhaps, especially in the age of Nuclear Terror. But I’m an impatient man and I want my hover boots, damn it.
One good thing about the last century that we can say is that, despite the numerous genocides, world wars and other horrors, we’ve come a long way in a short time. The Industrial Revolution may have been important but when all was said and done, the average pleb was still living in conditions best described as “shit”. Now, at least here in leafy England, even the lowest of underclass scrote has an X Box and access to numerous TV channels of mind numbing cack.
The internet may well be the great invention of our time, enabling us as it does mass communication across the globe. Why, my own dear readers can be sat wherever they may be and think “I wonder what that stupid tosser Harrison is thinking today?” and know in a matter of seconds. Teenage boys around the world no longer have to hope someone has thrown pornography into the bushes for their first chance at seeing a naked woman.
Yet it is this very progress that means we will one day be comparatively seen as little more than prehistoric cave dwellers. When humanity has evolved into beings of pure energy (or something), we will look at our time, with our “iphones” and “eating habits”, in the same way we gawp at insects on Richard Attenborough documentaries. This is our inescapable collective fate, unless we conspire to blow up the planet before then, which you still wouldn't hedge your bets against.
All of which is why I tell anyone who knows me that when I expire, I want to be thrown into a fire rather than buried in the ground. The nightmare situation is that in 1000 years time, I'll be dug up by a 30th century version of Tony Robinson’s Time Team and laughed at as an example of Ancient Humanity. This also has the added bonus of meaning I can never rise as a member of the undead army and eat my friends and family. Always thinking ahead – it's the reason we go forward as a species.
Monday, 16 January 2012
Sad Estate of Affairs
As we privileged First Worlders move through the 21st century, trivial matters become gut-wrenching experiences full of existential despair. Of these, amongst the worst is moving home, which I've just had to do, again, and I’m left with a deep sense of utter despair from the whole experience. It never gets easier.
Well, for one thing there’s the actual physical part of it. Unless you've got enough money to hire a large man or men to do it for you, there’s a lot of hard work involved. This leaves me very sore for days after, meaning that instead of unpacking I lie on the sofa and feel sorry for myself.
A condition made worse when you have to deal with trying to get your deposit back on the old place. Dealing with agencies is never made easy, as they seem to employ people who delight in making something out of nothing. As in:
“The thing is Mr Harrison, there was a small amount of dust on the top shelf of the cupboard.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, so we’ll have to get the whole flat professionally cleaned, which will cost £200.”
“Eh?”
“Also, the inventory listed a box of 115 matchsticks, of which I've noticed one has become slightly bent. The cost of replacing these will be £20…”
And so on. Anybody who’s dealt with these people before may well know exactly what I’m talking about. My advice to anybody would be to always check the inventory with intense scrutiny and take plenty of photographs of the property the second you move in.
I've long been of the mind that people who work for estate/letting agents are complete swine because life has dealt them a bum hand. Even the most down-on-their-luck alcoholic street wreck can, whilst drinking White Lightning at eight in the morning, look at themselves in a puddle of what may well be their own piss and sick and think “at least I’m not an estate agent. For that alone I think I deserve another drink”. And they’d be right to do so.
Essentially, no child ever thinks “when I grow up, I want to find ways of not giving people their deposits back. Yes, that’s the life for me”. Only a series of cruel circumstances sees a person go down that path in life. Perhaps they made a bad deal with the devil when they were young: “Oh, I really wish that girl who sits next to me in Physics would give me a hand job”, and then the dark lord appears and offers to make that dream come true, but only at a terrible price. Maybe not that day, or even in the near future, but someday they will have to become an Estate Agent. These are the kind of people we have to deal with when trying to find somewhere to live. Weak, weak people who may well be Satan's envoys on Earth.
But should we hate them? Should we whisper about them in dark corners, point at them in the street to inform our children to beware and spurn them at social gatherings? Should we not instead pity them and offer sympathy for their wretched existence? Surely they must go home every night, wash themselves with bleach and drink a bottle of Scotch to just blank out the horror of their pathetic and futile lives.
After some thought, I decide that no, we should hate the fuckers with everything we've got. Wankers the lot of them.
Well, for one thing there’s the actual physical part of it. Unless you've got enough money to hire a large man or men to do it for you, there’s a lot of hard work involved. This leaves me very sore for days after, meaning that instead of unpacking I lie on the sofa and feel sorry for myself.
A condition made worse when you have to deal with trying to get your deposit back on the old place. Dealing with agencies is never made easy, as they seem to employ people who delight in making something out of nothing. As in:
“The thing is Mr Harrison, there was a small amount of dust on the top shelf of the cupboard.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, so we’ll have to get the whole flat professionally cleaned, which will cost £200.”
“Eh?”
“Also, the inventory listed a box of 115 matchsticks, of which I've noticed one has become slightly bent. The cost of replacing these will be £20…”
And so on. Anybody who’s dealt with these people before may well know exactly what I’m talking about. My advice to anybody would be to always check the inventory with intense scrutiny and take plenty of photographs of the property the second you move in.
I've long been of the mind that people who work for estate/letting agents are complete swine because life has dealt them a bum hand. Even the most down-on-their-luck alcoholic street wreck can, whilst drinking White Lightning at eight in the morning, look at themselves in a puddle of what may well be their own piss and sick and think “at least I’m not an estate agent. For that alone I think I deserve another drink”. And they’d be right to do so.
Essentially, no child ever thinks “when I grow up, I want to find ways of not giving people their deposits back. Yes, that’s the life for me”. Only a series of cruel circumstances sees a person go down that path in life. Perhaps they made a bad deal with the devil when they were young: “Oh, I really wish that girl who sits next to me in Physics would give me a hand job”, and then the dark lord appears and offers to make that dream come true, but only at a terrible price. Maybe not that day, or even in the near future, but someday they will have to become an Estate Agent. These are the kind of people we have to deal with when trying to find somewhere to live. Weak, weak people who may well be Satan's envoys on Earth.
But should we hate them? Should we whisper about them in dark corners, point at them in the street to inform our children to beware and spurn them at social gatherings? Should we not instead pity them and offer sympathy for their wretched existence? Surely they must go home every night, wash themselves with bleach and drink a bottle of Scotch to just blank out the horror of their pathetic and futile lives.
After some thought, I decide that no, we should hate the fuckers with everything we've got. Wankers the lot of them.
Wednesday, 11 January 2012
Give My Regards to Grim
If, like me, you long since give up on the idea of both god(s) and any kind of afterlife, death plays a different role in your thinking than it may do for others.
Naturally, at times it can be bloody terrifying. The thought that life is merely a short spell of existence free from the dark abyss of nothingness that bookends it all can be enough to make you wish you were back being rocked in the arms of your mother. Which would be ridiculous, of course, as I’m six foot five and she’s tiny. The idea just isn't practical - believe me, I've tried*.
Reminders can be everywhere. On the bus home yesterday, I passed a bowling green in Levenshulme. Now, for those unfamiliar, this kind of bowling isn't the sexy, high-octane kind as faithfully portrayed in both Kingpin and The Big Lebowski. No. It’s a rather sedate game generally played by old people in summer. Bizarrely, its broadcast on the BBC and a few years ago, a buxom young lady streaked at a tournament. I took this as a move by the organisers to show that the sport could be young and sexy. But it failed miserably. Everybody knows bowls is a game for your grandparents. Not my grandparents, though. My grandpops preferred horse racing and watching Colombo while my nan always had a soft spot for The Price is Right when it was presented by Leslie Crowther.
Digression aside, at the side of the bowling green I passed was a large advertisement for a funeral director. Now, I know Bill Hicks pretty much had people in advertising as the lowest form of life, but you have to say that this was an example of getting right into your market. Some poor old timer will be there, trying to get right on the jack and they look up to be reminded of their soon-to-be expiration while the business hopes they’ll think “well, I may snuff it soon, but I really must check out their rates before that happens.”
With all of us awaiting our dance with the reaper, I, we, must seize the day, apparently, to find meaning in a meaningless universe. A approach of "we're all going to die, so experience life in its many forms" seems a reasonable way to approach matters. But I can't help but think I’m going wrong somewhere – people I know plan travelling, having families and other adventures. I, on the other hand, think “I hope I don't die before Mass Effect 3 comes out, or before the football season ends”. At times, it seems as if I'm missing out.
And yet, perhaps not. The idea of slogging around Asia or South America with a backpack may well be fun for a lot of people. Indeed, I can understand the appeal of visiting ancient monuments and seeing amazing scenery. It just seems a lot of hard work, though, when I'd much rather be sponged over a sofa in my boxer shorts watching the latest series of Psych. It makes me think that perhaps I'm lucky in a way, to be content with what seems relatively so little, and I'm comforted even more by knowing that I'm not a tabloid journalist, weeping myself to sleep every night from the knowledge that I pissed away my time on earth writing dubious captions for pictures of some young actress showing a bit of cleavage.
All the same, I'd like to encourage the governments of the world to invest as much money as possible in teleportation technology, as it would allow idle gits such as me to travel without the actual mither of travelling, which is quite possibly one of the most tedious things a person can do, unless you own a Ferrari. Just putting that one out there, in case Barry Obama or Vlad “The Lad” Putin is reading.
*Said in an attempt at comic effect. My mother isn't even that tiny, she's five foot seven.
Naturally, at times it can be bloody terrifying. The thought that life is merely a short spell of existence free from the dark abyss of nothingness that bookends it all can be enough to make you wish you were back being rocked in the arms of your mother. Which would be ridiculous, of course, as I’m six foot five and she’s tiny. The idea just isn't practical - believe me, I've tried*.
Reminders can be everywhere. On the bus home yesterday, I passed a bowling green in Levenshulme. Now, for those unfamiliar, this kind of bowling isn't the sexy, high-octane kind as faithfully portrayed in both Kingpin and The Big Lebowski. No. It’s a rather sedate game generally played by old people in summer. Bizarrely, its broadcast on the BBC and a few years ago, a buxom young lady streaked at a tournament. I took this as a move by the organisers to show that the sport could be young and sexy. But it failed miserably. Everybody knows bowls is a game for your grandparents. Not my grandparents, though. My grandpops preferred horse racing and watching Colombo while my nan always had a soft spot for The Price is Right when it was presented by Leslie Crowther.
Digression aside, at the side of the bowling green I passed was a large advertisement for a funeral director. Now, I know Bill Hicks pretty much had people in advertising as the lowest form of life, but you have to say that this was an example of getting right into your market. Some poor old timer will be there, trying to get right on the jack and they look up to be reminded of their soon-to-be expiration while the business hopes they’ll think “well, I may snuff it soon, but I really must check out their rates before that happens.”
With all of us awaiting our dance with the reaper, I, we, must seize the day, apparently, to find meaning in a meaningless universe. A approach of "we're all going to die, so experience life in its many forms" seems a reasonable way to approach matters. But I can't help but think I’m going wrong somewhere – people I know plan travelling, having families and other adventures. I, on the other hand, think “I hope I don't die before Mass Effect 3 comes out, or before the football season ends”. At times, it seems as if I'm missing out.
And yet, perhaps not. The idea of slogging around Asia or South America with a backpack may well be fun for a lot of people. Indeed, I can understand the appeal of visiting ancient monuments and seeing amazing scenery. It just seems a lot of hard work, though, when I'd much rather be sponged over a sofa in my boxer shorts watching the latest series of Psych. It makes me think that perhaps I'm lucky in a way, to be content with what seems relatively so little, and I'm comforted even more by knowing that I'm not a tabloid journalist, weeping myself to sleep every night from the knowledge that I pissed away my time on earth writing dubious captions for pictures of some young actress showing a bit of cleavage.
All the same, I'd like to encourage the governments of the world to invest as much money as possible in teleportation technology, as it would allow idle gits such as me to travel without the actual mither of travelling, which is quite possibly one of the most tedious things a person can do, unless you own a Ferrari. Just putting that one out there, in case Barry Obama or Vlad “The Lad” Putin is reading.
*Said in an attempt at comic effect. My mother isn't even that tiny, she's five foot seven.
Monday, 9 January 2012
"It's Only Words..." Or Not
In the same way that any discussion on an internet forum is eventually bound to bring up comparisions to someone's behaviour to that of Hitler and the Third Reich, any discussion about race in any form is bound to see one of the parties say something they end up regretting.
So it was with Diane Abbott, whose main regret might not be what she said but more that it has given ammunition to various right-wing lunatics to say “there you are! Black people are racist against white people too!” to justify their own prejudices and badly-written bile against anyone who looks a bit different from them.
The real question, however, is why any politician would want to be on Twitter in the first place, seeing as it can so often be a one-way ticket to a very public execution. See Ed Milliband, whose attempt at paying respect to the passing of TV legend Bob Holness backfired spectacularly when he referred to the quizshow he hosted as “Blackbusters”. Has a single misplaced letter ever caused so much news coverage to the degree where the Sun ran it as a front page lead. I do wonder if the mistake was actually Milliband's, however, or that of some minion tasked with updating the Twitter feed on his behalf as I’d like to think the Leader of the Opposition has better things to do with his time.
Being a social media luddite, for the most part (after all, I’m writing this), I have to wonder exactly what people such as Milliband and Abbott get out of it. I can sort of see why people I know get involved – it’s certainly a handy way of getting certain messages (such as, having a spare ticket for a gig) out to a lot of people you know very quickly, but for anyone with any level of media profile it seems a huge minefield on which it’s only a matter of time before you step into trouble. Especially given there seems to be hacks constantly watching your every tweet, meaning your mishap is all over the world before you blink.
I don’t think Diane Abbott is a racist. Just stupid beyond belief for a person in authority, especially one so experienced. And yes, 140 letters isn't much to condense a point, which would surely suggest that you should be making it somewhere else. They should have learned the lesson John Cooper Clarke did when he wrote this wonderful poem, simply entitled 'Haiku':
To convey one's mood
In seventeen syllables
Is very diffic
So it was with Diane Abbott, whose main regret might not be what she said but more that it has given ammunition to various right-wing lunatics to say “there you are! Black people are racist against white people too!” to justify their own prejudices and badly-written bile against anyone who looks a bit different from them.
The real question, however, is why any politician would want to be on Twitter in the first place, seeing as it can so often be a one-way ticket to a very public execution. See Ed Milliband, whose attempt at paying respect to the passing of TV legend Bob Holness backfired spectacularly when he referred to the quizshow he hosted as “Blackbusters”. Has a single misplaced letter ever caused so much news coverage to the degree where the Sun ran it as a front page lead. I do wonder if the mistake was actually Milliband's, however, or that of some minion tasked with updating the Twitter feed on his behalf as I’d like to think the Leader of the Opposition has better things to do with his time.
Being a social media luddite, for the most part (after all, I’m writing this), I have to wonder exactly what people such as Milliband and Abbott get out of it. I can sort of see why people I know get involved – it’s certainly a handy way of getting certain messages (such as, having a spare ticket for a gig) out to a lot of people you know very quickly, but for anyone with any level of media profile it seems a huge minefield on which it’s only a matter of time before you step into trouble. Especially given there seems to be hacks constantly watching your every tweet, meaning your mishap is all over the world before you blink.
I don’t think Diane Abbott is a racist. Just stupid beyond belief for a person in authority, especially one so experienced. And yes, 140 letters isn't much to condense a point, which would surely suggest that you should be making it somewhere else. They should have learned the lesson John Cooper Clarke did when he wrote this wonderful poem, simply entitled 'Haiku':
To convey one's mood
In seventeen syllables
Is very diffic
Friday, 6 January 2012
Empty Rooms
If anyone reading this has played in a band, then they might be able to emphasise in an experience I went through, that of the Worst Gig Ever.
Here’s my story: back around 2007, my band had played a few gigs around Manchester. Like many, I suspect, it started well with a gig at a decent sized venue, going on first on some unsigned band night. Naturally, a large amount of our friends rocked up, of which about three were mine. And one of those was somebody I didn't actually know, her being the friend of a girl I was semi-interested in and whom I never saw again after that night for reasons far too tediously complicated to examine at this juncture.
The upshot was, we pulled around 100 people through the door and received £150 in lovely ten pound notes, split between the four of us and the guitarist’s step-dad, who had driven us and our equipment to the gig. The mood was good. Only days before, I had finished my brief dive into the murky waters of professional journalism and elected to chance my arm at temping, believing it would keep me fresher and able to commit myself to the band more. Thinking back, I’m surprised at my optimism in this, but in mitigation I thought we were sounding great and that the strength of the songs would cover up the fact our frontman couldn't really sing very well.
Naturally, it was a long fall down from that early high and subsequent gigs were played to a handful of disinterested punters there to see their mates in other bands. Once or twice we would get approving notes, including one incredibly drunk goth who complimented my bass playing, which was odd as I was and am nothing more than steady, but the attention was appreciated. Another time, a couple of French women, also drunk, were compelled to jump up and dance until they sadly had to catch the National Express from Chorlton Street.
Back on track towards the point: one Monday, I was probably daydreaming at whatever meaningless job I had when I got a phone call from a friend who knew the guy who put on bands at a fairly well known spot in the city centre. An American band (who shall remain nameless, partly for reasons explained later and partly because I can’t remember them off the top of my head) were due to play there tonight and the support band had dropped out. Could we fill in?
My instant reaction was to say yes, but I managed to ask for more information. What I could gather was that they were touring an album – a good sign, as it suggested they had some kind of fanbase to justify releasing it – and that they were “pretty good”. It sounded like a great piece of good fortune – the chance to play to a load of people who didn't know us could be a big help in gaining some kind of following.
Quickly ringing round the band, all confirmed they could do it. We had to be there for around seven, giving me just enough time to get home to remove my crappy suit and tie and dress for the occasion. There was a brief crisis when the drummer had to deal with his girlfriend kicking off that we were to be playing in a “strip club”: the place happened to have a burlesque night once a month, and I leave it to you to decide whether that constitutes dancing. At the time, I scoffed at this because said woman’s tits were (and probably still are) available for all to see on the internet through her sideline in “glamour” modelling.
This little (averted) crisis perhaps should have set alarm bells ringing, but as I met half the band at our rehearsal room/storage space, there was some confidence only offset by the fact we’d be missing the United-Fulham game that night (we won 2-0, Ronaldo scored both and I remembered that without looking it up, which may be a bit tragic). When we arrived at the venue, things started to go south at an alarming rate.
For one thing, the band we were supporting wanted to borrow our amplifiers and drum kit. It appeared they were doing this tour “on the cheap” and renting backline equipment was seen as non-essential. The promoter came up and asked us right away how many people we were bringing. As we’d been roped in at short notice, the answer was not many and his reaction to this wasn't good.
The doors opened and an hour later, there were about ten people milling about. Including the four members of my band and our faithful driver. The “headliners” asked if they could go on first. Clearly, they wanted to get out of there somewhat rapid. At the bar, the promoter cursed them, stating he had been assured they would bring in “at least” 100 people.
At this juncture, I was hit by a crippling panic attack. Perhaps somewhat weirdly, I only got nervous before gigs where the crowd was small. If I saw a packed room, it gave me some kind of confidence, but seeing enough people I didn't know to count on one hand, I hid in the corner and freaked out for 20 minutes before an arriving friend calmed me down with small talk. Our American friends took to the stage and played for what seemed 20 minutes before quickly leaving. They left copies of their album to “thank” us. Mine remained sealed in its plastic wrapping on a shelf in my kitchen until it went up in flames last summer.
For reasons I didn't understand, we had been set up on stage in a straight line, with the drummer sat directly to the my right. As we trundled through our set to pretty much nobody, all I could hear was the smash of snares and cymbals through one ear, giving me the most peculiarly lopsided headache of my life. My recollection is that we played every song we knew, lasting about 50 minutes, at the end of which the promoter had stormed off home in a quiet rage.
I made it home around midnight, feeling like crap and unable to get any sleep. A few hours later, I got up for work and somehow got through the day without collapsing in a heap. We never did get the call to “fill-in” again.
Doing such gigs is probably a rite of passage for bands. After all, most of us never graduate beyond that point. So if you happen to see a bunch of plucky chancers ploughing through their songs in front of the proverbial one man and his dog, think of them kindly. It was me once upon a time.
Here’s my story: back around 2007, my band had played a few gigs around Manchester. Like many, I suspect, it started well with a gig at a decent sized venue, going on first on some unsigned band night. Naturally, a large amount of our friends rocked up, of which about three were mine. And one of those was somebody I didn't actually know, her being the friend of a girl I was semi-interested in and whom I never saw again after that night for reasons far too tediously complicated to examine at this juncture.
The upshot was, we pulled around 100 people through the door and received £150 in lovely ten pound notes, split between the four of us and the guitarist’s step-dad, who had driven us and our equipment to the gig. The mood was good. Only days before, I had finished my brief dive into the murky waters of professional journalism and elected to chance my arm at temping, believing it would keep me fresher and able to commit myself to the band more. Thinking back, I’m surprised at my optimism in this, but in mitigation I thought we were sounding great and that the strength of the songs would cover up the fact our frontman couldn't really sing very well.
Naturally, it was a long fall down from that early high and subsequent gigs were played to a handful of disinterested punters there to see their mates in other bands. Once or twice we would get approving notes, including one incredibly drunk goth who complimented my bass playing, which was odd as I was and am nothing more than steady, but the attention was appreciated. Another time, a couple of French women, also drunk, were compelled to jump up and dance until they sadly had to catch the National Express from Chorlton Street.
Back on track towards the point: one Monday, I was probably daydreaming at whatever meaningless job I had when I got a phone call from a friend who knew the guy who put on bands at a fairly well known spot in the city centre. An American band (who shall remain nameless, partly for reasons explained later and partly because I can’t remember them off the top of my head) were due to play there tonight and the support band had dropped out. Could we fill in?
My instant reaction was to say yes, but I managed to ask for more information. What I could gather was that they were touring an album – a good sign, as it suggested they had some kind of fanbase to justify releasing it – and that they were “pretty good”. It sounded like a great piece of good fortune – the chance to play to a load of people who didn't know us could be a big help in gaining some kind of following.
Quickly ringing round the band, all confirmed they could do it. We had to be there for around seven, giving me just enough time to get home to remove my crappy suit and tie and dress for the occasion. There was a brief crisis when the drummer had to deal with his girlfriend kicking off that we were to be playing in a “strip club”: the place happened to have a burlesque night once a month, and I leave it to you to decide whether that constitutes dancing. At the time, I scoffed at this because said woman’s tits were (and probably still are) available for all to see on the internet through her sideline in “glamour” modelling.
This little (averted) crisis perhaps should have set alarm bells ringing, but as I met half the band at our rehearsal room/storage space, there was some confidence only offset by the fact we’d be missing the United-Fulham game that night (we won 2-0, Ronaldo scored both and I remembered that without looking it up, which may be a bit tragic). When we arrived at the venue, things started to go south at an alarming rate.
For one thing, the band we were supporting wanted to borrow our amplifiers and drum kit. It appeared they were doing this tour “on the cheap” and renting backline equipment was seen as non-essential. The promoter came up and asked us right away how many people we were bringing. As we’d been roped in at short notice, the answer was not many and his reaction to this wasn't good.
The doors opened and an hour later, there were about ten people milling about. Including the four members of my band and our faithful driver. The “headliners” asked if they could go on first. Clearly, they wanted to get out of there somewhat rapid. At the bar, the promoter cursed them, stating he had been assured they would bring in “at least” 100 people.
At this juncture, I was hit by a crippling panic attack. Perhaps somewhat weirdly, I only got nervous before gigs where the crowd was small. If I saw a packed room, it gave me some kind of confidence, but seeing enough people I didn't know to count on one hand, I hid in the corner and freaked out for 20 minutes before an arriving friend calmed me down with small talk. Our American friends took to the stage and played for what seemed 20 minutes before quickly leaving. They left copies of their album to “thank” us. Mine remained sealed in its plastic wrapping on a shelf in my kitchen until it went up in flames last summer.
For reasons I didn't understand, we had been set up on stage in a straight line, with the drummer sat directly to the my right. As we trundled through our set to pretty much nobody, all I could hear was the smash of snares and cymbals through one ear, giving me the most peculiarly lopsided headache of my life. My recollection is that we played every song we knew, lasting about 50 minutes, at the end of which the promoter had stormed off home in a quiet rage.
I made it home around midnight, feeling like crap and unable to get any sleep. A few hours later, I got up for work and somehow got through the day without collapsing in a heap. We never did get the call to “fill-in” again.
Doing such gigs is probably a rite of passage for bands. After all, most of us never graduate beyond that point. So if you happen to see a bunch of plucky chancers ploughing through their songs in front of the proverbial one man and his dog, think of them kindly. It was me once upon a time.
Wednesday, 4 January 2012
That Was The Year That Was (Not Was)
Yeah, lame pun, I know...
If I manage to get to be an old man, I wonder how I’ll look back on 2011, given I went through a series of bizarre events that usually happen to other people.
But no matter, I emerged in relatively one piece to keep writing the usual crap about things that either annoy me or stop me getting annoyed in a world seemingly designed purely to irritate.
Footballer of the Year
Bit of a tricky one, this, as even though United won the league and made the final of the European Cup, I’m struggling to think of one player who managed consistency across 2011. Rooney upset many with his stupid antics on and off the pitch, Nani has been his usual inconsistent self. Vidic has been crocked for most of the last six months, as has Javier Hernandez, who scored some vital goals in the run-in last season.
So, for lack of a better choice, I’m giving it to Phil Jones, despite the fact he only signed for us in the summer, on the basis that he’s proven so good as to be almost an automatic choice in the first team. He’s made a couple of major clangers, but you can excuse that in a 19 year old, especially one with the confidence to charge upfield with the ball at his feet in a way not seen at Old Trafford since Gordon McQueen.
Album of the Year
Surprisingly, there was more than one album released in 2011 I liked. There were in fact four, which must be a record. Note must also go to the reissue of Nick Lowe’s fab 1979 Labour of Lust album that I've been enjoying recently.
The Pains of Being Pure at Heart stumbled at times with their second album Belong, but overall it was a fine album and I have hopes they’ll knock on and produce something better in the near future.
British Sea Power made another fine album with Valhalla Dancehall, albeit one that treaded water a little bit and did nothing to halt recent sliding returns commercially. Whether they’ll elect to go down weirder paths, as flirted with on their soundtrack to the historic Man of Annan film, they’re still capable of writing excellent songs in both pop and experimental genres.
Half Man Half Biscuit did what they do best once again on 90 Bisodol (Crimond) with songs of tedious daytime TV (Tommy Walsh’s Eco House) and pavement etiquette (L’Enfer C’est Les Autres). Always the same, always different, they should have put statues of the lads up on that spare plinth on Trafalgar Square. Or at least outside Prenton Park somewhere.
The winner, however, is The Coldest Winter For a Hundred Years by the always excellent Wild Swans. A fair old time in the making, it seemed I’d been anticipating it for years and luckily it didn't disappoint. Killer songwriting and brilliant playing all over, especially the kind of guitar chops that I’m glad to hear again. Following their jaunt out being pop stars in South East Asia, I can’t wait to see what Paul Simpson will do next.
Game of the Year
Up until Christmas, this would have been Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim hands down. However, having spent the last week or so hammering through Batman: Arkham City, it’s become a closer run thing. After much consideration (i.e. the time it takes to sup three mouthfuls of coffee and eat a handful of Quality Street sweets) I've gone with Skryim. Though not matching the moments of drama Batman produced, or the voice acting skills (Mark Hamill will always be the Joker to me), its sheer depth and scope has not been seen by me since I played Elite II: Frontier, a game that had the whole galaxy as a playground.
Terry Fuckwit Clone of the Year
It has to be James Murdoch, for his stunning display of ineptitude at the Leveson Inquiry, in which we got the general picture that he didn't have a Scooby about what was going on in the company he was apparently in charge of. Watching, I got the idea that ol’ Rupert was thinking ‘he must get it off his bloody mother’ or something.
The fall of the News of the World, of course, was a major highlight of the year. I expect it’ll be the first of the major papers to go belly up, though the rest will probably fall under the harsh machine gun fire of falling sales and public indifference. The fact that it’s hardly been missed says something about the nation’s reading habits, and not in a good way, but I can console myself that at least one bastion of shite journalism has been dumped onto the slagheap of history.
With that all done, it's in 2012 we go. We can look forward to Mass Effect 3! Which is good! And Manchester City beginning to dominate English football for years to come! Which is crap! And it makes me want to go live in a cave somewhere for the next 30 years...
If I manage to get to be an old man, I wonder how I’ll look back on 2011, given I went through a series of bizarre events that usually happen to other people.
But no matter, I emerged in relatively one piece to keep writing the usual crap about things that either annoy me or stop me getting annoyed in a world seemingly designed purely to irritate.
Footballer of the Year
Bit of a tricky one, this, as even though United won the league and made the final of the European Cup, I’m struggling to think of one player who managed consistency across 2011. Rooney upset many with his stupid antics on and off the pitch, Nani has been his usual inconsistent self. Vidic has been crocked for most of the last six months, as has Javier Hernandez, who scored some vital goals in the run-in last season.
So, for lack of a better choice, I’m giving it to Phil Jones, despite the fact he only signed for us in the summer, on the basis that he’s proven so good as to be almost an automatic choice in the first team. He’s made a couple of major clangers, but you can excuse that in a 19 year old, especially one with the confidence to charge upfield with the ball at his feet in a way not seen at Old Trafford since Gordon McQueen.
Album of the Year
Surprisingly, there was more than one album released in 2011 I liked. There were in fact four, which must be a record. Note must also go to the reissue of Nick Lowe’s fab 1979 Labour of Lust album that I've been enjoying recently.
The Pains of Being Pure at Heart stumbled at times with their second album Belong, but overall it was a fine album and I have hopes they’ll knock on and produce something better in the near future.
British Sea Power made another fine album with Valhalla Dancehall, albeit one that treaded water a little bit and did nothing to halt recent sliding returns commercially. Whether they’ll elect to go down weirder paths, as flirted with on their soundtrack to the historic Man of Annan film, they’re still capable of writing excellent songs in both pop and experimental genres.
Half Man Half Biscuit did what they do best once again on 90 Bisodol (Crimond) with songs of tedious daytime TV (Tommy Walsh’s Eco House) and pavement etiquette (L’Enfer C’est Les Autres). Always the same, always different, they should have put statues of the lads up on that spare plinth on Trafalgar Square. Or at least outside Prenton Park somewhere.
The winner, however, is The Coldest Winter For a Hundred Years by the always excellent Wild Swans. A fair old time in the making, it seemed I’d been anticipating it for years and luckily it didn't disappoint. Killer songwriting and brilliant playing all over, especially the kind of guitar chops that I’m glad to hear again. Following their jaunt out being pop stars in South East Asia, I can’t wait to see what Paul Simpson will do next.
Game of the Year
Up until Christmas, this would have been Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim hands down. However, having spent the last week or so hammering through Batman: Arkham City, it’s become a closer run thing. After much consideration (i.e. the time it takes to sup three mouthfuls of coffee and eat a handful of Quality Street sweets) I've gone with Skryim. Though not matching the moments of drama Batman produced, or the voice acting skills (Mark Hamill will always be the Joker to me), its sheer depth and scope has not been seen by me since I played Elite II: Frontier, a game that had the whole galaxy as a playground.
Terry Fuckwit Clone of the Year
It has to be James Murdoch, for his stunning display of ineptitude at the Leveson Inquiry, in which we got the general picture that he didn't have a Scooby about what was going on in the company he was apparently in charge of. Watching, I got the idea that ol’ Rupert was thinking ‘he must get it off his bloody mother’ or something.
The fall of the News of the World, of course, was a major highlight of the year. I expect it’ll be the first of the major papers to go belly up, though the rest will probably fall under the harsh machine gun fire of falling sales and public indifference. The fact that it’s hardly been missed says something about the nation’s reading habits, and not in a good way, but I can console myself that at least one bastion of shite journalism has been dumped onto the slagheap of history.
With that all done, it's in 2012 we go. We can look forward to Mass Effect 3! Which is good! And Manchester City beginning to dominate English football for years to come! Which is crap! And it makes me want to go live in a cave somewhere for the next 30 years...
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