Much like Ibsen’s other portrayal of social malaise and gender-based subjugation; A Doll’s House, Ghosts is a scathing commentary of the antiquated notions that kept women in their place during Ibsen’s 19th century. Ghosts features a mother and widow who fights against society’s preconceptions and bigotries in order to do what is best for her son.
A rainy Monday evening in December seems all-too-appropriate for the staging of Ibsen’s much-maligned play, written now one hundred and thirty years ago in 1881. Staged over two consecutive nights in the Drama Barn, for the meagre sum of £2, this abridged version – directed by Alex Wakelam - lasted a little over one hour; the first of three plays. Freshers’ plays have long carried a certain stigma regarding their stylistic credibility and as such, the cast entertained an audience but a fraction larger than themselves.
Sitting in the front tier, before a sparse, focused set – a settee, two armchairs, a small table and just enough room for tipple – the lack of attendees actually did favours to the atmosphere; for much of the play, I felt that I was in some way part of proceedings. Alex Bryan hobbles onstage as the irreverent Jacob Engstrand, opening in heated argument with daughter Regina (Eliza Shea); the pair appears understandably nervous – Bryan frequently struggles with his raspy, rough-as-sandpaper accent; Shea, whilst believable, appears somewhat erratic in her delivery – in no doubt aided by my relentless scribbling. There is obvious chemistry between the play’s two protagonists; Mrs Alving and her son Oswald are really brought to life by Poppy Bullard and Edd Riley. Riley in particular does wonders with Oswald’s unnerving mannerisms – a painter, sent away to avoid corruption from his misogynous father – his listlessness and violent outbursts frequently dominated the stage. Poppy Bullard’s Mrs Alving is detached and well-voiced; the spare lighting adding a gentle melancholy to her presence, particularly during her speech to Manders (Tom Cocker) towards the close of Act 1.
The underlying problem is that missing dialogue in this abridged version lent to a disjointed interpretation, while easily-remedied upsets in detail often distracted from the performance at hand – Regina’s glittering heels in particular stood out. These gripes aside, this interpretation came across, for the most part, assured and generally well-acted. Turning to bow at a six-person audience must have knocked the casts’ confidence, and I only hope Tuesday night’s performance is strongly attended.
Friday 23 December 2011
Tuesday 29 November 2011
Here and Now - Nickelback
Ten years ago, the name Nickelback was near inescapable, wonderful post-grunge anthems ‘Too Bad’ and the ubiquitous ‘How You Remind Me’ rubbed shoulders with the usual chart-bothering pap as the band began to exert a considerable hold on the youth of the day. On the verge of world domination, the increased commerciality of ‘All the Right Reasons’ saw the band estrange themselves from the fan base they’d worked so hard to win since their inception in ’96.
‘Here and Now’ will no doubt be a success with fans but once again sees them ensconced in the radio-friendliness that continues to alienate their early die-hards and fuel their strongest critics. All the standards we have come to expect are in place on a slightly predictable record, but to the band’s credit there are attempts to diversify, served up with palpable energy. The formulaic nature of this collection can be jarring, but objective of course, I must look at this as a standalone product and shut-out any gripes surrounding past glories.
Lead single ‘When we Stand Together’ oddly recalls Michelle Branch’s perennial pop-rocker ‘Everywhere’, but without her spunk or edginess. While the syncopated beat courtesy of Daniel Adair succeeds in getting the foot tapping but the semi-acoustic arrangement fails to give things the lift it so-badly needs. ‘Midnight Queen’ whilst catch enough - possessing a sensual, snaking guitar riff and some superb wah-wah-drenched soloing - is ultimately disposable, the energy cannot distract from what is essentially an inferior lift of ‘Something in Your Mouth’ from 2008s ‘Dark Horse’. ‘Bottoms Up’ continues in this vein; however in this instance the bite is just as strong as the bark; riff-heavy enough to get the heads shaking. The less said about the lyrics, the better.
Fortunately, Chad can still knock out a hero’s anthem when he puts his mind to it – ‘Lullaby’ reeks of the same cheese as ‘Photograph’, but the gratuitous piano stabs and ‘all-join-in’ chorus wield considerable power here – though the orchestration sounds at times contrived, there is no denying the gem of a song lurking beneath the surface; a sentiment I can echo for ‘Trying Not to Love You’.
When it comes down it, ‘Here and Now’ will remain divisive; a stance which has plagued much of the band’s catalogue. Fans will thoroughly enough much of what is on show here, all of which will be lost on their harshest critics. From where this writer is standing, we have that most frustrating of records – it’s alright, the hooks are there, the sing-along choruses are there, but the layers of gloss mask an emptiness that is hard to ignore with repeated listens. Wash, rinse, and repeat indeed…
Friday 25 November 2011
Sorry for the delay...
Work has been slow this week; the Chris French article will appear tomorrow as promised, but the Harold Budd/Robin Guthrie medley may be postponed until later in the week.
Sorry for the delay
J
Sorry for the delay
J
50 Words for Snow - Kate Bush
While Kate Bush’s ’50 Words for Snow’ is not a Christmas album per se, it certainly is seasonal. Of course, in our commercial-charged world dominated by Justin Biebers and X Factor finalists, this comes as something of a surprise from a songwriter of Bush’s calibre. Thankfully, it is these very idiosyncrasies that have kept her music so interesting across her three-and-a-half-decade career. Her loveable eccentricity comes through on opener Snowflake, something of a companion piece to 1980s ‘December Will Be Magic Again’, featuring the requisite Bush warble and gentle instrumental work from the strings and insistent piano – it is only in the somewhat unnecessary Crosby-esque lyrical nods that sees the track derail; “old St Nicholas up the chimney” indeed.
Recalling previous ‘collaborations’ with Lenny Henry (Red Shoes, 1993) and Rolf Harris (Aerial, 2005), Stephen Fry is invited to take the lead on the title track. Sure enough, his lilting, whispering voice brings life to the fifty synonyms for the white stuff from the dreamy ‘blown from polar fur’ to the frankly daft ‘phlegm de neige’. Elton John, whilst far from being an unexpected guest, certainly makes a surprise entrance on the fine ‘Snowed in at Wheeler Street’ – a song which maps the movements of lost love beautifully without the coy romanticism expected in such arrangements – the pairs’ voices mesh elegantly, producing a genuinely intimate listen. As with previous collections, Bush continues to push the longer pieces, with Misty marking a distinct ‘centre-piece’ for the record. Personally, I feel this would have been better-served later in the track listing as it marks something of a premature crescendo; throwing the listener out of sync with that which it precedes. Having said that, Bush shows her time-tested ability to salvage beauty from absurdity; her voice, now noticeably older, is full of husk and earth. Working with little more than her piano’s sustain pedal, Misty’s amusing plotline – centred around building and falling in love with a snowman – somehow seems less than ridiculous; a feat which few can so surely achieve.
It’s business as usual from the zany, aging starlet and yet the ideas that appear so daft on paper once again emerge as astonishing, engaging music. Essentially we have standard Bush; wild and untamed, extraordinary and unwieldy, not always right, but never ever boring.
Thursday 24 November 2011
Support the Yorker!
Since they're the ones giving me countless opportunities to flex my journalistic muscle, please support them by going to www.theyorker.co.uk/arts
Wednesday 23 November 2011
Seeking Major Tom - William Shatner
“I began to see a connection. Every song made me think about what Major Tom was doing; Major Tom thinks about his wife; thinks about how much she loved him; thinks about what happened when he learned to fly; thinks about the growing storm in his life; thinks about what’s happening now; thinks about going to heaven and questions God; goes to hell and Iron Man; then struck me – maybe I could tell the story of Major Tom…”
James Tiberius Kirk has come a long way since commandeering the Starship Enterprise. That path has been long and winding, arriving now at his fourth solo album. Very much a companion piece to 2004’s favourably reviewed Has Been; this collection sees Shatner develop a more cohesive approach to his song selection. Initially pitched as a ‘sci-fi record’ – a premise rejected off-hand by Shatner himself – the actor-cum-spokesman rehashed the concept, telling the story of Major Tom; a character first featured in David Bowie’s classic ‘Space Oddity’. Aside from a sole original number – the forgettable ‘Struggle’ – what we have here is ‘space-rock’s greatest hits’, set to the croon of that iconic, fragmented voice.
Musically, it really is a ‘who’s who?’ of rock history’s luminaries. The roster literally bursts at the seams, including ex-Purple/Rainbow axe wielder Ritchie Blackmore; Peter Frampton; Sheryl Crow; Zakk Wylde; and legendary funk bassist Bootsy Collins just to name a few. As such, from a purely instrumental perspective the standard is incredibly high.
Opening with Major Tom/Space Oddity, featuring some seriously moving playing from Ritchie Blackmore and Candice Night – the former sensationally digging out his old electric for a much overdue guitar solo – Shatner’s signature drawl veers between a heartfelt baritone and unintentionally amusing ‘dramatic readings’. Things fail to improve through ill-advised pub sing-alongs around U2’s ‘In a Little While’ and Elton John’s classic ‘Rocket Man’, but Pink Floyd’s ‘Learning to Fly’, to this writer’s amazement, actually works. The reverb-drenched vocal lends a makeshift comfort-blanket to Shatner’s delivery, making for some genuinely emotive moments – of course, the addition of synth legend Edgar Froese (Tangerine Dream) helps matters somewhat. For myself however, the calypso-flavoured rendition of Deep Purple’s ‘Space Truckin’’; on what sacred planet would this work? Well, this one actually – though sounding at times either constipated or inebriated, Shatner has a ball, and the relentless beat and Brad Paisley slide solo will have you shaking those hips like a party on the Enterprise.
As for ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’, well, I just can’t find the words. If you do one thing today; search it on your favourite video-share website…
The problem we have is that in our post-Family Guy days, it is remarkably difficult to take Shatner seriously. Whilst all of the songs feature stellar playing without exception – thanks to the talented roster of guests – it is hard not to imagine him reading the lyrics from a crib sheet, brandishing a white handkerchief. Despite this, what we have is a surprisingly listenable record, with moments of brilliance and guilty pleasure.
“MAN! Them cats can really swing!”
Monday 21 November 2011
...and another thing
I will also be posting an old review of Robin Guthrie and Harold Budds' most recent collaboration - 'Bordeaux' - as well as a reflection on the careers of the pair over the last decade.
Coming up this week...
It's been a busy few days but I appear to be back on track with this writing lark. Following an interesting - if a little debunking - talk courtesy of the York Skeptics in the Pub last monday, I have subsequently pieced together a review of the evening, with additional critiques and comments from Prof. Robin Wooffitt from the University of York's Sociology department. The talk, delivered by Goldsmiths' Prof. Chris French, dealt with the inherent skepticism entrenched in paranormal and anomalous experiences; dousing, belief in conspiracy, psychic abilities and mediumship, to name a few.
On a lighter note, I have been bestowed one of life's little luxuries in the form of William Shatner's new album 'Seeking Major Tom'. This review has been painstakingly put together - avoiding comic references to his portrayal in the Simpsons and Family Guy - as a wholly objective piece of journalism.
Okay, so maybe that's a lie; you'll have to decide for yourself...
On a lighter note, I have been bestowed one of life's little luxuries in the form of William Shatner's new album 'Seeking Major Tom'. This review has been painstakingly put together - avoiding comic references to his portrayal in the Simpsons and Family Guy - as a wholly objective piece of journalism.
Okay, so maybe that's a lie; you'll have to decide for yourself...
Clare Wadd - the complete Sarah Records Interview
For those of you who enjoyed my Sarah Records article, here is the complete, unedited interview transcript with founder Clare Wadd.
1. Both you and Matt Haynes were involved with the fanzine scene, Matt also
with Sha-La-La - from the information I have read - but what inspired you
to leap forward into setting up the label?
I guess it was a combination of Matt & I meeting each other & the number of
great bands around we wanted to get involved with. I'd done a Sea Urchins
flexidisc with the last issue of my fanzine, Kvatch, and Sha-la-la had done
a Sea Urchins flexi around the same time, they'd also done an Orchids flexi,
neither band had record deal - and it just seemed so obvious for us to set a
record label up together.
2. Was the promotional side of things (posters, flyers, inserts etc) and
sleeve design entirely down to you and Matt, or were there any
helping-hands?
The bands did get a fair amount of input in the posters and sleeves, and in
the labels on their albums - although the labels on the singles and the
later inserts were all us. Some of the sleeves were completely us - the
Springfields first single was one, and we had a lot of input with Brighter,
for instance - but other bands had very clear ideas about what they wanted.
There weren't any other helping hands though - we were fairly antisocial and
lacking in friends really, and most of the bands weren't Bristol-based so
there wasn't like a gang of people around us helping with stuff, it was
really just the two of us, quite insular really.
3. Obviously the Sea Urchins were 'Sarah 1'. How did you go from there to
the burgeoning roster the catalogue grew into?
Well, we already knew the Orchids, and Harvey had sent "Anorak City" to Matt
in Sha-la-la days, so we had a bit of a list of bands at the outset. But
that said, we had no idea how Sarah 1 would go, so whilst we had dreams of
running a proper label - maybe a series of 10 singles - we really did just
put a record out, and then put another record out, and it grew from there.
I was still at university and Matt was on the dole, so it started as a hobby
and turned into a business. It was very organic, the way it grew - though
we had always intended to stop at 50 rather than 100, but were having too
much fun.
4. My dad said to me that your distinctive sleeve designs 'gave Sarah a
face'. There's certainly a cohesive feel to the catalogue; how did that
style come about?
To be honest it was largely financial! Full colour printing is 4 colours,
which means four printing plates & 4 proofs (same cost regardless of how
many copies you're printing) - whereas if you just use one or two colours,
your costs come down, particularly for small runs. Technology has changed
that to some degree, it's amazing to think what we used to spend on
typesetting for instance... Full colour photos would have been really
expensive for us because of the high quality scans, but now that sort of
thing is much more affordable.
I think what it did though, was make us figure out how to do some very
inventive things within quite strict design constraints - it probably helped
that a lot of the bands were Factory fans, we didn't do much slapping a
photo with a band name above or below. A lot of it sprang from the sort of
design we'd done for fanzines, high contrast photocopies (from photocopying
repeatedly until all the grey disappears etc.) - the technology has moved on
so much it's hard to think we used to have to do manual paste-ups to print
from back then.
5. The label had a rocky relationship with the music press to say the
least; why do you think they had such an attitude towards the label?
Largely because we weren't in London, so they didn't know us, so it wasn't
awkward to have a go at us because they weren't going to have to talk to us
at a gig next day. And it was such a male industry, much more so than now,
and I was an equal partner not the traditional girlfriend who helped out -
I've just been reading the Caitlin Moran book, which really reminded me
about how male it all was. And we were trying to make political and
feminist points with the wrong kind of music, not your typical noisy-punchy
political pop, but understated and gentle pop, and that confused them too.
Of course the journalists who did like us found themselves out on a limb
too, having to defend themselves, you can understand why they might not have
wanted to bother.
6. The fact that so much of the music press made Sarah synonymous with
'twee' still baffles me. Riling against sexism across the press and PR, and
the embracing of capitalism of the industry, do you think that has changed
in the last 25 years?
Me too! I think the label name and my involvement, the fact we,
particularly me, were so young (in retrospect) made it easy to patronise us.
Some people really embraced the "twee" label, but we never did and none of
our bands ever did really (most of them hated it), it always seemed to be
about not wanting to grow up, pretending to be a child, that never appealed
to us - we were interested in the big-wide grown up world, politics, the
rights and wrongs of the world, fighting wrongs and so on. A lot of the
music was quite trebley, not the most plush most expensive recordings, which
made it easy to have a go I guess. I guess we were just never on the
zeitgeist really.
7. I have to ask it: Was there ever a feeling with the more popular bands -
the Field Mice or Brighter, for example - where you thought 'they should be
conquering the world'?
Yes, of course. We thought all of the bands and all of the records we put
out were brilliant, and sometimes it was hard to know why everybody else
didn't think so too - we always wanted to sell as many records as possible,
not to be stuck in some niche.
8. Personally, I would argue that most if not 'big' record labels are just
bankers and PR people, but is there still room for labels in the 21st
century of 'recording in the bedroom'?
I think there is - though what form they will take in the future is hard to
know, and where the overlap will lie between labels and managers is hard to
say too. Bands are becoming more in charge of their own destinies, as the
means of production have moved into their hands rather than needing large
capital input - but I think there will always be a place for some kind of
label, virtual or otherwise, as a marketing device and means of directing
people to new music they might like, and as a sort of musical editor.
9. I have to commend your (and indeed Matt's) integrity in not re-releasing
the catalogue on CD; what are your reasons behind that - was it to preserve
the feelings surrounding those original releases?
A mixture of reasons - we have a real pop aesthetic / sentiment, & endless
reissues & re-runs aren't really a part of that. Things should have their
time and then end, not just be endlessly repeated. & we've never wanted to
do things with the catalogue the bands haven't wanted us to do. That said a
lot of the catalogue is available for download - we were finding other
people we're offering MP3s of it for sale, so we had to act - and there
seemed no good reason to keep it unavailable once Itunes was out there.
But again, economics comes into it - the catalogue is large enough that to
reissue it all on CD & keep it available would be hugely expensive, and we'd
struggle to store it all too.
10. For me, the music released by the Sarah artists is timeless; do you
still listen back to them with the same attachment you had?
Yes, absolutely. It's funny though, it's always so different listening to
our releases than other records - the level of attachment and the emotions
wrapped up in them are so huge. I guess if I'm honest too, as with all
music, some things have sound more "timeless" and have stood the test of
time better than other - and they're not always the things you thought would
at the time. Some things sound very much of their time, others more
contemporary - it's hard to believe we started the label nearly 25 years ago
too.
1. Both you and Matt Haynes were involved with the fanzine scene, Matt also
with Sha-La-La - from the information I have read - but what inspired you
to leap forward into setting up the label?
I guess it was a combination of Matt & I meeting each other & the number of
great bands around we wanted to get involved with. I'd done a Sea Urchins
flexidisc with the last issue of my fanzine, Kvatch, and Sha-la-la had done
a Sea Urchins flexi around the same time, they'd also done an Orchids flexi,
neither band had record deal - and it just seemed so obvious for us to set a
record label up together.
2. Was the promotional side of things (posters, flyers, inserts etc) and
sleeve design entirely down to you and Matt, or were there any
helping-hands?
The bands did get a fair amount of input in the posters and sleeves, and in
the labels on their albums - although the labels on the singles and the
later inserts were all us. Some of the sleeves were completely us - the
Springfields first single was one, and we had a lot of input with Brighter,
for instance - but other bands had very clear ideas about what they wanted.
There weren't any other helping hands though - we were fairly antisocial and
lacking in friends really, and most of the bands weren't Bristol-based so
there wasn't like a gang of people around us helping with stuff, it was
really just the two of us, quite insular really.
3. Obviously the Sea Urchins were 'Sarah 1'. How did you go from there to
the burgeoning roster the catalogue grew into?
Well, we already knew the Orchids, and Harvey had sent "Anorak City" to Matt
in Sha-la-la days, so we had a bit of a list of bands at the outset. But
that said, we had no idea how Sarah 1 would go, so whilst we had dreams of
running a proper label - maybe a series of 10 singles - we really did just
put a record out, and then put another record out, and it grew from there.
I was still at university and Matt was on the dole, so it started as a hobby
and turned into a business. It was very organic, the way it grew - though
we had always intended to stop at 50 rather than 100, but were having too
much fun.
4. My dad said to me that your distinctive sleeve designs 'gave Sarah a
face'. There's certainly a cohesive feel to the catalogue; how did that
style come about?
To be honest it was largely financial! Full colour printing is 4 colours,
which means four printing plates & 4 proofs (same cost regardless of how
many copies you're printing) - whereas if you just use one or two colours,
your costs come down, particularly for small runs. Technology has changed
that to some degree, it's amazing to think what we used to spend on
typesetting for instance... Full colour photos would have been really
expensive for us because of the high quality scans, but now that sort of
thing is much more affordable.
I think what it did though, was make us figure out how to do some very
inventive things within quite strict design constraints - it probably helped
that a lot of the bands were Factory fans, we didn't do much slapping a
photo with a band name above or below. A lot of it sprang from the sort of
design we'd done for fanzines, high contrast photocopies (from photocopying
repeatedly until all the grey disappears etc.) - the technology has moved on
so much it's hard to think we used to have to do manual paste-ups to print
from back then.
5. The label had a rocky relationship with the music press to say the
least; why do you think they had such an attitude towards the label?
Largely because we weren't in London, so they didn't know us, so it wasn't
awkward to have a go at us because they weren't going to have to talk to us
at a gig next day. And it was such a male industry, much more so than now,
and I was an equal partner not the traditional girlfriend who helped out -
I've just been reading the Caitlin Moran book, which really reminded me
about how male it all was. And we were trying to make political and
feminist points with the wrong kind of music, not your typical noisy-punchy
political pop, but understated and gentle pop, and that confused them too.
Of course the journalists who did like us found themselves out on a limb
too, having to defend themselves, you can understand why they might not have
wanted to bother.
6. The fact that so much of the music press made Sarah synonymous with
'twee' still baffles me. Riling against sexism across the press and PR, and
the embracing of capitalism of the industry, do you think that has changed
in the last 25 years?
Me too! I think the label name and my involvement, the fact we,
particularly me, were so young (in retrospect) made it easy to patronise us.
Some people really embraced the "twee" label, but we never did and none of
our bands ever did really (most of them hated it), it always seemed to be
about not wanting to grow up, pretending to be a child, that never appealed
to us - we were interested in the big-wide grown up world, politics, the
rights and wrongs of the world, fighting wrongs and so on. A lot of the
music was quite trebley, not the most plush most expensive recordings, which
made it easy to have a go I guess. I guess we were just never on the
zeitgeist really.
7. I have to ask it: Was there ever a feeling with the more popular bands -
the Field Mice or Brighter, for example - where you thought 'they should be
conquering the world'?
Yes, of course. We thought all of the bands and all of the records we put
out were brilliant, and sometimes it was hard to know why everybody else
didn't think so too - we always wanted to sell as many records as possible,
not to be stuck in some niche.
8. Personally, I would argue that most if not 'big' record labels are just
bankers and PR people, but is there still room for labels in the 21st
century of 'recording in the bedroom'?
I think there is - though what form they will take in the future is hard to
know, and where the overlap will lie between labels and managers is hard to
say too. Bands are becoming more in charge of their own destinies, as the
means of production have moved into their hands rather than needing large
capital input - but I think there will always be a place for some kind of
label, virtual or otherwise, as a marketing device and means of directing
people to new music they might like, and as a sort of musical editor.
9. I have to commend your (and indeed Matt's) integrity in not re-releasing
the catalogue on CD; what are your reasons behind that - was it to preserve
the feelings surrounding those original releases?
A mixture of reasons - we have a real pop aesthetic / sentiment, & endless
reissues & re-runs aren't really a part of that. Things should have their
time and then end, not just be endlessly repeated. & we've never wanted to
do things with the catalogue the bands haven't wanted us to do. That said a
lot of the catalogue is available for download - we were finding other
people we're offering MP3s of it for sale, so we had to act - and there
seemed no good reason to keep it unavailable once Itunes was out there.
But again, economics comes into it - the catalogue is large enough that to
reissue it all on CD & keep it available would be hugely expensive, and we'd
struggle to store it all too.
10. For me, the music released by the Sarah artists is timeless; do you
still listen back to them with the same attachment you had?
Yes, absolutely. It's funny though, it's always so different listening to
our releases than other records - the level of attachment and the emotions
wrapped up in them are so huge. I guess if I'm honest too, as with all
music, some things have sound more "timeless" and have stood the test of
time better than other - and they're not always the things you thought would
at the time. Some things sound very much of their time, others more
contemporary - it's hard to believe we started the label nearly 25 years ago
too.
A word on my article sources...
Hello to everyone out there in cyberspace. Since this whole blogging experience is a new and somewhat baffling experience to me, apologies if some of my posts remain incomplete or obscured in some way; I'm doing my best to rectify any problems and hopefully will get the hang of it soon.
I'd just like to thank everyone who advised me to set this thing up in the first place, and particular to some of the Yorker arts team for coercing me into writing some of these pieces.
If you'd like to have a look at our fabulous publication, please support us by viewing the website here:
http://www.theyorker.co.uk/arts
I'd just like to thank everyone who advised me to set this thing up in the first place, and particular to some of the Yorker arts team for coercing me into writing some of these pieces.
If you'd like to have a look at our fabulous publication, please support us by viewing the website here:
http://www.theyorker.co.uk/arts
Achtung Baby! 20th Anniversary Edition - U2
Though well received by critics and fans alike, there can be no doubt that Achtung Baby's writhing and yelping out of this record marked a dramatic shift in dynamics for the band.
Twenty years on and the collection remains fresh and compelling; the Edge’s fuzzed-as-hell guitars a surprisingly fitting contrast to his signature echo-laden waves, while the rhythm section is better still with Larry Mullen’s laid-back, syncopated beats sitting comfortably within the grooves. Though remastered, I have found little distinguishing this from the 1991 release, however it is louder, and Clayton’s bass is comes through more to fill out the mixes. Perhaps the album’s true weak point is still Bono’s lyrics. For a man of his talent – despite the grating personality – this writer still strives to find meaning in songs such as the catchy ‘The Fly’ or ‘Acrobat’. Fortunately the tunes themselves retain the band's high-standard as craftsmen of perfect pop-rock and as such you quickly forget that what you’re singing along is throwaway. Elsewhere we inevitably arrive at ‘One’, perhaps the bands last great anthem from pre-millennium days – a counter to my lyrical nag, which sees Bono back in the driver’s seat. Call it pretentious, but these signalled the exit of his obsessions with political and social content and, love it or hate it, few have done it better.
So what do you get for your hard-earned? A meagre £12 will buy you the CD deluxe-edition, housed in a gorgeous digipak. Though the booklet adds little new information, a plethora of b-sides, out-takes and unreleased items on the second disc should be enough to whet your appetite. While it is obvious as to why some of these songs have remained in the vaults – ‘Blow Your House Down’ screams mediocrity – there are certainly some worthy curios here. You want more you say? Then the Super Deluxe Edition is for you. This really is a piece of art; a box-set residing in a deep, 12-inch case featuring 6 discs, art prints and a hard-back booklet. You’ll get the album itself, the aforementioned bonus disc and its follow-up ‘Zooropa’, but it is the DVDs that set this collection apart. Here we have excerpts from the world-conquering ‘ZooTV’, the albums video- singles and assorted paraphernalia from the band at the height of their powers. How much? £80 to you, sir!
The Norman Rea Gallery Presents...Still Lives
Launching on Monday the 24th of October and running until next Friday, Still Lives examines a multitude of approaches, creates contrasts and raises questions about what art can really do with nature. Curator Maria-Anna Aristova – third year student of History of Art - remarked ‘Still Lives focuses on the tantalising relationships between art and nature, confronting the ways art endeavours to capture the fleeting beauties or find perfection in the order underlying nature.’
As per usual, I approached this exhibition with my ear buds tucked in, using some ambient music to allow my mind to explore the deeper recesses of what is in front of me. It’s a strange habit I will admit, but a beautiful synergy; one which enhances the experience significantly. Collecting the works of three disparate mediums - ceramics (Alex Carr); driftwood assemblage (Emily Hesse); and photography (Lynn Collins, Alana Lake, Sean Padraic Birnie, Paolo Scalera) – Still Lives nevertheless comes across as a cohesive and fully-realised spectacle.
Though located towards the back of the main gallery, I initially bypass the other works to investigate Emily Hesse’s Box of Memories; a free-standing piece inset with an intricate tapestry of seemingly mundane, inanimate objects which despite their simplicity, capture the dense interwoven catalogue of human experience. This certainly rang true in I may be Square but I’ve been around, which certainly raised a smile in the mind of this sometimes juvenile writer, but frankly I see this as a firm positive. As such, Hesse’s work certainly invites the most curiosity of the collections displayed here.
The ceramics of Alex Carr appear fragile by comparison, but exude charm and elegance. The subtly of his work could easily distract from their obvious complexities; Pod is magnificent – it’s tactile nature urging me to ignore the sign on the door, ‘please do not touch the exhibitions’.
The photographic talents are certainly a mixed bag; Paolo Scalera’s observational simplicities offer stark contrasts to the struggles of everyday existence – the notion of the bottle representing one’s soul fuels opulent juxtapositions to their monochrome backgrounds. Birnie’s preoccupations with ‘beauty in death’ are vividly transcribed in Structural Decay - four withering images bestowing a riot of colour onto arbitrary surroundings – capture his manifesto; photographs are not a stitch in time, rather a chronic reminder of the inaccessibility of the past, a singular entity vanishing into fading memory.
Lynne Collins does a wonderful job of creating intrigue. The former’s ‘Lunatic Asylum’ narrative lending to her schizophrenic pieces; we are transported to an old cathedral, woodland climbs the gothic interiors as the sun streams through the stained glass. It is only Alana Lake whom remains an oddity to me; whilst the glorious, highly-saturated images attract, I failed to comprehend any discernable meaning of my own. Perhaps I shall return again tomorrow and contemplate this some more.
See Still Lives at the Norman Rea Gallery, Langwith Upper JCR.
As per usual, I approached this exhibition with my ear buds tucked in, using some ambient music to allow my mind to explore the deeper recesses of what is in front of me. It’s a strange habit I will admit, but a beautiful synergy; one which enhances the experience significantly. Collecting the works of three disparate mediums - ceramics (Alex Carr); driftwood assemblage (Emily Hesse); and photography (Lynn Collins, Alana Lake, Sean Padraic Birnie, Paolo Scalera) – Still Lives nevertheless comes across as a cohesive and fully-realised spectacle.
Though located towards the back of the main gallery, I initially bypass the other works to investigate Emily Hesse’s Box of Memories; a free-standing piece inset with an intricate tapestry of seemingly mundane, inanimate objects which despite their simplicity, capture the dense interwoven catalogue of human experience. This certainly rang true in I may be Square but I’ve been around, which certainly raised a smile in the mind of this sometimes juvenile writer, but frankly I see this as a firm positive. As such, Hesse’s work certainly invites the most curiosity of the collections displayed here.
The ceramics of Alex Carr appear fragile by comparison, but exude charm and elegance. The subtly of his work could easily distract from their obvious complexities; Pod is magnificent – it’s tactile nature urging me to ignore the sign on the door, ‘please do not touch the exhibitions’.
The photographic talents are certainly a mixed bag; Paolo Scalera’s observational simplicities offer stark contrasts to the struggles of everyday existence – the notion of the bottle representing one’s soul fuels opulent juxtapositions to their monochrome backgrounds. Birnie’s preoccupations with ‘beauty in death’ are vividly transcribed in Structural Decay - four withering images bestowing a riot of colour onto arbitrary surroundings – capture his manifesto; photographs are not a stitch in time, rather a chronic reminder of the inaccessibility of the past, a singular entity vanishing into fading memory.
Lynne Collins does a wonderful job of creating intrigue. The former’s ‘Lunatic Asylum’ narrative lending to her schizophrenic pieces; we are transported to an old cathedral, woodland climbs the gothic interiors as the sun streams through the stained glass. It is only Alana Lake whom remains an oddity to me; whilst the glorious, highly-saturated images attract, I failed to comprehend any discernable meaning of my own. Perhaps I shall return again tomorrow and contemplate this some more.
See Still Lives at the Norman Rea Gallery, Langwith Upper JCR.
Mylo Xyloto - Coldplay
When there is silence in the room following the announcement of a new album release, we certainly aren’t off to the best of starts.
On the one hand, it builds on that previous album's progressive grandeur; a concept album set in a dystopian future with existential themes. Indeed, the instrumental entitled ‘M.M.I.X’, ticks all the relevant prog boxes with its whirring computer samples. Lyrically, many of the pieces deal with entrapment under this oppressive regime; ‘They got one eye watching you, so be careful who you’re talking to’ is the typical panoptical jargon. Hereafter, we find the solution; ‘the kids’ rise up and take over, inspired by the power of rock ‘n’ roll. The problem is that, since we are no longer in the 1970s, the kids appear tired, even awkward. Rush’s ‘2112’ or Queen’s ‘We Will Rock You’ remain master-classes in this medium. As such, those sceptics whom cry plagiarism at the band are given plenty of fuel.
On the other hand the album makes a foray into chart-pop. In a recent interview, singer Chris Martin offered a glimpse of this illumination; ‘we have [chart acts] Justin Bieber and Adele to compete with, they’re much younger and more energetic than we are’. This offers a worrying picture of the thirty-something year-olds in the studio, crafting songs to which they have a wholly superficial connection. Where its predecessor derived from artist Frieda Kahlo, Mylo Xyloto, ‘doesn’t have any other meaning…I think Mylo Xyloto might be an alien’ confesses Martin. The is certainly in keeping with the futuristic concept but in truth, much of the sound is business as usual. Jonny Buckland’s guitars soar, replete with an echo box and reverberator, the choruses will get the crowds chanting in the usual ‘wha-na-na’ manner and Martin’s vocals are at his opulent, sweeping best. I’m pleased that the injection of synthesized keys and bass-samples into songs like ‘Every Teardrop is a Waterfall’ and ‘Paradise’ genuinely enrich and freshen their sound. This new dimension could push the band into new avenues.
What we have then is a band attempting to break away from their tested U2-esque arena balladry. On the punchier songs this works brilliantly, the restrained production allowing the melodies to shine through. However, the flimsy plot and meanderings into ‘comfort-zone’ territory interrupts the flow of what could have been a refreshing new direction for the veterans.
Painting the Chimera - Francis Bacon
The existential attitude – a sense of disorientation or confusion in a seemingly meaningless or absurd world – we’ve all felt it at some point. For Francis Bacon, the second of five children, born in Dublin 28th of October 1909, it fast became a way of life; a catalyst for the twisted imagination of one who gave a visualised England’s bloodiest century. Frequently coming into conflict with his often violent, intolerant, authoritarian father, he and his siblings were essentially raised by Cornish-born nanny Jessie Lightfoot. ‘Nanny Lightfoot’ would play a key role in shaping the young artist in his formative years; leaving home at sixteen, the pair drifted through rented properties until his 1944 breakthrough triptych Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion. Bacon created his own mother within Lightfoot, filling the void left by a lack of a maternal figure in his childhood.
From this age, the young Francis suffered irreconcilable difference over his sexuality, a bewildering yet strangely beneficial position for the young outcast – he found that he could attract men of a certain wealth and prosperity; a position he took full advantage of, allowing himself to ebb to and fro England and the continent. Paris in 1935 saw Bacon come into possession of his two stylistic cornerstones; the medical journal ‘Diseases of the Mouth’, containing high-quality photographs of both open mouths and oral interiors – one which would both obsess and haunt him for the rest of his life; he bore witness to a screening of Eisenstein’s anti-Tsar ‘The Battleship Potemkin’, transfixed in particular by the scene Odessa Staircase - the massacring of civilians on the steps would fuel much of Bacon’s early work.
As the decade drew to a close and Hitler’s armies began to march east, Bacon began to exhibit his work at events such as 1937s Young British Painters at Thomas Agnew & Sons in central London. Four pieces were displayed, including the horrifically disfigured, bare-toothed Abstraction from the Human Form, a precursor to his 1944 triptych. At this time he remained heavily self-critical, drinking, gambling and frequently destroying work when he was unhappy. As Hitler’s death-tolls began to mount the painter continued moving, immersing himself ever-deeper into left-bank, existentialist ideas; his career defining Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion makes its debut here. The work provoked an unnerving reaction from both critics and the public – the jolted, visceral figures graphically depicting Bacon’s ability to illuminate sensation from pain – Apollo magazine’s Herbert Furst exclaimed ‘I was so shocked and disturbed, I was glad to escape…’
Returning to London in 1948, the wake was still impossible to ignore; the press inundated with stories of the depravities of Auschwitz, and mass-murder within the USSR. Francis Bacon encapsulated the grim reality of an era writ with corruption and bloodshed, with few principles to blind him from reality; his series of six Head paintings appeared in quick succession, absorbing the apparent disintegration of humanism. Here he began experiment with dense, thickly painted pieces, using the un-primed side of the canvas to counteract bleed. So why is the Pope shrieking in a glass cabinet, a pale spectre severed to reveal white scar-tissue in his howling jaw? While the Vatican did little in standing up to the Nazis, it would be extreme to portray the Pope himself as a criminal. Instead, he puts religion itself upon the alter; prayer, fear of purgatory, the overbearing need for humanity to be saved, the sanctifying of man’s cruelties – Bacon’s homosexuality damned him - there is nothing there.
The next three decades saw Bacon’s style shift dramatically; away from the baying horrors of his hard-won battles with critics towards portrays of friends and associates. George Dyer, a similarly erratic, borderline alcoholic whom he had met in 1964 became his muse for nearly six years; Bacon’s inner-circle of associates regarded the man as a nuisance - one who was taking their Bacon away from them. Dyer died of an overdose in October 1971.
His asthma, plaguing him for his entire life, had now developed into a chronic respiratory condition. He died of cardiac arrested on 28 April 1992, attempts to revive him failed. His £11 million estate was left to his friend of 18 years, John Edwards.
We return to the present day; a pictorial history of the Second World War rests upon the bookshelf, sometimes I still find myself leafing through when I have a spare five minutes. There remains an overwhelming malevolence in his work, exercising dialectic tension between repulsion and attraction; delivering the darkest headlines of a modern dystopia with eerie charm and gluttonous sensuality. You can see both William Turner and Thomas Gainsborough in Bacon, but he turns their light into darkness, and Turner’s gold into dust.
Bacon’s legacy to mass culture has remained remarkably unfettered; an enigma still generating adulation and bemusement. Love is the Devil - directed by John Maybury and featuring Derek Jacobi as Bacon alongside Daniel Craig as George Dyer – conveyed Bacon’s gilded gutter life in Soho, winning three awards at the Edinburgh International Film Festival. Stretching toward the virtual realm, Masahiro Ito’s surreal monsters from the Silent Hill gaming franchise keep Bacon’s work alive; remaining a mastery of the surreal, the thought-provoking, the horrific, the beautiful…
‘If you want to convey fact, this can only ever be done through a form of distortion. You must distort to transform what is called appearance into image.’ – Francis Bacon.
From this age, the young Francis suffered irreconcilable difference over his sexuality, a bewildering yet strangely beneficial position for the young outcast – he found that he could attract men of a certain wealth and prosperity; a position he took full advantage of, allowing himself to ebb to and fro England and the continent. Paris in 1935 saw Bacon come into possession of his two stylistic cornerstones; the medical journal ‘Diseases of the Mouth’, containing high-quality photographs of both open mouths and oral interiors – one which would both obsess and haunt him for the rest of his life; he bore witness to a screening of Eisenstein’s anti-Tsar ‘The Battleship Potemkin’, transfixed in particular by the scene Odessa Staircase - the massacring of civilians on the steps would fuel much of Bacon’s early work.
As the decade drew to a close and Hitler’s armies began to march east, Bacon began to exhibit his work at events such as 1937s Young British Painters at Thomas Agnew & Sons in central London. Four pieces were displayed, including the horrifically disfigured, bare-toothed Abstraction from the Human Form, a precursor to his 1944 triptych. At this time he remained heavily self-critical, drinking, gambling and frequently destroying work when he was unhappy. As Hitler’s death-tolls began to mount the painter continued moving, immersing himself ever-deeper into left-bank, existentialist ideas; his career defining Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion makes its debut here. The work provoked an unnerving reaction from both critics and the public – the jolted, visceral figures graphically depicting Bacon’s ability to illuminate sensation from pain – Apollo magazine’s Herbert Furst exclaimed ‘I was so shocked and disturbed, I was glad to escape…’
Returning to London in 1948, the wake was still impossible to ignore; the press inundated with stories of the depravities of Auschwitz, and mass-murder within the USSR. Francis Bacon encapsulated the grim reality of an era writ with corruption and bloodshed, with few principles to blind him from reality; his series of six Head paintings appeared in quick succession, absorbing the apparent disintegration of humanism. Here he began experiment with dense, thickly painted pieces, using the un-primed side of the canvas to counteract bleed. So why is the Pope shrieking in a glass cabinet, a pale spectre severed to reveal white scar-tissue in his howling jaw? While the Vatican did little in standing up to the Nazis, it would be extreme to portray the Pope himself as a criminal. Instead, he puts religion itself upon the alter; prayer, fear of purgatory, the overbearing need for humanity to be saved, the sanctifying of man’s cruelties – Bacon’s homosexuality damned him - there is nothing there.
The next three decades saw Bacon’s style shift dramatically; away from the baying horrors of his hard-won battles with critics towards portrays of friends and associates. George Dyer, a similarly erratic, borderline alcoholic whom he had met in 1964 became his muse for nearly six years; Bacon’s inner-circle of associates regarded the man as a nuisance - one who was taking their Bacon away from them. Dyer died of an overdose in October 1971.
His asthma, plaguing him for his entire life, had now developed into a chronic respiratory condition. He died of cardiac arrested on 28 April 1992, attempts to revive him failed. His £11 million estate was left to his friend of 18 years, John Edwards.
We return to the present day; a pictorial history of the Second World War rests upon the bookshelf, sometimes I still find myself leafing through when I have a spare five minutes. There remains an overwhelming malevolence in his work, exercising dialectic tension between repulsion and attraction; delivering the darkest headlines of a modern dystopia with eerie charm and gluttonous sensuality. You can see both William Turner and Thomas Gainsborough in Bacon, but he turns their light into darkness, and Turner’s gold into dust.
Bacon’s legacy to mass culture has remained remarkably unfettered; an enigma still generating adulation and bemusement. Love is the Devil - directed by John Maybury and featuring Derek Jacobi as Bacon alongside Daniel Craig as George Dyer – conveyed Bacon’s gilded gutter life in Soho, winning three awards at the Edinburgh International Film Festival. Stretching toward the virtual realm, Masahiro Ito’s surreal monsters from the Silent Hill gaming franchise keep Bacon’s work alive; remaining a mastery of the surreal, the thought-provoking, the horrific, the beautiful…
‘If you want to convey fact, this can only ever be done through a form of distortion. You must distort to transform what is called appearance into image.’ – Francis Bacon.
A Day for Destroying Things - The Story of Sarah Records
''It’s Bristol, 1987. The Clifton suspension bridge straddles the river Avon, swaying under the weight of cars, pedestrians and bicycles hurtling to-and-fro between the city and neighbouring north-Somerset. Standing at the foot of the bustling roadway in 2011, not a lot has changed – its waters remain unfettered and the rolling breeze makes the estuary silt dance on my tongue as a passer-by thrusts a ‘Great Day in Bristol’ pamphlet into my hand. A grainy old photograph in my pocketbook led me down the road to an old building; it appeared wearisome, decayed with age, but I had arrived. Once a hive of activity, the small basement flat now seems rather lifeless, yet with the summer sun burning through the clouds and a carefully-assembled compilation blaring from my battered Walkman, I was transported back in time.''Sarah’s manifesto was simple – to release one-hundred of the world’s greatest-ever pop records, eclipsing all other labels by ‘doing it properly’ then stop; simple. Co-founders Matt Haynes and Clare Wadd, both of whom had been involved with local fanzines – ‘Sha-La-La’ and ‘Kvatch’, respectively – had already issued flexi-discs for early Sarah stalwarts the Orchids and the Sea Urchins and as such, setting up a label of their own seemed the obvious thing to do. Speaking to Wadd today - kindly answering this writer’s questions in glorious detail – her adoration for the music is very much intact. The blessed naivety of the young couple is humbling: “We had no idea how the first single would go - it started as hobby and turned into a business, I was still at university and Matt was on the dole…we really just put a record out, then put another record out, and it grew from there”.
Musically-speaking, the catalogue’s gentle, understated sound – a combination of 12-string acoustic guitars, swirling chorused sounds and lilting vocals – made Sarah synonymous with ‘twee-pop’. [As a side note, there were those who bucked this trend: The Golden Dawn, for example, were full of loud fuzzy Scottish scruffiness - debut single 'My Secret World' practically bursts with teen angst and Salinger-esque escapism]. “I think the label name…made it easy to patronise us, most of the bands hated it…we were trying to make political and feminist points with the wrong kind of music”. Objectively, it is hard to completely write-off the views of the press - with bands such as Heavenly fuelling the jibes further with near-childlike lyrics in songs such as ‘Cool Guitar Boy’. Journalistic apathy only pushed their DIY ethic further; the cohesive feel to much of the catalogue – largely thanks to innovative, low-budget printing – along with free posters that gave Sarah a face, refused to go away. Wadd explained: “design constraints forced us to be more creative, and most of the bands weren’t Bristol-based which helped to spread the word”.
A pivotal figure in promoting many releases was the wry-humoured, uncompromisingly British John Peel. The much-missed radio mogul championed the label and granted generous airplay – “he [Peel] was incredibly good to us and played almost everything we played, if not everything” says Wadd. Given the belligerence of their approach – “we’d frequently write him [Peel] letters complaining about the rubbish he was playing” – he continued to champion the label in the face of journalistic adversity. Candidly, Wadd describes the labels rocky relationship with the music press: “we weren’t in London so they didn’t know us, so it wasn’t awkward to have a go at us because they weren’t going to see us at a gig the next day”.
By 1995, as Sarah approached its century, the hard work of both the bands and its founders was done. The jigsaws were completed, the last posters sent off, and the release of the ‘There and Back Again Lane’ [Sarah 100] retrospective LP drew the label to an abrupt close.
Whilst Clare – and indeed Matt – have happily answered my questions, reflecting on the past coherently in reams of pure-British whimsy, they are in agreement that calling it a day was the sound choice. Haynes argued that “I don’t think there is place for a label like Sarah, because it’s so much easier for bands to do it themselves”. “Agreed”, says Clare, “I’m at a good age to be at home with the cat…things should have their time and end, the level of attachment and the emotions wrapped up in them are so huge…we would have lost that excitement, that screwed up ‘whatever’ that makes it pop music”.
The Great Escape Artist - Jane's Addiction
'''1991 would prove a fateful year for L.A. art-rockers Jane’s Addiction; marred by the announcement of the band’s dissolution. It didn’t take long for the fans to see the band buckle under their inner-tensions, bearing witness to guitarist Dave Navarro and singer Perry Farrell locking heads and squaring fists during their opening show at Lollapalooza. One could be pressed to argue that this has served as an historical footnote marking these two entities; both now dragged kicking and screaming into the new millennium and still making headlines, even during periods of relative inactivity.'''
At the outset The Great Escape Artist well-and-truly lives up to its on-paper potential; stirring opener ‘Underground’ is a suitably bombastic reintroduction featuring some spellbinding guitar work from Navarro, elevating the band into the stratosphere with compliments to Muse producer Rich Costey. However, following the Avery-directed ‘End to the Lies’, we see this palpable intensity dip considerably – a downward spiral which continues throughout the track listing.
Drummer Stephen Perkins is hereafter resolved to the backseat, rarely given the opportunity to flex his considerable musical muscle; such melodramatic fare as ‘Splash a Little Water on It’ and ‘Twisted Tales’ have him player the mere human metronome, while Costey’s lacquered production lend a clinical chilliness associated more with his previous clients than Farrell and co.’s emotional howl. Only the excellent ‘Broken People’ tears this canvas wide-open, a signature Farrell reverie centred on a departed female protagonist recalling ‘Jane Says’ et al.
So what to make of it all then? For this writer, we are now occupying the most infuriating space in rock’s sonic architecture; should’ve, could’ve, would’ve. As Marlon Brando put it, they ‘coulda been contenders’, but the perfunctory nature of many of the tracks weakens the fiery-tonic of their opening salvos. Farrell’s lyrical dichotomy of ‘we still know how to rock’ and coy sentimentality takes a distanced reflection on his youthful hedonism, and while ‘going through the motions’ is an unfair assessment, it just doesn’t sound from the heart.
PNAU - the rise to fame of Australia's hottest duo
Eccentric, strung-out, sun-drenched electro kings from down-under. They’re best friends with Ladyhawke, protégés to Elton John, and have worked with more artists than you could fit in an aircraft hangar. But you’ve not heard of them, have you…?
Over the last decade, the PNAU boys have not been easy to ignore in their native Australia; winning themselves an ARIA award for their debut album Sambanova, achieving universal acclaim for their self-titled 2008 release, multiple chart-topping singles and near-world domination with their breakthrough side-project Empire of the Sun. Formed in Sydney by Nick Littlemore (vocals, samples) and Peter Mayes (guitar, samples), the pair began writing ‘doof-doof’ acid-jazz with minimal resources, starving themselves at lunchtimes to cover equipment costs. Their debut - wholly self-financed and recorded ‘in the bedroom’ – unexpectedly snowballed, chalking up nothing less than an ARIA award for ‘Best Dance Release’ and made Mayes and Littlemore critics’ darlings; Sambanova’s seamless blend of acid-house, electro and sunkissed Mediterranean grooves saw the band ascend skyward into a land they could truly call their own. Our heroes were set to go astral and nothing could stop them…until disaster struck: just a week after release, the record was pulled from the shelves following a lawsuit citing illegally-used samples. But before you shake your head and turn over, the sheer naiveté of our boys will surely win you round – in a 2003 interview with Australian broadsheet The Age, Mayes confessed that they had no clear understanding of sample clearances - bless their little cottons!While the star began to shine onstage, in the studio the band struggled to weld songs together in a coherent manner. 2003’s Again was a commercial flop and disappointed both critics and the band’s hard-won fanbase. Despite containing some interesting material – ‘Super Giants’ being the most accessible, containing a Peter Mayes guitar riff cooler than a whiskey chaser and some sensual, incidental female vocals – the album was essentially a sketchbook of unfinished experiments and ideas. Nick Littlemore was particularly vocal surrounding the albums failure: "It’s the worst record I’ve ever written". With that, the pair parted ways, working with internationally recognised artists including Robbie Williams, Groove Armada and Lost Valentinos.
Jolted back into life in 2007 by popular demand and the realisation that this is what they do, the duo wrote prolifically and began laying the foundations for their comeback. One backing track, titled ‘With You Forever’ was sent to long-time friend and collaborator Luke Steele (Sleepy Jackson/Empire of the Sun). Singing the melody to Littlemore down the telephone from his home in Perth, Steele’s efforts left the boys dumbfounded. They immediately scrapped all other tracks to focus on a more vocally-centred album. Taking the mic himself, Littlemore got out his phonebook and called upon his friends to help knock the record into shape. Surfacing in January, the self-titled album broke the band back into the Australian mainstream with Nick, Peter and the band coming out all-guns-blazing on the world-conquering WE ARE BACK tour. Singles spiralled into the charts from all directions; ‘With You Forever’, the thudding, loony-bin boogie of ‘Wild Strawberries’ and the epic ‘Embrace’ - the centrepiece of the band’s live set, featuring a soaring vocal from one Pip Brown a.k.a. Ladyhawke. Their technicolour dreamscape sold well, a critical smash that caught the attention of none other than Elton John, declaring it to be "the greatest record I’d heard in ten years".
For Nick and Peter, the world was their oyster. Empire of the Sun took home four ARIA awards in 2009, and Nick indulged a lifelong ambition of becoming Musical Director for Cirque du Soleil. So we come full circle, and with the imminent release of PNAU’s fourth album Soft Universe in the summer the future looks bright. Working closely with Elton, this could well be their by-line to international superstardom – new single ‘The Truth’ is a telling sampler of their new direction; listen for yourself and see what the fuss is all about.
The Sun Also Rises - Ernest Hemingway
Paris in the 1920s; Pernod, parties and expatriate Americans, it’s loose-living on money from home.
Celebrating its 85th birthday this year, The Sun Also Rises - Hemingway’s first published novel – still sits firmly on its pedestal as his finest work. The tightly-written prose for which Hemingway is famous solidified across this tragic story of yearning. I don’t mean tragic in a typified Shakespearian manner, of course; rather, as the story unfolds, we see a hopeless romantic, tormented and all-to-distant from a woman he cannot help but fall for.Narrated by Jake Barnes - an American journalist – he breathes life into his characters with pages left unsaid, delivering wonderfully interpersonal accounts in a bewildering, enchanting landscape.
So where are we…?
We’re sat on a veranda, sipping Pernod over ice, Jake is musing over his friend Robert Cohn; I recoil at the rampant anti-Semitism this man has endured and nod in admiration as he threw himself into boxing to combat those repressive feelings of inferiority. Cohn’s whimsical tales of bad luck and manipulation somewhat mirror that of our fateful protagonist; a veteran of the First World War, settled in to work as a journalist. Soon we are at a dance club; the streets are playing their tunes. Hemingway puts on a record and we’re strolling down Parisian walkways on a magical night; Barnes is at my side, looking very dapper, a big loveable grin across his face. I am introduced to Lady Brett Ashley, a divorced socialite and the love of Jake’s life – so an aching tragedy begins, and while Ashley’s love for Barnes is strong, her selfishness draws a veil over their relationship.
Time apart leads Jake to Pamplona, Spain, and so we see the real Ernest Hemingway begin to unravel. Barnes immerses himself in a world of drinking, dancing and debauchery; the bullfight takes centre stage during the Fiesta – Hemingway had become fascinated with the bullring; seeing in it the juxtaposition of a cruel beauty against the brutality of war. His sparse prose sends a fantastical scenario spiralling into a stark reality; a brutal reminder of how cruel the world can be – Lady Ashley asking Jake to help her pursue another man. We close the curtain on the pair in the back of a taxi, riding through the Spanish capital, reminiscing of what the wonderful life that could have been. ‘Yes, isn’t it pretty to think so?’
Hindered all too long by well-worn criticism surrounding his lack of description and emotional delicacies, this nonetheless remains a terrific novel, perhaps not a classic, but a fearless commentary on a blemished post-war flapper culture. Hemingway’s writing acts as a foundation on which one’s imagination can construct a diverse cast of characters. Flawed, maybe; memorable, definitely.
Gregg Allman - Low Country Blues
With another decade behind them, the blue-eyed revivalists of the 60s have steadfast become old bluesmen themselves. Seemingly a rite-of-passage to immortalise their idols in the shape of what could cynically be passed off as ‘another cover album’, Low Country Blues – Gregg Allman’s first solo release in 14 years – is nevertheless a masterful lesson of the idiom.
No doubt best remembered for his string of albums with The Allman Brothers Band in the 1970s, fans of the group’s bluesy, melodic rock will have to readjust their ears for this swaying country-blues sortie. Gregg’s wonderful Hammond organ playing has not faltered; a fact which belies his rock ‘n’ roll wear and tear, six marriages and a liver transplant. While his vocals sound at times a little thin, exposed through T-Bone Burnett’s austere, ‘antique’ production, the raw passion of that blues-growl sit comfortably on darker standards like Skip James’ ‘Devil Got My Woman’.
Low Country Blues is too entertainingly diverse, though, to submit to embrace of one all-encompassing style. Jetting in 60s and 70s legends BB King and Otis Rush, the brass band and lead guitar on ‘Please Accept My Love’ and ‘Checking on My Baby’ are both faithful renditions, while ‘Blind Man’'s big-band swing is a proud nod to the finest hours of Bobby Bland. These are all, of course, the crème de la crème of blues howlers, but Allman holds his own throughout, soaring above his band’s vibrant ensemble playing.
Closing with an extended jam around Muddy Waters’ ‘Rolling Stone’, all whiskey-soaked barstool clatter and slide guitar, our trip across the Mississippi delta is over…fortunately, the Gods of the CD player created ‘the repeat button’. While it would be easy to cast this off as irrelevant in an age of iPods, checked shirts and alco-pops, the sheer passion with which it is delivered is a faithful reminder that once upon a time, the music mattered above all else.
No doubt best remembered for his string of albums with The Allman Brothers Band in the 1970s, fans of the group’s bluesy, melodic rock will have to readjust their ears for this swaying country-blues sortie. Gregg’s wonderful Hammond organ playing has not faltered; a fact which belies his rock ‘n’ roll wear and tear, six marriages and a liver transplant. While his vocals sound at times a little thin, exposed through T-Bone Burnett’s austere, ‘antique’ production, the raw passion of that blues-growl sit comfortably on darker standards like Skip James’ ‘Devil Got My Woman’.
Low Country Blues is too entertainingly diverse, though, to submit to embrace of one all-encompassing style. Jetting in 60s and 70s legends BB King and Otis Rush, the brass band and lead guitar on ‘Please Accept My Love’ and ‘Checking on My Baby’ are both faithful renditions, while ‘Blind Man’'s big-band swing is a proud nod to the finest hours of Bobby Bland. These are all, of course, the crème de la crème of blues howlers, but Allman holds his own throughout, soaring above his band’s vibrant ensemble playing.
Closing with an extended jam around Muddy Waters’ ‘Rolling Stone’, all whiskey-soaked barstool clatter and slide guitar, our trip across the Mississippi delta is over…fortunately, the Gods of the CD player created ‘the repeat button’. While it would be easy to cast this off as irrelevant in an age of iPods, checked shirts and alco-pops, the sheer passion with which it is delivered is a faithful reminder that once upon a time, the music mattered above all else.
On the Road - Jack Kerouac
This – my first encounter with Jack – was an unforgettable occasion; he bought me whiskey and got me drunk on anticipation, we danced to the swinging backbeat of the city limits, swum the furrows of every last rolling hillside, and he laid next to me beneath a ceiling of stars and taught me how to dream.
One of the founding fathers of the American post-war ‘beat generation’, Kerouac, like his friends and collaborators Allen Ginsberg and William Burroughs both documented and inspired. Forging a template of sexual experimentation, a rejection of materialism, and the idealising of exuberant and unexpurgated means of expression; the late 1950s and early 1960s were a rife with writings of spontaneous creativity beneath the all-seeing eye of a dawning sun in peach and apricot.
Arguably his strongest and certainly most widely-recognised novel, On the Road sees his stream-of-consciousness, spontaneous prose fully realised. Essentially an autobiographical road-movie documenting his travels across 50s America, Jack scrawled candid, unfolding visions inside notebooks, across papers and shaped them in his mind; he wrote in bus depots, ships, bars, cars and with whomever could accommodate him during his on-going quest for belonging.
Incorporating a burgeoning roster of his friends – whom for publishing reasons, were given aliases – the catalyst for much of the plot was a letter he received from fellow visionary Neal Cassady (alias Dean Mariarty). Narrated by Jack’s alias Sal Paradise, his fascination with humanity led him - and his eclectic group of friends – across the continent with no more than fifty dollars in his pocket. I would listen with intent as he told me his stories; the jazz scene in Chicago that kicked around the street-lit puddles, being a night watchman in that infernal boarding camp for merchant sailors, drinking on the job, how the most mundane of settings are transformed through love for a young girl, sitting with her as the sun sunk into the vast purple hills and the glorious freedom of Dean Mariarty – ‘son of a wino’.
As I leaf through Jack’s photo album, every corner is covered, every room explored. I drew tears across the page as he became more and more estranged and dissatisfied with what he found on the road. When the sun began to set, and the gently lapping waves began to tug at the land’s hem, he reminisced upon all that had passed before him:
‘Nobody knows what’s going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old’. That certainly hasn’t stopped me from trying to find the answer.
Thank you, Jack.
One of the founding fathers of the American post-war ‘beat generation’, Kerouac, like his friends and collaborators Allen Ginsberg and William Burroughs both documented and inspired. Forging a template of sexual experimentation, a rejection of materialism, and the idealising of exuberant and unexpurgated means of expression; the late 1950s and early 1960s were a rife with writings of spontaneous creativity beneath the all-seeing eye of a dawning sun in peach and apricot.
Arguably his strongest and certainly most widely-recognised novel, On the Road sees his stream-of-consciousness, spontaneous prose fully realised. Essentially an autobiographical road-movie documenting his travels across 50s America, Jack scrawled candid, unfolding visions inside notebooks, across papers and shaped them in his mind; he wrote in bus depots, ships, bars, cars and with whomever could accommodate him during his on-going quest for belonging.
Incorporating a burgeoning roster of his friends – whom for publishing reasons, were given aliases – the catalyst for much of the plot was a letter he received from fellow visionary Neal Cassady (alias Dean Mariarty). Narrated by Jack’s alias Sal Paradise, his fascination with humanity led him - and his eclectic group of friends – across the continent with no more than fifty dollars in his pocket. I would listen with intent as he told me his stories; the jazz scene in Chicago that kicked around the street-lit puddles, being a night watchman in that infernal boarding camp for merchant sailors, drinking on the job, how the most mundane of settings are transformed through love for a young girl, sitting with her as the sun sunk into the vast purple hills and the glorious freedom of Dean Mariarty – ‘son of a wino’.
As I leaf through Jack’s photo album, every corner is covered, every room explored. I drew tears across the page as he became more and more estranged and dissatisfied with what he found on the road. When the sun began to set, and the gently lapping waves began to tug at the land’s hem, he reminisced upon all that had passed before him:
‘Nobody knows what’s going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old’. That certainly hasn’t stopped me from trying to find the answer.
Thank you, Jack.
Centrelight - a poem for my parents
Today I sent myself meandering down some sunlit path
Yesterday’s raindrops still glistening on the wallowing emerald canopies
While the weeping beech shed her toffee-apple tears, I glanced at the clean white sleeves beneath my tired overcoat and the symmetry pleased me
+++
From the heavens came a strange woman
Wielding a syrupy basket of light, beckoning me forth from my imagined split-second of existence into a place she called ‘belonging’.
She had with her a young boy, who embraced me without hesitation
+++
I’d taken a job in the continuity department, you see
Day after day I would watch as my superiors pieced together my ambitions
One, two, and three
Wheeling them from assembly into the sanitised world of the office cubicle; I never quite forgave them for that…
+++
I spent the next four eternities picking grapes in some lonely old vineyard
Everyday I would walk with the young boy, buying groceries from a vagabond going by the name of ‘Sal Paradise’
He showed me how to shell peas
The boy watched beaming as I ran my thumbnail down the centre, splitting the atom as five glorious orbs fell into the wooden pale below
+++
Later,
The night air tinkled with the copper-wound clatter of acoustic guitars as she fell asleep on my shoulder, the dewy melon hills rose like Olympus beneath the bursting crush of the sky
+++
I felt happy with my new life, and while I longed to run once more through that infernal railway station to the embrace of my mother and father
For all which now rests in fading memory
I’d never felt elation either
+++
Tonight I find myself sat again
In the big, old, leather chair on her veranda
Gazing in wonderment
Beneath the candle-lit ceiling of stars
In this instance I remember thinking
‘this is but some borrowed occurrence in a feature-length episode of one well-worn tale of otherness’
Reclining idle I recalled something Jack once said to me: ‘all beings are dream beings. Dreaming is that which ties all mankind together’
And as my troubles exploded like fireflies towards the centrelight
Removing all traces of that which is cynically called reality
I looked slightly out of focus as I gazed at the man I had become
Yesterday’s raindrops still glistening on the wallowing emerald canopies
While the weeping beech shed her toffee-apple tears, I glanced at the clean white sleeves beneath my tired overcoat and the symmetry pleased me
+++
From the heavens came a strange woman
Wielding a syrupy basket of light, beckoning me forth from my imagined split-second of existence into a place she called ‘belonging’.
She had with her a young boy, who embraced me without hesitation
+++
I’d taken a job in the continuity department, you see
Day after day I would watch as my superiors pieced together my ambitions
One, two, and three
Wheeling them from assembly into the sanitised world of the office cubicle; I never quite forgave them for that…
+++
I spent the next four eternities picking grapes in some lonely old vineyard
Everyday I would walk with the young boy, buying groceries from a vagabond going by the name of ‘Sal Paradise’
He showed me how to shell peas
The boy watched beaming as I ran my thumbnail down the centre, splitting the atom as five glorious orbs fell into the wooden pale below
+++
Later,
The night air tinkled with the copper-wound clatter of acoustic guitars as she fell asleep on my shoulder, the dewy melon hills rose like Olympus beneath the bursting crush of the sky
+++
I felt happy with my new life, and while I longed to run once more through that infernal railway station to the embrace of my mother and father
For all which now rests in fading memory
I’d never felt elation either
+++
Tonight I find myself sat again
In the big, old, leather chair on her veranda
Gazing in wonderment
Beneath the candle-lit ceiling of stars
In this instance I remember thinking
‘this is but some borrowed occurrence in a feature-length episode of one well-worn tale of otherness’
Reclining idle I recalled something Jack once said to me: ‘all beings are dream beings. Dreaming is that which ties all mankind together’
And as my troubles exploded like fireflies towards the centrelight
Removing all traces of that which is cynically called reality
I looked slightly out of focus as I gazed at the man I had become
Feeder - The Stage, Leeds Metropolitan University
I could almost feel the silver in my hair as I reminisced about my first Feeder purchase as a cherub-faced 7 year old; saving my not-so-hard-earned pocket money to buy their magical, grungy debut ‘Polythene’ and being called ‘little dude’ by the shop assistant.
Back then, our boys sported long hair, loud clothes and peddled a much heavier, Kerrang-worshipping sound. But that was a long time ago.
As a fan of fourteen years, I naturally walked into this gig with astronomical expectations – though my self-professed fandom may on the surface inhibit my words, I am never shy to admit when a gig is, to be frank, a big pile of brown smelly stuff.
Tonight, Feeder managed to avoid stepping in any. A stage full of smiles saw two surviving original members Grant Nicholas and Taka Hirose take the band through a live jukebox of their greatest hits, interspersed with tracks from their latest offering; ‘Renegades’. New songs such as ‘Call Out’ and the rallying call of the title track bleed seamlessly amongst old school rockers ‘Insomnia’ and the inevitable ubiquity of ‘Buck Rogers’.
Drummer Karl Brazil was solid and thunderous throughout; all symbol splashes and some roaring melodrama on the tom-toms as if channelling the spirit of the late and greatly missed Jon Lee.
The long-forgotten favourite ‘Yesterday Went Too Soon’ marked a welcome return to the set, and for a moment, had this writer bleeding tears from his eyes.
‘Pushing the Senses’ and ‘Feeling a Moment’ fired the band, and indeed the venue, into interstellar overdrive, soaring across astral planes and inducing the kind of euphoria brought on only by copious amounts of ‘special brew’.
The double-whammy encore of ‘Seven Days In the Sun’ and ‘Just a Day’ brought the evening to a rousing, ear-splitting close, having purchased my obligatory t-shirt on my way out, I spent the train journey home in a pie-eyed daze.
My only grumble had to be at the lack of any early material – we’re talking ‘Swim’ and ‘Polythene’ era here – but since they’d recently indulged these on their recent ‘back to the clubs’ tour, I can forgive them for that.
Back then, our boys sported long hair, loud clothes and peddled a much heavier, Kerrang-worshipping sound. But that was a long time ago.
As a fan of fourteen years, I naturally walked into this gig with astronomical expectations – though my self-professed fandom may on the surface inhibit my words, I am never shy to admit when a gig is, to be frank, a big pile of brown smelly stuff.
Tonight, Feeder managed to avoid stepping in any. A stage full of smiles saw two surviving original members Grant Nicholas and Taka Hirose take the band through a live jukebox of their greatest hits, interspersed with tracks from their latest offering; ‘Renegades’. New songs such as ‘Call Out’ and the rallying call of the title track bleed seamlessly amongst old school rockers ‘Insomnia’ and the inevitable ubiquity of ‘Buck Rogers’.
Drummer Karl Brazil was solid and thunderous throughout; all symbol splashes and some roaring melodrama on the tom-toms as if channelling the spirit of the late and greatly missed Jon Lee.
The long-forgotten favourite ‘Yesterday Went Too Soon’ marked a welcome return to the set, and for a moment, had this writer bleeding tears from his eyes.
‘Pushing the Senses’ and ‘Feeling a Moment’ fired the band, and indeed the venue, into interstellar overdrive, soaring across astral planes and inducing the kind of euphoria brought on only by copious amounts of ‘special brew’.
The double-whammy encore of ‘Seven Days In the Sun’ and ‘Just a Day’ brought the evening to a rousing, ear-splitting close, having purchased my obligatory t-shirt on my way out, I spent the train journey home in a pie-eyed daze.
My only grumble had to be at the lack of any early material – we’re talking ‘Swim’ and ‘Polythene’ era here – but since they’d recently indulged these on their recent ‘back to the clubs’ tour, I can forgive them for that.
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