London Fields # 75
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 24 February 2010
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here
While channel hopping during a recent trip home to Melbourne, I recalled a particularly prescient old sketch from A Bit Of Fry & Laurie. A government minister dining in a restaurant finds himself the object of some obsequious attention from his waiter, who lavishes praise upon him for a particular Commons speech concerning the de-regularisation of broadcasting, even quoting sections word-for word. The waiter then expresses horror and abjectly apologises for the minister‘s silver cutlery - this simply will not do! He takes it away and replaces it with a huge pile of plastic coffee stirrers. The minister is baffled. The waiter explains “I mean, they may be complete crap, but you‘ve got the choice, haven‘t you?” Originally written as a response to The Broadcasting Act (1990) [UK], in some ways this sketch now also seems to apply to the less-than-shiny state of Australian digital broadcasting. It used to be that Australia was an early and rapid adopter of new technology; both colour television and VCR take-up was faster than virtually anywhere else in the world. But when it comes to Digital broadcasting, especially for radio, it seems to be taking longer to catch on.
Then again, the uptake was pretty slow in the UK too, at least until DAB radios were drastically slashed in price. Since then, the rise in listener figures (for digital only stations such as BBC 6Music) has been astonishing. According to Rajar figures, during the final quarter of 2009, 6Music’s listener figures were up by 11.4%, with a year-on-year rise of a whopping 12.3%. But this does not necessarily make for a secure future.. Both it, and flagship station BBC Radio 2 (the most listened to station in the country, with some shows getting over 10 million listeners) were the subject of a review by the BBC Trust, and neither station escaped unscathed. Radio 2 is meant to target the over 35s, yet has seen a huge rise in a younger audience over the past ten years, and they now account for 18% of the total audience. Meanwhile 6Music is a place for those who simply love music, and have outgrown Radio 1, but are not ready for the pastures of Radio 2. Radio 2 has 5 million who listen to no other BBC radio, and some 2 million who listen to no other station at all. The BBC Trust’s review felt that Radio 2 had gained this younger audience at the expense of older listeners, and that it should now actively seek new listeners aged 65 and older, even if this alienates the current audience. Meanwhile 6Music suffered through lack of awareness. Even though the ratings have risen exponentially, the review maintained that this was from a low starting point, and claimed that only 20% of the adult population were even aware that the station existed.
DAB still has teething troubles. Claims of “CD quality sound” are frankly laughable, with most broadcasts at 128kbps, a bitrate so low no music lover would choose it for their mp3 player. Additionally the processors at either end may mean that there’s an significant broadcasting delay, so that “live” cricket commentary lags some half minute behind play, rendering it virtually useless if listening while watching a game live at the ground. Yet unlike FM transmissions, they can avoid the interference of pirate stations, and scrolling text is an easy answer to the perennial “what song is this” question.
It seems that BBC 6Music is safe, for now at least; but there are greater external threats on the horizon. With a general election due around May, it’s possible more knives are being sharpened. The BBC is not a cheap body to run, and if it wasn’t for the TV Licence fee, it would be unable to continue as a worldwide public service broadcaster, covering as broad a remit as it does. But certain players want the BBC to lose it’s newsgathering prowess, and who knows what deals may be struck with large news corporations if there’s a change of government. Currently it’s the annual licence fee of £142.50 per annum from virtually every UK household that supports the television, radio, internet and news teams, and provides much of this service free to the world outside the UK. Yet the election battle lines are currently being drawn, and even the Falkland Islands may once again play a part. The BBC may be another victim in the conflict, and cease to continue as we know it.
© James McGalliard 2010
Wednesday, 24 February 2010
Thursday, 28 January 2010
It's Snow Joking Matter
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
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
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, 9 December 2009
Label With Love
London Fields # 72
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 9 December 2009
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here
There was a recent television history of British music that skipped straight from the second summer of love in 1988 to BritPop in the mid-nineties, as though nothing happened in the interim. In fact, BritPop and Dad Rock spelled the end of a much more interesting music scene. At the time, shoegazing was coined as a pejorative term, referring to guitarists staring at their array of effects pedals down from behind curtained hair while all-but-ignoring the audience. In the years since, the influence of that music has reverberated with another generation, and an ongoing renaissance has been steadily progressing, albeit without much mainstream recognition. While the whole concept of an impending shoegaze revival is a bit of a misnomer, what has changed is the general awareness and appreciation of the music, so that My Bloody Valentine can now pull audiences they couldn’t even dream of in their heyday.
Club AC30 celebrated their fifth birthday last April, and over the last weekend of November presented Reverence # 2, exhibiting just some aspects of the modern scene, over three nights at the ICA in London. Club AC30’s shows are different to the norm; Robin and Duncan (with Nick) have a genuine love of their music and every band has a reason to be on that particular bill. As such, an unknown opener could prove to be your new favourite band, which makes their nights special indeed. Reverence # 2 sees a mix of old and new, with two of the headliners reforming from way back when.
Air Formation‘s music promises that their forthcoming album could be a blinder; live however, they’re a little hindered by the vocals, although these improve immensely as their set progresses. I’ve always thought there was a link between shoegaze and the euphoric side of trance. Ulrich Schnauss doesn’t go near a guitar, but like trance, his music acts as a soundtrack to an internal journey, one where it’s possible to lose oneself in it and make freefall associations as though in a deep meditative state - but this is travelling without drugs or physical movement. As projections show a travelogue through the cities of Europe, I realise that this music isn’t about pedals or controlled feedback, but a state of mind. Headlining the night, Chapterhouse are probably a better live prospect now than they were back then. They stake a valid claim not to be forgotten, and Falling Down feels like a lost baggy anthem from Madchester. The following night Swervedriver play as though there’s some unfinished business and they’re trying to set it right. It’s a strange contrast – there’s warmth but a clinical edge, and the raw edge to the vocals makes me think of Chris Bailey. Earlier, The Depreciation Guild show that this music can be light, playful and joyous, but still carry gravitas. I confess Jesu were a bit heavy for me, or at least for my mood on this evening.
On the final night, The Tamborines are rather special - things fall into place like no other gig I’ve seen them play and they’re damn impressive. They’re followed by Ringo Deathstarr from Austin, Texas who mix fuzz pedal rock, dreampop and US garage punk - In Love being the standout of a strong set. The only disappointment of the whole three nights comes at the finale with The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart. Playing as a five piece, it’s more like The Heartbreak Of Playing Painfully Flat, and only Higher Than The Stars threatens to lift things, but even that crumbles when the singing starts. This C86 inspired mess is so bad a pastiche it’s almost offensive, yet the members of the audience who spent all of Ringo Deathstarr’s set taking photos of each other for Facebook seem mesmerised, so what do I know?
Although I’m excited by some releases by newer bands coming in 2010 (Exit Calm and When The Sun Hits for starters), there’s still some originals I’d love to return to show why they’re remembered so fondly. While Lush isn’t possible, and Slowdive more than unlikely, I can still hope to see Pale Saints or Bark Psychosis play again in some form. Meanwhile, the rumour mill whispers that a certain Oxford four-piece will choose not to Leave Them All Behind next year, so this is far from over.
© James McGalliard 2009
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 9 December 2009
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here
There was a recent television history of British music that skipped straight from the second summer of love in 1988 to BritPop in the mid-nineties, as though nothing happened in the interim. In fact, BritPop and Dad Rock spelled the end of a much more interesting music scene. At the time, shoegazing was coined as a pejorative term, referring to guitarists staring at their array of effects pedals down from behind curtained hair while all-but-ignoring the audience. In the years since, the influence of that music has reverberated with another generation, and an ongoing renaissance has been steadily progressing, albeit without much mainstream recognition. While the whole concept of an impending shoegaze revival is a bit of a misnomer, what has changed is the general awareness and appreciation of the music, so that My Bloody Valentine can now pull audiences they couldn’t even dream of in their heyday.
Club AC30 celebrated their fifth birthday last April, and over the last weekend of November presented Reverence # 2, exhibiting just some aspects of the modern scene, over three nights at the ICA in London. Club AC30’s shows are different to the norm; Robin and Duncan (with Nick) have a genuine love of their music and every band has a reason to be on that particular bill. As such, an unknown opener could prove to be your new favourite band, which makes their nights special indeed. Reverence # 2 sees a mix of old and new, with two of the headliners reforming from way back when.
Air Formation‘s music promises that their forthcoming album could be a blinder; live however, they’re a little hindered by the vocals, although these improve immensely as their set progresses. I’ve always thought there was a link between shoegaze and the euphoric side of trance. Ulrich Schnauss doesn’t go near a guitar, but like trance, his music acts as a soundtrack to an internal journey, one where it’s possible to lose oneself in it and make freefall associations as though in a deep meditative state - but this is travelling without drugs or physical movement. As projections show a travelogue through the cities of Europe, I realise that this music isn’t about pedals or controlled feedback, but a state of mind. Headlining the night, Chapterhouse are probably a better live prospect now than they were back then. They stake a valid claim not to be forgotten, and Falling Down feels like a lost baggy anthem from Madchester. The following night Swervedriver play as though there’s some unfinished business and they’re trying to set it right. It’s a strange contrast – there’s warmth but a clinical edge, and the raw edge to the vocals makes me think of Chris Bailey. Earlier, The Depreciation Guild show that this music can be light, playful and joyous, but still carry gravitas. I confess Jesu were a bit heavy for me, or at least for my mood on this evening.
On the final night, The Tamborines are rather special - things fall into place like no other gig I’ve seen them play and they’re damn impressive. They’re followed by Ringo Deathstarr from Austin, Texas who mix fuzz pedal rock, dreampop and US garage punk - In Love being the standout of a strong set. The only disappointment of the whole three nights comes at the finale with The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart. Playing as a five piece, it’s more like The Heartbreak Of Playing Painfully Flat, and only Higher Than The Stars threatens to lift things, but even that crumbles when the singing starts. This C86 inspired mess is so bad a pastiche it’s almost offensive, yet the members of the audience who spent all of Ringo Deathstarr’s set taking photos of each other for Facebook seem mesmerised, so what do I know?
Although I’m excited by some releases by newer bands coming in 2010 (Exit Calm and When The Sun Hits for starters), there’s still some originals I’d love to return to show why they’re remembered so fondly. While Lush isn’t possible, and Slowdive more than unlikely, I can still hope to see Pale Saints or Bark Psychosis play again in some form. Meanwhile, the rumour mill whispers that a certain Oxford four-piece will choose not to Leave Them All Behind next year, so this is far from over.
© James McGalliard 2009
Wednesday, 11 November 2009
State Of The Nation
London Fields # 71
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 11 November 2009
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here
Overhead there’s an explosion every few seconds as rockets and mortars light up the night skies. It feels like a siege is underway, and the view outside is reminiscent of the CNN footage at the beginning of the 1991 Gulf War. But the barrage is actually the height of the annual firework season; where every man sets something alight, and his every dog (or cat) hides behind the sofa. While Guy Fawkes Night can be seen as a celebration of over 400 years of religious persecution (certainly more traditional events, such as Lewes, centre on anti-Popery), for me it serves to illustrate an ongoing conflict between the forces of reform and reactionary change which lie at the heart of a conflicted nation.
Remembrance Sunday this year saw attention focused on current British military actions, particularly those in Afghanistan. As the death toll (in hostile actions there) passed 200, it came to light that Prime Minister Gordon Brown had misspelled the surname of one of the fallen in his handwritten condolence letter to the soldier’s mother. It could be argued that this was a failing of his support staff by not noticing that their partially sighted boss had confused ‘m’ and ‘n’, but instead the whole thing felt like a rejected script from satire The Thick Of It, and just seemed to reinforce the general lack of confidence his premiership inspires.
The pound is excessively weak, and Britain is about the only country in Europe that is yet to emerge from recession. Inflation may be low, but unemployment is steadily rising, and with banks collapsing, redundancies and last year’s real estate crash, folks fear for their futures. This has led to the rise of the staycation – a holiday in the only country where a £ is still worth a £. For tourists coming to Britain, the cheap pound is great news. But once they arrive, they may find things a little more difficult. Ongoing upgrading of technical systems on the London Underground is seeing widespread line closures, particularly at weekends, making the city damn hard to get around. Next year we are promised further closures and huge fare rises, as well as a general reduction in buses and late night tube services.
But what will the relatively low value of the currency mean to traditional Aussie backpackers? Why work in the UK for pounds when Euros are available to earn in Ireland and throughout Europe? The money they save here will no longer be that nest egg for when they return home, nor will it go far in those European escapes. Meanwhile you may find it tempting to internet shop while prices for Australian consumers are so comparatively low, but with the recent rolling strike action by Royal Mail employees, who knows when your purchases may arrive? I ask a local postie if he thinks the current strike action is just handing the government over to the Tories. As far as he’s concerned, that battle’s already lost, and the only hope of a continuing living wage for postal staff is industrial action now.
The parallels with the winter of discontent and the Britain Isn’t Working campaign which led to the election of Thatcher and all that followed are striking. The only thing missing is the power blackouts (which, we are told will come in the next few decades unless a lot more nuclear power plants are built). This climate of fear is leading to a rise in popularity of far right groups, perhaps most visibly by the British National Party (BNP), which was the centre of a recent furore when invited to appear on flagship current affairs show Question Time. Even those tabloids which make it their passing trade to engender distrust and fear, pilloried BNP leader Nick Griffin on their front pages, thus giving him the chance to claim bias and attempting a form of martyrdom. Yet selecting such a specific target misses a bigger picture – the empty promise of a return to a nostalgic world which never actually existed.
The daily news is filled with stories of random acts of senseless violence, and am saddened as I watch things slide. Meanwhile, out to the east, the building of the facilities for the 2012 London Olympics continues regardless.
© James McGalliard 2009
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 11 November 2009
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here
Overhead there’s an explosion every few seconds as rockets and mortars light up the night skies. It feels like a siege is underway, and the view outside is reminiscent of the CNN footage at the beginning of the 1991 Gulf War. But the barrage is actually the height of the annual firework season; where every man sets something alight, and his every dog (or cat) hides behind the sofa. While Guy Fawkes Night can be seen as a celebration of over 400 years of religious persecution (certainly more traditional events, such as Lewes, centre on anti-Popery), for me it serves to illustrate an ongoing conflict between the forces of reform and reactionary change which lie at the heart of a conflicted nation.
Remembrance Sunday this year saw attention focused on current British military actions, particularly those in Afghanistan. As the death toll (in hostile actions there) passed 200, it came to light that Prime Minister Gordon Brown had misspelled the surname of one of the fallen in his handwritten condolence letter to the soldier’s mother. It could be argued that this was a failing of his support staff by not noticing that their partially sighted boss had confused ‘m’ and ‘n’, but instead the whole thing felt like a rejected script from satire The Thick Of It, and just seemed to reinforce the general lack of confidence his premiership inspires.
The pound is excessively weak, and Britain is about the only country in Europe that is yet to emerge from recession. Inflation may be low, but unemployment is steadily rising, and with banks collapsing, redundancies and last year’s real estate crash, folks fear for their futures. This has led to the rise of the staycation – a holiday in the only country where a £ is still worth a £. For tourists coming to Britain, the cheap pound is great news. But once they arrive, they may find things a little more difficult. Ongoing upgrading of technical systems on the London Underground is seeing widespread line closures, particularly at weekends, making the city damn hard to get around. Next year we are promised further closures and huge fare rises, as well as a general reduction in buses and late night tube services.
But what will the relatively low value of the currency mean to traditional Aussie backpackers? Why work in the UK for pounds when Euros are available to earn in Ireland and throughout Europe? The money they save here will no longer be that nest egg for when they return home, nor will it go far in those European escapes. Meanwhile you may find it tempting to internet shop while prices for Australian consumers are so comparatively low, but with the recent rolling strike action by Royal Mail employees, who knows when your purchases may arrive? I ask a local postie if he thinks the current strike action is just handing the government over to the Tories. As far as he’s concerned, that battle’s already lost, and the only hope of a continuing living wage for postal staff is industrial action now.
The parallels with the winter of discontent and the Britain Isn’t Working campaign which led to the election of Thatcher and all that followed are striking. The only thing missing is the power blackouts (which, we are told will come in the next few decades unless a lot more nuclear power plants are built). This climate of fear is leading to a rise in popularity of far right groups, perhaps most visibly by the British National Party (BNP), which was the centre of a recent furore when invited to appear on flagship current affairs show Question Time. Even those tabloids which make it their passing trade to engender distrust and fear, pilloried BNP leader Nick Griffin on their front pages, thus giving him the chance to claim bias and attempting a form of martyrdom. Yet selecting such a specific target misses a bigger picture – the empty promise of a return to a nostalgic world which never actually existed.
The daily news is filled with stories of random acts of senseless violence, and am saddened as I watch things slide. Meanwhile, out to the east, the building of the facilities for the 2012 London Olympics continues regardless.
© James McGalliard 2009
Wednesday, 14 October 2009
Black & White TV
London Fields # 70
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 14 October 2009
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here
Perhaps the most contentious section of comedian Richard Herring’s Edinburgh show Hitler Moustache began when he chose to use the term “Paki” to make a point. In the UK it is no mere abbreviation, but one of the most taboo terms of racist abuse, a derogatory catch-all for anyone from the Asian subcontinent. I felt myself catch my breath as he uttered it, for it’s dangerous territory to tread. Herring is not a racist by any stretch, but there’s a risk in being quoted out of context, such as the furore that surrounded his “maybe the racists have a point” comment from elsewhere in the show. His expansive conjecture was that an extreme racist’s ‘us and them’ mentality was only one step away from the truly enlightened state of seeing that we’re all the same; so those liberals who see hundreds of separate races on Earth were hundreds of steps further away from the ideal. He went on to illustrate that if people from India and Pakistan saw themselves as a racist sees them (the same), they’d be no conflict between the countries. Now this was never meant to be a serious proposition; the whole point of his show was to challenge perceptions and assumptions.
There’s been another recent TV race row playing out in the papers, where Strictly Come Dancing contestant Anton Du Beke saw the spray-on tan of his partner Laila Rouass and exclaimed “You look like a Paki”. The comment was made off air, and apologies were quickly made and accepted. Yet it’s still shocking that such a remark could be made, even in ‘jest’. ‘Only joshing’ was Carol Thatcher’s excuse earlier this year too, when she used the word “golliwog” to describe tennis player Jo-Wilfried Tsonga. It was also an off-air remark – the difference was that she refused to apologise (at least initially), saying there was nothing wrong with it. Rightfully, the BBC dismissed her, yet there are those who claim that the Beeb has not been even-handed in its handling of such incidents. Both the Celebrity Big Brother affair and Manuelgate are still fresh wounds in TV Land, and the BBC faces an uncertain future, particularly if there is a change in government at the next election.
Hence the BBC Trust’s latest broadcasting guidelines are reactionary, and the new restrictions on bad language feel like a visit from the ghost of Mary Whitehouse. Yet the modern world is one wherein you need to be more aware that certain, seemingly innocent words may carry a hidden weight. Only the other I week a responded to a ribald remark from a fellow employee with “cheeky monkey”, only to then freeze as I remembered that in England that word has nasty associations to anyone of black decent. And a few weeks earlier I was completely dumbfounded when a handyman at my flat started expressed some pretty hateful opinions, and used some racist expressions I’d never heard used in real life and hoped had been lost in the 1970s.
Yet the most shocking example of TV gone wrong recently wasn’t any of these, but the Jackson Jive act on Hey Hey It’s Saturday. It’s thirty years since Bert Newton wrongfooted Mohammed Ali with his infamous (yet genuinely innocent) “I like the boy” remark, and longer since The Black And White Minstrel Show was consigned to the cultural dustbin. So you’d have hoped that a true multicultural society might have become more attuned, yet the “Where’s Kamahl?” cartoon genuinely served to bundle all races of colour into the one basket that Richard Herring satirised. It isn’t about political correctness; it’s about being aware of a wider world - one in which the Lucky Country, with its detention camps and belated ‘Sorry’ is sometimes viewed as backward, homophobic and racist. Personally, I was simply embarrassed, and somewhat glad that this didn’t become a bigger story here, as it would have been impossible to defend my homeland. It’s not necessarily a question of racism, but it’s certainly one of sensitivity and awareness. Would they have been allowed to perform in blackface holding boomerangs, didgeridoos and a copy of the Mabo Treaty? To put it simply - “Wake Up Australia!”
© James McGalliard 2009
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 14 October 2009
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here
Perhaps the most contentious section of comedian Richard Herring’s Edinburgh show Hitler Moustache began when he chose to use the term “Paki” to make a point. In the UK it is no mere abbreviation, but one of the most taboo terms of racist abuse, a derogatory catch-all for anyone from the Asian subcontinent. I felt myself catch my breath as he uttered it, for it’s dangerous territory to tread. Herring is not a racist by any stretch, but there’s a risk in being quoted out of context, such as the furore that surrounded his “maybe the racists have a point” comment from elsewhere in the show. His expansive conjecture was that an extreme racist’s ‘us and them’ mentality was only one step away from the truly enlightened state of seeing that we’re all the same; so those liberals who see hundreds of separate races on Earth were hundreds of steps further away from the ideal. He went on to illustrate that if people from India and Pakistan saw themselves as a racist sees them (the same), they’d be no conflict between the countries. Now this was never meant to be a serious proposition; the whole point of his show was to challenge perceptions and assumptions.
There’s been another recent TV race row playing out in the papers, where Strictly Come Dancing contestant Anton Du Beke saw the spray-on tan of his partner Laila Rouass and exclaimed “You look like a Paki”. The comment was made off air, and apologies were quickly made and accepted. Yet it’s still shocking that such a remark could be made, even in ‘jest’. ‘Only joshing’ was Carol Thatcher’s excuse earlier this year too, when she used the word “golliwog” to describe tennis player Jo-Wilfried Tsonga. It was also an off-air remark – the difference was that she refused to apologise (at least initially), saying there was nothing wrong with it. Rightfully, the BBC dismissed her, yet there are those who claim that the Beeb has not been even-handed in its handling of such incidents. Both the Celebrity Big Brother affair and Manuelgate are still fresh wounds in TV Land, and the BBC faces an uncertain future, particularly if there is a change in government at the next election.
Hence the BBC Trust’s latest broadcasting guidelines are reactionary, and the new restrictions on bad language feel like a visit from the ghost of Mary Whitehouse. Yet the modern world is one wherein you need to be more aware that certain, seemingly innocent words may carry a hidden weight. Only the other I week a responded to a ribald remark from a fellow employee with “cheeky monkey”, only to then freeze as I remembered that in England that word has nasty associations to anyone of black decent. And a few weeks earlier I was completely dumbfounded when a handyman at my flat started expressed some pretty hateful opinions, and used some racist expressions I’d never heard used in real life and hoped had been lost in the 1970s.
Yet the most shocking example of TV gone wrong recently wasn’t any of these, but the Jackson Jive act on Hey Hey It’s Saturday. It’s thirty years since Bert Newton wrongfooted Mohammed Ali with his infamous (yet genuinely innocent) “I like the boy” remark, and longer since The Black And White Minstrel Show was consigned to the cultural dustbin. So you’d have hoped that a true multicultural society might have become more attuned, yet the “Where’s Kamahl?” cartoon genuinely served to bundle all races of colour into the one basket that Richard Herring satirised. It isn’t about political correctness; it’s about being aware of a wider world - one in which the Lucky Country, with its detention camps and belated ‘Sorry’ is sometimes viewed as backward, homophobic and racist. Personally, I was simply embarrassed, and somewhat glad that this didn’t become a bigger story here, as it would have been impossible to defend my homeland. It’s not necessarily a question of racism, but it’s certainly one of sensitivity and awareness. Would they have been allowed to perform in blackface holding boomerangs, didgeridoos and a copy of the Mabo Treaty? To put it simply - “Wake Up Australia!”
© James McGalliard 2009
Wednesday, 16 September 2009
Edinblur
London Fields # 69
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 16 September 2009
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here
Edinblur tends to strike the Scottish capital each August, as those journeying to the annual Edinburgh Fringe Festival try and cram as much as possible into the time and space available. This is my attempt in words. Pappy's Fun Club's World Record Attempt: 200 Sketches in an Hour is an immediate highlight. They are able to make a large venue feel quite intimate, and it’s clear that they’re actually really enjoying it and each other. Their best material is imbued with a childlike wonder that makes it rather special. It’s very funny with running gags that work really well, some great ‘home made’ props, but mostly it’s about how they take you along on the ride with them, so much so that you’re literally dancing in your seat by the end.
New Art Club mix dance and humour in This Is Now, a reminiscence of 1983, first loves, cassette tapes, bad hair and the dawn of the Now That’s What I Call Music chart compilation LPs. Never again will I hear Give It Up by KC and The Sunshine Band again without picturing their accompanying choreography of IRA kneecappings and executions by balaclava-wearing dancers. Manchester’s Lady Garden were also busting with energy, and the multi-faceted performers have a pretty good grasp of when to end a sketch. From the simple supermarket announcements, to what real ladettes would be like, to the Six Wives of Henry VIII as Britain’s Next Top Monarch, they are a troupe to watch for.
Former Perrier Award winner Laura Solon returned with Rabbit Face Story Soup, a self-composed multi-character one-woman show, in which aspiring literary agent’s assistant Diana Lewis relates the story of her entry into the world of publishing. Solon takes on a kaleidoscope of roles to tell the tale, and inhabits each part in a bravura performance, which additionally introduces the concept of Crocodile Scrabble to the world. Elsewhere Pythonesque attempted to tell the story of Monty Python via a pastiche of their sketches. While a clever conceit, for the most part it lacked the anarchic edge of the source material, with only James Lance’s turn as Eric Idle bemoaning Python fanatics and theatre crowds coming anywhere close to capturing what it sought to honour. Over at the Traverse, The Interminable Suicide Of Gregory Church saw Daniel Kitson combine theatre and stand-up in a tale which effortlessly slipped from the real to the imagined as he unravelled the mystery of a suicide that took twenty-four years to succeed. It may seem like dark matter for comedy, yet Kitson’s skill is to gradually get you to care about his characters by the building of a complex jigsaw that mirrors a real life lived. It makes for a genuinely affecting, beautifully humanistic and eventually uplifting and life-affirming evening.
Australian cinema may never recover from its potted history as depicted in The Scottish Falsetto Sock Puppet Theatre Goes To Hollywood. Their last show was my highlight of 2008, and this year’s return featured a suitably irreverent Michael Jackson tribute, the best costume fast-changes on the Fringe, light sabres making music and a song about swine flu – to the theme of Footloose! On a more serious note, Hitler Moustache, the 25th consecutive show Richard Herring has taken to Edinburgh, felt like the culmination of all that he’d done before. It cunningly challenged perceptions of racism and pushed boundaries in a cleverly considered and thought-provoking way in which even liberals were not beyond baiting or criticism. Some of the gratuitousness was extremely funny, but he also successfully linked the recent political successes of far-right parties to general apathy without it feeling too much like a lecture.
The sheer physical skill and dexterity of the acrobats of ThisSideUp’s Controlled Falling Project provided many moments of jaw-dropping wonder, while Stewart Lee proved that his point that the last taboo of stand-up is to do something sincerely and well, by closing with a beautiful rendition of Steve Earle’s Galway Girl. Festival veteran Simon Munnery jumped from light to deeply personal in his AGM 2009, and his quiet self-assurance had me really liking what he was doing without being able to explain exactly why afterwards. Ophelia (drowning) by 3Bugs Fringe Theatre recreated Millais’ famous painting in a hotel swimming pool, and having the audience leaving her floating corpse in a pool, with no applause to break the mood or signal the end, was a chilling coup de théâtre. On my last night, Edwyn Collins was joined by fellow Orange Juice cohort Malcolm Ross for a few numbers. The band’s instruments were all amplified acoustic, performing new arrangements that really worked well, especially a gripping version of Rip It Up. The love in the room it was particularly touching, and it was a special way to end this year’s experience.
© James McGalliard 2009
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 16 September 2009
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here
Edinblur tends to strike the Scottish capital each August, as those journeying to the annual Edinburgh Fringe Festival try and cram as much as possible into the time and space available. This is my attempt in words. Pappy's Fun Club's World Record Attempt: 200 Sketches in an Hour is an immediate highlight. They are able to make a large venue feel quite intimate, and it’s clear that they’re actually really enjoying it and each other. Their best material is imbued with a childlike wonder that makes it rather special. It’s very funny with running gags that work really well, some great ‘home made’ props, but mostly it’s about how they take you along on the ride with them, so much so that you’re literally dancing in your seat by the end.
New Art Club mix dance and humour in This Is Now, a reminiscence of 1983, first loves, cassette tapes, bad hair and the dawn of the Now That’s What I Call Music chart compilation LPs. Never again will I hear Give It Up by KC and The Sunshine Band again without picturing their accompanying choreography of IRA kneecappings and executions by balaclava-wearing dancers. Manchester’s Lady Garden were also busting with energy, and the multi-faceted performers have a pretty good grasp of when to end a sketch. From the simple supermarket announcements, to what real ladettes would be like, to the Six Wives of Henry VIII as Britain’s Next Top Monarch, they are a troupe to watch for.
Former Perrier Award winner Laura Solon returned with Rabbit Face Story Soup, a self-composed multi-character one-woman show, in which aspiring literary agent’s assistant Diana Lewis relates the story of her entry into the world of publishing. Solon takes on a kaleidoscope of roles to tell the tale, and inhabits each part in a bravura performance, which additionally introduces the concept of Crocodile Scrabble to the world. Elsewhere Pythonesque attempted to tell the story of Monty Python via a pastiche of their sketches. While a clever conceit, for the most part it lacked the anarchic edge of the source material, with only James Lance’s turn as Eric Idle bemoaning Python fanatics and theatre crowds coming anywhere close to capturing what it sought to honour. Over at the Traverse, The Interminable Suicide Of Gregory Church saw Daniel Kitson combine theatre and stand-up in a tale which effortlessly slipped from the real to the imagined as he unravelled the mystery of a suicide that took twenty-four years to succeed. It may seem like dark matter for comedy, yet Kitson’s skill is to gradually get you to care about his characters by the building of a complex jigsaw that mirrors a real life lived. It makes for a genuinely affecting, beautifully humanistic and eventually uplifting and life-affirming evening.
Australian cinema may never recover from its potted history as depicted in The Scottish Falsetto Sock Puppet Theatre Goes To Hollywood. Their last show was my highlight of 2008, and this year’s return featured a suitably irreverent Michael Jackson tribute, the best costume fast-changes on the Fringe, light sabres making music and a song about swine flu – to the theme of Footloose! On a more serious note, Hitler Moustache, the 25th consecutive show Richard Herring has taken to Edinburgh, felt like the culmination of all that he’d done before. It cunningly challenged perceptions of racism and pushed boundaries in a cleverly considered and thought-provoking way in which even liberals were not beyond baiting or criticism. Some of the gratuitousness was extremely funny, but he also successfully linked the recent political successes of far-right parties to general apathy without it feeling too much like a lecture.
The sheer physical skill and dexterity of the acrobats of ThisSideUp’s Controlled Falling Project provided many moments of jaw-dropping wonder, while Stewart Lee proved that his point that the last taboo of stand-up is to do something sincerely and well, by closing with a beautiful rendition of Steve Earle’s Galway Girl. Festival veteran Simon Munnery jumped from light to deeply personal in his AGM 2009, and his quiet self-assurance had me really liking what he was doing without being able to explain exactly why afterwards. Ophelia (drowning) by 3Bugs Fringe Theatre recreated Millais’ famous painting in a hotel swimming pool, and having the audience leaving her floating corpse in a pool, with no applause to break the mood or signal the end, was a chilling coup de théâtre. On my last night, Edwyn Collins was joined by fellow Orange Juice cohort Malcolm Ross for a few numbers. The band’s instruments were all amplified acoustic, performing new arrangements that really worked well, especially a gripping version of Rip It Up. The love in the room it was particularly touching, and it was a special way to end this year’s experience.
© James McGalliard 2009
Wednesday, 19 August 2009
A Bigger Canvas
London Fields # 68
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
For years the fourth plinth of London’s Trafalgar Square has been the centre of discussion and controversy. It is no longer the age of Empire, so what is an appropriate subject for a new permanent statue? Artist Antony Gormley has come up with an intriguing, albeit temporary solution in a work entitled One & Other. Over the course of 100 days and nights, 2400 ordinary folks will each get one hour on top of the empty plinth to do almost whatever they please. So far, around 32 000 have applied to take part. Andy Warhol’s famous quote about fame may be true in another way here too, for some ‘plinthers’ (as they’re known) seem to run out of steam after about fifteen minutes, and end up twittering on their mobile. Via the live streams on the website I’ve seen someone dressed as a giant pigeon (Trigger Happy TV anyone?), another dressed as a giant CCTV camera, and some partial nudity. Last week someone went to whole hog and took off all their clothes (until police made him cover up after about five minutes). But it’s also been a place where music and art meet. Chris T-T took his guitar and a small PA up with him and busked, and a woman named Verity stood serenely while she resolutely and quietly sung wordless laments into the darkling air.
Music also met art over at the Roundhouse in Camden, where Nick Cave gave his first ever public reading from forthcoming novel The Death Of Bunny Munro. When I interviewed him about Grinderman for this paper a few years ago, he told me that he’d love to write a second novel, “...but I just don’t have the fucking time”. After the reading he revealed that this had been written over an intense six-week period while touring, late at night after shows, and in the mornings, and had a very different creative process to And The Ass Saw The Angel some twenty years ago. It transpires that this was originally a screenplay he wrote for John Hillcoat, and when the project stalled (at least temporarily) he just started telling the story in prose form, and liked how it turned out. It was fascinating to see him in this light, made somewhat hesitant and uncertain by venturing outside his comfort zone. The novel itself reflects some of his music; the spirit of Grinderman especially seems to permeate the text, from a reference to lampreys, to the naked need for sexual congress at any cost. The modern setting allows Cave to create some new verbs and adjectives from brands such as iPods, Zippo lighters and Tarzan, and in this digital age it is being released on multiple formats, including a talking book, and accompanying soundtrack.
Over at the Horse Hospital, DNA was a short art exhibition in praise of, and inspired by the pioneering work of John Foxx. Rather than a retrospective, all the work here was contemporary, and featured a blend of the analogue and the digital. Perhaps the physical centrepiece was The Grey Suit, one of four suits that over the years John has lent to friends and colleagues for the seeming properties that allow its wearer to become anonymous and move through the city without being noticed. These ideas and reflections have all contributed to The Quiet Man, a forthcoming work which Foxx has been spent over 30 years in refining. Gary Numan contributed an OSCar synthesiser (interestingly the keyboard of choice for the Foxx-free Ultravox of 1983) and a video interview about Foxx, while Nick Rhodes of Duran Duran had two digitally manipulated prints on display. Most interesting to me was Andrew Back’s No Numbers which breaks down the 3’18” of Foxx’s own Mr No into sets of numerically displayed digital samples which if transcribed on the paper provided at the rate of one number per second it would take four weeks to transcribe. Sadly Alex Proyas’ film was unable to be screened at the time I attended due to its gritty subject matter. Foxx told me he had enjoyed last year’s Australian Tour, and thought the ACMI in Melbourne (which he performed Tiny Colour Movies last May) had the best sound system of any venue he’d ever played. Although he won’t be working with Louis Gordon for a while, this is a verdant creative period for him, as he currently has five completed albums just waiting to be released.
Back at The Roundhouse, David Byrne has taken the combination of art and music one step further. His Playing The Building seeks to convert the structure, built over 150 years ago to turn railway locomotives around like a giant turntable, into a giant music instrument. At the centre is an old pump organ, reinforcing the steam-punk feel of the enterprise, and like One & Other, the general public are part of the installation, and can even be the ‘musician’.
© 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
For years the fourth plinth of London’s Trafalgar Square has been the centre of discussion and controversy. It is no longer the age of Empire, so what is an appropriate subject for a new permanent statue? Artist Antony Gormley has come up with an intriguing, albeit temporary solution in a work entitled One & Other. Over the course of 100 days and nights, 2400 ordinary folks will each get one hour on top of the empty plinth to do almost whatever they please. So far, around 32 000 have applied to take part. Andy Warhol’s famous quote about fame may be true in another way here too, for some ‘plinthers’ (as they’re known) seem to run out of steam after about fifteen minutes, and end up twittering on their mobile. Via the live streams on the website I’ve seen someone dressed as a giant pigeon (Trigger Happy TV anyone?), another dressed as a giant CCTV camera, and some partial nudity. Last week someone went to whole hog and took off all their clothes (until police made him cover up after about five minutes). But it’s also been a place where music and art meet. Chris T-T took his guitar and a small PA up with him and busked, and a woman named Verity stood serenely while she resolutely and quietly sung wordless laments into the darkling air.
Music also met art over at the Roundhouse in Camden, where Nick Cave gave his first ever public reading from forthcoming novel The Death Of Bunny Munro. When I interviewed him about Grinderman for this paper a few years ago, he told me that he’d love to write a second novel, “...but I just don’t have the fucking time”. After the reading he revealed that this had been written over an intense six-week period while touring, late at night after shows, and in the mornings, and had a very different creative process to And The Ass Saw The Angel some twenty years ago. It transpires that this was originally a screenplay he wrote for John Hillcoat, and when the project stalled (at least temporarily) he just started telling the story in prose form, and liked how it turned out. It was fascinating to see him in this light, made somewhat hesitant and uncertain by venturing outside his comfort zone. The novel itself reflects some of his music; the spirit of Grinderman especially seems to permeate the text, from a reference to lampreys, to the naked need for sexual congress at any cost. The modern setting allows Cave to create some new verbs and adjectives from brands such as iPods, Zippo lighters and Tarzan, and in this digital age it is being released on multiple formats, including a talking book, and accompanying soundtrack.
Over at the Horse Hospital, DNA was a short art exhibition in praise of, and inspired by the pioneering work of John Foxx. Rather than a retrospective, all the work here was contemporary, and featured a blend of the analogue and the digital. Perhaps the physical centrepiece was The Grey Suit, one of four suits that over the years John has lent to friends and colleagues for the seeming properties that allow its wearer to become anonymous and move through the city without being noticed. These ideas and reflections have all contributed to The Quiet Man, a forthcoming work which Foxx has been spent over 30 years in refining. Gary Numan contributed an OSCar synthesiser (interestingly the keyboard of choice for the Foxx-free Ultravox of 1983) and a video interview about Foxx, while Nick Rhodes of Duran Duran had two digitally manipulated prints on display. Most interesting to me was Andrew Back’s No Numbers which breaks down the 3’18” of Foxx’s own Mr No into sets of numerically displayed digital samples which if transcribed on the paper provided at the rate of one number per second it would take four weeks to transcribe. Sadly Alex Proyas’ film was unable to be screened at the time I attended due to its gritty subject matter. Foxx told me he had enjoyed last year’s Australian Tour, and thought the ACMI in Melbourne (which he performed Tiny Colour Movies last May) had the best sound system of any venue he’d ever played. Although he won’t be working with Louis Gordon for a while, this is a verdant creative period for him, as he currently has five completed albums just waiting to be released.
Back at The Roundhouse, David Byrne has taken the combination of art and music one step further. His Playing The Building seeks to convert the structure, built over 150 years ago to turn railway locomotives around like a giant turntable, into a giant music instrument. At the centre is an old pump organ, reinforcing the steam-punk feel of the enterprise, and like One & Other, the general public are part of the installation, and can even be the ‘musician’.
© 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, 24 June 2009
Midyear Malaise
London Fields # 66
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 24 June 2009
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 24 June 2009
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here
In the northern hemisphere, as well as being the longest day of the year, the solstice is considered to be the first day of summer. Hence the beginning of the northern summer also marks the halfway point of the year, and I’m finding myself a little out-of-step with 2009. The temptation to spend an evening at home, rather than out watching music gets ever stronger. Nothing would persuade me to go to the Glastonbury Festival now (even though some friends have flown over from Oz just for it). It’s just too large now; smaller events like Latitude or Truck are far more tempting, as you can actually see the bands. While I can keep up with developments in music via MySpace and YouTube (and Glasto is on TV anyway), nothing matches the experience of a live band on the right night. On those nights I’ve been glad I got off the couch, or even went further a field for the experience.
At the Deaf Institute in Manchester, My Latest Novel played their first English show in several years. Selecting material almost exclusively from their yet-to-be-released second album Deaths And Entrances may have been a gamble, but I was both entranced and transported by the spirit of the band, their musical progression and the sheer joy of the inspiring music they created. Similarly, when I Like Trains played at The Luminaire for the launch for a Belgium Festival, most of their set was work-in-progress, some still without titles. The change to a four-piece has seen a shake-up their world view, and the new songs premiered showed that they are writing material of a different hue than they have so far released.
The innate experience and skill of The Bats shines through whenever they perform (as does their charm). They effortlessly recreate their sound in the basic set-up of The Brixton Windmill, and there are lots of older songs sprinkled amongst most of The Guilty Office (although sadly no Trouble In This Town or Made Up In Blue). Promoters (and label) Club AC30 can always be relied upon to provide gigs of quality, and The Bats supported Crystal Stilts for them at The ICA the following night. But a far more impressive show came at another AC30 show early the next week, when Stephen Lawrie used Doncaster three-piece 93MillionMilesFromTheSun as a backing band to perform a set of Taste-era material of his band The Telescopes. The result was punishingly brutal, but brilliant!
It doesn’t always go so well. I bought a ticket for The Gaslight Anthem mainly to catch their support for the tour, Frank Turner. Now I’ve seen Turner triumph at small gigs, and win over large festival crowds, but this middling-size audience proved a tough size to crack. Still, he did better than the headliners, whose repetitive songs seemed honed for audiences who wanted Bruce Springsteen 1978-85, without any of the slow ones, but with added ‘indie’ cool. I didn’t stay for the whole show; neither did I make it through all of doves on their recent tour. Before they hit the encore, I hit the pub next door – only to see rafts of attendees who hadn’t lasted as long as I did. And although I waited until the end of The Longcut at The Luminaire, things didn’t get much better than they began. The live sound was messy, and the band failed to find that elusive groove.
I’ve no interest in the daily reports of Blur (PLC) playing ‘secret’ show after ‘secret’ show. I don’t understand why White Lies end up on high rotation and brilliant releases like that by Joe Gideon & The Shark remain unnoticed. Over at the Enterprise, I catch Kid Harpoon, playing again as a solo performer. It makes me sad that music as fresh as vibrant isn’t being heard as it should. Since I last saw him, he’s recorded an album, scrapped it, re-recorded it and had Nambucca, the venue he lived about, and called home, burn down. Tonight sees him playing a piano-led paean in his memory, whilst older unreleased songs like Colours and Late For The Devil draw a strong response, and I fear the bouncing floor may give way during a rousing version of The Milkmaid.
Sometimes it feels like a lone battle against mediocrity. There are some great acts out there, and concepts like Bandstand Busking offer some hope. But is it enough to ward off the repercussions of five years of unthinking cover versions from TV talent shows? Just when I feel I may be losing it all, I run into someone who has worked with many of the bands I rate or care about. Over the next few hours that we end up chatting, on numerous occasions he stops and hugs me, merely for the opinions I express. So then I start to wonder, is that I am off the ball, or is just that most of the current music is just dull and unimaginative? Let me know…
© James McGalliard 2009
Wednesday, 27 May 2009
South By South East
London Fields # 65
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 27 May 2009
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here
While most of Great Britain sat inside to see how Graham Norton handled Terry Wogan’s Eurovision crown, I found myself wandering the lanes and seafront of Brighton seeking another type of music entirely. The Great Escape festival is a three-day event combining music conference and showcase spread over thirty Brighton venues. Perhaps partially a UK response to South by South West, it’s now in its fourth year, and draws around 3000 delegates and press and over 10000 punters. This particular weekend Brighton was literally overrun, as it coincided with the Brighton Festival, and its accompanying Fringe events, as well as ‘Heroes Run’ on the Sunday morning after the final night.
But it’s not just about seminars and performances, there’s networking as well. Outside the Thistle Hotel I run into Andrew Todd, the guitarist of The Boxer Rebellion. There’s a big announcement to be made regarding the band very soon, but for the time being they’re being very tight lipped about it. However if things go as planned, Andrew may well get to play his Adelaide home as part of a large touring summer festival in early 2010. The Australian presence was a little muted and understated this year; certainly there was nothing to rival the New Zealand showcase which saw Die! Die! Die!, Connan Mockasin and The Veils amongst the acts performing on the pier on the Saturday afternoon, although their twenty-minute sets were a little restrictive.
As the evening’s events began, so did the inevitable clashes. Torn between I Heart Hiroshima and Yves Klein Blue, we end up at the latter as it’s closest to our next destination. While you couldn’t fault their confidence, I kept waiting for one song to pull me up and make me pay attention; sadly it doesn’t appear. Maybe I’ve become too British in my tastes, but they sounded like 2004, and seemed to be lacking cohesion in what they were trying to do.
The next decision was a difficult one. Two of my favourite bands were playing at exactly the same time, but seeing either one of them ruled out seeing School Of Seven Bells, British Sea Power or Idlewild. However as Joe Gideon & The Shark have a London show next month, we opted for I Like Trains (formerly iLiKETRAiNS) at the large Concorde 2. There’s a disappointingly small crowd, which is a shame as iLT put in a first rate show. Keeping nothing back they open with Terra Nova, with a Rickenbacker bass you feel as much as hear, and the band silhouetted in dry ice in slowly rotating spots. It’s an old school approach but it works brilliantly. It’s hard to see why this band found themselves without a label; the new songs indicate that the next album is likely to sidestep the pitfalls of their ambitious yet flawed debut, and they are a great live act. While there are times it’s not quite gelling, it all comes together for the epic closer Spencer Percival, where the brooding menace which has been building up over the preceding eight minutes explodes into an apocalyptic cataclysm that is literally jawdropping.
Word reaches us that Patrick Wolf’s show is completely full, so do we see whether British India can justify their full page ad in that week’s NME, or go catch Gang Of Four? It’s not a hard choice. With the previous act running vastly over time, Gang Of Four have only fifteen minutes playing time before the curfew sets in, so they make the best of it. Jon King is one of the most brilliant and confrontational frontmen around. There’s a steeliness to him, whether conveyed by his impassioned wail, or the systematic destruction of a microwave with a baseball bat. He and Andy Gill are constantly moving between the three mikes, weaving like some deranged dervish. Their energy can barely be contained. Losing one of the best rhythm sections around is a cruel blow, but Mark Heaney is a strong presence on drums and Thomas McNiece nicely replicates those immense bass lines. While they may not cause structural damage like Allen’s did, it suits the band well. Gang of Two? Nah, they’re still firing on all cylinders.
Then there’s another long walk, trying to catch Dark Horses, Lisa Lindley-Jones new act which for these shows featured guest vocalist Emiliana Torrini. Sadly they’re done by the time we get there, but we do see a relaxed Patrick Wolf walking down the road tucking into chicken and chips. A midnight street conversation sees us at Audio, where I lose my friends to the packed throng on the dance floor. By now it’s nearing 1am and alone I catch the end of the set from one of the last acts performing, The Shiny Brights from Adelaide in the small downstairs bar of Jam. Singer Wolfgang brings some genuine frontman pizzazz to proceedings, and while not quite my thing, there’s a joyous energy here that is somewhat infectious.
The next morning I’m recovering in the Hove sunshine, watching hundreds of people dressed as superheroes trying to break a world record for the largest number of capes ever assembled in the one place. It’s a surreal end to a great experience. Next year I’ll be back for all three days. I only hope they get more extended licensing, or begin shows earlier so that the bands that have travelled so far to be here may be able to play for longer.
© James McGalliard 2009
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 27 May 2009
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here
While most of Great Britain sat inside to see how Graham Norton handled Terry Wogan’s Eurovision crown, I found myself wandering the lanes and seafront of Brighton seeking another type of music entirely. The Great Escape festival is a three-day event combining music conference and showcase spread over thirty Brighton venues. Perhaps partially a UK response to South by South West, it’s now in its fourth year, and draws around 3000 delegates and press and over 10000 punters. This particular weekend Brighton was literally overrun, as it coincided with the Brighton Festival, and its accompanying Fringe events, as well as ‘Heroes Run’ on the Sunday morning after the final night.
But it’s not just about seminars and performances, there’s networking as well. Outside the Thistle Hotel I run into Andrew Todd, the guitarist of The Boxer Rebellion. There’s a big announcement to be made regarding the band very soon, but for the time being they’re being very tight lipped about it. However if things go as planned, Andrew may well get to play his Adelaide home as part of a large touring summer festival in early 2010. The Australian presence was a little muted and understated this year; certainly there was nothing to rival the New Zealand showcase which saw Die! Die! Die!, Connan Mockasin and The Veils amongst the acts performing on the pier on the Saturday afternoon, although their twenty-minute sets were a little restrictive.
As the evening’s events began, so did the inevitable clashes. Torn between I Heart Hiroshima and Yves Klein Blue, we end up at the latter as it’s closest to our next destination. While you couldn’t fault their confidence, I kept waiting for one song to pull me up and make me pay attention; sadly it doesn’t appear. Maybe I’ve become too British in my tastes, but they sounded like 2004, and seemed to be lacking cohesion in what they were trying to do.
The next decision was a difficult one. Two of my favourite bands were playing at exactly the same time, but seeing either one of them ruled out seeing School Of Seven Bells, British Sea Power or Idlewild. However as Joe Gideon & The Shark have a London show next month, we opted for I Like Trains (formerly iLiKETRAiNS) at the large Concorde 2. There’s a disappointingly small crowd, which is a shame as iLT put in a first rate show. Keeping nothing back they open with Terra Nova, with a Rickenbacker bass you feel as much as hear, and the band silhouetted in dry ice in slowly rotating spots. It’s an old school approach but it works brilliantly. It’s hard to see why this band found themselves without a label; the new songs indicate that the next album is likely to sidestep the pitfalls of their ambitious yet flawed debut, and they are a great live act. While there are times it’s not quite gelling, it all comes together for the epic closer Spencer Percival, where the brooding menace which has been building up over the preceding eight minutes explodes into an apocalyptic cataclysm that is literally jawdropping.
Word reaches us that Patrick Wolf’s show is completely full, so do we see whether British India can justify their full page ad in that week’s NME, or go catch Gang Of Four? It’s not a hard choice. With the previous act running vastly over time, Gang Of Four have only fifteen minutes playing time before the curfew sets in, so they make the best of it. Jon King is one of the most brilliant and confrontational frontmen around. There’s a steeliness to him, whether conveyed by his impassioned wail, or the systematic destruction of a microwave with a baseball bat. He and Andy Gill are constantly moving between the three mikes, weaving like some deranged dervish. Their energy can barely be contained. Losing one of the best rhythm sections around is a cruel blow, but Mark Heaney is a strong presence on drums and Thomas McNiece nicely replicates those immense bass lines. While they may not cause structural damage like Allen’s did, it suits the band well. Gang of Two? Nah, they’re still firing on all cylinders.
Then there’s another long walk, trying to catch Dark Horses, Lisa Lindley-Jones new act which for these shows featured guest vocalist Emiliana Torrini. Sadly they’re done by the time we get there, but we do see a relaxed Patrick Wolf walking down the road tucking into chicken and chips. A midnight street conversation sees us at Audio, where I lose my friends to the packed throng on the dance floor. By now it’s nearing 1am and alone I catch the end of the set from one of the last acts performing, The Shiny Brights from Adelaide in the small downstairs bar of Jam. Singer Wolfgang brings some genuine frontman pizzazz to proceedings, and while not quite my thing, there’s a joyous energy here that is somewhat infectious.
The next morning I’m recovering in the Hove sunshine, watching hundreds of people dressed as superheroes trying to break a world record for the largest number of capes ever assembled in the one place. It’s a surreal end to a great experience. Next year I’ll be back for all three days. I only hope they get more extended licensing, or begin shows earlier so that the bands that have travelled so far to be here may be able to play for longer.
© James McGalliard 2009
Wednesday, 29 April 2009
Memories In Future Tense
London Fields # 64
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 29 April 2009
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 29 April 2009
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here
When was the last time you walked on St Kilda Pier? Or took a stroll through the Botanical Gardens, or a gander at Cook’s Cottage? When you live in a place, you tend to take the local attractions as part of the background. There’s no imperative to see them, as they’ll always be there (as perhaps may you). So you get on with your life, tied up in the patterns of the daily commute, where to get lunch, and what housework probably needs doing but you can put off for just one more day. lf both life and work are based in suburbia, you can become so absorbed in all that entails that you lose sight of where you actually are.
This is true of adopted homes too. On a glorious autumn day last week, I travelled down to Brighton to catch Ultravox on their Return To Eden tour, which sees the commercially successful line-up of the band playing together for the first time since Live Aid some 23 years ago. Getting out of London can prove difficult, and once you do it’s still a long way to any beach, but seeing the sea made me wonder why I didn’t more often. While Brighton did have a pretty dingy period of faded glamour in the nineties, now its myriad streets of small and varied shops seems a world away from the recession-hit capital where the only new outlets seem to be bookies, pawn brokers and money lenders – some taking over the abandoned offices of real estate agents. Yet prices are steep down on the Suffolk coast – even a simple round of drinks was more than I’ve ever paid in London.
I had temporarily forgotten it was St George’s Day, until a labourer-philosopher on a nearby table in the pub started to lecture his mates on the subject (this just after his lengthy diatribe on the particularly outstanding qualities of the breasts of that day’s Page 3 girl). Now every English pub will have one or more of these chaps, and today’s outrage centred on how he wasn’t allowed to celebrate being English; especially as all these foreigners got their special religious holidays (obviously he’d momentarily forgotten that four-day Easter weekend a few weeks back). So here he was, wanting to celebrate a Roman soldier born in Turkey who may never even have existed. And while England should have a national holiday to match Ireland, Scotland and Wales, some nasty racist factions have appropriated this flag as England for the English, so it’ll be a difficult balancing act to get right. Maybe April 23 should be celebrated as Shakespeare’s birthday instead?
I’m glad to say Ultravox weren’t a disappointment; Midge’s voice is still outstanding, and it was joyous to see onstage the one reformation I feared would never happen. I still remembered every lyric, and was glad I was in a place and time I could see this limited reformation. Recently it’s been hard to know what decade this we’re living in here. The reformed Spandau Ballet are appearing on chat shows, ABC just played the entire Lexicon Of Love album with an orchestra, and lame Life On Mars sequel Ashes To Ashes has returned for a second series, set in a imagined 1982. Meanwhile, highbrow digital television station BBC Four commemorated the 25th anniversary of the miners’ strike with a series of documentaries. The heavy-handed response by the police at some of those pickets is still shocking today, and while you’d hope such things are remnants of a dark past, the kettling tactics and assaults on some people in the vicinity of the G20 protests is a sad reminder that the world has not progressed as much as you’d hoped it had.
Anyway, so the train pulled into London Bridge from Brighton late at night and I had about twenty minutes to make the connection to Liverpool Street, which involved crossing the river that really divides the city in two. The Thames is not a sedate meanderer like the Yarra; it’s wide, turbulent, fast, and unpredictable; it’s unlikely you’d survive if you fell in. To my right I saw Tower Bridge for the first time in a few years, and it struck me that I was living in a place I had seen nightly on TV programmes on the ABC as I grew up. Unreal city indeed. Off to the left the huge dome of St Paul’s was still dominating the skyline as it has for hundreds of years. With so much despair around, it can be difficult to see the simple beauty that surrounds us. This floodlit colourful vision snapped me out of my reverie and left me vaguely awestruck, a feeling which as clung to me for several days. As the late Grant McLennan once sang, “If you spend your life looking behind you, you don't see what's up front”.
© James McGalliard 2009
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