When I realised that I was going to spend this Saturday – Halloween – reading the last 40 pages of a truly amazing book, I was delighted. I have never looked forward to the 31st October so much.
Yes, Emily Fabpants has spent the past few weeks rabidly raving about this book, as spit bubbles popped on her lips.
World War Z
By Max Brooks
World War Z is a Zombie Novel. Today I read the final words 'I love you, Mom' (not part of the story) and I could read it all over again.
At this point, you may have an image in your mind that looks a little like the Spooksville book cover for Christopher Pike’s ‘Attack of the Killer Crabs’. Yes, such books and the B-Movie live in the symbiotic bond of ham-fisted horror. The zombie genre, living within this sphere, has seen its fair share of low-budget scripts and piss poor performances.
Don't knock it though. In a total role reversal, Peter Jackson cut his teeth on zombies, and found vivacity. Without Bad Taste or Brain Dead, the epic trilogy that is Lord of the Rings would not exist.
Perhaps President Obama would not be president today if George A. Romero hadn't given Duane Jones the lead role in Night of the Living Dead. Good old George cast a 'black man' - Duane - as THE HERO in a predominantly 'white' film, at a time when it wasn't done. 'Controversial', they cried. Romero wasn't trying to change the world or grab the headlines, he cast Jones because he "gave the best audition". It's a brilliant film, a work of black and white brilliance at many levels.
World War Z takes the exceptional works of George A. Romero to the next level. Max Brooks cites the godfather of zombie as his inspiration.
Perhaps the genre has a new daddy. The depth of World War Z is stunning. From global politics, landscapes and cultures, to the detail of weaponry and war tactics.
World War Z starts in China. Probably.
The dead rise and the country keeps stum. To justify the increase in military activities, the Chinese government invents a ruse (a crisis in Taiwan). Before they know it, the black market organ trade has taken their secret overseas. Patients come round from operations with new organs and a new disease. Soon, the world is in zombie crisis. Humankind has to fight for its very existence and its enemy is the dead of its kind.
World War Z takes the form of post-war interviews that span the globe. The chapters portray the worst war that humanity has ever encountered. Interviewees provide personal accounts of how they and their countries fought, or didn't fight back, and how in the end they won.
Some countries create safe zones early on (Israel is a pioneer) and others, who leave it almost too late, have to force the issue. Many use refugees as bait, while the young or the privileged retreat.
Some go it alone, fleeing north, to where the zombies are frozen, or by making a fortress of their own. The Parisians go underground. Many don't have the means for survival and die. Some eat the weak that have died. Some live to see another day.
The book leaves the reader with a sea full of zombies, moaning in its depths. In Iceland and colder regions, the undead lie dormant in snow. When the warm weather comes, our species will be ready.
When hell is full, the dead will not walk the earth. Earth does not like being a grotty motel for bad souls. Hotel Hell will have to expand.
If you don't like reading novels, the audio book won an Audie Award in 2007. You may recognise names in the cast:
Alan Alda, Carl Reiner, Jurgen Prochnow, Walleed Zuiater, Dean Edwards, Michelle Kholos, Maz Jobrani, Mark Hamill, Henry Rollins, Eamonn Walker, Ajay Naidu, John Turturro, Rob Reiner, Joy O'Sanders, Dennis Boutsikaris, Becky Ann Baker, Steve Park, Frank Kamai & John McElroy.
Excerpt 1:
TOPEKA, KANSAS, USA
[Sharon could be considered beautiful by almost any standard—with long red hair, sparkling green eyes, and the body of a dancer or a prewar supermodel. She also has the mind of a four-year-old girl.
We are at the Rothman Rehabilitation Home for Feral Children. Doctor Roberta Kelner,
Sharon’s caseworker, describes her condition as “lucky.” “At least she has language skills, a cohesive thought process,” she explains. “It’s rudimentary, but at least it’s fully functional.”
Doctor Kelner is eager for the interview, but Doctor Sommers, Rothman’s program director, is not. Funding has always been spotty for this program, and the present administration is threatening to close it down altogether.
Sharon is shy at first. She will not shake my hand and seldom makes eye contact. Although Sharon was found in the ruins of Wichita, there is no way of knowing where her story originally occurred.]
We were in church, Mommy and me. Daddy told us that he would come find us. Daddy had to go do something. We had to wait for him in church.
Everybody was there. They all had stuff. They had cereal, and water, and juice, and sleeping bags and flashlights and… [she mimes a rifle] . Mrs. Randolph had one. She wasn’t supposed to. They were dangerous. She told me they were dangerous. She was Ashley’s mommy. Ashley was my friend. I asked her where was Ashley. She started to cry. Mommy told me not to ask her about Ashley and told Mrs. Randolph that she was sorry. Mrs. Randolph was dirty, she had red and brown on her dress. She was fat. She had big, soft arms.
There were other kids, Jill and Abbie, and other kids. Mrs. McGraw was watching them. They had crayons. They were coloring on the wall. Mommy told me to go play with them. She told me it was okay. She said Pastor Dan said it was okay.
Pastor Dan was there, he was trying to make people listen to him. “Please everyone…” [she mimics a deep, low voice] “please stay calm, the ‘thorties’ are coming, just stay calm and wait for the ‘thorties.’”
No one was listening to him. Everyone was talking, nobody was sitting. People were trying to talk on their things [mimes holding a cell phone] , they were angry at their things, throwing them, and saying bad words. I felt bad for Pastor Dan. [She mimics the sound of a siren.] Outside. [She does it again, starting soft, then growing, then fading out again multiple times.]
Mommy was talking to Mrs. Cormode and other mommies. They were fighting. Mommy was getting mad. Mrs. Cormode kept saying [in an angry drawl] , “Well what if? What else can you do?” Mommy was shaking her head. Mrs. Cormode was talking with her hands. I didn’t like Mrs. Cormode. She was Pastor Dan’s wife. She was bossy and mean.
Somebody yelled…“Here they come!” Mommy came and picked me up. They took our bench and put it next to the door. They put all the benches next to the door. “Quick!” “Jam the door!” [She mimics several different voices.] “I need a hammer!” “Nails!” “They’re in the parking lot!” “They’re coming this way!” [She turns to Doctor Kelner.] Can I?
[Doctor Sommers looks unsure. Doctor Kelner smiles and nods. I later learn that the room is soundproofed for this reason.]
[Sharon mimics the moan of a zombie. It is undoubtedly the most realistic I have ever heard. Clearly, by their discomfort, Sommers and Kelner agree.]
They were coming. They came bigger. [Again she moans. Then follows up by pounding her right fist on the table.] They wanted to come in. [Her blows are powerful, mechanical.] People screamed. Mommy hugged me tight. “It’s okay.” [Her voice softens as she begins to stroke her own hair.] “I won’t let them get you. Shhhh….”
[Now she bangs both fists on the table, her strikes becoming more chaotic as if to simulate multiple ghouls.] “Brace the door!” “Hold it! Hold it!” [She simulates the sound of shattering glass.] The windows broke, the windows in the front next to the door. The lights got black. Grown-ups got scared. They screamed.
[Her voice returns to her mother’s.] “Shhhh…baby. I won’t let them get you.” [Her hands go from her hair to her face, gently stroking her forehead and cheeks. Sharon gives Kelner a questioning look. Kelner nods. Sharon’s voice suddenly simulates the sound of something large breaking, a deep phlegm-filled rumble from the bottom of her throat.] “They’re coming in! Shoot ’em, shoot ’em!” [She makes the sound of gunfire then…] “I won’t let them get you, I won’t let them get you.” [Sharon suddenly looks away, over my shoulder to something that isn’t there.] “The children! Don’t let them get the children!” That was Mrs. Cormode. “Save the children! Save the children!” [Sharon makes more gunshots. She balls her hands into a large double fist, bringing it down hard on an invisible form. ] Now the kids started crying. [She simulates stabbing, punching, striking with objects.] Abbie cried hard. Mrs. Cormode picked her up. [She mimes lifting something, or someone, up and swinging them against the wall.] And then Abbie stopped. [She goes back to stroking her own face, her mother’s voice has become harder.] “Shhh…it’s okay, baby, it’s okay…” [Her hands move down from her face to her throat, tightening into a strangling grip.] “I won’t let them get you. I WON’T LET THEM GET YOU!”
[Sharon begins to gasp for air.]
[Doctor Sommers makes a move to stop her. Doctor Kelner puts up a hand. Sharon suddenly ceases, throwing her arms out to the sound of a gunshot.]
Warm and wet, salty in my mouth, stinging my eyes. Arms picked me up and carried me. [She gets up from the table, mimicking a motion close to a football.] Carried me into the parking lot. “Run, Sharon, don’t stop!” [This is a different voice now, not her mother’s.] “Just run, run-run-run!” They pulled her away from me. Her arms let me go. They were big, soft arms.
Excerpt 2:
SAND LAKES PROVINCIA LWILDERNESS PARK, MANITOBA, CANADA
I was a pretty heavy kid. I never played sports, I lived on fast food and snacks. I was only a little bit thinner when we arrived in August. By November, I was like a skeleton. Mom and Dad didn’t look much better. Dad’s tummy was gone, Mom had these narrow cheekbones. They were fighting a lot, fighting about everything. That scared me more than anything. They’d never raised their voices at home. They were schoolteachers, “progressives.” There might have been a tense, quiet dinner every now and then, but nothing like this. They went for each other every chance they had. One time, around Thanksgiving…I couldn’t get out of my sleeping bag. My belly was swollen and I had these sores on my mouth and nose. There was this smell coming from the neighbor’s RV. They were cooking something, meat, it smelled really good. Mom and Dad were outside arguing. Mom said “it” was the only way. I didn’t know what “it” was. She said “it” wasn’t “that bad” because the neighbors, not us, had been the ones to actually “do it.” Dad said that we weren’t going to stoop to that level and that Mom should be ashamed of herself. Mom really laid into Dad, screeching that it was all his fault that we were here, that I was dying. Mom told him that a real man would know what to do. She called him a wimp and said he wanted us to die so then he could run away and live like the “faggot” she always knew he was. Dad told her to shut the fuck up. Dadnever swore. I heard something, a crack from outside. Mom came back in, holding a clump of snow over her right eye. Dad followed her. He didn’t say anything. He had this look on his face I’d never seen before, like he was a different person. He grabbed my survival radio, the one people’d try to buy…or steal, for a long time, and went back out toward the RV. He came back ten minutes later, without the radio but with a big bucket of this steaming hot stew. It was so good! Mom told me not to eat too fast. She fed me in little spoonfuls. She looked relieved. She was crying a little. Dad still had that look. The look I had myself in a few months, when Mom and Dad both got sick and I had to feed them.
[I kneel to examine the bone pile. They have all been broken, the marrow extracted.]
Winter really hit us in early December. The snow was over our heads, literally, mountains of it, thick and gray from the pollution. The camp got silent. No more fights, no more shooting. By Christmas Day there was plenty of food.
[She holds up what looks like a miniature femur. It has been scraped clean by a knife.]
They say eleven million people died that winter, and that’s just in North America. That doesn’t count the other places: Greenland, Iceland, Scandinavia. I don’t want to think about Siberia, all those refugees from southern China, the ones from Japan who’d never been outside a city, and all those poor people from India. That was the first Gray Winter, when the filth in the sky started changing the weather. They say that a part of that filth, I don’t know how much, was ash from human remains.
[She plants a marker above the pit.]
It took a lot of time, but eventually the sun did come out, the weather began to warm, the snow finally began to melt. By mid-July, spring was finally here, and so were the living dead.
[One of the other team members calls us over. A zombie is half buried, frozen from the waist down in the ice. The head, arms, and upper torso are very much alive, thrashing and moaning, and trying to claw toward us.]
Why do they come back after freezing? All human cells contain water, right? And when that water freezes, it expands and bursts the cell walls. That’s why you can’t just freeze people in suspended animation, so then why does it work for the living dead?
[The zombie makes one great lunge in our direction; its frozen lower torso begins to snap. Jesika raises her weapon, a long iron crowbar, and casually smashes the creature’s skull.]
Excerpt 3:
UDAIPUR LAKE PALACE, LAKE PICHOLA, RAJASTHAN, INDIA
...I remember the monkeys, hundreds of them, climbing and skittering among the vehicles, even over the tops of people’s heads. I’d watched them as far back as Chandigarh, leaping from roofs and balconies as the living dead filled the street. I remember them scattering, chattering, scrambling straight up telephone poles to escape the zombies’ grasping arms. Some didn’t even wait to be attacked; they knew. And now they were here, on this narrow, twisting Himalayan goat track. They called it a road, but even in peacetime it had been a notorious death trap. Thousands of refugees were streaming past, or climbing over the stalled and abandoned vehicles. People were still trying to struggle with suitcases, boxes; one man was stubbornly holding on to the monitor for a desktop PC. A monkey landed on his head, trying to use it as a stepping-stone, but the man was too close to the edge and the two of them went tumbling over the side. It seemed like every second someone would lose their footing. There were just too many people. The road didn’t even have a guardrail. I saw a whole bus go over, I don’t even know how, it wasn’t even moving. Passengers were climbing out of the windows because the doors of the bus had been jammed by foot traffic. One woman was halfway out the window when the bus tipped over. Something was in her arms, something clutched tightly to her. I tell myself that it wasn’t moving, or crying, that it was just a bundle of clothes. No one within arm’s reach tried to help her. No one even looked, they just kept streaming by. Sometimes when I dream about that moment, I can’t tell the difference between them and the monkeys.
Excerpt 4:
KYOTO, JAPAN
...I had to get out of this building, get out of the city, and hopefully try to find a way to get out of Japan. I didn’t have a fully thought-out plan yet. I just knew I had to keep going, one floor at a time, until I reached the street. I figured stopping at a few of the apartments would give me a chance to gather supplies, and as dangerous as my sheet-rope method was, it couldn’t be any worse than the siafu that would almost certainly be lurking in the building’s hallways and stairwells.
Wouldn’t it be more dangerous once you reached the streets?
No, safer. [Catches my expression.] No, honestly. That was one of the things I’d learned online. The living dead were slow and easy to outrun or even outwalk. Indoors, I might run the risk of being trapped in some narrow choke point, but out in the open, I had infinite options. Better still, I’d learned from online survivor reports that the chaos of a full-blown outbreak could actually work to one’s advantage. With so many other frightened, disorganized humans to distract the siafu, why would they even notice me? As long as I watched my step, kept up a brisk pace, and didn’t have the misfortune to be hit by a fleeing motorist or stray bullet, I figured I had a pretty good chance of navigating my way through the chaos on the streets below.
Excerpt 5:
QUEBEC, CANADA
[The small farmhouse has no wall, no bars on the windows, and no lock on the door. When I ask the owner about his vulnerability he simply chuckles and resumes his lunch. Andre Renard, brother of the legendary war hero Emil Renard, has requested that I keep his exact location secret. “I don’t care if the dead find me,” he says without feeling, “but I care very little for the living.” The former French national immigrated to this place after the official end of hostilities in western Europe. Despite numerous invitations from the French government, he has not returned.]
Everyone else is a liar, everyone who claims that their campaign was “the hardest of the entire war.” All those ignorant peacocks who beat their chests and brag about “mountain warfare” or “jungle warfare” or “urban warfare.” Cities, oh how they love to brag about cities! “Nothing more terrifying than fighting in a city!” Oh really? Try underneath one.
Do you know why the Paris skyline was devoid of skyscrapers, I mean the prewar, proper Paris skyline? Do you know why they stuck all those glass and steel monstrosities out in La Defense, so far from the city center? Yes, there’s aesthetics, a sense of continuity and civic pride…not like that architectural mongrel called London. But the truth, the logical, practical, reason for keeping Paris free from American-style monoliths, is that the earth beneath their feet is simply too tunneled to support it.
There are Roman tombs, quarries that supplied limestone for much of the city, even World War II bunkers used by the Resistance andyes, therewas a Resistance! Then there is the modern Metro, the telephone lines, the gas mains, the water pipes…and through it all, you have the catacombs. Roughly six million bodies were buried there, taken from the prerevolution cemeteries, where corpses were just tossed in like rubbish. The catacombs contained entire walls of skulls and bones arranged in macabre patterns. It was even functional in places where interlocking bones held back mounds of loose remains behind them. The skulls always seemed to be laughing at me.
I don’t think I can blame the civilians who tried to survive in that subterranean world. They didn’t have the civilian survival manual back then, they didn’t have Radio Free Earth. It was the Great Panic. Maybe a few souls who thought they knew those tunnels decided to make a go of it, a few more followed them, then a few more. The word spread, “it’s safe underground.” A quarter million in all, that’s what the bone counters have determined, two hundred and fifty thousand refugees. Maybe if they had been organized, thought to bring food and tools, even had enough sense to seal the entrances behind them and make damn sure those coming in weren’t infected…
How can anyone claim that their experience can compare to what we endured? The darkness and the stink…we had almost no night vision goggles, just one pair per platoon, and that’s if you were lucky. Spare batteries were in short supply for our electric torches, too. Sometimes there was only one working unit for an entire squad, just for the point man, cutting the darkness with a red-coated beam.
The air was toxic with sewage, chemicals, rotting flesh…the gas masks were a joke, most of the filters had long expired. We wore anything we could find, old military models, or firefighting hoods that covered your entire head, made you sweat like a pig, made you deaf as well as blind. You never knew where you were, staring through that misty visor, hearing the muffled voices of your squad mates, the crackle of your radioman.
We had to use hardwired sets, you see, because airwave transmissions were too unreliable. We used old telephone wire, copper, not fiber optic. We would just rip it off the conduits and keep massive rolls with us to extend our range. It was the only way to keep in contact, and, most of the time, the only way to keep from becoming lost.
It was so easy to become lost. All the maps were prewar and didn’t take into account the modifications the survivors had made, all the interconnecting tunnels and alcoves, the holes in the floor that would suddenly open up in front of you. You would lose your way, at least once a day, sometimes more, and then have to trace your way back down the communications wire, check your location on the map, and try to figure out what had gone wrong. Sometimes it was only a few minutes, sometimes hours, or even days.
When another squad was being attacked, you would hear their cries over the radio or echoing through the tunnels. The acoustics were evil; they taunted you. Screams and moans came from every direction. You never knew where they were coming from. At least with the radio, you could try, maybe, to get a fix on your comrades’ position. If they weren’t panicked, if they knew where they were, if you knew where you were…
The running: you dash through the passageways, bash your head on the ceiling, crawl on your hands and knees, praying to the Virgin with all your might for them to hold for just a little longer. You get to their position, find it is the wrong one, an empty chamber, and the screams for help are still a long way off.
And when you arrive, maybe to find nothing but bones and blood. Maybe you are lucky to find the zombies still there, a chance for vengeance…if it has taken a long time to reach them, that vengeance must now include your reanimated friends. Close combat. Close like so…
[He leans across the table, pressing his face inches away from mine.]
Download Word War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War in pdf format.
Fabpants Recommends:
A happy Halloween. I'm going to watch The Beach of the Dead : Brighton's infamous Zombie Walk as it sluggishly trails from Brighton Station to Brighton Beach.
I also recommend watching one of the great zombie flicks. If you are looking for a twenty-first century release, I'd try one of these.
Dawn of the Dead (2004)
An excellent remake of George A. Romero's 1978 classic. I watched this twice at the cinema.
Fido (2006)
The story of a boy and his zombie. Humans have survived a “zombie war” (see above!), and have domesticated zombies, making them household slaves. Brilliant.
Zombieland (2009)
A fantastically funny film. Zombieland stars a college student with an anxiety disorder and a set of rules reminiscent of The Zombie Survival Guide (another Max Brooks classic). He teams up with a harden zombie slayer (Woody Harrelson) with an inclination towards Twinkies. The Bill Murray interlude is brilliant.
Finally, I found this on the
Indie-MP3.co.uk blog this week. It's a girl loves zombie track. How apt.
Download MP3: The Besties – Zombie Song (courtesy of indiemp3couk)
Saturday, 31 October 2009
Thursday, 29 October 2009
Look a Book: Oscar Wilde’s Picture – Gray Inside Out
The Picture of Dorian Gray
By Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde's 'Dorian Gray' was released in film format this year. It's not the first time. The 1945 version won an Oscar. An Academy Award that is, not another man named Oscar. I do like the idea of an Oscar factory, where helpful and passive men are produced as prizes. I can see an employee incentive scheme in the making. What would you do with your Oscar?
I haven't seen 'Dorian Gray' at the cinema, but I did read the book earlier this year.
Its full title is 'The Picture of Dorian Gray'. Five sequential words: three too many for Hollywood.
'The Picture of Dorian Gray' is no complex tale. The main themes - vanity and debauchery - run throughout. Irritating characters, blessed with wealth, boredom and the stifling civility of the upper classes, fill page after page.
There is little depth to the debauchery, or to any of the characters. It's shallow to its core.
A rich gentleman, a little past his sell-by date, craves depravity. He talks the talk (he talks and talks), but can't walk the walk. Instead, he entices another - younger man - to do his bidding. That's Dorian. Quite predictably, it all comes to a sticky end.
It's all rather tedious. Dorian the Debauched is a big bore. Virtually all of the debauchery is implied. I, for one, find it hard to believe that Dorian ever 'cuts loose'. Perhaps the only reason he ever does anything, is to distract himself from his own dull idiocy.
"That was anal sex was it? Hmm. I'll tick that one off then. No interesting thoughts forthcoming. Oh well. The search goes on for my brain."
For several pages of the book, Dorian tries to find some depth of character in fanciful objects. Dorian's search for sensation is as tiresome as the chapters in American Psycho, where Bret Easton Ellis goes into one about 'Genesis', 'Whitney Houston' and 'Huey Lewis and the News'. Kill me now Patrick Bateman.
I wonder if Wilde was sharing a wish list of dull artefacts, hoping for post-publication gifts. Or, perhaps he was showing his feathers. "Hey everyone, I know about gemstones. Do you want to hear my story about the pistachio-coloured peridot?"
I thought I might like this book in the first few pages. I guess I was wrong.
Fapbants Recommends:
Onto more positive things. Hoorah! Noah and the Whale's new album 'The First Days of Spring' is brilliant. It's so carefully pieced together, that it's impossible to imagine haste in any part of its production. How's that for a second album, released just one year after the debut?
'The First Days of Spring' journey's through the loss and emptiness that festers in the wake of a relationship breakdown. While a far from novel concept for a pop record or album, it is brilliantly delivered. It encapsulates the confusion intrinsic to a parting of ways. There is freedom and there is hope. As with most breakdowns, it's impossible to separate either from the love that once was. There is the continual question that this might not be it. This might not be the end. Perhaps it will come back.
Here is what seems to be a truly personal account, delicately delivered with the polish of professionalism. It's strength lies in a candid vulnerability and a mantra of hope.
"But like a cut down tree, I will rise again
And I’ll be bigger and stronger than ever before."
This album is perfectly pitched. Even though it drifts into classical orchestration mid-album, it never sounds too big for its boots.
Download MP3: Noah and the Whale – Stranger (courtesy of tsururadio.com)
By Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde's 'Dorian Gray' was released in film format this year. It's not the first time. The 1945 version won an Oscar. An Academy Award that is, not another man named Oscar. I do like the idea of an Oscar factory, where helpful and passive men are produced as prizes. I can see an employee incentive scheme in the making. What would you do with your Oscar?
I haven't seen 'Dorian Gray' at the cinema, but I did read the book earlier this year.
Its full title is 'The Picture of Dorian Gray'. Five sequential words: three too many for Hollywood.
'The Picture of Dorian Gray' is no complex tale. The main themes - vanity and debauchery - run throughout. Irritating characters, blessed with wealth, boredom and the stifling civility of the upper classes, fill page after page.
There is little depth to the debauchery, or to any of the characters. It's shallow to its core.
A rich gentleman, a little past his sell-by date, craves depravity. He talks the talk (he talks and talks), but can't walk the walk. Instead, he entices another - younger man - to do his bidding. That's Dorian. Quite predictably, it all comes to a sticky end.
It's all rather tedious. Dorian the Debauched is a big bore. Virtually all of the debauchery is implied. I, for one, find it hard to believe that Dorian ever 'cuts loose'. Perhaps the only reason he ever does anything, is to distract himself from his own dull idiocy.
"That was anal sex was it? Hmm. I'll tick that one off then. No interesting thoughts forthcoming. Oh well. The search goes on for my brain."
For several pages of the book, Dorian tries to find some depth of character in fanciful objects. Dorian's search for sensation is as tiresome as the chapters in American Psycho, where Bret Easton Ellis goes into one about 'Genesis', 'Whitney Houston' and 'Huey Lewis and the News'. Kill me now Patrick Bateman.
I wonder if Wilde was sharing a wish list of dull artefacts, hoping for post-publication gifts. Or, perhaps he was showing his feathers. "Hey everyone, I know about gemstones. Do you want to hear my story about the pistachio-coloured peridot?"
I thought I might like this book in the first few pages. I guess I was wrong.
Fapbants Recommends:
Onto more positive things. Hoorah! Noah and the Whale's new album 'The First Days of Spring' is brilliant. It's so carefully pieced together, that it's impossible to imagine haste in any part of its production. How's that for a second album, released just one year after the debut?
'The First Days of Spring' journey's through the loss and emptiness that festers in the wake of a relationship breakdown. While a far from novel concept for a pop record or album, it is brilliantly delivered. It encapsulates the confusion intrinsic to a parting of ways. There is freedom and there is hope. As with most breakdowns, it's impossible to separate either from the love that once was. There is the continual question that this might not be it. This might not be the end. Perhaps it will come back.
Here is what seems to be a truly personal account, delicately delivered with the polish of professionalism. It's strength lies in a candid vulnerability and a mantra of hope.
"But like a cut down tree, I will rise again
And I’ll be bigger and stronger than ever before."
This album is perfectly pitched. Even though it drifts into classical orchestration mid-album, it never sounds too big for its boots.
Download MP3: Noah and the Whale – Stranger (courtesy of tsururadio.com)
Monday, 26 October 2009
Gig Review: Whinge Therapy
Speech Debelle, at Brighton Coalition, October 8th 2009
Nearly a year ago, I raved about the first two Speech Debelle tracks that found my ears. The evidence is here:
Emily Fabpants – I'll Cut the Smile off your Face.
Forget the Mercury Music Prize.
Speech Debelle's Debut Album
+
Lacklustre Live Performance
=
Major Disappointment.
Grizzle, grumble, grouch.
If Speech Debelle had spent more time developing her tracks with an appropriate and able backing band, I might feel differently. The girl needs some proper gritty tunes, sparkling with innovation and attitude, so where the hell are they? The two tracks that I posted here, a full year ago, top the others by miles.
The live show said it all. It was worse than the album. Speech has recruited a one trick pony to back her, and the trick is neither gritty nor good. No band boasting a double bass should frustrate or bore me, let alone both. Just check out the tracks that Sodastream created. Who needs drums or guitars? Well, okay, The Smiths, The Stone Roses, The Libertines and in the midst of life we are in debt, et cetera.
So, there we have it. Sharp and incisive lyrics have been left to rot on a pile of cat poo and compost and, I say, "It's just not good enough".
At the gig, a very drunk man - stood right behind me (grrrr!) - kept shouting to his mate. "You know, she only has one album". "You know, it won the Mercury Prize". "You know, I'm a big shouty twat".
That's no one's fault but his.
On top of Speech's slightly 'too' casual approach to the live performance and the concept of 'giving it your all', the sound was despicable. Shouty Twat just made it worse. The lyrics were barely audible, and (come on!) that's what we were there for. We've already established that the tunes are mostly tripe.
Some may blame Speech Debelle's sore throat, which she more than apologised for, but she sang just fine. Evidently, the sound person (or idiot) really liked the one trick pony and Speech just wasn't that arsed about it all. What was that? Did you rap something Speech?
I've seen Lady Debelle twice now (I caught her in the Guardian Lounge at Glastonbury). I don't plan to again. It's a shame really. But, hey ho, you can't win 'em all.
Fapbants Recommends:
The life of Sodastream ended on February 18, 2007. I was lucky enough to see them live three times (Brighton, London, Berlin!). They were truly amazing.
Download MP3: Sodastream - Blinky (courtesy of sodastream.net.au)
Download MP3: Sodastream – Devil On My Shoulder (courtesy of sodastream.net.au)
On another note, it's no surprise that when I first heard O Children, I thought "Is this Nick Cave singing about his wife's wonderful tits?" It's not, but O Children are named after a Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds track. I mainly like this song for its content. I love the word 'ACE' and it's even better with 'BREASTS'.
Nearly a year ago, I raved about the first two Speech Debelle tracks that found my ears. The evidence is here:
Emily Fabpants – I'll Cut the Smile off your Face.
Forget the Mercury Music Prize.
Speech Debelle's Debut Album
+
Lacklustre Live Performance
=
Major Disappointment.
Grizzle, grumble, grouch.
If Speech Debelle had spent more time developing her tracks with an appropriate and able backing band, I might feel differently. The girl needs some proper gritty tunes, sparkling with innovation and attitude, so where the hell are they? The two tracks that I posted here, a full year ago, top the others by miles.
The live show said it all. It was worse than the album. Speech has recruited a one trick pony to back her, and the trick is neither gritty nor good. No band boasting a double bass should frustrate or bore me, let alone both. Just check out the tracks that Sodastream created. Who needs drums or guitars? Well, okay, The Smiths, The Stone Roses, The Libertines and in the midst of life we are in debt, et cetera.
So, there we have it. Sharp and incisive lyrics have been left to rot on a pile of cat poo and compost and, I say, "It's just not good enough".
At the gig, a very drunk man - stood right behind me (grrrr!) - kept shouting to his mate. "You know, she only has one album". "You know, it won the Mercury Prize". "You know, I'm a big shouty twat".
That's no one's fault but his.
On top of Speech's slightly 'too' casual approach to the live performance and the concept of 'giving it your all', the sound was despicable. Shouty Twat just made it worse. The lyrics were barely audible, and (come on!) that's what we were there for. We've already established that the tunes are mostly tripe.
Some may blame Speech Debelle's sore throat, which she more than apologised for, but she sang just fine. Evidently, the sound person (or idiot) really liked the one trick pony and Speech just wasn't that arsed about it all. What was that? Did you rap something Speech?
I've seen Lady Debelle twice now (I caught her in the Guardian Lounge at Glastonbury). I don't plan to again. It's a shame really. But, hey ho, you can't win 'em all.
Fapbants Recommends:
The life of Sodastream ended on February 18, 2007. I was lucky enough to see them live three times (Brighton, London, Berlin!). They were truly amazing.
Download MP3: Sodastream - Blinky (courtesy of sodastream.net.au)
Download MP3: Sodastream – Devil On My Shoulder (courtesy of sodastream.net.au)
On another note, it's no surprise that when I first heard O Children, I thought "Is this Nick Cave singing about his wife's wonderful tits?" It's not, but O Children are named after a Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds track. I mainly like this song for its content. I love the word 'ACE' and it's even better with 'BREASTS'.
Saturday, 24 October 2009
Gig Review: Casiokids Are Ace
Casiokids, at New Hero, 2nd October 2009
The mere contemplation of writing this review led to the involuntarily release of air from my lungs. Boy oh boy. Twenty-two days later and I'm still sighing with unanticipated delight.
I first saw Casiokids supporting 'Of Montreal' way back in January. Stuck at the back, behind the noisy designer grown-ups, I took note. This was a band to see without the buzz of the buzz crowd. The buzz crowd need a mouthful of sock or two.
Latitude Festival didn't disappoint. I was there, right down the front, all Emily wide-eyed and bouncing. You know how I get. I'm pretty mental for it. My notes say 9/10.
New Hero was my first chance to see Casiokids playing a full set as a headline band. Whoop. Whoop.
Would they have what it takes? Hell, yeah! And then some. They were off the scale.
Not only do they possess the absolutely stomping track that is 'Fot I Hose', a suitable crescendo for any live show, they are all extremely talented, genre jumping musicians, with a pure-ass-indie approach.
How many Norwegian bands, sporting Hot Chip comparisons, would you expect to cover Ivor Cutler's 'Darling Will You Marry Me Twice'?
Stood high, looking over the crowd, I watched a nodding crowd turn into a dancing mess. Casiokids, fucking eh!
Fabpants Recommends:
Umm, Casiokids?!
Download MP3: Casiokids – Fot I Hose (theregoesthefear.com)
The mere contemplation of writing this review led to the involuntarily release of air from my lungs. Boy oh boy. Twenty-two days later and I'm still sighing with unanticipated delight.
I first saw Casiokids supporting 'Of Montreal' way back in January. Stuck at the back, behind the noisy designer grown-ups, I took note. This was a band to see without the buzz of the buzz crowd. The buzz crowd need a mouthful of sock or two.
Latitude Festival didn't disappoint. I was there, right down the front, all Emily wide-eyed and bouncing. You know how I get. I'm pretty mental for it. My notes say 9/10.
New Hero was my first chance to see Casiokids playing a full set as a headline band. Whoop. Whoop.
Would they have what it takes? Hell, yeah! And then some. They were off the scale.
Not only do they possess the absolutely stomping track that is 'Fot I Hose', a suitable crescendo for any live show, they are all extremely talented, genre jumping musicians, with a pure-ass-indie approach.
How many Norwegian bands, sporting Hot Chip comparisons, would you expect to cover Ivor Cutler's 'Darling Will You Marry Me Twice'?
Stood high, looking over the crowd, I watched a nodding crowd turn into a dancing mess. Casiokids, fucking eh!
Fabpants Recommends:
Umm, Casiokids?!
Download MP3: Casiokids – Fot I Hose (theregoesthefear.com)
Wednesday, 21 October 2009
Less is More
As a child, my Dad would gaze out of windows and his mind would drift to a better place. He'd think of the summer and of the two weeks that he'd spend messing about in boats with his Ma, his Pa and his best friend, all on the Norfolk Broads.
Perhaps when banished, the imagination soars and finds a better place. My Dad grew up in Coventry. Coventry was bombed to bits in World War 2. It's a sprawling mass, with the soulless heart of a poverty stricken New Town. The Norfolk flatlands, lakes and sailboats were miles away, but they travelled as memories, dreams and sun-soaked fantasies.
As time passed, my Dad's window dreams became a permanent reality. His heart was set young, and never changed. He would buy a house of his own, within easy reach of the Norfolk Broads. He would gain a boat instead of a honeymoon. He would sail every Sunday and every Wednesday. At work, he would dream of boats. He lived the dream, he nurtured the dream and the dream made me what I am today.
Now, the dream is mine.
When the days draw in and my hands get cold, I imagine warm summer days on the Norfolk Broads.
With every light breeze, on a clear bright day, my heart belongs to my childhood home. I picture myself in a small rustic boat, bobbing about in a private offshoot. In an imagined moment, I'm at peace with the world. Tropical islands are nothing when you have the Norfolk Broads.
I gaze out of the window, and I repeat a past that's not my own. My mind will drift to a better place. I think of the teacher strikes and of days when I would go out on the water, alone, to sup on calm and unfettered freedom.
I would break the rules, but they never broke me.
The art of sailing was not for study, but for experimental escapism. My Dad won races, while I came last. We both hit land with the glee of achievement. For me, the race was the perfect setting for harmless mishaps, great adventures and tireless fun.
Every year, I still spend a small part of the summer on the Norfolk Broads. A van is hired, kayaks flung in, and the scene is set. Each moment 'on the water' forms the restoration of my soul. I return home, complete, carrying sustenance for the months ahead.
Already this autumn, I've spent many moments recalling a perfect August week, now some two months ago. Not a day passed, that week, when the sun wasn't queen of the skies, and a light breeze didn’t carry her warmth. I kayaked, sailed and devoured the views.
We stayed in a wonderful campsite in Thurne, and paddled to the ruins of St Benets Abbey. There, a giant oak cross filled the cow-lined sky, with majesty of a tall and wizened age-old tree.
From Ludham we paddled to How Hill nature reserve. Water gypsies sat in wooden boats eating hot tinned spaghetti and chatting like the birds in spring.
A trip from Martham took us to Heigham Sound, where only water, gulls and dragonflies glistened in our wake.
At Horsey Mere, we found a cut, a tiny river where only small boats can go. It took us to a derelict windmill near Waxham, and felt far away from the world. From wet arse to wet ears, I rippled inside with delight. A swim had called me in.
On the Saturday, the world welcomed us back into its fold, for the 'Alternative' Hickling Regatta. This yearly event carries the assurance of good-humoured calamity and endears me to its cheer. Unsinkable boats sink and experienced sailors get 'stuck in the reeds'. Broad and bloated Half-Deckers race slowly in their only event of the year.
The Commodore and Chief is no sailor boy. I'm not sure he even knows how. His boat, Lady Ann, runs on fuel. The night before the Regatta horn blows, he drives his land vehicle through local villages and knocks on doors. An event appears from nothing but good will, high spirits and a 'hey ho, give us a hand mate'. It's made of flags, a stopwatch and general confusion. The magic ingredient is a grubby captain's cap. When on the Commodore's head, a Regatta is born.
At the 'Alternative' Hickling Regatta, there is no fanfare. Medals are awarded for 'the furthest distance travelled by water and then not bothering to race'. Boats are allocated handicaps based on how well they sailed or didn't sail that day. It's a random affair, influenced by beer, reverse-nepotism and figures formed in the smoke of the misty Norfolk air.
The Regatta sets souls free. My Dad said, "Why not helm?" I captained my first ever race in a boat deemed unfit for the purpose. If I crashed it racing, the insurance company would say 'No'. The Half-Decker is an underdog in the racing world. I came last in a race of its kind. Cries of "You’re not over the line yet," were met with a slow but cheerful crossing. I'd already dropped the sail. Perhaps there should be a medal for that. At least I didn't bash the boat.
My Dad's 'Honeymoon' boat and my late Granddad's Half Decker sat side by side, the polished varnish shining in the sun. My Dad grinned all weekend. At times, his grey hair looked blond and his eyes just ten years old.
"Why don’t I move back to Norfolk?" I often ask myself.
Perhaps my Dad spent his childhood dreaming about the Norfolk Broads because he didn't live there. For him, Norfolk was a holiday retreat, a retreat from his Coventry existence. It was his thing to look forward to when life was tough, dull or cantankerous. It became his tonic and remains so to this day.
Now, I spend my adult life dreaming about the Norfolk Broads. It's my thing to look forward to when life is cold, demanding or awkward. The Norfolk flatlands, lakes and sailboats may be many miles away, but they travel as memories, dreams and sun-soaked fantasies. Perhaps they taste better that way.
Perhaps when banished, the imagination soars, captures the best parts of life, purifies them, and keeps a whimsical human sane.
Perhaps less is more.
Fabpants Recommends:
Before I recommend any music, if the above isn't endorsement enough, visit Norfolk. You don't have to go in a boat, but it helps. This year, as in every other, I did much, much more.
I rode on a miniature train from Wroxham to Alysham and bicycled back along the railway line.
I visited an Art Exhibition in various venues across Norwich, a fine city to be sure. The theme was identity and intense imagery is imprinted on my brain. At Norwich Castle, I saw Zbigniew Libera’s amazing LEGO box art, depicting concentration camps and the holocaust. The real life LEGO sets, developed with the LEGO Corporation of Denmark, included gas chambers and skeletons.
At Norwich Forum, an exhibition included photographs of asylum seekers living in a Butlin’s holiday camp . Butlins mugs were visibly for sale in a shop selling rice, milk and basic essentials. "A memento of your stay?"
At Fritton Lake, I played pitch and putt, bounced on a giant pillow, and picnicked on a rowboat. There is an amazing Norfolk scented Ghost Walk at Fairhaven, which we still talk of to this day. Finally, not to be missed, is the seafront mayhem of Great Yarmouth. It's a sandy, sugar-coated gem of flashing lights and family fun.
And, on a musical note, I do believe I’ve found my album of the year. It's Jamie T's 'Kings & Queens'. It's bloody brilliant.
Download MP3: Jamie T – Emily’s Heart (sorry, this link has died)
Perhaps when banished, the imagination soars and finds a better place. My Dad grew up in Coventry. Coventry was bombed to bits in World War 2. It's a sprawling mass, with the soulless heart of a poverty stricken New Town. The Norfolk flatlands, lakes and sailboats were miles away, but they travelled as memories, dreams and sun-soaked fantasies.
As time passed, my Dad's window dreams became a permanent reality. His heart was set young, and never changed. He would buy a house of his own, within easy reach of the Norfolk Broads. He would gain a boat instead of a honeymoon. He would sail every Sunday and every Wednesday. At work, he would dream of boats. He lived the dream, he nurtured the dream and the dream made me what I am today.
Now, the dream is mine.
When the days draw in and my hands get cold, I imagine warm summer days on the Norfolk Broads.
With every light breeze, on a clear bright day, my heart belongs to my childhood home. I picture myself in a small rustic boat, bobbing about in a private offshoot. In an imagined moment, I'm at peace with the world. Tropical islands are nothing when you have the Norfolk Broads.
I gaze out of the window, and I repeat a past that's not my own. My mind will drift to a better place. I think of the teacher strikes and of days when I would go out on the water, alone, to sup on calm and unfettered freedom.
I would break the rules, but they never broke me.
The art of sailing was not for study, but for experimental escapism. My Dad won races, while I came last. We both hit land with the glee of achievement. For me, the race was the perfect setting for harmless mishaps, great adventures and tireless fun.
Every year, I still spend a small part of the summer on the Norfolk Broads. A van is hired, kayaks flung in, and the scene is set. Each moment 'on the water' forms the restoration of my soul. I return home, complete, carrying sustenance for the months ahead.
Already this autumn, I've spent many moments recalling a perfect August week, now some two months ago. Not a day passed, that week, when the sun wasn't queen of the skies, and a light breeze didn’t carry her warmth. I kayaked, sailed and devoured the views.
We stayed in a wonderful campsite in Thurne, and paddled to the ruins of St Benets Abbey. There, a giant oak cross filled the cow-lined sky, with majesty of a tall and wizened age-old tree.
From Ludham we paddled to How Hill nature reserve. Water gypsies sat in wooden boats eating hot tinned spaghetti and chatting like the birds in spring.
A trip from Martham took us to Heigham Sound, where only water, gulls and dragonflies glistened in our wake.
At Horsey Mere, we found a cut, a tiny river where only small boats can go. It took us to a derelict windmill near Waxham, and felt far away from the world. From wet arse to wet ears, I rippled inside with delight. A swim had called me in.
On the Saturday, the world welcomed us back into its fold, for the 'Alternative' Hickling Regatta. This yearly event carries the assurance of good-humoured calamity and endears me to its cheer. Unsinkable boats sink and experienced sailors get 'stuck in the reeds'. Broad and bloated Half-Deckers race slowly in their only event of the year.
The Commodore and Chief is no sailor boy. I'm not sure he even knows how. His boat, Lady Ann, runs on fuel. The night before the Regatta horn blows, he drives his land vehicle through local villages and knocks on doors. An event appears from nothing but good will, high spirits and a 'hey ho, give us a hand mate'. It's made of flags, a stopwatch and general confusion. The magic ingredient is a grubby captain's cap. When on the Commodore's head, a Regatta is born.
At the 'Alternative' Hickling Regatta, there is no fanfare. Medals are awarded for 'the furthest distance travelled by water and then not bothering to race'. Boats are allocated handicaps based on how well they sailed or didn't sail that day. It's a random affair, influenced by beer, reverse-nepotism and figures formed in the smoke of the misty Norfolk air.
The Regatta sets souls free. My Dad said, "Why not helm?" I captained my first ever race in a boat deemed unfit for the purpose. If I crashed it racing, the insurance company would say 'No'. The Half-Decker is an underdog in the racing world. I came last in a race of its kind. Cries of "You’re not over the line yet," were met with a slow but cheerful crossing. I'd already dropped the sail. Perhaps there should be a medal for that. At least I didn't bash the boat.
My Dad's 'Honeymoon' boat and my late Granddad's Half Decker sat side by side, the polished varnish shining in the sun. My Dad grinned all weekend. At times, his grey hair looked blond and his eyes just ten years old.
"Why don’t I move back to Norfolk?" I often ask myself.
Perhaps my Dad spent his childhood dreaming about the Norfolk Broads because he didn't live there. For him, Norfolk was a holiday retreat, a retreat from his Coventry existence. It was his thing to look forward to when life was tough, dull or cantankerous. It became his tonic and remains so to this day.
Now, I spend my adult life dreaming about the Norfolk Broads. It's my thing to look forward to when life is cold, demanding or awkward. The Norfolk flatlands, lakes and sailboats may be many miles away, but they travel as memories, dreams and sun-soaked fantasies. Perhaps they taste better that way.
Perhaps when banished, the imagination soars, captures the best parts of life, purifies them, and keeps a whimsical human sane.
Perhaps less is more.
Fabpants Recommends:
Before I recommend any music, if the above isn't endorsement enough, visit Norfolk. You don't have to go in a boat, but it helps. This year, as in every other, I did much, much more.
I rode on a miniature train from Wroxham to Alysham and bicycled back along the railway line.
I visited an Art Exhibition in various venues across Norwich, a fine city to be sure. The theme was identity and intense imagery is imprinted on my brain. At Norwich Castle, I saw Zbigniew Libera’s amazing LEGO box art, depicting concentration camps and the holocaust. The real life LEGO sets, developed with the LEGO Corporation of Denmark, included gas chambers and skeletons.
At Norwich Forum, an exhibition included photographs of asylum seekers living in a Butlin’s holiday camp . Butlins mugs were visibly for sale in a shop selling rice, milk and basic essentials. "A memento of your stay?"
At Fritton Lake, I played pitch and putt, bounced on a giant pillow, and picnicked on a rowboat. There is an amazing Norfolk scented Ghost Walk at Fairhaven, which we still talk of to this day. Finally, not to be missed, is the seafront mayhem of Great Yarmouth. It's a sandy, sugar-coated gem of flashing lights and family fun.
And, on a musical note, I do believe I’ve found my album of the year. It's Jamie T's 'Kings & Queens'. It's bloody brilliant.
Download MP3: Jamie T – Emily’s Heart (sorry, this link has died)
Tuesday, 13 October 2009
Gig Review: Wave if You're Reading This
Wave Machines, at Brighton Freebutt, 30th September 2009
They came on with facemasks. They left with a bang. "Are you going to dance with us?" the groovy girls asked.
Didn't everyone? Could it be helped?
If I'd have known in advance, I'd have jumped and down shouting "Yes. Yes. Yes." Instead, I yawned. Perhaps I blinked 'maybe'. I hope I showed an inkling of optimism. I blame the support act, the waiting and the toilets. Having a piss at the Freebutt is like signing up to a step aerobics class in a dirty gym. Up the stairs, down the stairs, to the flushable bowl of hell.
I want a black and white mask of my own face. I would wear permanent optimism. It would say "Yes!" for me. It would say "I like DISCO!" It would say "I like to DANCE!" "I like ‘WAVE MACHINES!"
Wave Machines do disco like an intelligent, introverted Scissor Sisters. Shy boys wear masks. Extroverts wear rubber wrestling singlets. One by one, they peel them off. The enticement works. The focus on real flesh, real wrinkles and real hair, has me spellbound. I'm glad of four faces. Eight eyes look back. They look happy.
The nightclub boogieman that is Carl Brown is amazing. You'd pass him on a supermarket and never know. He has the moves. He has the grooves. He's on fire.
Tim Bruzon should sing every song, every backing vocal and every accidental cough. What a voice: tamed, unstrained and achingly perfect, even the fragile falsetto.
A band of such talent should share. Of course, they should share. The Fab Four did. I, for one, love 'Yellow Submarine'. It's an uplifting joy of a number. In Wave Machines, even with four talented vocalists, Tim should sing every song. That's my live opinion. He's bloody brilliant.
"Did you like them?" their Manager asked, as I passed him £10 for a CD. "Oh yeah", I replied. "I’ve been loving the album since I stole it."
I got extra thanks for buying it. It pays to be a thief.
Fabpants Recommends:
The album 'Wave if You’re Really There', on which the above live show was based, is stunning. At The Freebutt the sound system automatically cuts out when ripples form in nearby cups of tea. It cut out during the encore for Wave Machines. That night, it heard music for the first time. Shock makes us all shut down.
Download MP3: Wave Machines – Punk Spirit (courtesy of awmusic.ca)
Download MP3: Wave Machines – You Say the Stupidest Things (courtesy of tsururadio.com)
RIP Beau Velasco, a founding member of the Death Set. He co-wrote all those tracks I went rabid for in 2008.
Emily Fabpants Predicts The Motherfucking Death Set will be Ace Live
Emily Fabpants says Listen to The Death Set
Beau wasn't there, but The Death Set WERE Ace Live
Thanks Beau. You helped to create all this. It made me very happy. It will again.
Download MP3: The Death Set - Negative Thinking (courtesy of trashmenagerie.com)
They came on with facemasks. They left with a bang. "Are you going to dance with us?" the groovy girls asked.
Didn't everyone? Could it be helped?
If I'd have known in advance, I'd have jumped and down shouting "Yes. Yes. Yes." Instead, I yawned. Perhaps I blinked 'maybe'. I hope I showed an inkling of optimism. I blame the support act, the waiting and the toilets. Having a piss at the Freebutt is like signing up to a step aerobics class in a dirty gym. Up the stairs, down the stairs, to the flushable bowl of hell.
I want a black and white mask of my own face. I would wear permanent optimism. It would say "Yes!" for me. It would say "I like DISCO!" It would say "I like to DANCE!" "I like ‘WAVE MACHINES!"
Wave Machines do disco like an intelligent, introverted Scissor Sisters. Shy boys wear masks. Extroverts wear rubber wrestling singlets. One by one, they peel them off. The enticement works. The focus on real flesh, real wrinkles and real hair, has me spellbound. I'm glad of four faces. Eight eyes look back. They look happy.
The nightclub boogieman that is Carl Brown is amazing. You'd pass him on a supermarket and never know. He has the moves. He has the grooves. He's on fire.
Tim Bruzon should sing every song, every backing vocal and every accidental cough. What a voice: tamed, unstrained and achingly perfect, even the fragile falsetto.
A band of such talent should share. Of course, they should share. The Fab Four did. I, for one, love 'Yellow Submarine'. It's an uplifting joy of a number. In Wave Machines, even with four talented vocalists, Tim should sing every song. That's my live opinion. He's bloody brilliant.
"Did you like them?" their Manager asked, as I passed him £10 for a CD. "Oh yeah", I replied. "I’ve been loving the album since I stole it."
I got extra thanks for buying it. It pays to be a thief.
Fabpants Recommends:
The album 'Wave if You’re Really There', on which the above live show was based, is stunning. At The Freebutt the sound system automatically cuts out when ripples form in nearby cups of tea. It cut out during the encore for Wave Machines. That night, it heard music for the first time. Shock makes us all shut down.
Download MP3: Wave Machines – Punk Spirit (courtesy of awmusic.ca)
Download MP3: Wave Machines – You Say the Stupidest Things (courtesy of tsururadio.com)
RIP Beau Velasco, a founding member of the Death Set. He co-wrote all those tracks I went rabid for in 2008.
Emily Fabpants Predicts The Motherfucking Death Set will be Ace Live
Emily Fabpants says Listen to The Death Set
Beau wasn't there, but The Death Set WERE Ace Live
Thanks Beau. You helped to create all this. It made me very happy. It will again.
Download MP3: The Death Set - Negative Thinking (courtesy of trashmenagerie.com)
Thursday, 8 October 2009
Here by Omission: We Don’t Need to be the Same
I'm not on Facebook. Briefly - for 3 months - I was. It was 2007. You know, back then, when the weather was different.
The ice caps were bigger and no one caught colds. And, do you remember this? We were all rich. We were rolling in it. Just rolling in it. I owned a house, a spaceship and ate out every night.
Those were the days. I used to throw money at the ocean. I'd never heard of Swine Flu, let alone pretended to have it. A week off work, no questions asked. Thank you very much. That's progress.
I existed on Facebook under my pseudonym. No one could find me. My blog didn't exist. You didn't stand a chance. Fabpants rocked in private. She rocked hard. You better believe. Yeah, right.
I asked two friends to be my Facebook friends. They lived far away. One said, 'no'. The other joined, then promptly forgot. Facebook was an ever-spreading adolescent sneeze. It had yet to tickle the toes of parents, grandparents and suckling babes. It would though. It would.
Email invitations came and went. Two months in, I had about thirteen Facebook friends. That was fine by me. I liked the way they looked out at me, from my 27-inch monitor. The random person, from work, who I'd spoken to twice, got a 'no'. She wasn't allowed to be my friend. What the fuck? First, you gotta make friends - for real - bee-atch.
"Life is what happens when you’re not on Facebook." That was my parting message. I stand by my parting message.
I'm not a technophobe. I design and create real websites, for real businesses. I know. By the state of this blog, that's a toughie, but it's true. This is my 'minimal' approach. Enjoy.
I don't watch television. I download so much, I could set up a virtual raffle and you'd all get a prize. Any day now, I'm going to install Windows 7. I eat technology for breakfast. It tastes good.
I'm not a loner. I have many wonderful friends. More than thirteen in fact. I'm a lucky gal. Watch me go.
Facebook is a relatively new phenomenon. Yet, choosing not to be a part of it makes me an outsider.
Friends have to make exceptions for me.
"For you, the non-Facebook member, I am writing this email especially. I'm having a party and I want you to come." Hooray, I get my very own invite.
"For you, the non-Facebook member, I am writing this email especially. I'm sending you this link to my Facebook photos." Hooray, I get to see our funny times.
That's what friends do. They accept you, eccentricities an' all. We're not rivals. We just walk different paths. Some eat meat. Some don't. Some own cars. Some don't. Some are Christians. I'm not. Some are atheists. I don't care. Two have told me that they liked, actually LIKED, Margaret Thatcher. We enjoy the debate.
So, why did I leave Facebook?:
Firstly, I didn't have the self-control required. If Facebook begged me to login, I did. It was like Facebook was telling me that the world was about to blow up. That, if I didn't hit 'refresh' every other second, I might miss my chance to hitch a ride outta here. Alpha Centauri, Betelgeuse Five and Milliways would never see my 'Wow... what the fuck?... this is amazing!' face. In reality, Paul was 'Picking his Bum' and Steve had uploaded a photograph of his pillow.
Secondly, I hate the way that people collect friends on Facebook. 'Look at me. I’m so fucking popular, I have 3000 friends.' Yeah, like you ever talk to them, help them out when their life is shit, or hug them just because you can. 'Bah humbug', says I.
Thirdly, I had to keep 'untagging' unflattering photographs of myself. Why does no one else delete all the unflattering photographs of their friends? It's not like I’m so vain. I mean, really.
Fourthly, and the best reason of all, I'd never lost a game of Facebook Scrabble. Think about it. How long could my luck last?
I've never found a good reason to rejoin. I might not be on Facebook, but - quite surprisingly - I still have friends.
One of them, I see very briefly, about every ten years or so. Nothing too heavy. You could join his Group Writing Project. I just did. I'd say it was fun.
Fabpants Recommends:
“...you know I have this 'language-handycap' ;-)”, wrote my friend. She's from Munich. She'll never admit it, but her English is amazing. She's as unique and charming as the 'y' implies.
When I tried to find out more about Rockettothesky, I echoed the words of my friend. "You know, I have this 'language handycap'". The Norwegian text that filled the page didn't care. It didn't care one bit. Where's a Babel Fish when you need one?
This lovely track has been around for a year now. It's as enchanting as ever. It's today's tasty treat.
Download MP3: Rockettothesky - Grizzly Man (courtesy of mineorecords.com)
The ice caps were bigger and no one caught colds. And, do you remember this? We were all rich. We were rolling in it. Just rolling in it. I owned a house, a spaceship and ate out every night.
Those were the days. I used to throw money at the ocean. I'd never heard of Swine Flu, let alone pretended to have it. A week off work, no questions asked. Thank you very much. That's progress.
I existed on Facebook under my pseudonym. No one could find me. My blog didn't exist. You didn't stand a chance. Fabpants rocked in private. She rocked hard. You better believe. Yeah, right.
I asked two friends to be my Facebook friends. They lived far away. One said, 'no'. The other joined, then promptly forgot. Facebook was an ever-spreading adolescent sneeze. It had yet to tickle the toes of parents, grandparents and suckling babes. It would though. It would.
Email invitations came and went. Two months in, I had about thirteen Facebook friends. That was fine by me. I liked the way they looked out at me, from my 27-inch monitor. The random person, from work, who I'd spoken to twice, got a 'no'. She wasn't allowed to be my friend. What the fuck? First, you gotta make friends - for real - bee-atch.
"Life is what happens when you’re not on Facebook." That was my parting message. I stand by my parting message.
I'm not a technophobe. I design and create real websites, for real businesses. I know. By the state of this blog, that's a toughie, but it's true. This is my 'minimal' approach. Enjoy.
I don't watch television. I download so much, I could set up a virtual raffle and you'd all get a prize. Any day now, I'm going to install Windows 7. I eat technology for breakfast. It tastes good.
I'm not a loner. I have many wonderful friends. More than thirteen in fact. I'm a lucky gal. Watch me go.
Facebook is a relatively new phenomenon. Yet, choosing not to be a part of it makes me an outsider.
Friends have to make exceptions for me.
"For you, the non-Facebook member, I am writing this email especially. I'm having a party and I want you to come." Hooray, I get my very own invite.
"For you, the non-Facebook member, I am writing this email especially. I'm sending you this link to my Facebook photos." Hooray, I get to see our funny times.
That's what friends do. They accept you, eccentricities an' all. We're not rivals. We just walk different paths. Some eat meat. Some don't. Some own cars. Some don't. Some are Christians. I'm not. Some are atheists. I don't care. Two have told me that they liked, actually LIKED, Margaret Thatcher. We enjoy the debate.
So, why did I leave Facebook?:
Firstly, I didn't have the self-control required. If Facebook begged me to login, I did. It was like Facebook was telling me that the world was about to blow up. That, if I didn't hit 'refresh' every other second, I might miss my chance to hitch a ride outta here. Alpha Centauri, Betelgeuse Five and Milliways would never see my 'Wow... what the fuck?... this is amazing!' face. In reality, Paul was 'Picking his Bum' and Steve had uploaded a photograph of his pillow.
Secondly, I hate the way that people collect friends on Facebook. 'Look at me. I’m so fucking popular, I have 3000 friends.' Yeah, like you ever talk to them, help them out when their life is shit, or hug them just because you can. 'Bah humbug', says I.
Thirdly, I had to keep 'untagging' unflattering photographs of myself. Why does no one else delete all the unflattering photographs of their friends? It's not like I’m so vain. I mean, really.
Fourthly, and the best reason of all, I'd never lost a game of Facebook Scrabble. Think about it. How long could my luck last?
I've never found a good reason to rejoin. I might not be on Facebook, but - quite surprisingly - I still have friends.
One of them, I see very briefly, about every ten years or so. Nothing too heavy. You could join his Group Writing Project. I just did. I'd say it was fun.
Fabpants Recommends:
“...you know I have this 'language-handycap' ;-)”, wrote my friend. She's from Munich. She'll never admit it, but her English is amazing. She's as unique and charming as the 'y' implies.
When I tried to find out more about Rockettothesky, I echoed the words of my friend. "You know, I have this 'language handycap'". The Norwegian text that filled the page didn't care. It didn't care one bit. Where's a Babel Fish when you need one?
This lovely track has been around for a year now. It's as enchanting as ever. It's today's tasty treat.
Download MP3: Rockettothesky - Grizzly Man (courtesy of mineorecords.com)
Gig Review: Damn Knobs
Fuck Buttons, at Brighton Audio, September 27th 2009
I admit it. Sometimes during a live performance, my mind drifts. It adventures into distant lands. I lose all focus on the show before me. It happens quite a lot. It's a trance that I have to mentally fling myself out of.
"Where’d you go to Emily?"
"I dunno". Shrugs shoulders.
When I accidently stumbled across Fuck Buttons at Truck Festival in 2007, I was blown so far away they had to look for me in another field. When I saw that they were playing at Bestival 2008, I bought a ticket. I was probably the only person who was inspired to buy a ticket for Bestival to see a band that wasn’t even on the final line-up. As for my undergraduate degree, false advertising drew me in.
I saw Fuck Buttons this September, two years after my original airing. Two years is a long time. Two years older, and a little more jaded, would Fuck Buttons reconnect the broken circuits in my brain?
Last night, I decided three things.
1. Alfred Hitchcock's film The Birds should be remade using a Fuck Buttons soundtrack, particularly with lots of inaudible and scary nonsense emanating from a child's toy microphone. It would be ace.
2. I would love to watch Zombie Zombie and Fuck Buttons jamming together. I would pay big money to.
3. The drum machine was too loud and too unvaried.
I was completely entranced. My jaw hung in childlike wonder. I drifted to distant lands once only, for about 30 seconds. Then returned to transfixed.
So, what was missing? Why did I come away titillated to exasperation, clutching slightly sore parts? Where was the final climax?
I expected a big ballsy kick in the face. I anticipated it at every turn. Instead, I got bored of loops. I would go again though. I'm sure the climax will come. It's just around the corner.
I highly recommend taking a gander at the support act: Zun Zun Egui. It would be wrong to use words at this juncture. Just check out El Chuppakabra. It's like going insane.
Fabpants Recommends:
A friend has gained a new nickname. It's Captain Scarlett. Oh, me, oh my, what a theme tune. This is for Captain Scarlet of Hove.
Download MP3: Captain Scarlett Theme (courtesy of space1999.net)
I admit it. Sometimes during a live performance, my mind drifts. It adventures into distant lands. I lose all focus on the show before me. It happens quite a lot. It's a trance that I have to mentally fling myself out of.
"Where’d you go to Emily?"
"I dunno". Shrugs shoulders.
When I accidently stumbled across Fuck Buttons at Truck Festival in 2007, I was blown so far away they had to look for me in another field. When I saw that they were playing at Bestival 2008, I bought a ticket. I was probably the only person who was inspired to buy a ticket for Bestival to see a band that wasn’t even on the final line-up. As for my undergraduate degree, false advertising drew me in.
I saw Fuck Buttons this September, two years after my original airing. Two years is a long time. Two years older, and a little more jaded, would Fuck Buttons reconnect the broken circuits in my brain?
Last night, I decided three things.
1. Alfred Hitchcock's film The Birds should be remade using a Fuck Buttons soundtrack, particularly with lots of inaudible and scary nonsense emanating from a child's toy microphone. It would be ace.
2. I would love to watch Zombie Zombie and Fuck Buttons jamming together. I would pay big money to.
3. The drum machine was too loud and too unvaried.
I was completely entranced. My jaw hung in childlike wonder. I drifted to distant lands once only, for about 30 seconds. Then returned to transfixed.
So, what was missing? Why did I come away titillated to exasperation, clutching slightly sore parts? Where was the final climax?
I expected a big ballsy kick in the face. I anticipated it at every turn. Instead, I got bored of loops. I would go again though. I'm sure the climax will come. It's just around the corner.
I highly recommend taking a gander at the support act: Zun Zun Egui. It would be wrong to use words at this juncture. Just check out El Chuppakabra. It's like going insane.
Fabpants Recommends:
A friend has gained a new nickname. It's Captain Scarlett. Oh, me, oh my, what a theme tune. This is for Captain Scarlet of Hove.
Download MP3: Captain Scarlett Theme (courtesy of space1999.net)
Wednesday, 7 October 2009
Gig Review: No More Apologies
Darren Hayman and the Secondary Modern, at Brighton Freebutt, September 8th 2009
A few years ago, Kate Fox, a social anthropologist, undertook an experiment to find out more about the English. She spent several days in train stations, shopping centres, and public places, bumping into people. She deliberately gave people a bit of a barge. Eighty percent of those she bumped into said "sorry". That's Englishness.
We English have a fear of direct confrontation and have to pacify immediately. We also have a terrible fear that EVERYTHING might be our fault. I guess she didn't choose pubs, clubs or extremely drunk people for her research. That's a different story. The English without their inhibitions. We won't go there today.
"Sorry" he said, as I arrived by bicycle and he happened to cross my path.
"Sorry" he said, as he stood on the thin stairs coming down, when I wanted to go up.
"That's the second time I've said sorry to you isn't it? Tonight: no more apologies."
What difference does it make? It makes all the difference.
No need for apologies, but I have to love him for them. Darren Hayman is the epitome of Englishness.
I am a rabid fan his two most recent albums, 'Darren Hayman and the Secondary Modern' and 'Pram Town'. They knock the socks off Hefner. How delighted was I that they played so many tracks off Pram Town, only recently released? I was absolutely over the moon. The songs are so brilliant, that even after one or two listens they have the familiarity of old favourites. In my mind, I sang along with the emotional intensity of a music junky. I was shooting up.
Then the Hefner tracks, for the fans that collect b-sides. I accept their place and it was fun.
The final track, 'When the Angels Play Their Drum Machines', gave me earworm for two weeks. It was bloody marvellous. When a portion of a song repeats within one's mind, it can be as irritating as fuck, but sometimes it's the zest of life itself.
'Let me, let you, let me down again.'
Perfect.
Fabpants Recommends:
A little bit of ear worm.
Download MP3: Hefner - When the Angels Play Their Drum Machines (courtesy of epitonic.com)
A few years ago, Kate Fox, a social anthropologist, undertook an experiment to find out more about the English. She spent several days in train stations, shopping centres, and public places, bumping into people. She deliberately gave people a bit of a barge. Eighty percent of those she bumped into said "sorry". That's Englishness.
We English have a fear of direct confrontation and have to pacify immediately. We also have a terrible fear that EVERYTHING might be our fault. I guess she didn't choose pubs, clubs or extremely drunk people for her research. That's a different story. The English without their inhibitions. We won't go there today.
"Sorry" he said, as I arrived by bicycle and he happened to cross my path.
"Sorry" he said, as he stood on the thin stairs coming down, when I wanted to go up.
"That's the second time I've said sorry to you isn't it? Tonight: no more apologies."
What difference does it make? It makes all the difference.
No need for apologies, but I have to love him for them. Darren Hayman is the epitome of Englishness.
I am a rabid fan his two most recent albums, 'Darren Hayman and the Secondary Modern' and 'Pram Town'. They knock the socks off Hefner. How delighted was I that they played so many tracks off Pram Town, only recently released? I was absolutely over the moon. The songs are so brilliant, that even after one or two listens they have the familiarity of old favourites. In my mind, I sang along with the emotional intensity of a music junky. I was shooting up.
Then the Hefner tracks, for the fans that collect b-sides. I accept their place and it was fun.
The final track, 'When the Angels Play Their Drum Machines', gave me earworm for two weeks. It was bloody marvellous. When a portion of a song repeats within one's mind, it can be as irritating as fuck, but sometimes it's the zest of life itself.
'Let me, let you, let me down again.'
Perfect.
Fabpants Recommends:
A little bit of ear worm.
Download MP3: Hefner - When the Angels Play Their Drum Machines (courtesy of epitonic.com)
Tuesday, 6 October 2009
Gig Review: Love Will Come...
M83, at Brighton Concorde, 2 July 6th 2009
I thought that seeing M83 live might help me to reach a conclusion; am I an M83 fan or not? Having listened to a drunken student’s poor, and very loud, analysis of why people like myself taking the front row is all about economics and a ultimately benefit to everyone, I stood on that front row confused. His diatribe was not the cause.
M83 confound me. There were moments of rich, warm and pure brilliance. As the bass travelled though me and caressed my ageing innards, a heavy blanket of sound held me. This beautiful, safe place. This safe intro.
Then, discomfort. It came and it remained. The drummer sat in his own glass cage. Did he feel the same?
Silhouetted in the stage lights, the standing band looked striking. Truly. A band as a view. The female vocals were wondrously impressive. At times.
Was I enjoying myself?
At home, and away, M83 confuse me. Do I like them or not?
Maps’ rendition of 'Love Will Come' was most certainly pleasing. I wish I had caught the whole Maps set. If only I had checked the internet for the support act. I caught about seven tracks and weaved my way through a transfixed crowd. Love will come... It felt like it had. It's the support act that lives on best in my mind. MAPS MAPS MAPS.
Fabpants Recommends:
I recommend Maps - Love Will Come. The new Maps album 'Turning The Mind' is on the receiving end of a press panning. The BBC, NME and Drowned in Sound agree. The Independent likes it. Me? I'm still listening. These things take time.
Download MP3: Maps - Love Will Come (sorry, this link has died)
I thought that seeing M83 live might help me to reach a conclusion; am I an M83 fan or not? Having listened to a drunken student’s poor, and very loud, analysis of why people like myself taking the front row is all about economics and a ultimately benefit to everyone, I stood on that front row confused. His diatribe was not the cause.
M83 confound me. There were moments of rich, warm and pure brilliance. As the bass travelled though me and caressed my ageing innards, a heavy blanket of sound held me. This beautiful, safe place. This safe intro.
Then, discomfort. It came and it remained. The drummer sat in his own glass cage. Did he feel the same?
Silhouetted in the stage lights, the standing band looked striking. Truly. A band as a view. The female vocals were wondrously impressive. At times.
Was I enjoying myself?
At home, and away, M83 confuse me. Do I like them or not?
Maps’ rendition of 'Love Will Come' was most certainly pleasing. I wish I had caught the whole Maps set. If only I had checked the internet for the support act. I caught about seven tracks and weaved my way through a transfixed crowd. Love will come... It felt like it had. It's the support act that lives on best in my mind. MAPS MAPS MAPS.
Fabpants Recommends:
I recommend Maps - Love Will Come. The new Maps album 'Turning The Mind' is on the receiving end of a press panning. The BBC, NME and Drowned in Sound agree. The Independent likes it. Me? I'm still listening. These things take time.
Download MP3: Maps - Love Will Come (sorry, this link has died)
Sunday, 4 October 2009
Gig Review: Rebound Rebound Ready Okay?
Deerhoof, at Brighton Concorde 2, July 2nd 2009
All drummers should leave their bashing, suckle the lead microphone, deadpan comments and sit down again. It never happened. It’s an echo of a false memory, however charming. Or is it?
The blue jeans and t-shirt band are far from ordinary. Don’t be fooled by the uniform outfit. You’ll get a shock. Fractured songs and cooler than thou eccentricities will fill the room.
ChooChooChooChooBeepBeep. Deerhoof sound like Deerhoof and nothing else does. Combining deceitful peace with a happy intensity, the atmosphere is electric. Ahhh, this is so beautiful. Arrrgh, this is so fucking mental. Hooray. Hooray. Hooray. A pinball is flipping my head up, fucking my ears out and going for jackpot. What’s that? The guitarists are playing toe to toe, legs raised high. And, what’s all the spinning on the spot about? It’s great. Let me keep the flashing basketball? It’s as screwy as you are. Oh yes. Join Us. Let me be. You are endearing, so very endearing.
Fabpants Recommends:
The Flashing Basketball song...!
Download MP3: Deerhoof - Basket Ball Get Your Groove Back (courtesy of podcastingmanager.com)
All drummers should leave their bashing, suckle the lead microphone, deadpan comments and sit down again. It never happened. It’s an echo of a false memory, however charming. Or is it?
The blue jeans and t-shirt band are far from ordinary. Don’t be fooled by the uniform outfit. You’ll get a shock. Fractured songs and cooler than thou eccentricities will fill the room.
ChooChooChooChooBeepBeep. Deerhoof sound like Deerhoof and nothing else does. Combining deceitful peace with a happy intensity, the atmosphere is electric. Ahhh, this is so beautiful. Arrrgh, this is so fucking mental. Hooray. Hooray. Hooray. A pinball is flipping my head up, fucking my ears out and going for jackpot. What’s that? The guitarists are playing toe to toe, legs raised high. And, what’s all the spinning on the spot about? It’s great. Let me keep the flashing basketball? It’s as screwy as you are. Oh yes. Join Us. Let me be. You are endearing, so very endearing.
Fabpants Recommends:
The Flashing Basketball song...!
Download MP3: Deerhoof - Basket Ball Get Your Groove Back (courtesy of podcastingmanager.com)
Saturday, 3 October 2009
Gig Review: 'Eat Shit' Carved into a Lemon
The Lovely Eggs, at Brighton West Hill Community Hall, June 13th 2009
You may already know that I am a great fan of The West Hill Community Hall.
It's the perfect venue for quirky bands. Some bands are quite capable of inventing their own razzmatazz, whether by music, banter, style or costume. Hooray for them.
West Hill Hall is basic. Imagine, village. Along the walls, seats are stacked in rows. There is the odd electrical socket. Tables appear when called for. The Pet Shop Boys and West Hill Hall might not gel. I'd like to see their faces.
The Lovely Eggs are an inspiring couple. Watch them and you might wonder, "Why isn't my relationship like that? Why don’t I go home with boundless enthusiasm to create something out of my random and wide-eyed thoughts? Hang on, why don’t I have those thoughts, I used to when I was six? And, why don't I spend time, with my very own sex bomb, turning daydreams and the oddness of life into art?"
Well I do, don't you?
David Blackwell and Holly Ross are married. They spend their time making happy songs. Sometimes their songs are a little too silly, but that doesn't matter. The songs are made with love, presented with love, and always with one foot on the ground. Sometimes twee bands forget to keep one foot on the ground. Bantering about sunburn, and softly ridiculing each other, helps. Trashing away at a guitar and shouting helps too.
The quite fantastical ditties, from the album 'If You Were Fruit', found themselves with a precursor. Of course, every song is 100% logical to a free mind, but an explanation can only help.
The Lovely Eggs carry you with them. Our brain cells forget how to open the doors that stand shut in our day jobs. They rarely escape the tireless thought patterns that accompany the administration of daily living. The Lovely Eggs let your mind swim, with armbands and a pre-flight talk.
Holly Ross has a brilliant voice, an infectious smile, a naughty laugh and a tendency to giggle.
David Blackwell grins along. He thinks about all the wonderful things they've collected together. Some of the collection sits before him. Coconut shells and bicycle bells included.
Here's what I'm thinking. If I tie a coconut shell to my bike, which already has a bell, do I have my own drum kit? A mobile drum kit?
If I was in The Lovely Eggs, the answer would be 'Yes'. Without pause. I guess.
And every day, I'd tie something new to my bike and make my drum kit bigger, badder, weirder. It would be a thing of wonder. I'd have cushion on the back. On it, a talented musician would thrash away at a guitar and sing like a fallen angel.
Fabpants Recommends:
Last September, I recommended a Let’s Wrestle track, as a pre-Bestival taster.
Due to onsite flooding, I didn’t see Let's Wrestle. This is where I pull a sad face. The Let's Wrestle album just released this summer. It's called 'In the Court of the Wrestling Let's'.
I'm not going to say that it's the missing part of your MP3 collection. It won't have you dancing til dawn. It won't make you cry. And it won't cure cancer.
It's an instantly comfortable release. It's on the level. It makes me feel warm. It's spiky, without spearing souls. It's thoughtful, without being pretentiously philosophical. It is bouncy without the rave. It's like a best mate. It's not perfect. It lives in the same place as most of us. On the ground. There are highs and there are lows. Chewing gum pavements, mud and fallen pennies are never far away.
Download MP3: Let’s Wrestle - My Schedule (courtesy of polaroidallaradio.it)
You may already know that I am a great fan of The West Hill Community Hall.
It's the perfect venue for quirky bands. Some bands are quite capable of inventing their own razzmatazz, whether by music, banter, style or costume. Hooray for them.
West Hill Hall is basic. Imagine, village. Along the walls, seats are stacked in rows. There is the odd electrical socket. Tables appear when called for. The Pet Shop Boys and West Hill Hall might not gel. I'd like to see their faces.
The Lovely Eggs are an inspiring couple. Watch them and you might wonder, "Why isn't my relationship like that? Why don’t I go home with boundless enthusiasm to create something out of my random and wide-eyed thoughts? Hang on, why don’t I have those thoughts, I used to when I was six? And, why don't I spend time, with my very own sex bomb, turning daydreams and the oddness of life into art?"
Well I do, don't you?
David Blackwell and Holly Ross are married. They spend their time making happy songs. Sometimes their songs are a little too silly, but that doesn't matter. The songs are made with love, presented with love, and always with one foot on the ground. Sometimes twee bands forget to keep one foot on the ground. Bantering about sunburn, and softly ridiculing each other, helps. Trashing away at a guitar and shouting helps too.
The quite fantastical ditties, from the album 'If You Were Fruit', found themselves with a precursor. Of course, every song is 100% logical to a free mind, but an explanation can only help.
The Lovely Eggs carry you with them. Our brain cells forget how to open the doors that stand shut in our day jobs. They rarely escape the tireless thought patterns that accompany the administration of daily living. The Lovely Eggs let your mind swim, with armbands and a pre-flight talk.
Holly Ross has a brilliant voice, an infectious smile, a naughty laugh and a tendency to giggle.
David Blackwell grins along. He thinks about all the wonderful things they've collected together. Some of the collection sits before him. Coconut shells and bicycle bells included.
Here's what I'm thinking. If I tie a coconut shell to my bike, which already has a bell, do I have my own drum kit? A mobile drum kit?
If I was in The Lovely Eggs, the answer would be 'Yes'. Without pause. I guess.
And every day, I'd tie something new to my bike and make my drum kit bigger, badder, weirder. It would be a thing of wonder. I'd have cushion on the back. On it, a talented musician would thrash away at a guitar and sing like a fallen angel.
Fabpants Recommends:
Last September, I recommended a Let’s Wrestle track, as a pre-Bestival taster.
Due to onsite flooding, I didn’t see Let's Wrestle. This is where I pull a sad face. The Let's Wrestle album just released this summer. It's called 'In the Court of the Wrestling Let's'.
I'm not going to say that it's the missing part of your MP3 collection. It won't have you dancing til dawn. It won't make you cry. And it won't cure cancer.
It's an instantly comfortable release. It's on the level. It makes me feel warm. It's spiky, without spearing souls. It's thoughtful, without being pretentiously philosophical. It is bouncy without the rave. It's like a best mate. It's not perfect. It lives in the same place as most of us. On the ground. There are highs and there are lows. Chewing gum pavements, mud and fallen pennies are never far away.
Download MP3: Let’s Wrestle - My Schedule (courtesy of polaroidallaradio.it)
Thursday, 1 October 2009
Gig Review: Scrape the Skies: The Joy Formidable
The Joy Formidable, at Brighton Audio, June 11th 2009
At the feet of Ritzy Bryan, lead vocalist, guitarist and miniature wonder, lay twenty pedals. The girl wear’s cool like a comfortable pair of knickers.
For the most part Ritzy Formidable wore one facial expression. It said 'I am self-assured, serious, composed, intent, down-to-earth and friendly. Looking great just happens'. This is a rare combination for a singular face story. Ritzy commanded the show. Occasionally, a delight-filled smile broke through.
It all comes to this. A nerdy fascination with music and wired peripherals, hours and hours of practice, and an innate love: it all comes to this.
A group of fifteen-year-old boys crowded around me. Testosterone scented saliva wet their inner cheeks. It spread infectiously amongst them. With every outward breath or sentence, their communal feelings for the lead, whose boyfriend - Rhydian Dafydd - was on stage too, burgeoned.
Containment became futile. Hormones broke through the barriers, carrying the pubescent males in tow. Circling the source of their lust, a condensed gathering of happiness rose up and down. Ritzy looked at ease. She looked happy. This was the encore.
The songs: I am sure you can imagine. Think pedals and think sex. The songs filled the room with intensity, fuzz and throbbing.
The Joy Formidable followed two excellent support acts. The Lyrebirds boast an amazing vocalist, think Interpol, and clean cut The Welfare Mothers offered part polished tunes, with a dreamboat singer to boot.
Fabpants Recommends:
If you haven't already done so, you REALLY should watch the video banned by YouTube. It is for the song called Austere, which is a cracking pop gem. There is an official video, but this one's much more fun.
Download MP3: The Joy Formidable - Austere (theregoesthefear.com)
NEWSFLASH: The lovely people of Joy Formidable are offering a NEW free track via MySpace. It ends very happily in a fit of giggles.
Download MP3: The Joy Formidable - Greyhounds in the Slips
At the feet of Ritzy Bryan, lead vocalist, guitarist and miniature wonder, lay twenty pedals. The girl wear’s cool like a comfortable pair of knickers.
For the most part Ritzy Formidable wore one facial expression. It said 'I am self-assured, serious, composed, intent, down-to-earth and friendly. Looking great just happens'. This is a rare combination for a singular face story. Ritzy commanded the show. Occasionally, a delight-filled smile broke through.
It all comes to this. A nerdy fascination with music and wired peripherals, hours and hours of practice, and an innate love: it all comes to this.
A group of fifteen-year-old boys crowded around me. Testosterone scented saliva wet their inner cheeks. It spread infectiously amongst them. With every outward breath or sentence, their communal feelings for the lead, whose boyfriend - Rhydian Dafydd - was on stage too, burgeoned.
Containment became futile. Hormones broke through the barriers, carrying the pubescent males in tow. Circling the source of their lust, a condensed gathering of happiness rose up and down. Ritzy looked at ease. She looked happy. This was the encore.
The songs: I am sure you can imagine. Think pedals and think sex. The songs filled the room with intensity, fuzz and throbbing.
The Joy Formidable followed two excellent support acts. The Lyrebirds boast an amazing vocalist, think Interpol, and clean cut The Welfare Mothers offered part polished tunes, with a dreamboat singer to boot.
Fabpants Recommends:
If you haven't already done so, you REALLY should watch the video banned by YouTube. It is for the song called Austere, which is a cracking pop gem. There is an official video, but this one's much more fun.
Download MP3: The Joy Formidable - Austere (theregoesthefear.com)
NEWSFLASH: The lovely people of Joy Formidable are offering a NEW free track via MySpace. It ends very happily in a fit of giggles.
Download MP3: The Joy Formidable - Greyhounds in the Slips
