In New York:
Fine Cocktails
Travelling many miles without thinking about it
Silver trains
Enormous opportunity
Almost unfathomable anonymity
Slightly warm tap water
Extremes of temperature
Being six inches above the ground
Wood floors
Mastiffs
In London
Quiet
Peace indicated by my actions
Cupboards of booze
Vintage kitchens, old toilets.
Ancient things
Carpet
Wooden Windows
Toberlone
Saturday, 20 March 2010
Wednesday, 5 November 2008
Rhino Hide and the US Election
The best blogging is like the sushi of the web – compact, neat, easily digestible and not to everyone’s taste! The worst blogging is the pitiful navel gazing and self-referential rubbish that makes up most of the blogosphere. Bad writing makes me want to scoop out my eyeballs with a broken plastic spoon. Some people are as suited to writing as rhinoceroses are to playing the piccolo.
The musically inclined amongst you will be pleased to know that I purchased my piccolo a few weeks ago, and am still trying to get the notes right –but my horn gets in the way.
Last night I watched the election with a large group of friends. I still am not quite able to believe that America actually did the right thing and elected Senator Obama. It's a fabulous revelation; and from my point of view most unexpected. A lot of people remarked last night that this was the first time they felt engaged with politcs and that Senator Obama (now President-elect) could do great things.
I'm reminded of the elation across the UK upon the election of Tony Blair after the hideous Conservative government in the 1980s. I only hope Mr Obama repeats the successes of Mr Blair and avoids the pitfalls he encountered.
The musically inclined amongst you will be pleased to know that I purchased my piccolo a few weeks ago, and am still trying to get the notes right –but my horn gets in the way.
Last night I watched the election with a large group of friends. I still am not quite able to believe that America actually did the right thing and elected Senator Obama. It's a fabulous revelation; and from my point of view most unexpected. A lot of people remarked last night that this was the first time they felt engaged with politcs and that Senator Obama (now President-elect) could do great things.
I'm reminded of the elation across the UK upon the election of Tony Blair after the hideous Conservative government in the 1980s. I only hope Mr Obama repeats the successes of Mr Blair and avoids the pitfalls he encountered.
Sunday, 10 August 2008
Musically bereft
Blogging. Why do we do it? I started two years ago and, lets be frank, it's got the better of me. Not that I neglect my blog, just that I don't share all of the profundity with it that perhaps I should; And so, to sate the gentle nagging at the back of my mind like an irritated girlfriend dragged against her will into a Computer Games shop, Ladies and Gentlemen, allow me to pour you another dose of Gin and Tea (but not at the same time).
With my musical senses somewhat dulled by the recent closure of Fopp (and no planned visits to Mondo Kims for a while) I have felt at a bit of a musical loose end. The ever fruitful soma.fm does its best to keep me abreast of the American Indie Scene, the fabulous Elise Nordling pouring her heart and soul into bringing the very best new sounds to the ears of Netziens through her station Indie Pop Rocks. Soma fm aside, my recent discoveries have been somewhat disappointing - the new Fourtet, Hotchip and Erland Oye have been satisfactory, but failed to really thrill me, and the new Mates of State and Velvetier albums also pulled up somewhat short.
I find myself increasingly turning to the American indie scene as for the first time since Grunge I am finding them to be more innovative and interesting to listen to than English bands. The current post-Libertines crop of Indie bands fails to do it for me, and there are only so many Arctic Monkeys clones a man can endure. Full marks to the Americans and their excellent output at the moment.
What's cooking your musical book right now? Your musical comments and suggestions will be warmly entertained in the comments field below.
With my musical senses somewhat dulled by the recent closure of Fopp (and no planned visits to Mondo Kims for a while) I have felt at a bit of a musical loose end. The ever fruitful soma.fm does its best to keep me abreast of the American Indie Scene, the fabulous Elise Nordling pouring her heart and soul into bringing the very best new sounds to the ears of Netziens through her station Indie Pop Rocks. Soma fm aside, my recent discoveries have been somewhat disappointing - the new Fourtet, Hotchip and Erland Oye have been satisfactory, but failed to really thrill me, and the new Mates of State and Velvetier albums also pulled up somewhat short.
I find myself increasingly turning to the American indie scene as for the first time since Grunge I am finding them to be more innovative and interesting to listen to than English bands. The current post-Libertines crop of Indie bands fails to do it for me, and there are only so many Arctic Monkeys clones a man can endure. Full marks to the Americans and their excellent output at the moment.
What's cooking your musical book right now? Your musical comments and suggestions will be warmly entertained in the comments field below.
Wednesday, 18 June 2008
It's the end of the world as we know it?
In the late, balmy spring of 1994 I went to see The Godfather of Soul - the magnificent James Brown at London's venerable Brixton Academy.
James was "on" that night – the audience felt the air pulsating with his trademark yelps, his hollering and whooping. We fixated upon the great sparkling blue brilliantine sequin-covered banshee, skidding and thrashing, stabbing, spitting and waxing his way through his gritty brand of elastic, energetic and raucous classic funk; Leaping, kicking - spinning on the spot, great globs of sweat dripping from his head, lubricating his lightning passage across the stage. The Sex Machine himself demonstrated the art of the showman in its most pure (and utterly enthralling) form.
Brixton Academy is an ageing concert call from the early 20th century in a depressed and self consciously shabby part of South London. With a capacity of around 4000 the Academy is a favorite amongst local and international bands on UK tours. Its black painted floors are sticky with booze spilled in mid-gig ecstacy by generations of gig-goers. The curious stage surround (for a long time painted a delicate shade of salmon pink) is dotted with alcoves and white statues with cracking and peeling paint. But that night no amount of cracking paint could have distracted band nor audience - JB had assembled a finely rehearsed group - tighter than David Lee Roth's spandex trousers, trilling and crashing through their numbers, creating the kind of rare electricity at a gig that you don't witness very often in life. A man in front of me was rolling joints and handing them out amongst members of the audience, whiskey was £2 a shot in a plastic cup. No matter if you sat, stood or danced you could not help but think you were witnessing a master, dedicated to his craft at the top of his game.
Last Saturday I went to see REM play at the Jones Beach Theatre in Long Island, New York and that James Brown gig was immediately called to mind – but for all the wrong reasons.
Gig-goers have long been exposed to restrictions. Contraband forbidden from venues all around the world includes “professional” Cameras, Video & Tape Recorders. “No Glass Bottles” is common sense – no complaints there. These restrictions are inconvenient but mostly reasonable, and the ticket stub informed us well in advance.
Outside Jones Beach theatre however, we saw signs proclaiming further restrictions – No smoking (this is an outdoor venue!) and at the request of the band “No water” – No Water? No. None. Not even in a factory sealed plastic bottle. (We later discovered that the water fountains inside the venue had been disconnected). “Buy our Five Dollar Water, bitches!” one of my friends acidly remarked. REM apparently wants you to pay up or go thirsty.
Once inside the venue however I was struck quite dumb. Not only was there no alcohol for sale anywhere, but in place of the bars and areas that concert go-ers would normally congregate, laugh and chatter there were anodyne “lounges” sponsored by corporations. Garish plastic rugs emblazoned with logos and seating sponsored by Washington Mutual Bank, Pepsi and the like spotting the venue.
This did not feel like a gig. It felt like a bizarre trade show. Wait a moment; I paid to be here?
Mobile phone companies hawked plastic versions of their latest products under glass; Nikon’s offering was the most absurd - A bright yellow fake “stage” upon which members of the public were invited to pose with a few battered instruments and have their photograph taken by a bored Nikon rep– in a feeble ruse to link the brand with the music –( O the irony - this at a venue expressly forbidding many of the kinds of cameras that Nikon sell).
Polished, impossibly clean Cadillac demonstration cars sat on red carpets, with besuited salespeople onhand, no doubt to highlight the various features of the satellite navigation system and reclining heated headrest water bottle holder seatbelts.
The concept of going to an REM gig and coming home having purchased a car is quite perverse, utterly contrary to the spirit of rock and roll.
I have trained myself to avoid advertising wherever possible in the media that I consume. Offline, online, on television and elsewhere I’ve become adept at mentally erasing the messages that are broadcasted to me – when advertising becomes really offensive is when it replaces what was formerly there – in this case the bars and happy crowds of gig-goers discussing the music, standing around with a beer and nodding their heads in anticipation or appreciation of a great gig.
The live experience was mutilated and neutered at Jones Beach.
Long live Rock and Roll.
James was "on" that night – the audience felt the air pulsating with his trademark yelps, his hollering and whooping. We fixated upon the great sparkling blue brilliantine sequin-covered banshee, skidding and thrashing, stabbing, spitting and waxing his way through his gritty brand of elastic, energetic and raucous classic funk; Leaping, kicking - spinning on the spot, great globs of sweat dripping from his head, lubricating his lightning passage across the stage. The Sex Machine himself demonstrated the art of the showman in its most pure (and utterly enthralling) form.
Brixton Academy is an ageing concert call from the early 20th century in a depressed and self consciously shabby part of South London. With a capacity of around 4000 the Academy is a favorite amongst local and international bands on UK tours. Its black painted floors are sticky with booze spilled in mid-gig ecstacy by generations of gig-goers. The curious stage surround (for a long time painted a delicate shade of salmon pink) is dotted with alcoves and white statues with cracking and peeling paint. But that night no amount of cracking paint could have distracted band nor audience - JB had assembled a finely rehearsed group - tighter than David Lee Roth's spandex trousers, trilling and crashing through their numbers, creating the kind of rare electricity at a gig that you don't witness very often in life. A man in front of me was rolling joints and handing them out amongst members of the audience, whiskey was £2 a shot in a plastic cup. No matter if you sat, stood or danced you could not help but think you were witnessing a master, dedicated to his craft at the top of his game.
Last Saturday I went to see REM play at the Jones Beach Theatre in Long Island, New York and that James Brown gig was immediately called to mind – but for all the wrong reasons.
Gig-goers have long been exposed to restrictions. Contraband forbidden from venues all around the world includes “professional” Cameras, Video & Tape Recorders. “No Glass Bottles” is common sense – no complaints there. These restrictions are inconvenient but mostly reasonable, and the ticket stub informed us well in advance.
Outside Jones Beach theatre however, we saw signs proclaiming further restrictions – No smoking (this is an outdoor venue!) and at the request of the band “No water” – No Water? No. None. Not even in a factory sealed plastic bottle. (We later discovered that the water fountains inside the venue had been disconnected). “Buy our Five Dollar Water, bitches!” one of my friends acidly remarked. REM apparently wants you to pay up or go thirsty.
Once inside the venue however I was struck quite dumb. Not only was there no alcohol for sale anywhere, but in place of the bars and areas that concert go-ers would normally congregate, laugh and chatter there were anodyne “lounges” sponsored by corporations. Garish plastic rugs emblazoned with logos and seating sponsored by Washington Mutual Bank, Pepsi and the like spotting the venue.
This did not feel like a gig. It felt like a bizarre trade show. Wait a moment; I paid to be here?
Mobile phone companies hawked plastic versions of their latest products under glass; Nikon’s offering was the most absurd - A bright yellow fake “stage” upon which members of the public were invited to pose with a few battered instruments and have their photograph taken by a bored Nikon rep– in a feeble ruse to link the brand with the music –( O the irony - this at a venue expressly forbidding many of the kinds of cameras that Nikon sell).
Polished, impossibly clean Cadillac demonstration cars sat on red carpets, with besuited salespeople onhand, no doubt to highlight the various features of the satellite navigation system and reclining heated headrest water bottle holder seatbelts.
The concept of going to an REM gig and coming home having purchased a car is quite perverse, utterly contrary to the spirit of rock and roll.
I have trained myself to avoid advertising wherever possible in the media that I consume. Offline, online, on television and elsewhere I’ve become adept at mentally erasing the messages that are broadcasted to me – when advertising becomes really offensive is when it replaces what was formerly there – in this case the bars and happy crowds of gig-goers discussing the music, standing around with a beer and nodding their heads in anticipation or appreciation of a great gig.
The live experience was mutilated and neutered at Jones Beach.
Long live Rock and Roll.
Friday, 9 May 2008
It's Raining Wine!
I rather like wine. This (probably) will not come as much of a surprise to you. So much so that the normal kitchen-sixed rack of 30 or so bottles that I keep just isn't enough. My overflow consists of several wooden racks placed on top of the wardrobes in my bedroom. The wardrobes are about 8ft high, and there's two layers of wine bottles on top.
When I woke up this morning I noticed, through my groggy eyes, a wine bottle on the floor. "Ha!" I thought - I must have brought it to bed. Except that the cork had not been pulled and the foil cap was still on the bottle. My sleep addled brain began to work. I looked up.
The bottle (a 1994 Chateau Brun Grand Bordeaux) had somehow dislodged itself from the rack and fallen about 9ft onto the bedroom floor, landed, NECK FIRST and dented the wood laminate flooring. I now have a bright red dent in my floor (from the paint on the metal neck cover) and one VERY lucky bottle of wine!
When I woke up this morning I noticed, through my groggy eyes, a wine bottle on the floor. "Ha!" I thought - I must have brought it to bed. Except that the cork had not been pulled and the foil cap was still on the bottle. My sleep addled brain began to work. I looked up.
The bottle (a 1994 Chateau Brun Grand Bordeaux) had somehow dislodged itself from the rack and fallen about 9ft onto the bedroom floor, landed, NECK FIRST and dented the wood laminate flooring. I now have a bright red dent in my floor (from the paint on the metal neck cover) and one VERY lucky bottle of wine!
Monday, 10 December 2007
Led Zeppelin at the Dome
The Atlantic Records Ahmet Ertegun tribute gig for charity was held at the O2 Dome tonight. Ertegun died this year and his widow asked the surviving members of Led Zeppelin (whom Ertegun signed) to reform and play a benefit in his honour - the world was shocked when they agreed, and the gig was duly arranged for November. Unfortunately the guitarist, Jimmy Page, fractured his finger, thus postponing the gig for a couple of weeks. Tonight, in front of approximately 80,000 people, Led Zep duly played for the adoring masses.
In a sentimental moment of rock-fantasy lust I decided to traipse down to the dome and stand outside to listen to the band, nod my head and tap my foot and visualise what was going on inside the arena. I arrived at North Greenwich station at 9pm with my heart in my throat - perhaps they had set up a video wall outside the arena for the clamouring crowds of thousands of fans who had failed to get tickets, perhaps there would be a party atmosphere, redolent of the 1970s, perhaps I would even get in by the kind actions of some friendly security guard!
Something felt wrong as soon as I surfaced from the bowels of the Underground. Instead of being met by crowds of people milling about aimlessly, the station was eerily quiet. A few security guards, no police men. I quickly left the station and walked to the large run-off area where people gather before and after the show.
My heart sank when I saw the unused Jumbovision screen sitting outside the venue - a huge opportunity missed - not only that, but rounding the corner and seeing the dome proper - there were not the crowds of people I expected - the place was empty.
Walking into the Dome itself was when it hit me: the venue was soundproofed, blockaded, hermetically sealed!.
No sound was spilling out. Not kickdrum, not bass guitar, not Jimmy's riffs, not Robert's scream. Nothing.
This revelation took some time to sink in. I could hardly believe that I was standing less than 200ft from Led Zeppelin who, at that moment were (as far as I knew) playing their hearts out at at least 100db, -- Yet I could hear nothing. I left the venue and walked around the side to the artist entrance (nothing) then walked around to the opposite side of the venue to listen again (nothing). Are you getting the idea?
Sure, it was a gamble, and it didn't pay off. Instead of coming away being impressed by Jimmy's riffs (even from afar) I came away impressed by the engineering that managed to keep all that sound IN!
Eventually I gave up and made my way to the Underground station. As I was descending a straggly-hair wild eyed rocker in his 50s staggered up the stairs towards the Dome "woohoo!" he shouted "looks good!"
I couldn't have disagreed more.
In a sentimental moment of rock-fantasy lust I decided to traipse down to the dome and stand outside to listen to the band, nod my head and tap my foot and visualise what was going on inside the arena. I arrived at North Greenwich station at 9pm with my heart in my throat - perhaps they had set up a video wall outside the arena for the clamouring crowds of thousands of fans who had failed to get tickets, perhaps there would be a party atmosphere, redolent of the 1970s, perhaps I would even get in by the kind actions of some friendly security guard!
Something felt wrong as soon as I surfaced from the bowels of the Underground. Instead of being met by crowds of people milling about aimlessly, the station was eerily quiet. A few security guards, no police men. I quickly left the station and walked to the large run-off area where people gather before and after the show.
My heart sank when I saw the unused Jumbovision screen sitting outside the venue - a huge opportunity missed - not only that, but rounding the corner and seeing the dome proper - there were not the crowds of people I expected - the place was empty.
Walking into the Dome itself was when it hit me: the venue was soundproofed, blockaded, hermetically sealed!.
No sound was spilling out. Not kickdrum, not bass guitar, not Jimmy's riffs, not Robert's scream. Nothing.
This revelation took some time to sink in. I could hardly believe that I was standing less than 200ft from Led Zeppelin who, at that moment were (as far as I knew) playing their hearts out at at least 100db, -- Yet I could hear nothing. I left the venue and walked around the side to the artist entrance (nothing) then walked around to the opposite side of the venue to listen again (nothing). Are you getting the idea?
Sure, it was a gamble, and it didn't pay off. Instead of coming away being impressed by Jimmy's riffs (even from afar) I came away impressed by the engineering that managed to keep all that sound IN!
Eventually I gave up and made my way to the Underground station. As I was descending a straggly-hair wild eyed rocker in his 50s staggered up the stairs towards the Dome "woohoo!" he shouted "looks good!"
I couldn't have disagreed more.
Sunday, 7 October 2007
A midnight visitor
About two years ago I was waiting for a bus at the top of my road in the dusk, and saw a very large rat scurrying towards me. The size of the beast and its proximity to my house turned my stomach and gave me visions of vast colonies of the bastard things, burrowing underground and infesting the local neighbourhood.
Thankfully in the two years since that incident I've only seen one other (live) rat in the vicinity - but they still give me the screaming heebeejeebees. Last night I had that sinking feeling again, as at midnight I walked down my street after shooting a gig by The Vigours in south London.
From a distance of about 100 feet I saw something large shuffling along, silhouetted in the stark soduim yellow streetlamp outside my house. It was obviously curious - paying attention to the verges of the pavement where the gardens finish and the flagstones begin.
I stamped my feet to try to scare it away. It paid no attention.
I clicked my fingers and made "Ttscchhh!!" sounds to no avail.
Then it moved into the centre of the pavement - and I saw (with great relief) that it was not a rat at all, but something quite different. Can you guess what it was? A clue: much more friendly and useful!
Thankfully in the two years since that incident I've only seen one other (live) rat in the vicinity - but they still give me the screaming heebeejeebees. Last night I had that sinking feeling again, as at midnight I walked down my street after shooting a gig by The Vigours in south London.
From a distance of about 100 feet I saw something large shuffling along, silhouetted in the stark soduim yellow streetlamp outside my house. It was obviously curious - paying attention to the verges of the pavement where the gardens finish and the flagstones begin.
I stamped my feet to try to scare it away. It paid no attention.
I clicked my fingers and made "Ttscchhh!!" sounds to no avail.
Then it moved into the centre of the pavement - and I saw (with great relief) that it was not a rat at all, but something quite different. Can you guess what it was? A clue: much more friendly and useful!
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