London Fields # 74
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 28 January 2010
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here
Maybe with the recent excesses of a record-breaking heat wave, it may have been tempting to want to swap places with the denizens of the UK, who were moaning about a bit of a cold snap with a little snow. While it may not have been the Snowmageddon portrayed in the tabloids (with the Express claiming it proved global warming wrong), it wasn’t much fun either. For weeks, it kept all other news at bay. The attempt to overthrow Prime Minister Gordon Brown in an election year became a lesser news item, as the weather a story that in some way affected everyone in the country, even if it wasn’t really news at all. On the ‘worst’ day there were reports that less than 50% of employees had even made it into work. With the British economy already struggling, this kind of loss is the last thing it needs.
The heavy snows last February also saw the whole capital ground to a standstill, unable to cope with the wrong type of rain. There was outcry; questions were asked and promises made that London wouldn’t be caught unaware again. Yet when it did recur it was as though no lessons had been learned at all. As then, there was the grit shortage. When I first arrived in the UK, I was mystified by the large yellow bins labelled Salt-Grit. Mistaking it for a rubbish bin, I tried to put my chocolate wrapper in it, but it will filled with what turned out to be rock salt, which is used to break down ice and snow on footpaths. The trouble was there was a shortage of this, so widespread gritting didn’t really seem to happen, making smaller roads impassable.
Obviously the death toll amongst the elderly rises in cold weather, but reports placed the demise of around 20 people directly at the conditions themselves. Sadly there’s no equivalent of a warm change to bring relief either. While the snow may have caused problems, the real threat was what came next. Because as snow is walked upon it melts a little and then refreezes - as ice. And if snow can be a bit heavy going, ice is impossible. Casualty departments were filled with people who had fallen. Supplies of shoe cleats to give you some grip on the treacherous surfaces were quickly depleted, with no more deliveries expected until April.
Other cities in Europe get snow every year, and they don’t grind to a halt. So why is the UK in particular so blighted when these ever-more-frequent ‘unseasonal’ conditions hit? Here’s a clue. European houses not only tend to have snow shovels, they use them too. Not just their own entrance, and the footpath outside them as well. Meanwhile here in the UK it’s a widely held belief that if you clear a path and then someone slips on it, you can be held legally accountable. Regardless of the veracity of that, the thought has stuck and so people are reticent to act for fear of possible lawsuits.
One paper ran a story about the new-found popularity of encyclopædias and other large reference works from local opshops. But it wasn’t in a quest for knowledge. In 1953, Ray Bradbury wrote of a dystopian possible future where the prevalence of television has led to an unthinking society. The role of firemen was to burn books, as the knowledge they contained only made the populace harder to handle and keep sedate. The reality is perhaps more terrifying. For the books from the Salvos were destined for fireplaces of struggling pensioners - their combustion being the only affordable way to keep warm. They’re cheaper than a bag of coal, and much, much cheaper than running a boiler.
In the thaw the cost is still being counted. The rare species of birds that came into the cities and suburban gardens seeking food have now departed, and shops have stocks of salt and kitty litter once more. Dreams of White Christmases are now seen as nightmares. The snowfall was the worst in 30 years, and now it’s the roads that are in a real state. Some are so bad that buses, which were unable to run during the snow, are again sitting in the depot, as the potholes will cause too much damage to allow them to run safely.
So next time you’re cursing the heat, and wishing it were much, much colder, perhaps think again for a minute. As soon as the initial adventure and excitement fades, any extreme is just a pain in the arse.
© James McGalliard 2010
Showing posts with label seasons. Show all posts
Showing posts with label seasons. Show all posts
Thursday, 28 January 2010
Wednesday, 23 December 2009
That Was The Year That Was
London Fields # 73
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 23 December 2009
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here
With news broadcasts full of stories of retail closures and impending strikes, it’s hard to summon up a spirit of seasonal bonhomie, despite the snow falling outside. Britain is still feeling the full brunt of recession, and as unemployment continues to rise, no one can be sure if they’ll still be in work in six months time. Such an atmosphere means that people seem to avoid unnecessary extravagances, so the great British public has probably spent more time staying in to watch television, or socialising in their own homes instead of pubs than at any time I can recall.
2009 was the year of so-called stripped-programmed event TV. Following last year’s experiment with Criminal Justice, where a drama was screened over consecutive weeknights, this year saw Torchwood return in this format with Children Of Earth, while the same approach was applied at ITV for Collision. Of course, you could argue that this is no different to a nightly soap, but the 43 consecutive weeknights of HBO’s In Treatment demanded intellectual and emotional attention in a way Home & Away never could. With a run of late night screenings on BBC Two, this was the year when The Wire hit the UK mainstream, as you didn’t need a premium subscription or a DVD to see what the fuss had all been about. Although its timeslot and heavy schedule were hard to keep pace with, it still made a major impact - from parliamentary discussions over street drug trade to the creators expressing their annoyance that the BBC policy of subtitling every show they broadcast meant audiences didn’t have to listen to the nuances to pick up what was being said.
The effects of last year’s Manuelgate are still being felt. TV comedy, particularly on the BBC, was visibly running scared, and most of the edgier material ended up back in the clubs, or online. This made Stewart Lee’s Comedy Vehicle especially groundbreaking; most of it was simply a man talking to an audience, in a way perhaps not seen since the heyday of Dave Allen, but this wasn’t about simple jokes. Lee’s lengthy polemics were both witty and vicious and were intermingled with some sharp sketches to illustrate the point. On the other extreme was Miranda; this wasn’t to my taste, but I had to admire they way it attempted to revive the sitcom format of the ‘70s, albeit with perhaps more innocence, but additional Brechtian breaking of the fourth wall. It has been recommissioned; Lee has not. The wowsers also attacked The Thick Of It - its jump from satellite to terrestrial broadcast led to complaints about the wonderfully vivid swearing. Psychoville saw half of The League Of Gentlemen return, while the axed Pulling signed off with a one-off special, and then won even more awards; Sharon Horgan reappeared in Free Agents on Channel 4.
The influence of Skins continues to be felt. While the cast change had a better intent than the eventual reality, it could be argued that it led to both Misfits (E4) and Mouth To Mouth (BBC Three). Both these shows focused on a different central character of an interrelated group each week, so rather than a straightforward story arc, the back-story slowly becomes clear once you’ve heard the story from all the viewpoints. While Mouth To Mouth was literally a string of talking heads monologues, Misfits has a darker humour, and like Being Human nicely subverted expectations and genres. But perhaps the biggest shock on TV this year was Merlin which grew into a secret treat after a fairly risible first season, punching well above its weight in both in scripting and complexity.
The sound of 2009 was the motorik beat, perhaps ringing most clearly in the volte-face fortunes of The Horrors. It was a year that artists tried to work independently of the big labels, either by self releasing downloads (like The Boxer Rebellion or Spc-Eco) or by raising money for recording from fans through Bandstocks and the like (Patrick Wolf). Musical trends bubbling away included a predicted reemergence of C86, as well and a smattering undercurrent of prog, while electro went to mainstream chart success. The reunions continued - The Specials, Th’ Faith Healers, Spandau Ballet, The Comsat Angels, The Primitives, Blur, Chapterhouse, The Lotus Eaters and Ultravox – some as one-offs, and others as ongoing concerns. The charts themselves however were once again weighed down by the heavy influence of TV talent shows. Susan Boyle became a star, seemingly for having a talent more appealing than her appearance. But this also led to the popularity of truncated names (SuBo) in the tabloids, obviously predicated by LiLo (or was it South Holborn being better known as SoHo?). The cancellation of Big Brother after ten years could have been seen as the death of so-called reality TV, if over 20 million viewers hadn’t tuned in for the final of The X-Factor in December, leading to another battle for the Christmas # 1.
Following on from Echo & The Bunnymen performing Ocean Rain with an orchestra late last year, 2009 saw ABC, Elbow and James among others follow suit, with mixed results. Now it appears the trend may be headed your way too as The Angels are going to do this in Adelaide next April. Speaking of Australian acts, where were they this year? Wolfmother and Pendulum can still fill large venues here, and Jet’s take on Iggy Pop is a perennial radio favourite, but with the exception of The Temper Trap, where were the new Australian artists? I can only hope that they take advantage of the comparatively weak sterling and make a stronger contribution to events such as The Great Escape next year.
In London, it was the year that the Circle Line stopped going around in a circle, and that the River Thames disappeared from the iconic London Underground map. February snow brought the capital to a complete halt and the battle of the free evening papers led to the demise of both thelondonpaper and London Lite, while the Evening Standard was forced to become a freesheet. Political sleaze was back on the agenda, with parliamentary expenses claimed for everything from moat dredging to a floating duck house. In a year where only new shops opening were pawn brokers and even big chains like Borders went bust, there were some people who made it all bearable. In print and across his four TV series, Charlie Brooker once again was a brilliantly funny and scathingly critical voice of outrage and reason. On stage, with two entirely different shows, Daniel Kitson covered big topics, but with a human perspective. This clever, erudite and self-effacing chap weaved larger-than-life yarns which eventually revealed the heart-warming joy in the minutiae of the smallest details of everyday life.
© James McGalliard 2009
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 23 December 2009
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here
With news broadcasts full of stories of retail closures and impending strikes, it’s hard to summon up a spirit of seasonal bonhomie, despite the snow falling outside. Britain is still feeling the full brunt of recession, and as unemployment continues to rise, no one can be sure if they’ll still be in work in six months time. Such an atmosphere means that people seem to avoid unnecessary extravagances, so the great British public has probably spent more time staying in to watch television, or socialising in their own homes instead of pubs than at any time I can recall.
2009 was the year of so-called stripped-programmed event TV. Following last year’s experiment with Criminal Justice, where a drama was screened over consecutive weeknights, this year saw Torchwood return in this format with Children Of Earth, while the same approach was applied at ITV for Collision. Of course, you could argue that this is no different to a nightly soap, but the 43 consecutive weeknights of HBO’s In Treatment demanded intellectual and emotional attention in a way Home & Away never could. With a run of late night screenings on BBC Two, this was the year when The Wire hit the UK mainstream, as you didn’t need a premium subscription or a DVD to see what the fuss had all been about. Although its timeslot and heavy schedule were hard to keep pace with, it still made a major impact - from parliamentary discussions over street drug trade to the creators expressing their annoyance that the BBC policy of subtitling every show they broadcast meant audiences didn’t have to listen to the nuances to pick up what was being said.
The effects of last year’s Manuelgate are still being felt. TV comedy, particularly on the BBC, was visibly running scared, and most of the edgier material ended up back in the clubs, or online. This made Stewart Lee’s Comedy Vehicle especially groundbreaking; most of it was simply a man talking to an audience, in a way perhaps not seen since the heyday of Dave Allen, but this wasn’t about simple jokes. Lee’s lengthy polemics were both witty and vicious and were intermingled with some sharp sketches to illustrate the point. On the other extreme was Miranda; this wasn’t to my taste, but I had to admire they way it attempted to revive the sitcom format of the ‘70s, albeit with perhaps more innocence, but additional Brechtian breaking of the fourth wall. It has been recommissioned; Lee has not. The wowsers also attacked The Thick Of It - its jump from satellite to terrestrial broadcast led to complaints about the wonderfully vivid swearing. Psychoville saw half of The League Of Gentlemen return, while the axed Pulling signed off with a one-off special, and then won even more awards; Sharon Horgan reappeared in Free Agents on Channel 4.
The influence of Skins continues to be felt. While the cast change had a better intent than the eventual reality, it could be argued that it led to both Misfits (E4) and Mouth To Mouth (BBC Three). Both these shows focused on a different central character of an interrelated group each week, so rather than a straightforward story arc, the back-story slowly becomes clear once you’ve heard the story from all the viewpoints. While Mouth To Mouth was literally a string of talking heads monologues, Misfits has a darker humour, and like Being Human nicely subverted expectations and genres. But perhaps the biggest shock on TV this year was Merlin which grew into a secret treat after a fairly risible first season, punching well above its weight in both in scripting and complexity.
The sound of 2009 was the motorik beat, perhaps ringing most clearly in the volte-face fortunes of The Horrors. It was a year that artists tried to work independently of the big labels, either by self releasing downloads (like The Boxer Rebellion or Spc-Eco) or by raising money for recording from fans through Bandstocks and the like (Patrick Wolf). Musical trends bubbling away included a predicted reemergence of C86, as well and a smattering undercurrent of prog, while electro went to mainstream chart success. The reunions continued - The Specials, Th’ Faith Healers, Spandau Ballet, The Comsat Angels, The Primitives, Blur, Chapterhouse, The Lotus Eaters and Ultravox – some as one-offs, and others as ongoing concerns. The charts themselves however were once again weighed down by the heavy influence of TV talent shows. Susan Boyle became a star, seemingly for having a talent more appealing than her appearance. But this also led to the popularity of truncated names (SuBo) in the tabloids, obviously predicated by LiLo (or was it South Holborn being better known as SoHo?). The cancellation of Big Brother after ten years could have been seen as the death of so-called reality TV, if over 20 million viewers hadn’t tuned in for the final of The X-Factor in December, leading to another battle for the Christmas # 1.
Following on from Echo & The Bunnymen performing Ocean Rain with an orchestra late last year, 2009 saw ABC, Elbow and James among others follow suit, with mixed results. Now it appears the trend may be headed your way too as The Angels are going to do this in Adelaide next April. Speaking of Australian acts, where were they this year? Wolfmother and Pendulum can still fill large venues here, and Jet’s take on Iggy Pop is a perennial radio favourite, but with the exception of The Temper Trap, where were the new Australian artists? I can only hope that they take advantage of the comparatively weak sterling and make a stronger contribution to events such as The Great Escape next year.
In London, it was the year that the Circle Line stopped going around in a circle, and that the River Thames disappeared from the iconic London Underground map. February snow brought the capital to a complete halt and the battle of the free evening papers led to the demise of both thelondonpaper and London Lite, while the Evening Standard was forced to become a freesheet. Political sleaze was back on the agenda, with parliamentary expenses claimed for everything from moat dredging to a floating duck house. In a year where only new shops opening were pawn brokers and even big chains like Borders went bust, there were some people who made it all bearable. In print and across his four TV series, Charlie Brooker once again was a brilliantly funny and scathingly critical voice of outrage and reason. On stage, with two entirely different shows, Daniel Kitson covered big topics, but with a human perspective. This clever, erudite and self-effacing chap weaved larger-than-life yarns which eventually revealed the heart-warming joy in the minutiae of the smallest details of everyday life.
© James McGalliard 2009
Wednesday, 22 July 2009
Summer In The City
London Fields # 67
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 19 August 2009
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here
When you live in a place, you end up with all kinds of insider knowledge without ever quite knowing how you picked it up in the first place. In London, milk is cheaper at the corner shop than it is in the big supermarkets, a hint of sun on a day warmer than 17 will result in hoards of shirtless men in the high street, and if you see a Japanese person with a bewildered expression in the centre of Hackney, it’s most likely they’re trying to find the Burberry factory outlet. Although an Englishman’s home is supposedly his castle, the fiercest pride and competition is in his garden. An unkempt hedge will draw disdainful glances, and any foray into your back garden is to invite comment on its state. That said, a true joy of gardening here is the lack of ferocious beasties; there are no white tails hiding in your gloves, or deadly critters in the undergrowth.
The great centres of the British making conversation continue to be weather and sport. The predicted long hot summer has so far failed to arrive, which is a little bit of a blessing as the long brick terraces of the capital can become furnaces once the mercury creeps over 30. Football (soccer) is the ubiquitous game here and virtually nothing else comes near challenging its dominance. Such is the strength of both sentiment for the sport and team loyalty, that to really follow a team you have to be born into it, which is not part of a shared upbringing for a lad from suburban Melbourne. These are some of the few weeks of the year when the game isn’t being played professionally; still it’s always football and never cricket that’s being played on the streets around where I live.
All that was different a few years ago, if only for a few short weeks, in 2005, when The Ashes were last played here. Back then the whole country suddenly went cricket mad, particularly after England ended up winning them back (The following series, where England copped a drubbing in Australia, seems to have been conveniently forgotten about). With the Poms last-minute survival in Cardiff, and their first Ashes win at Lords in 75 years, I fear that all this is going to repeat itself once again. In 2005, the Ashes games were shown free-to-air; this time around the live broadcasts are exclusive to a premium satellite subscription channel. So maybe it won’t capture the nation in the same way? It seems Aussie baiting has already become a secondary sport; all the more reason to hope Ponting and his team can still turn this series around.
Surely part of the experience of living in another country is about immersing yourself in that lifestyle, and becoming a part of the community in which you live? So while I may want to ‘fly the flag’, another part of me keeps a distance from the expat community here. Last week, the BBC dug out The Adventures of Barry McKenzie and I was wondering if it isn’t due for an update about the new generation of Oz ambassadors to the UK. With visits from Melbourne friends recently, more than once I’ve ended up on a purely Melbourne table in a pub. It was nice to talk to people with shared experiences of growing up, and to learn new examples of Australian vernacular as well. Walking up Essex Road in Islington en route to another pub, I pointed out Britannia Row, the former studios where Joy Division recorded Closer. In the ensuing conversation, it was suggested that the London I was living in was one based in the past, rather than what is happening now. I’ve never considered myself much of a scenester, in the context of this column it bothered me. So for a while I may be taking a step back from music and concentrate on writing about other aspects of life here.
Reading seems little more than a satellite town of London in the characterless commuter belt. I found myself here again recently as it was my only chance to catch some other friends from Melbourne before they flew home. Given the persistent mizzle falling, there was little other option than to retire to a nearby hostelry. It could easily be argued that real ale appreciation is just gauze to disguise another excuse to get drunk. But there was no piped music in The Hobgoblin, and mobile phones were frowned upon, so the only sound was that of animated conversations, it made me very glad to be in this place and time. It was a distinctly English environment yet sadly it’s now hard to find a place like this anymore in the city. On the train back into London, another thought struck me. It’s friends who make anything worth experiencing, regardless of where you or they came from originally.
© James McGalliard 2009
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 19 August 2009
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here
When you live in a place, you end up with all kinds of insider knowledge without ever quite knowing how you picked it up in the first place. In London, milk is cheaper at the corner shop than it is in the big supermarkets, a hint of sun on a day warmer than 17 will result in hoards of shirtless men in the high street, and if you see a Japanese person with a bewildered expression in the centre of Hackney, it’s most likely they’re trying to find the Burberry factory outlet. Although an Englishman’s home is supposedly his castle, the fiercest pride and competition is in his garden. An unkempt hedge will draw disdainful glances, and any foray into your back garden is to invite comment on its state. That said, a true joy of gardening here is the lack of ferocious beasties; there are no white tails hiding in your gloves, or deadly critters in the undergrowth.
The great centres of the British making conversation continue to be weather and sport. The predicted long hot summer has so far failed to arrive, which is a little bit of a blessing as the long brick terraces of the capital can become furnaces once the mercury creeps over 30. Football (soccer) is the ubiquitous game here and virtually nothing else comes near challenging its dominance. Such is the strength of both sentiment for the sport and team loyalty, that to really follow a team you have to be born into it, which is not part of a shared upbringing for a lad from suburban Melbourne. These are some of the few weeks of the year when the game isn’t being played professionally; still it’s always football and never cricket that’s being played on the streets around where I live.
All that was different a few years ago, if only for a few short weeks, in 2005, when The Ashes were last played here. Back then the whole country suddenly went cricket mad, particularly after England ended up winning them back (The following series, where England copped a drubbing in Australia, seems to have been conveniently forgotten about). With the Poms last-minute survival in Cardiff, and their first Ashes win at Lords in 75 years, I fear that all this is going to repeat itself once again. In 2005, the Ashes games were shown free-to-air; this time around the live broadcasts are exclusive to a premium satellite subscription channel. So maybe it won’t capture the nation in the same way? It seems Aussie baiting has already become a secondary sport; all the more reason to hope Ponting and his team can still turn this series around.
Surely part of the experience of living in another country is about immersing yourself in that lifestyle, and becoming a part of the community in which you live? So while I may want to ‘fly the flag’, another part of me keeps a distance from the expat community here. Last week, the BBC dug out The Adventures of Barry McKenzie and I was wondering if it isn’t due for an update about the new generation of Oz ambassadors to the UK. With visits from Melbourne friends recently, more than once I’ve ended up on a purely Melbourne table in a pub. It was nice to talk to people with shared experiences of growing up, and to learn new examples of Australian vernacular as well. Walking up Essex Road in Islington en route to another pub, I pointed out Britannia Row, the former studios where Joy Division recorded Closer. In the ensuing conversation, it was suggested that the London I was living in was one based in the past, rather than what is happening now. I’ve never considered myself much of a scenester, in the context of this column it bothered me. So for a while I may be taking a step back from music and concentrate on writing about other aspects of life here.
Reading seems little more than a satellite town of London in the characterless commuter belt. I found myself here again recently as it was my only chance to catch some other friends from Melbourne before they flew home. Given the persistent mizzle falling, there was little other option than to retire to a nearby hostelry. It could easily be argued that real ale appreciation is just gauze to disguise another excuse to get drunk. But there was no piped music in The Hobgoblin, and mobile phones were frowned upon, so the only sound was that of animated conversations, it made me very glad to be in this place and time. It was a distinctly English environment yet sadly it’s now hard to find a place like this anymore in the city. On the train back into London, another thought struck me. It’s friends who make anything worth experiencing, regardless of where you or they came from originally.
© James McGalliard 2009
Wednesday, 30 January 2008
A Seasonal Catch-Up
London Fields # 48
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 30 January 2008
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here
The end of the year is always a rush when you’re writing about music. There are writers’ polls to complete, the need to summarise the year just gone, and to make tips for 2008. And in the UK, the period prior to Christmas is a mad time for gigs. Along with pantomime season come tours from The Pogues, and from Madness. It would be a shame to let some of the great performances in this period get lost in the constraints of obligation and deadlines. So now that 2007 is finished, and 2008 previewed, it’s time to look back at some of the wonderful acts I saw as the year ended, but had no time to write about until now.
Just as Christmas comes but once a year, recent years have seen The Blue Aeroplanes gather in Bristol in December for annual shindig. Who you ask? Along with James they were the great English live act of the early 90’s that never toured Australia. They were creating literate artrock before Pulp had got their act together. They had a dancer before Bez had dropped an E. There were never keyboards – they’d add another guitarist - but you could always hear their separate playing. There have probably been forty members in the band’s history, but through it all Gerard Langley, a poet more than a vocalist, has declaimed thought-provoking ideas over the whole joyous maelstrom. This gig managed to recapture that special spark that made me an instant covert from the first time I saw them live. For much of tonight’s gig there were four guitarists on stage, jumping to six for the encore. Being a long term ‘Planes fan can be a bit like taking part in a veterans day parade, as each time there are fewer and fewer of us who swing our arms over our heads to the lyric 'let those arms rotate like helicopter blades'. Sadly, unlike those parades, there is no younger generation taking the medals and replacing those who have fallen. On the basis of their live glory tonight, that’s a loss for all of us.
Coming back to London, I caught Spiritualized Acoustic Mainline for the third time in the year. It’s a real shame that this version of Jason Spaceman’s act is about to be retired, especially as it never got to Australia. Each time I’ve seen them and loved it more, and in the candlelit environs of the Union Chapel, it found its perfect setting; the cross between hedonistic and religious was simply divine. Jason was joined by three gospel singers, a string quartet and long-term collaborator Doggen on keyboards. There was a Daniel Johnson cover, some Spaceman 3 material and even Oh Happy Day all reworked for the strings and the singers, and lead by Jason’s acoustic guitar. I lost count of the magical moments, but as Goodnight Goodnight segued into a beautiful, traditional reading of Silent Night, the spirit of the season descended. Or when Ladies And Gentlemen… melted into Elvis’ Can’t Help Falling In Love, the gospel harmonies complementing and lifting hearts. It’s so rare to come away so stunned and elated – it was a special night indeed.
The Union Chapel has always been one of my favourite places in London to see certain bands. On one occasion Mark Almond performed here in a cassock; on another John Cale played the best of the many shows I’ve seen him play – the natural resonance of the church adding a special edge to a spine tingling take on Hallelujah. But it is a functioning church, and a few years ago the governors decided that there was a conflict of interest between the sacred and the profane, and the gigs stopped. It’s so great that they reconsidered, and now it’s reopened to live music, with the proviso that alcohol is only consumed in the bar outside.
But it was doubly special in December, as it was the chosen venue for the first public performances in over ten years for the Penguin Café Orchestra. In fact, the night I went marked the tenth anniversary of the sudden death of PCO founder Simon Jeffes. Yet this was no wake, but a celebration of the music he had created. PCO had its own particular dynamism and rhythm – I’ve always thought of it as being a little like a bicycle with slightly square wheels – it rolls along and its speed varies, but the tempo it keeps is all its own. The setlist was based on the Concert Programme CD, so was effectively a greatest hits live. Most of the musicians were the same people I’d seen perform on numerous occasions through the ‘90’s – the big differences were slightly less regimented playing, and that they were speaking between the songs. You’ll have heard PCO, perhaps without knowing it – on ads, or the film Malcolm; even My Friend The Chocolate Cake's style owes much to them. But it was great to hear these tunes have the chance to live again – the audience was unfeasible warm on a bitter night. But there was a sense of elegy too; that that maybe this would be the last time that these songs would be played live by these people. But then again, is there a better place to contemplate transience than in a church?
© James McGalliard 2008
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 30 January 2008
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here
The end of the year is always a rush when you’re writing about music. There are writers’ polls to complete, the need to summarise the year just gone, and to make tips for 2008. And in the UK, the period prior to Christmas is a mad time for gigs. Along with pantomime season come tours from The Pogues, and from Madness. It would be a shame to let some of the great performances in this period get lost in the constraints of obligation and deadlines. So now that 2007 is finished, and 2008 previewed, it’s time to look back at some of the wonderful acts I saw as the year ended, but had no time to write about until now.
Just as Christmas comes but once a year, recent years have seen The Blue Aeroplanes gather in Bristol in December for annual shindig. Who you ask? Along with James they were the great English live act of the early 90’s that never toured Australia. They were creating literate artrock before Pulp had got their act together. They had a dancer before Bez had dropped an E. There were never keyboards – they’d add another guitarist - but you could always hear their separate playing. There have probably been forty members in the band’s history, but through it all Gerard Langley, a poet more than a vocalist, has declaimed thought-provoking ideas over the whole joyous maelstrom. This gig managed to recapture that special spark that made me an instant covert from the first time I saw them live. For much of tonight’s gig there were four guitarists on stage, jumping to six for the encore. Being a long term ‘Planes fan can be a bit like taking part in a veterans day parade, as each time there are fewer and fewer of us who swing our arms over our heads to the lyric 'let those arms rotate like helicopter blades'. Sadly, unlike those parades, there is no younger generation taking the medals and replacing those who have fallen. On the basis of their live glory tonight, that’s a loss for all of us.
Coming back to London, I caught Spiritualized Acoustic Mainline for the third time in the year. It’s a real shame that this version of Jason Spaceman’s act is about to be retired, especially as it never got to Australia. Each time I’ve seen them and loved it more, and in the candlelit environs of the Union Chapel, it found its perfect setting; the cross between hedonistic and religious was simply divine. Jason was joined by three gospel singers, a string quartet and long-term collaborator Doggen on keyboards. There was a Daniel Johnson cover, some Spaceman 3 material and even Oh Happy Day all reworked for the strings and the singers, and lead by Jason’s acoustic guitar. I lost count of the magical moments, but as Goodnight Goodnight segued into a beautiful, traditional reading of Silent Night, the spirit of the season descended. Or when Ladies And Gentlemen… melted into Elvis’ Can’t Help Falling In Love, the gospel harmonies complementing and lifting hearts. It’s so rare to come away so stunned and elated – it was a special night indeed.
The Union Chapel has always been one of my favourite places in London to see certain bands. On one occasion Mark Almond performed here in a cassock; on another John Cale played the best of the many shows I’ve seen him play – the natural resonance of the church adding a special edge to a spine tingling take on Hallelujah. But it is a functioning church, and a few years ago the governors decided that there was a conflict of interest between the sacred and the profane, and the gigs stopped. It’s so great that they reconsidered, and now it’s reopened to live music, with the proviso that alcohol is only consumed in the bar outside.
But it was doubly special in December, as it was the chosen venue for the first public performances in over ten years for the Penguin Café Orchestra. In fact, the night I went marked the tenth anniversary of the sudden death of PCO founder Simon Jeffes. Yet this was no wake, but a celebration of the music he had created. PCO had its own particular dynamism and rhythm – I’ve always thought of it as being a little like a bicycle with slightly square wheels – it rolls along and its speed varies, but the tempo it keeps is all its own. The setlist was based on the Concert Programme CD, so was effectively a greatest hits live. Most of the musicians were the same people I’d seen perform on numerous occasions through the ‘90’s – the big differences were slightly less regimented playing, and that they were speaking between the songs. You’ll have heard PCO, perhaps without knowing it – on ads, or the film Malcolm; even My Friend The Chocolate Cake's style owes much to them. But it was great to hear these tunes have the chance to live again – the audience was unfeasible warm on a bitter night. But there was a sense of elegy too; that that maybe this would be the last time that these songs would be played live by these people. But then again, is there a better place to contemplate transience than in a church?
© James McGalliard 2008
Wednesday, 26 December 2007
Three Seasons In One Year
London Fields # 47
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 26 December 2007
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here
If you look at the news cycle, it was as though nothing of note happened in the world in 2007. Blair may have abdicated and passed the throne seamlessly to Gordon Brown (the invisible PM), but things seem mainly unchanged. Yep, there may well have been wars and disasters, but most of our attention was seemingly drawn to Celebdaq-style events.
Amy Winehouse may have ended the year Back To Black as the best selling album of 2007, but sometimes it was hard to remember that she was a musician (except when it came to odds on whether she’d show up at her own gigs). Pete Doherty, who must have been well aware of the pattern, then became part of the Winehouse saga when he paid her a visit. Earlier in the year the vexed question of whether the various z-listers had been racist came from the misleadingly named Celebrity Big Brother. And the year ended with outrage that Fairytale Of New York had to be censored for play on BBC Radio 1, but they soon backed down from their immovable stance. Were these all distractions from the real news?
Over on TV, Spooks has spent the last nine weeks preparing us for the breaking of ties with America, and Iran gaining nuclear capability. Is this TV drama preparing a complaint public for possible futures, a production trying to be gritty and edgy, or just another distraction? The TV networks have been a news story in themselves this year, with rigged results from premium rate phone lines. While this has spared us the late night horrors of Quiz Call and The Vault, over at Aunty it’s caused the BBC to suspend all competitions. Their studios must be overflowing with promotional tat, as they’re not allowed to give any of it away.
While some got hooked on Heroes, it faded into insignificance next to Battlestar Galactica, which, after stumbling slightly in the second season, came back with some of the tightest drama on screen this year. Summer Saturday evenings meant Doctor Who, which returned with a very strong season, marred only by a messy(anic) final episode. But the great British public were obsessed with reality shite like I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here, talent contests like The X-Factor, or worst of all, series to cast West End musicals (Grease and Joseph And His Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat). Yeach! Only The Apprentice seemed to rise above the mire, but even it had been dumbed down in its move from BBC Two to BBC One; its repetitive formula saved by the candidates and Sir Alan Sugar himself. Charlie Brooker continued to relentlessly dissect the medium in his weekly Screen Burn column for The Guardian, and on his own show Screenwipe on BBC Four. However the best thing on TV this year was Skins – proof that drama can be innovative, involving and original, even if its target is ‘only’ adolescents.
Summer was a lukewarm washout; Glastonbury was a mud bath, July’s Truck Festival was washed into September, and other festivals were postponed or cancelled, while some went bankrupt. In the high street, record shops went belly up, or were bought out, sending us back online to buy specialist items. There were some great songs this year, but few great albums. Many of the previous hopes released lacklustre second efforts; only Bloc Party produced an inventive and mature follow-up to their debut album. Similarly Devastations may have alienated some with Yes, U, but it was the most rounded original and consistent work of their career. But The Twilight Sad was easily the highlight of 2007; their debut album displayed a new original voice and their deafening live shows were each special, different and unique.
The introduction of a total smoking ban was the biggest change for gig goers, and caused problems in venues with a strict No Passouts policy, particularly where this was more a matter of protecting their high bar prices rather than anything else. A continuing pattern was the firework career arc - acts get too big too quickly, and may sell out large shows but can’t satisfy the crowds they draw. This hype also plays into the hands of the scalpers - and prices go up, and gigs are full of idiots who have no interest in the music. These large gigs then become a chore, so I’m almost glad that some acts never broke big so I can still see them in smaller venues. While iLiKETRAiNS’s debut suffered from being too much at the one pace, their live show is still great; Fields are another band that sadly didn’t cross into the big venues, but put on a great live show. Sadly no-one but me picked up Apartment’s The Dreamer Evasive and it seems that they’ve now gone into indefinite hiatus. But some of the best bands of 2007 were an older generation, raging against the dying of the light - James, Grinderman, The Blue Aeroplanes and Gallon Drunk.
2007 was the year summer never came; the year Tony Wilson died; a year that we focused on the wrong things; and a period when BBC 6Music lost many of the presenters that made the station special; a time that dumbing down seemed to be the order of the day. It was a year with few highs or lows. Yet some of the new acts I’ve seen recently at least give me more hope for 2008.
© James McGalliard 2007
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 26 December 2007
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here
If you look at the news cycle, it was as though nothing of note happened in the world in 2007. Blair may have abdicated and passed the throne seamlessly to Gordon Brown (the invisible PM), but things seem mainly unchanged. Yep, there may well have been wars and disasters, but most of our attention was seemingly drawn to Celebdaq-style events.
Amy Winehouse may have ended the year Back To Black as the best selling album of 2007, but sometimes it was hard to remember that she was a musician (except when it came to odds on whether she’d show up at her own gigs). Pete Doherty, who must have been well aware of the pattern, then became part of the Winehouse saga when he paid her a visit. Earlier in the year the vexed question of whether the various z-listers had been racist came from the misleadingly named Celebrity Big Brother. And the year ended with outrage that Fairytale Of New York had to be censored for play on BBC Radio 1, but they soon backed down from their immovable stance. Were these all distractions from the real news?
Over on TV, Spooks has spent the last nine weeks preparing us for the breaking of ties with America, and Iran gaining nuclear capability. Is this TV drama preparing a complaint public for possible futures, a production trying to be gritty and edgy, or just another distraction? The TV networks have been a news story in themselves this year, with rigged results from premium rate phone lines. While this has spared us the late night horrors of Quiz Call and The Vault, over at Aunty it’s caused the BBC to suspend all competitions. Their studios must be overflowing with promotional tat, as they’re not allowed to give any of it away.
While some got hooked on Heroes, it faded into insignificance next to Battlestar Galactica, which, after stumbling slightly in the second season, came back with some of the tightest drama on screen this year. Summer Saturday evenings meant Doctor Who, which returned with a very strong season, marred only by a messy(anic) final episode. But the great British public were obsessed with reality shite like I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here, talent contests like The X-Factor, or worst of all, series to cast West End musicals (Grease and Joseph And His Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat). Yeach! Only The Apprentice seemed to rise above the mire, but even it had been dumbed down in its move from BBC Two to BBC One; its repetitive formula saved by the candidates and Sir Alan Sugar himself. Charlie Brooker continued to relentlessly dissect the medium in his weekly Screen Burn column for The Guardian, and on his own show Screenwipe on BBC Four. However the best thing on TV this year was Skins – proof that drama can be innovative, involving and original, even if its target is ‘only’ adolescents.
Summer was a lukewarm washout; Glastonbury was a mud bath, July’s Truck Festival was washed into September, and other festivals were postponed or cancelled, while some went bankrupt. In the high street, record shops went belly up, or were bought out, sending us back online to buy specialist items. There were some great songs this year, but few great albums. Many of the previous hopes released lacklustre second efforts; only Bloc Party produced an inventive and mature follow-up to their debut album. Similarly Devastations may have alienated some with Yes, U, but it was the most rounded original and consistent work of their career. But The Twilight Sad was easily the highlight of 2007; their debut album displayed a new original voice and their deafening live shows were each special, different and unique.
The introduction of a total smoking ban was the biggest change for gig goers, and caused problems in venues with a strict No Passouts policy, particularly where this was more a matter of protecting their high bar prices rather than anything else. A continuing pattern was the firework career arc - acts get too big too quickly, and may sell out large shows but can’t satisfy the crowds they draw. This hype also plays into the hands of the scalpers - and prices go up, and gigs are full of idiots who have no interest in the music. These large gigs then become a chore, so I’m almost glad that some acts never broke big so I can still see them in smaller venues. While iLiKETRAiNS’s debut suffered from being too much at the one pace, their live show is still great; Fields are another band that sadly didn’t cross into the big venues, but put on a great live show. Sadly no-one but me picked up Apartment’s The Dreamer Evasive and it seems that they’ve now gone into indefinite hiatus. But some of the best bands of 2007 were an older generation, raging against the dying of the light - James, Grinderman, The Blue Aeroplanes and Gallon Drunk.
2007 was the year summer never came; the year Tony Wilson died; a year that we focused on the wrong things; and a period when BBC 6Music lost many of the presenters that made the station special; a time that dumbing down seemed to be the order of the day. It was a year with few highs or lows. Yet some of the new acts I’ve seen recently at least give me more hope for 2008.
© James McGalliard 2007
Wednesday, 28 November 2007
Sex In The City
London Fields # 46
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 28 November 2007
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here
At this time of the year, the autumnal northern sun hangs low in the London sky. It’s not a light you ever see in Australia; this bright yet diffused ball of light sits right in your eyeline. For a pedestrian this makes crossing roads particularly perilous - sometimes you just squint and plough ahead, hoping for the best. You need sunglasses now more than you do in summer, but the days are so brief and it’s a strange look on the cold streets. The world is all around you but in silhouette – it’s there, but you can’t actually look at it. You see only your immediate surroundings, which is a good analogy of living here. For sometimes, you only see glimpses of other lives through arts or the media.
Recently the British public has been taken into the life of the sex worker in London via two glossy adaptations of working girl’s memoirs. And it’s gotta be said, I know very little about prostitution. I know that the seemingly glamorous world presented in these shows has upset some groups, notably The Women's Institute. I also know that if I watch a current affairs show, I’ll see stories of human trafficking. But these adaptations are meant as amusing titillation, not high art or sweeping social comment.
In 1748, John Cleland wrote Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure, better known as Fanny Hill, a fictional account of a country lass happily falling into prostitution in the London of his day. Now it has been adapted for arty, mature channel BBC Four, by the near ubiquitous Andrew Davies, as it seems no work of historical literature can be adapted by anyone else. The original book helped its author out of debtor’s prison, and this recent adaptation broke viewing figures for the digital-only station on which it was broadcast. It’s not a morality tale – despite Fanny’s changing fortunes she is untarnished; even her rape in a back alley leads indirectly to her happy ending. In the Beeb version, it ends with her aside to camera “As to the moral of my story? Must stories have morals? It seems to me life is very complicated and we must all get through it as best we can. Virtue is always preferable to vice, but we can’t always choose can we?”
Meanwhile, on the other side (ITV), Billie Piper is currently a long way from the TARDIS. Having first appeared as another literary Fanny – Fanny Price of Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park, she’s now starring in a present day role as Hannah / Belle in Secret Diary Of a Call Girl. It’s based on the reportedly true-life book (and blog) of “Belle De Jour”. To my cost, I’ve found the consequences of buying Belle’s book for ‘research’ for a potential column via Amazon. Once you put something like The Intimate Adventures Of A London Call Girl in your shopping basket (particularly alongside Abby Lee’s blog turned book), the future recommendations become a page that isn’t safe to open at work. Like Fanny Hill, this was broadcast on a digital-only channel (ITV2), and it also broke viewing records for the station. The TV version was unsure of what tone to adopt, and veered wildly from week to week.
Yet these shows had more in common that the profession of the central protagonist. In both the fourth wall was broken with looks and discussions straight to camera, to allow the actual words of the original text to come through. And their stories do connect on a deeper level, as both Fanny and Belle are searching for that one true love. For London is a city that keeps you at a distance and makes this seemingly impossible. It’s against the rules to talk to people on other tables in the pub. You might see someone you’d like to talk to, but approaching him or her directly is brazen and not done. The worst is public transport, where it is deemed safest not to be even capable of focussing on anyone else. Not everyone follows these rules of etiquette, but they are seen as a nuisance or even threatening. So it’s easier to meet people on the internet than in real life, which explains the large take-up of internet dating and other methods of meeting.
Back on TV and in the final episode of Secret Diary, Belle quits her agency, becomes a courtesan, and then finds she’s bored with that, and so goes back to a world of many clients, but on her own terms. But it’s all OK her closing narration tells us, if certain things are in place: “In London you can keep secrets. You can be anonymous. You can be whoever you want. But as long as someone knows you entirely and loves you still, it’s the best place in the world.” But the other side of that narration makes me recall The Cure’s Other Voices - “But I live with desertion and eight million people”. It was written 26 years ago; today you may find that a relationship has ended via Facebook before you find out in the real world. Maybe sometimes it’s best not to be able to see too clearly?
© James McGalliard 2007
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 28 November 2007
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here
At this time of the year, the autumnal northern sun hangs low in the London sky. It’s not a light you ever see in Australia; this bright yet diffused ball of light sits right in your eyeline. For a pedestrian this makes crossing roads particularly perilous - sometimes you just squint and plough ahead, hoping for the best. You need sunglasses now more than you do in summer, but the days are so brief and it’s a strange look on the cold streets. The world is all around you but in silhouette – it’s there, but you can’t actually look at it. You see only your immediate surroundings, which is a good analogy of living here. For sometimes, you only see glimpses of other lives through arts or the media.
Recently the British public has been taken into the life of the sex worker in London via two glossy adaptations of working girl’s memoirs. And it’s gotta be said, I know very little about prostitution. I know that the seemingly glamorous world presented in these shows has upset some groups, notably The Women's Institute. I also know that if I watch a current affairs show, I’ll see stories of human trafficking. But these adaptations are meant as amusing titillation, not high art or sweeping social comment.
In 1748, John Cleland wrote Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure, better known as Fanny Hill, a fictional account of a country lass happily falling into prostitution in the London of his day. Now it has been adapted for arty, mature channel BBC Four, by the near ubiquitous Andrew Davies, as it seems no work of historical literature can be adapted by anyone else. The original book helped its author out of debtor’s prison, and this recent adaptation broke viewing figures for the digital-only station on which it was broadcast. It’s not a morality tale – despite Fanny’s changing fortunes she is untarnished; even her rape in a back alley leads indirectly to her happy ending. In the Beeb version, it ends with her aside to camera “As to the moral of my story? Must stories have morals? It seems to me life is very complicated and we must all get through it as best we can. Virtue is always preferable to vice, but we can’t always choose can we?”
Meanwhile, on the other side (ITV), Billie Piper is currently a long way from the TARDIS. Having first appeared as another literary Fanny – Fanny Price of Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park, she’s now starring in a present day role as Hannah / Belle in Secret Diary Of a Call Girl. It’s based on the reportedly true-life book (and blog) of “Belle De Jour”. To my cost, I’ve found the consequences of buying Belle’s book for ‘research’ for a potential column via Amazon. Once you put something like The Intimate Adventures Of A London Call Girl in your shopping basket (particularly alongside Abby Lee’s blog turned book), the future recommendations become a page that isn’t safe to open at work. Like Fanny Hill, this was broadcast on a digital-only channel (ITV2), and it also broke viewing records for the station. The TV version was unsure of what tone to adopt, and veered wildly from week to week.
Yet these shows had more in common that the profession of the central protagonist. In both the fourth wall was broken with looks and discussions straight to camera, to allow the actual words of the original text to come through. And their stories do connect on a deeper level, as both Fanny and Belle are searching for that one true love. For London is a city that keeps you at a distance and makes this seemingly impossible. It’s against the rules to talk to people on other tables in the pub. You might see someone you’d like to talk to, but approaching him or her directly is brazen and not done. The worst is public transport, where it is deemed safest not to be even capable of focussing on anyone else. Not everyone follows these rules of etiquette, but they are seen as a nuisance or even threatening. So it’s easier to meet people on the internet than in real life, which explains the large take-up of internet dating and other methods of meeting.
Back on TV and in the final episode of Secret Diary, Belle quits her agency, becomes a courtesan, and then finds she’s bored with that, and so goes back to a world of many clients, but on her own terms. But it’s all OK her closing narration tells us, if certain things are in place: “In London you can keep secrets. You can be anonymous. You can be whoever you want. But as long as someone knows you entirely and loves you still, it’s the best place in the world.” But the other side of that narration makes me recall The Cure’s Other Voices - “But I live with desertion and eight million people”. It was written 26 years ago; today you may find that a relationship has ended via Facebook before you find out in the real world. Maybe sometimes it’s best not to be able to see too clearly?
© James McGalliard 2007
Wednesday, 22 March 2006
Mind Your Language
London Fields # 24
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 22 March 2006
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here
When you spend some time away from a place, you see it with different eyes on your return. There are so many similarities between Melbourne and London that it can be easy to get a little confused. Particularly when it’s a mere twenty-three hour blur between the two. Hitting the equinox, it may now be light at 5pm here, but that’s when the temperature plummets. With snow expected for Easter, it seems as though spring is still some way off.
No, you know you’re in London because it’s squirrels in the garden and not possums, the sky is low-hanging and slate grey, and housing comes in unbroken rows of terraces. If a stranger speaks to you it’s probably because they want something; it can all seem unfriendly and threatening. But there are compensations – British newspapers, digital broadcasting and a great live music scene.
It may seem strange, but asides from climate, the biggest barrier between the two cities is probably language, which can cause all manner of strife. It’s easy to get into a mess, as the promoters of Australian tourism recently discovered. For all the fuss in the Australian media about the "Where the bloody hell are you?" campaign, so far it hasn’t really made its presence known much at all. A friend saw a press ad [without the bloody], but that’s about it. I suppose anything’s an improvement over "I can see a rainbow" though.
But it’s all a matter of what you may consider to be offensive. London’s Evening Standard has devoted a fair bit of coverage to its ongoing feud with London Mayor Ken Livingstone. When a persistent reporter door-stepped Ken after a private function, Livingstone lost his composure and compared the reporter to a concentration camp guard. A year of legal wrangling, and non-apologies, led to a four-week suspension from his post [currently frozen pending judicial review]. So, it’s all about use of language that may be deemed offensive, right? Yet in the issue of the Standard that carried pages of coverage relating to the initial suspension, was a column by AN Wilson on Australia and the Republican movement, in which the author saw fit to use the term "Abo" as an appropriate description of indigenous Australians. Despite letters to the paper, complaining about the use of the term, and some coverage in TNT Magazine, no apology was forthcoming from the paper or author.
It is strange watching Melbourne through a British lens. If you only saw the news, you’d think that it was only the countries in the UK who’d won medals at the Games. Thank god for digital broadcasting. The UK has latched onto this faster than any other country in the world. Over ten million Freeview boxes have been sold, which allow reception of free-to-air digital broadcasting. Add this to those with satellite and cable services, and over two-thirds of UK homes have now gone digital. Just as well as analogue transmission is planned to end in 2012 [just in time for the London Olympic Games]. With ten million homes on broadband internet, and 2.7 million DAB radios sold, and you have the dawn of a new digital age. With the Games, it means that you have a choice of watching five different events through the one channel via interactive broadcasting. Sadly that’s five events in which the Brits are favoured, but you can’t have it all.
Although I love the BBC, and only begrudge a little the £126.50 annual TV licence fee, which pays for all the BBC’s TV, radio and web services, they don’t always get it right. Of course, via interactive TV, I could have watched the Opening Ceremony of the Games without commentary, but then I would have missed their embarrassing gaffs. My favourite was when the commentator had no idea who Ron Barassi was, so mistakenly proceeded to spend a few minutes discussing Herb Elliott, as Barassi walked on water. It was only when the baton was passed to Elliott that they realised their error and apologised. And the whole duck thing may have made a little sense if they’d bothered to explain the Leunig connection. When it came to the highlights repeated that evening, the whole section from the tram landing to the Queen’s arrival bit the dust, as did the performance by The Church. Weirdly The Cat Empire stayed in…
Speaking of language barriers, how did they match countries with their relevant giant fish on the Yarra? Whilst pike(r) is a quitter in Oz, pike(y) is an extremely offensive term for a particular class and type of thief. Did the organisers of the games think about this? – I wonder if there was some big joke in giving Northern Ireland a pike, and England a roach?
But amidst all the ‘Bloody’ fuss, you may have missed this gem. Lastminute.com had their wrist slapped by the Advertising Standing Authority for an e-mail campaign for children’s theatre tickets entitled Doing It For The Kids. What did they do that was so wrong? This was in the text of the ad: "Like Gary Glitter in a sweet shop, you too can have your pick of kiddy treats in London’s theatre world". Eh Gadd! [Paul Gadd, eh?] Now that’s the way to get your bloody message across!
© James McGalliard 2006
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 22 March 2006
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here
When you spend some time away from a place, you see it with different eyes on your return. There are so many similarities between Melbourne and London that it can be easy to get a little confused. Particularly when it’s a mere twenty-three hour blur between the two. Hitting the equinox, it may now be light at 5pm here, but that’s when the temperature plummets. With snow expected for Easter, it seems as though spring is still some way off.
No, you know you’re in London because it’s squirrels in the garden and not possums, the sky is low-hanging and slate grey, and housing comes in unbroken rows of terraces. If a stranger speaks to you it’s probably because they want something; it can all seem unfriendly and threatening. But there are compensations – British newspapers, digital broadcasting and a great live music scene.
It may seem strange, but asides from climate, the biggest barrier between the two cities is probably language, which can cause all manner of strife. It’s easy to get into a mess, as the promoters of Australian tourism recently discovered. For all the fuss in the Australian media about the "Where the bloody hell are you?" campaign, so far it hasn’t really made its presence known much at all. A friend saw a press ad [without the bloody], but that’s about it. I suppose anything’s an improvement over "I can see a rainbow" though.
But it’s all a matter of what you may consider to be offensive. London’s Evening Standard has devoted a fair bit of coverage to its ongoing feud with London Mayor Ken Livingstone. When a persistent reporter door-stepped Ken after a private function, Livingstone lost his composure and compared the reporter to a concentration camp guard. A year of legal wrangling, and non-apologies, led to a four-week suspension from his post [currently frozen pending judicial review]. So, it’s all about use of language that may be deemed offensive, right? Yet in the issue of the Standard that carried pages of coverage relating to the initial suspension, was a column by AN Wilson on Australia and the Republican movement, in which the author saw fit to use the term "Abo" as an appropriate description of indigenous Australians. Despite letters to the paper, complaining about the use of the term, and some coverage in TNT Magazine, no apology was forthcoming from the paper or author.
It is strange watching Melbourne through a British lens. If you only saw the news, you’d think that it was only the countries in the UK who’d won medals at the Games. Thank god for digital broadcasting. The UK has latched onto this faster than any other country in the world. Over ten million Freeview boxes have been sold, which allow reception of free-to-air digital broadcasting. Add this to those with satellite and cable services, and over two-thirds of UK homes have now gone digital. Just as well as analogue transmission is planned to end in 2012 [just in time for the London Olympic Games]. With ten million homes on broadband internet, and 2.7 million DAB radios sold, and you have the dawn of a new digital age. With the Games, it means that you have a choice of watching five different events through the one channel via interactive broadcasting. Sadly that’s five events in which the Brits are favoured, but you can’t have it all.
Although I love the BBC, and only begrudge a little the £126.50 annual TV licence fee, which pays for all the BBC’s TV, radio and web services, they don’t always get it right. Of course, via interactive TV, I could have watched the Opening Ceremony of the Games without commentary, but then I would have missed their embarrassing gaffs. My favourite was when the commentator had no idea who Ron Barassi was, so mistakenly proceeded to spend a few minutes discussing Herb Elliott, as Barassi walked on water. It was only when the baton was passed to Elliott that they realised their error and apologised. And the whole duck thing may have made a little sense if they’d bothered to explain the Leunig connection. When it came to the highlights repeated that evening, the whole section from the tram landing to the Queen’s arrival bit the dust, as did the performance by The Church. Weirdly The Cat Empire stayed in…
Speaking of language barriers, how did they match countries with their relevant giant fish on the Yarra? Whilst pike(r) is a quitter in Oz, pike(y) is an extremely offensive term for a particular class and type of thief. Did the organisers of the games think about this? – I wonder if there was some big joke in giving Northern Ireland a pike, and England a roach?
But amidst all the ‘Bloody’ fuss, you may have missed this gem. Lastminute.com had their wrist slapped by the Advertising Standing Authority for an e-mail campaign for children’s theatre tickets entitled Doing It For The Kids. What did they do that was so wrong? This was in the text of the ad: "Like Gary Glitter in a sweet shop, you too can have your pick of kiddy treats in London’s theatre world". Eh Gadd! [Paul Gadd, eh?] Now that’s the way to get your bloody message across!
© James McGalliard 2006
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
