Musical treats of late
Been trying to keep up with the whip around tour of Bristol’s music scene but this has been made a little trickier since Japan decided to steal all my money.
Still, have done my best and here is what my ears have been twitching too the last few weeks…
Nb: Some names in the following review may have been changed.
Ladyfest, as you are no doubt aware, is making a welcome return to Bristol after a four year hiatus, and the countdown to the fest begun with a fundraiser at Kino.
The night was open mic, and designed to inspire discussion, showcase local talent and, obviously, raise some cash, for the event.
Chicks with Decks provided the music, playing an excellent selection of indie, dance electro pop, dropping in some Portishead, Chicks on Speed and Le Tigre to a busy Kino. Despite concerns over technology and whether the treble would be too high, the girls sounded wicked, seamless mixing and tunes that showed off the musical ethos of Ladyfest.
The open mic featured three girl singer songwriters and their guitars, one ukulele, two story tellers and one boy. The night opened with Cecilia on guitar and ukulele. She had a really sweet voice, moving from jazzy tones to folksy, deft guitar playing to complement her singing style. This was followed by me (!) reading ‘Bianca’ very nervously, but it seemed to be enjoyed. (www.sianandcrookedrib.blogspot.com under March posts). We wanted to have this evening representing as much of women’s creativity, and therefore the ethos behind Ladyfest as possible. So it was great to have a range of singers, djs, writers and artists present, having decorated Kino with Lucy Downes’ artwork, line drawing self portraits and female nudes laced with strips of colour.
After my nervous reading we had another girl singer songwriter, Jess. Like Cecilia before her, she sang with her guitar, a rockier feel to her music, brasher guitar and more upbeat sounds, whilst her lyrics were fairly poignant, again songs about love and falling in and out of it are always good to hear.
Chicks got back on the decks as everyone took a break to get some more drinks and yummy Kino cakes, before it was time for another storyteller. Completely improvised, she told us a story about a princess who would rather not marry any of the prince’s in the land, and after defeating them all in a round of wrestling matches, rode 10,000 horses over their heads and into her own world of adventures, becoming the dream of brave little girls and the nightmare of kings. I am always a sucker for a good subversive fairytale, and it was really impressive to see how she created the characters and the plot as she told it, offering a performance more than a reading. And to consolidate her ability to create on the spot, she also read a poem that had been scribbled down as the night progressed, offering a perspective on middle age and growing older. It was great to have older people getting involved, as we want Ladyfest to be an inclusive celebration of women and what women can achieve and have achieved creatively, and to share all aspects of the female experience, be it from us being young twenty somethings, teenagers and students to mothers, and grandmothers and all in between.
The night offered one more girl singer, Elian (sp? Sorry!) who works at Kino. Her songs perhaps more political than Jess and Cecilia, one song about her reaction to the stirrings of the war in Iraq – namely, how can they possibly get away with this one, and the more personal, about time spent with her girlfriend farming in Spain. Her voice had a lovely range to it and she was a spellbinding performer, really reaching in to the audience to bring them in to her songs and her experience of singing them.
Mike very kindly allowed us one more tune, provided by the boy of the evening, Rafi, singing a cover of a Diana Krall track, although he apologises for having referred to her as Elvis Costello’s wife.
The night was a big success, both financially and in raising awareness for Ladyfest. It seems to have got people talking and the event in people’s minds, which was the whole point. Fundraisers should be taking place once a month until the fest itself, so keep an eye out for info and fliers…
www.myspace.com/ladyfestbristol
What next? The last Saturday of the month is of course, BIG TING and this was one to remember. If only I could…Bass Clef returned amid rumours that this may have been the last Ting with the departure of Roz from Cosies, and it is always good to see him back behind those decks. Fresh from playing with Maryanne Hobbes in Cardiff, with a bag full of drum n bass and doo wop.
The Aphrodite tune sounded wicked with big heavy bass, and although Big Ting is officially a no go zone for dnb, tonight exceptions could be made! Was great to hear the ‘I say yeah yeah’ tune out again, it has been way too long since I last heard that played, and the thumping original ‘Tainted Love’ got everyone very excited. Think there was a bit of Nina Simone in his mix as well, so always a pleasure! Was a bit of a reunion Ting also, seeing as we had a visit from everyone’s favourite dj dancer, Nza Da Baron. Excellent to hear ‘Holiday’ on the decks (me and Becca v appreciative), and his great mix of rnb and pop to get the dance floor heaving – new Amerie track sounds amazing, Beyonce, it was all good.
Jay le Surgeon kept things up with his usual brand of funk, hip hop, reggae, and umm, the Bear Necessities. Phil Harris, man. I’m still trying to get him to play the Robin Hood song though.
Puffin Jack played an absolutely beautiful set. He couldn’t play a bad tune, and it was great to hear the 12” mix of ‘Walk Like an Egyptian’, as well as dropping Sticky and Ms Dynamite’s ‘Boo’ near the end of his set, great to hear.
I was very bruised by the end of the night from stumbling in stupidly high heels, but it was great. I wish Rlf and Niz were here always.
Went to my first Normalise last Sunday for Puffin Jack, Luke, Harry Glazebrook et al, as well as Appleblim fresh from supporting at DMZ. (wish I could have gone but had to go to my dad’s). Lovely minimal techno sounds mixed with all sorts of other treats, plus I think the Puffin played something that sounded like Pattie Smith which was completely dreamy.
Saw The Kick Inside at Gimme Shelter on Friday, named I assume after lovely Ms Bush’s debut album. Really enjoyed their set, Morrisey-esque vocals sounded lovely, really powerful voice, and excellent cover of ‘She’s Losing it’ by Belle and Sebastian. They managed to get really into the spirit of the song whilst musically being completely un-schmind. Cool! And last night was dub step extravaganza of Highroad at Cosies; I missed Chris’s set unfortunately, but was in time to see Appleblim and Gatekeeper head to head, excellent as ever, flawless mixing, bass pitched perfectly and excellent choice of tunes. Pinch of course was perfect as ever. Absolutely rammed in there though, always odd to see the different Cosies crowds!
And now it is the end of my reviews and I am sitting at work typing it away….
Sunday, 13 May 2007
Monday, 23 April 2007
poem as autobiogrpahy
i wrote this in the park yesterday.
i have wanted to write something like it for a long time. nearly four years. hopefully eventually i will be able to write about certain things better, with more style, more poise and more exacting, less self conscious imagery. as it is, this is more a flow of consciousness, a reaction to memories and an attempt to look at time, the future and the past and the promise of the future. one day i will hopefully be able to write about outside reaction other than just alluding to it in a slightly bitchy way.
i would be interested to know what people think it is about. because obviously, i know what it is about, but reading it back i think it could have multiple meanings, and could be the result of multiple expereinces. so answers on a postcard please! or in a comment at least!
it is a poem, but it doesn't really have any form.
it is dedicated to more than one person in some ways, but especially to one.
Poem as autobiography
Can you understand this, this what I say to you non speaking I hope you hear me but I think you don’t, I think you ignore what I don’t say.
Don’t speak.
Hold it here for me now.
Don’t speak.
For I, who have looked death in her pretty face and laughed, offending all with my laughter who could not would not do not understand my sound.
I wasn’t mocking.
I moved in triumph.
I moved in triumph from her stony caves to exist in this moment.
I turn my back on her with sly smile so that I could be led to this here now you with me don’t let it go don’t let it fade let it be real here now you me this moment
Was the reason for survival.
She makes sense to me now.
I wasn’t ready for her before now, she was readying me for you for this.
So don’t say.
Don’t say I have to give it back.
Don’t say this isn’t for me.
The first time it happened.
The first time it happened I collapsed halfway along a carpeted mountain and thought
IS THIS IT
And crawled on my knees dragging my hands and
d r a g g i n g m y f e e t
body snakelike over beige carpet to the safety of my bed.
Unconscious.
Not ready yet.
I wake up.
I have tried many times to write this down.
I have tried many times to write this down and I have failed many times.
Who knows when I will succeed.
I clasped my body to myself and I think
Holy holy holy holy holy holy holythis is not it.
I did not know what was to come.
More than a stone’s throw away.
I tried to record it all.
Here and here and here
And especially here
ESPECIALLY HERE - } ( )
I couldn’t make it clear, just red alarm signs screeching off of me.
Look at me and think
Holy holy.
She stands above me wagging a mocking finger than I take for a beckoning
And for a second time
I try again.
Pointed toes and fingers flared flayed I walk her narrow line balance no longer poised and as yellow skies flood my vision and
Enter my belly I think
I have changed my mind.
I think
I have changed my mind.
I want out.
I think I am holier than she knows.
I think I deserve better than what she so temptingly is trying to offer me.
I think I deserve my future moment.
This is a split second thought process.
This is much faster than it takes to write.
This is much faster than it takes to read.
This is a moment of crystallized fear.
This is a moment.
There is a time.
A time more than a stone’s throw away
When I will clasp your form against my breast.
That is something I deserve.
Holy holy holy.
I think I am letting the yellow out of my belly.
I think I am surviving.
This is mine.
THIS IS MINE.
i have wanted to write something like it for a long time. nearly four years. hopefully eventually i will be able to write about certain things better, with more style, more poise and more exacting, less self conscious imagery. as it is, this is more a flow of consciousness, a reaction to memories and an attempt to look at time, the future and the past and the promise of the future. one day i will hopefully be able to write about outside reaction other than just alluding to it in a slightly bitchy way.
i would be interested to know what people think it is about. because obviously, i know what it is about, but reading it back i think it could have multiple meanings, and could be the result of multiple expereinces. so answers on a postcard please! or in a comment at least!
it is a poem, but it doesn't really have any form.
it is dedicated to more than one person in some ways, but especially to one.
Poem as autobiography
Can you understand this, this what I say to you non speaking I hope you hear me but I think you don’t, I think you ignore what I don’t say.
Don’t speak.
Hold it here for me now.
Don’t speak.
For I, who have looked death in her pretty face and laughed, offending all with my laughter who could not would not do not understand my sound.
I wasn’t mocking.
I moved in triumph.
I moved in triumph from her stony caves to exist in this moment.
I turn my back on her with sly smile so that I could be led to this here now you with me don’t let it go don’t let it fade let it be real here now you me this moment
Was the reason for survival.
She makes sense to me now.
I wasn’t ready for her before now, she was readying me for you for this.
So don’t say.
Don’t say I have to give it back.
Don’t say this isn’t for me.
The first time it happened.
The first time it happened I collapsed halfway along a carpeted mountain and thought
IS THIS IT
And crawled on my knees dragging my hands and
d r a g g i n g m y f e e t
body snakelike over beige carpet to the safety of my bed.
Unconscious.
Not ready yet.
I wake up.
I have tried many times to write this down.
I have tried many times to write this down and I have failed many times.
Who knows when I will succeed.
I clasped my body to myself and I think
Holy holy holy holy holy holy holythis is not it.
I did not know what was to come.
More than a stone’s throw away.
I tried to record it all.
Here and here and here
And especially here
ESPECIALLY HERE - } ( )
I couldn’t make it clear, just red alarm signs screeching off of me.
Look at me and think
Holy holy.
She stands above me wagging a mocking finger than I take for a beckoning
And for a second time
I try again.
Pointed toes and fingers flared flayed I walk her narrow line balance no longer poised and as yellow skies flood my vision and
Enter my belly I think
I have changed my mind.
I think
I have changed my mind.
I want out.
I think I am holier than she knows.
I think I deserve better than what she so temptingly is trying to offer me.
I think I deserve my future moment.
This is a split second thought process.
This is much faster than it takes to write.
This is much faster than it takes to read.
This is a moment of crystallized fear.
This is a moment.
There is a time.
A time more than a stone’s throw away
When I will clasp your form against my breast.
That is something I deserve.
Holy holy holy.
I think I am letting the yellow out of my belly.
I think I am surviving.
This is mine.
THIS IS MINE.
Saturday, 21 April 2007
Reading Naked Lunch in Tokyo
I got back form Tokyo a week ago and since then it has been troubling me how i can possibly write about it. It is hard enough trying to get the true impression from my photographs, to distill it into words seemed pretty beyond my capability.
In the end i figured the solution was to try and write it, and not care about how good bad or honest it is. just write what i thought.
so this is it.
it is kind of a lie and a truth.
Reading Naked Lunch in Tokyo
‘So, what you mean is, she was your ex, and then you lived together?’
I nodded. I wonder how many times now I have had this conversation.
‘Wasn’t that weird?’
‘Not really. I mean, if it was going to be weird, then we wouldn’t have done it.’
‘But she was your ex?’
I nod again. This conversation is dull. ‘But we’d broken up a long while before.’ Pause. ‘Then not spoken to each other.’ Pause and consider. ‘We were much better off as friends than we ever were as a couple.’
‘But it doesn’t make sense. It sounds awful. I mean, what about when she got a boyfriend?’
I shrug. Whenever we get on to the question of how it could possibly have worked, I’m just reminded of the girl in the kebab shop, telling me I didn’t live on Oxford Street. I knew where I lived much better than she did, right? So, I knew that our seemingly bizarre living situation was fine. People didn’t have to understand, because they weren’t living it.
‘But she was your ex…?’
It was cold on the plane, and the manufactured breeziness was making the back of my throat stick to the bones in my neck. The baby’s cries at the front were getting raspier and more painful to hear every passing hour. I am trying to sleep. I am trying to sleep. I have never until this moment realised how much more complicated sleeping becomes when you are trying to make it happen. Like how much harder it is to breathe synthetic air. Frustrated I lift my foot above my head and wave my toes at the crowds behind me. Somehow I think they are asleep.
Six months is a long time, and even longer when before that we had seen each other every day. We’d been apart for six months before, longer maybe, longer even, but that had always been by choice, when anger and bitterness and the how could you do this to me arguments would be volleyed at one another via text messages, because to talk would be too painful, too real, and so it is easier to digitise into hw cd u do ths2me.
Then we made it alright again, and lived together as friends, with new people to ask that question of, new people to wrap legs and arms and hair around, new people to watch sleep. New people to dissect in the mornings drinking genmaicha and nibbling brie and bread, laughing over an embarrassing conquest or grinning inanely at how loved up we were with the new other. But still this love for each other, still this tie that binds us closely, even if now we choose not to knot it in sex.
That is the introduction to my visit. Do not ask what is it.
Am I being self conscious?
‘Look at the sky!’ you exclaim, as Happy Road suddenly darkens, enlivening the fake plastic cherry blossoms that hang from the lamp post. I look up and it is true what you say. The apocalypse is hailing down, I marvel, for what else explains the livid yellow that is turning the sun into a pale moon so that the light is thin, thin as on the prairies in Antonia’s morning.
It is like yellow split pea soup, or the sulphur mines that we will smell when we reach Hakone (but watch me, I’m going to fast), the colour is not of fire, it is neither bright nor dark, it is the cigarette stained magnolia wall of a war vet’s apartment. It is the colour of the end of the world, solid in a Mississippi swamp, the nuclear clouds over Chernobyl on a clear day, and it is hanging there, over my head, as the rain bounces so hard that it skips up the ankles of my skinny but not skinny enough jeans.
Yet no one is looking up but us. And in the middle of this moving earth of suited and coiffured people, bending round us like a liquid flood circumventing a tree, we look up. The sky falls heavy over our shoulders, and we look up and together we are there.
‘Why don’t you pluck your eyebrows?’ you ask wonderingly, your perfectly arched Dietrich brows arching higher over your perfectly lovely, perfectly weird, perfectly alien eyes.
I curl up. ‘I don’t see the point,’ I reply, preparing myself for a barrage of questions over why I don’t see the point, and a comparative essay on the hair removal habits of Japanese girls against those of British girls. And me.
‘I mean, your eyebrows are fine. Really. They are. Really.’
There is a but coming, and I know it.
‘But…’
I groan. ‘I really don’t care about my eyebrows! I only notice them when you talk about them!’ I see myself, hairy and grotesque, spilling thick dark hairs down my face, matted body hair stretching from my arms to the floor.
‘No, they’re fine, really, they are, but they have a good shape, and you could just tidy them up a bit, just the odd stray hair…’
‘I don’t want to pluck my eyebrows! Now, come on, green or cream dress?’
Dancing to the Copacabana at a hip hop club later that night, I finger my eyebrows nervously.
‘We’ll get these guys to buy us drinks,’ you inform me confidently.
I don’t want these guys to buy me a drink. ‘It is fine,’ you tell me. ‘They like to buy English girls drinks.’
I don’t want you to think I’m uptight. So I smile and say ok, maybe, then I curl up again as images of sand filled bath tubs swim into my imagined vision.
‘But won’t they think we owe them something?’ thinking of the shocked face of one man I turned down back in the early days of sex and university, who assumed because he had bought me a drink I was obliged to go home with him.
You shake your head vigorously. ‘It is different here. You should never pay for your own drinks. And when you date someone, you should never pay for dinner. If you go Dutch, then the guy will think you are easy and that he can just get you without having to work. No guy will be obsessed with you if you behave like that. He has to work and pay to get you. Otherwise he won’t think you are worth anything.’
This is a dizzying amount of information to take in. ‘But…’ I stutter. ‘But, I…’
‘Seriously, if you pay for men they won’t respect you!’
But if I let men pay for me, I won’t respect myself.
‘What about the sisterhood?’ I resort to wildly.
‘You can’t pullout the sisterhood when it suits you!’ you laugh.
‘You always pull out the sisterhood when it suits you!’ It is ok, because I am dissolving into giggles too.
The matter is out of my hands when I remember how it is, being with you. Although you confidently inform me that I have the kind of prettiness that Japanese boys are wild for, when I stand next to you, your dazzle hides me under it, and my face is drowned out under your rapunzel blonde hair. I am proud to stand next to you, and the guy buys you a drink. He tries to kiss you and you push him away, and in sisterhood we gang up on him and tell him damei!
But I am confused. Who was right in the end?
The crows fly across Shibuya and the fresh dawn light is like a tonic to the end of the night. Like a shot of adrenaline, we skip over giant zebra crossings, past the business men leaving their homes, as the buildings tower over us, lit with colours as garish and gaudy as anything seen in Barcelona. A small cat sells me a drink, whilst a gurning business man presses a finger to his stretched lips as he tells me about a mobile phone. Languidly lying across a skyscraper, the beautiful Sawada Shin offers his mobile phone to me, and a dragon curls in on itself against a shop front. Stumbling out of the final tune (Sade, By your side) into the grey light that in spite of its lack of colour seems as bright as water against my jet lagged drying skin, I’m amazed by the light. I want to wrap it in a box and take it home, to open at discreet intervals, like a sun box executives buy, my own little spot of Tokyo mornings. I am amazed by the burgeoning life filling the streets, and amazed by the fact you can buy a breakfast of fish rice and miso for £1.50 at 6am.
Gothic Lolitas pretend they wish you weren’t looking at them as we wander through Harajuku, and for the first time in years I feel underdressed. A girl in a miniature top hat set at a jaunty angle glares moodily at me over her cigarette. A man squats on the ground, looking, you say, exactly like he is taking a shit. Apparently it is the way to sit (shit) if you want to give off attitude. Long mullets of ginger hair stick up all around me through a dizzying cloud of menthol cigarette smoke, and everything is brash and bright and taken to the extremity.
Until we turn a corner and we vanish. The city withdraws from us, the skyscrapers fall back against the twinkling sky, and in a rush of wind the sounds of the city and the Harajuku drawling chatter is immersed as though under water. But we aren’t under the ocean.
To reach the shrine you have to leave the city of which centre you are currently standing in, and enter a miniature forest, built to worship the Gods of thunder and water and trees. You explain that the makers of the shrine planted the trees so that all the city is invisible, and inaudible, that everything was planned carefully to hide the concentration of hectic, tacky, cheesy urbanity. Candy coloured giggles and neon television is abandoned for her natural counterpart, and when the drum bellows out to respect the thunder gods, your mind forgets the former roar of the traffic and the trains and the people on top of people on top of people, and you look up with a start to check the apocalypse sky hasn’t returned to haunt you.
The bride steps sedately in procession, her red lips contrast against the white kimono and hood and I wonder if I have ever seen anything as beautiful as her poise in her happiness, after the spectacle of girls walking pigeon toed and floppy wristed in an effort to look helpless and childish.
When we leave, the noise and bustle of Harajuku hits you harder than sixty belting beats of the drum.
We cross the zebra crossing with at least one hundred people at once, as Sawada Shin smiles ironically down at us, as we wander in to a room full of German techno and girls with samurai top knots whirling swirling dancing.
‘We’ll get these guys to buy us drinks,’ you inform me confidently.
I don’t want these guys to buy me a drink. ‘It is fine,’ you tell me. ‘They like to buy English girls drinks.’
He tells me the murder in the bath tub was a matter of miscommunication.
Like Pearl Harbour.
Like Manchuria.
Like all these crimes.
I don’t want the red wine he offers me after this, but it seems rude not to accept, and you have already knocked back four tequilas from his younger, more attractive friend.
‘I like your hair.’ He says.
‘I like the way you dance.’ He says.
‘What is the difference between England and Scotland.’ He says.
I smile. I dance. You lock your eyes to mine and swing your hips in time with mine and I think: are you Lily?
You’ve gotta swing your hips now.
Click.[1]
Kei rei[2], I say. You laugh because my accent is so appalling.
We leave your friends and walk through Shibuya in the dawn light. We take photos of ourselves on your phone next to the buildings, multi-coloured against a monochrome sky. With you, in the morning, wondering when I last felt so perfectly happy out of the other’s bed, curled up around his legs.
‘Hey, let’s have sex!’ a group of guys shout at us, as I prepare to walk quickly on, but you want to talk to them and the next thing I know they are taking us for pizza at 6 in the morning, whilst I, yawning, glare at them in distaste and lie and tell them I have a thirty year old boyfriend and eat my half of the pizza as quickly as I can, you’re your half too, wondering what we are doing there, wondering how the fuck we can get out of this one.
You provide the answer by grabbing my hand and we rush out the café before the bill arrives.
The happiness of the dawn light is shattered, as the sun breaks in to the grey, smashing its calm with its glare.
Posing cheek to cheek in our oversize shades, feeling like a child in fancy dress and dancing so hard my dress sleeve slips down over my bra for the hundredth time until I safety pin the two together. All around us people are looking like they have taken more ecstasy than they should have done, but this is Japan, and they don’t take drugs here. The bass is coursing through our veins, like the drugs that we haven’t taken would do. For these moments I think I actually like psych trance, as I move at one with the heaving mass of brightly dressed humanity around me, the dance unifying us over the language gap. Like an army we are held together under one command, and even though in our outfits and in our hairstyles we are convinced of our own special individuality, we have all become the same automatons controlled by the overriding bass. We grab each others hands and move from stage to stage, eating rice nachos and drinking from mini cans of Grolsch, changing the tempo of our hips to suit the techno or the hip hop or the funk or the movement of those surrounding us. Then, breaking into the Paris Hilton-ites, come a troupe of traditional dancers, accompanied by traditional instruments and I think wow! this country is just one big juxtaposition and I try and tell you what I mean, what it all means, because here, right now, everything that came before, from the conception of this holiday back all those years ago when you told me your nose goes red in the cold, here is when I make sense of it.
In the mountains, there you feel free. After the noise and the colours of the city, it seems strange to see green that has no fluorescent tint to it. I am overawed. Everywhere I look, once we step off the Romance Car, is a spot of beauty, from the river flowing over rocks, to the stately bamboo forests falling down the mountains towards where we are standing.
Like everything else, it is almost too much. How much can they cram on to this island? Even nature herself has gone crazy here, pushing into every available space more and more. It is a glutton’s paradise, a sensualist’s heaven. Constant bombardment of object, of sight, of sound, if it is not an artificial colour then it is a new lushness of overpowering greenery and the bright startling pink of blossoms. The smell of the cherry blossom makes us both sneeze and, when it is combined with the stench of sulphur it is enough to knock us out.
Fuelled by sake and beer and ice cream and the headiness brought on by the ohn-sen we end up arguing about the things we always argue about, both convinced of our own righteousness, both convinced that the other is wrong. Wrong! I know that I am right. You know that you are right. Paranoid I am nervous you think I respect myself less than you respect yourself. We both are running scared that our own opinions may be wrong, who is betraying the sisterhood, who is the lesser feminist?
There is an unspoken argument here.
And it will remain silent.
We repeat ourselves over and over, until we both feel so ridiculous that we start to laugh. It cannot be solved otherwise. The steam from the bath makes me dizzy until I think I will faint and have to sit very still and silent for a long time.
We travel over mountains and over a lake and all is at peace again, talking to cats and cooing at babies and posing cheek to cheek for photos in our oversized sunglasses. We make a three clap prayer to Buddha and I am constantly amazed by the simplicity and beauty of the shrines in a country that simplicity forgot. The tea lady gives us a cake with a bow, and I find myself wondering what she thinks of the girls who walk pigeon toed in frou frou mini skirts with their teased and dyed hair. We meet your friends and they take us for dinner, and this time I have to leave my principles behind because we have spent so much money that I can no longer afford to primly refuse hospitality. You whisper that I have to take my cardigan off at an opportune moment, and I don’t know whether to giggle or glare, but I obey, thinking, I’m on the other side of the world, what does it matter here, what does it matter? I smile and nod and say ‘oeshi’[3] over and over. You explain for the umpteenth time how it isn’t like in England, that guys pay for things here to “fuel a good time”, that we are making their evening more enjoyable by giving them company.
Company in a pretty low cut top and an extra smear of lipstick.
Because I know that it isn’t for my scintillating conversation.
Still, I knock back the cocktail and smile as prettily and modestly as I know how, and make them laugh with my mono collection of Japanese words.
Konichiwa
Oeshi
Kei rei
Dai jo bu
Nani.
You look at me and laugh, and I laugh back, then they laugh so we laugh more. We tell them colourful lies and they accept what we say, and we just keep laughing because suddenly it seems so funny to be this ridiculous, to spend this time living the life I don’t have.
They drive us back to the city along roads that are as high up as the buildings themselves, and as the skyscrapers lift out of the ground to meet us like a brightly lit carnival I think I am living in Bladerunner although I have never seen Bladerunner, I have never seen something like this. I lay my head on your shoulder and we smile. We smile a lot.
When I was in Tokyo I read Naked Lunch.
[1] Inland Empire
[2] The pronunciation of beautiful. I don’t know the spelling or character, or word.
[3] Delicious or tasty
In the end i figured the solution was to try and write it, and not care about how good bad or honest it is. just write what i thought.
so this is it.
it is kind of a lie and a truth.
Reading Naked Lunch in Tokyo
‘So, what you mean is, she was your ex, and then you lived together?’
I nodded. I wonder how many times now I have had this conversation.
‘Wasn’t that weird?’
‘Not really. I mean, if it was going to be weird, then we wouldn’t have done it.’
‘But she was your ex?’
I nod again. This conversation is dull. ‘But we’d broken up a long while before.’ Pause. ‘Then not spoken to each other.’ Pause and consider. ‘We were much better off as friends than we ever were as a couple.’
‘But it doesn’t make sense. It sounds awful. I mean, what about when she got a boyfriend?’
I shrug. Whenever we get on to the question of how it could possibly have worked, I’m just reminded of the girl in the kebab shop, telling me I didn’t live on Oxford Street. I knew where I lived much better than she did, right? So, I knew that our seemingly bizarre living situation was fine. People didn’t have to understand, because they weren’t living it.
‘But she was your ex…?’
It was cold on the plane, and the manufactured breeziness was making the back of my throat stick to the bones in my neck. The baby’s cries at the front were getting raspier and more painful to hear every passing hour. I am trying to sleep. I am trying to sleep. I have never until this moment realised how much more complicated sleeping becomes when you are trying to make it happen. Like how much harder it is to breathe synthetic air. Frustrated I lift my foot above my head and wave my toes at the crowds behind me. Somehow I think they are asleep.
Six months is a long time, and even longer when before that we had seen each other every day. We’d been apart for six months before, longer maybe, longer even, but that had always been by choice, when anger and bitterness and the how could you do this to me arguments would be volleyed at one another via text messages, because to talk would be too painful, too real, and so it is easier to digitise into hw cd u do ths2me.
Then we made it alright again, and lived together as friends, with new people to ask that question of, new people to wrap legs and arms and hair around, new people to watch sleep. New people to dissect in the mornings drinking genmaicha and nibbling brie and bread, laughing over an embarrassing conquest or grinning inanely at how loved up we were with the new other. But still this love for each other, still this tie that binds us closely, even if now we choose not to knot it in sex.
That is the introduction to my visit. Do not ask what is it.
Am I being self conscious?
‘Look at the sky!’ you exclaim, as Happy Road suddenly darkens, enlivening the fake plastic cherry blossoms that hang from the lamp post. I look up and it is true what you say. The apocalypse is hailing down, I marvel, for what else explains the livid yellow that is turning the sun into a pale moon so that the light is thin, thin as on the prairies in Antonia’s morning.
It is like yellow split pea soup, or the sulphur mines that we will smell when we reach Hakone (but watch me, I’m going to fast), the colour is not of fire, it is neither bright nor dark, it is the cigarette stained magnolia wall of a war vet’s apartment. It is the colour of the end of the world, solid in a Mississippi swamp, the nuclear clouds over Chernobyl on a clear day, and it is hanging there, over my head, as the rain bounces so hard that it skips up the ankles of my skinny but not skinny enough jeans.
Yet no one is looking up but us. And in the middle of this moving earth of suited and coiffured people, bending round us like a liquid flood circumventing a tree, we look up. The sky falls heavy over our shoulders, and we look up and together we are there.
‘Why don’t you pluck your eyebrows?’ you ask wonderingly, your perfectly arched Dietrich brows arching higher over your perfectly lovely, perfectly weird, perfectly alien eyes.
I curl up. ‘I don’t see the point,’ I reply, preparing myself for a barrage of questions over why I don’t see the point, and a comparative essay on the hair removal habits of Japanese girls against those of British girls. And me.
‘I mean, your eyebrows are fine. Really. They are. Really.’
There is a but coming, and I know it.
‘But…’
I groan. ‘I really don’t care about my eyebrows! I only notice them when you talk about them!’ I see myself, hairy and grotesque, spilling thick dark hairs down my face, matted body hair stretching from my arms to the floor.
‘No, they’re fine, really, they are, but they have a good shape, and you could just tidy them up a bit, just the odd stray hair…’
‘I don’t want to pluck my eyebrows! Now, come on, green or cream dress?’
Dancing to the Copacabana at a hip hop club later that night, I finger my eyebrows nervously.
‘We’ll get these guys to buy us drinks,’ you inform me confidently.
I don’t want these guys to buy me a drink. ‘It is fine,’ you tell me. ‘They like to buy English girls drinks.’
I don’t want you to think I’m uptight. So I smile and say ok, maybe, then I curl up again as images of sand filled bath tubs swim into my imagined vision.
‘But won’t they think we owe them something?’ thinking of the shocked face of one man I turned down back in the early days of sex and university, who assumed because he had bought me a drink I was obliged to go home with him.
You shake your head vigorously. ‘It is different here. You should never pay for your own drinks. And when you date someone, you should never pay for dinner. If you go Dutch, then the guy will think you are easy and that he can just get you without having to work. No guy will be obsessed with you if you behave like that. He has to work and pay to get you. Otherwise he won’t think you are worth anything.’
This is a dizzying amount of information to take in. ‘But…’ I stutter. ‘But, I…’
‘Seriously, if you pay for men they won’t respect you!’
But if I let men pay for me, I won’t respect myself.
‘What about the sisterhood?’ I resort to wildly.
‘You can’t pullout the sisterhood when it suits you!’ you laugh.
‘You always pull out the sisterhood when it suits you!’ It is ok, because I am dissolving into giggles too.
The matter is out of my hands when I remember how it is, being with you. Although you confidently inform me that I have the kind of prettiness that Japanese boys are wild for, when I stand next to you, your dazzle hides me under it, and my face is drowned out under your rapunzel blonde hair. I am proud to stand next to you, and the guy buys you a drink. He tries to kiss you and you push him away, and in sisterhood we gang up on him and tell him damei!
But I am confused. Who was right in the end?
The crows fly across Shibuya and the fresh dawn light is like a tonic to the end of the night. Like a shot of adrenaline, we skip over giant zebra crossings, past the business men leaving their homes, as the buildings tower over us, lit with colours as garish and gaudy as anything seen in Barcelona. A small cat sells me a drink, whilst a gurning business man presses a finger to his stretched lips as he tells me about a mobile phone. Languidly lying across a skyscraper, the beautiful Sawada Shin offers his mobile phone to me, and a dragon curls in on itself against a shop front. Stumbling out of the final tune (Sade, By your side) into the grey light that in spite of its lack of colour seems as bright as water against my jet lagged drying skin, I’m amazed by the light. I want to wrap it in a box and take it home, to open at discreet intervals, like a sun box executives buy, my own little spot of Tokyo mornings. I am amazed by the burgeoning life filling the streets, and amazed by the fact you can buy a breakfast of fish rice and miso for £1.50 at 6am.
Gothic Lolitas pretend they wish you weren’t looking at them as we wander through Harajuku, and for the first time in years I feel underdressed. A girl in a miniature top hat set at a jaunty angle glares moodily at me over her cigarette. A man squats on the ground, looking, you say, exactly like he is taking a shit. Apparently it is the way to sit (shit) if you want to give off attitude. Long mullets of ginger hair stick up all around me through a dizzying cloud of menthol cigarette smoke, and everything is brash and bright and taken to the extremity.
Until we turn a corner and we vanish. The city withdraws from us, the skyscrapers fall back against the twinkling sky, and in a rush of wind the sounds of the city and the Harajuku drawling chatter is immersed as though under water. But we aren’t under the ocean.
To reach the shrine you have to leave the city of which centre you are currently standing in, and enter a miniature forest, built to worship the Gods of thunder and water and trees. You explain that the makers of the shrine planted the trees so that all the city is invisible, and inaudible, that everything was planned carefully to hide the concentration of hectic, tacky, cheesy urbanity. Candy coloured giggles and neon television is abandoned for her natural counterpart, and when the drum bellows out to respect the thunder gods, your mind forgets the former roar of the traffic and the trains and the people on top of people on top of people, and you look up with a start to check the apocalypse sky hasn’t returned to haunt you.
The bride steps sedately in procession, her red lips contrast against the white kimono and hood and I wonder if I have ever seen anything as beautiful as her poise in her happiness, after the spectacle of girls walking pigeon toed and floppy wristed in an effort to look helpless and childish.
When we leave, the noise and bustle of Harajuku hits you harder than sixty belting beats of the drum.
We cross the zebra crossing with at least one hundred people at once, as Sawada Shin smiles ironically down at us, as we wander in to a room full of German techno and girls with samurai top knots whirling swirling dancing.
‘We’ll get these guys to buy us drinks,’ you inform me confidently.
I don’t want these guys to buy me a drink. ‘It is fine,’ you tell me. ‘They like to buy English girls drinks.’
He tells me the murder in the bath tub was a matter of miscommunication.
Like Pearl Harbour.
Like Manchuria.
Like all these crimes.
I don’t want the red wine he offers me after this, but it seems rude not to accept, and you have already knocked back four tequilas from his younger, more attractive friend.
‘I like your hair.’ He says.
‘I like the way you dance.’ He says.
‘What is the difference between England and Scotland.’ He says.
I smile. I dance. You lock your eyes to mine and swing your hips in time with mine and I think: are you Lily?
You’ve gotta swing your hips now.
Click.[1]
Kei rei[2], I say. You laugh because my accent is so appalling.
We leave your friends and walk through Shibuya in the dawn light. We take photos of ourselves on your phone next to the buildings, multi-coloured against a monochrome sky. With you, in the morning, wondering when I last felt so perfectly happy out of the other’s bed, curled up around his legs.
‘Hey, let’s have sex!’ a group of guys shout at us, as I prepare to walk quickly on, but you want to talk to them and the next thing I know they are taking us for pizza at 6 in the morning, whilst I, yawning, glare at them in distaste and lie and tell them I have a thirty year old boyfriend and eat my half of the pizza as quickly as I can, you’re your half too, wondering what we are doing there, wondering how the fuck we can get out of this one.
You provide the answer by grabbing my hand and we rush out the café before the bill arrives.
The happiness of the dawn light is shattered, as the sun breaks in to the grey, smashing its calm with its glare.
Posing cheek to cheek in our oversize shades, feeling like a child in fancy dress and dancing so hard my dress sleeve slips down over my bra for the hundredth time until I safety pin the two together. All around us people are looking like they have taken more ecstasy than they should have done, but this is Japan, and they don’t take drugs here. The bass is coursing through our veins, like the drugs that we haven’t taken would do. For these moments I think I actually like psych trance, as I move at one with the heaving mass of brightly dressed humanity around me, the dance unifying us over the language gap. Like an army we are held together under one command, and even though in our outfits and in our hairstyles we are convinced of our own special individuality, we have all become the same automatons controlled by the overriding bass. We grab each others hands and move from stage to stage, eating rice nachos and drinking from mini cans of Grolsch, changing the tempo of our hips to suit the techno or the hip hop or the funk or the movement of those surrounding us. Then, breaking into the Paris Hilton-ites, come a troupe of traditional dancers, accompanied by traditional instruments and I think wow! this country is just one big juxtaposition and I try and tell you what I mean, what it all means, because here, right now, everything that came before, from the conception of this holiday back all those years ago when you told me your nose goes red in the cold, here is when I make sense of it.
In the mountains, there you feel free. After the noise and the colours of the city, it seems strange to see green that has no fluorescent tint to it. I am overawed. Everywhere I look, once we step off the Romance Car, is a spot of beauty, from the river flowing over rocks, to the stately bamboo forests falling down the mountains towards where we are standing.
Like everything else, it is almost too much. How much can they cram on to this island? Even nature herself has gone crazy here, pushing into every available space more and more. It is a glutton’s paradise, a sensualist’s heaven. Constant bombardment of object, of sight, of sound, if it is not an artificial colour then it is a new lushness of overpowering greenery and the bright startling pink of blossoms. The smell of the cherry blossom makes us both sneeze and, when it is combined with the stench of sulphur it is enough to knock us out.
Fuelled by sake and beer and ice cream and the headiness brought on by the ohn-sen we end up arguing about the things we always argue about, both convinced of our own righteousness, both convinced that the other is wrong. Wrong! I know that I am right. You know that you are right. Paranoid I am nervous you think I respect myself less than you respect yourself. We both are running scared that our own opinions may be wrong, who is betraying the sisterhood, who is the lesser feminist?
There is an unspoken argument here.
And it will remain silent.
We repeat ourselves over and over, until we both feel so ridiculous that we start to laugh. It cannot be solved otherwise. The steam from the bath makes me dizzy until I think I will faint and have to sit very still and silent for a long time.
We travel over mountains and over a lake and all is at peace again, talking to cats and cooing at babies and posing cheek to cheek for photos in our oversized sunglasses. We make a three clap prayer to Buddha and I am constantly amazed by the simplicity and beauty of the shrines in a country that simplicity forgot. The tea lady gives us a cake with a bow, and I find myself wondering what she thinks of the girls who walk pigeon toed in frou frou mini skirts with their teased and dyed hair. We meet your friends and they take us for dinner, and this time I have to leave my principles behind because we have spent so much money that I can no longer afford to primly refuse hospitality. You whisper that I have to take my cardigan off at an opportune moment, and I don’t know whether to giggle or glare, but I obey, thinking, I’m on the other side of the world, what does it matter here, what does it matter? I smile and nod and say ‘oeshi’[3] over and over. You explain for the umpteenth time how it isn’t like in England, that guys pay for things here to “fuel a good time”, that we are making their evening more enjoyable by giving them company.
Company in a pretty low cut top and an extra smear of lipstick.
Because I know that it isn’t for my scintillating conversation.
Still, I knock back the cocktail and smile as prettily and modestly as I know how, and make them laugh with my mono collection of Japanese words.
Konichiwa
Oeshi
Kei rei
Dai jo bu
Nani.
You look at me and laugh, and I laugh back, then they laugh so we laugh more. We tell them colourful lies and they accept what we say, and we just keep laughing because suddenly it seems so funny to be this ridiculous, to spend this time living the life I don’t have.
They drive us back to the city along roads that are as high up as the buildings themselves, and as the skyscrapers lift out of the ground to meet us like a brightly lit carnival I think I am living in Bladerunner although I have never seen Bladerunner, I have never seen something like this. I lay my head on your shoulder and we smile. We smile a lot.
When I was in Tokyo I read Naked Lunch.
[1] Inland Empire
[2] The pronunciation of beautiful. I don’t know the spelling or character, or word.
[3] Delicious or tasty
Thursday, 19 April 2007
please don't have disabled my blog
hey this is just a check that my blog is still working...
going to start writing about my time in japan any day now...
going to start writing about my time in japan any day now...
Thursday, 29 March 2007
musical treats again
another update:
At the end of my last musical update I'm sure you would have been happy to see the list ofthings i was looking forward to, and last week they all happened! even bass clef and steve reid and kieran hebden which i thought i would have to miss, but i didn't , indeed no.
arrived the cooler on wednesday 22nd march to find the place filling up as fast as you like, which was an odd experience seeing as last time i was there i was 17 and they were playing suede to a fairly stupid looking and rapidly emptying crowd. tracked down rlf and had a big hug, then settled in to see mr hopkinson's computer play. he opened with his cover of 'where is my mind' and i have to agree with the review on his myspace page, that there is somehing weirdly heartbreaking about a computer singing. i think maybe this relates somehow to the disembodied mechanicalism of the vocal, with what are really poignant and sorrowful lyrics. i guess it kind of taps in to this idea of the dissociation of depression, the flatness of the voice seems to emphasise the pain in the song. i also thoroughly enjoy his personality, that self effacing sweetness. popped out for a bit but came in in time to hear him duetting with audrey 3000 on odb and kelis' 'got your money' which was a lot of fun, and a good switch of direction from the more familiar songs. a little secret is that the last tune was unexpected even to dave and mr hopkinson's computer themselves, but seeing as it was big party track and by this point the place was heaving and fully up, so even if it was a mistake, it was a very pertinent one.
Next up was Bass Clef and it has been a long time, not since the Black Swan. I think that the Cooler needs to think a little bit more about its sound, i'm not sure the mic was high enough on the trombone and the speakers were in a bad place, but nothing can detract from just how great a performer rlf is. Was great to hear new tracks and those off the album, 'cannot be straightened' sounded fantastic, and '5am on stokes croft' was crazily good, i love the bass line on that track, and the crowd were really enjoying it. i guess bass clef is pretty dub step these days, but also he has kept a real recognition of the wider range of influences and the musical background of past projects and records, which builds to a real richness of sounds and avoids him becoming homogenic. who else plays the trombone and the theremin like that for instance? and he has huge energy on stage, and really makes the audience spellbound on his side.
plus he is lovely.
the night finished with steve reid kieran hebden, 'robotic morris dancers' according to my good friend chris. really powerful sounds, huge cacophonies of electronica and folk twinges, it was very intense and very interesting, really good. (sorry, i was drunk by that point as usual so my review of the headline is as sketchy as ever)
Thursday 23rd saw the Friendly Fires at the Cooler. Such a shame that it was so quiet, especially with it being rammed on Wednesday, but the boys played well. Again, they were tight and worked so well together, and although the dust buster stayed hidden, again it was a fine use of variety and sampling that really make them stand out.
and no, jack assures me, not nu rave, but disco pop rock, which i much prefer.
had to stagger back to the cooler on friday morning so they could pick up equipment before heading off to support !!! and then after VERY YUMMY but very overpriced breakfast from boston, headed to london, caught up with beautiful andlovely friends in drunken venues, then on saturday was Bristol meth at the Spitz.
Again, shame it wasn't busy, but those who were there enjoyed it. jay le surgeon was on the decks playing an eclectic mix that really suited the variety of acts playing. he dropped in mos def, roots manuva, white stripes, nicole wilis, james brown, spank rock sounded excellent, good reggae beats for the quieter moments, a very representative big ting set in fact, backed up by his shouting 'big ting' on the mic periodically. lots of bristol music too, a few hombre tunes amidst others, to keep the spirit of the night happening. mixing sounded good, and the great scratching that we expect from him!
francois and rozi plain took the stage first, playing live to their films. the films were gorgeous, very delicate animation worked over live action, the combination of the whispering music and the elegant visuals was quite moving. lovely use of locations around bristol, everything was very dreamy with a note of something sinister perhaps. soft lyrics and vocals were accompanied by keyboards, accordian and i think a harmonica, all together creating something delicate and beautiful.
was amazing to see 'cutting up my friends' again. i love it so much! dave is such a talented filmmaker, everything in it fits together perfctly, it takes you on a journey through bristol, through its people and personalities, and it doesn't miss a beat, evreything is cut to make sense and create a rhythm and flow that fits together through leitmotifs. and it is really funny, and that is its charm, the creation of something so clever and effective, whilst being completely unpretentious, it is just a real celebration of music and place and people.
Next up was Vexkiddy, Time Travelling Victorian dandy scientists Cuthbert and Strangeways searching for vexkiddy. Brilliant! First of all the two of them create their characters so perfectly and naturally, talking and joking with the crowd in a completely convincing way, before launching in to some hectic and crazy drum n bass and gabba rave (? im trusting jay, im shit at genre) that lies completely at odds with the prim and proper victorian image. it was intense and sheer weirdness, but also really great sounds, fast and interesting beats, loads of distortion and odd samples floating in and out ("hello, im bernard cribbins"), whilst the two of them flew all over the stage, to a bemused but i would say appreciative audience. im not sure that i am writing it properly, because it does kind of defy description, but then i suppose that is the point of victorian drum n bass isn't it? recommended anyway.
mr hopkinson's computer headlined, and all i said about his performance on wednesday was pretty much confirmed by his cover of portishead's 'roads', a song which is pretty heartbreaking in itself, and again, there is something in this weird dichotomy of something emotionless singing so emotionally, its very disembodiment adds this poignancy. the world would be a worse place without singing computers that's for sure.
sunday saw roast dinner and beer in the swimmer before heading home, sigh! but tokyo on monday and apparently going to a musical festival over there, so exciting!
meanwhile, until i tell you all about my japanese exploits, i would ask you to read 'bianca' as i am intrigued to what people think of it.
cheers!
At the end of my last musical update I'm sure you would have been happy to see the list ofthings i was looking forward to, and last week they all happened! even bass clef and steve reid and kieran hebden which i thought i would have to miss, but i didn't , indeed no.
arrived the cooler on wednesday 22nd march to find the place filling up as fast as you like, which was an odd experience seeing as last time i was there i was 17 and they were playing suede to a fairly stupid looking and rapidly emptying crowd. tracked down rlf and had a big hug, then settled in to see mr hopkinson's computer play. he opened with his cover of 'where is my mind' and i have to agree with the review on his myspace page, that there is somehing weirdly heartbreaking about a computer singing. i think maybe this relates somehow to the disembodied mechanicalism of the vocal, with what are really poignant and sorrowful lyrics. i guess it kind of taps in to this idea of the dissociation of depression, the flatness of the voice seems to emphasise the pain in the song. i also thoroughly enjoy his personality, that self effacing sweetness. popped out for a bit but came in in time to hear him duetting with audrey 3000 on odb and kelis' 'got your money' which was a lot of fun, and a good switch of direction from the more familiar songs. a little secret is that the last tune was unexpected even to dave and mr hopkinson's computer themselves, but seeing as it was big party track and by this point the place was heaving and fully up, so even if it was a mistake, it was a very pertinent one.
Next up was Bass Clef and it has been a long time, not since the Black Swan. I think that the Cooler needs to think a little bit more about its sound, i'm not sure the mic was high enough on the trombone and the speakers were in a bad place, but nothing can detract from just how great a performer rlf is. Was great to hear new tracks and those off the album, 'cannot be straightened' sounded fantastic, and '5am on stokes croft' was crazily good, i love the bass line on that track, and the crowd were really enjoying it. i guess bass clef is pretty dub step these days, but also he has kept a real recognition of the wider range of influences and the musical background of past projects and records, which builds to a real richness of sounds and avoids him becoming homogenic. who else plays the trombone and the theremin like that for instance? and he has huge energy on stage, and really makes the audience spellbound on his side.
plus he is lovely.
the night finished with steve reid kieran hebden, 'robotic morris dancers' according to my good friend chris. really powerful sounds, huge cacophonies of electronica and folk twinges, it was very intense and very interesting, really good. (sorry, i was drunk by that point as usual so my review of the headline is as sketchy as ever)
Thursday 23rd saw the Friendly Fires at the Cooler. Such a shame that it was so quiet, especially with it being rammed on Wednesday, but the boys played well. Again, they were tight and worked so well together, and although the dust buster stayed hidden, again it was a fine use of variety and sampling that really make them stand out.
and no, jack assures me, not nu rave, but disco pop rock, which i much prefer.
had to stagger back to the cooler on friday morning so they could pick up equipment before heading off to support !!! and then after VERY YUMMY but very overpriced breakfast from boston, headed to london, caught up with beautiful andlovely friends in drunken venues, then on saturday was Bristol meth at the Spitz.
Again, shame it wasn't busy, but those who were there enjoyed it. jay le surgeon was on the decks playing an eclectic mix that really suited the variety of acts playing. he dropped in mos def, roots manuva, white stripes, nicole wilis, james brown, spank rock sounded excellent, good reggae beats for the quieter moments, a very representative big ting set in fact, backed up by his shouting 'big ting' on the mic periodically. lots of bristol music too, a few hombre tunes amidst others, to keep the spirit of the night happening. mixing sounded good, and the great scratching that we expect from him!
francois and rozi plain took the stage first, playing live to their films. the films were gorgeous, very delicate animation worked over live action, the combination of the whispering music and the elegant visuals was quite moving. lovely use of locations around bristol, everything was very dreamy with a note of something sinister perhaps. soft lyrics and vocals were accompanied by keyboards, accordian and i think a harmonica, all together creating something delicate and beautiful.
was amazing to see 'cutting up my friends' again. i love it so much! dave is such a talented filmmaker, everything in it fits together perfctly, it takes you on a journey through bristol, through its people and personalities, and it doesn't miss a beat, evreything is cut to make sense and create a rhythm and flow that fits together through leitmotifs. and it is really funny, and that is its charm, the creation of something so clever and effective, whilst being completely unpretentious, it is just a real celebration of music and place and people.
Next up was Vexkiddy, Time Travelling Victorian dandy scientists Cuthbert and Strangeways searching for vexkiddy. Brilliant! First of all the two of them create their characters so perfectly and naturally, talking and joking with the crowd in a completely convincing way, before launching in to some hectic and crazy drum n bass and gabba rave (? im trusting jay, im shit at genre) that lies completely at odds with the prim and proper victorian image. it was intense and sheer weirdness, but also really great sounds, fast and interesting beats, loads of distortion and odd samples floating in and out ("hello, im bernard cribbins"), whilst the two of them flew all over the stage, to a bemused but i would say appreciative audience. im not sure that i am writing it properly, because it does kind of defy description, but then i suppose that is the point of victorian drum n bass isn't it? recommended anyway.
mr hopkinson's computer headlined, and all i said about his performance on wednesday was pretty much confirmed by his cover of portishead's 'roads', a song which is pretty heartbreaking in itself, and again, there is something in this weird dichotomy of something emotionless singing so emotionally, its very disembodiment adds this poignancy. the world would be a worse place without singing computers that's for sure.
sunday saw roast dinner and beer in the swimmer before heading home, sigh! but tokyo on monday and apparently going to a musical festival over there, so exciting!
meanwhile, until i tell you all about my japanese exploits, i would ask you to read 'bianca' as i am intrigued to what people think of it.
cheers!
Tuesday, 20 March 2007
palestinian scarves
oy!
if you read my article further down, raging at capitalist jokers, then you will know how incensed i have been lately about advertisers using great and radical art and demeaning it to become associated with their products.
now i turn my attention to the kaffiyeh as fashion statement.
honestly.
it is a cultural and political symbol, not an accessory. i find it insulting to the palestinian struggle that young men and women swan around in these scarves not because they have any sense of or solidarity with the war in israel and the occupation, but because they look cool.
it is like che t shirts. half those kids didn't know who che was, and even when they did they were living in cloud cuckoo land and thinking he didn't kill anyone because he was a goodie socialist.
i ask you.
it is another example of the fashion industry taking what was politically active and important and inflammatory and turning it into a product, a commodity that could be sold. how can anything have any meaning when everything has a price tag and a cool kudos value? what about the values that matter? what about giving a damn?
ok. so if for every kaffiyeh they sell in topshop or urban outfitters or wherever ( it'll be m&s next.) they donated ALL the proceeds to helping the orphans in occupied palestine, if for every purchase of a kaffiyeh the buyer was forced to read about its significance and the history and the problems of israel and palestine and sign a petition or do SOMETHING, then ok, fair enough.
but we know that isn't happening.
if you wear the keffiyah because you want to make a political statement of solidarity, then kind of fair enough, although there are better ways. but if, like im sure most of you are, you wear it because it is oh so pretty, then for fuck's sake, go buy some principles.
they're on special offer in selfridge you know.
if you read my article further down, raging at capitalist jokers, then you will know how incensed i have been lately about advertisers using great and radical art and demeaning it to become associated with their products.
now i turn my attention to the kaffiyeh as fashion statement.
honestly.
it is a cultural and political symbol, not an accessory. i find it insulting to the palestinian struggle that young men and women swan around in these scarves not because they have any sense of or solidarity with the war in israel and the occupation, but because they look cool.
it is like che t shirts. half those kids didn't know who che was, and even when they did they were living in cloud cuckoo land and thinking he didn't kill anyone because he was a goodie socialist.
i ask you.
it is another example of the fashion industry taking what was politically active and important and inflammatory and turning it into a product, a commodity that could be sold. how can anything have any meaning when everything has a price tag and a cool kudos value? what about the values that matter? what about giving a damn?
ok. so if for every kaffiyeh they sell in topshop or urban outfitters or wherever ( it'll be m&s next.) they donated ALL the proceeds to helping the orphans in occupied palestine, if for every purchase of a kaffiyeh the buyer was forced to read about its significance and the history and the problems of israel and palestine and sign a petition or do SOMETHING, then ok, fair enough.
but we know that isn't happening.
if you wear the keffiyah because you want to make a political statement of solidarity, then kind of fair enough, although there are better ways. but if, like im sure most of you are, you wear it because it is oh so pretty, then for fuck's sake, go buy some principles.
they're on special offer in selfridge you know.
Sunday, 18 March 2007
quick update of musical treats
been to loads of good musical events of late, but haven't really had time or skill to review them sooo...
DMZ, Gatekeeper, Wedge, Appleblim and Ed (sorry hon, i forgot your dj name) at Soho.
my god! amazing. firstly, it wasn't just the free laughing gas that put a smile in my face. storming set from the lovely appleblim (he may be my most favourite person in the world right now) who, as he put it, seeing as the dubstep was fairly covered he could play a bit more of what he wanted. this resulted in a bit of rhythm and sounds which is always a pleasure, plus another time out for that turbulence tune 'notorious' which i adore (always a fixture at flat parties let me tell you) and witness dub. some people weren't too keen on dub come save me, but i liked it. felt that it kind of stripped down witness to its basic musical elements, then lapped something over the top to give it something different. hmm, that sounds a bit trite. i know what i mean.
anyway, i think appleblim judged his formula right, the night needed these tunes to build in to the dubstep extravaganza it was going to be - and of course we need reggae and dub to look deeper in to the origins of the music, it was a perfect set up for what was coming.
next up were gatekeeper and wedge of hench, who moved things in to a steppier arena. the bass was just gorgeous - going right through you and keeping the crowd completely excited. gatekeepr dropped a few of his new tunes which sounded wicked (they did, they did!) and ok, so i am biased, but i do think he is really great and you can see how he is getting better all the time (that is not meant patronisingly btw), the tunes are gaining in depth whilst still keeping a kind of rawness or visceralness. (is that a real word?)
i like. i still like the alicia keys sampling one the best. kind of dubstepromance if you will. with dark side that you need in romance.
when dmz got on the decks i was fucking blown away. i felt like when i went to see madonna - i couldn't wipe this stupid smile off of my face, i mean, these guys practically invented dubstep, and it shows. their tunes just have this immense sound and completely enthrall the dancefloor, the bass rips through you and all the layers work up together - yum! i wish i could write it more professionally and succinctly, i just have to express the complete joy and brilliance that they are.
so, dubstep done, now moving opposite direction to The Master Chaynjis at the louisiana on thursday. i can't really add much to my last review, except to say that in some respects sam's voice was even better, and once more they were completely gripping in their performance, with that easy switch from intense and raw emotion in the song, to friendly and funny banter in between. i just love 'the bear with a glint in his eye', and i like the way they inject humour in to even the saddest songs, such as 'bird in the hand'.
shame about the support. promising set up of cello violins and piano/keyboard, but my god! you do not do an unironic cover of 'chasing cars' (voted best song of all time by listeners of virgin radio!!!!!) and you NEVER EVER NEVER cover nina simone. that is a rule folks! did we not learn from muse? it is like covering billie holiday, and the only person who is allowed to do that is nina simone, and i still find that a bit tricksy.
friday was surprise turn of jay le surgeon at hermanos, what a set! of course, no one listens in there, but i do, and that is what im there for, official roller of cigarettes and listener. he pulled out a broad spectrum of disco hip hop soul and funk, as ever, james brown, nicole willis, party time, curtis mayfield, oh what else, sugar hill gang (old skool fun), and his mixing was right on target, lovely and smooth with the odd scratch to keep it interesting.
still, four requests for status quo was taking the piss a bit. must have been a drunken bet of 'oh, who can wind up the dj', but really, you DO NOT ask for status quo when james brown is playing.
picked up the spank rock album the other day, it is so cool, really joyful hip hop. jay said it was like a bunch of 14 year old boys giggling over an issue of playboy they found in a bush. that is meant as a compliment. it is just really fun and happy, whilst still having really skilled mc-ing and nice heavy beats. i also got an early gossip ep to see what all the fuss was about ( i see it) and scout niblett's last album, only then for my dvd player to break (my cd player already broken) (with my new mighty boosh live dvd trapped inside it) so all i managed was one listen. has meant i am now proper old skool with my vinyl, tapes and vhs tho. born in the wrong era.
this week i am looking forward to bass clef supporting kieran hebden and steve reid, although i may have to be there merely in spirit thanks to ticket costs. then on thursday friendly fires will be playing the cooler - got a fright seeing jack's face beaming at me from the wall on my way to work today! (working on sunday til ten ruins my life but gives me time to write) so that'll be good. then on friday off to london for mr hopkinson film, francois, vexkiddy and jay le surgeon at the spitz on saturday, yay!
saw inland empire yesterday. best closing credits of any film i have EVER seen, and the rest of it was good too, although makes mulholland drive seem like a realist novel. i kind of thought maybe a touch too long a time to be completely confused, and it did get darker and darker until i was wishing i had someone with me, but as a piece of art just fantastic, just no reason to try and get it. it would be like wanting to know what pj harvey's lover tells her on a rooftop in brooklyn at one in the morning, or what bill murray says to scarlett johannsson. somethings are best left unknown. i felt there was a lot of female solidarity in the film, it was very female.
and great soundtrack ('you've gotta swing your hips now')
i'll shut up then. read the stories, they are much bettter than my meanderings.
x
DMZ, Gatekeeper, Wedge, Appleblim and Ed (sorry hon, i forgot your dj name) at Soho.
my god! amazing. firstly, it wasn't just the free laughing gas that put a smile in my face. storming set from the lovely appleblim (he may be my most favourite person in the world right now) who, as he put it, seeing as the dubstep was fairly covered he could play a bit more of what he wanted. this resulted in a bit of rhythm and sounds which is always a pleasure, plus another time out for that turbulence tune 'notorious' which i adore (always a fixture at flat parties let me tell you) and witness dub. some people weren't too keen on dub come save me, but i liked it. felt that it kind of stripped down witness to its basic musical elements, then lapped something over the top to give it something different. hmm, that sounds a bit trite. i know what i mean.
anyway, i think appleblim judged his formula right, the night needed these tunes to build in to the dubstep extravaganza it was going to be - and of course we need reggae and dub to look deeper in to the origins of the music, it was a perfect set up for what was coming.
next up were gatekeeper and wedge of hench, who moved things in to a steppier arena. the bass was just gorgeous - going right through you and keeping the crowd completely excited. gatekeepr dropped a few of his new tunes which sounded wicked (they did, they did!) and ok, so i am biased, but i do think he is really great and you can see how he is getting better all the time (that is not meant patronisingly btw), the tunes are gaining in depth whilst still keeping a kind of rawness or visceralness. (is that a real word?)
i like. i still like the alicia keys sampling one the best. kind of dubstepromance if you will. with dark side that you need in romance.
when dmz got on the decks i was fucking blown away. i felt like when i went to see madonna - i couldn't wipe this stupid smile off of my face, i mean, these guys practically invented dubstep, and it shows. their tunes just have this immense sound and completely enthrall the dancefloor, the bass rips through you and all the layers work up together - yum! i wish i could write it more professionally and succinctly, i just have to express the complete joy and brilliance that they are.
so, dubstep done, now moving opposite direction to The Master Chaynjis at the louisiana on thursday. i can't really add much to my last review, except to say that in some respects sam's voice was even better, and once more they were completely gripping in their performance, with that easy switch from intense and raw emotion in the song, to friendly and funny banter in between. i just love 'the bear with a glint in his eye', and i like the way they inject humour in to even the saddest songs, such as 'bird in the hand'.
shame about the support. promising set up of cello violins and piano/keyboard, but my god! you do not do an unironic cover of 'chasing cars' (voted best song of all time by listeners of virgin radio!!!!!) and you NEVER EVER NEVER cover nina simone. that is a rule folks! did we not learn from muse? it is like covering billie holiday, and the only person who is allowed to do that is nina simone, and i still find that a bit tricksy.
friday was surprise turn of jay le surgeon at hermanos, what a set! of course, no one listens in there, but i do, and that is what im there for, official roller of cigarettes and listener. he pulled out a broad spectrum of disco hip hop soul and funk, as ever, james brown, nicole willis, party time, curtis mayfield, oh what else, sugar hill gang (old skool fun), and his mixing was right on target, lovely and smooth with the odd scratch to keep it interesting.
still, four requests for status quo was taking the piss a bit. must have been a drunken bet of 'oh, who can wind up the dj', but really, you DO NOT ask for status quo when james brown is playing.
picked up the spank rock album the other day, it is so cool, really joyful hip hop. jay said it was like a bunch of 14 year old boys giggling over an issue of playboy they found in a bush. that is meant as a compliment. it is just really fun and happy, whilst still having really skilled mc-ing and nice heavy beats. i also got an early gossip ep to see what all the fuss was about ( i see it) and scout niblett's last album, only then for my dvd player to break (my cd player already broken) (with my new mighty boosh live dvd trapped inside it) so all i managed was one listen. has meant i am now proper old skool with my vinyl, tapes and vhs tho. born in the wrong era.
this week i am looking forward to bass clef supporting kieran hebden and steve reid, although i may have to be there merely in spirit thanks to ticket costs. then on thursday friendly fires will be playing the cooler - got a fright seeing jack's face beaming at me from the wall on my way to work today! (working on sunday til ten ruins my life but gives me time to write) so that'll be good. then on friday off to london for mr hopkinson film, francois, vexkiddy and jay le surgeon at the spitz on saturday, yay!
saw inland empire yesterday. best closing credits of any film i have EVER seen, and the rest of it was good too, although makes mulholland drive seem like a realist novel. i kind of thought maybe a touch too long a time to be completely confused, and it did get darker and darker until i was wishing i had someone with me, but as a piece of art just fantastic, just no reason to try and get it. it would be like wanting to know what pj harvey's lover tells her on a rooftop in brooklyn at one in the morning, or what bill murray says to scarlett johannsson. somethings are best left unknown. i felt there was a lot of female solidarity in the film, it was very female.
and great soundtrack ('you've gotta swing your hips now')
i'll shut up then. read the stories, they are much bettter than my meanderings.
x
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)