Keyhole Surgery

Rain

2010-09-29T19:51:00.004+01:00

Some time ago when I was first researching the possibility of a move to Newcastle I stumbled across a fact that almost put me off the place. According to the brilliantly inspired source of fictional knowledge known as Wikipedia, Newcastle is one of the driest cities in the UK, with an average of only 121 rainy days per year.

Now I say this is something that almost put me off the city as I am a man who likes his rain, however I can confirm that this fact is utter rubbish. It’s rained here non-stop for over a week now. In fact I was almost laughed out of town by estate agents I was brave enough to share this nugget with.

To honor the weather in verse I headed to the Lit & Phil yesterday evening for a reading by some of the UK’s top poets including Don Paterson, author of 2009 Forward Poetry Prize winning collection ‘Rain.’ Incredible to see three giants of contemporary poetry (w/ Jo Shapcott and Sean O'Brien) in support at this fundraiser for the beautiful Lit & Phil which is in need of various improvements to bring the 1825 built library in line with public expectations.

Meanwhile, the rain keeps falling…

Joanna Newsom @ The Sage, Gateshead

2010-09-22T11:58:00.006+01:00

Joanna Newsom has always been a surprise. From the time in Cambridge where Melanie and I sat entranced listening to an enthusiastic barman describe his latest find, ‘The Milk Eyed Mender,’ to the time I discreetly heard rumour of a three disc extravaganza appearing in under a month (‘Have One On Me’) to the time I stumbled upon her performing at The Sage in Gateshead following a haste move to the North.

Seeing Newsom in person is another surprise itself. Once master of playful childish voices, her voice has now grown stronger and more commanding and the three-minute ditties of ‘Milk Eyed Mender’ have given way to lavish fantasy fueled classic arrangements (courtesy of musicians and composers Ryan Francesconi and Neal Morgan). ‘Y’s’ was a vast departure when it hit the shelves in 2006, containing sixteen-minute tracks that had more in common with prog rock than the folk-pop brush critics usually used to describe her sound.

I have to mention the poetry of her words, ‘your soul is something I stir into my tea’. Small gems thread into detailed and arguably personal adventures. ‘In California’ she seemingly dismisses her early stuff ‘My home, on the old Milk Lane/where the darkness does fall so fast/it feels like some kind of mistake’. Her words shape-shift and envelope you till you can’t ‘remember your own name’ to quote set highlight ‘Good Intentions Paving Co,’ a song that sends shivers through my face everytime she wavers into ‘and the tilt of this strange nation,’ before the track polishes off with a fantastically hazy trombone solo. In a special touch the violinists downed bows to click their rings against empty bottles of Newcastle Brown Ale, a nice nod to the locals.

In a set drawing heavily from ‘Have One On Me’ Newsom also dusted off ‘Inflammatory Writ’, ‘The Book of Right On’ and ‘Peach, Plum, Pear’ as well as ‘Cosmia’ and ‘Monkey & Bear’ from ‘Ys’. A perfect set would it have been if only she had included ‘Baby Birch’ and ‘This Side of the Blue,’ but that gives me an excuse to see her again one day.

Supporting Newsom, who brought him out of ‘semi retirement’ was folk legend Roy Harper. Still strong after 40+ years in the music business Harper treated us to a range of classics from 1970’s release ‘Flat Baroque and Berserk’ including ‘Don’t You Grieve’ and ‘Francesca’ to more modern releases like ‘The Green Man’. All tracks were accompanied by top introductions and political/spiritual disagreements with the topical Papal visit, Harper rather slyly enjoying the Pope’s label for us atheists as ‘militant extremists’.

All round a fantastic night, and my first proper gig in the Newcastle/Gateshead area. It’s important though to state this gig at the Sage was on the southside in Gateshead, where we’ve recently lost a car park. Make sure you don’t mix the two up…

Jog on the Tyne

2010-09-19T14:11:00.004+01:00

Imagine fifty four thousand people running across a bridge. Next consider their clothing, a Bananaman outfit perhaps? Or a well built fella in a tutu, a bumble bee suit, Batman and Robin, a unicorn hat, where’s wally, panadas, firemen, donkeys, matching chickens? Then conjure the sounds, the chants, the claps, yells whistles and bells, the oggy oggy oggy’s and the oi oi oi’s, a band playing Georgie folk tunes on a roundabout in Gateshead, a drumming group and the piecing overhead cry of the red arrows dispersing red white and blue over the Tyne, and you get the 30th Great North Run from Newcastle to South Shields, the North’s answer to the London Marathon.

It can get a little rocky on the Tyne bridge as the joggers still fresh after a mile in clamber over to the clapping revelry of watchers and supporters. At points its like being on a boat as it bobs along the waves.

Since beginning in 1981 the Great North Run is the largest half marathon in Europe, and estimates that over 1 million runners will have completed the course by the time it reaches its 35th anniversary.

Up with the larks this morning to take pictures I was greeted all round with good spirit, and being new to Newcastle it was a welcome pleasure in contrast to my London roots. The run really is an institution up here and one I hope to participate in this time next year. A jog on the Tyne sure is all fine, all fine.

Anthony Joseph in Soho

2010-08-20T11:19:00.000+01:00

At the same wonderful Apples & Snakes gig where I filmed Joolz Denby, was poet, musician and academic, Anthony Joseph, reading from his most recent collection ‘Bird Head Son’. Taking for his theme his Trinidad roots, the book explores family, ancestry, language and the mythology of the Caribbean island all in Joseph’s surreal and musical style. You can buy 'Bird Head Son' direct from Salt Publishing here.

Here he reads and discusses ‘Jack Spaniard nest'.

I hung my head

2010-07-27T11:17:00.005+01:00

I’ve been re-listening to Johnny Cash’s American recordings this week and there’s a cover of a Sting track (from his 2002 album ‘Mercury Falling’) that strikes me as particularly relevant. On first listen it’s a murder ballad telling the story of a young man who upon taking his brother’s rifle accidently shoots a man.

The perpetrator claims he was practising his aim when the rifle went off without intent to shoot the lone rider on the prairie, similar to that of a gang of youths intent on scaring another when one accidently knifes the other and leaves one of them dead. ‘I hung my head’ is a story about shame, it’s a warning to think before you act. The protagonist didn’t want to kill anyone, his thrill was the role play of the situation. Although when playing with dangerous instruments so carelessly the situation will inevitably end in tragedy.

To me this song should be taught in schools. Don’t be foolish, don’t carry knives or guns, don’t pretend to hurt people or practise your aim, because inevitably it will end in tears, shame and a public stoning from the tabloids (modern day Gallows if you will?). Think before you act! There, rant done for the morning.

Joolz Denby in Soho

2010-07-21T13:43:00.002+01:00

Recently I was tasked with helping Apples & Snakes with a new filming project. The challenge was to create a film of a poetry reading that varied from the traditional 'front on' approach with a static poet square in the centre. We also wanted to make it as clear as possible to the audience what the poem was actually about.

So, we asked the poet to tell us about the poem, then we filmed them from two angles to add a bit of diversity into the mix. First up was Joolz Denby...

Joolz Denby performs 'Smoking Joe' from Apples and Snakes on Vimeo.

Trashed Exultations

2010-06-17T20:53:00.003+01:00

So my Keyhole followers, I’ve been absent for a while I know. But it’s been for a very good reason.

Last night saw the first ever Trashed Organ event. You may remember I rambled on about this organ from Clerkenwell Green a few months ago, but since then the beat up musical instrument became a idea for an event, which became a night of poems and music, which actually happened.

Our colosseum? The eclectic Duchess pub overlooking the industrial splendor of Battersea Power Station that held court to a ramshackle parade of ditty day dreamers, gramma correcting, cock jangling, love struck writers.

We had stories of house hunting colonists on safari, fabric softeners and horrendous chat-up lines, Bakerloo and Victoria, sausage sandwiches, Norton Cannes, piratical marketeers, south London chav lads sprouting angel wings and the charming rustic rhythms of A Polystyrene Hat.

With a line up boasting Courttia Newland, Katie Bonna, Ben Gilbert, Sam Peczek, and fellow organ grinder Rob Haughton the night far exceeded all expectations.

So, thank you’s are due to our fantastic audience who gave up a World Cup Wednesday to come to our trashed delicatessen half a mile from the nearest tube. Please accept our trashed exultations! We also thank you for taking part in our fancy little game, ‘Trashed Laureate’. Congratulations are in order for the winner of a bottle of our home brew port with the line ‘The elephant man was ok. He was just born in the wrong dimension.’ Truly profound.

So what next I hear you cry over a violin stringed moment of off-key bliss? Stay tuned our trashed friends, for Trashed Organ 2: Judgement Day, coming soon…

Punk Magazine

2010-05-02T10:12:00.002+01:00

I stumbled across this video the other day of Punk Magazine founders, John Hallstrom and Legs McNeil (resident punk) talking about the infamous 70s fanzine in NYC. I admire their DIY ethos and the ‘just whack it’ approach, to which the interviewer can’t quite understand where they get the funds to keep the enterprise running. There are some amusing comments towards the end about ‘London kids’, to whom punk is only fashion, “Would you want a safety pin up your nose?” and “They’re all morons.”

All in all, the sarcasm adds to the image and help creates an inspiring document for anyone who wants to make and distribute something themselves. Although I do think they're hiding something...

Spilt Milk

2010-04-17T12:26:00.003+01:00

A weekend treat to go down with the sun. A new and exciting bundle of chapbooks, pamphlets, and micro anthology’s to review for Hand & Star. I like it when poems arrive in short punchy bursts, an afternoon long package that can be devoured, critiqued and praised over a few short Sunday hours with a glass of water and a bourbon biscuit.

In other news my poem ‘July’ features in issue 2 of the delicious 'Spilt Milk', a culinary platter of warm foamy words, which can be viewed online here, enjoy!

A Plate of Chicken

2010-04-14T21:26:00.003+01:00

During a recent trip to NYC I stumbled across NoLita bookshop McNally & Jackson. Amazed at a poetry section that gave more shelf space to poets I’d never heard of I pulled out the rather square shaped book of Matthew Rohrer’s gastronomically titled ‘A Plate of Chicken.’ Inside were sixty-one pages given over to a collection of seven line stanzas, acting as the spinal vertebrae of one continuous poem drawn over a long hot New York summer.

At first glance it’s a random assembly of lines that have little coherence with each other, that read more like catharsis for the author, purging the substance of his mind to fill the chicken bones with meat (the book doubles as a flick-book, depicting the devouring of a plate of chicken). But look again and see the first and last lines of each seven line stanza conclude with the same word, weaving a small theme into every poem;

If you don’t pay attention you’ll slip into a hole.
Don’t we all understand evil?
I knelt to the floor to stare at the baby.
Infinite variation in each moment. We’re home.
Coffee smells better than riches.
I like to lie back and think of my next job.
I plan an elaborate leap into a deeper hole.

It’s full of poetic instructions and garbled imagery, and at times Rohrer takes the role of throwaway philosopher for the mundane. ‘The gate to hell is through the loop of a neck tie.’ Cleverly crafting one-liners that you'll want to add to your facebook status. Although Rohrer’s meal can be a tough one to chew at times, with his penchant for one liners that read like quotes on the back of witty birthday cards, he delivers some hugely stimulating ideas;

My function, is to be in love between two people who hate each other.

Rohrer himself states, that the chicken title seemed right to put across his attempt to unite poetry with the mundane and everyday, rather than attempting to be prophetic. For him, poetry is a way to explore the normality of life, spilling out hundreds of poems in a few days just like the hundreds of words we use everyday to explain whatever it is we do.

There is no resolution to anything in ‘A Plate of Chicken’. The meditative nature of these lines give us little insight to the normality of the poets life, but remind us their existence isn’t to change anything, but to just live on. The book has so many great lines it’s hard to pull a quote that does it justice, although there is one that has stuck with me, and seems to live up to the instructional, philosophical, mundane tone the poems favour, and makes me want to give it a go.

When all hope seems lost, write your name on paper and flush it down the toilet.

The Sparks

2010-04-06T08:20:00.003+01:00

I have a new review up on Hand & Star of Ben Wilkinson’s pamphlet ‘The Sparks.’ I gave it 4 stars as it’s a great short read full of shadows, weather and flickering lights. A stormy bunch of poems, good to read with a cup of tea by the window.

Be sure to also check out Ben’s blog, Deconstructive Wasteland for musings and literary news.

Trashed Organ

2010-03-20T12:27:00.002Z

Walking back from Exmouth Market yesterday with a 6pound beef stew curry in hand shouldering a light rain, we passed a trashed organ on the side, by Clerkenwell Green. Its rain-splashed keys, grimy with car exhaust sat restless like a child in a waiting room. Its electronic boards hung like eyeballs from sockets pulled by fox mouthed scavengers, and the pedal hung limp like a deck bound beaten fish. An empty paper cup spewed grassy moss and a cigarette butt pouted from the roof like a decapitated tree stump. I smeared a finger along it’s music and didn’t hear a sound.

Later the spice from the food would creep in on stilts and blade its way over my mouth. I had to drink a glass of water.

Chicken Skin Music

2010-03-14T22:27:00.009Z

A Sunday evening spent filming and recording music for a video-poem. Part exploration of a mad-dream and study of domestic pressure.

Introducing...

2010-02-28T19:24:00.005Z

Donald Dunstan, a 46 year old electrician with a slightly tubby belly, massive sideburns and bushy eyebrows. Donald is unusually tall, clocking in at 6’7. His work mates call him ‘Duny’ (after the Australian slang for toilet) on account of his time specific bowel movements. He was originally born in Clacton-On-Sea, although now lives in Wisbech, Cambridgeshire with his wife and two children, a girl and boy, 21 and 17 respectively. He’s somewhat conservative in views and left school at an early age to pursue a vocation. A photograph of him with a bucket and spade and his parents on Clacton beach sums up his most consistently happy memory. He secretly hopes one day his family will settle there. His ambition is to retire as soon as possible, and his greatest fear is never being able to afford to.

Donald is the product of a fruitful day spent at The Royal Court taking part in a playwriting workshop hosted by Penpals and London literature developers Spread the Word.

Led by award winning playwright Alia Bano, (featured in today’s Observer) author of the critically acclaimed Shades, it was great to dedicate time to developing ideas for the stage amongst peers, and before long I had a pen portrait of the somewhat unexpected Donald. Here’s a typical conversation with Donald, using the 10, 9, 8, 7, 6… words game.

(Don and Friend are sitting in a pub)

Don: Lost my pension the other day. Company went completely broke.

Friend: Money’s safer under the mattress these days, you know?

Don: Until some sod breaks in while you’re away.

Friend: Heard about that, what did you loose?

Don: The cash that’s under the mattress.

Friend: Christ, that’s rotten luck mate.

Don: I know, I’m skint.

Friend: Next rounds mine.

Don: Whiskey, thanks.

Friend: Sure.

The Tanker

2010-01-27T20:18:00.002Z

Taking a break from the New York updates, I’m back in the UK now and have been doing the sneaky back post thing.

Last night I read some poems at the Poetry Café’s weekly open mic night and thought I’d share one on the blog. This is a poem called ‘The Tanker’ and is a surreal imaging of the workplace. In fact I’m almost embarrassed to say it came out of a dream. One of those cliché things, true, but I always like to think of dreams as great signifiers to whatever’s going on in your life at the time, and I like the strange random layer of ‘creativity’ that you end up seeing a dream through. A bit like beer goggles when you’re drunk. Sometimes a random dream is just what you need to see something from a different perspective…

The Tanker

I worked aboard a great tanker
in the sea.

Our office were rows of desks
on a starboard slant.

What few windows we had,
small round discs
peering into a washing machine.

At lunchtime we boarded plastic tug boats
in the open dock.

The lock opened like a forklift
and drew the water with a magnet.

We sailed in twos with sandwiches
pulling rigging tight and low to avoid the boom.
Waves of whites lacquered the hull,
a large shirt folding its arms around us.
Shoals of underwear ushered us
along its bobbing carpets.

Somewhere the suds clashed with cloth.
The sea stood up to brush crumbs from its legs
we, flicked into the hole groped for the docks.
It drained us through its colander
the captain pulled the plug.
His hands wrapped the giant lever,
veins pouting like balls of blue string
pulled the lock the shut.
The jaw collapsed and crushed him.

Trying to rise with silver chains around his neck
part of his side was missing.
Three white ribs coverless woke from bed
and threw up a cloud of blood.

Exploring Downtown

2010-01-17T14:05:00.009Z

When I open my eyes Sunday has began. I shower, dress and explore downtown with The Velvet Underground’s ‘Sunday Morning’ playing in my head.

I take a left outside the Holiday Inn down Howard Street and cut across Broadway. I meander my way through the closed boutiques of Soho and Noho until I find myself in the Village. I pause for a moment in Washington Square park and watch the dog walkers circle the paths. A few moments later I stumble across several shop windows with puppies in them.

I’m looking for a record shop and am having no luck. The Virgin in Times Square has closed down, and the Jazz Record Centre on 26^th was another victim of recession. I’m after the expensive jazz cds you only get in Rays on Charing Cross, ones from the Tzadik and Nonesuch labels. Instead I find adland signified by the polished buildings of Saatchi & Saatchi and Euro RSCG. Both offices have Kandinsky rip off’s on the walls, a usual favourite of banks in London, although I imagine it’s to demonstrate the limitless of their creative expression. It’s wallpaper to me. I’m now back by the Hudson, then I walk East down Charlton Street and find a church playing ice cream van music. Churches are strange in NYC. Beautiful buildings, but lacking in history compared to European equivalents.

At midday I find myself gravitating towards NoLita. I walk down Spring Street, lunch at the organic Spring Street Natural Restaurant and shop at Canadian import McNally & Jackson as it begins to rain. I spend too much on poetry books. The amount of new writing journals is astounding, and their presentation creative. ‘A Plate of Chicken’ by Matthew Rohrer’ reminds me of a poem I wrote called ‘Chicken Skin Music’ (a domestic heart attack) after the Ry Cooder album. The book introduces me to the Brooklyn based Ugly Duckling Presse, a non-profit art and publishing collective focusing on emerging and forgotten writers. I admire their design.

On the way back to the hotel I pass Elieen’s Special Cheesecake and think of my Nan.

Devoted and Disgruntled NYC

2010-01-16T22:10:00.002Z

We rise as the first yellow taxi belts its horn. The sun is still sleeping and for now our only light is an orange eco friendly lamp.

By 6.30am we’re on the subway. ‘N’ train to 42nd Street, ‘1’ train to Columbus Circle, coffee and a Panini to go. At 7am I’m on a ladder sticking up the 4 principles of open space. ‘Whoever comes are the right people,’ ‘Whenever it starts is the right time,’ ‘Whatever happens is the only thing that could happen,’ ‘When it’s over it’s over.’ They read more like philosophical quotations. Instructions for dealing with modern life. Rules to help free yourself from the conventions and expectations of others. Tell yourself these four things often enough, and life doesn’t seem so pressured to ‘get it right.’

The first guests arrive at 9.30. Laurence & Tarah from Anderson amongst them. Improbable Artistic Director and leading Open Space practitioner Phelim McDermott opens the space at 10.30. What’s strikingly different about the NYC one over the London D&Ds is that the participants are up in seconds to call their sessions. In London a serene politeness usually settles over the crowd as they wait for the first brave soul to break the silence and call a session. The New Yorkers are queuing at the word ‘go’ to call theirs over the microphone. I decide to call a couple of sessions around Funeral Customs and creating trailers for theatre shows.

The first session I attend, called by Steven Ginsburg of Hartbeat Ensemble discusses Free Theatre. Ginsburg himself runs an activist-based theatre company interested in social change and creating new works that challenge the status quo. He wants to discuss ideas of a ‘free’ theatre model whereby the audience sees the show for free. We discuss various models; pay what you can, complimentary ticket giveaways, but we also discuss how theatre and performance worked in the past. With the noblemen and landowners inviting the travelling gypsies to perform in their manors, and inviting all the peasants along to enjoy the show. Theatre was less ‘institutionalised’ then, without a real industry to call home. It’s great to see so many artists trying to work out models to give the audience something for free, but it’s hard to see how anything can be truly free when we live in an age where time itself has a monetary value.

At lunchtime I go for a walk around the area. I feel a cold coming on and the fresh sun air is light and full of wellbeing. I take a left outside the church and walk along 58^th West until I reach the Hudson. I see a kid with nunchucks in his back pocket, at least it’s not a knife I find myself thinking.

The day wraps up at 6pm, and after meeting many fabulous people, including the beautiful Juliet who bakes the best brownies I’ve ever tasted, we retire to Lafayette.

Saturday draws to a close in Little Italy where we’re encouraged to add sambuca to our espressos.

The Church of St Paul the Apostle

2010-01-15T23:03:00.004Z

The setup for Devoted and Disgruntled begins at 9. It’s the first time Improbable have done one stateside. It’s an arts/theatre meet up held in ‘open space’ where participants are encouraged to set the agenda for the meet up by raising questions about areas of the arts that interest them.

We get there a little frazzled after the Lower East Side - Upper West Side subway dash, but the trains seemed nowhere near as busy as London. And although no regular announcements told us to let passengers off before we got on, everyone treated each other with respect, straight from the pages of the unwritten laws of the commuter.

After 4 hours of drawing butterfly's and bees underneath The Church of St Paul the Apostle we escape into the sun for some natural vitamin C. Central Park is beautiful with its naked trees and fifty odd statues. The day is warm; around 8 degrees and we begin to sweat. We check out the Alice in Wonderland Statue, record some buskers play jazz on a sweet afternoon, and finally make our way to the Guggenheim.

Sadly a large proportion of the museum is closed due to installations being set up, but we see our share of Kandinskys’ and the roots of impressionist painting. We have the most amazing lunch there. A Wright Salad with a ‘gently boiled egg.’

Next we walk for perhaps too long. Right down Park Ave from 88^th to 43rd yet we get to see Josh Harnett get of out a cab with a little dog in his arms. I think I know where he lives. We stumble through Grand Central and I imagine The Untouchables.

Back at Lafayette we regroup and head back uptown to Times Square were David Blaine is raising money for Haiti. We meet our friends from Anderson, IN who we haven’t seen in a year and a half. We grab a drink at Ruby Tuesday’s before jumping in a cab downtown to Bleeker Street, where Bob Dylan once lived.

We catch up over Sam Adams in a trendy Village bar.

Battery Park & Friends

2010-01-14T23:41:00.001Z

Holiday Inn filter coffee is tasteless, but the bed is soft. They give out polystyrene to save on the washing up. We take a stroll downtown and breakfast at a Dunkin Donuts. That’s two fast food joints down. We pass ground zero and I’m surprised at how small the area is. Everyone says that apparently. The flame that never goes out is a fitting memorial; though I wonder how much gas it takes to run. Battery Park is beautiful and we watch an old man feed squirrels. Does it everyday he says as they effectively mug him, dashing for his bag when he strays more than a foot. We meet some kids collecting for their baseball team. They give us Skittles for dollars, and the cynic in me says they’re stolen, but it doesn’t matter.

We board the Staten Island Ferry with the workers, and watch the coastline expand. Lady Liberty waves and winks as we pass and I catch her pose on my camera. A delightful couple take our picture and we take theirs. I spend the rest of the crossing trying to catch seagulls with a photographic net.

We wander the island uphill and enjoy the view of Manhattan. Back in Battery Park we hit the first restaurant we see. It’s quiet and has a great view of the Statue. We trade ideas for logos, and our waiter gives us a free glass of wine at the end, we tip heavily.

I impulsively buy business cards on Broadway to advertise this blog. We visit Wall Street, check out Washington’s declaration, browse a pet shop then head back to Lafayette. We change and walk all the way to Times Square.

The walk is fantastic. Up Lafayette, past Public Theatre, Union Square, Flatiron, Empire State, and see the Chrysler stretching out to the right. Times Square makes Piccadilly Circus a poor mans neon valley, even the NYPD is all singing and dancing.

We ride the ‘N’ subway home and feel like locals.

Traveling to New York City

2010-01-13T19:03:00.000Z

Black cab to Heathrow terminal 3, sixty quid. Check in three bags and the attendant doesn’t blink an eye that we’re over our economy passenger allowance of one per person. We’re there at 6.45 and the flight isn’t until 12. We find the showiest place in the terminal. Down a bacon bun shaped like a burger and a glass full of fruit salad.

The plane sits still for an hour and a half. Outside it’s snowing animal shapes whilst a man sprays a suspect yellow heating liquid over the wings. The ice thaws and the cabin crew make the safety demonstration the best ticket in town. I now know how to tie a lifejacket and inflate an emergency escape route.

I watch The Time Travelers Wife on the plane, a disappointing film of an enjoyable novel and catch only half of It Might Get Loud. It’s great to see Jimmy Page still rock out, Jack White’s epileptic guitar beatings and I now respect The Edge.

When we land customs keep us penned in for two and a half hours. I enter the US an exhausted man, but the officer said I look like DiCaprio.

‘Lafayette, Downtown Manhattan’ and we’re moving. I suspect the driver’s taking us somewhere else for ten minutes before I see my first Manhattan sign post. I’m a suspicious person. Thankfully he takes the bridge from Brooklyn, and my first sight of the Big Apple is a Christmas tree. It’s like those competitive suburban streets where the wives try to out do each other with Xmas lights, except Christmas is over. It’s a city made out of playing cards with pinpricks for the light.

My first taste of New York cuisine is a Burger King.

Hand & Star

2009-12-22T07:42:00.002Z

Working hard these last few days before Christmas? Need to take the edge off a little? Then look no further. Pay a visit to ‘Hand & Star’ for all your literary needs! In its own words:

Hand + Star offers intelligent, fresh perspectives, open to the interplay between text, technology and popular culture. Hand + Star combines the speed and energy of blogging with the authority of the traditional literary journal, and is committed to seeking out new, independent and lesser-known voices in poetry and fiction.

Go on, seek some literary juices this holiday season, and whilst you're there check out my reviews on Abi Curtis’s Unexpected Weather, and Ryan Kamstra’s Late Capitalist Sublime.

Status Games

2009-12-14T17:49:00.006Z

Following the Keith Johnson ‘Impro’ tradition, I’ve been playing some ‘status’ games recently. I can’t help but inject these little natural techniques into the workplace to gage reactions. Most are pretty normal day to day things that you probably do all the time, but when you’re aware of the way you’re behaving then you realise you can affect it. Like holding your head still when you speak. In certain situations like meetings this seems to make you appear more authoritative, where as jittery head movements come across as ‘the fool.’ Give it a try and see what reaction you get.

For Johnson, status games are a way to make improvisation amongst actors seem more realistic. His methods in ‘Impro’ encourage us to look at the way we react to certain situations and individuals in real life and use this to make acting on stage far more natural. If an actor knows his status in relation to the other characters upon entering a scene, then that scene is easier to improvise.

This makes sense really, using the office example again; we always play the inferior role to bosses, or those with director in their title. Shakespeare’s ‘All the world’s a stage’ quote rings a bell here, as I ask, are we naturally prone to status decisions, or are we acting a part based on our title? Try looking at the way shop assistants are treated. Lower status individuals will admire and ask for the assistant’s expertise, where as a higher status player might order them around like a servant. And then there’s the other form of high status where the individual plays low in order to hide their status, and only reveals it if vital to succeed dominance – a sort of flattery of the assistant you know is below you.

Johnson states that when a high status player is wiped out, then everyone experiences as if they are moving up a step. Wiping out could be as simple as talking about a culturally higher film watched than your fellow converser, thus confirming them as a lower status player. In the office space, you might notice a raise in everyone’s status when someone’s idea is shot down in a business meeting. Everyone becomes higher because they weren’t the ones shot down. In theatrical terms, the person who had the drop in status could be used to create sympathy in the audience, or to make them feel higher also.

Another trick in ‘Impro’ is to regularly modify status to keep up audience attention and the pace of a scene. So an example here could be two people having an argument where each character keeps getting one over the other. In office terms perhaps it’s something like:

Person A: Have you had a chance to finish that report yet?
Person B: Not yet, I’ve been too busy. Did you take a look at those costs though?
Person A: I can’t look at the costs until I’ve seen the report.
Person B: But the costs will help inform the report. I need them first.

There’s a wee bit of see-sawing that takes place next, but that can be used to comic effect, a sort of ‘he’s behind you,’ ‘oh no he’s not’ thing.

I’m only scratching the surface here, but if you’re interested in more, Johnson explains this a lot clearer than I.

Digital Priest

2009-12-07T19:47:00.008Z

Recently I found myself on the way to a murder mystery evening in Richmond. I was late, frantically folding A4 paper to fit under by black collar to form what was to be the crux of my outfit. Yes, I was the priest, the saint, the holy father, the dirty beast, and I was the one that did it, but on the way I realized I’d forgotten my bible. Emails flew around the company, ‘has anyone got a bible laying around? Client has had a crisis of faith….’ and still no word. Until, that was, I remembered how we were in the digital age. Lo and behold, I saw a light, I reached for my IPhone knocked up the app store and downloaded the Bible app in seconds. I was now the bionic priest, a 21st century preacher with a digital reader. I could punch up any psalm, genesis, exodus, old or new testament in seconds. It was a revelation.

A while back I had this idea for the Catholic Church. It was an idea for a new business model, a way to cut costs by laying off staff. I figured, why not start a digital online confession booth? You’d get far more converts anonymously online than you would in church, and people could do it in the comfort of their own home. They could even set up online donations via paypal. ‘Absolve your sins – donate today’. In fact check out 'Group Hug’ which is an non-religion affiliated confession website.

If you’d like satire, EA have produced 'Mass We Pray' a sickeningly smug viral to secretly promote the video game interpretation of Dante’s Inferno.

Three days after the murder mystery LOVE and HATE were still stained on my knuckles. A sign perhaps?

Carry On Thought Criminals

2009-12-06T13:39:00.006Z

It’s been a busy week. Long days and late nights punctuated by theatre. Let’s have a recap, in fact lets do a montage, turn up the stereo, radio, cassette player or iTunes depending on the era you’re living in and prepare for short snappy reviews. Let me start with last Saturday’s trip to Rich Mix over Brick Lane way to see Hardgraft's Poles Apart. A clever Brecht-infused take on the immigration issue where two Brits tried their hand at finding jobs in Warsaw. What followed was a comical tale of their endeavors, nods to Polish culture, and with just a ball of string Hard Graft demonstrated that no matter where we’re from we can all be joined together.

Come Tuesday I was at the BAC to see Amanda Lawrence's Charles Hawtrey biopic Jiggery Pokery. In fact ‘biopic’ doesn’t do justice to what Lawrence created. Playing a plethora of diverse roles, she explored Hawtrey’s life on and off stage, shedding light on the infamous alcoholic made famous by the Carry On films. Lawrence’s performance had more energy than an entire X Factor audience as she darted around the stage in one scene playing a young Hawtrey, his mother as well as various actors and agents. A truly fantastic play.

The next day I found myself in a stormy Vauxhall at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern (RVT) for The Festive Happening featuring cabaret artists Bourgeois & Maurice, Johnny Woo and Scottee who made the traditional Xmas Knit look more glamorous than a night out at The Birdcage. Laugh’s a plenty as they rip-roared through a Barack Obama mime of Beyonce’s Halo, breast bursting performance poetry, and B&M’s 21^st century dilemma Don’t Google Me Mother.

I polished off the week with a preview showing of Blind Summit's version of the classic Orwell novel 1984. If you’re expecting the serious intelligent tension of the book then think again. Blind Summit’s take turned what’s become a popular critique of society on its head. Borrowing the Brechtian style of The Resistible Rise of Arturo Ui Blind Summit began the show with a squad of thought police on the way to the BAC to perform the story of Winston and Julia, the thought criminals. Sets were words on paper cards and The Theory and Practice of Oligarchical Collectivism was creatively performed as a complete puppet show with paper words and pictures. It begs the thought, if only all politics could be taught in this way?

Notes on Spare Time

2009-11-30T19:37:00.004Z

Spare time is clumsy. It’s a large cumbersome cat too large for its flap. It’s a lowly status court jester laughed at by the hangman and the villains of the stocks. The children blow raspberries at it and throw playdough stones until it falls to the ground like a bad dream. Then they go to work, tying it down like an army of pixies, prodding it with tiny sticks and marking notes on bark with a flat rock. They consider the angles, lift the eyelids, pluck the hairs, shave a small square clear behind the ear. They wear it like fur, pick at its nails and slice off sharp small splinters to fit the tips of their spears. They communicate and laugh at its gaudy expression. They wonder where it came from, what it wants, why did it disturb them?

One by one they climb onto it’s chest to peer into its large sun-like eyes. Watching the marble swirl, they ooh and aah, make faces at each other and draw lead sketches like pupils. They form signs, hold up giant leaves with painted diagrams and symbols. They listen to it breathe, stand by the nostrils and let the wind make them go all silly. They wake earlier each day to spend more time with it in light. They sit silent as it reasons, as it wows them with stories, as it teaches them like faculty. They become disciples, they begin to worship. They erect tiny structures from their tiny sticks and hold court with its wishes. They like it. They respect it. They love it. They free it.

The Decemberists @ The Coronet 19/11/09

2009-11-20T07:34:00.005Z

Standing in the lower part of their own portrait The Decemberists launched into the type of music that gives many critics' heart flutters; the dreaded prog-rock-folk-metal concept hour. The Hazards of Love played in full, with all the charming quirks of shouts and children chants that give Pink Floyds’ The Wall a run for its money. This is something the Decemberists have been building up to throughout their entire career with prog first rearing it’s time sapping head on their debut Castaways and Cutouts, continuing right through the back catalogue to the 20 minute EP The Tain based on the Irish folk tale Tain Bo Cuailnge.

The spotlights captured their silhouettes on the ceilings as they softly spun through the first part of the record, accompanied by Becky Stark as the beautiful Margret during Won’t Want for Love and Isn’t it a Lovely Night, and occasionally ramping it up a gear with the entrance of on-stage baddies, the Queen (stunningly played by Shara Worden) and the Rake.

Seeing the opera unfold on stage expanded it far more than a single record listen, and brought it to life far beyond expectations. Full of babies, infanticide and woodland shipwrecks, The Hazards of Love (heralded by the broadsheet lot as the weaker part of the set) was, in my view one of the most exciting performances of a pop-rock group I’ve seen in some time. And with the treat of a second set giving fans even more bang for their buck it’s sad to see the rock-opera format still blasted by peers. In the age of the download too, it’s impressive to see the full record selling almost 20k copies in its first week alone. Now that’s encouraging considering most music critics are already predicting the death of the album.

Having ended the Hazards of Love Meloy introduced the group after what was possibly the longest first number ever at a gig, and come part two the fans still wanted more of their prog brilliance. A medley of hits followed with the classic in-the-round audience participation during Billy Liar and radio fave Sixteen Military Wives. But the real treat was saved till last with the surprise performance of The Mariner’s Revenge Song which was teased throughout the entire second set with an inflatable whale dancing over the heads of an enthused crowd who all jumped at the chance to wail and moan as London was finally swallowed ‘through the jaws of an angry whale.’

Catriona Irving @ Pure Groove

2009-11-16T22:25:00.005Z

We escaped the digital farm favoring something organic with cheese at lunch. Had to grapple through the pigs mind, and then there where the cows to deal with, but all in all it was an everyday city scenario. Pigeons flanked the workers and coordinated lunch crumb strikes named operation peg-leg and the sun came out like a rare breed dog, waggling its tail to show everyone how friendly it was. We pulled ourselves up on the cliff edge of Pure Groove and heaved our way through the glass doors.

Ale. Three barrels of the stuff tempting me like a drunkard on the Sabbath day. All I could do was order tea. Our journey’s reward was in sight however, when Catriona Irving, tight clad in nylon, plimsoll-footed her way onto the shop-floor stage.

Pure Groove, the music mountaintop of Farringdon has seen more changes in the last year than Prince Charles has made plans for Snowdon, and today it is better for it. Pushing aside the top 100 display in favour of a bar room set, it’s quickly becoming a cool hangout with its penchant at getting top new talent for lunchtime gigs so local workers can escape ‘the boss’ for thirty minutes. Catriona Irving’s set however short lingered like a sweet Satsuma and taught us all to slow down for the afternoon. With her clumsy guitar and fragile voice, it was one of those quiet moments where we remember that music wasn’t always an industry but once a chanting commune of cathartic expression. Irving’s songs were delicate and soft with the low rhythm of Sitting on the Shelf and the charming love note Untitled which is enhanced with subtle cello in the recorded version. Check out her EP here.

My friend says 'we live in an age of the niche' – anything and everything is on offer no matter what you’re into. And with musicians like Catriona Irving carving her own following with the ‘arts and craft’ label Need No Water he’s right. This certainly is DIY territory that feels far more exciting to play with than the big boys of pop. Give me handmade vinyl packages and pin badges any day over logo’ed t-shirts and plastic jewel cases.

I've been shooting things again

2009-11-10T07:01:00.007Z

Like some inherent vice of a generation brought up with video games. Trained explosives experts of the electronic variety, reload time second to none, and with more lives than all the cats in the world. I am green beret, SAS, Navy seal and crack serious crime operative. Always look for the exits just like Manners, and never underestimate the enemy. Just because you can take out fourteen troopers with a knife doesn’t mean you can shoot down a chopper with an air rifle.

There's a lot of attention on the games industry today. The media's taking it's yearly magnifying glass out for the release of Modern Warfare 2. It’s rolling out the child psychologists all around the world to find out the experts opinion on the old debate, 'do violent video games cause violence?' We know there have been instances in the past where games have been the alleged inspiration behind killing sprees, we also know that the ultra violent games in question are ultra popular, selling millions of copies worldwide. People like shooting stuff it seems, and surely we don't have millions of potential killers on the make?

This is obviously a touchy subject that only comes in waves (i.e. whenever a new violent game is released), but the worrying thing is that all this activity only serves to increase the game notoriety and thus it's publicity. Seemingly it's a stunt, and it even had politicians arguing yesterday with Labour MP Tom Watson urging gaming fans to join a Facebook petition as a show of strength against the critics. In the pocket of one of the largest growing industries perhaps? After all, it's only a game. Isn't it?

Oh, My Green Soap Box

2009-11-08T11:48:00.007Z

‘And what will we do on the days where there’s no wind?’ Lucy Foster asks addressing the solution of wind farms to the world’s energy crisis. It’s simple, ‘we’ll stay in bed,’ an answer the world leaders would chuff to like a gaggle of bankers, but in their hearts probably couldn’t think of anything more appealing. When did the economy become more important than love, anyway?

Oh, My Green Soap Box steps back from the racing protests and the urgent dialogues on how we need to act now, and thinks about our emotions. With a few well-crafted scenarios showing how we could be affected in everyday life, it made the climate change message even more poignant. It wasn’t preachy, nor did it require donations, and the point was more powerful for it.

On one occasion an audience member was called upon to take a walk across the farm; through the forest where the city stood, by the river where the motorway once lay, and into the farm where the banks used to be. The volunteer was shown what life was like on the commune picking apples, making pies, enjoying love. In fact it almost made climate change sound positive. As if it has the power to make us realize the error of a capitalist consumerist society, and get back to basics. Let’s face it; we never really needed all those handbags, IPods and celeb mags in the first place, eh?

Foster weaves in enough relaxants and jokes that remind us we don’t need to be militant to be revolutionary. At one point she wanders through London dressed as a Polar Bear to remind people not to forget about the beautiful creature and to demonstrate that it might be gone one day.

Unlike most climate campaigns out there, Lucy Foster’s isn’t after donations; her show wants us to understand it in a way that we haven’t considered before. It isn’t a pin-badge, or a plastic bracelet, a T-Shirt or a status update, but an actual organic thing that will change our lives. She opens the simple truth that in years to come we might need to teach children in schools what exactly the ‘white’ stuff was. As Foster points out from the start, ‘This is the biggest campaign ever’ and we are all going to play a part in it.

She's Electric

2009-11-07T18:39:00.004Z

It was in the penthouse. Right by the whisky bar, the chattering teeth and the playing cards. The fairies strung lights like an electric warrior belting out the shocking tones of ‘Jeepster’. The charge sent forth a bolt like the light brigade and jolted her into the air like a tossed pancake.

Gallantly our heroine fought on, casting the sparks back to their wall bound prison with her left hand. Taping the wound with masking tape she tapped her two feet in victory and danced the butterfly.

Conversation after conversation she threw the static prints upon the floor and trampled over their reverberating microtones, she was prepared for any surprise the night could throw at her…

Bat For Lashes 05/10/09

2009-10-05T23:59:00.008+01:00

It’s hard to connect with five thousand people, and I’m not going to say Natasha Khan overcame that this evening, but she gave it a good go. As usual at these kind of gigs the low murmur of chatter like an accidental baseline gave that feeling that few were really listening to Khan, as she weaved suburban magi-drama with her new dance led electro bop from this year’s ‘Two Suns’ release. It’s also worrying to see Khan still strut the amateur theatrics that’s hit the mainstream with the likes of Florence and the Machine and Little Boots. But it’s not the theatrics as such that are the problem, but rather the lack of them, and their reduction to a few well choreographed arm swishes and wolf howl manoeuvres.

I first saw Bat For Lashes shortly after the first Mercury nomination and was immediately drawn into her heart transplant bat ache moan, fluttering the wings of blind abandonment. She was god-like, handing out free bat masks and lyric books on the doors, and backed by a full choir of orchestral followers. But this time it was all too dull. The vague smatterings of theatre with her multi-media encore of ‘The Big Sleep’ salvaged something, but weren’t enough to dispel the comedy of tacky lighting bolts during ‘Glass’.

I feel the skin-tight spandex of 09’s fleeting fascination with American Apparel, has paved a predictable path into dull electro-clash, when what I loved about Khan during ‘Fur & Gold’ was the Bolan cat growl, the swishing hippie cloaks and the DIY sound production; banging a wooden stick on the stage to create the cardiac beat of ‘Sarah’.

Saint Cecile

2009-09-25T15:31:00.004+01:00

We arrived sweaty from the over priced omelets of Saint Mont Michele and sad throngs of people pushing the sand along the hourglass. The cast assembled whilst the shirt stuck to my back, amongst the small country surroundings of Saint Cecile.

The cider shop door left ajar, and a note said they’d be back after lunch, the hotel was closed till two. A few more cars arrived during the interval, foreign number plates with smiles like a cricket crease and voices we’d later recall at dinner. I tried to feign French with them, whispering hellos and goodbyes and hoping they wouldn’t hear me speak English.

We checked in with a cleaner who finished the hoovering before she spoke with us. The whole place revolved around dinner, served between seven and eight and in the garden were some sheep searching for their lambs we’d later eat.

The evening would play out like a murder mystery. Middle aged women with seductive eyes crave bacchanalia whilst their husbands gave up sex in favour of instant personal gratification. The few staff moved with hidden intent.

The old man in the linen room shifting through white sheets with his moustache and I saw a few cooks open a back door somewhere. Frost expired from the frame and they dragged out a carcass and a dying bonfire outside gave wind of a gardener, although I didn’t see one.

At dinner the only waitress was short tempered. German marching music blasted from the small Ghetto-Blaster and a well dressed Dutch family began to laugh. The waitress proudly offered her coffee specialties, although I wondered where the other staff went and why the cider shop outside still had its door wide open.

A coffee protected by the batak people

2009-09-06T13:56:00.002+01:00

Returning from holiday I am to discover the latest in the line of special club Nespresso varieties. Although this time the ‘exclusive’ coffee company has gone completely mental with an ancient civilisation of the Batak people. There’s enough marketing guile to give the impression a‘coffee expert’ (picture Mick ‘Crocodile’ Dundee with a travel espresso machine) climbed the highest mountains and swarm through leech infested jungles to bring you this intense flavour. Rather than the more obvious truth of a middle aged balding golfer liaising in glass fronted offices with a big-shot from the Batak coffee company looking to expand their business.

Merry-Go-Round

2009-08-31T15:12:00.005+01:00

It was the first time I’d driven abroad, and before you get any ideas the car returned in mint condition with just a cool thousand or so more miles on the clock. If I’m honest it was surprisingly easy. As soon as we hit French soil I found myself on more roundabouts than the Romford circular, and although the French are still getting used to the phenomenon, I found myself slipping into all the right lanes. I loved the nonchalance of the drivers. They’d all pile straight onto the merry-go-round, happy to sit there for a minute or two, quietly puffing on a cigarette whist more cars poured from the estuaries into the turbine.

I quickly found that being a pedestrian in northern France is a little peculiar though. For some reason no one stops at ‘zebra’ crossings, and when I’d pull up beside one and let the fishes past, I’d be treated with the scornful expression only the French can pull off; as if I’d drank red wine with fish, or demanded an English menu.

Tindersticks 1st July Hyde Park

2009-07-02T14:07:00.001+01:00

I finally got to see Tindersticks perform at Hyde Park's Serpentine Sessions this summer. Having shamefully missed 2007's Barbican show of the second record in its entirety, the band, originally hailing from Sheffield have seemingly left touring behind them to focus a wealth of side projects. Staples with his French home and studio 'Le Chien Chaneux' (The Lucky Dog) and original core member Dickon Hinchliffe escaping to score films, the battered line was left only three deep for last years release, 'The Hungry Saw.'

The 1st July saw the three warriors of sorrow backed by a full cast of musicians to crack into sleazy classic 'Rented Rooms.' Next the sticks pulled tracks from almost all their releases from the past 15+ years, that developed into the halftime paranoia of 'Another Night In' followed by the mid-show heart attack with 'Say Goodbye To The City' bursting the audience with a 'Tribute to Jack Johnson' esque smashing trumpet solo.

Highlight of the night though had to be the surprise inclusion of old favourite, 'City Sickness' with it's wise words of city life warning 'so this is where I ran to for freedom, where I may not be free' ringing true throughout the audience of tube trapped photo takers viewing life through the dusty lens of an IPhone. Makes me want a taste of that French escape Staples has found himself.

Journey to work

2009-06-02T15:16:00.001+01:00

First in a series with Rashbre of 'cammuting'

Engine Parts

2009-01-28T07:49:00.000Z

I've been constructing a couple of scripts amongst other bits and bobs. Going to shows, conferences, clubs, having a peanut butter binge and generally doing lots of things. The end of last year was awash with spending money and now I'm considering budgeting.

I'm thinking blog minded again, and need to flex the old muscles to get this engine operational.

This has to be a well oiled machine if it wants to keep going. So I'm swapping out the oil pressure spring, cracking in a new gland nut and washer, replacing the head gasket, taking the spark plugs to town for a wash, and airing the carpets from flood damage.

I'm also thinking about getting one of those flux capacitors? Time travel is inevitable.

Movember

2008-11-28T12:23:00.001Z

Last chance to support Movember!

Quit while you're ahead

2008-11-19T12:08:00.005Z

I’m not a fan but this feels strangely subliminal, like Bart’s boy band in ‘The Simpsons’. I’ve grown up with the threat of another terrible Guns ‘n’ Roses record and this proves the point. Utter trash. Even better is the story of bucket head, the lead guitarist who refused to record the album unless he could play in his very own bespoke chicken coup constructed in the studio itself. We know he got his way, and when he performs he wears a stupid KFC bucket on his head – hence the ridiculous moniker. If you though James Bond was soaked in product placement, this is worse.

The best part is that Dr Pepper pledged to supply every US citizen with a can of said drink if Chinese Democracy was released in 2008. Let’s see if they keep up their side of the bargain.

If you like the Tygers of Pan Tang, you’ll enjoy this.

Behind us the storm

2008-11-09T20:19:00.003Z

Late weekdays, several novels, and an Eric Gregory submission have kept me away these past weeks. It’s all a matter of how you choose to fill your time. Except things aren’t always that simple, and sometimes it seems the way we spend time is chosen for us. Like the time spent sitting in a flood during a recent trip to Scotland:

Behind us the manure flood water
squeezed out through Lucozade bottles,
at the Gateway Inn car park.

Behind us no room at four inns,
and the A591s muddy middle bank,
separating separate rivers on
both sides of the dual carriage way.

Behind us wheel spin on slick grass,
horizontal rain, and mud splat on
bodywork dried like scratch marks.

Behind us the unlucky green car
twice at risk on the same road,
in the same town and
waterlogged, like the grass beneath
a Sunday paddling pool in June.

Behind us foot cramp on pedals
and trainers soaked to soaks.
The white lines lost in the dark,
and only cats eyes to save us.

The tide is high as Scotland welcomes.
The radio recalling last nights lost -
forty four still missing,
and the clouds move faster
than the car can outrun.

The weather turns like a playing card.

Down The Rabbit Hole

2008-09-28T10:18:00.008+01:00

What always amazes me about London is the multitude of interlocking events happening at any given moment. It’s a great asset to know there’s always something to do, but at the same time it’s terrifying; at the southbank, I never want to go home. I could listen to the buskers all day, walking the length of the Jubilee Bridge taking in classical violin, steaming hot sax jazz, tropical steel drums, or the sad penny whistle of the homeless hunched in a corner by the stairs. There’s all the live theatre jazz, the ‘Watch this Space’ motifs, publicity stunts, extreme skateboarders, and a full programme of all kinds of theatre.

Yesterday, it was hard not to notice the hundreds of participants of the Urban Rat Race that came darting through the crowds, pausing to consult their maps and stare pensively in all directions. This UK initiative takes adventure sports to the streets of cities. Only learning the course hours before the event, teams face multi-disciplined challenges including, biking, climbing, running & kayaking.

As for my adventure, I went ‘Down the Rabbit Hole’ at the Oxo Tower Bargehouse; a new production by ‘Let’s Paint the Town Red,’ whose mission statement is to explore spaces for performance in & around London and bring them to life. The Bargehouse was a fantastic location for just this. An old Victorian warehouse, all decrepit and rusty and often used as a gallery space for various art colleges. The concept for the show was loosely based on Alice & Wonderland, taking the audience down the rabbit hole and into the strange world Alice confronts in Caroll’s famous novel. Somehow, however the show didn’t quite live up to the copy on the back of the flyer which promised ‘alternative puppetry’ and ‘absurd encounters,’ and what we were faced with was a disjointed journey, part through darkness & tunnels, and part through underused white washed rooms with tiny and pointless art installations.

What I felt was needed was far more acting. Site specific theatre can sometime run amok by losing its audience through selling far too many tickets and one of the great benefits of Punchdrunk’s ‘Faust’ was its intimacy and the chance of more encounters with the actors. Something with they continued with ‘Masque of the Red Death’ that saw myself dragged off to a broom cupboard to hold a skull and listen to Latin whispers from a woman doing headstands in the corner. These are moments of a true twisted imagination – the ones that catch you off-guard and leave the back of your neck tingling as if you’ve had a good massage.

Although not trying to be exactly like Punchdrunk, and have more focus on art & installation pieces, ‘Down the Rabbit Hole’ felt lazy; the actual art was underused, and hastily put together, and a partnership with cinematic illustration innovators, ‘Paper Cinema’ felt more a showcase for their work than anything to do with Lewis Caroll’s twisted world. The performance I saw also integrated a heavy rock band that had little relevance with anything Alice related, and left me disorientated at what seemed to be the shows most pivotal room, the Mad Hatters Tea Party.

Overall I do love these type of events, that blend together an array of artistic ventures, however with only three days of performance time, I wonder if this was a last minute, rushed affair in order to use such a fantastic space. When shows like this are so set dependant, any company attempting such would ideally need a few weeks of preparation to decorate & get inspired by the space. Perhaps this time ‘Down the Rabbit Hole’ was a victim of its own hype, with Time Out & London bloggers claiming this would be the next ‘Punchdrunk,’ the next must see experience, to feed the London trend-setters hunger for more alternative Monday morning news at the coffee machine.

Something Somewhere

2008-08-17T14:41:00.008+01:00

I always like to try and get the most out of the weekend. And this doesn’t mean sleeping till noon, waking with the obligatory hangover, and sauntering around in dirty clothes all afternoon. Instead living from breakfast till supper seems the best way to see what the city has to offer. So Saturday morning, armed with a 25mm wide angle lens, Borough Market was the destination. Seemingly permanently trapped in autumn, it’s a great place to spot fashionista’s, tuck into some cracking home ground produce, and sip on a guest ale or two at the Market Porter.

Then after a general wander through the city, the day rounded off at ‘The Troubadour’ in Earls Court to see Michael Horowitz perform from half a centuries worth of spoken word material. Punctuated by short sets of Irish folk songs, improvised Cello-jazz, and his infamous kazoo, age seems to have riled Horowitz as he works in segments of his most political work to date; a take on T.S. Eliot’s ‘Waste Land’ criticising the state of the world at the turn of the Millennium, from Bush’s ‘war on terror’ to the “suicidal commercial triumphalism promoted by the arms, nuclear, advertising and war industries.”

It’s interesting to see how Horowitz uses Eliot’s’ post war devastation of the 1920s, as a vehicle for the metaphorical cultural & political wasteland of a media-numbed population today. I feel there’s also a disappointment for Horowitz given his back-catalogue of beat poems, and literary jazz licks, where the world for a moment seemed it was going forwards for the best, whatever that may be.

Overall I can’t help but think that ‘The Troubadour,’ as beautiful as it is, is stuck as a patron saint of veteran musicians & poets alike making it hard to imagine anything truly groundbreaking will ever come out of it again. Surely younger generations shouldn’t leave it to the post WW2 baby boomers to spell out the problems in their society?

Oh well, there’s plenty of other venues to witness twenty something’s rile against Bush & Blair, but last night in this small romantic underground corner, it was groundbreaking to see someone as frail as Horowitz; a survivor from the Beat era, tell us how he feels with a smile, and lead a chorus of laugher from a diverse audience during the cello-led sing-along of ‘What shall we do with the drunken sailor.’

Reoccurrences

2008-08-11T19:44:00.002+01:00

Everyday I pass the central criminal court and see the news reporters touching up their hair, the camera men setting up their gear and the legitimate paparazzi fiddling with all manner of lenses and the occasional tripod. In fact I see the very same bald guy everyday in brown workman’s boots, with a khaki bag that looks like it’s from Gap and a massive white lens that could be used as balancing stick in a circus act.

Yes, sometimes days are like clock-work and faces become familiar in a city of strangers. In fact one thing I always ponder at this point in my journey, is how strange it seems to be outside the walls of the court, when inside it’d seem one can slip so easily, with a plethora of offences to chose from. And everyday I think about the drama series ‘Criminal Justice’ that aired on BBC1 a few weeks ago. It stared Ben Whishaw as a young man who unwittingly ends up the wrong side of the law, after waking up to find his squeeze for the night murdered and the knife beside him. Obviously the poor chap had no idea what happened and to some extent doubted his own innocence due to his intoxication. What followed were five episodes of the usual tripe; corrupt cops, corrupt prisons, and an inmate who ruled the coup.

In the end our hero went the way of alleged murderer Barry George proving that in fiction and life, the good guys get it wrong sometimes.

Death defiers on the morning commute

2008-08-06T19:19:00.004+01:00

Every morning thousands of commuters actively stare death in the face and laugh. Either that or they don’t even realize how close they come to the inevitable. I myself am included in this bubbled mass of fools who happily dance through busy roads, pick fights with cyclists and leap onto packed trains with legs dangling through the gaps.

In most cases I imagine people don’t even think about being killed, the astonished look on their face as a taxi runs them down, as if to say, “but I’ll be late for work.” I managed to rattle off a few snaps this morning catching pedestrians close to the edge. Some chap even lost his rattle at a cyclist, whacking the back of the bike in anger as the misguided rider ringed a ringer and rode on through a pack of red-man jay walkers. I’ll be on watch tomorrow…

The Barricades Arise

2008-06-03T19:02:00.003+01:00

I’m not a military man, but any fool can see the importance and the reason why countries have armies, and it’s not so Generals have something to hide in their ‘sleeves.’

Everyday I pass Chelsea Barracks, and ever since its purchase last year for over 900million quid I’ve been interested in its affairs as it looks set to become a hive of posh flats. Now I’m a fan of changing spaces within the city, but I do have some reservations about this arrangement. Gone, are the times when I’d pass the barracks in early morn to watch the drills, marches & general army revelry. I’ll even miss the random chats I’ve had with young soldiers at the Rose & Crown on Lower Sloane Street. But what seems to be the biggest travesty so far, is the surrounding of the entire site with giant black boards cutting the ex-barrack from view.

In fact at the moment the only place you can see into it (other than the gate) is down at the corner by Ebury Bridge Road where they used to keep the Armoured Personnel vehicles (terminology courtesy of ‘Command & Conquer’) and such. The place where you can hear someone play bagpipes in Chelsea Mansions. It won’t be long before the whole thing’s cut off from public view, colluding with the overhanging trees to block the sunlight from Chelsea Bridge Road all-together.

As they say there’s no pleasing some people, and I imagine this’ll go on for a good few years before we see the fall of the wall. Then we’ll have the towering obelisks of luxury to contend for sunlight with.

Nature faces yet another villain in the ongoing 'survival of the fittest'…

Pray for the people inside your head...

2008-05-15T08:12:00.003+01:00

'Cause they won't be there when you're dead' sings Johnny Flynn last night, reminding me of a Channel 4 show back in the early 90s on a Sunday morning that characterised all the body's functions with little people. I remember in particular the white blood cells; these were hard nut bouncer type guys battling germs with laser guns. Methinks Johnny may have seen the same show, either that or more likely it’s a metaphor for all the voices in our minds? You decide...

The ICA last night was packed full of city dwelling folk types, each one likely a musician themselves watched in awe as dedicated all round talent Johnny Flynn told a few well crafted witty stories that have more in common with 'ye olde London' than the multicultural sprawling architectural web of tourism that it is today. Commanding rapturous applause, Flynn looked a little surprised at this fairly mature audience who had shown up in force to witness what the press are calling a 'dreamboat' perform with his band The Sussex Wit. With shouts of 'Johnny Johnny,' and lustful glances from dark fringed spindly girls, the night did at moments feel like it was to descend into a scene from 'Skins,' but with Johnny at the reigns it held well & true in the folksy realm, pulling on a variety of musical styles & instruments, that joyfully avoided the electronic squabbles of the florescent trend setters today.

It's fantastic to see new folk on such a populist scale that suggests, with groups like Fleet Foxes already being touted as your 'new favourite band,' 2008 really is going to be the year where traditional music re-enters the vernacular. Even Laura Marling was in attendance, you should have been there...

Dig Yourself!

2008-05-10T14:15:00.004+01:00

Crowning a short residency at the Hammersmith Apollo, Nick Cave man of many talents swaggered, leaped and shook his fist like a true caveman curses daylight for dying last night.

Hocking up words like a jive orator, all pivot hipped & handle barred moustache, Cave called upon confession after confession as Warren Ellis, bearded supremo to his right, did things with gorgeous violins that’d make a classicist weep. Ellis thrashed around the floor trying to dig his way back to hell whilst Cave yelled ‘Prolix, Prolix nothing a pair of scissors can’t fix!” during the intense literary screaming’s of ‘We call upon the author.’ The whole thing made we want to flap my limbs around like Brains in the new Drenched advert, Cave makes contemporary dance look easy.

‘Red right hand’ drew particular arousal from the crowd as the first bell chimed and Cave, a tall dark stranger himself on the edge of London town, pulled from a dark dusted suit, a red right hand and come the second encore must’ve shot a glance to the bad seeds and known, “this town is mine.”

Dusty Corners

2008-04-20T11:10:00.002+01:00

I’m ahead of time this morning having bought Sunday’s Observer at 11pm last night, giving me license for a lie in.

Having enjoyed Billy Bragg’s short punchy set (photo from rashbre) comprising of lectures on record stores and a few classics at Rough Trade East yesterday, it’s interesting to draw parallels with his thoughts on how punk rock was discovered in the dusty corners of independent record shops, with live music venues. In music monthly today, it discusses the recent dominance of the o2 arena, but takes a brief look at the great live music venues that are either shut already or in process of doing do.

With venues like the Astoria marked for closure, & the Spitz already gone, Bragg’s dusty corner myth rings true, as we increasingly see great old decrepit live venues in decline much like the independent record store. It’s a similar state of affair in New York, with CBGB closing down in 06, and experimental jazz venue, the Tonic, favoured by Tzadik label eccentrics, levelled to make way for condos. It’s easy to see that the dusty corner is getting cleaner by the second.

But this is where the internet comes in. Perhaps Bragg missed the point when he criticised the lifelessness of instantly finding what you want, rather than leafing through hundreds of vinyl’s, as this is exactly what the internet allows you to. It has dusty corners springing up all over the place complete with spider webs and moth eaten handkerchiefs. Maybe lacking the romantic notion Bragg favours, the net does provide a forum for individuals to get their music out there, cutting out all the middle men in the process. You could argue that it also provides a greater medium for experimentation as musicians are creating for no particular audiences. Although he’s right in saying the majority is probably rubbish, he’s wrong in assuming the corporate nature of the beast. Myspace may have sold out to Microsoft, but there are hundreds of indie sites just like it waiting to be tapped into by A&R execs (if they still exist) and given the publicity they can’t provide themselves. As the artist takes increasing control of the production process (i.e. their bedroom), perhaps the future of the great labels exists in PR only.

Don’t get me wrong, I love record stores, and am concerned that following Google’s announcement to induce a bidding war for search terms, chances are the internet will become an even larger well-oiled corporate machine. However, this rapid growth will run out eventually, and when we’re all bored of staying indoors, and global warming has brought with it the ‘great British summer’ we’ll all have to return to the record shops, and the dusty corners will be swarming again.

Let’s not forget, the city is huge, and there’s still loads of dusty corners to find, and if you liken this to ever expanding genres of music, then there’s already more than enough to wade through. Post apocalyptic hardcore anyone?

Breadline

2008-04-13T12:49:00.001+01:00

I heard about a man who was on the 19p a loaf breadline. He lived in Kings Cross and ate Pease pudding on toast for breakfast. He liked to take photos but could only afford 36 exposures a week. He’d use his freedom pass to ride the buses and snap the days of the city. His flat was covered in a thin layer of mould, it was worse around the sofa, and he worried how he’d afford to fix the TV if it broke.

He had a daughter who he rarely saw, although when he did he liked to take her out for a pot of tea and a cake in a nearby café. He’d have to make sure he always kept a few pounds back for these hastily imminent visits. These were the only savings he could speak of.

When worlds collide

2008-04-10T19:10:00.001+01:00

There’s a lot of chat about the future of books at the moment - whether we’ll all buy into electronic readers, or just give up reading completely. But classic publishers Penguin are doing something which has began to raise a few eyebrows in the literary and digital media worlds.

We tell stories, is an alternate reality website that’s using new media sensations like Google Maps & Twitter to tell stories across the internet. Penguin have commissioned six authors to use these mediums in order to create the first ‘digital novels.’ One story, by Charles Cumming, is your classic spy adventure but with a twist. The story unfolds over a Google map of London, featuring locations such as St Pancras station & the British Library. A great imaginative tool methinks & it’ll be interesting to see how many people start staking-out suited chaps as they disembark from anonymous trains with suspicious suitcases strapped to their hands.

Another story uses Twitter, and is told through badgering short text messages across the characters' profiles. It’s the kind of thing that you can imagine being completely real. Log into Twitter anytime & you’ll see a thousand conversations taking place, but if you begin to follow them you never know what you’ll find out…

Overall I think it’s a great way to get people, glued to their Iphones & laptops, to start reading again, and provides a wealth of creative ideas for the tech savvy young budding novelist.

Drops in the river

2008-04-09T07:55:00.001+01:00

I bought an ep by a band called Fleet Foxes the other day and have since been enjoying their sunny country bumpkin worshiping tunes. It’s great when you find a piece of music to slow down to, and that ignores the complexities of life. So much of music is riddled with salary crisis, golden handshakes, or problems at the ATM, that it makes me wonder my more indie rock music isn’t used to advertise financial services. Hard Fi’s turgid ‘cash machine’ would make a great Abbey National ad. ‘We’re working for the cash machine,’ well of course we bloody are, top marks for pointing the obvious.

Maybe it’s just because spring is finally beginning to show signs of life that I’m enjoying music from the fields & trees again, and come winter I’ll buckle down, collar up and tune into some depressed ‘on the dole’ banter from east London. But if you like a bit of CSNY, blended with the ‘bron-y-aur-stomp’ & wooden country chapels, then check it out. The cover art's a bit like Roger Dean’s fantastical landscapes on ‘Yes’ albums, which is always a good thing.

You wouldn't steal a car? ... would you?

2008-04-07T19:26:00.003+01:00

Reading the paper this morning, it claims 95% of digital music downloads are illegal according to new reports conducted by the British Music Group.

With illegal downloads pushing the music industry into panic stations, it’s hard to believe that they can afford to produce records for sale at all, given all the bad press kids on the net get these days.

So instead of creating advertising campaigns to convince kids that illegal downloading is the equivalent of stealing a car, perhaps its worth looking into how we can promote the joy of owning records. If we’re meant to be so obsessed with shopping & consumerism, then why don’t enough people actual want to buy records these days? My initial thoughts lead to the fact that records aren’t advertised the same way as most products, and the ones that are, are usually Pop Idol winners or mainstream rock. Take I Pods for example; with the irresistible colours & groovy beats, this is what’s killing record sales. We as a public buy into the trendy apple culture which eliminates the need to buy a physical record. Apparently “people aged 18-24 keep around £750-worth of unpaid-for music on their MP3 players,” thus suggesting the majority of music listened to via new media is illegal.

But on the other hand this provides new opportunities to sell music, & for musicians to make money via new ad-funded business models. But in the wild rush to embrace the new digital mediums we see before us, are we forgetting the feeling of what it is like to own a collection? The one that stands proud by the fireplace & tells a thousand more stories about ourselves than an I Tunes playlist ever will.

Happy Shopper

2008-04-01T20:34:00.002+01:00

A rare thing happened today, a conversation in a shop. It wasn’t a high street chain mind, but an independent shop. It made me think what a rare experience actual contact during shopping is, as opposed to the usual small talk.

With crowded high street shops & short tempered staff, and the growth of de-personalized online shopping, it’s hard to find a consumerist experience worth discussing. But you know when you come across it. You get that tingling feeling along your spine, the way telephone surveys make you feel – like someone random actually cares what you think. Living in a big city, it’s hard to find such intimacy. Usually the streets are too full to care about the squabbles of passers by, or to allow the space & time conversation needs to flow. There’s a lot of rush, and I imagine you’re always wishing the person in front would speed up. It’s a bit like driving really, accept we have no mirrors, so when change lane and pull out in front of another person, we end up being the slow person ourselves.

A logical step for this conversation would be to complain about the lack of independent shops & the proliferation of high street chains, especially as the shop in question was a record shop. However, sometimes the anonymity of the high street can be a blessing - some indies are hugely intimidating, with star tattooed hipsters grinning at your taste, bearded nose pieced hedgehogs wearing t shirts with flames on the back or simply unhelpful staff caught up in their own trials & tribulations to notice the drowning customer.

Today I had a good chat, had a good listen, and was given some pretty top recommendations. I’d like to see Amazon get it right first time...

A break away...

2008-03-24T18:44:00.003Z

At the heart of it I’m just a hotel owner. I’ll open my doors to you no matter what state you’re in and help coach you back to health.

I’ll give you your life back. Or if that doesn’t suit you, I’ll give you a different one. This is a fully customizable service.

This isn’t a cult. This is all about well being, it’s a going to the gym & eating organic food sort of thing. This is a healthy lifestyle choice & more. We’ll give you a little religion, not in a stuffy cramped church sort of way, but in an airy on-the-go, life affirming way. There’s no god unless you want one. I’ll help you leave whatever past behind you choose.

It’s an anti medication approach that’ll help shift yourself out of that deep depressive grip where perhaps, suicide seemed the only option out. Can you imagine how you’d feel if you’d jumped off that bridge? Then lonely as a soul you’d seen one of my ads and realised, ‘hey I could of sorted myself out?’

Listen, I’m a demonstrator, a protector, a luxury dweller. Life is fine & why not make it finer.

Firmament

2008-03-08T19:41:00.001Z

Remember those lovely self cast statues Anthony Gormley left lying around facing the Southbank last summer? Well this time he’s gathered all the rusty clones of himself and planted them in Mason Yards’ White Cube gallery. Some hang from the ceiling, others jut out from the walls at different heights, and a couple stand still like lemons. It’s the kind of set up I’d expect to see on a plethora of londonites’ facebook profiles. Sadly though, photography isn’t allowed, but getting a sense of ones own space & depth perception is. The steel figures fill the room and at times can make you feel not only claustrophobic, but petrified one of the buggers is going to fall from the ceiling.

Downstairs it’s a similar affair, showing how objects in a room can fill up space and leave you feeling small & venerable. To point this out Gormleys’ created a huge technical drawing; a sprawling iron bar cast shape. Like a great blueprint it grows from the centre, struts along the entire width of the ceiling before bringing an array of limb-like branches crashing to the ground. A conceptual climbing frame for kids perhaps?

Overall an afternoon well spent, rounding it off at a few of Mayfair’s backwater pubs that I never knew existed.

Ain't Misbehaving

2008-03-02T12:31:00.003Z

Here’s a question. Does space & distance create yearning in love? Or can we be romantic without it? Essentially what I want to say is, has technology made it more difficult to be romantic in the traditional sense? Or does this now offer a whole new way to be romantic?

Gone, it seems, has the do or die meetings at severe times on station platforms, underneath landmark clock towers & by the fountain on the lake. Instead arrangements are so last minute. ‘Txt me when ur in the area, an we’ll meet up,’ a constant threat to the old way. One could suggest this is more spontaneous, but I can’t shake the feeling that we’ve become more lazy & relaxed when it comes to love, and are no longer left to a week of thoughts about a single person until we meet them at the same time in the same place the following week. Now we’ll just drop a quick text message or email, and we pretty know all we need to know about each other without speaking face to face.

However, this is the new romance technology now offers us. Having been coined by wealth of telecoms advertising campaigns, we can inject the excitement of romance any time of the day without waiting for the fatalistic meeting on a Friday night bridge.

Gaston Bachelard in 'The Poetics of Space' discusses the impact of lived-in-architecture on our lives. Looking at how memories are conceived of space, this got me thinking in terms of romance, and how romance can be one of the best triggers for memory, be it a song, a perfume, or a restaurant. This makes me think of site specific theatre. (I had to get there somehow in the end)

Through placing theatrical performances in unconventional places, we can trigger an even more powerful wave of emotion in the audience. Take Kneehigh Theatre’s recent adaptation of ‘Brief Encounter.’ The show is performed live in the Haymarket cinema each night, combining live music, film & theatre to jump start the audience into an emotional remembrance of a romantic religion. Using specific sites such as a cinema is enough of make any think of first dates on the back rows, nervously glancing left between screen blackouts to pin pick yourself and remember ‘this is not a dream.’ Memories are concealed in all things, and a great performance in the right environment can do just what Bachelard preaches, make the ordinary, extraordinary.

Stories such as ‘A Brief Encounter’ make romance dramatic. Not just because of the protagonists situation (they are both married) but because love can be a fight, especially when you have to prearrange meetings a week in advance and rely on faith that the lover will be there on that dark, cold & rainy night regardless of train delays.

Stage Directions

2008-02-22T19:13:00.002Z

Over the last couple of weeks I’ve seen a fair amount of theatre, and one thing I’ve began to distinguish is how some plays have small moments of action that seem relatively pointless & very hard to successfully direct. For example some moments involve certain characters walking across the stage as they are being spoken about by the characters in the forefront of the action. Every time I see this movement, it never quite seems to work. The actor wandering across stage always looks quite random & somewhat loose & non integral to the action. It can often be a distraction to the audience, and comes across as a lazy tool to introduce & affirm a particular characters name.

The Lyrics’ current performance of Brecht’s ‘Resistible Rise of Arturo Ui’ does just this all too often. Apart from being dramatically transferred from 1940’s Chicago to somewhere in Africa, the performance often felt clumsy, squeezing 20+ characters into 8 actors. Perhaps Brecht’s fascination with Shakespeare was the determining factor in his generosity when writing roles. Another recent Lyric play was the complete opposite in this respect. An adaptation of Kafka’s ‘Metamorphosis’ turned the stage into a two storey house filled with a wealth of props for the characters to use that didn’t make their presence on stage a pointless affair. The resultant, a far more tight & engrossing performance.

Televison, don't go to my head

2008-02-16T12:20:00.002Z

Sometimes I forget how many questions I have. At the end of speeches, conferences & talks, the simple & necessary, ‘does anyone have any questions’ yarn is asked, but still I keep ‘schum’. I’m going to suggest that this is merely a product of a lack of confidence, or a matter-of-fact revelation that I have no questions worth asking. But some may suggest it’s a gradual learning from the surroundings urging a passivity that no one really realises until the moment has passed. The questions I have stored in my head address this point. The moving pictures of the early 20th century have sewn their teachings through to the modern day, and literally have us at gun point. If we move, we’ll miss it. If we miss it, we can’t talk about it. 'It', is, 'it'. Or rather the subject of programme scheduling is key to owning conversation.

Many great things can be learnt from television. In 2004’s ‘Oldboy’ Oh Dae-Su gathers a wealth of knowledge from 15 years subjection to the box. His circumstances are rather passive themselves, being locked up in a room and left to sieve through their memories for fifteen years is enough to make anyone worship the mighty release-from-mundanity TV.

But the questions still remain. Oh Dae-Su is released bursting full of queries, without a passive inch in his body. So rather than looking at society’s inventions as subjugating the masses, they postpone action, or, to look at it from a different angle, perhaps create action. We learn how to build & burn bridges from forms of dictation. We learn what is right & wrong on a basic level, but we also learn with what we identify. These tools can help us shape the people we are.

In Oh Dae-Su’s case, he uses his imprisonment to train his body & mind into finding the reason for his incarceration. To look at this away from the stories main plotline of revenge, is to see that this great metaphor describes our own individual struggles, the struggle to actually release ourselves from passivity and do what we want to do. However this route can be lined with danger, as escape’s guise is not what we think or may like it to be, and in Oh Dae-Su’s case his path is the direct product of his captivity, a position he, arguably, had no control over.

Open 24 hours

2008-02-12T08:01:00.000Z

Busy times have recently fallen on the surgery. This GP was out snapping central London on Sunday, on what appeared to be one of the busiest days in the city. In South Kensington we had the opening of the London Fashion Week, all over the West End Chinese New Year celebrations where going off with a bang, and in Covent Garden the red carpet was rolled out for the Baftas.

Head over to Rashbre for more! (Click here to view)

Survey says...

2008-02-06T08:24:00.000Z

There’s always a recent study that’s been conducted somewhere by a panel of independent panelists. For instance, everyday BBC Breakfast is filled with new information on what causes this & that, heart disease & obesity. Or what we think of the post office or a change in length of the school day, or even a little humour like what we think of selleotape (ok the last one was lie).

Well the latest study I’ve read about sheds some interesting light on the concentration of subcultures throughout the UK. Through compiling sales figures from HMV branches, ‘musos’ over at Uncut magazine have conducted a study into the musical tastes of different regions across the UK. They’ve learnt that Goth & heavy metal music is most popular in Leeds, Bradford, Sheffield & Nottingham, where as Hip-Hop & Grime are major flavours of London.

So does this reflect fashion tastes & identity? In other words does this mean that every other person in these northern cities is dressed in black to the max? Or perhaps the reason there’s so many rival gangs in London is because of the popularity of Hip-Hop & Grime, and its street life themes?

I’m not one who likes to base wild accusations of identity on music taste, but this does provide some interesting findings into how two exemplars of popular culture merge, as well as demonstrating a location’s social history.

One of the study’s most interesting findings is that people in the north listen to more beats per minute than in the south. So does this mean southerners are all downbeat & reflective?

We do like to create information, don’t we?

Two Peg Warning

2008-02-05T20:39:00.000Z

I found myself a cross between ‘Aliens’ & ‘A Clockwork Orange’ last night. The toilets were a pristine cluster of gender coloured giant eggs atop a white dome. With a lamp made of children’s toys & a Dalmatian throwing up in a bin, you could say the venue I was in was a little ‘unusual’.

It was Sketch, a contemporary London restaurant & bar on Conduit Street and I was there for free booze, canapés and to hear what Miles Beckett, multi job title extraordinaire & co-creator of Lonleygirl15 & Kate Modern, had to say about secret societies & online movie making.

Interestingly Beckett started life as a plastic surgeon before recognising the first wave of bogging as an opportunity to do something different, and create a video dairy about the trials & tribulations of a young American teenager called Bree. Amid all the buzz around lonleygirl and the endless discussions between bloggers about its authenticity, the public started to catch on that the real questionable factor was that it actually had a coherent plotline. After a media storm leading to the show finally being revealed as fiction, the plot took a more dramatic turn and followed the explosive story of Bree’s family’s involvement in a secret religious society.

With this in mind it’s obvious to see where recent blockbusters such as Cloverfield have got their ideas from, what with all manner of web 2.0 trails & virals that string individuals through endless marketing storytelling all over the net today!

However the night reminded me of the secret society based documentary ‘Wolves Live Here’ I saw a while ago. It told the story of a Lancaster based activist group who avenged the slaughter of wolves in the 10th century by King Edgar who allowed men to pay taxes in wolf heads. I remember the film gave the impression those who had filmed it, had not edited it, as suggested in the final scene whereby the film-makers find out they’ve been victims of constant surveillance as they stumble upon the remains of a grotesque ritual. The film is then dramatically cut short.

After a little bit of desk research the only site I could find relating to this ‘secret society’ was this msn group (Click here to view).

A white room...

2008-02-03T19:39:00.000Z

He told me how he bought plain white t-shirts at 30 cents each from Bangladesh and sold them at a 30% mark up. Didn’t say where though, and I had a feeling he was lying. He used to clean toilets in Miami, a long way from t-shirts I thought but still, he’d tell me how he never once complained about what he used to do. His suit looked as if he’d just found it in Bernardo’s. Pale blue shirt, too pale, too worn, washed out and beaten, and his yellow used-to-be silk tie rippled as he swung his story from left to right. He slurred when he spoke, and that made me uneasy so I said I had to use the toilet, he said he did to. So side by side along the urinal he told me about his cash flow forecasts, potential buyers, sellers and his new Barclays bank account, especially designed for his business needs. I just kept thinking of rain, sheets of the stuff, anything to picture a long flowing waterfall or running facet, overflowing sinks, puddles and ceiling leaks, and still, I had stage fright. I could smell his breath, taste his sweat attacking the air like a can of deodorant kills perspiration, I could even see the drops of piss he spilt on his shoes. After a quick comb of the hair and straighten of the tie, he told me he’d see me outside, relief. Outside though he was nowhere to be found, probably called into the meeting room. I leant against the pure white unmarked door I was yet to enter expecting to hear his dirty slur, but instead I heard nothing, not even a clock tick.

Clowning Around

2008-02-03T15:25:00.000Z

Last night I went to a fancy dress party as a clown. This is how I started, but by the end of the evening I became a somewhat 'demonic' clown.

The Joker would be proud...

Well-Dying

2008-01-28T19:42:00.000Z

I read something today that discussed the Korean phenomenon of ‘Well-dying’. It’s quite common practice in major Korean corporations, whereby workers are placed in a coffin, laid in a hole in the ground & a few handfuls of dirt later are reborn with renewed priorities, ideas & values. All in an attempt to improve productivity!

I wonder how well this actually works? Or if it’d work in individuals personal lives? After all, people always seem to say that after surviving life threatening situations they feel renewed with a new lease of life. Either that or they suffer some form of post traumatic stress. It makes me wonder if all sorts of companies will eventually spring up offering all manner of near death experiences as the new ‘carpe diem.’

Oh, I forgot, that’s what they invented bungee jumping for.

Battersea Elephant

2008-01-23T20:29:00.000Z

Can you spot the elephant?

Art School

2008-01-22T23:54:00.000Z

I’ve been thinking about using art school entry portfolio advice as inspiration to get myself together. Who needs the classes when you’ve got the words. They say b/w photography, I say the city at night – easy peasy. Although I wouldn’t do that, I’d come up with some bizarre concept to fit it. The kind of thing I can write an essay on, and how it reflects the London mayoral candidates’ race for victory, or something. I’d take a picture of a pigeon-less Trafalgar Square for Ken, and a toupee gallery for Boris.

But seriously, i was taking a look at a couple of college's entry level requirements, and it gives the impression all you need is a checklist of work. One film, tick, one 3D animation, tick, one life drawing, tick... etc. I know its good to have an all round grounding & interest in different artistic disciplines, but surely there has to be some merit, and surely not everyone is good at and has attempted every discipline there is! Apart from me of course.

Anyway this is all besides the point, I think it'd be interesting to see how I'd fare through self motivation, and by completing the prospectus briefs as a sort of exploration into the governing factors of artistic classification. After all it is the 21st (and 20th) century cool thing to do.

I may have stumbled onto something there…

The Nightbus

2008-01-20T15:02:00.000Z

Do you ever find yourself over hearing some fantastic conversations? I do and I always wish I had a dictaphone on me to record them. I spent some time on an N13 from Golders green last night, and this is what I over heard:

(young man who later we find out is called Harvey enters bus)

Harvey: Does this go to Charing Cross?

Driver: Yes

Harvey: I need to get to Charing Cross.

Driver: This bus goes to Charing Cross.

Harvey: Oh...

(Harvey stumbles on first deck of bus, dropping his phone in the process)

Harvey: (to plaid shirted, Carlsberg swelling bloke) Can I borrow your phone?

Bloke: Why d’ya wanna borrow my phone?

Harvey: Mines run out of credit, I need to call my friend.

(Bloke mumbles something indecipherable, hands Harvey the phone. Harvey drops the phone)

Harvey: Shit, sorry. (Dials number) Gary it’s Harvey, where are you?... Who are you with Gary?... Can you ring my mobile?

(hands Bloke back his phone)

Harvey: (to bus driver) Does this go to Charing Cross?

Driver: Yes.

(Phone rings)

Harvey: Gary, where are you? Where? I can’t hear you… Who are you with? I don’t like your friends Gary… Oh, just some Guy… I’m on a bus…. (louder) I’m on a bus! I don’t know where…

Bloke: Baker Street.

Harvey: What?

Bloke: Tell him you’re at Baker Street tube.

Harvey: I’m at Barker Street.

Bloke: Baker Street.

Harvey: I’m at Beaker Street… Beaker Street! (to Bloke) Where am I?

Bloke: Baker Street!

Harvey: (to Bloke) Can you tell him.. (hands phone to Bloke)

Bloke: He’s at Baker Street tube station mate. Baker Street! (hands phone back).

Harvey: Where should I get off Gary? Where? Who are you with? What did he say?... I don’t like your friends, I’m lost Gary…

(the bus approaches Oxford Street)

Harvey: (to driver) Excuse me, where am I?

Driver: Oxford Street.

Harvey: Gary, I’m on Oxford Street. Where should I get off? I’m lost Gary, I’m on a bus and I’m lost…

(Harvey walks over to the driver)

Harvey: I need to get off the bus, let me off the bus.

Driver: Only at the bus stop.

Harvey: But I need to get off now!

(Driver slams shut the window and the bus speeds up, causing Harvey to nearly fall over)

Harvey: They’re shouting at me Gary, shouting at me, they won’t let me off the bus! They’re not letting me off the bus! What should I do, They’re not letting me off. I’m lost Gary…

(Bloke starts to laugh to himself)

Evensong

2008-01-19T14:13:00.000Z

The other night I went on a great trek through the city. Starting with a choir service at St Paul’s I was treated to a little spirituality before I embarked on a journey that would ultimately lead me to Battersea.

The last time I was at St Paul’s, I must have been around 8. It was a school trip where we got to do the obligatory crayon tracings on copper plaques, as well as a treasure hunt of dead royals through the crypts. But one great adventure was to go to the top of the dome and see up-close all the fantastic paintings and golden markings. It reminds me of an old urban myth my Dad tells whenever we discuss St Paul’s, about how Sir Christopher Wren designed the building with less pillars. Subsequently, no one believed Wren when he said the building would stand without these extra pillars, so he was made to put them in. However, years later it's said that when some maintenance work was carried out they found that the pillars where in fact too short, and weren’t holding up the structure at all! No idea if this is true, but it makes a great story to tell tourists.

Anyhow, back to my journey, which then took me past Ludgate Circus, up Fleet Street, along the Strand, through Trafalgar Square, up the Mall, past the seemingly deserted Buckingham Place, down to Westminster, past Parliament, up Whitehall and past Downing Street. A bit of a trek then, stopping for a few real London ales along the way, I was giving a German friend of mine a little taste of the city's sites whilst avoiding the tube. I like to think I was giving myself a bit of a tour also. It's not often we really stop and take a look at our surroundings. Usually I'm marching through the streets at breakneck speed, dodging free papers & what not whilst trying not to get hit by a bus. But taking the time out to whisper through the roads we walk is always worth it. It can clear the head.

The ones disaster forgets

2008-01-17T07:47:00.000Z

A somewhat ugly non traditionally romantic poet, Peter Reading, has been within arms reach these last couple of weeks. In fitting with past discussions of romanticism, Reading’s ‘Perduta Gente’ explores the great unwashed. The dossers, dispossessed in their dreadful dispositions. The winos & unworthies, expendable & gagged in the modern world.

His use of graphics in the book is commendable. Taking newspaper layouts and spitting satirical smirks at the property market. Notebook formats and medical reports tell stories of which we never learn the outcome, yet remind us of the mundane, the tragic & and thoughts that make us feel sorry for another.

It’s a great exploration of city street dwellers, taking on the accent of a drunk & the swelling scents of a diseased limb. The kind of writings that make me want to list a thousand words I’ve never used before in a context completely indescribable. That perhaps, is what makes good poetry…

Cigbooks

2008-01-16T08:10:00.000Z

Most who know me will know one of my common phrases is, 'I read in the Guardian that...'. This is probably because the Guardian is pretty much the only paper/news site I read. Anyway, this morning I read an interesting article to do with miniature novels in cigarette packets.

Designed by design firm TANK, the concept was simple. To coincide with last years smoking ban they would release a series of popular short & cult novels by classic authors such as Hemmingway, Kafka, & Tolstoy in miniature form in the standard 20 cigarette packet. However what started as an interesting novelty idea to promote reading on-the-go has turned into a law suit with British American Tobacco.

Yes, BAT are bidding to have the books pulped because they 'conflict & damage' the image of their brand. In particular the one causing this 'offence' is Hemmingway's Lucky Strike-esque Snows of Kilimanjaro. Apparently it is BAT policy to protest against anything that resembles their brands due to the laws surrounding advertising tobacco in the UK.

My point on this matter is, wouldn't the novelty cigarette packet novel surely do more to romanticise and perhaps promote use of the brand rather than attempt to demonise it. Perhaps this is all part of BAT's plan, to create a storm of PR around their brands in a favourable light in order to combat the lack of advertising.

I'd like to see if sales of Lucky Strikes are up...

Domestic Romantic

2008-01-14T21:20:00.000Z

One theme I love in literature, is of the wandering soul. The simple careless breeze of a character onto which a reader can place anything they like. The kind of character whose attributes are mere observations of others, and whose interests usually amount to life’s simple pleasures; music, food & long walks. An individual whose life can be imagined in snapshots or picture postcards found in the back rooms of bars.

I find these types of characters interesting. Lonely fools whose lives seem extraordinary because they are so ordinary. Obviously, it's usually the story which makes them interesting, but that is true of real life, we are only as interesting as the stories we tell ourselves and each other. Take someone you know for example who's a great pub story teller, or someone who's great at pulling jokes out their sleeves, and they're usually the ones who have the ears of others. The ones who command the conversation, and to whom we all want to speak. In short the ones sat in the middle of the table, the leaders of the pack. Obviously we only see the story they let us see, thus hiding their depth. Where as the lonely souls are the ones who traditionally let us see this depth.

The lonely wanderer is key throughout literature. It's as old as Romeo, Jesus and Holden Caulfield. The romantic disposition of a man searching for themself, finding it in politics, booze, vice and the arms of women. But here is where the line breaks off into another. Here a second type emerges from the sterotype. The sound of a sigh by the sea, and the cross legged lunchtime reader whittling the hours on a bench with a book. The one content to be alone for sake of not knowing another way. But if one is to truly look into the trend & phenomenon of the blank canvas or tabla rusa character, then it has to be said that this theme lacks a leading female model. Literature is awash with the typical broody male traveler written by broody male travelers, and it has become an expression men have toyed with all to much.

I didn't wish to break into this subject so suddenly, I need to think a little harder on the matter. I simply wanted a good introduction to the film I watched last night called 'Tony Takitani'. Based on a Haruki Murakami short story, the film tells the tragic tale of a true lonely son of a jazz musician and his fashion obsessed wife. The strange thing here however, was this character never did 'find themself' in any of the typical inspirations, and ultimately remained removed from the world around them. The plot told us this was because of Tony's upbringing, and firmly stood by this view. It didn’t glamorize or portray his life as a detached swirl of debauched living, but rather of domestic living. The 21st century male, a clean home proud passive individual, head swimming with nonsense with contact lens eyes blurred by the city.

Every time I stumble across one of these lost souls, I find myself connecting a little more with their character, gradually splashing a little colour into mine. I like the way the theme has evolved from the romanticism of Byron and the thrill seeking 20th century beats, but to an altogether more reserved individual; who does the dishes, takes out the rubbish, drinks at the weekends, and takes paracetamols for their migraines. In this, like the novels of Murakami, we see the inklings of a domestic romantic, who perhaps is a little too wise for the mistakes of his ancestors, yet too afraid to become anything more than an ink stain on a forefinger.

Do you hear the people sing?

2008-01-12T23:50:00.000Z

I've had a mad Saturday. It all began at 6am when I first hit the snooze button. That didn't last long, and before I knew it I was on my way to Heathrow airport to meet a German colleague flying in from Stuttgart for the week. His flight was to land at the painfully early time of 8.15am. So after a long Piccadilly line ride to Heathrow and back I found myself at the Merlyn Court Hotel in Earls Court explaining the tube system. After a short breakfast and a quick introduction to Knightsbridge, we were off to Fulham Broadway for the Chelsea vs Spurs game at Stamford Bridge. Now, I'm a West Ham fan by rule, but not an avid fan. I couldn't name the team off by heart or anything but nevertheless in family tradition I support the hammers. The last game I had seen was back when Julian Dicks played for West Ham in 94 or 95, so I wasn't going to pass on the chance to see a Premiership Football match. We sat with the Chelsea fans, so any feelings for the underdogs had to be firmly masked. The game ended favorably for Chelsea with a 2 - 0 victory, continuing their unbeaten home run of over two years.

Jumping on a District line train to Sloane Square the second part of my day began, and I started to get into character for a culture clash performance of Les Miserables. Part of me was still with the football crowd, cheering and jeering at Tottenham fans, so the fear was setting in, what if I were to start chanting in a lout-esque way as Enjolas and the Students led the revolution against the brutal French police? Ruling this out I headed home, and after a quick meal, wrapped an arty scarf around my neck and jumped in a cab to Shaftsbury Avenue. What followed was three hours of revolt, romance, revenge & tragedy, accompanied by Schonbergs' recurring compositions and themes typical of a Cameron Mackintosh production. I’ve grown up with the songs of Les Mis, from car journeys, dinner tables & home visits, the songs have provided a soundtrack to me, and it came to great surprise to see it all finally fit together, and discover the songs that don’t feature on the soundtrack I own.

I guess what I love about this musical is its revolutionary themes and the feeling of great change in the air. Melanie and I spotted a few elements that felt a little dated so it’ll be great to see if anyone will update it in years to come. Who knows maybe it’ll be me. And as my day ends with the chants of masses ringing in my ears, I can reflect on two very different events and draw similarities with a football match and the story of Les Miserables. How the characters wanted change and freedom, and the football patrons wanting victory, an expression of freedom. And this leads me back to this very blog, and how in writing this, I am in fact flexing my own muscles of freedom. It all fits together…

Cloud Shapes Over A Purple Sky

2008-01-11T16:10:00.000Z

Last night I went to see the Jonathan Bratoeff quartet play at the Spice of Life pub just off Cambridge Circus. The gig was part of the Fire Collective festival currently taking place in London. It was evening of smooth licks, furious drumming and some fantastic facial expressions. I'm a big believer of musicians who pull funny faces whilst playing, I myself was always mocked for the strange pout I end up doing, but I think it's a great tool of expression. Bratoeff, however is in a different league all together, I was mesmerised by the way he used his mouth to imitate every note he made in true scat fashion, all the bee bops, dee dops, buh boo buh's stole the show.

Lunchtime

2008-01-09T16:04:00.000Z

Okay, so the plan here is to eventually include some pictures so I apologise with the text heavy content to date. I will upload some visual stimulus as soon as I can.

But what I want to discuss today is lunchtimes. I work in a particularly busy part of London, and I can’t find for love nor life a decent place in the winter to sit, eat my sandwiches, and embark on any musings I see fit. Obviously summer is a joy since its warm and the rain is no problem since I love the stuff (more on that late), the problem is the flaming cold! How can one sit and read when one's hand is shaking violently in the icy British wind? Suggestions are welcome. But the other major problem you see, is coffee shops. I happen to take lunch at the same time as everyone else does, say between 1 and 2. Sometimes I'll try to hold on longer so I know a seat will become available and I can read & write in peace, but hunger always gets in the way. The clock chimes in desperation for the arrival of the 'lunchtime', like beasts we'll roam the streets blinded by hunger, arms stretched out feeling through the busy cab laden roads for the stench of a sandwich, a hot potato pie, or a basil chicken pasta salad. And I’ll find myself fighting for my life, dragged through the barrage of tourists & directions, and sucked into a traffic jam peopled soup fit for the jolly green giant.

Entertainment

2008-01-08T10:01:00.001Z

Going back to my previous statement, I read this morning that Nokia claim that over the next five years up to 25% of all entertainment will be created, distributed & shared amongst consumers. So this would mean that by writing a blog I am directly contributing to Nokia's predictions. If I where to stop writing this now would that be a mini revolution against their corporate prediction? Or is this a seemingly worthless statement in the face of a more 'democratic' approach towards the output we consume. Time will tell...

One element of this self created entertainment is the growth in trend of online subculture. Now it seems Myspace and its contemporaries are dominated by individuals & groups setting up their own busineses, whether it's selling T shirts, band cd's, or selling tickets to specialist club nights. There's a whole load of youngsters out there making money from the internet. For example there's a whole world of underground poetry events and publishers, as well as online zines, and all this sudden activity begs the question, where did all these people come from? Have we always as a nation set up and promoted our own niche groups on a mass level? I suppose the old way was through word of mouth, distribution of flyers, meeting dates stapled to laundrette notice boards and now evolution has dictated that these events are to be promoted digitally.

This, on one level is fantastic as it breathes & breeds creative expression and a self motivated desire to make something happen. On the other hand though, it becomes hard to really work out if a 'scene' of some description actually exists. As with most art forms today, there is pratically every form ever created available to view or experience, and this in turn begs the question where and when will the next big innovation come from? The abundance of prolific creative events and partakings on offer make it hard to decide what the follow and actually 'believe'. Overall this could lead to such a great diversity of subcultural trends that the classification of such a concept even existing becomes impossible.

I'm sure this is a good thing, but on the flipside the diary takes a bit of a bashing when theres upteen events going on in a single night and you, like me, want to go to them all.

Here's a link to an acticle on Guardian Unlimited that dicusses the trend on Myspace subgroups.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2008/jan/07/myspace.digitalmedia

Cashew Nuts & Garibaldi's

2008-01-07T15:56:00.000Z

On the way home I had to buy some treats. I picked up a couple of things that for reasons beyond by control, I hadn't had for ages. A packet of salted cashew nuts and a packet of garibaldis. It was like meeting up with old friends and doing something pleasurable, like going for a drink.

When I was younger in my final years of school I used to love going to the supermarket. I'd love buying all sorts of random crap, cookie dough, roast chicken flavor crisps, supernoodles. Maybe it was my first foray into the adult world, a feeling of independance, that I could buy anything I wanted. I'd then go home with these little treats and spread them on my desk whilst I worked. Obviously as I got older things didn't stay the same, as a student it was cheap tuna and pasta, hardly exciting purchases. And now, thanks to the inevitable move to the city, its internet shopping, which isn't fun at all. Who wants to spend two hours glued to the screen searching for basic orange juice with juicy bits and anchor spreadable butter? It can be infuriating. And then it'll never be there on time, all hell will break loose and you'll end up expecting the whole load for free, like pizza's that never arrive on time in films. I'd much rather go to the shop myself, actually interact with the food I want, and then enjoy the immediate hunger that comes with it. But the point is treats. This evening I found that pleasure of dropping into the supermarket and buying a couple of choice items again, and for that I am grateful, like alot of things really that I'm sure I'll mention in due course.

Overload?

2008-01-07T15:49:00.000Z

Sometimes I'll stumble across a few websites or books, or cd’s that make me feel like I have something to say. In short I guess this either gives me some sort of inspiration or either makes me insanely jealously that I am not doing anything similar.

And so it seems the internet is a great harbour of self expression, and I ask myself, why am I not a part of this? I read somewhere that less than 10% of the internet population (actually I'm thinking it must be even less) actually contribute to the information we read and access each day. So that means, all the youtube videos, flickr photos, blogs, & even comments on websites and forums are provided by a vast minority. However, this does make sense, if we all added content everyday then the whole sh'bang probably wouldn't be able to cope.

So here goes my attempt...