We (Sort Of) Wish You Well In Your Retirement…

Of all the people in the world to age, get a bus pass and retire, I didn't think it'd be David Bowie.  Then again, maybe this ability to be properly popstar fabulous and completely human is why he’s so awesome. At the risk of sounding a bit ballsy, if you’re yet to take a voyage to planet Bowie, do not let this talk of retirement put you off. You’ll learn that it’s impossible for Ziggy Stardust to ever return to Mars without a trace, his music is as relevant as ever.

Though I purport to be an expert on this music sort of thing, I admit I was a little late to the Bowie party. Make that – a lot late.  This was no case of being held up by Tube signal failures, I was held up by 23 years of brain signal failures. Till last year (breathe), he was just the guy that sang “ch-ch-ch-changes”, often at one in the morning as I pranced about some indie club, the guy with chevrons for eyebrows that played the Goblin King in Labyrinth. Yep, last year, the legendary DAVID BOWIE meant nothing to me bar sticky dance floors and bricking it behind the couch, 6-year-old style.  If you see yourself in this at all, it’s time to do something about it. Turn and face that strain.

My Bowie-piphany happened one fateful, unsuspecting day. While dodging the office mice, I hear this tight, hot rhythm section on the Q stereo, followed by an arresting, frightening vocal. The hectic guitar riffs sound better than Foo Fighters’ latest, the title track grows more dystopian than Joy Division, the lyrics – something about a European canon – are more spacy and insane than even Muse. I’m finally hearing Bowie’s 10^th album – Station To Station for the first time. 

While editing the reissue review, I’m discovering that, long before juggling crystal balls surrounded by Jim Henson puppets, David Bowie recorded this album under the influence of red peppers, milk and cocaine exclusively. He has no recollection of how this LP came to being. Given the circumstances, he was out of his intergalactic mind. So much so he wasn’t even him, he had appointed himself the Thin White Duke. I wash down some M&S carrot crudités with chocolate Yazoo thinking, This behaviour is absolutely more rock’n’roll than Kurt Cobain, Rihanna and Marilyn Manson put together.

Over the next 40 minutes, I hear gut-wrenching ballads, delicious pop, heavy rock, foot-stomping funk, disco – all in an album of six songs. I cast aside my double-CD version of Lady Gaga’s one-and-a-half-hour, 22-track debut album, shrieking THIS IS AMAZING! Soon enough I’m telling everyone “DAVID BOWIE’S AMAZING! Also, check out this film Star Wars. I’d say – cult classic.” Don’t even get me started on the art, the hair, the outfits. Up until this moment in time, I’ve been seriously visually impaired. What am I saying? I’ve been blind.

Now converted, I’m all about the Bowie – Aladdin Sane, Ziggy Stardust, Hunky Dory, Young Americans… I realise there’s nothing stopping me from being Elton John, Mick Jagger and Lou Reed at once. Everything makes sense where it didn’t before (Mika, at least). Station To Station is one of the most exciting records I hear in 2010, and it landed in 1976. I can’t frickin’ wait for all the Bowie I’m yet to discover. There’s so much in the Bowie Canon of Amazing, I never need to worry about running out…

Or so I think until David Bowie’s biographer – Paul Trynka – nukes me with an A-bomb: Bowie’s off to sit in his armchair, watch Countdown and eat baked beans on toast till the end of days. And deservedly so – God only knows the guy’s influenced nearly everyone who’s succeeded him in the charts. He’s even influenced the people who influenced him. Well impressive. But here’s hoping he’ll do a Jay-Z, following this announcement with several albums, a global hit a la Empire State Of Mind, a Glastonbury headline slot and the biggest musical collaboration since Madonna kissed Britney.

As he once profoundly stated: “Time may change me/But I can’t trace time.” Check out these five tracks below and prepare to have your mind abducted by an artist who transcends time, space and cosmic universes…

1.    Ashes To Ashes. Unfortunately once sampled by Samantha Mumba, this electro gem is felt all over Duran Duran, Hurts and La Roux’s In For The Kill. Bowie scored a Number 1 here with a single he described to NME as, “a popular nursery rhyme about space men becoming junkies.” How quaint.

2.    Drive-In Saturday. A doo-wop, Christmas-y number about watching porn. Morrissey loves a bit of it, he even did his own version despite the fact Bowie’s no longer a vegetarian.  I know – Morrissey actually liking something, it must be better than… well anything really.

3.    Moonage Daydream. From Ziggy Stardust, this rock behemoth of a song really is quite mental. It’s merely one track on a concept album where the messiah is an alien who does a lot of drugs. One-hit-wonders Babylon Zoo may as well have called Spaceman – We Love You Bowie. This is four minutes and 35 seconds that form the blueprint for Lady Gaga’s career.

4.    Oh You Pretty Things. One listen of the Beatles-y piano pop melody and Bowie’s falsetto and there you have it: the invention of Britpop. Indeed Blur, Pulp and, in turn, Franz Ferdinand, Scissor Sisters, Wild Beasts and Muse owe their life to this classic from 1971’s Hunky Dory. Brett Anderson? You’ve got some explaining to do…

5.    “Heroes”. Written by Bowie and Brian Eno, the title track from his so-called “Berlin era” was influenced heavily by Neu! Dark, brooding, experimental electronica, The Killers, LCD Soundsystem and New Order live between the synths.

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

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!