For Jaz, Sundays signal an impending sense of melancholy, which has forever reached its climax at around 7pm when the theme music to the Antiques Roadshow kicks in. It has long been my ritual to avoid this death knell to the weekend like the plague by instead participating in some traditional Sunday perusing of the Bible (aka Sunday Times' Style Magazine). Scanning the perfectly designed pages and acerbic, wry commentary, I feel at one with its world and my mood turns positive and hopeful that one day my life will reflect such fabulousness.
Tonight, my leisurely flicking provides great comfort as I land on regular columnist Jessica Brinton's PLT page (People Like Them to the soon-to-be-conformed). Herein always lies a review of what's been going on in celebrity circles. It would appear that at one star-studded party recently was un-funny man James Corden, pictured with Andrew Flintoff "and friend". Immediately I react with genuine sympathy: Precisely Jessica! - these situations require tact and feigning ignorance is often better than mistaking one semi-famous cretin for another semi-famous cretin. Jessica must have suffered the same confusion that Jaz reported on Friday (http://boomerang-kid.blogspot.com/2010/02/separated-at-birth.html) post-viewing the latest episode of Skins, wherein the cameo appearance of Bez was most troubling due to his apparent relation as long lost twin to regular Skins actor John Bishop. Here pictured is either Bez or John Bishop. Who knows? The only sure thing is that Jessica and Jaz are on the same wavelength, which clearly makes Jaz eligible for employment at the Bible's HQ now, doesn't it?
It's the last day in February of a common year 2010, which indicates extremely poor research on the part of the Universal Pictures' marketing team behind new dross romcom, Leap Year. As Jaz's off-nights don't get any more exciting than soap-flicking and staring at wood-chipped walls, the film's trailer provides nil incentive to break that comparably gut-busting cycle. Tonight, however, Jaz has quite the pickle to prepare for and needs help from anyone with experience of trying to squeeze two entirely separate affairs into one hoodwinking, two-timing evening...
Several months ago Jaz attempted to secure a date with a certain up-and-comer who you may have heard of. The one they call Lady Gaga (or Stefani) is in Glasgow tomorrow but after a mere year in the limelight would not have time for press and shot us down. It was disappointing, yet in the grand scheme of things it's unlikely to be as dashing (depending on your levels of optimism) as spending a tenner going to see Leap Year. With their 13 years or so near the top of UK dance charts, however, the far humbler Groove Armada who also perform in Glasgow on Monday, were more than happy to accommodate a Jaz request for tea and biscuits.
Then, in typical fashionably-late style, Jaz is invited via e-mail this Friday past to watch her Gaga-ness. Despite prior rejection, Jaz throws aside any pride and self-respect and laps up the offer like a thick, tongue-waggling puppy dog. Now we must cover both GA and Gaga in approximately four hours. Already it's causing much anxiety: Jaz jump-starts this morning with a premonition of stumbling over mispronunciations of Groove Argaga, quoting "I'm a free bitch baby... shakin' that ass", and co-ordinating an outfit at once chillout sophisti-cat and bizarr-o Glamorama...
Stresses aside, Jaz is surprised to learn that Groove Armada's latest album is only just hitting the shops tomorrow. Our promo copy of Black Light has been on loop since December. And, before you ask, Jaz hasn't descended into tragic, middle-class, generically soundtracked dinner party territory. This really is a very exciting release. In fact, you won't even recognise the House-bestselling, advertisement-monopolising duo. This time they've swapped Mutya for Empire Of The Sun's Nick Littlemore, Will Young and Roxy Music's legendary Bryan Ferry. Think dark, think '80s, think... guitars?! One highlight is lead single and soulful spirit-lifter, I Won't Kneel. Enjoy the lie-in fishies...
When Jaz notices a Lego-haired red-head in leggings and an inadequately long T-shirt at an event six months ago, it takes the best part of the entire evening to work out who she is. Is she someone from a previous job? Is she an old uni acquaintance? As The Cribs' Ryan Jarman enters clutching his girlfriend's waist, Jaz enquires dumbstruck: "It can't be?! The one that's so "bitt-a" cos she sucks too many lemons?! She used to be so smiley... and floral." It was a preview for what's to come in the world of Kate Nash. Goodbye cutesy cockney ditties about make-up, Hello minimal lyrics and riot-grrrl punk.
The as-yet-unreleased second album Crayon Full Of Colour is chronically titled but intriguingly produced by ex-Suede man Bernard Butler. Taken from it, the screechy razor-edged guitars and still screechier blood-stirring shrills of I Just Love You More owe less to her boyfriend's band and more to a certain collective from across the pond. The track is in the identical vein of the far superior be-bobbed, and Most Exalted Goddess of all things alternative, Karen O. Having heard little else of the album yet, Jaz is reluctant to comment overall but would suggest you just dig out last year's Yeah Yeah Yeahs' effort It's Blitz which was a no-brainer for our Best Of 2009 list and sets the standard probably far too high for such aspiring female art-rockers.
Brit teen-drama-come-national-health-warning Skins has featured its fair share of brilliant guest roles over the past four years: Danny Dyer, Bill Bailey, Harry Enfield, Peter Capaldi, etc, etc.Last night saw Will Young cameo as a Jacko-worshipping ultra-peculiar school counsellor, illustrating what may have happened had the camp one never entered Pop Idol.
Most confusion, however, stemmed not from that, nor from Effy's sudden overnight diagnosis of psychotic depression, but from the fact that Effy and Freddie treat their friends Emily and Katie Fitch's father like they've never met him before. Granted, the two plastered love birdsare always mashed, gurning, baked, chewing their faces off, toking marijuana and dropping acid 24/7 (but in a totally non-lethal, still-living-with-parents, going-to-school way), and Father Fitch looks like he's having a bit of an off day, it's hard to imagine they could treat him like they have no idea who he is. My constant bewilderment as to the sheer discourtesy of some youngsters in Bristol means the episode is completely lost on me. Seriously, how rude...
Slowly it becomes clear. Stand-up comedian John Bishop who plays Father Fitch (he's anything but a priest - or a Bishop - Jaz just doesn't recall his first name) is not this man. This man is ex-Happy Mondays baggy nutter Bez who has very few acting skills (or skills of any kind) but possesses an unnerving likeness to the man Bishop. Was this a cheap trick by Skins' producers to make the audience feel utterly off their heads too, or is Jaz just going completely b-a-n-a-n-a-s?
P.S. MTV is planning an Americanised version of Skins. *Yawn*
Electro: at one end of the spectrum you have the funny-but-embarassing Euro-kitsch of tracks such as Bodyrockers' I Like The Way You Move (I like ze way you comb your h-airrr, etc.). Fortunately for those of us who can't listen to such nonsensical fare with a straight face, there are experimentalist maraca-shaking nerds who speak of monkeys with miniature cymbals...
That's right, Hot Chip have returned and continue to set the bar high for alt-dance indietronica with their fourth album One Life Stand. Jaz first came across these bespectacled eccentrics as relative unknowns supporting dominatrix-era Goldfrapp (then Queen of electro) in 2005. It was love at first blip (or bleep). For dancing synths à la William Orbit circa Barber's Adagio For Strings, and New Order-style dark romance with an uplifting sentiment, check out I Feel Better. Jaz best not inform you that this track is oddly reminiscent of Madonna's La Isla Bonita. Oops...
Jaz popped down to King Tut's Wah Wah Hut to interview San Diegans, The Soft Pack, for Q Magazine on a freezing Wednesday night. If anybody in Cyberspace knows some decent ice-breakers for approaching semi-esoteric raw post-punk bands who are battling with a bout of flu, send them on a postcard. Most of what Jaz knows about Los Angeles and punk-y scenes was gauged during a two week period working at Kerrang!'sGreen Day special. That's to say, very little. And for reasons related to Green Day and not because that fortnight was spent debating the respective qualities of various now discontinued chocolate bars, e.g. Texan vs. Wagon Wheel.
Before they played a straight-to-the-point, short and punchy set comprised of material from their eponymous debut and their earlier album under a much-maligned previous bandname, The Muslims, the foursome revealed their affections for hip hop, Barry Manilow and Prince. When it comes to their own three-chord garage punk sound, though, their motives are completely non-political:
"We're all about simplicity. I think it's partly by necessity. I can't really do much musically, so it's gotta be simple."- Matt Lamkin
A few year's back Jaz was in an old motorised junkyard chugging around the small North Carolinian college town of Chapel Hill when the passenger with iPod discretion stopped scrolling at a moment-perfect soundtrack. Though unaware in that car, this song would later come to sum up my experience of spending a semester on exchange in Hicksville,USA: a bewildering, often bizarre but nonetheless weirdly endearing time. The nightmare scenario of suffering my own miniature version of Deliverance thankfully never came to pass.
The Gourds (the men responsible for said track) are from Texas, mainly play bluegrass, share one member with alt.countrymen Wilco, and have albums with titles which include, Cow Fish Fowl or Pig and Haymaker! With that in mind, consider what would happen if some farmer-tanned NASCAR enthusiast triple-dared them to rap along to a jam of his choice if they couldn't stay on the mechanical bull for ten seconds. Imagine what it would sound like were that rap to be gangsta ladykiller Snoop Dogg (then Snoop Doggy Dogg)'s second single, Gin & Juice. We're not in Long Beach anymore, Toto. Described by one commenting YouTube-r as "EPIC", it must be heard to be believed. Below is the full countrified apple pie version - bitchin' and "funky ass shit" included:
The Doggfather is currently awaiting a decision on whether he will ever be allowed re-entry to the UK following his outburst at Heathrow Airport four years ago. Let's hope it's a good outcome. Snoop Dogg topping the bill at T In The Park is definitely more enticing than today's news that Eminem will be 'doing a Jay-Z' in Scotland this summer.
Don't be afraid to check out Girls. Not in the creepy standing on street corners eyeing lasses up and down at random way. Girls are boys. Four boys, who formed a band. And because they've called themselves Girls and are a 'Band' they are very difficult to locate on Google without various detours via Girls Aloud, Spice Girls, etc. Nevertheless they exist somewhere in San Francisco and, more accessibly, in cyberspace (http://www.matadorrecords.com/girls/index.html - Jaz does all the hard work for you). They also, shock horror, sound nothing like girls... more like boys, or Beach Boys to be precise. The buzz has certainly arrived in time for those recently released Buddy Holly overdubs.
Lo-fi, lush and garage-like, their fuzzy surfpop resides in their debut album, more accurately titled Album. Incidentally, lead singer Christopher Owens was once in another monosyllabic band called Curls but clearly that name was a little too misleading... And, not to forget, he also used to be a member of the Children Of God cult, so expect hippie love, peace and harmony.
Get totally stoked and watch the video for Lust For Life (not an Iggy Pop cover), which looks like a TV advert for Urban Outfitters:
"Bradley isn’t even awarded a valiant end. He looks neither that he’s really gone for the jump, nor that he’s dramatically slipped – merely that he sort of wobbles forward, like a prized belly-flopper hesitatingly diving into a swimming pool."
Read full EastEnders analysis and my thoughts on who should have killed Archie over at Who's Jack: http://www.whosjack.org/?p=4334
Also, in watching back the video notice how Bradley's hand is moving... live broadcasts, eh?
When it comes to lyrics I suppose expectation needs to be low if the group is called "Biffy Clyro". Does Biffy Clyro sound better than Cliffy Byro, or vice versa? Jaz doesn't fall even slightly harder on either one, which would suggest that it's potentially the world's worst bandname ever. Feel free to comment.
Biffy Clyro's fifth album Only Revolutions (yes, they do know English words) has taken them from the iPods of Scottish goths and Cathouse frequenters (that's the name of a metal/punk/alt club, not a stripper joint) to the listeners of Radio 1 and thereby the wider British subconscience. In fact, some critics have dubbed them Ayrshire's answer to the Foo Fighters and, while I think scrawny Simon Neil has some way to go to rival the onstage leonine prowess of Dave Grohl, musically the album is packed full of punchy choruses and hooks that demand only your best air guitar.
One thing really does set them back, however, and for this Jaz returns to the initial notion. When your name is Biffy Clyro, Christ alone knows what your lyrics are going to be like. One particular case in point is a track called Born On A Horse - not a promising start. The opening line: "I like to call it Aluminium/Cos there's an 'i' beteween the 'u' and 'm'." Yes Simon, a lot of us do call it Aluminyum... are you the pronounciaton police? "She's got eyes/Preposterous eyes"... well, horses and people do have eyes but how exactly can eyes be preposterous? Wouldn't it be more preposterous if one didn't have eyes? And the climax: "I've never had a lover who's my sister or my brother before." Thanks for clearing that up.
Either this is a narrative study of the slurred, malnourished and inbred members of small towns in Alabama or Simon Neil has been spending too many hours playing with his fridge poetry magnets. On the upside, it's very catchy...
Imagine if HG Wells'Time Machine (or Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure) was, in fact, a preview of things to come. We could create all manner of impossible situations. Like travelling back 15 years to meet then-alive Jeff Buckley, only to transport him to the mid-1960s in order to record a rare unreleased duet with a Blonde On Blonde era Bob Dylan. If your mind is as partial to inner ramblings as mine, you have the same inkling as you glance upon the above picture. To our mutual surprise then this is actually a picture of Tom Cawte and David Thornley. Who, you say?
If their demo Sea Serpents is anything to go by, bedroom musicians Babe Shadow have been experimenting to delightful folksy effect since Buckley's passing - almost. Which is bloody fantastic if you're sick of hearing that the next sophisticated art collective hails from Brooklyn. Based in London they were discovered by the same people at Luv who found Florence Welch warbling in a club toilet cubicle (yes, really). Their folk-pop transcends the limits of the Northern Line borrowing instrumentals from the same worldly school as Vampire Weekend and is set for a late April release. Haunting vocals with a hint of the Marc Bolan quiver about them (or for the younger among you, a softer Nathan Willett - Cold War Kids), may go some way to explain their dark broody exterior. And that name, which is most likely a reference to T Rex and not something vacuously emo. But this is strictly for fans of Devendra Banhart / Noah & The Whale. Head to: http://www.myspace.com/babeshadowband
What's more, we at BOOMerang Kid are massive supporters of Florence & The Machine (in case you hadn't already gathered) whom Babe Shadow will be supporting on the eagerly anticipated UK leg of the Cosmic Love Tour (wink wink, nudge nudge Island Records). See the flame-haired harp-reinventing sorceress conjure up some ethereal magic and a helluva lot of howling crescendos (while potentially sacrificing some fluffy things onstage) at the following venues:
Looking out the velux window this morning at the candy blue sunshine saturated sky I momentarily forget that last night the car's temperature gauge read -4°C post-Valentines Day (not the event - the movie, which was equally as torturous). I imagine a balmy breeze cooling my Havaianas-flopped feet before realising that I have, in fact, woken up to Glasg-Arctica once more.
Thank Zimbabwe (or, Hackney) for Tinashé then. The London via Africa troubadour charmed the socks off a Q crowd opening for Marina & The Diamonds a few weeks back with his suave demanour, butter-melting vocals and feet-shuffling guitar pop. I was in heaven... if heaven's a hammock on a white sandy beach in the middle of a turquoise diamond-and-pearl strewn ocean.
Jaz suggests you are promptly swept ashore by A-Liar: a jam that (without subtlety) reclaims Afrobeat roots back from Vampire Weekend's A-Punk while melding Arctic Monkeys' When The Sun Goes Down into pure reggae soul.Jack Peñate? Who needs 'im?
Also check out the drummer as he abandons his instrument in favour of the old hand clap. Love it.
Tinashé joins previously blogged about Tiffany Page on tour with the Noisettes. So if you're soon to watch Shingai Shoniwa do her rhythmic best make sure you get there early. Head to the mighty MySpace for more: http://www.myspace.com/tinashemusic.
Spanish tennis wunderkind Rafael Nadal hasn't been in the best of form for nearly a year now. Weighed down by the most bulging guns and mighty physique ever seen in the sport, his poor knees have buckled putting a worrying doubt over his longevity and future grand slam success. But the puppy-dog-eyed trophy-chewing Rafa is changing his regime (and hopefully his metallic diet) in order to sport a leaner Nike clad look and regain his mojo. That's not all. Seeking to put less pressure on the knees, Nadal is learning how to focus more power on... the hips.
And who better to learn from than Colombia's answer to a human Boa Constrictor (and a yodeling one at that)... Shakira! Having released her album She Wolflast year she has now managed to bag the champion for new single Gypsy's music video, in which he (taking a leaf out of another dwindling player's book) plays the Anna Kournikova to her Enrique Iglesias. As she reveals "I'm a gypsy" the mystery behind that album's completely bewildering critical acclaim becomes clear. The hips don't lie but they have mystical hypnotic tendencies that apparently Rafa will be using at the net to eclipse Roger Federer as the greatest tennis player of the Open era. Presumably Twilight's Taylor Lautner was otherwise engaged (running around as a He Wolf most likely) but this is some way to kill two birds with one stone. Watch at your peril...
Last day and the dreaded bedsit is abandoned once and for all. There’s no love lost there. I take a punt on emailing the Editor-of-Everything. He agrees to meet. I spend the whole day “meeting” him by running around the entirety of News International attempting to pinpoint his location. I feel like Tom Hanks in Catch Me If You Can. All my leads are two seconds too late. I finally track him down to find that he isn’t actually Leonardo DiCaprio. Gutted.
In addition I secure meetings with a host of different desks in an act of spineless desperation. One matter defeats me. All week I have sought to uncover the Holy Grail. No matter who I ask nobody knows where The Bible is actually derived from. Not that bible. The Sunday Times’ most doted and fabulous supplement - Style Magazine. Forget the job hunt, I need to meet the Voice Of Reason, aka Mrs Mills. Like the Holy Grail, Style HQ remains the Divine’s best guarded secret, unconquerable by even Dan Brown. I’m totally devastated.
As I approach the finish line emergency strikes. It’s Fashion. Katy Perry and Sienna Miller will be pictured tomorrow wearing High-Top sneakers (it seems you can tell a lot about a woman's choice of man by the shoes she wears). Which High-Top sneakers remains unknown. I must find out against the clock. With blood, sweat and tears I Google like I’ve never Google’d before. Enraged I cry, why so many trainers Sienna – how many pairs can one girl own?! A close resemblance to Lanvin is suspected but I’m shot down. In a moment of pure inspiration I change my search words from “Sienna Miller, High Tops” to just “High Top, Purple, Grey, Black” and hit Search Image. Hey, presto! I win, I win!
I stop. Katy Perry. Bloody Katy Perry. She kissed a girl, she 'tamed' Russell Brand, she decided to buy High-Tops. Suddenly my problem. But time is up. The game is over. I take my final steps through Wapping with the feeling that no more of me could have been left there. It’s back to the long wait and my very own yet-to-triumph campaign. What’s dat? ETTA: Employ The Tea-Girl Already.
Jaz x
Incidentally the stroppy sleb mentioned in Part 4 is The Times Weekend cover star this morning ;)
Just say yes. Not to Snore Patrol, to Yeasayer. Jaz went backwards to go forwards on Wednesday night. Confused? So were we. Oran Mor, an old converted church in the heart of Glasgow University land, is difficult to navigate at the best of times with several floors, windy staircases and probably the odd secret passageway here and there. Brooklyn threesome Yeasayer, however, were there in earnest... somewhere.
Unprepared for a reconnaissance mission and without night vision goggles, Jaz feels about in the pitch black guided only by the dirge of 'Middle Eastern-psych-snap-gospel' (their words) in soundcheck. Eventually spotting the target, Jaz refuses to accommodate the "neat" suggestion of performing an interview travelling up and down inside an elevator for an hour due to past claustrophobic trauma of reliving Speed while trapped in a school lift for 45 minutes. As lead singer Chris Keating comments on Jaz's Scottish tones and informs that several formative years listening to rap resulted in his Method Man accent, Jaz gets ready for an evening of pseudo-geek hilarity.
Described by some journalists as the thinking man's pop band, bassist Ira Wolf Tuton (his middle name really is Wolf and he's not in Twilight) spends an hour theorising, analysing and criticising pretty much everything. But if you're looking for an explanation as to their name don't bother.
"If I had to do it again I'd probably pick AAAA and a bunch of exclamation marks. We're at the bottom of every list."
Playing a set to several hundred students who all look like they've walked straight out an MGMT/Empire Of The Sun video, Yeasayer's nonsensically infectious electro-psychedelic-indie-dance (to use my own ridiculous concoction) creates a hedonistic utopia of one-ness in the room. That is never more apparent than when a young war-painted jumping jack decides to share their stage and throw his own shapes. Why not?
"Victoria Park after dark kissing on the wall trying not to fall/ Naive, young and not too clever, will it be this way forever?" As a Manchester University alumnus whose first year digs were in Victoria Park, I once asked a similar question. Middleton locals The Courteeners have written a barrel full of reflective odes to their city to make any honorary Manc's spine tingle for their soon-to-be-released second album Falcon. But one such song may get a slightly different bodily reaction from Alex Kapranos whose band Franz Ferdinand can be detected in You Overdid It Doll. The first single, which will no doubt enter the charts on Sunday, bears a striking resemblance to their Number 3 hit Take Me Out (1 minute 22 seconds in). Incidentally that song was all the rage in Victoria Park when Jaz was a young 'un...
Stealing away from the internet café opposite my bedsit where I’ve been typing up my interviews since 8am I wonder what I’m living off besides the sheer determination to succeed.
At News International, today’s world-altering task is to track down tweeds from a fancy dress shop in London. There is no campaign, bar the necessity to shoot one famous comedian wearing them on a bicycle tomorrow. Here’s a tip: don’t phone every fancy dress shop in London to source full Sherlock Holmes garb without sizes. It’s not Primark, unless you’re of the “one size fits all” school of shopping, and it pisses the salespeople off. It comes to light that the withholding of such info is due to the celebrity’s diva-like refusal to co-operate in the wearing of tweeds. If I told you this man once starred in a programme wherein he adopted several roles, including that of an elderlytransvestite, I think you’d ask the same question as I: what’s a pair of Plus-4s and a tweed cap once cross-dressing’s been on your resumé?
In other news “Who dat?” really has gone global. It’s been used in a press conference by the New Orleans Saints. And to think I don’t even know what “touchdown” means. The commissioner is more than satisfied with my interviews. Does a job offer loom?
Wednesday: my favourite day of the week. It’s that perfect point of no return and when it’s over you know you’re on your way to weekend whimsy. My buckling body, however, is screaming for a chiropractor due to belatedly feeling the effect of Monday’s Waitrose Workout.
Three days have passed and still I can’t find a clean cup, nor detergent to sanitise a dirty cup, anywhere in the vicinity. So I take drastic action charmingly requesting the use of a paper one from the canteen. Either due to my sub-par flirting or some sort of eco-friendly policy (I’m sort of hoping the former), I incur a fee of 8 pence. Who owns this place? Ryanair?
In my ongoing task to enquire about the whereabouts of myriad celebs for upcoming interview requests I realise I have access to a database of contact numbers for people’s “people”. What happens at The Times stays at The Times. Except I could have a photographic memory and I can haphazardly e-mail myself some vital digits… Caleb Followill’s agent’s mobile number and the like. Strictly for emergencies only, of course.
My filming efforts yesterday have become the talk of the Times. Everywhere I go are whispers of “Who Dat?” and how it’s “gone global”. I’ve never been very sure about what that means. After some research I learn that a “global” is just an internal e-mail that is sent to an entire company. So I won’t be “going to Hollywood” anytime soon then? But wait. The editor-in-chief likes it and is “making it HUGE” according to one queuing Costa patron. How “HUGE” can it get, I wonder. Will I be joining the Oscars race for Best Director at the last minute? Get on your bike James Cameron, what’s 3D when you’ve got men in Jaeger speaking hip hop lingo?
Several “informed” book blurbs later and I overhear the planned Beauty special coming to fruition. The problem? A lack of interviewees. Eureka! My entrapment in unpaid internshipdom has an escape hatch. Pixie Lott. She croons, she twinkles, she performs for Q tonight. The Times want an interview because I convince them they want an interview. One minor detail: I don’t have an interview. How hard can it be? Granted she’s banned all press, but I’ve got my “won’t take no for an answer” face on. The same face, I may add, that Adrian Chiles contended with at Q’s David Gray gig as I slipped him a copy of my CV. Suffice to say, I still don’t work for the BBC. Unpromising precedents aside, if I don’t get an interview it’s pretty obvious what Pixie Lott’s beauty secret is: she’s practically prepubescent.
Finishing her set I spot my moment and secure victory. It’s hardly Watergate but it’s a start. What’s more I get two interviews for the price of one by bombarding the support act, Tiffany Page, as well. I am nothing if not persistent.
To be continued...
Incidentally, Tiffany Page with her kohl eyeliner, just-rolled-out-of-bed-looking-hot attitude and Fender in hand has been pipped as the UK's (much younger) answer to Chrissie Hynde. Here she is covering Muse's Supermassive Black Hole. She is currently supporting the Noisettes on tourstrutting about stages all over Britain.
The Awards for me represent a moment in the mid-'90s when Britpop fleetingly ruled our world and you didn’t have to be Austin Powers to believe in cool Britannia. It was a time when Damon Albarn had tea and crumpets at Number 10, when tuning into Top Of The Pops to see Country House beat Roll With It to the top spot was socially acceptable (and possible), and when the Union Jack was celebrated and, in Geri Halliwell’s case, adorned. If Cheryl Cole strutted around Earls Court similarly attired tonight she’d likely be accused of backing Nick Griffin, or worse still, Gordon Brown...
"Our career's about small milestones. Little bursts of elation as opposed to, We've finally made it! I'm still thinking about my mortgage..." - Jim Eno, Spoon
As I escape the central Valentines afternoon bustle of Glasgow and hike up St Vincent Street to enter the legendary King Tut's Wah Wah Hut it dawns on me that I haven't been to this basement joint since my first ever live review of an unsigned act two years ago. A haunt that's currently celebrating its 20th year, it is renowned as a much adored launchpad for new acts in the industry, most famously housing Oasis the night they were discovered and signed. I climb the steps inscribed with all the names of now successful artists who once began here, and wonder why, seven albums in, the band Spoon (whom I'm meeting to interview) are dragging their equipment amid the chemical stench of the bar's industrial cleaner like some sort of pre-mania Beatles in a Hamburg nightclub.
Forget maximising profits, pushing "product" and building an electric fence between the fans and the act, Spoon work for pure satisfaction and they adore these venues. They want to see the faces in the crowd who are just as much a part of their show as the musicians themselves. No surprise then that as Britt Daniel adorns his guitar his first utterances to the audience are: "Is this barrier always here? It's ridiculous!"
What follows is a mature accomplished performance to reflect the 15 years he and Eno have been on the road together. Their consistency and simple sophistication as an in-tune cohort of instrumentalists, whether performing coveted favourites such as The Way We Get By or the new album's lead single Written In Reverse, is the direct result of a dogged approach to the art of rock'n'roll. They appreciate the wider commercial use of their material but they've seen the ugly side of a major label. Ultimately it really is the music that matters. Tonight in a venue where others dreamed of global domination, Spoon are just looking for that elusive moment to play for each and every one of you. Forget your individually cut roses and your Hallmark sentiments, that's real love on Valentines Day.
Austere is the East End. As I make my way to Wapping for a second day of voluntary slave driving I imagine the hoi polloi of Dickensian London and wonder why people actually want to live round here. Notting Hillshabby chic is one thing. This is just plain shabby bleak.
On entry, I experience the “revolving door” which greets the workie who hasn’t pre-emptively arrived bearing caffeinated gifts. Before my derriere grazes the chair that I’ve had to claim from an absent designer in a different department, I return to the elevator to embark on a Costa run. I’ve yet to mention that the order comes from the editorial assistant. And not just any editorial assistant… this week’s temporary editorial assistant. Is this a new low?
Just as my jaw descends upon my very own cup of tea I am summoned by a multimedia journalist from the main paper. Not one sip! She proceeds to inform me about a burning topical issue for which we must campaign. It has something to do with the Superbowl. The brain, already affected by lack of liquid stimulant, wanders. I’ve never been one for campaigning. Moreover, I have never been one for the NFL. Having spent a semester of university abroad at UNC in North Carolina I will never get back those four hours I suffered in utter confusion amidst the ‘bleachers’ watching the university’s football team (the Tar Heels) lose a game – a result I could only confirm via crowd reaction.
Lo and behold, I now know that the New Orleans Saints (a team who subsequently win the Superbowl) are banned from using their catchphrase in the finals due to some pedantic copyright issue. The phrase “Who dat?” is literal gangsta for “Who’s that?” as in “Look at us, you pleb, we’ve arrived”.
I’m told it would be of great amusement if we compiled a video of ordinary stuck-up British folk repeating this slogan in a spirited manner. Cue standing outside Waitrose (a place soon to feature heavily in the story of my life) for the next two hours while I jostle with a video camera and mic in the constant drizzle and accost members of the public, who are too busy either disciplining unruly umbrellas, or (shock, horror) heading to Waitrose. Oh the glamour! Young, old, foreign, couples, joggers, janitors: all fall victim to my newfound directing skills. The morning’s one saving grace comes behalf of an old dumbfounded gentleman, whose doddery inquiry “Who dat… is that with a ‘d’ or a ‘t’?” is a personal highlight. Once satisfied that a suitable number had been hounded my partner and I return to the fort.
Now, when I came to The Times I imagined glimpsing (from afar) bursts of brilliance from famed political commentators such as David Aaronovitch, Hugo Rifkind, Daniel Finklestein, legendary cartoonist Peter Brookes, etc. I didn’t, however, foresee approaching them with sodden attire and frazzled bouffant to request that they unveil their inner Snoop Dogg direct to camera. Alas, it is felt that this will really give the ‘campaign’ video the edge. Once more it’s a task befitting a workie impervious to humiliation. The recording (edited after a late canteen lunch and viewable below), however, is quite hilarious but I fear the joke is on me, Ms Drowned Rat.
Ring-A-Ding-Ding, a collaboration's a-coming. Watch out for American duo Broken Bells. They are: mogul producer and one half of Gnarls Barkley Danger Mouse (not to be confused with previously blogged about deadmau5, or for the nostalgic among you, the cartoon vermin equivalent of James Bond); and James Mercer, lead singer of The Shins', that band propelled to widespread recognition by alt. romcom Garden State. Don't be put off by any connotations of malfunctioning door buzzers or Sunday morning lie-ins disturbed by out-of-tune Edelweiss church chimes. The light melodic ambience of their eponymous debut will airlift you on a dreamy flight to a cloud cushioned somewhere between Frenchmen Air'sMoon Safari and Eels' 1996 effort, Beautiful Freak. March is the month to get swept away by the full release.
Posts
