artsreviewing

Rossz csillag alatt született

2008-12-08T03:32:00.000-08:00

Will Langdale is make for more with some Hungarian-sounding experimentalism for you to embarrass yourself trying to pronounce

Venetian Snares – Rossz csillag alatt született

Venetian Snares, aka Canadian Aaron Funk, is an artist notorious for his demanding music, lying somewhere between “'89-'91 summer of love”-style dance on albums such as Higgins Ultra Low Track Glue Funk Hits 1972-2006 and the experimental, harsh, speedy IDM found on Doll! doll! doll!. Rossz csillag alatt született (or “Born Under a Bad Star”), however, hits a clever medium, as he reworks Eastern European classical music with his ineffable skill at breakbeat drumwork.

The album starts low, working in such artists as Béla Bartók, but builds to the drums in a somewhat underwhelming way. The first hint of an embracing album comes with Öngyilkos vasárnap – a remix of Billie Holiday's version of Gloomy Sunday, better known as the notorious Hungarian suicide song. The track builds with glorious misery, the strange 7/4 time working beautifully despite a popular Western audience being generally adverse to the signature. Holiday's voice cuts through the unnerving, wailing synthesiser, and the following track, Felbomlasztott mentőkocsi, leads out from it to truly set the album up.

From there, Funk delves feverishly into dramatic sampled strings, piano, brass and clarinet, using Igor Stravinsky and Niccolò Paganini on Hajnal and Sir Edward Elgar in Szamár madár. One of the best pieces – and one that characterises the album's brooding ambiance and spasmodic beats – is Második galamb, prefaced by a foreboding female monologue, informing the album's artwork of pigeons taking flight. This mid-section is the real meat of the record, with the fantastic juxtaposition of Funk's sampling and rhythm creating an extremely informed hotch-potch of style.

The album comes to a head in the final two tracks, Kétsarkú mozgalom and Senki dala (Bipolar Movement and Nobody's Song). Kétsarkú mozgalom sounds as though it's leaking sadness through digital wounds, and Senki dala has a strange “for whom the bell tolls” ambiance to it, yet after a few listens they can seem somewhat lacking after the crafted brutality of the album's middle tracks. Although it rounds the pace of the album nicely, if anything, Rossz csillag alatt született falls down on its framing, despite being intensely intelligent and challenging throughout.

Code

2008-12-08T03:31:00.001-08:00

Code nightclub, Hull

Reviewed by Rory Stobo

Rock clubs and bars are wily beasts to master. Unlike more conventional spots which can be expected, deservedly so in the majority of cases, to be a bit more fly-by-night, those of us who like our beer with breakfast have come to expect a little more in the way of stability. New venues offering us new and exciting opportunities to wear black clothes and dance to Bohemian Rhapsody (Every. Single. Time.) come across the same problematic questions every time. Why is this new place any better than where I've spent my weekends for the past eight years, any why should I care?

It was always going to be with a little trepidation that I made my way over to Code for the first time, the week after it's grand opening night which had, by all accounts, gone quite well. Located in what used to be, I am told, a gay bar, nicely taking care of all your Judas Priest jokes, Code is far better situated for the hum-drum task of actually reaching the place than it's established rival, Spiders. You really get the feeling that there's been a fair amount of rather shrewd thought put into the location of the place. Not only is it clinging lovingly onto the bus interchange itself, it nestles snug in a bug in a rug behind, wait for it, a 24-hour Tesco. So much for your ill-concieved kebab at 3am, just stroll on in and pick yourself up some bruschetta and fine cheeses. Every little helps.

Once you get into Code, three fifty lighter and with a free drink in hand if you're a new member, you get a chance to take in the ambiance and have a scout around. The first of the club's two rooms, both on the ground floor, I explored was what I had introduced to me as the 'chillout lounge.' In a lesser club, this might suggest some kind of RnB nightmare, but here you're treated to comfortable chairs and the sound of guitar hero blasting out at varying degrees of competency from the Wii console set up on a five-foot projector in the corner. The welcome suspicion creeps in that Code cares, in the same way that Spiders used to care, before it's complacency drove most of it's DJs to jump ship and work here. Strolling into the main room only reinforces this, I won't bore you with a playlist, but suffice to say that the music policy at Code is driven by the clubgoers, not the management, and this earns big points in a social setting where it's all to easy to play the floor-fillers and quickly become stale. Ample dancefloor room, a pool table and arcade machines that actually work make this a place that really grabs the attention. Code has a very good idea of why you should care, and wishes to let you know.

The first snag in the evening comes when it's time to refill my drink. The bar staff will be more than happy to sell you a house spirit and mixer for one of your english pounds, but if your hand favours the pint glass, it's probably best to take out a mortgage first. Far be it from me to get ratarsed on gin in the name of investigative journalism, so I could tell it was going to be an expensive night. Thankfully, in an almost apologetic move, one of the bar staff routinely wander the club with a large bottle of what I suspect had tabasco sauce in it, topping up drinks hither and yon. It's the gesture that's appreciated rather than the liquor itself, but you do get the impression Code are clutching at straws when it comes to the actual drinks they serve. Spiders' cocktail list is infamous up and down the country, and it's a shame that Code couldn't have thought up at least a few to make them sweat for this victory.

Overall though, Code acquits itself well in a scene which has long struggled to rebuild credibility through variety. Okay, as I mentioned the drinks are a bit pricey if you insist on sticking to pints, and the problem with playing what people request is that sometimes people request awful songs. But, when the Spiders alternative nowadays is to drink twenty pounds worth of meths and listen to sweet home Alabama on repeat for three hours in the company of fourteen year olds, I honestly believe the odd doom metal track and a couple of pints less is a fair price to pay for progress.

(761)

Battles

2008-11-28T05:47:00.000-08:00

Image to Follow

Will Langland Reviews Battles

I find it disappointing that nubile and untainted reviewers should, in this day and age, feel that it is their place to unerringly praise the music they listen to. One look at Hullfire will tell you that every CD is fantastic and every artist has something new, or improved, or will make your whites whiter – a perfect promise, really, for an industry that has become boring and saccharine. So many reviews read like some sleazy grey PR company has their fingers up the writer's arse, working them like a puppet in a pantomime of appreciation. It's hard to make a discerning judgement on what you want to buy (or, let's face it, steal) when a page of “criticism” is overwhelmingly positive.

I am sick to the teeth of reading terrible music reviews. How many music reviewers praise an album that they never listen to again, or even want to? Sadly, I too must confess a guilty plea to this crime. I remember a particularly nice review I wrote of My Device, if only because they reminded me so much of a band that truly warrants praise – Battles. While it is hard to argue that music shouldn't be enjoyable I increasingly find that amateur reviewers don't understand that music can be enjoyable for being cerebral. Music can dance across your synapses. Music can impress you for its technicality and innovation. Sheer mindless pleasure is why Take That are good. Profound, cerebral pleasure is why Battles are good.

How many times have you listened to a band that truly understand not just how their instruments work, but how their bandmates instruments work? How many times have you heard a band that have a creative vision that they all understand? My god! What a rare and incredible combination. The Sugarbabes know how to sing and a producer, songwriter, lyricist and (dare I mention them) mastering company do the rest, though the loudness war is another topic for another day. As if Keisha Buchanen knows what a polyrhythm is. Hell, as if Britney Spears knows what a polyrhythm is – as if she knows who Aphex Twin is – and Womanizer has that single brilliant moment of electronic drumwork (on “lollipop”) that sounds remarkably like a nod to him despite basically being yet another cover of Personal Jesus.

Thankyou, Battles. I intend to finally write a good review for a band that actually deserves a good review. Thankyou for knowing what a damn polyrhythm is, then writing an entire album so devilishly clever that I have no idea what the time signature is on half the tracks.

Battles are a math-rock band, and while I'd normally finish this sentence with the phrase “from x”, I can't, because all four of them toured extensively with bands before being signed to the British Warp Records. I can go as local as “America”. Guitarist Ian Williams is a veteran of Don Caballero and Strom & Stress, and regularly finger-taps a guitar while playing a keyboard. Dave Konopka does something similar. Vocalist and keyboardist (and whatever he feels like playing) Tyondai Braxton is the son of an avant-garde jazz musician, and it shows. Drummer John Stainer is from Helmet, and has the absurd gimmick of putting his crash cymbal on a very, very tall stand, as if it symbolises everything Battles isn't, and he must be physically forced to think twice about using it in their music.

Math-rock is one of those genres that sounds like someone made it up to look pretentious and sound complicated. It is. It's based around mashing up riffs in different time signatures on loop pedals then having your drummer try and work out where the beat's supposed to go. And then add effects. Having seen Battles at the BBC's Electric Proms, I can absolutely vouch for Stainer's skill as a drummer, and quite frankly, his endurance. On debut album Mirrored you'd be forgiven for thinking that each track was recorded between long periods of fatigue, where Stainer lies in some sort of cell, gaunt and dying, until he can muster the strength to play another track. It's not. They can, and do, play the entire album live, with Stainer hammering away on that ludicrous cymbal. On tracks like Tij Stainer's work is truly epic, somehow switching signatures and complimenting the other instruments in a way that can only come from hours and hours of rehearsal on a Captain-Beefheart-locked-in-an-apartment-like-a-cult-for-8-months level of dedication. You almost feel sorry for the man. And the live experience really is something special with Battles. Considering the variety and precise nature of the album's sound and the technical difficulty of having three people on loop pedals – pedals that don't automatically synchronise the speed of their loops – seeing it done live is like watching a sculptor make the statue in front of you. For once in music there's not only innovation but sheer and determined technical majesty.

When I first heard Mirrored I was certain that it must have been made on a computer. I thought that it had to be a load of guys in a basement, recording a sample, fiddling with it, turning knobs on thousands of strange pieces of equipment, tinkering and fiddling to fit the sound they wanted. Apart from fairly straightforward songs like Atlas and Leyendecker, possibly disregarding the vocal element, the album is full of tracks with elements that feel like they must have been altered or dragged about to stay in time. The plodding Bad Trails feels like a recording of some weird ambient hangar with bits stuck on top. Battles' punchline is essentially that there was no dragging and dropping, copy-pasting or pitch correction in Protools. I once heard someone say that Battles sounds like a load of kids broke into a shop full of music equipment and recorded themselves fucking about. They were half right. Battles is four obscenely talented men with mad, genre-defining ideas breaking into a shop full of music equipment recording themselves fucking about – and it's just that – recording. The band doesn't need a computer to make their music. The computer's just an ear to them. All they need is them and a ton of weird electronic gizmos. The album art, in fact, is the equipment they used to make the album in a huge one-way-mirrored box.

In the end, while Atlas and Leyendecker may be the “straightforward” songs, it's the longer and more progressive pieces such as Tonto, Rainbow and Tij that mark Mirrored's territory. It's these tracks that are the band's muscle, that show how they work and really impress the listener, both with their pacing and their skill. When you find yourself obsessing over the rhythm and effects Ian Williams is using in looping the sound of him scratching muted guitar strings, then get surprised because the drums have been building subtly and you didn't notice, then you've found the essence of Battles. And for god's sake, try not to get sucked into working out the time signature on every instrument. You'll go John Nash.

Quantum of Solace

2008-11-25T07:48:00.000-08:00

Image to Follow

Katherine Hunter reviews the New James Bond Film

It has come to my attention that there are two types of James Bond fan, those who prefer the new more lifelike 007 and those who prefer the older films with the suave, sophisticated and indestructible English gent who we have come to recognise as Bond.
Casino Royale introduced us to the rough and ready Daniel Craig, who took the films into a new era creating a Bond who actually gets hurt, doesn’t give a damn about his martini and actually briefly dies, if only for a couple of seconds. This was a shock to the general audience, with some people claiming it wasn’t a ‘real’ Bond film, although whether you liked it or not, it was still an amazing film, complete with the usual array of special effects and awesome action scenes.
Consequently the cinema goer expects much the same type of film from Quantum of Solace, a good film, but perhaps not up to Bond standards. In that case they’re in for another shock because the new film manages to combine both the new Bond and the old, creating a hybrid of the best of both worlds.
The opening scene explodes onto the screen as a breathtaking car chase, in typical old bond style, not to be outdone by speedboat and jet fighter action later on. The film has the classic mix of fast cars, women and spectacular stunts, but this time it’s personal as our best loved agent seeks revenge for the woman he lost.
The witty humour is not altogether gone, but Daniel Craig turns Bond into an unemotional killing machine and the body count mounts up as he tries to break the criminal network Quantum. The plot continues on from the last film giving Bond the continuity it lacked, and Craig’s Bond is just as dark and cold as the previous film, injecting the role with refreshing credibility.
The baddies are just as slimy and horrid as ever, creepy billionaire environmentalist Dominic Greene (Mathieu Amalric), and evil dictator General Medrano (Joaquin Cosio) plan to take control of the water supply for a South American country and destabilise it, whilst trying to poison all trust in Bond. Meanwhile Judi Dench again plays a fabulously unimpressed M, who alternatively loves and hates Bond, at one point revoking his licence to kill and remarking “Bond, if you could avoid killing every lead there is, that would be appreciated”
This film definitely has something for Bond fans all round, from Craig’s ruthless charisma to dramatic stunts and so many interwoven plots that you don’t know where to look next.

The Duchess

2008-11-25T07:35:00.000-08:00

Image to Follow

Katherine Hunter casts her eye over the Duchess.

Historically inaccurate but does it really matter?

I have to confess that I am a fan of period dramas. I love the costumes, the emotions, the beautiful houses and Mr. Darcy. The Colin Firth one of course. Over the summer my best friend and I had the opportunity to visit Chatsworth, which was an amazing experience in itself. Whilst wandering around imagining we owned the place, we found temporary exhibition of Chatsworth’s famous daughter, Georgiana Cavendish, Duchess of Devonshire. This included pages from Georgiana’s dairy, portraits including the famous Gainsborough painting, and video clips from the up and coming film The Duchess, as well as costumes from the period, and ones worn in the film. The exhibition and subsequent talks gave us a pretty good impression of this famous lady and her intriguing life.
This prompted us to see the film, which I did as soon as it came out. And I have to confess that I was somewhat disappointed. This wasn’t the lady I had seen at Chatsworth, I had been cheated. It’s not that it wasn’t a good film, but it was meant to be a portrayal of Georgiana’s life and it glossed over all the important parts. Consequently we took great pleasure in annoying our friends by pointing out all the historical inaccuracies.
It wasn’t just that they had missed out a few details here and there; they completely changed not only the life of The Duchess but her whole personality too. In her life she had been a hugely influential woman, not only in fashion, but she had been an active political campaigner and travelled abroad often. Kiera Knightly just couldn’t carry off the flamboyance and huge presence that made Georgiana such a powerful woman in her time, not least because The Duchess was a buxom woman with a charisma to match, and Knightly is a twig with about as much charisma as a potato.
Poor acting aside the film still didn’t stand much chance. The whole reason that Georgiana’s life is so interesting is because, as the film constantly pointed out, there were three people in her marriage. The film however just used this to overplay the similarities between The Duchess and her distant descendant Diana, the Princess of Wales. The only similarity that their lives shared is that their husbands had affairs, and it’s not as if this is only a unique trait of the Spencer family.
The intriguing part of the life of Georgiana was that her husband was having an affair with her best friend Bess, who lived with them. Even after Georgiana found out about the affair, she and Bess remained best friends. This is what makes the whole situation amazingly unique and fascinating. What annoyed me most was that the film decided to change Georgina into a long suffering badly treated woman, not the independent resilient soul that she really was. It made her look like the victim of her husband’s affair, hardly focusing on the fact that she had her own affair with Charles Grey, making it look more like a depressing last resort.
The film focused on the plight of a lonely and weak woman, which to be honest, we see in films all the time. This should have been completely the opposite, a strong woman coping admirably with the life forced on her by her husband. The film ended up victimising the main character who in reality was a celebrity of her time, even if her marital life was lacking. She was followed and adored by The Ton, and rarely alone although in the film she was completely abandoned and isolated from everyone. Even Georgiana’s mother was shown to be bossy and domineering when in real life her mother had been a caring and protective woman.
The film focused almost entirely on Georgiana’s marital life, when she was also famous for her good friendship with Marie Antoinette, as she used to travel to France often. The film completely cut this out, presumably to make The Duchess appear even lonelier. The gambling side of her life was also played down, in spite of the fact that Georgiana died with a massive twenty thousand pounds worth of debt outstanding. Her huge political involvement was also cut down to a few short public appearances as a favour for Grey.
However, there were some good points to the film. Like all good period dramas the costumes were visually amazing and the backdrop of so many beautiful houses made it something special to watch. The other actors and actresses did remarkably well, considering the rather limiting script. Ralph Fiennes was particularly good as the aging and inhuman duke, and Dominic Cooper made an especially dashing young lover as Charles Grey.
All in all, the film was still good entertainment, but nevertheless I felt let down. So how important is it really to give a historically accurate view in a film?

Party On

2008-11-18T09:56:00.000-08:00

Simon Harrington Ponders Bloc Party

As I write I am looking at the stub of a ticket clumsily stuck to my wall entitled ‘SJM CONCERTS PRESENT BLOC PARTY’. This ticket is from 29th October 2005 and marked an end to Bloc Party’s triumphant UK tour supporting the release of their first album ‘Silent Alarm’, I was not disappointed with the performance I saw in 2005 and with the release of new album ‘Intimacy’ I am not disappointed now.

The album incorporates some of the musical traits that we immediately link with Bloc Party, at the same time we hear a new and more creative element resonating in their music. Their individual sound has been maintained and is never compromised by their willingness to manipulate different vocal and musical styles. In ‘Intimacy’ we still hear the driving bass lines and lyrical complexity that we have come to expect from the band, the opening track ‘Ares’ sets the bench mark for the remainder of the album. The song hits us with an immediate energy, a powerful and cutting guitar riff is the setting for the chanting lyrics ‘War, war, war, war’. Since Bloc Party began they have attempted to make a potent statement through their lyrics, they have achieved this in their two previous albums and do not fail to do so again with ‘Intimacy’.

There is consistent reference to the expected topics of love and War. ‘Trojan Horse’ establishes the vivid image of a lover reminiscing about what has been lost; in this song Bloc Party combine borderline intrusive lyrics with deliberate composition in order to express something that the listener can relate to. The sensitive lyrics of ‘Trojan Horse’ are contrasted elsewhere on the album by the seemingly punk inspired, full sounding ‘Halo’. From a first listen the powerful chord structure seems reminiscent of Queens Of The Stone Age, the song bounds along at an eager and excitable pace, manipulating well timed breaks and diverse drumming to give ‘Halo’ unique and energetic musical traits that encapsulate Bloc Party’s intimate live sound perfectly.

‘Intimacy’ includes the cleverly marketed single ‘Mercury’, released after track ‘Flux’ it marked a new era for the sound of Bloc Party. The band has moved in a direction that appears to have been inspired by an electro sound, this inspiration can be heard throughout ‘Intimacy’ with tracks such as ‘Talons’ using a synthesizer alongside more traditional rock instruments. Although the band has come under some criticism for moving in a new musical direction it is refreshing to see that at least one artist out there is attempting to venture from their comfort zone and try something different. The album climaxes with the song ‘Ion Square’, an artistic song based on elements of the poem ‘I carry your heart with me’ by E.E. Cummings, this final track has a focus on lyrical simplicity, and brings the older Bloc Party sound together with the new.

In my opinion this album marks the change of Bloc Party into a more mature and diverse band both lyrically and instrumentally, they have developed a more full bodied sound that has been delicately and deliberately composed with well timed breaks and punchy, memorable chorus’. To end my review and express myself in the lyrics Bloc Party, their new album ‘Intimacy’ ‘breaks your porcelain nose’.

A Fat Lot of Good

2008-11-17T07:33:00.000-08:00

Amy Connolly Chews the Fat

A growing trend of male has emerged of late. Joining his compatriots, the “joker”, the “jock” and the “cringy Casanova”, give a welcoming hand to the weight watching “writer”! Hurrah!
Long has there been a trend for celeb-abuse, and in fairness landing your perfect job and getting paid shed loads for it necessitates a certain amount of stick. However, there is a rising craze of male “journalists” who have, somehow, become qualified to judge the ideal weight of the female celeb.
The “so-funny-its-really-not-funny” Dan Wootten from the News of the World recently advised that a “podgy” Cat (or in his words “Fat”) Deeley should “choc out the scales”. That’s right, defiant Miss Deeley was photographed holding a chocolate milkshake, following her recent move to America.
Stunning presenter Cat is tiny by anyone’s standards and is surely a good five-stone lighter than the UK’s average women who is a curvy size 16! However, by being pictured with this offending item she has broken the unwritten rule of celebrity women who are expected to fast for their fame. How dare She!
After researching Mr Wootten’s qualifications, there is nothing regarding health and nutrition that might at a push render him license to comment on the subject. Furthermore, this boorish character’s own physique has much to be desired!
Does Mr Wootten believe he is taking a heroic stand against the obesity crisis? Will he single-handedly tackle the curves of Britain until we all resemble the skeletal footballer’s wife? Please!
As the issue of obesity is expanding, there is an accompanying deterioration in disordered eating, especially among teenagers and twenty-something’s. Charities such as BeAT are genuinely fighting this life-threatening infatuation with food restriction, but their work is being hampered be idiots who are categorising size 12-14 healthy-eating-gym-goers as “wide”! Advocating that, instead of eating regular nourishing meals and taking the recommended five sessions of weekly exercise, women should be aiming for emaciation by living on lettuce until they lose the strength to fasten their trainers, never mind make it to the fitness centre!
Maybe I’m being unfair, perhaps darling Dan is trying to make the reader feel BETTER! Helping us to justify any slothful-Sunday chocolate abuse! Ahhh! “Let me just grab the News of the World, I want to see whose put on weight this week!” Then after catching the shamefully “wide” Lily Allen we’d feel much more content to return to our cheesecake.
So is this just me being a little sensitive? I don’t think so! After taking it “too the people”, my opinions were confirmed by repulsed retaliations such as “cheeky git”
On Mr Wooten’s double page “showbiz” column on a Sunday, the average size of one feature could comfortably be covered by a gravy-soaked Yorkshire pudding. I wonder what would happen if a breaking celebrity report would require more than two hundred words, maybe some of these would even need to be more than one syllable! Eek!
It would be unfair to mislead you into thinking that Mr Wootton is the only chauvinist, sorry journalist using this theme as the content of his column, EVERY WEEK! And hey, we’re all about fairness in this game, right Dan?

To his credit, Dan is the first to admit he’s lacking in material, offering his contact details at the top of his column; so, if u can think of anything slightly more intelligent he could write (that would comfortably take up fewer than 150words of course) then answers on a postcard!
I’d love to be a fly on the wall when Mr Wootton is asked what he does for living: “Oh you’re a journalist are you? What sort of thing do you report on? Sport? Politics? Breaking news? Oh, overweight celebs eh? Hmmm your mother must be proud.”
Call yourself a journalist? Well why not go out and report on something then, rather than looking at the pictures in Heat magazine.

The Wire

2008-11-03T12:56:00.000-08:00

Martin D. Holmes reaches for the remote and enjoys The Wire.

The Wire: Television at its finest.

Once in a while, in the land of television, there comes a show that just gets it right. HBO, the channel that brought us The Sopranos and Six Feet Under, once again deliver a ground-breaking television spectacle...The Wire, a show that just gets it right.

The premise of The Wire sounds fairly simple; a special police unit investigate a drug organisation running in the slums of West Baltimore, with the aim to incarcerate the inconspicuous drug-lord Avon Barksdale. But this is far from a typical cat and mouse chase, as we delve in to the inner-workings of the law, abundant with corrupt cops, lying lawyers and sly senators which is paralleled beautifully with the inner-workings of an expansive, urban drug crew, with it's own visible hierarchy.

The immediate attractiveness of The Wire is its authenticity. This isn't your typical crime-drama bursting with Hollywood beauty. Unconcerned with pearly white teeth and smooth skin; no reliance on good lighting to hide the actor's bad spots; unfathomable plots are not unravelled and then sewn up with in one episode and characters rarely achieve redemption. This is a credit honoured to creator David Simon, a former journalist for the Baltimore Sun and his writing partner Ed Burns, an ex-Baltimore cop. Drawing inspiration from real life incidents gives the show it's natural flavour and careful attention to detail. The Wire is bold, honest and real.

Although at first the street slang and Baltimore police jargon may be jarring, it is a staple of the show that you eventually become accustomed to and you'll soon find yourself referring to the police as the “Five-O” and claiming that your caffé latte is “good product”. What is also daunting is the amount of characters. One of The Wire's many selling points is it's masterful ensemble cast, displaying an outstanding array of talent. Keeping track of who is who can be a struggle, but the large cast is something you begin to appreciate as the show develops and the plots and characters start to tie together. This is a cast that has you locked on to their every move.

One of the stand outs is Dominic West, who puts in a terrific performance as McNulty, a maverick cop whose confidence and brashness in the wrong hands could have been overbearing. West has managed to find the perfect balance between arsehole and endearing, which makes McNulty one of the most likeable, charismatic and watchable characters.

Another memorable performance comes from Michael K. Williams as Omar, the gangster Robin Hood, stealing from the dealers to give to the addicts. Enigmatic, terrifying and down right defiant, yet possibly the most captivating character.

It is Larry Gilliard Jr however, who gives perhaps the most interesting performance. Gilliard plays the conflicted D'Angelo, cousin of the infamous Avon Barksdale. Trapped in a world of crime and violence, D'Angelo continually questions his choice of lifestyle and the actions of his friends and family. Gilliard portrays the angst and confusion of this character to perfection, drawing sympathy and anger from the viewer simultaneously.

The Wire is by no means a 'star-studded' affair, you probably haven't heard of the majority of the actors and that's because many of them are local to Baltimore, picked specifically for their talents rather than 'name-value'. David Simon himself has explained how he is still surprised that he got a show with an 80% African-American cast on US television and the fact that the majority of the actors are 'unknowns'. This once again lends itself to the authenticity of the show, as you are able to see these characters as 'real', as opposed to a famous person playing a role. Not since The Godfather have a group of actors delivered such tenacious, realistic performances that you are totally mesmerised by the world they are creating.

But the star of the show is Baltimore itself. It's gritty and bleak landscape not only provide the backdrop for the movement of urban city life but also provide the tone and feel for a scene. The harsh surroundings fill in the gap for the intentionally missing soundtrack and help to encapsulate the raw atmosphere of the show. From the train tracks where McNulty spends his nights drinking, to the drug-ridden terraces, to Orlando's night-club, you begin to associate the characters with the scenery and vice versa.

But amongst it's grittiness The Wire manages to maintain a great sense of humour, even drawing laughs from the most dislikeable characters. With its Seinfeld-like conversations about the rules of chess or how much money the man who invented the chicken McNugget earns, it sustains it's realistic approach while also being eye-wateringly funny. This tone is set from the opening scene of the very first episode, in which McNulty ponders how a murdered street dealer got the nickname 'Snot'. And this inventive humour continues throughout the series, most evident in a scene consisting entirely of the word 'fuck' and it's many variations. The humour counterbalances the drama well, so that things never become too heavy-handed.

It's steady build of plot and careful character development, combined with it's lack of dependence on cliff-hanger endings and disregard of cringe-worthy clichés, makes The Wire a refreshingly realistic crime drama. The show is like a great novel, you can't just read one chapter and then give up, thinking you know all that there is to come. The Wire is a slow burner but persist and you will be treated to an intricately interwoven plot that expands with every episode, your jaw dropping further every minute, as the pieces of the puzzle steadily fall in to place and your left applauding as the final episode draws to a close. This is a show way more than a simple crime investigation, this is a microscope in to urban city life.

The Wire is television at its finest.

The View

2008-11-03T12:52:00.001-08:00

Harriet Shephard has a chat with The View, or their drummer at least.

The View
Welly 22nd October

After their year of absence, The View mark their return with a gruelling tour of the smaller venues across England. Despite being dubbed by many as ‘one hit wonders’ after the ridiculous success of ‘Same Jeans’, tonight Welly is still heaving with a rowdy and enthusiastic crowd. The new single ‘5Rebbecca’s’ seems to have evoked a new faith in the masses that The View shouldn’t be forgotten just yet.
The room erupts as The View lumber on stage sporting unruly hairstyles and the heavily Scottish greeting of ‘you al’right you crazy bastards?!’ As they launch into their set the floor moves and bodies fly, the biggest reaction of course being to ‘Same Jeans’ and the storming ‘Wasted Little DJs’ that ends the set. Previously unheard songs such as ‘Jimmy’s Crazy Conspiracy’ go down well and promise a new album that certainly won’t disappoint.
The flaw in this performance however is that the crowd contribute much more than the band. The singer and lead guitarist do attempt to interact with the crowd on several occasions, but soon discover that in Hull, quickly spoken Scottish over a noisy crowd isn’t easily understood. The View play a competent collection of songs and look like they are thoroughly enjoying themselves, but somehow still manage to look like your mates band doing one of their first gigs in the local pub. This serves as a reminder perhaps that in age of the members and as a band, The View are still very young.
Although they don’t receive much banter and response from the stage, the crowd are clearly very appreciative of what they’ve been given. Between each song and during a ‘technical difficulty’ the united chant of ‘The View, The View, The View are on fire!’ thunders throughout the room. To complete their live shows The View may just need renewed confidence and improved crowd interaction, but this performance and their new material proves we haven’t seen the last of them.

Interview with Steven Morrison (drummer)

Have you played Hull before?
Yeah we played here with The Paddington’s, then ended up at some person’s house man, we just followed them down the street to it after(laughs).

And Hull’s one of your first stops?
Yeah, but I’ve already got blisters on my hands! They’ll like leather by the end of the tour though, we’re playing pretty much every night for seven weeks. They went all soft in our six months break after the last tour, so they need to toughen up again.

How’s living on a tour bus again?
Its great, we’re got a new bus this year very comfy! We had an old one last year which was great but after you’re spent a year and a half on it its nice to get a new one. We’re on it with our crew and support band who got chucked out of the hotel room last night for setting fireworks off (laughs)

Your playing just the smaller venues this time?
Yeah and some are really small, we played Newcastle Academy last night, thought it was great then they were like yeah your playing upstairs! (laughs) It was so much smaller than this.

How was making the new album?
Ah we had a bit of a rollercoaster there, a whirlwind, chaos constantly, but we got loads of work done even though it didn’t feel like it.

Much different to the last?
Definitely more mature, the songs are a lot bigger, more intricate and a bit darker.

The albums called ‘Which Bitch?’ was this named with a particular bitch in mind?
Ah no! It could be anyone could be a guy, could be a dog.

I hear the new song ‘Jimmy’s Crazy Conspiracy’ is based on your friend’s own interesting theories?
Yeah our pal Jimmy from Dundee, he’s pretty clued up but totally manic, really into pentagrams and all that. He says all the owners of the biggest names like Coca Cola and stuff are in cult together, that the whole worlds under a crazy conspiracy.

Do you have a strong support base at home?
Aye too strong! You can’t fit everyone on the guest lists, my Mum and dad came to our last one back home though which was nice.

Is ‘Same Jeans’ still the favourite?
Oh aye, everyone goes mental for it, we may aswell rename ourselves ‘Same Jeans’! (laughs)

You get on well as a band?
Oh yeah, if theres any problems we just sort it out with a scrap. We were fighting in an alley the other day with these three people watching looking shocked, we just ran back on the tour bus when it was sorted! They looked mortified to see us going at each other.

Did you attend any festivals this year?
Er V festival and Rockness, that had beautiful scenery it was on a Loch. Could see a huge lake and mountains around it, I don’t remember much of it though (laughs) just arriving and thinking ahh this is nice.

Phaedra's Love

2008-10-28T03:46:00.000-07:00

Richard Watson is skeptical of a performance of Phaedra's Love

Phaedra's Love
by Sarah Kane
Hull University Drama Department
Gulbenkian Theatre Studio, Hull, 24th October
Dress on the 22nd

Phaedra's Love, at the Gulbenkian this week, is a surprisingly tame performance of one of troubled writer Sarah Kane's lesser-known plays.
As a playwright, Sarah Kane is distinguished by her own mental health problems, graphic on-stage displays of sex and violence, and her early suicide after writing just five bitter, caustic plays. What makes her interesting is her divisive effect on audiences; generally, people either love the daring, honest and gritty depiction of Kane's world, or hate being subjected to gratuitous sex, violence and harrowing mental pain. A good production of a Kane play should have this effect on an audience, and her work is usually at least good for setting up a debate on the value of shock factor in theatre and if there can ever be too much sex and/or violence on a stage.
Unfortunately, Hull University's extra-curricular Phaedra's Love – with an admittedly short rehearsal period – fails to do this. It lacks the visceral edge that is really needed for Kane's work, and the audience at Wednesday's Dress Rehearsal were left neither loving nor hating it. The tension and genuine feeling are both missing from this piece, and only very rarely does the pain shine through. A feeling of pain, be it mental or physical, is vital for a Kane play, and maybe this cast simply hasn't had time to find it – whatever the reason, its presence is sorely missed here.
Phaedra's Love is Kane's modern version of the Greek legend of Hippolytus, virtuous bastard son of Theseus, and his step-mother, Phaedra. The French writer Racine also updated the story for the 1670s, and Kane has given us a modern Hippolytus – a repulsively feckless prince, spoilt from birth. He spends his life waiting for something to happen, though it takes him a long time to realise when something is finally happening. As in the original Greek story, Phaedra's love of the title is for her step-son, Hippolytus, who has no interest in her whatsoever. As in the Greek story, Phaedra's reaction to this is what Hippolytus into trouble with his father, Theseus. The rest of the cast is competent in filling the roles of doctor, daughter, priest and later townsfolk, but there is never enough depth of feeling from anybody to really live up to a Kane script.
While this production is happy enough to indulge in the various acts of oral sex and masturbation, it skimps on the violence. There is an admirable bravery – surely to be applauded by fans of Kane – in the blow job delivered at the front of centre stage, but something distinctly lacking in the fight and rape in the penultimate scene. These events – played at the same time – are rushed and lack all that should make them shocking, dangerous and painful. Without shock and pain, Kane is nothing.

Oasis

2008-10-28T03:45:00.000-07:00

Catherine Jebson comes back for more, this time with a review of an Oasis gig in Sheffield.

Saturday 11th October, Sheffield Arena.
There are certain people who demand your attention. When the Pope makes his addresses from his seat at The Vatican, or the American electoral candidates thunder through the smaller States. When midwives across the globe declare a child's sex to their eagerly awaiting parents. All captivating moments of collective undivided attention, and yet none of them appear to have shit on the instant the Gallagher's take the stage at Sheffield. The level of devotion inspired by the first sight of Liam's trademark swagger is nothing short of religious. As the ultimate Northern lads band roll into town, their fan base have followed in almost pilgrimage fashion. The love has spilled onto the surrounding streets and trams, even into Meadowhall's unbelievably aptly named 'Oasis' food court where a coach load of fans had taken to terrifying late night shoppers with choruses of "You gotta make it happen!", as if the locals cowering into their cous cous had some immediate path of action to take. The excitement is infectious hours before the doors even open and leaves you feeling that tonight, Liam and Noel won’t merely be playing to an audience, they'll be entertaining their own troops.
This hype is nothing new of course. Oasis are hardly strangers to the Arena circuit and yet with the brothers' frequent skits and their anthemic set this feels as intimate tonight as it would were they to play in your back garden. Oases aren’t a band that can rest on their laurels and put on a half-arsed show in the knowledge that their new album's number one anyway. Real heart and thought has gone into this gig and it pays off. The roar that follows Gallagher Senior's introduction of 'Don't look back in anger' is Spartan in proportion. As the man points out, this is Sheffield's song, it being written fourteen years ago in a dressing room hours before the band were due onstage. Noel himself is on top form, an observation made more incredible by his currently nursing three newly broken ribs. His stunningly belted out acoustic rendition of 'Don't look back' thrusts two fingers normally associated with his younger brother at the Canadian wanker who could've put a stop to it all. The set is catered toward pleasing the populist fan, but with fifteen years of releases under their belt it's difficult to design a gig otherwise. The more hardcore fans are treated to old gems 'Slide Away' and 'The Masterplan' in favour of the career defining live favourite 'Live Forever', but the set is so blindingly polished and uplifting that it barely registers as amiss. Besides, when you're privileged enough to be played for at this quality for a relentless two hours, complaints would not only seem ungrateful, but downright anal. We even get some classic Liam remarks when he spots a glow stick wielding couple down the front. As they happily pull shapes to the new and gorgeous sounding 'Shock of the lightning' the epitome of Manc' charisma spits at them, "You're at Oasis, not the fucking Klaxons."
The older material predictably gets the warmest responses, but far from proving tired old accusations that Oasis are living off everything released before 'Be Here Now', when 'Songbird' and 'Lyla' get their airing, the crowd go just as nuts. Tonight though belongs to 'Dig out your soul'. The band's seventh and arguably their most groove-based studio album scales altogether trippier heights than 2005's 'Don't believe the truth', even boasting a piano ballad. It's still very much Oasis, but a deeper, more reflective and frankly, more intelligent sounding Oasis than ever before. The strength of this band therefore stands up and shines when new songs 'The Rapture' and 'I'm outta time' have the same proportion of the crowd singing every word as they did to their ten year old counterparts. The customary seven minute finale of 'I am the Walrus' is accompanied by an epilepsy-inducing strobing bonanza of green and red lights and screens. Everything tonight looks lush and sounds gargantuan, particularly as (after an initial fluff in the keyboard dept) Oasis lose themselves gloriously in a cover of the aforementioned Beatles song that the 'fab four' could never actually play live.
Oasis. So heart wrenchingly, throat achingly impressive that part of me can't help hoping Damon Albarn was watching.
Oh and the support, Twisted Wheel were not only forty minutes late, but also unoriginal Libertines wannabes. Volume and Topshop haircuts do not the good band make.

In the Chilly World of Snow Patrol...

2008-10-17T06:25:00.001-07:00

In the chilly world of Snow Patrol, ‘the fun just never stops,’ apparently…

By Natalie Rosen

Listen everyone – I have some vaguely exciting news for you! Snow Patrol are back, and they sound the same as ever. Let’s celebrate with a bottle of ice-cold water, and possibly a bag of broken biscuits. I’m sure the band are doing that right now, as they unleash their mild new single, ‘Take Back The City,’ on the suspecting public.

Is anyone excited about the return of Snow Patrol, apart from Snow Patrol, that is? Just as well no one was bursting with anticipation, because as we all know, the higher your expectations of something, the more disappointed you’ll be. Remember the total solar eclipse of 1999? Free viewing-shades in cereal boxes, a mass migration to Cornwall, the end of the world predicted – and all we got was 100% cloud cover. Of course, at the back of our minds, we knew it wouldn’t be too spectacular, but we did hope it wouldn’t be rubbish.

Quite ironic then, that Snow Patrol’s forthcoming album promises, by its title at least, to be an even more brilliant celestial phenomenon than an eclipse – A Hundred Million Suns. Which probably describes the galaxy, and there are not many marvels of physics more wonderful than a galaxy, full of cute twinkly paper stars. That’s right – paper stars. Look at the album cover for proof, because what do scientists know about outer space, anyway? However, these five Northern Irish/Scottish indie boys deserve your sympathy: ‘Chasing Cars’ was voted Best Song of All Time by Virgin Radio listeners (you’d think that music was only invented in 2006), so for ‘Take Back The City’ to match the success of that sweetly yearning, radio-hogging ballad will be a challenge of Everest – or maybe Ben Nevis – proportions.

‘Take Back The City’ sounds like an extra extra bonus track you might have found on Snow Patrol’s previous album Eyes Open. This is not a bad thing; their earnestly emotional tunes rightly sold millions. You know the formula now – soft, ear-pleasing vocals, crunchy little guitar bits here and there, melancholy yet hopeful lyrics, and ponderous, plodding rhythms. And always a faint chill, as if contemplating a vast expanse of ice. In these times of global warming, we’re lucky to get a decent frost; but Snow Patrol create a sound reminiscent of Narnia, where it’s always winter but never Christmas…

‘You can sing till you drop, ‘cos the fun just never stops,’ vocalist Gary Lightbody breathes, while his bandmates do their best to rock out. The subject of his cheery mood is the collection of skyscrapers, half-price sales, trendy young people and police incidents that we call ‘the city.’ Indeed, the tone is quite heady and uplifting, recreating the buzz of a night-time urban adventure. One of those rare times when you’re drunk on life instead of cheap beer. Still, this feeling is diluted by the song’s main fault – melodic repetition. The same notes are played and the same lines sung over and over, and you’ll probably fall asleep halfway through. Even the accompanying video, in which sociable citizens move at double-speed, will not keep you awake. But then, Snow Patrol aren’t famous for being fascinating.

I defy anyone, when listening to this track, not to wish for something – anything – unexpected in it, just for a bit of aural interest. Nothing too radical; perhaps a random Blur-esque ‘woo-hoo!’ or a naff robotic voice entreating you to ‘boogie on the dancefloor,’ or a few hip-hop exclamations of ‘yo, c’mon, this is how we do it, shorty’. Something memorable is needed. At least ‘Chasing Cars’ lodges in your brain because of the lethargic wail, ‘If I lay here, if I just laaay here…’ But ‘Take Back The City,’ even after a few listens, merges with their back catalogue into a Snow Patrol soup. Snow Patrol-flavoured soup would, I imagine, have no flavour at all. One of those boring, watery soups lacking tasty lumps of vegetables. If you prefer tasteless soup, that’s fine, but it will pass through your bowels leaving no nutrients. Similarly, this particular song is not greatly enjoyable, nor will it damage your health (I hope).

‘Take Back the City’ is serviceable enough to accompany your most mundane activities, such as driving to work, or organising your stamp collection. It is impossible to hate, like Snow Patrol themselves. As for ‘taking back the city tonight,’ it doesn’t quite cut the mustard, lyrically or melodically. There are much better singles, such as the fresh, upbeat ‘You’re All I Have’ or the youthful, energetic ‘Spitting Games,’ or the haunting duet with Martha Wainwright, ‘Set the Fire to the Third Bar’ (incidentally, a live version of this features as a b-side to the new single). I think it’s time Snow Patrol had some new ideas, and then we’ll have something to be genuinely excited about.

Vivienne Westwood at the Winter Gardens

2008-10-17T06:21:00.001-07:00

Katie E. Booth Ponders a Vivienne Westwood Collection
Many people assume that Fashion is merely pieces of clothing, selected to cover the naked form or in some cases express the wearers’ individuality so that people can point and gossip about their state in the street; but did you ever think of fashion as an art form? Well that is exactly what eccentric designer Vivienne Westwood is pushing you to believe with her touring exhibition celebrating her most infamous collections spanning three decades.

With its original start point the V&A gallery in London; I managed to catch up with the exhibition on its stint at the Winter Gardens in Sheffield. The gallery itself is home to many exotic exhibitions including a room filled with sculptures and garments made from woollen string and have held several pieces of work from renowned artists including Mark Quinn’s sculpture of a contorted Kate Moss. With the Gardens reputation and being an owner of a treasured pair of suede Vivienne Westwood ankle boots, I had high expectations for the exhibition (plus the £20 admission fee did not help the situation); and I was not left disappointed.

With a velvet red carpet leading the way, you are taken through the world of one of the most outrageous fashion designers and general nut job Vivienne Westwood whose motto for life is ‘You have a much better life if you have impressive clothes’. Beginning with her vital role in the emergence of punk rock in the 1970’s to her well known costume pieces of glamorous dresses and glimmering corsets. Showing exactly how she liked to push the boat out, you start with the ripped denim and studded boots of the Rock and Punk era. One piece that stood out was a simple black cotton t-shirt enclosed in a glass cabin with small bones attached by metal rings across the chest to symbol to word ‘Rock’. Learning her technique from the ever so familiar information cards, Westwood used small chicken bones collected from her local take away, boiling and drilling them she would attach them to her t-shirts to emulate key words such as ‘Rock’ or ‘Perv’: not only do you get an inside look of Westwood’s work but also her inner minds. Leading into Westwood’s bondage inspiration with full leather jumpsuits designed as a straight jacket, you also get to learn Westwood’s history and key aspects of her personal life that inspired her work. Usually I would skip these cards and gaze at the work but each fact was tied in with an outfit that gave you an insight into its creation.

Leaving the early years of Punk and Westwood’s starting points the exhibition seems to take a dull turn concentrating on the more ordain collections including the ‘Witches Collection’. One toned suits and drab dresses stain the electric reputation Westwood has held throughout her career. I attempt to read the history cards but once again find myself skipping past to the more glimmering collections. In an art exhibition that is only situated in one room, it seems a waste of vital space to concentrate on these lifeless pieces that, from reading the one history card in this section, are a collaboration between Westwood and her second husband Malcolm McClairin; where are the controversial garments and elaborate costumes I was promised? With the next stage of the exhibition titled ‘sex’ I had a feeling my question would soon be answered. The walls splattered with pornographic images and rubber curtains, the pieces filled with fetish rubber leggings and t-shirts with photographic prints of breasts on, I had finally found the quirkiness I had come to love from Vivienne Westwood. If the gallery had been crowded with people I probably would have skipped this section through embarrassment of looking at sex clothes but on this particular day the gallery was lifeless so I got a nice long look at the intricate detail of the stitching on the all-in-one play suit. However my eye was being drawn to the final part of the exhibition: the costume gala. I had finally found the source of the bubble of light you see shining over the cabinets as you entered the gallery; a circle of sequins and fabrics seemingly sewn with golden thread. The famous ‘Mock Crock’ platforms that saw Naomi Campbell fall flat on her bony behind on a runway in 1993 where encased in a glass cabinet in the centre of the room but I was drawn to the wall behind. A glimmering tribute to Westwood’s work with the traditional corset, specimens made from fabric, bone, sequin; I felt more like I was watching a Kylie concert than viewing an art exhibition. Select pieces from the recent costume collection from Paris Fashion week last year towered on a platform in the centre, garments looking like they had come straight out of littlest girls dressing up box but some how emulating the modern world of today’s fashion. A luscious Ball Gown trains crimson silk along the floor with details of golden thread giving the air of royalty.

Emerging from the room of glamour and glitz I feel I have just been released from the inner workings of Vivienne Westwood that, ignoring the dull periods of her McClairin stage, is wonderfully captured in this touring collection. Although I will not be spending £75 on the exclusive lipstick print white t-shirt, I can now challenge those who dismiss fashion as art: I challenge them to take a step inside the world of Vivienne Westwood.

The Peasants' Revolt

2008-10-17T06:19:00.001-07:00

Catherine Jebson visits the Ringside Pub on Beverley Road to savour some burlesque.

The Peasants Revolt
The Ringside Revue at the Ringside

Being asked to provide the warm up entertainment for an evening centred on stunning women taking their clothes off is no easy task. Despite their admission that they don’t know what burlesque is, and have never played to a strip-hungry audience before, The Peasants Revolt manage just fine. It becomes apparent from the moment they stumble on stage that they have decided to get into the spirit of the show and not take themselves at all seriously. Far from this seeming sloppy and disastrous however their friendly interaction with the crowd suits the candlelit, chatty proceedings surprisingly well. Their opening banter is relaxed and though much could be said for their attempts at stand up, they settle into their first cover effortlessly.

Musically the band is tight, giving us suitably bare back-to-basics strings and vocals that get even the highest heeled foot tapping. The feeling that they’d be out of place anywhere but at a function or local gig is inescapable, but the intimate atmosphere tonight allows them to have fun with their set. Everything from Duran Duran’s Rio to, worryingly, Britney Spear’s back catalogue are certainly originally done. Anyone who can take Hit Me Baby…and add a wonderfully done mandolin solo deserves at least some credit.

The transitions between songs are chaotic and the covers themselves are occasionally punctuated by mock arguments between the band. Luckily for them this hilarious dialogue is excusable because, after all, few of us are there for the music! The Peasants Revolt held up well and kept heads nodding along to their poppy acoustics tonight, but the question on everyone’s lipstick was whether this spontaneous routine was something the band would unleash again the night after, and the night after that, and the night after that…

Catherine Jebson.

Craig Raine

2007-12-05T05:32:00.000-08:00

Sophie Turton hides in the ladies' room while Craig Raine entertains the audience at Zest.

An Epic Disaster?

‘Poetry reading with Craig Raine,’ the posters promised. An evening listening to the quasi-amusing writer of ‘A Martian Sends A Post Card Home’, within the walls of the ambient, Algerian café-bar Zest, sounded interesting, if not exactly appealing. Unfortunately what we received was not poetry but rather a poem; one epic, rambling, forty-five minute piece that had been scribbled down by Raine one summers day and had not been picked up since. The sheer arrogance and pretension surrounding this man was astonishing, as he laughingly admitted that not only was this poem unedited and unrevised, but also had ‘boring bits that need cutting.’ If he was trying to entice the newer generation into the world of poetry he very much missed the mark, as not only was his performance insulting, it also encapsulated the pompous stereotype that some attribute to poets. Perhaps this is where my main problem lies. The English department puts a clear effort into arranging poetry readings and on previous evenings poets have put forth their work in a way that engages the audience rather than alienating it. In return not only did Craig Raine not make an effort, but he instead appeared to do the very opposite. It is a struggle to understand why he did not just read a few of his respected poems, maybe giving us a bit of insight into the intensions within them as a little extra reward for coming out of our houses on a rainy evening.

The poem itself had no real rhythm, having been written in free verse, making it hard to follow and, with the exception of sporadic voice characterisation, boring to listen to. After about twenty-five minutes I made a hasty retreat to the toilet in the hope that he would have either moved on or shut up by the time I returned. On return, however, my heart sunk to hear him repeat the name ‘Angelica’, the only indication that he had not yet concluded his ramblings. Needless to say, the exact topic of the poem has never been known to me, due to concentration being almost impossible to maintain and the fact that we were sitting a fair distance from the stage. As you may expect if you were to embark on a forty-five minute unrevised reading, Raine made quite a few mistakes, bumbling over certain words, further adding to the poems disjointed rhythm.

When introducing the poem Raine proudly told his audience that he was about to read something, ‘a little bit dirty’. Raine is known for his vulgar language, an example being with one of his most famous poems ‘Arse Hole’. This may be effective on paper, but hearing an aging, balding man talk about ‘masturbating the spoon clean’ was simply grotesque, and one had to wonder how necessary that level of rudeness really was. Once the poem had ended I was left with a bizarre mix of relief and indignation. Craig Raine owed me forty-five minutes of my life.

Lions for Lambs

2007-11-29T07:53:00.001-08:00

Laura Pugh writes about Lions for Lambs.

Lions for Lambs takes place six years after America went to war with Iraq. The film itself is in three parts, which is slightly annoying to get into, but after a while it becomes necessary to the plot, allowing us to witness the same event through the eyes of the government, the media and the individual soldier.
Despite his age, Tom Cruise plays senator Jasper Irving successfully as a political figure who has an ultimate plan to target Al Quieda and the Taliban and bring an end to terrorism. Starring opposite him, award winning Merly Streep plays the only female eye candy in the film as journalist Janine Roth. Streep is convincing as a journalist with a heart who interviews Cruise throughout the film. In doing this she unveils the shocking truth that the American government will do ‘whatever it takes’ to win the war, regardless of the lives that will be lost; of course, her version of events will never go to print, and an edited version will spread across the World like wildfire. Director Robert Redford, who also plays Professor Stephen Malley in the film makes us the question the reliability of the media in our society; do we really know what’s going on, or do we simply believe what we are told anyway?
Redford’s character plays against Todd Hayes, actor Andrew Garfield, in the second section of this episodic film, trying to persuade the political science student to see out University. More importantly, her tells Todd about two inspirational students he taught who went to be soldiers; these are the two soldiers the story focuses on in the third snapshot of the film, when they are separated from their patrol. These characters, Ernest Rodriguez and Adrian Finch, are played by Michael Pena and Derek Luke, who give heart warming performances throughout the film playing American heroes. Redfords presentation of the film makes us think of them not only as soldiers, but as university students with a future, young men, and ultimately, numbers on a piece of paper. A very thought provoking film.

Mothership

2007-11-28T03:38:00.000-08:00

Ledhead Will Harris reviews Mothership.

Landing in at number four on the UK Top 40 in its week of release, "Mothership", Led Zeppelin’s most recent greatest hits album, is a 24-track collection of songs spanning the career of the band, and its high first entry in the charts showing that the mighty blimp of heavy metal still has a huge and most likely ever-increasing fan base. Indeed, the number of people from around the world who registered their names to win tickets for their one-off reunion show estimated to over one million, and doing a little research myself managed to find some of those tickets being auctioned off on the internet for well over a thousand pounds. Perhaps Jimmy Page was just being modest when he said he “hadn’t expected that sort of overwhelming demand”, but the point remains that this band has firmly cemented itself in the history of rock and roll, and, without undue exaggeration I think, the history of music as a whole. The sticker on the front of the case for "Mothership" reads: “The very best of Led Zeppelin remastered on 2 CDs”, and, sure enough, this is an ample collection of tracks for the fair-weather fan of Zeppelin, and if you’re not planning on becoming a die-hard Ledhead anytime soon (although I strongly recommend it) you can go no wrong with this. However, speaking as a Ledhead myself, there are some issues concerning this album that I would like to draw attention to. Firstly, "Mothership" is not the first album in the band’s catalogue to contain “the very best of Led Zeppelin”. The songs found on this album very closely mirror those of the joint albums “Early Days… the best of Led Zeppelin Vol. 1” (1999) and “Latter Days… the best of Vol. 2” (2000), and the track listings of those two albums incredibly resemble those of 1990’s Remasters double-CD set. Somewhere I can hear Mr Page’s eyes rolling back into dollar signs, accompanied by the faint sound of “ker-ching!” My other qualm is the use of the word ‘remastered’. Owning all of the original studio albums on CD - which are said to be digital remasters of the original vinyl editions themselves - I can find little sonic difference between the tracks on the original CD pressings and those on the greatest hits release. In fact, if anything has actually been done in relation to the mixing or production of these songs, I think it would only be Page himself who would be able to point out the issues, with the usual perfectionist musician’s pedantry. The songs themselves, though, are precious gems of rock and roll history. Not one of them would ever be omitted from any Zeppelin fan’s own personal canon of favourites, and the two CDs feature a good range of the band’s works, from the traditional hard rock of “Communication Breakdown” and “Rock And Roll”, to the bluest of blues found in tracks such as “Dazed And Confused” and “Since I’ve Been Loving You”, to the A-minor sensitivity of “Babe I’m Gonna Leave You” and “Stairway to Heaven”. So to treat this album with the appropriate respect and honesty, "Mothership" offers little to long-time fans of Led Zeppelin, unless you happen to be one of the die-hards who absolutely must own every official release. However for those who are yet to fully embrace the delights of Robert Plant’s screams and moans, to the backing track of Page’s undeniably fabulous six-string virtuosity, John Paul Jones’ understated bass playing, and John Bonham’s powerful triplets and splashy rhythms, go buy this album, and let "Mothership" shine in your CD collection as patronage to one of the greatest rock bands of all time.

Iain Banks

2007-11-28T03:34:00.000-08:00

Tom Moody reviews Iain Banks' Dead Air.

I am a long-standing admirer of Iain Banks' science-fiction novels, (published under the name of Iain M. Banks) and was interested to see what I would make of one of his mainstream works of fiction. While his science-fiction efforts whisk you away to some unfathomably richly imagined and compelling corner of the galaxy, this novel takes place in a far more domestic setting: post 9/11 London. Banks uses the events of that fateful date as a canvas over which to paint his tale. The opening chapter takes place during a drug-fuelled party, where the central Character Ken Nott, a popular shock-jock, is having a great time chucking various items off his friend's balcony whilst cavorting with like-minded media-type-people. The festivities are abruptly brought to a halt when the party-goers start receiving calls on their mobiles: apparently something has just taken place in Manhattan involving planes and skyscrapers. 9/11 is seldom referred to after this opening chapter, and does not influence the plot in any direct way. We follow Ken as he goes about the normal business of his life, and Banks represents him as a not particularly likeable, but very believable protagonist. He becomes romantically involved with several women at the same time, recalls once having slept with his best friend's wife, and very nearly repeats the offence with the daughter. All the while, our hero cannot seem to stop himself from embarking on highly opinionated, idealistic political rants, not just on his radio show but in general discussion with his various friends and romantic interests, the most alluring and potentially dangerous of which is Celia, the exotic wife of a renowned gangster. hundreds of pages in, all that seems to have been accomplished is a number of mildly entertaining sub-plots detailing Ken's various attempts to achieve satisfaction in his love life, and to arrogantly force his oh-so-important political views onto as many people as possible; one particularly audacious stunt involving attacking a holocaust-denier on live television. But, thankfully, the consequences of his actions kick in just in time. He receives a number of violent threats and the sense of anxiety and danger is gradually and expertly notched up, until our man works himself into a nervous wreck and eventually gets himself into a real life-or-death scenario by making such a spectacularly stupid mistake that you really wonder if he deserves our sympathy in the climatic chapters. Despite the less-than-endearing and frequently idiotic nature of Ken Nott, 'Dead Air' is nonetheless a consistently gripping read; I couldn't wait to see how he would squirm his way out of his next increasingly disastrous predicament.

Upon its release in 2002, this novel was criticised for not dealing directly enough with the events of 9/11. Indeed, it can seem superficially that Banks has simply used the theme as a gimmicky selling point for the novel, which is, at its heart, a compulsively readable and intelligent thriller, though not one which has any powerful political message. However, Banks does a fantastic job of subtly conveying a convincing sense of post-9/11 angst in 'Dead Air', and tactfully uses his protagonist's opinions, and the periphery character's responses to them, as a way to engage in political discourse without too obviously putting over his own agenda. This, in hindsight, could be more effective and future-proof than expressing an overt gut-reaction. When compared to Bank's science-fiction works, though, of which 'Excession' and 'Look to Windward' are, in particular, two of the best books I have ever read, 'Dead Air' was a disappointment. It was not as creative, nowhere near as inspiring, and did not even serve as an equally powerful or relevant social commentary. Banks works at his best when given a blank and infinitely vast canvas for his imagination to work with, not when restricted to the reality of modern life

Plant and Krauss

2007-11-28T03:24:00.000-08:00

Martin Hall admires the new Robert Plant and Alison Krauss album.

Why is it that when an artist releases something new, regardless to how phenomenal, gifted, or influential he or she may be; regardless to how inspirational, passionate and down right remarkable his or her back catalogue may be; why is it that artists’ new works are always judged against their previous masterpieces!?

As said on BBC Radio 2, ‘isn’t it strange that Robert Plant is releasing this album at the same times as he’s doing the Led Zeppelin stuff, it’s so different?’ I am afraid MR Radcliffe and, or Maconie, it is not a Led Zeppelin piece. Plant is an artist, a first-rate one at that, Robert Plant is not Led Zeppelin.

Plant’s latest album, a collaboration with Allison Krauss, blue grass fiddle player and singer extraordinaire, is awe-inspiring. These two artists, although a world apart in style, synthesize so exceptionally well together creating an unusual yet addictive and captivating sound.
‘Raising Sand’ hears Plant and Krauss, produced by T Bone Burnett, reworking and interpreting some of the best blues and blue grass songs of the 20th Century. We hear songs from such greats as Sam Phillips, Naomi Neville and the released single ‘Gone Gone Gone’ written by Phil and Don Everly.

Plant and Krauss’ current single ‘Gone Gone Gone (Done Moved On)’ is a powerful blues/rock interpretation of the Everly Brothers’ impressive track. It is a fantastic example of the strength in the combination of these two magnificent voices: Plant’s commanding and bold tone perfectly compliments Krauss’ soft and warm voice. The band really excels on this track creating a driving and controlling rhythm you will find it hard not to move to.

This album contains a host of what promises to be incredibly memorable music. ‘Sister Rosetta Goes Before Us’, a haunting and enchanting song, is one of the great gems of this album. It’s sinister and circus-esque tones are wonderful; this song creates a world in which you can disappear, evoking images and emotions abound.

‘Please Read the Letter’ is a reworking of Page and Pant’s song from their 1998 album ‘Walking into Clarksdale’. This song is beautifully sung once again yet comes with an extra something special in Krauss’ masterful touches of harmony.

A song which is an assured success, ‘Fortune Teller’ holds its own on this album, protruding as the most profound work here. Lyrically, Naomi Neville’s song is unparalleled; masterfully re-worked by Plant’s phenomenal voice this song stands out as one of the best I have heard in a very long time.

Unfortunately, every family has its Black Sheep, 'Through the Morning, Through the Night' claiming this title. This song simply does not belong on this album. If I was driving my pickup through the Bible belt, the red of my neck more sore than ever, looking longingly towards the evening's road kill supper, my track of choice may possibly evolve into said black sheep. However, this being said, the rest of the album then would not have been to my taste and I would have used the disk to frisbee at a nearby squirrel.

Nonetheless, the rest of the album in keeping with the success of the single, it certainly promises to please. This album is none too distant in sound from Plant’s previous work ‘Mighty Rearranger’ with his band Strange Sensation; drawing on Plant’s plentiful World Music influences, combined with a blues, blue grass streak to create a sound unlike any heard before: a blend of the modern and the worldly so expertly and successfully executed.

Long Way Down

2007-11-28T03:20:00.001-08:00

Martin Hall reviews Long Way Down

As someone who was inspired by these explorers to raise some money for charity through expeditions myself, I can say that this book is not only a phenomenal read but a magnificent motivational tool making waves for Unicef, Riders for Health, the Children’s Hospice Association of Scotland and charities alike.

McGregor and Boorman’s latest adventure sees the two travel from John O’Groats, the northern most tip of Scotland to Cape Town, the southern most tip of South Africa.
Two men riding huge BMW R1200 GS Adventure motor bikes laden up to the gunwales followed by two Nissan 3.0 Litre Turbo Diesel Patrols across some of the most rugged and temperate terrain through the African continent; a book for the most intrepid of armchair explorers.
This thrilling and at times hilarious account of the pair’s travels is a heartfelt and touching piece commenting on the terrors of ex Child soldiers in Uganda, Mine Victims in Ethiopia and the Aids epidemic evident throughout Africa.

Social comment aside this is an extremely entertaining book. With Charley being pulled of a plane as a terrorist threat, Ewan barely making the trip altogether, being stoned by children throughout the African continent and almost being trampled by elephants, the Long Way Down is an encompassing book.

A shorter journey than their first, the Long Way Round, this book is every bit as exciting and more thrilling still, as the tag line proves to be true: Eighteen countries. Five shock absorbers. Two bikes. One amazing adventure...

Disappointingly, the book, as fantastic as it is, is somewhat ruined by the accompanying T.V series. For the Long Way Round I was an avid watcher, and consequently collector in buying the DVD. However, for the Long Way Down, the pair appear to have brought along the nanny crew. The mammoth 4X4s, never too far behind the bikes, have become a home base for the pair, carrying with them enough supplies to restock a large camping shop. This serves to utterly destroy the illusion that these two best friends are adventurous in any way. Ewan, accompanied by a member of his close family at most points throughout the trip even brings along his wife to slow down progress, drop her bike and wholly negate the whole concept of Two bikes. One amazing adventure...

The series reveals this mock ‘adventure’ to actually be, four bikes, two enormous mothering support crews, fifteen million camera men, enough electronics to fill Comet and enough camping equipment to form an elaborate palace of tented dwellings, running water and all; all falsely held together under the illusory concept of ‘adventure’.
Read the book, at least the truth is well veiled under well written prose. The T.V show however, serves merely as a break in the evening in which to make a sandwich.

L.A. Confidential

2007-11-28T03:17:00.001-08:00

Martin Hall goes all noir on us with a piece about L.A. Confidential.

For decades, audiences have swarmed to the big screen to view these shadowy masterpieces. Creating careers for such greats as Cagney, Bogart, Edward G Robinson, Bacall and more, these films have now evolved into Neo-Noirs spawning the newly released L.A. Confidential (1997). But why is it that we still love these films after nearly 70 years in evolution?

Film Noir is not an easily definable genre as such. It is more a matter of tone and mood being generally pessimistic in and tone reflective in mood; A genre which works around a myriad of frameworks such as Docu Noir (The Enforcer 1976), Heist Noir (The Asphalt Jungle 1950), Amnesia Noir (The Long Wait 1954), Gangster Noir (High Sierra 1941), Woman-in-distress Noir (My Name Is Julia Ross 1945), and runaway Noir (You Only Live Once 1937) to name but a few. These numerous frameworks work around a similar character structure and cinematography making Film Noir more of an umbrella term than a specific genre description.

Conventionally, in a Film Noir the male character must choose between two women. The first, a devoted woman who is loyal and in love with him, the second the Femme Fatale. This Femme Fatale will use the male character for personal gain to help her achieve money or power.
Film Noirs make use of dark sets, single source lighting with copious shadows and the effective use of chiaroscuro. Single source lighting was preferred as a result of necessity as during WWII, film production was massively reduced and there was little finance within the Hollywood film industry to pay for equipment. And so in an attempt to reduce costing within the industry only one light source was used; this also hid the fact that a full set was not always constructed, another budgetary flaw.
Night scenes, which were hugely popular during the silent-era of film making, were impossible to effect due to the noisy and bulky equipment required. However, as technology advanced, it brought lighter cameras and greater creative possibilities for cinematographers.

The stylistics of Film Noir features was directly influenced by German expressionist cinema of the 20s and 30s. Characteristics such as montage, surreal settings, cantered camera angles and inventive cinematography were directly influenced by this movement. German films emphasised a character’s psychology and analysed their actions, looking more at what they were thinking such as in Fritz Lang’s M (1931). This expressionist approach to film making inaugurated the ‘Black’ style utilised by directors of the time and created a model for the coming Film Noir genre.

The majority of Film Noir motifs such as criminal content, tough male characters, costume and period echo the Hollywood gangster. It was during America’s post 1929 Depression – era in which most gangster Noirs were spawned, such as Little Caesar (1931) and The Public Enemy (1931). These films reflected the attitudes and trends of America and encompassed themes of the period at hand, organised crime, murder and corruption. Filmmakers presented contemporaneous themes within their films. As events such as Prohibition, Depression in America and eventually War were what were happening during the birth of this genre, the attitude of Film Noir became a sombre and pessimistic one.

With this influx of Gangster Noirs, there was an outcry from the Legion of Decency that the placing of this criminal iconography in the forefront of the public conscience was corruptive and would cause imitation. This led the evolution of Gangster Noirs in which actors typecast as gangsters reversed roles and portrayed the side of good. This is evident in ‘G’ Men (1935) for example, in which James Cagney plays the government official and not, as expected, the gangster.

During the 60s and 70’s there was a substantial decrease in the number of Film Noirs released due to the changing attitudes in film making. However, during the mid 80s, the early Noir Fiction novels were republished causing an eruption in the creation of modern Film Noirs known as Neo – Noirs. Thus films such as The Big Easy (1987) and Blood Simple (1985) were created. Some of these, such as L.A Confidential, retained the on-screen time period whereas most updated the genre and placed the film within modern day society. For example, Dirty Harry (1971), Clint Eastwood as a hardened cop in 1970’s America, nonetheless this is most certainly a Film Noir as it exhibits a degree of cynicism and pessimism and classic Gangster and Runaway Noir narrative characteristics.

So now, with our optimistic lifestyles and bright futures, why do we hark back to the past and look to crime for entertainment? Unlike the by gone days of classic Film Noirs, film makers today have no political view or standpoint but appear to be concerned with style and content. The Film Noir offers filmmakers a huge creative canvass upon which to paint their masterpiece. With its shady sets, expressionistic lighting and a 1950s’ aesthetic, L.A. Confidential is a smash. With a story line to match and a list of stars to impress, L.A Confidential promises to be a huge success.

The Film Noir genre is one, which has been pastiched and parodied myriad times over the years such as in Blade Runner (1982), an eclectic film drawing tremendously from Film Noir. This pastiche draws from the paradigms of Amnesia Noir and Runaway Noir but relies heavily also upon the conventions of Sci-Fi. Films such as Who Framed Roger Rabbit (1988) successfully parodied Film Noir as Bob Hoskins and the comic character Roger made fun of its conventions.
With modern writers such as James Ellroy and Edward Bunker (Straight Time 1978) having their novels adapted for the screen, Film Noir, hosting a stylistic and thematic legacy, will continue to visit our screens for a long time to come.

Paul Reid

2007-11-27T09:17:00.001-08:00

Helen Thomson goes retro with the painting of Paul Reid. And before you mention it, yes I know that isn't the painting she's talking about. But there isn't a picture of that one online.

Odysseus on the Island of Circe

Oil on Canvas, 2007

Retrospective Exhibition

Hull University Art Gallery 9th Nov- 7th Dec 2007

Paul Reid is without doubt one of the most talented artists to emerge out of Scotland in recent years. He deals with Greek myths as subjects and interprets them in a distinctly neo-classicist style, a style which, no doubt, many people will deem redundant. And although this style did die out for the most part towards the end of the 19th century, it doesn’t stop Reid’s work from being brilliant.

Odysseus on the Island of Circe forms the centrepiece to the current exhibition at Hull University Art Gallery, and an eye-catching centre it is. The composition immediately draws your attention, the sumptuous richness of the whole ensemble demonstrates the artists affinity for oil paints. The colours have a subtlety and strength not often combined in modern painting, with its tendency to over-simplify. The skin tone in particular, perhaps the most difficult thing to capture, is made up of hundreds of shades with often only minute differences between them. This attention to detail defines the muscles, the ribs and the veins of Odysseus and his men. The broad brush strokes give the bodies a smoothness and sheen that is very realistic, while the short strokes used for the fur of the lion’s mane makes it look practicably strokable.

The composition of this painting shows a group of characters mid-way through action, freeze-framed as it were. It is at once natural and contrived, with the figures laid out just slightly too conveniently, in order to suit the purpose of the painting. Yet the painting has the look of a photo, so as to feel the characters could start moving again if only you stand watching them for long enough.

It is not only the characters in the foreground that are magnificently depicted, but there is incredible attention to detail in the background. The props lying around the characters get as much attention as Odysseus and his men, resulting in fruit lying on the floor that looks edible, clothing, discarded by the now nude half-animals, lying creased and crumpled on the ground, a sword leant against a rock that glints with the polish of real metal. The foliage surrounding the scene is scarcely less perfect. The trees are depicted even down to the smallest branch, the leaves can be more or less distinguished from one another even far into the distance. Without a doubt Reid harks back to all that was best in neo-classical style.

There are very few points, really, on which I can criticise this painting. There was a slight problem that I noticed with Odysseus’ foot and lower right leg, but if I have to be that pedantic then he obviously hasn’t gone that far wrong. He shows remarkable skill in his painting, a skill that is not often exhibited in this world of modern art. To deem his style of painting redundant, as some have done, is grossly unfair. Surely, given the public’s love for things made in a style that went out years ago, it should be deemed retro.

Beyond the Paintbrush – John Everett Millais (1829-1896). Paintings Ophelia (1851-2) and Bubbles (1886).

2007-11-27T09:12:00.000-08:00

Kate Harker wades into the duckpond of Millais's Ophelia.

Both Pre-Raphaelite and Impressionism are my favourite styles of art. I prefer realistic scenes and subjects and particularly with John Everett Millais Ophelia, there is an ethereal quality evident that works well with the realism.

Even though people may not recognise or heard of the artist, they may well recognise another work of his originally entitled A Childs World, more famously known as Bubbles . Like many artists Millais’ paintings were not fully appreciated until after his death in 1896.

If asked why I liked Ophelia I would probably say because there is more to it than meets the eye. If art is to make an impression on the viewer, it has to mean something; the viewer has to relate to it in some way. It has to cause a reaction – even if it is controversial.

Ophelia was seen to have captured the very essence of what Pre-Raphaelitism stood for, its motto being that art should be as true to nature as possible. Hence, Millais spent many hours getting the surroundings just right on canvas, making it look as natural as possible. Even the flowers had symbolic meaning, for example, the red poppy representing sleep and death.

Even if I was not aware of, or had read the story of Shakespeare’s Hamlet, I would have been interested to know about the subject in the painting and the story behind this somewhat slightly morbid but peaceful scene. During the time that this was painted, the character of Ophelia was a popular subject for British artists, as Hamlet was considered to be the best of the tragedies. It fitted in well with the Romantic period and the ideas of spurned love, transgression and fallen women were popular in both literature and art. Millais portrayal of Ophelia however, was unconventional for the time.

Later in his career, Millais concentrated on children as subjects for his work. Bubbles was originally painted for his own pleasure and a lot of his work was copied for the increasingly popular fine art print market. He reluctantly sold the rights for this work and it became the focus of the Pears soap advertising campaign that it is now best known for.

Following this, Millais had to defend himself against the barrage of disapproval from art critics. It was thought that to front popular culture in order to be appreciated by the mass public, was to degrade oneself, to degrade art and would prevent Millais from being recognised along with the other distinguished artists of the time.

I particularly like Bubbles in that it captures the spirit and the time of being a child perfectly – the innocence, the blissful ignorance of life, yet an inquisitiveness to learn more about it. The colours used in the clothing and the background are dark so that the viewer is drawn more to the pale face and those curious dark eyes.

Such paintings as these and others by the Pre-Raphaelite artists capture life as it was. Even though Millais was reluctant and criticised for letting his work be used as a mass media piece, through it, it has reached a much wider audience than it may have otherwise done. Looking beyond the paintbrush and paintings themselves can reveal so much more about the artists and the times they lived in.

In tying Millais rather unconventional portrayal of Ophelia in connection with Von Hagens modern art form, I consider both to be intriguing, in different ways. Not to go against my previous words about this art form, I find Von Hagens technique is original and the controversy surrounding the whole technique is sure to keep it in the public eye for some time. Hence it has achieved its purpose. However, I find preserving ‘life’ through art in the more traditional way on canvas, more pleasing to the eye. Call me old fashioned but having seen the original Ophelia in the Tate gallery, give me a paintbrush over plastination any day.

Completed with reference to the text by Riding C, John Everett Millais. London: Tate 2006.

The Welly

2007-11-27T09:05:00.000-08:00

Lauren Kendrick goes on the town at the Welly Nightclub.

The Welly nightclub is situated on Beverly road, near to the heart of Hull university student area. Boasting on it’s website as being ‘East Yorkshire number one night club and venue’. The equipment they have is top quality, not only a 32k sound in Welly 1 (a downstairs room), as well as a D and B festival set up in Welly 2 (an upstairs room), and if that wasn’t enough to fill your ears then they also have a separate Dj lounge which they claim as an intimate space with a premium bar. This sounds like a brilliant club, not only do they have a variety of rooms to explore, they have spent a lot of money to ensure a high quality of the sound. The line up of acts that they book range from well known established djs such as 'Dj Hype' to alternative bands like 'The Futureheads'. Those who do not know this club or come from a town without a venue to see live popular acts may think that I do not realise how lucky I am to have the opportunity to see these sorts of acts. I am not contesting their ability to draw in some big names in the music industry, or that their systems could be any better. My comment is on the club, the atmosphere and the crowd, which really should be part of the determination of whether a club is as good as it claims. This club on paper sounds amazing, but personally I don’t want to see an act under a dictatorship and scummy surroundings which stops you from enjoying your night.
The evening in which my contempt for this club grew to complete disgust was the night of the 15th November. Headliners for this night were Pendulum. Loving their music, but disliking Welly due to the prejudice Indie clientele mostly seen here, I decided to swallow my pride as surely their usual bigoted indie crowd would not come to a drum and base night? The ticket was an extortionate £15, compared to many of their nights being below £10. But Pendulum are very well known now and what more did I expect from this capitalist venue?
Pendulum were due on stage at 10pm, though due to unforeseen personal circumstances that day I was not able to get to Welly until 11pm. There was no sign on the ticket to suggest that late-comers would turned away, I would be able to see at least half an hour of their set. What a fool I was. There was a queue of about fifteen people when I arrived at the gates which seemed slightly odd. Surely they should have got all of the people inside by now? Like true English at first we just joined the queue unquestioningly. After about ten minutes of waiting with the only movement from people giving up hope and jumping in taxis. It was time to find out what on earth was going on. Walking to front of the queue to enquire to the bouncer what the situation was, the only response I got was that I would have to wait with everyone else. But I have a ticket!? ‘You will have to wait till the back room clears.’ He turned away from me at this point showing there was no debating this. I walked back to my place in the queue. Why should I have to wait till the back room clears? I had paid for my position in that room.

Returning to the queue there were people behind us who had also bought tickets and were wondering what was going on. As time went by the queue started to grow bigger and bigger and filled out with people without tickets. What on earth was going on here? Behind us now were a large group of people who were loud, and were trying everything they could to get ahead of us (they didn’t have tickets ). So not only was I not allowed in to enjoy what I had paid for, I was also having to fight for my position in the queue with people who were not even there to see Pendulum. As time went by we waited for another half an hour, to add frostbite to our freezing bodies we had to watch those who had seen Pendulum come out, even out of the iron gates to have a cigarette as there was no room in the smoking area for them all. By now the queue was surrounding me, as well as the gates and tailing off down the road. Not only were we squashed, our place in the queue was irrelevant to what order we would get in now. Seeing a gap in the queue I squeezed out to inquire what was going on what. Surely they would do something about this shambles of a queue after some of us had been waiting so long? Once again I was let down by thinking that this club actually cared about the people. The bouncer once again gave me a very dismissive answer, ‘My concern is within these gates, what do you expect me to do?’ Before I could respond to this question I was moved once again by the surge of the crowd. If his responsibility was within the gates, why were people allowed out of them for a cigarette causing more pandemonium outside? I have been to see many bands at different venues and I have never been made to feel so helpless and like my custom was not valuable. What I expected him to do was to ensure that this crowd did not get out of hand, which it obviously had, the surges in the crowd made it difficult to not only breathe but to keep your footing.

So maybe the way he got us in would be organised? No, when the gates were opened everyone just ran to the door and moved into a queue here. This really was ridiculous. I had waited over an hour and a half in the freezing cold just to then be asked for another £3 to come in! They did just accept my admission with this ticket after asking a superior. Though the people I had been queuing with only had to pay £3 to come in. How on earth was this rationalised? Well as Pendulum had only been on till 11.30 they decided to open the club for their normal customers and have an Indie night. This was a D’n’b night, I thought I had paid £15 in order to hear this not to have just half the club (well the room upstairs).

The floors were soaked and sticky, causing me to nearly slip over numerous times, in the main ladies toilet only one cubical had toilet roll and by the end of the night that was out as well. Many left due to the fact that the upstairs room was not opened for a while after pendulum had gone, and the only music available was the alternative downstairs. The buzz of Pendulum being here had almost completely died.

How can this be East Yorkshires number one club and venue? They are unable to sustain a charged atmosphere or standard of cleanliness and only think of maximising their revenue rather than the organisation that a night like this demands. I will not be wasting my money on this shambles of a club ever again.

Britney Spears

2007-11-19T13:10:00.001-08:00

Unscathed from her experience with Melissa Etheridge, Victoria Gacek is back for more, this time on Britney Spears, seen here in Basil Fawlty car-attacking tribute mode.

There are some things in life that you wish once you got rid off they would never come back, such as: verrucas, genital warts and Britney Spears. Personally I would have remained happy just seeing Britney grace the tabloid headlines for another embarrassing incident where she was stoned, or had run someone over or just generally failed at life. But no, after a four year break from the music industry; our ear drums are to be polluted by her latest single release ‘Gimmie More’; the first track off of her new album: ‘Blackout’.

The album title must have been inspired from one of Spears’ own highly documented paralytic blackouts. It wouldn’t be farfetched to suggest the album title was a result of an alcohol and drug and binge, but, unfortunately for us the blackout obviously wasn’t severe enough to put her in a permanent coma. Instead, this former Disney Channel entertainer has shed almost all her clothing and lost all her dignity in the release of the sluttiest single of her career.

The video for ‘Gimmie More’ is cheap, tacky and fake, just like her hair. It appears to imitate a drug induced trip, with the occasional violet strobe lighting penetrating the dark nightclub, where Britney wearing a black wig gyrates against a pole (they must have used an ample amount of super glue to keep that wig on), what a classy girl. The pole seems an obvious choice to replace the men she usually grinds against; her reputation seems to have scared them all away. Or maybe it’s her appearance, Britney is clothed only in her underwear and fish nets stockings, which makes her look like a hooker on E, who wouldn’t be out of place walking around the streets of Brooklyn.

The only man in the video is sat down, with a drink, minding his own business. The last thing he wants is Britney Spears shaking her arse in his face. If he’s not careful she might start: ‘licking [him] down like there’s no-one around’ as the vile lyrics state, which should hopefully get her arrested for sexual harassment. My advice to him is if he’s not too blind drunk, just put the drink down and get out of there as fast as you can, because before you know it, you’ll both be hitched, and as soon as your sober enough to remember the night before, you’ll be on your phone, asking your lawyer for an annulment, and all this will happen quicker than you can say K Fed.

The lyrics are even worse than the video; you know the song is going to be abominable when it opens with: ‘It’s Britney, bitch’. The worst phrase she could have possibly created, which makes her comeback as laughable as her private life. She insults us listeners, by calling us bitches, could this be Britney’s red-neck attempt at calling us her ‘homeboy’. Whatever the case, I do not want my seven year old niece (a fan of the cheesy pop that is currently gracing the charts); to be repeating one of the most negative taboo words in the English language, because her idol Britney needs her mouth washing out. What an excellent role model and mother Ms. Spears makes. The only positive about this track is that she didn’t fart and burp all the way through it.

Britney’s first live performance of ‘Gimmie More’, was at the 2007 MTV Video Music Awards (VMA), and it was appalling. She forgets to lip-sync several times, and during the performance she stumbles around the stage worse than your drunken Uncle on Christmas Day. Miming and dancing at the same time must be too difficult for her pea sized brain. The only active brain cell she has left, after the drugs and booze must have had to work overtime just to keep her upright. The VMA performance was so terrible that Spears ran off stage crying at the end of the song; don’t worry Britney that was my initial reaction to the song too. No one expected her to sing live, but if that was the best she could do, I can’t wait for the tour. Maybe for the opening act she’ll come out and slit her wrists.

The video is like a low-budget porno, and the song lyrics just reiterate that image. Britney’s attempt at being sexy fails; instead she earns the title as the Queen of slease. Just put some clothes on and get out of our lives and if we’re lucky she will not attempt at making music again. The person I feel most sorry for in regards to the video of ‘Gimmie More’ is the camera-man; if he was any further up Britney’s ass we’d see the shit.

Dreamgirls

2007-11-09T06:16:00.001-08:00

Emily Bray is back for more with a review of Dreamgirls.

Dreamgirls
Why Bill Condon’s latest offer really is a Dream.

When you think of great Move Musicals, you’ll probably cast your mind back to Julie Andrews and the singing nuns of The Sound Of Music, Olivia Newton-John and John Travolta as the love-sick school kids of Grease, or a stony faced Madonna as Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Evita. There have been few successful musicals on the big screen in recent years, in fact the world of musicals in general has suffered from a decline in public interest. The film version of The Phantom of The Opera was indeed a much publicised release, and Baz Luhrmann’s Moulin Rouge caused rather a stir when it broke on the scene in 2001; but apart from a few such exceptions, the world of film seems to have turned it’s back on it’s musical kinsman.

February 2007, however, saw the DVD release of Dreamgirls, a descendant of the Movie Musical. The film combines some of today’s greatest pop talent with the sounds of the 60s. Interestingly, the film has not been marketed as a conventional musical. There is not a hint of the campness found in the likes of Moulin Rouge and The Producers, and though music plays a key role, it is does not engulf the film in the same way as in The Phantom of the Opera. It is perhaps closest to Leonard Bernstein’s West Side Story, the music blending seamlessly and functionally into a strong, well acted, and all too human plotline.

The plot is based around the life story of Diana Ross; in the film, named Deena Jones (played by Beyoncé Knowles). In many ways the young, hip Beyoncé shares many similarities with her predecessor and is rather too obvious a casting choice. She gives a very commanding and in places very mature portrayal, capturing the change from an innocent young girl, to an independent, deep young woman. There is, however, a naivety in her performance, and perhaps a little too much Beyonce and too little Deena in some places. Her finest scene in the film comes after an argument with her manager and husband Curtis Taylor Jr (Jamie Foxx), where she sings the emotionally charged ballad Listen, a performance visually and vocally powerful enough to make the audience do just that.

A more surprising choice is 2004 American Idol contestant Jennifer Hudson in the role of the diva, Effie White. Hudson completely steals the stage in a phenomenal performance, with numbers like And I Am Telling You I'm Not Going, I Am Changing and One Night Only. Her intelligent and perceptive portrayal oozes emotion and soul, so much it earned her an Oscar for Best Performance by an Actress in a Supporting Role as well as awards from the BAFTAs and the Golden Globes to name just a few. This film is worth watching purely for her stunning performance.

The leading men in the film are no less outstanding. Jamie Foxx’s depiction of Deena’s
ambitious, dominating and sometimes ruthless husband and manager is skilfully and truthfully acted, if in a more subtle way than the female leads. He has the great ability to express emotion with seemingly insignificant changes in voice and expression, which is picked up in fine detail by the camera. Even the most simple of scenes become loaded with significance. Eddie Murphy changes from the comic to the serious, as the tragic figure of James ’Thunder’ Early (Jimmy), a struggling singer, who’s life of drink, drugs and women drives him to despair and eventual suicide. Though there are refreshingly comic moments within his performance, they are executed in such a way that they are a result of his character and not an addition to it. He has some striking scenes throughout the film, but one of the most moving is on the night before his suicide when he finally is brought to face everything he’s lost.

The supporting cast all deliver strong, credible performances. Anika Noni Rose and Sharron Leal as the other two Dreamgirls are commanding in their subplots, with Danny Glover and Keith Robinson appearing competently and with great sincerity as the frustrated manager and songwriter. Commendations should also go to the young Mariah Wilson for a small but touching appearance as Effie’s daughter, Magic.

The high-energy, evocative music combines with effective camera work and costume, to make this a highly entertaining and deeply moving film. There is none of the typical fluffiness of some musicals, and the story and characters are firmly grounded in real life, with enough grit to make them entirely believable. Even for those a little sceptical about the whole ‘musical thing’ the film offers an example of how every note sung (an played) can be used to great effect and power.

Kate Royal

2007-11-09T06:04:00.000-08:00

Emily Bray looks at the world of opera.

Princess Regent
Kate Royal: The Young Soprano’s Rise to Fame

This season she may be starring in ENO’s* production of Monteverdi’s The Coronation of Poppea, but young English soprano Kate Royal is also enjoying being crowned a potential singing sensation. She is, however, no amateur. Her trophy cabinet already boasts a healthy number of prestigious awards. The 2004 winner of both the Kathleen Ferrier and the John Christie Awards, and the 2007 recipient of the Royal Philharmonic Society Young Artists Award, she has taken leading roles in major opera companies both in the UK and abroad. She also has the claim of being Sir Paul McCartney’s soprano of choice for his recent classical cantata Ecce Cor Meum, as well as appearing for the BBC Proms.

Her self-titled debut album from EMI classics presents her credentials in 19 beautifully executed tracks, ranging from Orff’s Carmina Burana to Stravinsky's The Rake’s Progress. Conducted by a youthful Edward Gardner, and accompanied by the Academy of St Martin in the Fields, this recording brings together some of England’s most illustrious performers. The result is a feast of colour and intensity which displays the beauty and imagination of some seldom recorded pieces.

The disc opens with the much abandoned Lia’s Aria from Debussy’s L’Enfant Prodigue (The Prodigal Son). From the first two glorious notes, Royal shows a masterful control and craftsmanship, tackling the trickier melodic phrases with feeling and with ease. An interesting choice for the first track of a debut album, the complex and often sparse texture could have been a bit of a gamble. There is no weakness here, however, as the unobtrusive orchestral arrangement serves only to highlight the beauty and purity of the voice.

Passion follows tenderness with Delibes’ Les Filles de Cadiz, a 19c French imitation of the Spanish Bolero. Like the famous Habanera from Bizet’s Carmen, strong, dance like rhythms underpin the folky, fiery and yet playful vocal, which glides effortlessly over the orchestra’s vibrant playing. Rubato, portemento and vibrato are all used skilfully in the interpretation of a fairly repetitious melodic line. In a performance nothing short of explosive, Royal shows her ability to tackle intensity both in the bareness and emotional tension of the previous track and the passion and vivacity of track 2.

The technical brilliance and difficulty of the first two pieces are contrasted with several gentler, understated pieces; the Bailero from Canteloube’s folk songs, In trutina from Orff’s Carmina Burana and a serene, dreamy rendition of Strauss’ Wiegenlied. Though less dexterity is required for these performances, they are implemented with musically aware self-control and skill, avoiding the trap of becoming too weighty and over-sentimental. The vocal tone remains even throughout, and the simple beauty of the melody is allowed to sing through, enveloping the listener in a haze of sound.

The bulk of the final half of the disk is devoted to Spanish songs, by Granados and Rodrigo. It is really very difficult to find anything at all at fault with this album; but if there is one thing, it is the similarity of the songs in this section. Quejas, o la maja y el ruisenõr, ?Con qué la lavaré? and Vos me matasteis are charmingly and proficiently sung, but are a little too similar when followed one by the other.

The last two short songs in this section ?De dónde venís, amore? and De los álamos vengo, madre raise the tempo sufficiently to provide a high-spirited and once again excellently executed climax before the album closes with the anonymous folk song The Sprig of Thyme. The acapella beginning perfectly reflects the origins of the song, and the combination of orchestral and simple harp accompaniment blend together to create a blissful texture, under, of course, another beautiful vocal interpretation.

Kate Royal’s greatest strength is the ability to produce a warm, sweet, effortless sound even in the extremities of her register, with an impressively even tone throughout. There is also a sense of the dramatic in her voice, but it is complemented by a sincerity which makes you believe everything you hear.

This album is definitely a must have for those with an interest in Classical, and particularly Operatic singing. With not a trace of crossover in sight, she gives a timeless interpretation, supported and enhanced by a perceptive accompaniment. But this release is not simply for the classical purist. Her vocal beauty and skill will appeal to listeners from across genres, and those who have yet to be won over to Classical repertoire may find themselves pleasantly surprised.
*English National Opera

Sigur Ros

2007-11-03T16:13:00.001-07:00

Heather Cairns goes all Icelandic on us with a review of the new Sigur Ros album.

The new offering from Iceland's Sigur Rós, Hvarf-Heim opens with the familiar and beautifully simple music we are used to hearing on television programmes and adverts. The music of this album was written to accompany a film which has been shot by the band in Iceland. It is astonishing that a film has not been made by the band before, considering the visual power of their live performances.

The music of Sigur Rós has always been both melancholy and inspiring. It is calm and lucid without being depressing or desperate. Many of Hvraf-Heim's songs are re-workings from the albums Von, Ágætis Byrjun,( ) and Takk. This does not mean that you shouldn't buy this album if you already own the bulk of Sigur Rós's previous work. Not only are there three newly released tracks, Salka, Hljómalind and Í Gær, but the originals have been stripped down, built up, tweaked and reincarnated.

The newly re-worked version of Starálfur begins with only a small strings section and a piano. Simple. Jónsi's voice enters the music so subtly that it is easy to confuse him with an obscure and newly invented musical instrument.

The title track of the band's 1999 album, Ágætis Byrjun (which translates as 'an alright start') is also treated to a more acoustic and simple sound. The piano is more powerful than the original version, which gives the song more of an uplifting edge without removing any of the atmospheric qualities. It must be noted that sometimes the music of Sigur Rós can give the listener a cold and distant feeling, but the album as a whole, particularly this song, gives the image of a group of musicians sitting in a room playing music just for the fun of it. The sound is much warmer but every bit as delicate.

Heysátan, originally the closing track from 2005's Takk, is also the closing track of this album. Bird noises and layers of instruments build the song up into a simple and very charming way to end yet another masterpiece. The passion in Jónsi's voice and the timing of this song give a feeling of triumph and achievement. The tone is similar to Kate Bush's album Aerial which revels and indulges in the roots of nature and the serenity which is rarely found in this world.

Í Gær begins like a child's lullaby. The music builds subtly to create a magical, mischievous and playful sound which is not unlike The Cakewalk by Claude Debussy. This child-like music is short lived. It is brashly and brilliantly interrupted by a crescendo of distorted guitars and open hi-hats; but still the lullaby continues. This is one of the greatest moments of the album; it is epic and apocalyptic, but extremely controlled and delicate.

Overall, the album is classic Sigur Rós with a twist. Vaka and Samskeyti do the ( ) album perfect justice without simply repeating and reproducing the music. How a band can play the same songs with only subtle differences, but still make the entire work an exciting and refreshing masterpiece is a mystery to me. Perhaps only a band as clever and crafty as Sigur Rós could pull it off. This is more than just 'an alright start'- it is stunning.

Fashion Rocks. Or Not.

2007-11-02T04:19:00.000-07:00

Catherine Groom writes about fashion.

Swarovski Fashion Rocks for the Princes Trust
Channel 4, 20th October, 10.30pm.

Very little about Fashion Rocks, rocked. Uma Thurman and Samuel L. Jackson read a boring and slow autocue, the former disappearing every so often for no apparent reason and the latter changing outfits with every breath.
All the fashion veterans were there from Dolce and Gabbana to Valentino who was awarded with a giant Swarovski crystal for lifetime achievement as he leaves the fashion scene this year. They turned out the usual show material ranging from the sublime to the ridiculous; Gucci and Christopher Kane produced some particularly beautiful dresses, sharp lines set against flowing skirts being the order of the day. There were also a couple of fairly new fashion faces, namely Georgina Chapman and Keren Craig who appeared to be much better dressed than their models. Their feathery, gold designs had a tendancy to look cheap but somehow seemed a good match for their musical sponsor Shirley Bassey.
Other good matches included Lily Allen who appeared from under the 100ft Swarovski chandelier looking stunning in a blue knee-length Chanel dress, but then she always wears Chanel. Valentino forced Nicole Scherzinger into an attractive purple number, dragging her away from her trampy Pussycat Dolls image for which she felt the need for a vomit-inducing dedication at the end of her whingy new song. For the first time in her life Joss Stone had to think about fashion, shedding her usual hippy rags and appearing for Calvin Klein looking exceedingly uncomfortable in a plain white fitted dress.
The musical acts made some attempt to rock the boat. Iggy Pop opened the night by throwing himself around a lot and actually interacting with the models, much to the apparent horror of several members of the huge Albert Hall audience. New band Shy Child played a brilliant game of musical chairs for Stella McCartney’s models who even appeared to be enjoying themselves. Razorlight’s Johnny Borrell continued his rebellious streak by smoking - or rather holding a lit cigarette - whilst performing. In a public building? Shock horror! In her own political statement Beth Ditto hitched up her skirts to reveal the words ‘BLOOD 4 OIL’ written across her legs before flinging her stilettos into the audience. Perhaps if Dame Edna Everage’s lame cocaine jokes had been true for the musicians as well as the models the evening would have been a little more fun.
The Sugababes attempted to steal the evening with their finale of Lady Marmalade with special guest Pattie La Belle and a bizarre water feature but a distinct lack of fashion.
Oh and the Princes Trust? Barely mentioned. Something to do with helping some guy in prison...

Melissa Etheridge

2007-11-01T08:04:00.000-07:00

Victoria Gacek writes about Melissa Etheridge.

Melissa Etheridge-The Awakening

As far as ageing rock stars go, Melissa Etheridge isn’t doing too badly for herself. Etheridge, a cancer survivor, recently having exchanged vows with Tammy Lynn Michaels must have suddenly decided at the age of 46 to release yet another album. The two Grammies sitting on her mantle piece must be getting a little lonely by now.

Etheridge’s new album, The Awakening (released 25th September), is her ninth studio release and I would say the worst. The whole album is a series of melancholy tracks, which merge into one, leaving the listener lethargic. The passion and fiery edge, of Etheridge’s previous songs has been extinguished; as the only kind of emotion the album awakens in me is boredom. It leaves me wondering if Etheridge abruptly decided to delve into the world of Cliff Richard, releasing an album because she has a supreme status and an army of diehard fans that will gobble the album up and give it praise, despite the fact it is a complete let down.

Etheridge performed in the summer at the United States leg of the Live Earth concert with ‘Imagine That’ and ‘What Happens Tomorrow’, two badly performed tracks from the album. It seems as though it is now fashionable for every solo artist or band to raise awareness about the environment at the expense of a really good set of tracks.

The fact is we are all aware of the global crisis by now; Live Earth did not need to show us what we already knew. Plus, as a result of the festival, yet another part of the polar ice caps will probably have melted. Songs are not going to give listeners an epiphany, to change their lifestyle over night, into a more eco-friendly manner.

The only song worth buying The Awakening for is the catchy pop/rock song ‘Message To Myself’. A semi-auto-biographical song, which highlights Etheridge’s struggle with cancer and the love she now has in her life. But, as the tracks cycle through, wasting electricity, and adding to the already damaged environment, I am left wondering, why the woman who started her career the year I was born (1988) didn’t just hang up her guitar and call it a day.

So as a warning to all the Bono imitating songwriters, please find the time to recycle your climate change song lyrics and write something new; maybe with a little feeling next time.

In Rainbows

2007-10-29T08:52:00.000-07:00

Tom Moody writes about the new Radiohead album.

When I heard that Radiohead were releasing their first album in four years as a pick-your-own-price download, I thought it made a lot of sense. Why, indeed, should I have to pay ten pounds for an album from a band which insists on being as artistically erratic as Radiohead? This product could have ranged in quality from the utter genius of 'The Bends' and 'OK computer' to the stubborn, artier-than-thou pretension that was present in 'Kid A' and 'Amnesiac'. For a new album as brilliant as 'OK Computer', I would be prepared to pay, say, £20.00. An album as awful as 'Amnesiac', though, I'd rather avoid completely. Now I'm not a gambling man, so I elected to download the album for exactly £00.00. So, was it worth my time?

In short, yes. More so than any of the band's releases since 'The Bends', this album actually makes me feel happy. It's easy to forget that Radiohead, a band who have come to specialise in alienation, depression and anxiety, do have the ability to make some pretty uplifting and invigorating music. The opening tracks '15 step' and 'Bodysnatchers' are the liveliest, most light-hearted tracks that Radiohead have recorded since 'The Bends', and, while this album is hardly a bunny rabbits and flowers affair, and a more sombre and drawn-out mood prevails during its mid section, I formed the impression throughout that a great pressure has been lifted off Radiohead and that they are finally able to freely express themselves. It sounds as if they have broken free of the suffocating, self-conscious pretension that has bogged down all of their albums post-OK Computer, and that they are now making the music that they really want to play, and that we really want to listen to. All the Radiohead staples from throughout their career are present; the spiky guitar riffs, the mournful piano chords, the ghostly sound effects, and the layered electronic beats. And unlike their previous album, 'Hail to the Thief', which too often felt like a selection of cast-offs from the guitar-based and electro-based eras of the band's history, here all the elements of the music combine with an apparent effortlessness to achieve a fresh, vibrant and frequently hypnotic sound.

This is also Radiohead's most humanly relatable album, as they have abandoned political topics for their lyrics in favour of that more commonly-trodden ground of pop music: relationships and love. Although, this being Radiohead, they approach the territory from a typically twisted and complex angle. 'Weird Fishes' and 'All I Need' deal with similar subjects of infatuation and obsession. In the former Thom York wails; 'I'd be crazy not to follow/ follow where you lead/ your eyes/ they turn me', before drawing comparisons to being devoured by fishes and worms on the ocean floor. And then the album heads into the still darker waters of 'All I Need'. This song contains some of the most powerfully evocative lines that Radiohead have ever dreamt up: 'I'm an animal trapped in your hot car'; 'I'm an insect that just wants to share your light', and ends with an elegantly simplistic way of conveying the confusion of unrequited love: 'It's all wrong/ it's all right/ it's all wrong/ it's all right', repeated over and over, in an emotional release at the crescendo that saves us from a particularly depressing moment in true old-school Radiohead fashion; the effect is similar to that found in 'Exit Music' from 'OK Computer'. 'Faust ARP' depicts a relationship falling apart in a claustrophobic and uninspiring 21st century environment, filled with duplicating and replicating plastic bags. 'Dead from the neck up I guess I'm stuffed, stuffed, stuffed' mutters the singer, before concluding that 'I love you but enough is enough, enough'.

After all this sombre reflexion and frustration, the determined recklessness of 'house of cards' is refreshing; 'I don't want to be your friend, I just want to be your lover, no matter how it ends, no matter how it starts, forget about your house of cards, and I'll do mine'. This direct, what-the-heck attitude sits at odds with the rest of the album and serves as a great way to lyrically break free of the barrage of submissiveness which dominates the previous tracks. Then the penultimate song, 'jigsaw falling into place', at long last brings a more solid and lively beat back into proceedings. One of the most simplistic but powerful songs ever written by Radiohead, it depicts an (apparently) perfect moment shared between the singer and a romantic interest in a club; 'Just as you take my hand, Just as you write my number down, Just as the drinks arrive, Just as they play your favorite song', before he reveals, on reflection, that 'I never really got there, I just pretended that I had'. It's an evocative depiction of the tenuousness of human emotion. The closing track is a beautiful piano ballad about leaving posthumous videotapes for loved ones. Radiohead allow themselves one sentimental moment; 'No matter what happens now, I won't be afraid, because I know today has been, the most perfect day I've ever seen', then an odd clattering noise becomes dominant in the background, and that's you're forty-two glorious minutes of 'In Rainbows' over.

This is the best Radiohead album since 'Ok Computer'. The band have finally thrown aside the colossal pressure that has been piled on them since the aforementioned album and, instead of searching for something equally groundbreaking, or trying to appeal to fans of the polarizing guitar-based and electro-based eras which they created, have put together their most natural, unpretentious and openly human collection of songs to date. As with all their albums, this takes a good few listens to fully sink in, but trust me; if you do opt to pay for it you won't regret it!

The Last Legion

2007-10-25T16:02:00.000-07:00

Alister Burton's thoughts on what he calls 'The Last Legion (Hopefully)'.

Infamy, infamy, they've all got it in for me, as Kenneth Williams said in Carry On Cleo. All useful comments welcome!

On paper, Doug Lefler seems like a good choice to bring an amalgamation of Roman and Arthurian facts and legends to the silver screen. His CV is a comprehensive list of fantasy and adventure; he has been a storyboard artist on such projects as the 1994 Hercules TV programmes and Evil Dead sequel Army of Darkness (1992). Furthermore, he has directed films Dragonheart: A New Beginning (2000) and TV shows, Hercules (as above), Babylon 5 (1998) and Xena: Warrior Princess (1998-99). So why does he make such a mess of the Last Legion? Well, it seems that experience doesn’t count for everything. The problems with this film start when you look at the credits.

Perusing Colin Firth’s acting CV it seems hard – nay impossible – to reason why the producers of The Last Legion would want to cast him as Aurelius, a no-nonsense, battle-hardened Roman soldier. This is the same Colin Firth who stands alongside the perma-grinning Hugh Grant as one of the great English fops; the same Colin firth who has found fame through films like Bridget Jones’ Diary (and the sequel), Nanny Mcphee, Love Actually, Girl With a Pearl Earring, Hope Springs, The Importance of Being Earnest, Shakespeare In Love etcetera etcetera. No one would want Hugh Grant running around in a skirt (and it is a skirt) waving his gladius around, so why is it acceptable for Colin Firth?

In short, it’s not acceptable. Not in the slightest.

Contrary to the horribly miscast Aurelius, Kevin McKidd is fresh from finishing the two-season BBC/HBO TV series Rome, where he plays a no-nonsense, battle-hardened and at times unhinged Roman soldier. It would be easy for McKidd to reprise this role in The Last Legion but, understandably, he would want to avoid falling into the trap of the typecast. So

how could he star in a film about Rome and Roman soldiers now? By starring as a no-nonsense, battle-hardened, and certainly unhinged Germanic Goth barbarian, of course.

It would be easy to spend this whole review condemning the casting choices for this film, in particular Ben Kingsley as Ambrosinus/Merlin, who is in no way magic, this perhaps to protect the film’s supposed historical credibility. But it is that factor – credibility – that this film lacks, chiefly because of the hideously overwritten storyline and the type of GCSE drama class acting that makes you want to vomit into your popcorn.

The film begins with the coronation of Romulus Augustus as a new child Caesar and from there, moves at a pace akin to a horse riding on a jet-powered motorbike, which, incidentally, is akin to how ridiculous this film is. But I digress. Rome at this time has an uneasy alliance with the Germanic Goths that Kevin Mckidd, aka Wulfila, is associated with. This alliance is so uneasy in fact, that it breaks down only five minutes into the film, when the Goths, led by Odoacer (who appears in fact to be Scottish) invade and successfully conquer Rome and capture the newly crowned Caesar, and all in one night!

What follows is an hour of Romans chasing Goths, and Goths chasing Romans, with some double-crossing Byzantines in the mix somewhere too. Along the way, Caesar Augustus finds a “sword of power” after being captured with Ambrosinus on the island of Capri and from here begins the setup of the final Arthurian twist in the film by including some subtle-as-a-brick-in-the-face moments, such as Colin Firth’s arm sweeping from underneath a large body of water clutching his sword. It would seem that director Doug Lefler is in fact out to insult the audience’s intelligence.

Onward then, does Colin Firth prance, over to Brittania, where the last surviving legion of Roman soldiers is hiding. Aurelius arrives at their fort and finds these soldier

saviours of his gone. It’s okay though, they’re not dead, they’ve just been for a walk in the hills and they turn up soon enough. Enter villain #2 who is so enigmatic that the audience gets told nothing about him except his name – Vortgyn - and that he and Ambrosinus/Merlin don’t see eye to eye. Essentially this only serves as a vehicle for the pursuing Goths to gain some extra manpower by promising Vortgyn the sword that Romulus carries.

What follows is a low-budget, uninspiring and badly choreographed battle sequence, between the heroes and villains, with several of the “last legion” seeking refuge outside the walls of their own fort, amid the attacking villains. No, I don’t know why either. The battle concludes with somewhat of a ‘deus ex machina’ but by this point I was too glad it was over to care.

And so to the ending. The tagline to The Last Legion reads, ‘Before King Arthur, there was Excalibur,’ which perhaps suggests that the Roman/Arthurian aspects of the film are quite balanced and complement each other throughout. Not so. Apart from the few not-so-subtle moments as mentioned before, the tying together of the two themes doesn’t come until the last ninety seconds of a long 110 minute film. It is tempting to reveal those final ninety seconds so any reading this can join me in a state of torporific bewilderment, solely inflicted by Doug Lefler grasping at Arthurian themed straws. However I don’t want to be responsible for a mass induced coma, so I’ll leave that to Lefler. Besides, those who haven’t already guessed the films conclusion by now are probably those already comatose and some breeds of dog.

The concept behind this film is tolerable, it’s execution terrible. The whole film has a vagueness to it, which is reflected in the scriptwriting and Colin Firth’s lazy performance – particularly during his combat scenes and “rousing” speech to rally his troops. The sets are

unimaginative at best, some of which look like they have been constructed purely from polystyrene. Behind the film is a concept designed for an adult audience, yet Lefler has watered it down in order to squeeze a 12A certificate out of the BBFC and a few more banknotes into his pocket. The camera suddenly cuts away at the point of any sword/spear/projectile impacting with flesh, and an off-screen grunt or groan informs the audience of that particular character’s doom. There is a vague hint of Aurelius as a father-figure to the young Romulus, which serves only as another setup to the final consolidation of the plot, as does Aurelius’ romance with Byzantine traitor Mira.

Lefler was quoted as saying about The Last Legion, “It was really a director’s dream. All of my cast were so dedicated to this project. In their opinion, it was a very unique experience, because there was not a cynical voice amongst them. Nobody was doing it for a paycheck. Everybody was into it. They would read books about Roman military strategy in their spare time.”[1] Well it certainly doesn’t show, Doug.

[1] Doug Lefler Interview (The Trades, Aug 17, 2007, by Scott Juba)

On the Net

2007-10-25T15:49:00.000-07:00

Here are some blogs and other sites I like to read:

Twenty Major is a foul-mouthed Dublin blogger whose posts tend to focus on drinking, descriptions of his poo, and hurling swear words at anyone in sight. He is also very funny.

Ron Silliman writes the most visited literary blog on this, or possibly any other planet. His specialty is avant-garde poetics.

I like how, unlike some newspapers, The Guardian makes all its books and review coverage available freely online.

There's usually something or other that makes me laugh on The Onion.

The above picture is of one of my cats, a ginger killing machine called Sam. There are some pictures of him and other local curiosities on this flickr site.

Last and definitely least is my blog, which I call georgiasam.

Which blogs do you read? All suggestions welcome.

Hull Fair

2007-10-25T07:14:00.001-07:00

Laura Pugh on Hull Fair. Thank you Laura, and all constructive comments welcome!

A night at the fair

A pleasant autumnal evening became futuristic with strobes of white and green light in the sky for all of Hull to see. The call for a superhero to save the city? Not on this night…
Spring Bank West bustled with the illumination of the biggest fair in Europe, the annual ‘Hull Fair’. Children excitedly played with brightly coloured rattling fair fancies. Their parents, tired, hurried them away from the tricks of the fair towards a much needed passtime. Hull Fair has been wowing the crowds since the thirteenth century. Once started, it became a known fair for traders, selling anything from exotic goods to livestock. As time passed, entertainment became the fairs main focus, and the nineteenth century saw rise to circus skills and puppet shows; keeping within the tradition of having the fair as closely as possible Friday the 11th of October, of course.
In our day and age it is not host to stalls such as the famous 1930’s ‘ Chicken Joe’ stall, where prizes included live chickens, instead there are a large number of umbrella shaped stands that you can literally aim for. Whether you fancy winning an over sized bear, or a consolation prize that makes you wonder why you had three goes, the fair is the place for you. Rides range from stomach churning waltzers and upside down rides to ghost trains and bumper cars for all ages. If you are a couple after a romantic night out or a group of friends after a night of fun, the fair caters for all tastes. As long as you’re prepared to dig into your pockets and brush your worries aside, you may enter this fantasy world.

Michael Longley

2007-10-18T06:44:00.000-07:00

Collected Poems, by Michael Longley. 368pp. Cape, £25

Commenting on the obsessive culture of commemoration in Northern Ireland, the critic Edna Longley suggested that "we should erect a statue to Amnesia and forget where we put it". Her husband, Michael Longley, has his own relationship with amnesia: he has quipped that if he knew where poems came from he'd go there. As his handsome new Collected Poems reminds us, he has been there, several hundred times over.

Longley is simultaneously the weightiest and most light-fingered of poets: as his dustjacket photos have charted down the years, he is part Hemingway, part Father Christmas, an unflinching tough guy one minute and handing out presents all round the next. Drawing on 35 years of published work, Collected Poems has lived through important times and it clocks up its share of appointments with the public and private griefs of the Northern Irish troubles, most famously in the 1994 poem "Ceasefire". But it begins with playful moths in the small hours and ends with "a brain-rattling bramble-song inside a knothole".

The early Longley of No Continuing City (1969) is a metaphysical poet with Philip Larkin's record collection and a fondness for cheery misfits such as Erik Satie and Walter Mitty. Addicted to tightly rhyming forms, he longs for a state of release too, "covet[ing] the privilege / Of vertigo", as he writes in his great set-piece ode "The Hebrides". Still in his early 30s, Longley showed great maturity in An Exploded View (1973), already making the elegiac mode his own in poems such as "Wounds", "Alibis" and "Kindertotenlieder".

Also from this collection are the verse letters to his fellow Northern Irish poets James Simmons, Derek Mahon and Seamus Heaney, poems whose talk of "poetic conservatives / In the city of guns and long knives" and "burnt-out houses / Of the Catholics we'd scarcely loved" did not always meet with the approval of their dedicatees (as described in Fran Brearton's authoritative new study from Bloodaxe, Reading Michael Longley. This Bloomian anxiety of influence may have had a short-term disorienting effect on Longley, as his next collection, Man Lying on a Wall (1976), is not without its share of anomie, but his fourth, The Echo Gate (1979), is a splendid return to form, including some of his very best poems ("The Mayo Monologues", "The Linen Industry" and "Peace").

Much has been made of Longley's publishing hiatus between Poems 1963-83 and Gorse Fires (1991) but, truth be told, eight years is an entirely reasonable period to take between books, especially if the writer comes back as refreshed as Longley did with a volume that brought a new focus and intensity to his work. The classical world, the west of Ireland, and a sequence on the second world war come together in poetry of rare historical and personal witness, as in the couplet "Terezin":

No room has ever been as silent as the room
Where hundreds of violins are hung in unison.

Longley's poetry has always had a strongly ceremonial bent, which finds a suitable outlet in The Weather in Japan (2000), with the poet also showing himself increasingly haunted by the first world war, in which his father served. His decision to dispense with the virtuoso rhyming of his earlier work has seen him develop a blank-verse line of endless prosodic variety and suppleness. By the time of Snow Water (2004), however, Longley's short poems on County Mayo, snow and war have begun to assume their exquisite contours with an ease that skirts self-parody.

Taken as a whole, Collected Poems shows Longley struggling with the desire to inscribe natural and human landscapes of loss, and the sometimes conflicting demand that poetry comfort or even just cheer us up now and then. It is no surprise that the last line of an untitled quatrain at the back of the book contains the injunction to "tuck me in". In his truest and most enduring poems, Longley manages, in Yeats's words, to hold justice and reality in a single thought without doing violence to either. The many poems in which Longley succeeds in this aim are among the great poems of our time: Longley is the laureate of habitation, of the soul's native, adoptive and imaginary dwelling places, even if underneath it all "There's no such place as home", as he writes in "Check-up".

An early verse letter to Heaney ends with a description of "leaving careful footsteps round / A wind-encircled burial mound". Longley is among the most surefooted of poets, but Collected Poems is no burial mound. in "Detour" he imagines his own funeral cortège taking a leisurely detour, while he wonders "where my funeral might be going next". The magnificent, decades-long conversation with the living and the dead that is Longley's poetry is too urgent to end any time soon.