I'm partial to further understanding of the male and female pyshche. I'm about 4/5's away from second guessing myself, which is pretty good. I used to think that would never happen but I'm starting to think I'm much more predictable than you are. Or indeed that guy over there.
I saw a crazy ass Spanish band last night called Rosvita who I enjoyed very much. It was one of those mutated performances where the band seemed bigger than they were. Only about 23 inches, but thats big enough.
Slowly, my brain is suffering an endless drip, out of both my nose and my ears. I think I might be suffering headaches from playing music too loudly so that sucks. Films I've seen recently include Hannah and her Sisters, Antichrist, Grand Theft Parsons, Me and You and Everyone We Know and Feast. I have a few ready to watch too including Hair High and Harold and Kumar 2. Fuckin' a.
I apologise for my lack of journalistic skill recently. To be honest, I don't really give a fuck at the moment. Do I care? No. No, I do not.
Saturday 19 June 2010
Thursday 25 February 2010
A Not So Typical Post
So usually I focus on the music, and I might...in a second but right now I want to write something about the films I've watched an re-watched recently. I'm mainly talking about the ones I can remember, so here I go.
Unashamedly I begin this session of film watching in ace 90s grunge/alt. mood. Part one of my essays on Sound will clarify this. So we begin with mid nineties comic-book adap Tank Girl which reins in a lot about that particular times' sub-culture and, like most films that desire to be set in a future reality, actually spend the entire time reflecting the current state. And this is no different. Focussing on the worlds lacking of fuel and water and gearing up for apocalypse (5 years before Y2K we can already see this happening). Of course, by this point we are already in post-apocalypse mode where the Man (Malcolm McDowell) here is confronted by an edgy Lori Petty aka Tank Girl and a bunch of kangaroo-man half breeds (remember the mid-nineties gene splicing craze...no?...remember Dolly the Sheep...cloning comes under that too...). It was fun but at the end I tend to remember Jamie Hewlett's artwork and girl-groups-gone-bad such as Hole more than I do anything that actually happened.
Hexed by this nineties obsession I had growing, I begin watching Daria, the MTV spin-off from Beavis and Butthead. I won't go too much into that but it did lead off into watching both Extract, a Mike Judge (creator of B&B) film and Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey.
Firstly, Extract. Mike Judge is clearly not a director held in too much esteem. And it's pretty good he's not either otherwise he may be expected to rifle out non-comedic tripe and that's good for no-one. Thinking about it, Extract is probably Judge's least ambitious project. Forgetting his cartoon related projects, Judge's previous films, Office Space and Idiocracy have been pretty special. Office Space, which hit screens in 1999 was a late bloomer. It did nothing at the cinema yet became a massive cult thing in the U.S. (not so much over here but it still has its followers. Again, it appealed to both the baby boomers and the Y2K generation with its tale of anonyminity within the workplace and boring yourself to death. It's question of "what would you do with a million dollars?" still floats around and from time to time I give the same answer Peter Gibbons did. Fuckin' a. I seem to remember going to the U.S. a few years back and seeing O.S merch in Hot Topics all over the place. It's been a big favourite of mine for a while and then I saw Idiocracy a film which actually makes more sense if you know a bit about Nietzsche. Funny, no? Well I saw the film about three years ago and, strangely, it cropped up when I wanted to tackle existentialism for my dissertation and my tutor brought up this film and its very simple plot-line of stupid people running the world, which has happened very slowly for a very, very long time. So the idea is that in 1000 years, Joe Average (played by a brilliant Luke Wilson) is now the world's smartest man. It's an amazing simple idea and executed like gold dust. Mike Judge seems to be a genius at making the mundane look interesting. But saying that, I'm still unsure about Extract. Firstly, Jason Bateman seems to be reining in a performance, or should I say, he just play's Jason Bateman. Then the affiliation with JK Simmons brings back echoes of Juno, for a minute I genuinely I though Jennifer Garner was going to play his wife (before I realized it was Kristin Wiig, not playing a weirdo but someone actually fairly layered. There relationship reminded me of the one in High Fidelity. There was a lot good about this film. Mila Kunis was so hot it was untrue and the thick gigolo Brad (don't know his name, but he was very convincing as a dunce) was probably the best character in it. I'm still not ruling out Judge though.
The same day, actually earlier, I saw B&T. Weirdly, I used to watch their Excellent Adventure possibly once every six months but never saw the Bogus Journey. To be honest,it was entertaining but never really went anywhere and was quite forgettable. Also, what was about George Carlin turning into Pam Grier. I love a bit of Pam but she was nowhere near the kind of funny that Rufus was in the first one...damn.
Erm and on with the week. I actually started a job this week so I've only seen a few more (two of which were tonight) but the other one was the magnificent Empire Records. It was probably the third or maybe fourth time I'd seen it and I loved it even more. The musical interludes, the breaking of the fourth wall. Rory Cochrane. Say No More (Mon Amour) is probably worth the DVD price on its own. If you have yet to watch it, do so soon.
Next was History of Violence a film I've probably watched in excess of five or six times. Still doesn't slow down. Reminds me of the grinding atmospherics of the darker Coens like No Country for Old Men and Blood Simple. The more I see it do I notice the fantastic references to Norman Rockwell and the twisted vision of the tiny American town. Cronenberg is probably my third favourite director. I'm no fan of his early work (including Scanners) but Crash, Naked Lunch and Dead Ringers all mark highly in my books. I even thoroughly enjoy eXistenZ.
So lets move on to tonight's viewing where it was very possible that another three hour film has made it into my top ten after Heat and Gangs of New York (although in complete honesty, Gangs didn't really impress on its latest viewing, it's really a bit like the Daniel Day-Lewis show a lot like There Will Be Blood which is very tedious and although atmospheric, it loses pace unlike the magnificent Magnolia. So anyway, that film is Betty Blue a sprawling film about the entirety of the relationship between Betty and Zorg. I've never held out so long on a film and STILL be blown away. Three hours is usually enough to send me asleep. Two is usually good enough, if not pushing it still. The film is essentially split into three parts being the beach, the city and the countryside. For some reason I can't really explain why I dug this so much, but it was very, very cool. But this film has been sitting pretty in my DVD collection for a long while. It took the re-airing of Read My Lips to want to check out the subtitled film. I don't know why, I just need to be in the mood. On re-watch I still really enjoyed the Vincent Cassell film. He's always good for my money (bar Ocean's 12 of course) and it's just the kind of film that wouldn't get made in England or the U.S. (it's main character is a deaf woman who is constantly teased by her male co-workers. I mean, the lefty's over there would have a massive paddy before a female character was degraded in such a way. Especially when the plot develops to show her slightly made and stalker-ish for ex-con lout Paul. It's a great film nonetheless.
That's me done I think, this post has taken me about an hour so I think I'll leave talking about music tonight. Take it easy.
Unashamedly I begin this session of film watching in ace 90s grunge/alt. mood. Part one of my essays on Sound will clarify this. So we begin with mid nineties comic-book adap Tank Girl which reins in a lot about that particular times' sub-culture and, like most films that desire to be set in a future reality, actually spend the entire time reflecting the current state. And this is no different. Focussing on the worlds lacking of fuel and water and gearing up for apocalypse (5 years before Y2K we can already see this happening). Of course, by this point we are already in post-apocalypse mode where the Man (Malcolm McDowell) here is confronted by an edgy Lori Petty aka Tank Girl and a bunch of kangaroo-man half breeds (remember the mid-nineties gene splicing craze...no?...remember Dolly the Sheep...cloning comes under that too...). It was fun but at the end I tend to remember Jamie Hewlett's artwork and girl-groups-gone-bad such as Hole more than I do anything that actually happened.
Hexed by this nineties obsession I had growing, I begin watching Daria, the MTV spin-off from Beavis and Butthead. I won't go too much into that but it did lead off into watching both Extract, a Mike Judge (creator of B&B) film and Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey.
Firstly, Extract. Mike Judge is clearly not a director held in too much esteem. And it's pretty good he's not either otherwise he may be expected to rifle out non-comedic tripe and that's good for no-one. Thinking about it, Extract is probably Judge's least ambitious project. Forgetting his cartoon related projects, Judge's previous films, Office Space and Idiocracy have been pretty special. Office Space, which hit screens in 1999 was a late bloomer. It did nothing at the cinema yet became a massive cult thing in the U.S. (not so much over here but it still has its followers. Again, it appealed to both the baby boomers and the Y2K generation with its tale of anonyminity within the workplace and boring yourself to death. It's question of "what would you do with a million dollars?" still floats around and from time to time I give the same answer Peter Gibbons did. Fuckin' a. I seem to remember going to the U.S. a few years back and seeing O.S merch in Hot Topics all over the place. It's been a big favourite of mine for a while and then I saw Idiocracy a film which actually makes more sense if you know a bit about Nietzsche. Funny, no? Well I saw the film about three years ago and, strangely, it cropped up when I wanted to tackle existentialism for my dissertation and my tutor brought up this film and its very simple plot-line of stupid people running the world, which has happened very slowly for a very, very long time. So the idea is that in 1000 years, Joe Average (played by a brilliant Luke Wilson) is now the world's smartest man. It's an amazing simple idea and executed like gold dust. Mike Judge seems to be a genius at making the mundane look interesting. But saying that, I'm still unsure about Extract. Firstly, Jason Bateman seems to be reining in a performance, or should I say, he just play's Jason Bateman. Then the affiliation with JK Simmons brings back echoes of Juno, for a minute I genuinely I though Jennifer Garner was going to play his wife (before I realized it was Kristin Wiig, not playing a weirdo but someone actually fairly layered. There relationship reminded me of the one in High Fidelity. There was a lot good about this film. Mila Kunis was so hot it was untrue and the thick gigolo Brad (don't know his name, but he was very convincing as a dunce) was probably the best character in it. I'm still not ruling out Judge though.
The same day, actually earlier, I saw B&T. Weirdly, I used to watch their Excellent Adventure possibly once every six months but never saw the Bogus Journey. To be honest,it was entertaining but never really went anywhere and was quite forgettable. Also, what was about George Carlin turning into Pam Grier. I love a bit of Pam but she was nowhere near the kind of funny that Rufus was in the first one...damn.
Erm and on with the week. I actually started a job this week so I've only seen a few more (two of which were tonight) but the other one was the magnificent Empire Records. It was probably the third or maybe fourth time I'd seen it and I loved it even more. The musical interludes, the breaking of the fourth wall. Rory Cochrane. Say No More (Mon Amour) is probably worth the DVD price on its own. If you have yet to watch it, do so soon.
Next was History of Violence a film I've probably watched in excess of five or six times. Still doesn't slow down. Reminds me of the grinding atmospherics of the darker Coens like No Country for Old Men and Blood Simple. The more I see it do I notice the fantastic references to Norman Rockwell and the twisted vision of the tiny American town. Cronenberg is probably my third favourite director. I'm no fan of his early work (including Scanners) but Crash, Naked Lunch and Dead Ringers all mark highly in my books. I even thoroughly enjoy eXistenZ.
So lets move on to tonight's viewing where it was very possible that another three hour film has made it into my top ten after Heat and Gangs of New York (although in complete honesty, Gangs didn't really impress on its latest viewing, it's really a bit like the Daniel Day-Lewis show a lot like There Will Be Blood which is very tedious and although atmospheric, it loses pace unlike the magnificent Magnolia. So anyway, that film is Betty Blue a sprawling film about the entirety of the relationship between Betty and Zorg. I've never held out so long on a film and STILL be blown away. Three hours is usually enough to send me asleep. Two is usually good enough, if not pushing it still. The film is essentially split into three parts being the beach, the city and the countryside. For some reason I can't really explain why I dug this so much, but it was very, very cool. But this film has been sitting pretty in my DVD collection for a long while. It took the re-airing of Read My Lips to want to check out the subtitled film. I don't know why, I just need to be in the mood. On re-watch I still really enjoyed the Vincent Cassell film. He's always good for my money (bar Ocean's 12 of course) and it's just the kind of film that wouldn't get made in England or the U.S. (it's main character is a deaf woman who is constantly teased by her male co-workers. I mean, the lefty's over there would have a massive paddy before a female character was degraded in such a way. Especially when the plot develops to show her slightly made and stalker-ish for ex-con lout Paul. It's a great film nonetheless.
That's me done I think, this post has taken me about an hour so I think I'll leave talking about music tonight. Take it easy.
Friday 19 February 2010
The Nature of Sound Pt. 2: The Furthest Destination You Can Place Your Mind
I’m headed to a place I do not recognise. This is not out of a lack of education, but a choice. A choice to formerly be unaware and a choice to go there. Like a broken bottle shattered into tiny glass shards and stuck on a ceiling, the stars remind me of all that has yet to be discovered or understood. Just the same then, certain elements of music have been left untouched, or so we choose to think. The nature of sound is one that leads to forced interpretation of different aspects of everything. There are many alleyways and many doors, we can only go through so many before we hit the proverbial wall and figure that a gap must be there and it must be filled.
I’ve often gazed up and wondered what lies beyond and sound can fill that gap for us. I’ve been listening (in the last year) to music recorded for the stars. It’s exciting shit. Be it the Black Sabbath stuff of their Paranoid album (thinking about “Planet Caravan” as an important one here), or the acid punk of the Flaming Lips or perhaps even the deft sci-fi of the Fall. Sound provokes and tortures, it doesn’t just see the brick wall and is content with standing in front of it; IT KNOCKS THE FUCKER DOWN. And this is my problem...there is so many doors and yet so few are willing to walk/run/crawl/jump through them.
How many times do you think a group of kids have gathered around and wondered about the intentions of their music in the wider market, perhaps even the mainstream? I’m chancing it with not many. Mostly it happens along because they’ve been listening to the first few Oasis records and have been filled with something close to energy. Sometimes it happens because someone figures out that there isn’t a post-dance-fusion band. I know that sound’s horrible. The two imaginary groups often come out sounding similar and that’s due to a lack of definition, not due to an absence of thought.
Sound comes and goes. We all know that trends exist and the A&R guys are often hunting for the next best thing...it’s usually the easiest band to market, but who the fuck cares. At the moment we are stuck in a vortex of choice. There is far too much choice; not only in terms of style or genre but with the way we listen in how we pay; so on so forth. And that is the problem. There is too much music. There is also too much of one thing. Mind numbing, isn’t it? So this is why when the Strokes came about in 2000, the entire decade focussed on indie-boy group rock and simultaneously when Sugababes came about in 2000, the entire decade would focus on dance-girl group pop. So, I’m glad the 2000’s are gone so we can focus on the thing I like about music; the groove.
SO sound comes back to rear its ugly head. I’m begging for the 2010’s to suck out the lifelessness and replace it with subterranean groove. Harsh, sexually provoking groove. There’s something to be said about a rock n roll group with a heavy beat and a pulsating rhythm. I’ve missed it and had to fall back on the 60s and 70s. The 80s had no fun with it, but the 90s brought it back. I’m hoping we just skipped one decade and I won’t have to begging for it when I’m in my thirties or forties. Oh, also, I really hope this fanciful technical shit dies down too. Don’t want that now.
Part three coming soon.
I’ve often gazed up and wondered what lies beyond and sound can fill that gap for us. I’ve been listening (in the last year) to music recorded for the stars. It’s exciting shit. Be it the Black Sabbath stuff of their Paranoid album (thinking about “Planet Caravan” as an important one here), or the acid punk of the Flaming Lips or perhaps even the deft sci-fi of the Fall. Sound provokes and tortures, it doesn’t just see the brick wall and is content with standing in front of it; IT KNOCKS THE FUCKER DOWN. And this is my problem...there is so many doors and yet so few are willing to walk/run/crawl/jump through them.
How many times do you think a group of kids have gathered around and wondered about the intentions of their music in the wider market, perhaps even the mainstream? I’m chancing it with not many. Mostly it happens along because they’ve been listening to the first few Oasis records and have been filled with something close to energy. Sometimes it happens because someone figures out that there isn’t a post-dance-fusion band. I know that sound’s horrible. The two imaginary groups often come out sounding similar and that’s due to a lack of definition, not due to an absence of thought.
Sound comes and goes. We all know that trends exist and the A&R guys are often hunting for the next best thing...it’s usually the easiest band to market, but who the fuck cares. At the moment we are stuck in a vortex of choice. There is far too much choice; not only in terms of style or genre but with the way we listen in how we pay; so on so forth. And that is the problem. There is too much music. There is also too much of one thing. Mind numbing, isn’t it? So this is why when the Strokes came about in 2000, the entire decade focussed on indie-boy group rock and simultaneously when Sugababes came about in 2000, the entire decade would focus on dance-girl group pop. So, I’m glad the 2000’s are gone so we can focus on the thing I like about music; the groove.
SO sound comes back to rear its ugly head. I’m begging for the 2010’s to suck out the lifelessness and replace it with subterranean groove. Harsh, sexually provoking groove. There’s something to be said about a rock n roll group with a heavy beat and a pulsating rhythm. I’ve missed it and had to fall back on the 60s and 70s. The 80s had no fun with it, but the 90s brought it back. I’m hoping we just skipped one decade and I won’t have to begging for it when I’m in my thirties or forties. Oh, also, I really hope this fanciful technical shit dies down too. Don’t want that now.
Part three coming soon.
Wednesday 17 February 2010
The Nature of Sound
I’m not obsessed with sound. By that I mean I’m not a DJ in the pickity sense; I don’t stretch sound to a point of oblivion and I don’t like to distort my favourite records. I am a fan in the traditional sense. I like to hear every note, be it drowned in something unfamiliar or a fingersnapped string from a dead Martin acoustic. Fuck man, I’m not a difficult person. I love lots of different wonderful sounds. Weird ones, loving ones, fucked up ones. Even on occasion, popular ones. But not that often.
Today’s one-on-one belongs to the nature of sound. What CD’s have you listened to that have made you smile? And I’m not talking about lyrical content, or technique; I’m talking about sssssound. Fuck. OK so, the pyschadelic-ness of last year, and the harshness of last year pushed me over to Black Sabbath. WHO NEEDS ANYTHING MORE THAN PYSCH RAWK. I dunno. So yeah, that happened; and you gotta dig the wave man. I suppose that leads to the inevitable usage of hard rock in pop i.e. grunge and 90s alt. Stuff. So: Mudhoney, Pixies, Pavement...this shit is all important. The future of rock n roll is currently in balance. I hope you don’t fucking forget it. I’ll tell you why. It’s because in the 60’s; shit was happening man...and the 70s. There was doom in some places but fuck, man, people still dug the music. Everytime I think about how awesome the reverb drenched distortion of my Marshall amp is I smile. Not much else has that effect, surely. And let’s not forget about surf either. And I’m talking Dick Dale/Link Wray shit. Don’t fuck with me.
Ok, so that’s all good news, but why am I writing bullshit about my amp and whatnot, but I dunno. I listened to the new Blood Red Shoes record and I SAW IT MAN...I saw the past, present of future and IT WASN’T DEAD. Although listening to the most recent Demons LP “Contact High” and you’d think that too. Damn man. DJ’s man, fucking take what you want but you can’t take my rock and roll. Not without a fucking fight. Anyway, this intrigue into sound has also boosted my respect of Neil Young and not just the well respected stuff like the first ten years which has recently took a lot of praise mainly due to the release of the Archives boxed set and a whole bunch of live LP’s from that time. No, anyway, I do really fuckin like that stuff but Weld...man...that’s an LP right there. Live and pulverising to the max. Love it. Death pounding on the face of existence. Who doesn’t need that.
So yeah. The reasoning behind this comes from something deep inside. Like a call inside my broken messed up drugged out mind SCREAMING SHOUTING HOLERING at me with the slogan DON’T FUCK WITH MY ROCK N ROLL. And i say that cos I see these skinny kids, with their sub-culture approved hairstyles and the thick rimmed Elvis Costello throwback glasses and the shitty checked shirts and I’m like...fuck...what happened? Rock n roll has always been about style, drugs ...whatnot...but it’s always been ‘cool’? I don’t know what’s happened now. All these kids. I’m worried they don’t know what rock n roll is. Fuck, they don’t even call it rock n roll anymore. They call it something like rockcore. Shit, I don’t care.
Part 2 on Sound tomorrow.
Today’s one-on-one belongs to the nature of sound. What CD’s have you listened to that have made you smile? And I’m not talking about lyrical content, or technique; I’m talking about sssssound. Fuck. OK so, the pyschadelic-ness of last year, and the harshness of last year pushed me over to Black Sabbath. WHO NEEDS ANYTHING MORE THAN PYSCH RAWK. I dunno. So yeah, that happened; and you gotta dig the wave man. I suppose that leads to the inevitable usage of hard rock in pop i.e. grunge and 90s alt. Stuff. So: Mudhoney, Pixies, Pavement...this shit is all important. The future of rock n roll is currently in balance. I hope you don’t fucking forget it. I’ll tell you why. It’s because in the 60’s; shit was happening man...and the 70s. There was doom in some places but fuck, man, people still dug the music. Everytime I think about how awesome the reverb drenched distortion of my Marshall amp is I smile. Not much else has that effect, surely. And let’s not forget about surf either. And I’m talking Dick Dale/Link Wray shit. Don’t fuck with me.
Ok, so that’s all good news, but why am I writing bullshit about my amp and whatnot, but I dunno. I listened to the new Blood Red Shoes record and I SAW IT MAN...I saw the past, present of future and IT WASN’T DEAD. Although listening to the most recent Demons LP “Contact High” and you’d think that too. Damn man. DJ’s man, fucking take what you want but you can’t take my rock and roll. Not without a fucking fight. Anyway, this intrigue into sound has also boosted my respect of Neil Young and not just the well respected stuff like the first ten years which has recently took a lot of praise mainly due to the release of the Archives boxed set and a whole bunch of live LP’s from that time. No, anyway, I do really fuckin like that stuff but Weld...man...that’s an LP right there. Live and pulverising to the max. Love it. Death pounding on the face of existence. Who doesn’t need that.
So yeah. The reasoning behind this comes from something deep inside. Like a call inside my broken messed up drugged out mind SCREAMING SHOUTING HOLERING at me with the slogan DON’T FUCK WITH MY ROCK N ROLL. And i say that cos I see these skinny kids, with their sub-culture approved hairstyles and the thick rimmed Elvis Costello throwback glasses and the shitty checked shirts and I’m like...fuck...what happened? Rock n roll has always been about style, drugs ...whatnot...but it’s always been ‘cool’? I don’t know what’s happened now. All these kids. I’m worried they don’t know what rock n roll is. Fuck, they don’t even call it rock n roll anymore. They call it something like rockcore. Shit, I don’t care.
Part 2 on Sound tomorrow.
Thursday 5 November 2009
Behind closed doors...
Yeah, so last night I posted a short story and I actually wrote three last night. Daniel and myself are going to set up a separate blog for this but in the mean time I'm going to keep this bastard fresh and post my stories up on here. So here we go, enjoy.
BEDFELLOWS
Eight months in and Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt had discussed many things in their relationship. They spoke about the economy, adoption, religion, global warming, whether or not they were pro-choice and what could be suggested to be inappropriate dinner party conversation. One warm night in August they had even gone so far to share their stories of drug and alcohol abuse. However, it had been eight months and neither had begun or wanted to begin a study of their previous sexual encounters.
The main reason for this was obvious. They were both extremely good looking people and even before they had met that one blustery evening in February they were familiar which each other’s reputation. He had read that she took Antonio Banderas and Lucy Liu into a meat cellar and came out about 15 minutes later looking a bit untidy and she had, with some curiosity, watched the sex tape that he had made with Jennifer Love Hewitt.
When the subject arose, it was a little past half past eleven. They both had some work to do in the morning; nothing glamorous, just tax receipts and then a dinner party in the evening. Neither of them even really liked Kirsten Dunst but they liked the free booze and managed to get a baby sitter for the evening. Anyway, it was about 23: 09 when Angelina said something like “you better not stare at Kirsten’s bum or I’ll kick you”. It was quickly laughed aside because they had a small joke that Kirsten Dunst’s bottom was horrid and looked like two mouldy plums. One thing led to another and somehow they started talking about Stanley Tucci. I don’t know why, but they did.
“Yeah, I’ve always found his head to be a bit creepy”, Angelina said to Brad.
“Who, Tucci?”
“Yeah. The baldness seems unnecessary.”
There was a small pause as Brad attempted to reach for words as he would attempt to reach for air.
“But. I thought you fucked him.”
“No!” Yelled Angelina. “Where did you hear that?”
“It was a while ago!” Brad rushed for something to come to his assistance.
“Who told you?” She asked as her face filled with venomous anxiety.
“It was just. Y’know. Well known.”
Defeated she turned onto her side and blew out a small gust of wind before turning around to her him giggle slightly.
“What?” She hissed.”
“Nothing.” There was another pause. This time it was entirely his own. “It’s just. Tucci?”
“Well I heard you fucked Charlize Theron.”
“So?”
“When she was making Monster.”
“Yeah.”
“Not your best moment Brad.”
There was a small cloud in the air now. They had to talk about it. For hours they spoke about who they fornicated with, what it was like and where they did it. Needless to say, there were lots to talk about it. Finally, it got to a point where Brad finally asked.
“So how many?”
It didn’t take them long and they announced to each other, as if in private caves in the Alps, their quite large and intimidating numbers. Turns out Brad was a bit of a slut in the early nineties, y’know when he became known for his role in “Thelma and Louise”. Anyway, Angelina didn’t like that much so she left and spent three days with her sister in San Francisco but she came back and they made up and it was OK. Good, that, such a lovely couple.
BEDFELLOWS
Eight months in and Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt had discussed many things in their relationship. They spoke about the economy, adoption, religion, global warming, whether or not they were pro-choice and what could be suggested to be inappropriate dinner party conversation. One warm night in August they had even gone so far to share their stories of drug and alcohol abuse. However, it had been eight months and neither had begun or wanted to begin a study of their previous sexual encounters.
The main reason for this was obvious. They were both extremely good looking people and even before they had met that one blustery evening in February they were familiar which each other’s reputation. He had read that she took Antonio Banderas and Lucy Liu into a meat cellar and came out about 15 minutes later looking a bit untidy and she had, with some curiosity, watched the sex tape that he had made with Jennifer Love Hewitt.
When the subject arose, it was a little past half past eleven. They both had some work to do in the morning; nothing glamorous, just tax receipts and then a dinner party in the evening. Neither of them even really liked Kirsten Dunst but they liked the free booze and managed to get a baby sitter for the evening. Anyway, it was about 23: 09 when Angelina said something like “you better not stare at Kirsten’s bum or I’ll kick you”. It was quickly laughed aside because they had a small joke that Kirsten Dunst’s bottom was horrid and looked like two mouldy plums. One thing led to another and somehow they started talking about Stanley Tucci. I don’t know why, but they did.
“Yeah, I’ve always found his head to be a bit creepy”, Angelina said to Brad.
“Who, Tucci?”
“Yeah. The baldness seems unnecessary.”
There was a small pause as Brad attempted to reach for words as he would attempt to reach for air.
“But. I thought you fucked him.”
“No!” Yelled Angelina. “Where did you hear that?”
“It was a while ago!” Brad rushed for something to come to his assistance.
“Who told you?” She asked as her face filled with venomous anxiety.
“It was just. Y’know. Well known.”
Defeated she turned onto her side and blew out a small gust of wind before turning around to her him giggle slightly.
“What?” She hissed.”
“Nothing.” There was another pause. This time it was entirely his own. “It’s just. Tucci?”
“Well I heard you fucked Charlize Theron.”
“So?”
“When she was making Monster.”
“Yeah.”
“Not your best moment Brad.”
There was a small cloud in the air now. They had to talk about it. For hours they spoke about who they fornicated with, what it was like and where they did it. Needless to say, there were lots to talk about it. Finally, it got to a point where Brad finally asked.
“So how many?”
It didn’t take them long and they announced to each other, as if in private caves in the Alps, their quite large and intimidating numbers. Turns out Brad was a bit of a slut in the early nineties, y’know when he became known for his role in “Thelma and Louise”. Anyway, Angelina didn’t like that much so she left and spent three days with her sister in San Francisco but she came back and they made up and it was OK. Good, that, such a lovely couple.
Wednesday 4 November 2009
Outsiders and Dialoguing
I don't know how to spell dialoguing. Apparently you can't. Oh well.
Anyway, I revamped the ole myspace (check me out: www.myspace.com/theplaguecontinues) and I released an EP of covers BLAH BLAH BLAH I've written so much about that already and its all on the myspaz.
Gladly though, I do have something new to share. I have been writing (very) short stories for my friend's project. Here is one I made earlier:
DIALOGUE BETWEEN TWO MEN IN A BATHROOM WITH A SINGULAR CUBICLE AND NOTHING MORE
“Excuse me.”
“No.”
“What?”
“This is a queue.”
“A queue?”
“Yes. There is only one cubicle in this facility and a very large man is currently occupying it.”
“Oh. I see.”
“Yes.”
“Suppose I shouldn’t have had that sagwala for lunch.”
“Sorry.”
“I said I shouldn’t have had that Indian food for lunch.”
“No I didn’t say sorry as if I wanted you to repeat it. I apologised.”
“Oh. Well how do you know it’s your fault?”
“Well, you say you went to an Indian restaurant?”
“Yes.”
“Was it the tandoori of the corner of Eversham Street?”
“Yes.”
“Well I work there. I am the head chef.”
“Ah. You are clearly Indian.”
“Yes. And I am also wearing a chefs’ hat.”
“I just assumed that was a costume.”
“That would have been quite peculiar.”
“Well people often visit public bathrooms to change into costume.”
“Yes, but I am entering the bathroom, not leaving it.”
“True, that.”
“Yes.”
“So, earlier.”
“Yes.”
“You said sorry.”
“Yes?”
“When I mentioned the Indian food, you said sorry.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“Oh well. It’s a long story.”
“That fat guy’s been a while already. He’ll probably be a little longer.”
“Well the truth I am here and not at work is because have been accidentally poisoning our customers slowly and over a period of time and about 37 minutes ago we burnt the restauraunt down.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. See my family have been ridiculed for a very long time and we have had enough. I actually remember you as a child vomiting all over our own bathrooms and leaving it for us to clear up. So we’ve been killing you.”
“How long do I have?”
“You ate the sagwala?”
“Yes.”
“It doesn’t look good.”
“Well. The fat man has left the cubicle now.”
“You best go then.”
“He looks pretty thin now too. Probably did him some good.”
“Yes.”
Anyway, I revamped the ole myspace (check me out: www.myspace.com/theplaguecontinues) and I released an EP of covers BLAH BLAH BLAH I've written so much about that already and its all on the myspaz.
Gladly though, I do have something new to share. I have been writing (very) short stories for my friend's project. Here is one I made earlier:
DIALOGUE BETWEEN TWO MEN IN A BATHROOM WITH A SINGULAR CUBICLE AND NOTHING MORE
“Excuse me.”
“No.”
“What?”
“This is a queue.”
“A queue?”
“Yes. There is only one cubicle in this facility and a very large man is currently occupying it.”
“Oh. I see.”
“Yes.”
“Suppose I shouldn’t have had that sagwala for lunch.”
“Sorry.”
“I said I shouldn’t have had that Indian food for lunch.”
“No I didn’t say sorry as if I wanted you to repeat it. I apologised.”
“Oh. Well how do you know it’s your fault?”
“Well, you say you went to an Indian restaurant?”
“Yes.”
“Was it the tandoori of the corner of Eversham Street?”
“Yes.”
“Well I work there. I am the head chef.”
“Ah. You are clearly Indian.”
“Yes. And I am also wearing a chefs’ hat.”
“I just assumed that was a costume.”
“That would have been quite peculiar.”
“Well people often visit public bathrooms to change into costume.”
“Yes, but I am entering the bathroom, not leaving it.”
“True, that.”
“Yes.”
“So, earlier.”
“Yes.”
“You said sorry.”
“Yes?”
“When I mentioned the Indian food, you said sorry.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“Oh well. It’s a long story.”
“That fat guy’s been a while already. He’ll probably be a little longer.”
“Well the truth I am here and not at work is because have been accidentally poisoning our customers slowly and over a period of time and about 37 minutes ago we burnt the restauraunt down.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. See my family have been ridiculed for a very long time and we have had enough. I actually remember you as a child vomiting all over our own bathrooms and leaving it for us to clear up. So we’ve been killing you.”
“How long do I have?”
“You ate the sagwala?”
“Yes.”
“It doesn’t look good.”
“Well. The fat man has left the cubicle now.”
“You best go then.”
“He looks pretty thin now too. Probably did him some good.”
“Yes.”
Wednesday 2 September 2009
Thinkin' 'bout the Catcher in the Rye blues...
I've begun this argument several times. In my head, on facebook, to friends, to stranger and now, to the internet at large (or at least the two followers to my page and anyone else who wanders in by accident). Oddly it is one that I have never successfully finished. It is the subject that has plagued me constantly at shows, in stores and at home. It is that of authenticitiy.
The thing is, I've never truly accepted the lack on inauthenticity and therefore, have been unavailable to comment. The acceptance of authenticity comes after removing yourself from a particular group or scene (here comes that word, you'll read it a lot in this post...probably). The idea of truly understanding the authentic worth of something comes from being a neutral party. For example, the current argument seems to be the authenticity of, say bands that the popular music press such as Kerrang and NME have publicised in favour of those who have either not made it into the pages but play within the barriers of that particular genre or those groups or artists who transcend the popular to a higher grounds of acceptance. For example, a recent group that can argue to who have done this would be Kings of Leon, a band who managed to become popular from various singles in their first three albums but hit the 'big time' with their song "Sex on Fire" from the "Only by the Night" LP. A more solid and probably universally agreed example would be someone like Bruce Springsteen who has held a devoted following over several decades.
OK, so here we have the grounding for AN argument, not THE argument. The multiple facets stemming from this initial stream though, not all of which I could tolerate. Firstly, to those who fit in the first category, I feel equal parts sympathy and indifference. Showbusiness, in all of its many forms, takes time and hard work (of which you should know). Unfortunately it takes a lot of luck too. But I'm not here telling you how to get a record deal. In fact, I'd prefer if you didn't try as, I've been told by people in the biz (I went to a seminar day on 'How to make it' last year, met some interesting people etc etc), record labels arn't picking bands up, in fact more and more are being dropped (even Feeder got dropped and they fit into the whole M.O.R tweenyboppers hordes-of-fans thing). A perfect misunderstanding of course would be what my dad said to me when he heard that albums cost £50,000 to make. Which of course is true if Nigel Godrich is producing you in LA and EMI are paying for it...
Hmmm, I'm diverting. Authenticity. Oh yes. Well basically the argument of 'who is right, who is wrong' seems pointless. Because, everyone is wrong...to everyone else. It's a personal thing, you see. Or is it? I'd like to suggest that the idea of authenticity is one of point-of-view or of choice. But that isn't exactly true. A promoter (who worked for a venue, not for one particular night) told me that during a metal night, a punter told him that because the band didn't have "long hair and ripped jeans" they were not 'metal'. Now, the poor fellow wanted to SEE metal, not hear metal. What a funny thing? But this points down the essence of a 'scene'. People tell me that scene's don't exist, usually other musicians who can't really understand the value of grouping yourself with other acts like yourself in order to bring a group of people to a gig who know what to expect. However, I do value this opinion as i LOVE diversity. A lot of my friends-in-bands seems to be in alt.noise/weirdy bands and I am not, but I love to play gigs with them for DIVERSITY! Excellent. The problem is most metal and rock subgenres come with their own style; i.e. its own scene. So metalcore, hardcore, post-rock, goth, psychobilly, punk-rock, new wave, rockabilly, post-metal, queercore, post-punk, riot grrrl bands...expect a dress code, tattoos, hair styles, brands of alcohol and drugs (a very, very important part to sub-culture).
OK, so this idea of a scene applies to roughly every group and, thus, follower of sub-genre bands, of which has been discussed. It does however, affect the popular. The body builder-gets-lost-in-Topman look has straddled the glossy print for a while now (I remember it being a vibrant part of music culture since Britpop, but has only really established itself in the high street since The Libs/Razorlight back in 2004). As per my aforementioned example, anyone notice the radical change in style in Kings of Leon between their second and fourth album? They shaved, put on the v-neck cotton tees and skinny jeans and did this all the way to the top of the charts. I'm not suggesting you sell your soul for rock and roll, just change the place you buy your clothes. This 'scene' nature in pop music has also come from a specialisation in music knowledge. This IS kind of a personal thing, but the amount of times I've professed my love for Tom Waits and got a "who?" back is incredible. What is noticeable is that the followers of a particular 'scene' are usually encyclopedias of that one subject. Ask a metalcore fan about post-punk though and he'll be stumped.
But there is a type of person which, once again, transcends the scene thing. These followers are the equivalent to Springsteen in my previous example. It's not even a generational thing, but is more obvious in older men (and some women) than it is in younger people. "Authenticity" seems to belong to these types of music though, often evoking the roots of pop music culture (so, American culture then). Blues, country and folk are often regarded as stately as they were the precursors to rock and roll, but even that has been dogged into a scene. The 'new' folk, 'anti-folk' (a literal meaning would suggest that if 'folk' is for everyone, ant-folk is the music of the self), has become a craze amongst the lo-fi practictioners and has already found the kings, queens, princes, dynamos (Johnny Flynn, Laura Marling, Mumford and Sons, Jeffrey Lewis). The english london hipster thing crashing into the new york-boho thing. The 'scene' is truly alive. The pretentiousness is unbearable. And if I see one more fucking checked shirt, they'll get a Phillips in the neck.
But all the talk of authenticity is quite judging. Perhaps I've taken the role of Haulden Caulfield and brandished everyone a phoney, a big fat phoney!!! But all this witnessing of various 'scene's' has got me pissed and unable to bring myself to enjoy gigs as much as I used to. It all began when I started going to London for shows regularly. There's something about the atmosphere that makes it obvious that everyone is there to be SEEN and not to WATCH. The Shins was an awkward experience, feeling like some members of the checked shirted, thick rimmed glasses wearing crowd were judging me for reasons unknown. The Silver Mt Zion Orchestra (known for their dandy pranciness and generall pretentiousness) was also a horrifyingly boring and tedious show and was pushed to its very limit by being insulted by the lead singer (because I had been drinking). I mean, what a twat.
Oh well. So sometimes the argument is brought up again and never finished, and I have a feeling it'll be my life's work. Sometimes you get a feeling that authenticity is a eye-of-the-beholder kind of deal-y...I just don't know...
The thing is, I've never truly accepted the lack on inauthenticity and therefore, have been unavailable to comment. The acceptance of authenticity comes after removing yourself from a particular group or scene (here comes that word, you'll read it a lot in this post...probably). The idea of truly understanding the authentic worth of something comes from being a neutral party. For example, the current argument seems to be the authenticity of, say bands that the popular music press such as Kerrang and NME have publicised in favour of those who have either not made it into the pages but play within the barriers of that particular genre or those groups or artists who transcend the popular to a higher grounds of acceptance. For example, a recent group that can argue to who have done this would be Kings of Leon, a band who managed to become popular from various singles in their first three albums but hit the 'big time' with their song "Sex on Fire" from the "Only by the Night" LP. A more solid and probably universally agreed example would be someone like Bruce Springsteen who has held a devoted following over several decades.
OK, so here we have the grounding for AN argument, not THE argument. The multiple facets stemming from this initial stream though, not all of which I could tolerate. Firstly, to those who fit in the first category, I feel equal parts sympathy and indifference. Showbusiness, in all of its many forms, takes time and hard work (of which you should know). Unfortunately it takes a lot of luck too. But I'm not here telling you how to get a record deal. In fact, I'd prefer if you didn't try as, I've been told by people in the biz (I went to a seminar day on 'How to make it' last year, met some interesting people etc etc), record labels arn't picking bands up, in fact more and more are being dropped (even Feeder got dropped and they fit into the whole M.O.R tweenyboppers hordes-of-fans thing). A perfect misunderstanding of course would be what my dad said to me when he heard that albums cost £50,000 to make. Which of course is true if Nigel Godrich is producing you in LA and EMI are paying for it...
Hmmm, I'm diverting. Authenticity. Oh yes. Well basically the argument of 'who is right, who is wrong' seems pointless. Because, everyone is wrong...to everyone else. It's a personal thing, you see. Or is it? I'd like to suggest that the idea of authenticity is one of point-of-view or of choice. But that isn't exactly true. A promoter (who worked for a venue, not for one particular night) told me that during a metal night, a punter told him that because the band didn't have "long hair and ripped jeans" they were not 'metal'. Now, the poor fellow wanted to SEE metal, not hear metal. What a funny thing? But this points down the essence of a 'scene'. People tell me that scene's don't exist, usually other musicians who can't really understand the value of grouping yourself with other acts like yourself in order to bring a group of people to a gig who know what to expect. However, I do value this opinion as i LOVE diversity. A lot of my friends-in-bands seems to be in alt.noise/weirdy bands and I am not, but I love to play gigs with them for DIVERSITY! Excellent. The problem is most metal and rock subgenres come with their own style; i.e. its own scene. So metalcore, hardcore, post-rock, goth, psychobilly, punk-rock, new wave, rockabilly, post-metal, queercore, post-punk, riot grrrl bands...expect a dress code, tattoos, hair styles, brands of alcohol and drugs (a very, very important part to sub-culture).
OK, so this idea of a scene applies to roughly every group and, thus, follower of sub-genre bands, of which has been discussed. It does however, affect the popular. The body builder-gets-lost-in-Topman look has straddled the glossy print for a while now (I remember it being a vibrant part of music culture since Britpop, but has only really established itself in the high street since The Libs/Razorlight back in 2004). As per my aforementioned example, anyone notice the radical change in style in Kings of Leon between their second and fourth album? They shaved, put on the v-neck cotton tees and skinny jeans and did this all the way to the top of the charts. I'm not suggesting you sell your soul for rock and roll, just change the place you buy your clothes. This 'scene' nature in pop music has also come from a specialisation in music knowledge. This IS kind of a personal thing, but the amount of times I've professed my love for Tom Waits and got a "who?" back is incredible. What is noticeable is that the followers of a particular 'scene' are usually encyclopedias of that one subject. Ask a metalcore fan about post-punk though and he'll be stumped.
But there is a type of person which, once again, transcends the scene thing. These followers are the equivalent to Springsteen in my previous example. It's not even a generational thing, but is more obvious in older men (and some women) than it is in younger people. "Authenticity" seems to belong to these types of music though, often evoking the roots of pop music culture (so, American culture then). Blues, country and folk are often regarded as stately as they were the precursors to rock and roll, but even that has been dogged into a scene. The 'new' folk, 'anti-folk' (a literal meaning would suggest that if 'folk' is for everyone, ant-folk is the music of the self), has become a craze amongst the lo-fi practictioners and has already found the kings, queens, princes, dynamos (Johnny Flynn, Laura Marling, Mumford and Sons, Jeffrey Lewis). The english london hipster thing crashing into the new york-boho thing. The 'scene' is truly alive. The pretentiousness is unbearable. And if I see one more fucking checked shirt, they'll get a Phillips in the neck.
But all the talk of authenticity is quite judging. Perhaps I've taken the role of Haulden Caulfield and brandished everyone a phoney, a big fat phoney!!! But all this witnessing of various 'scene's' has got me pissed and unable to bring myself to enjoy gigs as much as I used to. It all began when I started going to London for shows regularly. There's something about the atmosphere that makes it obvious that everyone is there to be SEEN and not to WATCH. The Shins was an awkward experience, feeling like some members of the checked shirted, thick rimmed glasses wearing crowd were judging me for reasons unknown. The Silver Mt Zion Orchestra (known for their dandy pranciness and generall pretentiousness) was also a horrifyingly boring and tedious show and was pushed to its very limit by being insulted by the lead singer (because I had been drinking). I mean, what a twat.
Oh well. So sometimes the argument is brought up again and never finished, and I have a feeling it'll be my life's work. Sometimes you get a feeling that authenticity is a eye-of-the-beholder kind of deal-y...I just don't know...
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