Girls Who Are Boys Who Like Boys To Be Girls

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:



Jaz x

Duff-Enders

Oh my days!

"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?

Jaz x

Wack Lyrical

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...



Jaz x

P.S. The Soft Pack interview to come tomorrow!

Introducing Babe Shadow

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:

• 5th & 6th May - Edinburgh Corn Exchange
• 7th & 9th May - Blackpool Empress Ballroom
• 10th & 11th May - Wolverhampton Civic Theatre
• 13th, 14th, 15th May - London Hammersmith Apollo

Jaz x

Easy Like A Sunday Morning... Anywhere But Here

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.

Jaz x

Shock-ira

Warning: This post contains career spoiler.

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 Wolf last 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...




Jaz x

Secret Diary Of A Newspaper Intern: Part 5

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...

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?


For the full interview which is at once intellectual, irritating and downright amusing visit Q online: http://news.qthemusic.com/2010/02/interview_a_brief_history_of_t.html

Become a facebook fan to check out more pics: http://tinyurl.com/yhxcbhr

Yeasayer's new pop-fectious single O.N.E. has more Conga fever than you can shake a stick at:





Jaz x

Who Assassinated Franz Ferdinand?

"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...



And the Glaswegian's efforts:




Jaz x

Secret Diary Of A Newspaper Intern: Part 4

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 elderly transvestite, 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?

To be continued...

Jaz x

P.S. Yeasayer interview to come later today ;)

Secret Diary Of A Newspaper Intern: Part 3

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 tour strutting about stages all over Britain.



Jaz x

Rule BRITannia

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...

Read the full minute-by-minute running commentary on Who's Jack http://www.whosjack.org/?p=4094

Jaz x

Tonight Jaz is catching up with New Yorkers Yeasayer. Stay tuned for the Q interview...

14th February: A Fine Day For Spooning

"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.

Read the full interview at: http://news.qthemusic.com/2010/02/interview_a_fine_day_for_spoon.html

Jaz x

P.S. Remember to tune into the 30th Anniversary of the BRIT Awards tonight...

Secret Diary Of A Newspaper Intern: Part 2

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 Hill shabby 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.



http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/sport/more_sport/us_sport/article7012708.ece

To be continued...

Jaz x

Ding Dong!

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's Moon Safari and Eels' 1996 effort, Beautiful Freak. March is the month to get swept away by the full release.

Sweet dreams.



Jaz x

Secret Diary Of A Newspaper Intern: Part 1

Following the previously recorded New To Q week, I embarked upon work experience at a newspaper that today reports about the atrocity of young people paying for internships. Considering I put myself up in Paddington for a week, funded five working days in London and wasn't reimbursed travel expenses, I think it's fair to suggest they look no further than their own HQ for that particular story's evidentiary support. Why "sign on" when you can pay to have a job? To The Times...

********************

My in-house days at Q Magazine are over (for now) and having had the briefest of respites following last week’s gigmania it’s back to the Secret Diary Of A Perma-intern (like Secret Diary Of A Call Girl, it’s a story about whoring just without the sex… or any form of remuneration). This week sees me offering my services to The Times. The need to locate a new internship is always the cause of some stress on the first morning. Therefore, I usually leave about two spare hours (really not an issue, fish are insomniacs). It’s the same for interviews. I figure if you can’t get airborne without setting aside a few extra hours to master the airport, you certainly can’t invade new potential employment territory. Despite my “residence” in a Paddington bedsit and my destination of Wapping, I require each second. The Hammersmith & Shitty line crawls around zone 1 taking 56 eternal minutes to travel 9 stops. In Japan, it probably takes less time to simulate flying around the world. I vouch never to live in an area of London only accessible by crap underground lines – Circle, District, Metropolitan included. It’s all about Northern and Jubilee (which just sounds so gleeful). Piccadilly is the unaffordable pipe dream. W1, sweetie darling.

It soon dawns on me why the Eastender is such a formidable character. If ever there is a time to unearth my inner Peggy Mitchell it is now, walking a mile away from Tower Hill through the depths of East Smithfield - Jack The Ripper territory: no cashpoints, fewer civilians, nothing except a petrol station for a pre-game caffeine fix, and, according to the reception area of News International, currently experiencing a UK Security Threat level of SEVERE. What happened to lunchtime in Topshop, espresso at Carluccios and luvvies galore? I’m a Westender, Get Me Out Of Here?!

Genuinely I feel quite honoured to be within this über journalist hothouse. It’s really the most “high brow” environment I’ve been exposed to yet (the newsroom at STV would argue otherwise).  So imagine the reaction to my opening task: researching anti-cellulite creams. It’s imperative and pressing that I uncover those that can be bought in the UK, phone their PRs and get as many copies of each biked over like yesterday for testing (thankfully, not on me… though I wouldn’t put it beyond my remit). It’s hardly new intelligence on an Al Qaeda cell in Rotherham. Nevertheless, beautiful lady readers of The Times (and Gok Wan) need to know the truth once and for all. Does Bliss’s Fat Girl Slim trump the triply expensive La Prairie? Is sacrificing the kids’ after-school tennis lessons to clear the Space NK account worth it? Should Harley Street’s finest be shaking in their scrubs? As I blag several copies of Rodial’s overall body cocoon (over £100 a pop) I wonder, what possesses these women? Is it fair to think that maybe the fat busting effects result from a shrunken expenditure in the M&S desserts aisle as a direct consequence of spending such ludicrous amounts on moisturiser? Just a thought.

Post-lunch the books team employ me to write several blurbs about current favourites for the Saturday Review section. It needn’t matter that I haven’t read any of these books. My only instruction is to steer clear from the cover’s synopsis. To Amazon! (The website, not unfortunately the South American rainforest). Why amazon.com customers purchase items only to return to contribute, in some cases, a 1000 word ‘review’ is beyond me. Particularly where that item is a household appliance: “the suction on Dyson’s latest hoover model was beyond my expectations”, etc. Mockery aside, I thank you. Even, to my shame, The Picture Of Dorian Gray must be researched in this fashion. If movies like Beowulf teach us anything it’s that you just can’t trust a Hollywood “Now A Major Feature Film” version. The 16 such blurbs written over the course of the week have all since been published. Having forgotten my words, the level of apparent familiarity when re-reading them greatly surprises me.

One hour of the first day remains and the dreaded call arrives. There comes a time in every intern’s life when shame is redefined and nevertheless cast aside to be replaced by false enthusiasm. It’s the “give it to the workie” job – tasks they invent to make sure they’re getting their travel expenses’ worth out of you (or in my case a week's rations of toilet roll and central heating). In some circles (mainly American reality TV shows and psychology) they call this “character building”. I call it workplace abuse (there’s no excuse). Running in heels to photocopying shops in unknown parts of Holborn, transcribing hours of interviews on sticking keyboards for unrealistic deadlines, parading a farmer’s market for 8 hours advertising magazine subscription offers… I’ve done it all.

Here and now I must go to Waitrose (15 minute’s walk) to source £40’s of canned foods… alone… with just the two arms… in 45 minutes. As I fluster about traversing the aisles for a shopping list which includes tinned smoked oysters and a can of Fray Bentos steak and kidney pie (now’s probably a bad time to tell them I’m Kosher), I put to bed my childhood fantasy of one day competing on Dale Winton’s Supermarket Sweep. In case you wondered, it’s for a photoshoot. Yes, we The Times are shooting inanimate foodstuffs in tins. It’s not art; it’s “high brow” journalism.

And just in case you don't believe me here is one smidgeon of the spread. Mmm pork sausages...

To be continued...

Jaz x

The Misanthropic Review

It’s the hottest ticket in town. A backstage haven bustling with the most current conversation, a flurry of tuxedoed and just-off-the-shoot mouth-wateringly handsome ushers serving Veuve from crystal flutes and Keira Knightley just within earshot pouting ferociously and poured over a Chanel limited edition French cigarette – skinny and long like its fumeuse. Damian Lewis brushes my shoulder signalling towards Knightley to take to the wings. She explodes into a full smile, retorts in Austen tongues and flirtatiously dabs a pear-drop of her eau de toilette on his collar bone. Show time! Or so I imagined.

Instead, I am ushered through to a not-so-exclusive staircase and corresponding corridor, frequently interrupted by misguided cloakroom seeking punters, and offered to stand among London’s self-professed elite drinking one glass (either now or at the interval – but strictly not both) of cava. Worse still, served by Vicky Pollard in oversized monochrome uniform. As she re-corks the cheap bottle with a now blasphemised Veuve Cliquot stopper, conversation of any kind and a cameo appearance by an understudy would appear too much to ask for. So I take to my seat while juggling cava, coat and paraphernalia to await scene.

The play itself? Remarkable. Brilliantly acted and incredibly accurate, it’s as though Molière peered through the looking glass into the future and wrote “How to make friends and bitch about them: a Brit’s guide to polite society”. Of course this is a modern remaking of a 17^th century commentary on the French aristocracy but the message is the same and the human condition has not changed. I find myself feeling quite the misanthrope; allergic to my own species. I recall the day someone told me what they really thought of me behind the prefix of, “I think you should know that so-and-so considers you [insert slew of insults]. Note: not my opinion”? And the time I witnessed a friend gushing over someone as they walked in 45 minutes late in plastic shoes by Vivienne Westwood, after just listening to their comments about her bad time keeping and awful dress sense. I remember the occasions when I was that person.

Yes, we, the audience, are all under attack. And, we’ve paid for the privilege. It is all grossly ironic; the play about the ills of our celebrity obsessed society and the psycophancy of modern age quietly mocking those believing this to be the unmissable ticket of the month. And, most won’t have noticed that The Misanthrope makes fun of their special “champagne” package. Molière would have been proud. 

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The Misanthrope's run at London's Comedy Theatre ends on 13 March so catch it while you can (champagne packages include premiere seating, a glass of 'champagne' and a poster). Jaz has to get back to Spooning now. No, not the Valentines kind, the Texan rock'n'roller kind.

Jaz x

Roses Are Red, Chivalry's Dead

John Mayer isn't known in the UK so much for his love-centric guitar odes as he is renowned for his serial romanticising of Hollywood A-listers. For any valentines out there planning on dusting off one of his many non-distinct albums (I'm hoping a great deal of dust has accumulated) in order to woo your loved one, think again. Not only did he recently play a Q show during which he offered to indiscriminately impregnate members of the audience, the penman of love themes such as Your Body Is A Wonderland (pass the sickbag) has just likened ex-squeeze Jessica Simpson to "sexual napalm". Wonderland... Napalm... Vietnam warfare. It's not sounding too gooey now, is it? Jaz never usually vindicates this but if you are so inclined we propose you stick to your Westlifes and Manilows for minimal controversy. Jaz will probably be airing old Oasis albums. Having yet to commemorate their split last year, Valentines Day is a perfect occasion to appreciate music that is heady but nonetheless utterly meaningless. If you do choose to fall into the romcom trap, watch a decent one. Wedding-related titles are usually safe (bar the exception of The Wedding Planner) - My Best Friend's Wedding and The Wedding Singer are Jaz favourites. See Adam Sandler doing J Gelis Band's Love Stinks:




Jaz x x x

Good Times Bad Times

Unbeknown to anybody (because I haven't been given a byline) Jasper Fields has raised an eyebrow or two over toast and tea this morning among a quota of the Times reading nation  - the quota that seek to be ahead of the game, not as far as Gordon Brown, Warren Buffett, Freddie Flintoff, or Sir Alan Bennett are concerned, but as regards the hottest new music infecting the nation. And to that I raise a somewhat bemused eyebrow.

There on page 15 of the supplementary Playlist magazine lies a column of suggested tunes and albums 'of the moment' to blow those Austin Reed socks off, if possible. The fruits of my free-of-charge labour during a week's work experience (soon to be reported) are here scanned (click for maximised readable view and Spotify away).

If I may add, my albums list has been intercepted in an act of some irony. Recommending Spoon's 7th LP Transference due to the fact that their wider recognition here in the UK remains baffling (it contains the type of sophisticated rock melodies that Eels' Mark "E" Everett should aim to still be producing), I have been trounced by an Erland And The Carnival fan. And for that reason I leave you with Got Nuffin' (buzzsaw guitar highlight with a hint of the Sonic Youth about it) to whet your appetite for my incoming Spoon interview. TEAM SPOON!



Happy Saturday, Jaz x

Space Invaders and Supernature

All week I've felt like the White Rabbit... late late for a very important date. No press passes left for Jaz at the BRITs, guestlist for Vampire Weekend and GaGa both closed (the latter potentially the biggest blow of the year so far), invite to a VICE launch party in the wrong town, and extremely tardy arrival at Che Camille's fashion show last night once it was well and truly dried up. Not to mention there are still no paid jobs left anywhere in the industry no matter the amount of slaving done gratis or recent news that we are, in fact, out of the recession (excuse me for not whipping the victory bottle of Veuve out of fastfreeze and spraying it over my bran flakes). This morning I approached the stereo to hit play on Groove Armada's latest - Black Light (a glorious leap out of their comfort zone - Massive Attack take note please) - and literally to my shock sparks coursed through my blood and momentarily stopped time. Perhaps it was electricity's angry rebellion at my fashion faux pas of rubber-soled Uggs. More likely, it was divine intervention. "Jasper Fields", He said (via the British electro DJ duo), "This too shall pass". Thank you G-d! (Or Gandalf, I'm not sure). To make this already long story short, Jaz dodged death by electricity and is consequently on top of things. Keeping in the loop by the tips of his/her non-existent finger nails, Jaz is filling the calendar nicely full of music, fashion and cultural events to blabber to you tadpoles about. Attention must now be diverted to Operation Glastonbury, particularly as the latest headliners were confirmed this morning as MUSE. Move over U2. What use is "The Claw" (and Bono are you aware you pinched that from Jim Carrey's maligned Liar Liar?) when you're up against a falsetto-screeching guitar-shredding superbug from outer space...

Jaz x


P.S. Big fish kiss to Q Magazine for Twittering (or Tweeting?!) about us this morning!