Empire of the Sun is not a book about Empires. Empire of the Sun is a book about a boy; a boy to inspire us all.
Empire of the Sun is a glorious book about adaptation, survival and how we interpret the world about us.
It’s hard to put into words how tremendously inspirational I found this book to be. Without an ounce of self pity, the lead character rationalises and logically adapts to society at its very worst.
He concentrates on his two great loves; loves that carry him through what could be the most horrendous days of his life. One is with him every day, in the skies, on the ground and in the excited thoughts that run riot in his head. The other is far out of reach. Only by surviving is there a chance of seeing and touching the other again.
One brings joy to his daily existence and the other brings hope for the future. Both loves are kept alive by strength, resilience and a fantastic force of will.
The book could be about the worst years of a person’s life. It could wallow, complain and leave you miserable. It doesn’t.
It leaves you inspired to touch, taste and smell all of the best bits of the world about you. It makes you want to learn about everything and to love, love, love.
I love Empire of the Sun. It’s a beautifully written tour de force. J G Ballard I salute you.
Sunday, 11 May 2008
Monday, 5 May 2008
Bank Holiday Magic
I have never seen Brighton seafront as busy as it’s been this weekend. Summery weather has made a sudden arrival, it’s a bank holiday, and everyone wants a piece of it. I feel like I’ve been at a festival all weekend, with the glorious luxury of my own wonderful bed to go home to.
And I have been. The Brighton Festival started this weekend, as did the Fringe. Brighton Festival is the biggest arts festival in England, and the Fringe is the second largest in the world. Woo hoo.
I’ve already been to the Children’s Parade and the beach is awash with buskers, sunbathers and the sweet smell of illicit barbecues.
Last night I went to my first Silent Disco. Hooray for Silent Discos.
It was absolutely phantasmagorical and I danced my fabulous pants off. I got home at 3am, after some post-dancing drinks, happy as Larry and all of that.
Every club in the world should run silently. Why? You can choose between DJs, you can set your own volume level, you can remove the headphones when you want to talk, and, apart from some out of tune sing alongs, and a wee bit of raucous cheering, noise pollution issues are well sorted. Woo hoo. Woo hoo. Woo hoo!
The sunny weather does have one downside. It seems that the BNP like it too. Last weekend we saw a BNP barbecue on Hove beach, and today a rather unlovely group of English Nazi’s were taking a stroll along the ‘Under the Cliff Walk’; topless men with scary tattoos. Let’s forget about them for now.
It’s sunny and I’m seeing four live bands tonight. Did I say 'Woo hoo'?!
And I have been. The Brighton Festival started this weekend, as did the Fringe. Brighton Festival is the biggest arts festival in England, and the Fringe is the second largest in the world. Woo hoo.
I’ve already been to the Children’s Parade and the beach is awash with buskers, sunbathers and the sweet smell of illicit barbecues.
Last night I went to my first Silent Disco. Hooray for Silent Discos.
It was absolutely phantasmagorical and I danced my fabulous pants off. I got home at 3am, after some post-dancing drinks, happy as Larry and all of that.
Every club in the world should run silently. Why? You can choose between DJs, you can set your own volume level, you can remove the headphones when you want to talk, and, apart from some out of tune sing alongs, and a wee bit of raucous cheering, noise pollution issues are well sorted. Woo hoo. Woo hoo. Woo hoo!
The sunny weather does have one downside. It seems that the BNP like it too. Last weekend we saw a BNP barbecue on Hove beach, and today a rather unlovely group of English Nazi’s were taking a stroll along the ‘Under the Cliff Walk’; topless men with scary tattoos. Let’s forget about them for now.
It’s sunny and I’m seeing four live bands tonight. Did I say 'Woo hoo'?!
Sunday, 4 May 2008
Think Before You Speak
I was absolutely delighted when I discovered that both ‘The Good Shoes’ and ‘Peggy Sue and the Pirates’ would be supporting 'The Maccabees’ last night. “I want to see the supports more than the main tonight!” I texted excitedly to a friend.
Needless to say, Peggy Sue and the Pirates are far better suited to small intimate venues than to others. Their ragged beauty can come adrift in vast spaces. The cavernous abyss of venues like the Concorde 2, or the Barfly, serves very few bands well. Their big rooms can accommodate a lot of people, and therein lies their success.
Last night the acoustic Buddy Holly heartbreakers struggled. The charm of their personalities, simple tunes and instantly loveable lyrics, is just too delicate for a venue that reeks of sweat, farts and alcoholic misdemeanours. It hurt me to stand behind a man who continually bad mouthed their performance with short unconstructive criticisms. ‘What a load of shit’, ‘This is god awful’, he grumbled vituperatively. Yes, he was bitterly abusive, wore a long dark coat and reminded me of the Hitler Youth.
“Play ‘Shot of Tuaca’. Play ‘Superman’. Go on. Make this special for me, for them, for everyone.” My thought processes appealed to no one. Instead of being great, Peggy Sue, and her imaginary band of Pirates, were mediocre. This has not altered my great dream of Peggy Sue and the Pirates playing one of my garden festivals. I can’t think of anyone I want to play in a garden of my choice more. Last night was not theirs. Last night was someone else’s. But a garden party could be so, so all Peggy Sue, Peggy Sue, Peggy Sue. Peggy Sue and the Pirates.
The Good Shoes came in their wake. If you haven’t heard ‘Think before you Speak’, it’s an absolute cracker of an album. The words “Like Jack and Jill, but with Heroin” repeatedly circle around my head. I am enamoured by them; seven words that conjure up such vivid images, I find myself compulsively drawn to their simple sequence.
Before they graced the stage, my friend told me that Good Shoes have been dropped by their label. “The new songs are just no good”, he said. I’ve seen Good Shoes live before; as part of the Great Escape two years ago. They weren’t very good live. As a huge fan of the album, and with the passing of two whole years, I remained optimistic. “I hope they play the old songs and no new ones”, I twittered. They didn’t.
Good Shoes had a formula set for the night; old and new songs performed alternately. Their choice was simple and ineffective. The new songs were not instantly loveable, catchy or intriguing, but then the old songs weren’t either. As stated, I wasn’t impressed the first time I saw them. They should have stuck to the old songs; the songs we know and love. They’re that kind of band. You need to know the songs to love them.
Unlike their predecessors, The Maccabees couldn’t put a foot wrong. Playing to a sold out audience in their home town, the crowd was full of high spirits and adoration. The Maccabees, unlike Good Shoes, easily got away with playing one new song after another. While the crowd joyously shouted along to every track from ‘Colour it In’, they listened with unremitting adulation to all others. “Maccabees, Maccabees, Maccabees” came the chant, “We want more. We want more. We want more”. We got more.
At the end of the night, I walked across the road to my friend and his bike. The lyrics working their way around my head remained. “I think I could do better. So arrogant.” Perhaps, the night was won by Good Shoes after all.
I have never been able to establish what my relationship with The Maccabees is. “Perhaps they’re just not dark enough for me”, I said. “They need to go through some hard times”, my friend replied. Neither of us would wish that on anyone.
By the way, I can see no evidence of Good Shoes being dropped by Brille Records. Perhaps that's just a nasty rumour. I can’t say.
Needless to say, Peggy Sue and the Pirates are far better suited to small intimate venues than to others. Their ragged beauty can come adrift in vast spaces. The cavernous abyss of venues like the Concorde 2, or the Barfly, serves very few bands well. Their big rooms can accommodate a lot of people, and therein lies their success.
Last night the acoustic Buddy Holly heartbreakers struggled. The charm of their personalities, simple tunes and instantly loveable lyrics, is just too delicate for a venue that reeks of sweat, farts and alcoholic misdemeanours. It hurt me to stand behind a man who continually bad mouthed their performance with short unconstructive criticisms. ‘What a load of shit’, ‘This is god awful’, he grumbled vituperatively. Yes, he was bitterly abusive, wore a long dark coat and reminded me of the Hitler Youth.
“Play ‘Shot of Tuaca’. Play ‘Superman’. Go on. Make this special for me, for them, for everyone.” My thought processes appealed to no one. Instead of being great, Peggy Sue, and her imaginary band of Pirates, were mediocre. This has not altered my great dream of Peggy Sue and the Pirates playing one of my garden festivals. I can’t think of anyone I want to play in a garden of my choice more. Last night was not theirs. Last night was someone else’s. But a garden party could be so, so all Peggy Sue, Peggy Sue, Peggy Sue. Peggy Sue and the Pirates.
The Good Shoes came in their wake. If you haven’t heard ‘Think before you Speak’, it’s an absolute cracker of an album. The words “Like Jack and Jill, but with Heroin” repeatedly circle around my head. I am enamoured by them; seven words that conjure up such vivid images, I find myself compulsively drawn to their simple sequence.
Before they graced the stage, my friend told me that Good Shoes have been dropped by their label. “The new songs are just no good”, he said. I’ve seen Good Shoes live before; as part of the Great Escape two years ago. They weren’t very good live. As a huge fan of the album, and with the passing of two whole years, I remained optimistic. “I hope they play the old songs and no new ones”, I twittered. They didn’t.
Good Shoes had a formula set for the night; old and new songs performed alternately. Their choice was simple and ineffective. The new songs were not instantly loveable, catchy or intriguing, but then the old songs weren’t either. As stated, I wasn’t impressed the first time I saw them. They should have stuck to the old songs; the songs we know and love. They’re that kind of band. You need to know the songs to love them.
Unlike their predecessors, The Maccabees couldn’t put a foot wrong. Playing to a sold out audience in their home town, the crowd was full of high spirits and adoration. The Maccabees, unlike Good Shoes, easily got away with playing one new song after another. While the crowd joyously shouted along to every track from ‘Colour it In’, they listened with unremitting adulation to all others. “Maccabees, Maccabees, Maccabees” came the chant, “We want more. We want more. We want more”. We got more.
At the end of the night, I walked across the road to my friend and his bike. The lyrics working their way around my head remained. “I think I could do better. So arrogant.” Perhaps, the night was won by Good Shoes after all.
I have never been able to establish what my relationship with The Maccabees is. “Perhaps they’re just not dark enough for me”, I said. “They need to go through some hard times”, my friend replied. Neither of us would wish that on anyone.
By the way, I can see no evidence of Good Shoes being dropped by Brille Records. Perhaps that's just a nasty rumour. I can’t say.
Wednesday, 30 April 2008
Drowned World
I went back to Norfolk at the weekend. I love Norfolk. I’ve never met a person that grew up in Norfolk that doesn’t love it.
It’s seems that by limiting myself to a little bit of the Today show on Radio 4 some mornings, and regular visits to the BBC News site (my homepage), I’ve been living in ignorance.
Last Friday, I cycled 36 miles through the beautiful countryside of North East Norfolk, riding back along the fertile flatlands of the coastline, and marvelling at its wide sandy beaches. I rode past two windmills, along ‘quiet lanes’, and spent some thirty minutes in awe of a lighthouse set against fields and fields of bright sun soaked daffodils. Last Friday, I made the painful discovery that they want to flood my childhood and the land of my dreams.
It seems that some time ago, a series of terrible, stink infested plans, devised by Natural England on a dark day in hell, were leaked to the public. I’m not the public; I’m a blinkered fool who wouldn’t know the news if it bit her on the bum. I had no idea. The six six six club have been scheming to flood twenty five square miles of Norfolk; including the village where I spent the first two decades of my life, my parents’ home and my oldest friend’s and her children’s home.
Under three of four plans, six villages, hundreds of homes, five of the Norfolk Broads, and thousands of acres of farmland, could be obliterated over the next twenty to fifty years. The sea will be allowed to breach fifteen miles of the North Norfolk coast between Eccles-on-Sea and Winterton. It will flood low-lying land to create a new bay. Experts talk of ‘realigning the coast’. The implication of this terminology - that a little of the coastline will be lost over a large stretch of land - is wrong. The plan is to create a large cavity; akin to taking a bite shaped chunk out of the north east coast. If you want to see what I mean, check out the map on the Save the Broads Blog.
Okay, coastal defenses cost money, and the ice sheets are melting, but flooding a village that’s three miles inland seems wrong. Or perhaps that’s just me being a NIMBY; it probably is. ‘Not in my backyard’ I say. Actually, I’d much rather they did flood my backyard. It’s lovely, but I don’t carry it with me - in my heart - everywhere I go.
I spent today asking people to decorate postcards with words and images to represent what makes them feel happy. It was my idea of bringing positive thinking to the bleak topic of mental health. It worked. I live by the sea and for many people the sea is important to their happiness. I love Brighton and its my home, but it’s not home in the way that Norfolk is.
When I think of a perfect day, I drift back to 1980s. I drift back to a time when weekly teacher strikes gave me, and none of my siblings, a whole day off, every week, for weeks on end. I drift back to days spent lying inside a boat in glorious sunshine; days when I could enjoy the blissful pleasure of having the Norfolk Broads all to myself. Many things make me feel happy, but that’s my happy place. A beach in Barbados means nothing to me.
I sailed on the Norfolk Broads before I could walk.
I spend much of the year hankering for the network of lakes and rivers that provided me with the best parts of my childhood. I always have. The Norfolk Broads are my homeland. I grew up with Swallowtail butterflies in the garden and the hushed talk of Bitterns and possible sightings. Bittern was the name of my school team. The Bittern is a rare bird and it’s making a comeback. It won’t like being in a saltmarsh, and many people won’t either.
There’s a petition online. Unfortunately, as with many of these things it’s been personalised, and it’s not generic. There’s far too much mention of the Pike Anglers Club, pikes fisheries and who caught the biggest fish. The aim is to save entire habitats and communities, not for the sake of one species, but for the sake of them all. The person who set up the petition also neglected to change the default date for the petition end date, and the government need pay it no mind until 26 March 2009. All the same, I signed it. The website for the village - the village that I grew up in - told me to.
Saves the Broads Petition.
It’s seems that by limiting myself to a little bit of the Today show on Radio 4 some mornings, and regular visits to the BBC News site (my homepage), I’ve been living in ignorance.
Last Friday, I cycled 36 miles through the beautiful countryside of North East Norfolk, riding back along the fertile flatlands of the coastline, and marvelling at its wide sandy beaches. I rode past two windmills, along ‘quiet lanes’, and spent some thirty minutes in awe of a lighthouse set against fields and fields of bright sun soaked daffodils. Last Friday, I made the painful discovery that they want to flood my childhood and the land of my dreams.
It seems that some time ago, a series of terrible, stink infested plans, devised by Natural England on a dark day in hell, were leaked to the public. I’m not the public; I’m a blinkered fool who wouldn’t know the news if it bit her on the bum. I had no idea. The six six six club have been scheming to flood twenty five square miles of Norfolk; including the village where I spent the first two decades of my life, my parents’ home and my oldest friend’s and her children’s home.
Under three of four plans, six villages, hundreds of homes, five of the Norfolk Broads, and thousands of acres of farmland, could be obliterated over the next twenty to fifty years. The sea will be allowed to breach fifteen miles of the North Norfolk coast between Eccles-on-Sea and Winterton. It will flood low-lying land to create a new bay. Experts talk of ‘realigning the coast’. The implication of this terminology - that a little of the coastline will be lost over a large stretch of land - is wrong. The plan is to create a large cavity; akin to taking a bite shaped chunk out of the north east coast. If you want to see what I mean, check out the map on the Save the Broads Blog.
Okay, coastal defenses cost money, and the ice sheets are melting, but flooding a village that’s three miles inland seems wrong. Or perhaps that’s just me being a NIMBY; it probably is. ‘Not in my backyard’ I say. Actually, I’d much rather they did flood my backyard. It’s lovely, but I don’t carry it with me - in my heart - everywhere I go.
I spent today asking people to decorate postcards with words and images to represent what makes them feel happy. It was my idea of bringing positive thinking to the bleak topic of mental health. It worked. I live by the sea and for many people the sea is important to their happiness. I love Brighton and its my home, but it’s not home in the way that Norfolk is.
When I think of a perfect day, I drift back to 1980s. I drift back to a time when weekly teacher strikes gave me, and none of my siblings, a whole day off, every week, for weeks on end. I drift back to days spent lying inside a boat in glorious sunshine; days when I could enjoy the blissful pleasure of having the Norfolk Broads all to myself. Many things make me feel happy, but that’s my happy place. A beach in Barbados means nothing to me.
I sailed on the Norfolk Broads before I could walk.
I spend much of the year hankering for the network of lakes and rivers that provided me with the best parts of my childhood. I always have. The Norfolk Broads are my homeland. I grew up with Swallowtail butterflies in the garden and the hushed talk of Bitterns and possible sightings. Bittern was the name of my school team. The Bittern is a rare bird and it’s making a comeback. It won’t like being in a saltmarsh, and many people won’t either.
There’s a petition online. Unfortunately, as with many of these things it’s been personalised, and it’s not generic. There’s far too much mention of the Pike Anglers Club, pikes fisheries and who caught the biggest fish. The aim is to save entire habitats and communities, not for the sake of one species, but for the sake of them all. The person who set up the petition also neglected to change the default date for the petition end date, and the government need pay it no mind until 26 March 2009. All the same, I signed it. The website for the village - the village that I grew up in - told me to.
Saves the Broads Petition.
A Review of Sorts
I saw Happy-Go-Lucky last night. While this film made me smile throughout (happy people make me smile), I could feel the absence of a plot wearing me down. The characters were forced stereotypes. By the end of the film, I was so sick of the theme tune that I spent the entire bike ride home trying to expel it from my mind. For me, 'Life is Sweet' remains Mike Leigh’s greatest work.
That is my short film review.
That is my short film review.
Carnival Review: Love Music Hate Racism
I went to the Love Music Hate Racism carnival on Sunday. Woo-hoo. I arrived to be greeted by the youngest crowd of gig goers that I have ever had the pleasure of being surrounded by. Yes, it was multicultural and, yes, it was ace. I have never seen a crowd so up for it at 12.30pm. By the end of the event, old white farts like me dominated the 100,000 strong crowd. I will take away my first impression and not my last. The thirteen year old with me thoroughly enjoyed his first experience of the moshpit. I did too. Bottoms up to the moshpit. We love it.
Thursday, 24 April 2008
Gig Review: I Feel like Life has no Beginning
Along time ago, when I still lived in the beautiful county of Norfolk, and spent my days watching rare butterflies and ducklings, I heard Saint Etienne’s ‘Wilson’. Its cheeky repetitive samples enchanted me. My love affair with Saint Etienne ended not long after. I tried to like them, but they veered too far into shit rock pop and lost everything that made them fun, alternative and uniquely different.
I can’t quite put my finger on why, but when I first heard Chromatics they reminded me of Saint Etienne. Do they resemble the kind of band that Saint Etienne could have been, if they had been depressively good? Instead of finding their inspiration in Stock, Aitkin and Waterman’s candy floss factory of sugar coated hits, Chromatics appear to have been wandering lost in the fields of Interpol’s darkest dreams.
As I watched Chromatics play last night, the understated vocals, gently searing guitars and dark beats had me gripped. Every song, until the very last, was perfectly formed and performed.
Ruth Radelet’s vocals were perfectly attuned to her voice and not once did she venture into the painful warbling that so many female singers find it impossible to resist.
The last song, a crowd pleaser for sure, broke the beautiful spell. “I’m Running up that Hill”, as much as one might try, cannot be sung without a warble. Where once Ruth’s voice had been flawless, it struggled.
Chromatics would be better suited to covering NYC, and deadpanning “The subway is a porno. Pavements they are a mess. I know you've supported me for a long time. Somehow I'm not impressed.” I assure you it would be fantastic with Radelet’s non-committal, apathetic and mesmerising voice. It even has a repetitive chorus.
Next time, hopefully, they will heed my advice.
From yours truly, set in Norfolk where "Godzilla eats Diss".
I can’t quite put my finger on why, but when I first heard Chromatics they reminded me of Saint Etienne. Do they resemble the kind of band that Saint Etienne could have been, if they had been depressively good? Instead of finding their inspiration in Stock, Aitkin and Waterman’s candy floss factory of sugar coated hits, Chromatics appear to have been wandering lost in the fields of Interpol’s darkest dreams.
As I watched Chromatics play last night, the understated vocals, gently searing guitars and dark beats had me gripped. Every song, until the very last, was perfectly formed and performed.
Ruth Radelet’s vocals were perfectly attuned to her voice and not once did she venture into the painful warbling that so many female singers find it impossible to resist.
The last song, a crowd pleaser for sure, broke the beautiful spell. “I’m Running up that Hill”, as much as one might try, cannot be sung without a warble. Where once Ruth’s voice had been flawless, it struggled.
Chromatics would be better suited to covering NYC, and deadpanning “The subway is a porno. Pavements they are a mess. I know you've supported me for a long time. Somehow I'm not impressed.” I assure you it would be fantastic with Radelet’s non-committal, apathetic and mesmerising voice. It even has a repetitive chorus.
Next time, hopefully, they will heed my advice.
From yours truly, set in Norfolk where "Godzilla eats Diss".
Tuesday, 22 April 2008
Gig Review: Old Enough to be Jaded
I first saw Frank some time ago. I had just flown back from Dublin. I had my rucksack in tow and a very tired head. Between his life tales and wry witticisms, Frank sang his post-punk heart out. The lyrics were honest, brutal and heart warming. Unfortunately, I couldn’t hear them all. My baggage and I had to leave. We had to catch the dreaded last bus home.
One minute later, Frank dedicated a song to me. It was my birthday the following day. It’s the only time that anyone has ever dedicated a song to me, and me alone, and I missed it. No one could find me. ‘Emily?’ they called. Only silence answered back. It was a bad scenario all round.
I didn’t see Frank again for a long time. He always came to town when I was away. Recently, he seems to be everywhere. He is experiencing a media boom. He’s in newspapers, on posters, and in the songs that circle inside your head. He’s a banner ad on MySpace.
I saw Frank again last night. He was on stage. He was playing to a sold out audience. The audience doted on Frank’s every word, song and facial expression.
They danced, sang and smiled in rapture.
I was in acute pain. I had taken two Nurofen and two Paracetamol just to leave the house. I had cycled three miles across town wincing and occasionally shutting my eyes. I was very happy to see Frank again, but I was also sad. I wanted to be at the front dancing, singing and smiling in rapture.
Frank will play in bigger and bigger venues as the months go by. “Buy my album from your local independent record shop”, he asks. “Only let the independent shops stock them”, I reply.
How far to sell out, in order to spread your thoughts, work and ideology, is always a hard choice; and everyone needs a little money to live. Do your words become disingenuous when you find yourself inside a giant banner that's ‘powered by Google’? Can you blame that on your hardworking independent record label? Do the ends justify the means? Everyone needs a return on their investment. Google is such a nice word.
Support the label, support the chain with no name, support Frank Turner, but don’t click through on that Google ad.
Talk to Frank. Ask about drugs and Frank will get back to you. Frank is an affable man.
One minute later, Frank dedicated a song to me. It was my birthday the following day. It’s the only time that anyone has ever dedicated a song to me, and me alone, and I missed it. No one could find me. ‘Emily?’ they called. Only silence answered back. It was a bad scenario all round.
I didn’t see Frank again for a long time. He always came to town when I was away. Recently, he seems to be everywhere. He is experiencing a media boom. He’s in newspapers, on posters, and in the songs that circle inside your head. He’s a banner ad on MySpace.
I saw Frank again last night. He was on stage. He was playing to a sold out audience. The audience doted on Frank’s every word, song and facial expression.
They danced, sang and smiled in rapture.
I was in acute pain. I had taken two Nurofen and two Paracetamol just to leave the house. I had cycled three miles across town wincing and occasionally shutting my eyes. I was very happy to see Frank again, but I was also sad. I wanted to be at the front dancing, singing and smiling in rapture.
Frank will play in bigger and bigger venues as the months go by. “Buy my album from your local independent record shop”, he asks. “Only let the independent shops stock them”, I reply.
How far to sell out, in order to spread your thoughts, work and ideology, is always a hard choice; and everyone needs a little money to live. Do your words become disingenuous when you find yourself inside a giant banner that's ‘powered by Google’? Can you blame that on your hardworking independent record label? Do the ends justify the means? Everyone needs a return on their investment. Google is such a nice word.
Support the label, support the chain with no name, support Frank Turner, but don’t click through on that Google ad.
Talk to Frank. Ask about drugs and Frank will get back to you. Frank is an affable man.
