ON THE DAY OF A GENERAL ERECTION HERE’S AN UN-BOWIE-LIEVABLE MESSAGE IN SUPPORT OF MILL EDDIBAND (or whatever his name is)…
He might not be one of the all-time political HEROES or the STARMAN of UK politics but TONIGHT, some severe CH-CH-CH-CHANGES need to occur.
We’ve had FIVE YEARS languishing in a LABYRINTH of SORROW, while that LODGER in number 10 and his FAME-hungry LAUGHING GNOMES have dragged the working classes UP THE HILL BACKWARDS until they SCREAM LIKE A BABY.
Despite most politicians and their benefactors being SCARY MONSTERS (& SUPER CREEPS), I’d gladly go from (polling) STATION TO STATION casting thousands of votes if I could.
YOUNG AMERICANS felt a new kind of MODERN LOVE when Obama got in (until he became THE MAN WHO SOLD THE WORLD out), so make sure you put family and friends UNDER PRESSURE to use their vote (especially ABSOLUTE BEGINNERS who’ve never voted before).
So… LET’S DANCE to the rhythm of GOLDEN YEARS Socialism and, to anyone LOW enough to be considering voting for the blue, blue, electric blue team… there must be LIFE ON MARS more intelligent than you…
Vying for position in most published year-end lists of 2015’s best albums is likely to be ‘The Race For Space’, the second album from the mysterious London-based duo Public Service Broadcasting.
As they did on their 2013 debut, ‘Entertain Inform Educate’, they skilfully marry snippets of sampled dialogue to swirls of synth, tape loop, guitar and even banjo, fleshing out their sound with some solid, propulsive drumming.
Their approach is self-consciously gimmicky but they have a pleasingly unique sound that often exudes a mischievous air of playfulness. They’re more of a smartarse musical boffin (J. Willgoose Esq.) with drumming accomplice (Wrigglesworth) than an actual ‘band’, foregoing the need for a vocalist by utilising bold, attention-grabbing statements lifted from stuffy governmental propaganda films, olden-days infomercials and the like.
‘The Race For Space’ was released in February and is themed around the Cold War-era fight for astronautical supremacy. There’s plenty of pertinent pontification and presidential propagandizing upholding the hip-again space theme but probably the most remarkable thing about the album is the sleeve artwork; a striking thing of beauty that eschews convention by having no official front or back cover.
Striving for impartiality, PSB instead let you choose between a US side or a Soviet side by simply flipping the sleeve over, so the slot housing the record still remains on the right-hand side… Pretty neat, huh?
The clever chap behind this novel and rather lovely artwork is Leeds-based designer Graham Pilling, who under his studio name of Army Of Cats has been producing some delightfully distinctive work of late.
I had a chat with Graham recently about how he came to be a graphic artist…
“I was always into doodling as a kid. I can remember drawing Star Wars pictures; an X-Wing attacking a Tie Fighter, so I was doing space stuff even back then!”
“I was really into comics and although I dabbled with the idea of being a comic artist, I struggled with drawing the same character over and over again. I started comics but never had the patience to finish them. I liked a fast return with my work: ‘right, that one’s finished’ and on to the next thing.”
Graham’s early influences would include Quentin Blake’s illustrations for Roald Dahl’s books and LS Lowry. “We had Lowry prints at home and I did a Lowry project at high school. He must’ve been an influence, as some of the work I’ve produced for I Am Kloot and Black Keys feature industrial buildings and chimneys.”
Graham’s had an unorthodox career trajectory but has always been rather enterprising; “My first paid work was drawing Garbage Pail Kids at school for 5pence a go and then later teachers ‘hired me’ for the then-princely sum of £20 to redraw logos on posters for school trips.”
“I studied art in college but dropped out because I didn’t want to learn about stuff I didn’t think was relevant to me at the time. I hated art history, which is a shame as I find it really interesting now. I was immature and cocky but strong-minded, just wanting to be creative and do my own thing.”
Graham’s creative impulses soon led him to leave his Huddersfield homestead for comparatively more creative climes.
“Instead of pursuing any sort of art career, I came to Leeds and got involved in the punk/independent music scene that was growing at the time. I spent a few years playing in bands and helping to run a small record label with my house-mates. We’d put on gigs, produce fanzines, and self-press records; it was a really creative scene. I ended up being the in-house ‘drawer’ and soon people were saying; ‘you’re the guy who does the posters… Can you do one for our band?’. So I was already freelancing.”
“I continued to get interest in my work and that spurred me on to try and improve my skills and look into how I could do it professionally. At first, you’re nervous, you doubt yourself and it feels weird charging someone, but you persevere and your experience builds from there. Obviously I’ve been doing this a few years now but I still remember my early clients, and trying not to let on how new I was to it all.”
So, how did you get the Public Service Broadcasting gig and what were they like to work with?
“They saw my poster for Of Monsters & Men which featured a little character lost in a vast snowy landscape. The figure is really tiny and that struck a chord with them, as one of the themes of their new record is the loneliness and vastness of space.
“Initially I put together a mood board of found images to show I had an understanding of the visuals they were going for. Then I created some rough sketches to show a few different ways of approaching the two-sided cover idea. They picked the ones they liked and I worked on developing the sketches into the final pieces of artwork.”
“The two-sided motif was their idea but they really welcomed my thoughts on how to ensure both sides of the sleeve depicted a celebratory breakthrough or victory. They didn’t want it to be taken out of context, like it was a dark Cold War rivalry or anti-Russian or anything”.
Some of the initial sketches Graham submitted early on in the project.
There are more details of how these ideas developed on Army Of Cats’ blog and since receiving an approving ‘thumbs-up’ for the sleeve artwork, those Public Service Broadcasters have commissioned Graham to produce further works of art for use on screenprinted posters promoting the current UK tour and also the album’s february launch, held, appropriately enough, at the National Space Centre in Leicester.
An up-close, front row fan’s video of that Space Centre show can be seen here… while the poster advertising it is pictured below, along with and a short videoing Graham produced outlining the process behind its creation…
Graham continues: “I also redesigned their logo to tie-in thematically with the record and created the artwork in the inner gatefold of the vinyl. They’ve been great to work with. Really professional but also friendly and keen for me to feel involved in the project. Which is nice, as not all client-designer relationships run as smoothly as that.”
Not all offers of work are pursued to completion either, even when the 30 million-sellers get in touch…
“I got approached by the management of a really huge, Grammy award-winning artist. They wanted a poster designing for a sold-out London gig. They were throwing buzzwords at me that didn’t translate into anything visual and showed me some pieces made by other artists that were examples of what they didn’t want. I was thinking; ‘old soul records, blocking, two-tones’, did a few little sketches and even referenced imagery that occurs in the artist’s music videos”.
“They didn’t like anything but couldn’t say why, or what they actually wanted. In the end, I just phoned them and ended the relationship, saying; ‘I don’t understand what it is you want me to deliver.’”
“I’ve been very lucky as I’ve never had to advertise, just always had referrals from happy clients. A huge proportion of it is I’m reliable. I realised early on, whatever freelance work you do, your client doesn’t have to think ‘this is the best possible thing that can be made for me’. They want the best experience. If the work is good enough and the experience of dealing with you was satisfying and you answer all their questions, they’re happy. It’s 40% finished product & 60% how you deal with people.”
“As with hiring a mechanic, you don’t know the ins and outs, you just want it done. Nobody would say; ‘he’s a good graphic designer, his composition and colour theory is excellent’ because they don’t know about that stuff. That’s why they hired you.”
“You sell the relationship, you make sure they’re involved in it and have ownership of it. You help your client understand the criteria that makes a project successful so that when you show them something that works, they can see that it does for themselves. I continue to get work because of good client management, making sure that THEY are happy with the work, not just me.”
In other words, and as illustrated by this beautifully decorative print he made (below):
WORK HARD AND BE HUMBLE.
Looking ahead, Graham and his one-man Army Of Cats would like to find more time alongside client-based projects to work on more general but still wonderfully eye-catching prints that reflect his varied personal interests.
“I’m a little obsessed with mountain and fell running. I’m working on producing prints of the mountains and landscapes where I run, to try and express how I feel when I’m out doing that. In the past I’ve never really referred to myself as an artist but I finally feel like I have something personal to convey, so the word ‘artist’ is growing on me and I’m excited about exploring a new direction and seeing what comes out of it.”
Public Service Broadcasting are currently on tour and these screenprinted tourposters, all individually hand-signed and numbered, are available to purchase as a treasured, hugely attractive memento…
So I got fucked up and went to see Fucked Up with a load of other fuck-ups.
Brudenell Social Club, Leeds, May 2013.
The cosy confines of this inner-city social club seemed, at first, an odd place for Fucked Up to host their travelling punk rock spectacle. However, it turned out to be the perfect venue. Damien ‘Pink Eyes’ Abraham, their gargantuan, sweat-soaked vocalist, took full advantage of the low stage and the split-level lay-out, bounding into the crowd, going for a wander and standing atop the Brudenell’s red velvet upholstery, spouting his between-song rhetoric while holding onto the ceiling.
This was my first taste of the Fucked Up live experience but most of the crowd already knew the drill. As the big man wades his way through them, screaming into the faces of those looking most ill-at-ease, he’s like the Pink-Eyed Pied Piper to agog local punkers who, treating him like some super-tame Russian circus bear, excitedly jump on his back and swing around his neck, partly as a ritualistic, macho kind of wrestle-dance and partly as a show of blatant PinkEyesMania. Around me, I heard fevered cries of:
‘‘I just touched him..!!”
‘‘He let me shout into his mike..!!’’
“God, his back ain’t ‘alf ‘airy…!!”
Every major city has its local hardcore nutcase; unhinged, worldly-wise characters whose omnipresence at gigs guarantee it being more of an event. Toronto’s resident nutcase is just that bit more entertaining. He’s a scary-looking yet charming fella, playing the attention-grabbing ringleader, turning to a bit of impromptu comedy as the band take yonks to fine-tune their guitars, winning over and recruiting troops to join his creative energy collective.
As their frontman goes for a stompabout, the band plug away onstage without him and they’re a compellingly odd-looking bunch. One guitarist, Ben Cook appears to be aged about 12 (and is indeed variously known as; Bad Kid, Young Governor and Lil’ Bitey) while their bassist, Sandy Miranda (or Mustard Gas to you) sullenly sways her long dress and curtains of hair in time to the foot-stomping fury she’s helping to create.
Their thoughtful take on full-on rage-rock has the requisite level of Black Flag power, locking into metronomic Krautrock drone-outs on the rare occasion when they do slip out of 5th gear pace. Drummer Jo Falco hammers away on his minimal kit like a hydraulic machine at full pelt, ensuring everyone else has to raise the intensity level of their big, fat familiar chord chains in order to match his power.
The NME may not have been made welcome in the D.I.Y punk scene but their recent voyeurism and gushing enthusiasm for all things Fucked Up is perfectly understandable.
Witnessing one of their shows is an exhilarating blast of total entertainment that teeters on teutonic and their inventive, far-sighted approach to creating punk rock, particular on record, make them a refreshingly exciting band worth treasuring.
And for all the precious hardcore scenesters who own all their early 7”s (still available at the gigs, recent converts!) and bemoan their growing popularity, surely their name alone will always ensure A-list playlist status on daytime Radio 1 will be as likely as ol’ Pink Eyes getting a hair weave and becoming the new face and body of Kellogg’s Special K.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Regardless of whether or not you’re a fully paid-up Fucked Up devotee, you should take some time out to watch the brilliantly original video to ‘Queen Of Hearts’, the first single form their epic rock opera in four acts (oh yes!), ‘David Comes To Life’. It was made by the Canadian filmmaker duo responsible for some superbly arresting recent videos for Belle & Sebastian, Alt-J, New Pornographers and others, all worth watching, here.
You won’t come close to experiencing the energy and power they generate during one of their gigs but this is a more accurate glimpse of what they sounded like live:
I tottered along to see the undeniably fine Turin Brakes the other night and before setting off, I remembered I’d done a review of the first time I’d seen them, nearly a decade and a half ago (one day after their debut album was released). It was a harsh reminder of just how old and crusty I’m getting when I contemplated the scary possibility of there being some eager young teenage fans also in the audience who weren’t even born when I first caught them live.
Once inside the Brudenell, I shuffled my way to the front to secure a favourable vantage point (with the other keen fans) and, sure enough, the first clutch of adjacent attendees my aged eyes clocked were three bashfully excitable young lasses who couldn’t have been any older than 14 and, subsequently, were indeed very likely to have been swimming in their daddies’ plums when I cobbled together this wee write-up, that was published in some local gig listings mag:
TURIN BRAKES/ ED HARCOURT
Leeds Rocket, 6th March 2001
The current vogue for proper bands playing proper songs with proper instruments continued here tonight as Ed Harcourt and his accomplices coyly took the stage and bared their musical souls to the predominantly male, Caffrey’s-quaffing, balding throng.
During Harcourt’s half-hour, just as on his current mini album, ‘Maplewood’, Ed and his band make a pleasant enough sound which, despite the welcome embellishment of an intermittent trumpet parp here and there (surely employed in a vain attempt to make every song a clone of Love’s ‘Alone Again Or’), fails to be neither energising nor particularly memorable.
Later, our Ed deflects any potential vocal comparisons to Fran Healy by singing a line about burning all his Travis tapes and, ivory tinkler that he is, begins a frustratingly neck-straining ‘sit-down-&-play’ theme for the evening which is upheld when Olly Knights and Gale Paridjanian, the all-strummin’, all-singin’duo that conceived Turin Brakes, walk on stage to park their arses in their chairs.
As each track from the wonderfully luscious debut, ‘The Optimist LP’ is peeled away, one can’t help but note that Knights’ voice and stage presence is, spookily, the closest anybody’s come to successfully working the late Jeff Buckley’s mojo for him, on his behalf.That’s no lazy association either; as the acoustic guitar interplay and the honeydew harmonies illustrate, their Radox bath-like body of work really is that good.
At the moment, the one thing more comforting than listening to Turin Brakes’ emotive handiwork is the thought that there might well be hundreds of other talented, David Gray-literate kids, busily beavering away in British bedrooms, determined to craft songs as warmly received as the ones laid bare here tonight.Am I being ‘The Optimist’ now? Let’s hope not.
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Well… not much has changed in fourteen years with regard to Turin Brakes still being prodigously talented and a wondrously engaging live prospect. The Brudenell show (on February Friday 13th!) was one of only two gigs the band have planned this year and, oddly enough for a London-based outfit, the other was also in West Yorkshire, at Hebden Bridge Trades Club the following night. Mmmmmm… Most queer.
Aside from their wonderful music, the most captivating thing about this 2015 gig was their bassist, Eddie Myer. I liked him as soon as he walked onstage. His excellent thick beard, his fantastically fulsome web of hair, his slim frame and well-toned arms (I’m guessing he does yoga!) and, not entirely in keeping with what you might associate da ‘Brakes with, he had some cool, tip-top rock god moves n’all: he wore skinny black jeans and Converse pumps, which did a leisurely jig you could really dig, on more than one occasion he had his FOOT ON THE MONITOR, PEOPLE..!!! and he was proudly sporting a Polymer Records t-shirt (which you must know is the fictional label Spinal Tap were signed to, who Artie Fufkin worked for)…
The band pulled out all the crowd-pleasing stops with stand-out tracks old & new, they did a corking, strung-out stoner version of ‘Chim Chim Cheree’ and, perhaps inspired by Myers’ Woodstock look, they often locked down into loose jamming mode, giving the term ‘southern rock’ a more London/Brighton meaning than a Georgian/Texan one. I reckon it’ll be one of the most prog gigs I’ll see this year (and I’m off to see Dutch legends Focus next month). I mean, listen… this song practically is Pink Floyd purity (particularly on the studio album version)… and there’s that bassist’s very same Polymer teesh:
One minor annoyance was the drummer inexplicably not unlocking the snare on his drum during the quieter parts, which caused it to rattle with the vibration, as if someone was pouring dried rice over every song. Overall though, my girlfriend and I had a cracking night and it was nice to see them in a venue as cosy as the Brudenell, witnessing how they’ve lost none of the wonder that had charmed me way back in 2001. Another night where it felt good to be able to proudly proclaim; ‘We Were Here’.
Those retina-scorching images of gorgonzolan tackiness that clickbait webheads have convinced us are the most ghastly LP jackets ever produced have now been exposed for their musical content. With mixed but fairly interesting results…
Amidst the alpine crooners, deluded nobodies and minging god-botherers there’s some decent stuff previewed in that clip.
It starts off well with cuddly Carlos, who’s a big, furry fun-loving lad with a nice line in jaunty EurAfricanoPop (a new genre he just this minute kickstarted).
There’s more Carlos magic here and here’s an even better video of the track featured:
Is Vincent Carpretta for real…?!? Wow. What a lovely (lady’s) singing voice he has. That Gary character really does look like he could take care of business. Intriguing sound he’s got too.
Nigel Pepper Cock is my favourite. Such fucking NERVE to release that! My friend Pete has this record- it’s actually a hardcore punk seven inch called ‘Fresh White Reeboks Kickin’ Your Ass’. I’m sure you noticed he was wearing a pair… along with a huge, stonking upright bonk-on.
My dad has this Orleans LP. Which is almost as uncomfortable to look at.
Kevin Rowland still sounds fabulous. I’ve never heard the whole of that ‘My Beauty’ album but I kinda liked his version of Whitney’s ‘Greatest Love Of All’. Mainly because I love his voice. So unique, heartfelt and shrill.
Brainstorm sound awesome. A proggy bunch of jazz-rock groovers from Baden-Baden whose work I will endeavour to explore further. That’s a classic cover too. ’70s hippies in ladies’ underwear is never going to be a bad thing in my book. It’s really rather arousing actually.
There’s nothing wrong with that Herbie mann sleeve either. A kick-ass flautist with his top off (on what looks like a hot day indoors)… What’s so terrible about that? Nice typeface to go with a strong look from Herb. Photographed by sometime Dors photographer Joel Brodsky. It’s a classy album this one. Duane Allman appears, helping to cement the jazz-rock fusion. Richard Tee from the shit-hot funk band Stuff is on keyboards, soul sessioneer Donald ‘Duck’ Dunn and the great Chuck Rainey are on bass duties and legendary drummer Bernard Purdie also features.
Also, the ‘Argentina Coral-Cante Gitano’ sleeve (around 7m38s) is also a… well, it says it on the cover… belter. Great font choices and such a striking image of a lady with unconventional but very sensual features. It made me want to hear more. So i did:
She’s really quite pretty, look…
That weird Wasnatch thing (the guy blowing a french horn up a woman’s arse) is just a bunch of pisstaking ska jokers from Salt Lake City, probably taking the term ‘rude boys’ literally, for larks. It looks like it’s from the ’70s and might well be (they could’ve reused an old image from some raunchy German oompah obscurity) but, as the lyrics mentioning pioneering perverts 2-Live-Crew might suggest, they’re a fairly recent concern, only forming in 2009.
I’d include 2-Live-Crew amongst the hip-hop I’ve heard that’s tons worse than Big Bear. I liked his tone. Truly awful sleeve though… as with everything released on Master P’s No Limit label.
I was most taken by that truly sleazy ‘My Pussy Belongs To Daddy’ album. For the titles more than the tits:
This record looks amazing. Sounds pretty good too, like leery strip-joint cabaret jazz. Every track reads like a gloopy and quite surreal double entrendre:
We have: ‘Things Are Soft For Grandma, Since Grandpa’s Eighty-Four’, ‘I Tried It Everywhere’, ‘Sadie’s Still Got The Rag On’ (Eeeeuww!) and there’s a couple of classic Carry-Onners; ‘He Forgot His Rubbers’ and ‘Tony’s Got Hot Nuts’ but I’m perplexed and a little unsettled to learn ‘She Sits Among The Cabbages And Peas’.
Millie Jackson is just plain filthy. The female Chubby Brown of soul.
I’m loving the Rolls-Royce with pram wheels Johnny ‘Guitar’ Watson knocked up in woodwork class. That’s not the world’s worst cover either. It’s just a funny funk fella fuckin’ around for fun. No more ludicrous than any Parliament album sleeve.
The absolute worst has got to be John Bult with ‘Julie’s Sixteenth Birthday’. Now, this sleeve could well be depicting a compassionate father reassuring his daughter over the distress caused by the complex change from adolescence to womanhood.
But viewed through Yewtree-weary 21st-century eyes, it can’t help but look, like, well dodge.
Out of the darkness cometh light, Elland Road’s east stand late last night.
The roads around Elland Road were unusually quiet last night and, as the players walked out, the atmosphere amongst the 17,634 attendees seemed flatter than a Lincolnshire pancake in a Dutch trouser press .
Not an awesome turn-out, admittedly, but when you consider the current turmoil at the club, the bitterly cold wintry night, the fact this game had been only recently brought forward from saturday due to Bournemouth’s FA Cup involvement and the damn-near 10-hour round trip for the visitors (whose away end is pictured below), it’s a wonder that many people still had enough faith to trudge on down.
Bournemouth showed why they’re currently at the top of the league and hadn’t lost away since September, against similarly high-flying Derby. They play an attractively high tempo game, lots of one-touch interplay, niftily working the ball to each other’s feet and the Leeds defenders seemed reluctant to get tight to their men, backing off slightly and allowing their forwards to come at them.
They had an effort just zip past the post from a cutback, had a goal disallowed for offside and worked Silvestri into making a dramatic mid-air goal-line save straight off the cover of Sondico’s glossy new equipment catalogue.
Leeds got a grip of the game soon, though. A defender’s leg just prevented Morison finding Mowatt at the far post, the all-action Rudy Austin (playing up front, weirdly enough) flashed one across the face and Luke Murphy stung Artur Boruc’s palms with a blaster before THIS HAPPENED….!!!
Boom! What a strike! Murphy hit it beautifully, after attacking the space Austin’s ball inside had granted him and there was a nice bit of ‘to you-to me’ interplay leading up to goal too, between Wootton and Byram.
Bournemouth hit the post later on and had another couple of chances but equally, Austin could’ve scored from a header after Byram’s strike had been parried and 17-year old Lewis Cook was once again the best player on the pitch, showing a degree of ball-retention skill and composure that belies his inexperience.
He’s my new favourite player. Not just because he looks a genuinely exciting talent, almost definitely ready to work his way up through the England team pyramid (hopefully while still playing for us :-/), but also because, while everyone else is rocking ridiculous day-glo shades, he’s one of the few modern-day players to prefer traditional black boots… Classic Adidas ones at that. Good lad!
Late in the game, things looked to have turned as grim as the snowy weather when Bellusci was sent off for a blatant but reasonaby necessary professional foul, his dismissal succeeding the award of an entirely unjust 88th-minute penalty. For this challenge (below)… clearly some distance out of the box.
I think the referee must’ve got the call to award it in his earpiece, direct from the Football League’s HQ.
“…and now you’ve gotta believe us…. the Football League’s corrupt…!”
For the resulting spotkick, Cherries substitute Jann Kermorgant decided placing the ball in the same top corner as Murphy’s strike was the best course of action. Luckily, his aim wasn’t true and he shaved the top of the crossbar instead.
Which made for a much better evening of course. Having a good reason to jump around frenziedly and hug the person next to you is something that’s been scarce at Elland Road this season, so to have two in one night was a double bonus.
Bournemouth are clearly a better, more attractive side than us but with the effort we put in and the attitude we showed, not to have won tonight would’ve been really unfair, especially with a decision as dodgy as that late penalty award.
If I was a superstitious type, I’d insist on the team having the same pre-match meal, prepared by the same person for the next few games. It seems last night’s chef might have plenty of time on his hands until April, as was revealed here:
Considering our lowly league position right now, that was a vital three points and what a surprisingly pleasing evening… The team had worked hard for a deserved result, we’d witnessed a cracking match-winning goal and an attractive, positive approach from the visitors, the snow looked real pretty as we exited the ground, all-white and pure like United themselves, while the bargain hot food flask and fleecy-warm ski trousers I’d bought earlier from Aldi had served me admirably, the warm glow I felt walking up Wesley Street almost Ready Brek-esque in its luminescence.
Our ‘get-up-and-glow’ hasn’t got up and gone just yet…
I enjoy writing and I’m up for the occasional challenge, so that’s why I attempted to review this terribly piss-weak slither of wussy Europap I once got sent (which originally got published here). It’s far easier to eulogise about music you’re genuinely passionate about but I figured being able to express exactly why something is so hideously lame is some kind of skill in itself. Sort of.
Enrique Iglesias- ‘Away’
This is one of two brand new tracks that are lazily tagged onto the end, sorry… two new tracks that feature on and greatly enhance Señor Iglesias Jr.’s just-released ‘Greatest Hits’ album.
It starts promisingly enough with five whole seconds of dreamy Vangelis-like synth but then droops its weary shoulders and hunches into a gawky attempt at a Latino-tinged R’n’B ballad in which, during the inane chorus, it sounds like our Enreek is speaking in tongues or practising vocal exercises: ‘Why you wanna throw me away? Oh Why? No way, no way. Away! Oh! Why?!
Shame he couldn’t have fit ‘Hawaii’ into the lyrics somewhere and completed the set.
Judging by the chronological timeline of his album sleeves, ‘Away’ could actually be a farewell song to his gradually diminishing facial mole, as I recall that lil’ fella had a Geordie accent on Bo! Selecta. ‘Away, Enrique, let’s gan doon tha toon’.
(Skip to 3min45sec for Enrique’s mole’s celeb goss round-up)
Overall, this single’s a fine reminder of just how jolly well seductive Enrique can be, even when he’s simply imparting random vowel sounds. A tea-spluttering 100-&-odd-million worldwide album sales suggest he must be doing summat right.
Watching this film, it’s difficult to accept it’s purely a coincidence that Michael Keaton, an ageing, off-the-radar actor best known for playing a comic book superhero, plays an ageing, off-the-radar actor best known for playing a comic book superhero.
Keaton’s character, Riggan Thomson, is lumbered with the burden of only being known for that one singular role and is literally haunted by Birdman. That big-beaked, be-winged bastard emerges intermittently to continually undermine and belittle Thomson’s attempt at making a comeback on Broadway, directing and starring in his own adaptation of a Raymond Carver short story.
Downcast at being typecast, Thomson is determined to conclusively cast off his cape and create something culturally credible but, like all superheroes, he also has a nemesis; a New York Times theatre critic who “looks like she just licked a homeless guy’s ass” and is hellbent on crushing his theatrical dreams.
Here’s the film’s trailer:
The film is set over three days leading up to the play’s opening night and grants us access into the grotty, unseen world of dilapidated theatre back areas; all rusty pipes, peeling paint and nicotine-stained dressing rooms and you get a genuine feel of ‘being there’, witnessing all the fucked-up thespian thunder for real.
It’s a movie about actors, their contrasting onstage/offstage personae and the screwed-up, dysfunctional lives they lead.
It’s supremely well shot and directed by Alejandro González Iñárritu (Babel, 21 Grams). The whole film flows beautifully, almost like a fast-paced theatre production and the demonstrative camera work is breathless and fascinating, much like Times Square itself.
There are several scenes where the actors’ frenetic movements, their arguments and fiery dialogue are all captured up close by Steadicam and, thanks to the nimble editing skills of Emmanuel Lubezki, the cinematographer responsible for Gravity, most of the film plays out like it’s one long continuous take. In other scenes, some clever camera placement and/or the impressive special FX trickery allow us to view the characters as they sit in front of their bulb-lit backstage mirrors.
In one act, the camera follows Keaton, dutifully strutting his way along a corridor and scurrying down a staircase to push open a fire exit door opening out onto a bustling, brightly-lit Broadway, when you suddenly realise you’ve just been on a quick backstage tour of the St. James’ Theatre itself and those masses of people in the street can’t all be extras.
The film is boosted by a brilliantly original score featuring nothing but some groovy jazz drumming which, disappointingly and despite already winning ‘Best Soundtrack’ at the Venice Film Festival (and being nominated for similar Golden Globe and Critics’ Choice prizes), has been inexplicably disqualified from the ‘Best Original Score’ Oscar nominations, due to there also being 17 minutes of pre-recorded classical music… Something which I never really noticed, whereas the drum score I most definitely did, seeing as it accompanies the most climactic moments and helps to fuse certain scenes together, aiding the continuous-take effect.
The jazzy drum soundtrack makes an impact as soon as the film starts, partly due to the striking opening titles that (along with the closing credits) reminded me of the graphic visual work of the peerless Saul Bass but actually owe a greater debt to Jean-Luc Godard’s Pierrot Le Fou…
Great moments of subtle comedy abound, such as a fight that’s pathetically realistic; one unexpected punch, some clumsy retaliatory wrestling, concluding in a flip-flop being hurled in a pitiful coup de grâce. See it here in this excellent scene:
There are dozens of memorable lines but one that randomly stood out was uttered by Emma Stone’s character, Sam, unimpressed at Mike Shiner (Edward Norton) explaining why he thinks she’s beautiful and responding with; ‘I’m glad you’re not a writer because that was… Oprah, Hallmark, R. Kelly bad’.
The sense of realism is enhanced by the various references to actual people: Sam was in rehab with ‘that guy from american Pie’, Robert Downey Jr’s acting skills are dissed, Michael Fassbender, Jeremy Renner and Ryan Gosling are all touted as possible replacement actors (but, ironically, are all committed to making comic-book superhero movies) and Thomson tells a tale of being on the same plane as George Clooney (and his massive chin).
The film serves as a pertinent statement on the tiresome vacuity of CGI’d Hollywood blockbuster bullcrap and the jobbing actor’s desire to be respected for creating something worthwhile and culturally significant.
The kind of films it pillories have almost led to my falling out with modern-day cinema, feeling that, evermore rarely, a trip to the flicks to be good value and resulting in me scouring around instead for forgotten gems from a prior age.
More films like this, one of a growing number with an likably offbeat indie charm, might help to further convince me that ‘orrible ‘ollywood is a place where artisans capable of producing truly great, original works of cinema are still able to flourish.
There was nothing particularly new or fast about them but still… here’s The Automatic… with daffodils.
When digging around in the darker corners of clunky old laptops and trodden-on memory sticks for pieces of writing to repost on this blog, I was a little surprised to be reminded I gave a hugely complimentary review to the second album by The Automatic.
Y’know… that lot that did; ‘What’s that coming over the hill? Is it a Monster?’, the song everybody remembers them for and one I personally never liked. In fact, I thought it was intensely annoying.
Nevertheless, I got sent the album in the post and liked it (still do, listening back to it again) so I’m not going to pretend otherwise. It also had me flicking through the ‘where are they now?’ files. What do flash-in-the-pan indie bands do after their time has been called.
The album reviewed below was beset by distribution problems brought about as the result of a dispute between their label, B-Unique and its parent label, Polydor. Their third and final album was released independently and, as detailed here, it turns out their frontman decided to learn some languages, including Esperanto, and study computer science at Cardiff Uni as a mature student.
Phew! Rock ‘n’ Roll, eh…?
The Automatic- This Is A Fix (Polydor/B-Unique)
If we must insist on living by categorisation, I’m not too sure into which camp I should place The Automatic. As a U.K. indie act, they fall somewhere between the laddish, fist-banging terrace-indie brigade and the sweeter, more sequencer-happy electro pop favoured by other, more thoughtful souls. The album was recorded in Los Angeles with Butch Walker (Fall Out Boy, All American Rejects, Simple Plan) which might explain why, to certain ears, it may also resemble some of the catchier, more pop-literate US pop-punk/emo bands (but Christ knows there’s enough of those doing the rounds without the Brits adding to the infernal deluge).
I’d heard the first Automatic album ‘Not Accepted Anywhere’, several times while working instore at HMV and was never that impressed, so I was preparing to digest to this with a heavy, largely unmoved heart. As it turns out, the tunes bash along at a nice, rowdy pace and have enough hooky power-chord changes and catchy choruses to grab your attention over their collective clatter. Iwan Griffiths (they’re Welsh, as you might’ve guessed), their bolshy, ‘no-frills’ drummer purrs out a different rhythmic approach on each track too, ensuring their limiting distorto-rock style doesn’t result in them sounding too humdrum.
Most tracks make their stamp on you in some way another. The majority are brash and loud but ‘Magazines’ dead rings for the expansive technoid-rock of MGMT and ‘This Is A Fix’ and ‘Accessories’ feature some powerfully wrought, high-registering vocals from bassist and singer, Robin Hawkins. I really was expecting to be rendered unimpressed by this. A difficult second album by a band unloved by many whose previous best was some fairly lame, childish tosh about an oncoming monster. It’s a marked improvement from their first, though and provides the same kind of balls-out, unashamed power-pop thrills that made We Are Scientists’ first album such a winner.
Some tracks do make you wonder if they’re annoyingly poppy or just pretty damn good. ‘This Ship’ begins with an awful, overblown American teen-pop feel but, further in, scampering along at a breathless pace, it boasts a winning, more downbeat sequence of what seem to be three different consecutive choruses, such is the song’s catchiness quotient. The plodding, mawkish ‘Make Your Mistakes’ is an unwelcome half-ballad that irritates rather than improves as it unfolds and if in the wrong mood, you could obviously dismiss this album as being formulaic indie-rock ear-candy.
Generally, though, with your glossy, plasticky ‘Saturday night out’ head on, you’d have to concede this is a fine pop album by a band blessed with a keen ear for no-brain ‘singalongability’ but with enough chunky garage band punch to ensure they don’t stray too far into over-produced McFly or Killers territory.
I must admit, too that I’m surprised The Automatic haven’t got a wider profile. They rock harder and bash out tunes with twice the insidious pop hooks of B-Unique label-mates, Kaiser Chiefs and they’re a little easier to take seriously as a band with enough creativity in the bank to stick around for a while and continue winning admirers.
Mmmmm…. shows what I know about ten-a-penny indie-rock outfits. It’s also quite telling that the only single from the album, ‘Steve McQueen’, was probably my least favourite track….
It’s probably a good thing I don’t work as talent-spotting A&R man.
I was pretty chuffed to discover recently that there will soon be a new album by the splendidly stylish Scottish lot, Trashcan Sinatras.
Their first album, ‘Cake’ came out in 1990 but the band had signed to Go! Discs (home to Paul Weller, Housemartins, Beautiful South, Billy Bragg, Portishead and The La’s, amongst others) way back in 1987, using their advance to first build their own excellently-named Shabby Road studio in Kilmarnock.
Remarkably, this new studio album will be only their sixth. They don’t come around often but their intermittent LPs are always worth waiting for (and they’re astonishing live).
This forthcoming release is currently in production thanks to a successful pledgemusic campaign, showing how, despite their lack of commercial success or even critical commendation, they have a super-loyal fanbase eager for new material who remain in equal parts both puzzled and secretly glad that they’re not more universally appreciated.
It’s been seven years since their last album. One which I was compelled to review with a reasonable degree of enthusiasm.
Trashcan Sinatras- ‘In The Music’
Despite the minimal exposure and their deliberately dormant existence, it’s still mystifying to consider how a band as fine as Trashcan Sinatras have slithered sleekly under most people’s alarm sensor laser beams. Lying low, they’ve avoided the bright lights to instead work in their own snug world of blissful musical candour, convening sporadically, unbothered by public indifference and keen to create something timeless.
‘Weightlifting’, the last shining example of their craft, emerged 5 long years ago and this album is only the 5th studio release in their 20-year existence but, rare as they are, new songs by these gracefully ageing Scots are well worth waiting for.
From the crystalline jangle of the opener, ‘People’, every track shines. ‘I Hung My Heart Upon The Willows’ is a lush Balearic sea shanty, ‘Prisons’ a stomping crowd-pleaser, while the doleful Syd Barrett tribute, ‘Oranges & Apples’, is seven head-swaying minutes of gentle sea breeze loveliness.
The album was made in the glow of love and its warm, trebly production exudes a twinkling air of tranquillity throughout, but not once do things get soppy or blandly sentimental. Frank Reader’s whispered vocals have an intimate quality and the lyrics are beguilingly delivered, particularly on the marvellous ‘I Wish You’d Met Her’.
With Reader (whose big sister, Eddi co-wrote two tracks) and Guitarist Paul Livingston now living out new lives with new wives in L.A, there is a winning mix of Californian sun and Caledonian glum (let’s call it ‘Caledornian fun’!). The liquefied harmonies and a guest appearance from Carly Simon on ‘Should I Pray?’ only add to the hazy, ‘70s ‘Laurel Canyon’ feel each track is imbued with. Coming over kinda like Fleetwood Floyd, dreamy yet dextrous, they sound joyfully confident and ready to charm the world.
Chances are, though, this new album won’t kick the Trashcans skyward but it will delight existing devotees and, for anyone else who welcomes great music into their home, this will be the prettiest, most instantly mood-lifting bundle of tunes to unravel itself at your door this year. Ten tracks, all wonderful and, assuming you have a soul, impossible not to love. The proof is ‘In The Music’.
Score: 9/10
See if you agree… ‘In The Music’ is up in full here on YouTube. It’s unlikely they’ll have a feisty team of lawyers demanding it gets taken down anytime soon but, nevertheless, listen to it now… It’ll be a lot nicer than that last thing you were listening to.
However, if you’re in a rush and/or want something to watch, here’s the feelgood video to ‘People’, the opening (but by no means the strongest) track from it:
“They saw my poster for Of Monsters & Men which featured a little character lost in a vast snowy landscape. The figure is really tiny and that struck a chord with them, as one of the themes of their new record is the loneliness and vastness of space.
Randomia Hebditica 