Camera Obscura, Brighton Komedia, 23rd October 2009
'Have I made a mistake', I thought, as I cycled passed The Brighton Centre. TOM JONES!!! I was off to Komedia while Tom Jones was singing classics by the sea. Watching an old Welsh man getting a face full of knickers must be fun. You know, it's not unusual to be loved by anyone. Even elderly ladies. Way back in 1964, the BBC declared that Tom Jones was 'too hot to handle'. They ban him from the airwaves. TOM JONES!!!
From the grins on the faces around me, I bet a few folk, of both genders, were tempted to throw their knickers at the lead singer of Camera Obscura, Tracyanne Campbell. Meanwhile, she was half wishing she was home with a cuppa and a movie. Announcing to the full to capacity venue that she hadn't wanted to come may not have been wise, despite the "I've changed my mind now" angle.
Camera Obscura's latest album's title 'My Maudlin Career' sums up their latest Komedia offering. It doesn't make it bad, but it made it far from exceptional. Apart from the percussionist, and, at times, the drummer, the band came across as gloomy, and rather unhappy with their jobs. The last time Camera Obscura came to Komedia it was a little more smiley.
They do have some rather brilliants tunes though.
The set list, that I stole, says this: 1. My Maudlin Career 2. Swans 3. Tears for Affairs 4. Teenager 5. Honey in the Sun 6. Forests and Sands 7. The Sweetest Thing 8. French Navy 9. 80's Fan 10. Let's Get Out of This Country 11. Country Mile 12. Lloyd I'm Ready to Be... 13. If Looks Could Kill
Fabpants Recommends: Here’s a couple of tracks played at the gig:
January is a confusing time. The aftermath of Christmas is upon us, it’s bloody cold, the nights are short and there’s more expectation than a winter mole can take. Hot tips for 2010 swarm like flies. The obvious choice is to sit back and accept such holy predictions, or to fry the mind making sense of it all. I decided on a third approach, to ignore and avoid the hype. That was until yesterday.
Yesterday, Grumpy Missives listened to every track on the NME Official Radar 2010 Mixtape, gave each track a mark out of five, and a short review. He challenged me to do the same. Without looking at his verdicts, I did. Yes, the aim was to compare and contrast. Would I fall in love with a single that he wiped from his hard drive for fear of contamination, or would the Radar offerings unite us in musical agreement.
The reviews are based purely on the tracks as they come on the mixtape.
EF: Having been fully onboard with the hype and a fan of EP 'Summertime!' (it was on my Christmas list), I have to say I'm surprised by this song. It's pretty pants. The words 'family' and 'heart' are elongated so much I felt like stabbing my ears with a skewer. Not for Me Thanks (2/5)
GM: Indie pop by numbers. Repetitive and dull. (2/5)
EF: This song is as original as supermarket own brand Baked Beans. It's not offensive, it's not special. It just is. It sounds like a late 70s band pretending they live in the 50s. Not for Me Thanks (2/5)
GM: Nice modern take on early punky rock & roll. Definitely want to hear the album. (4/5)
EF:Sometimes a simple line can carry a song. 'I'm Falling and I Can't Turn Back' almost makes it. I listened contently to this mellow spaced out tune and its little digressions, but it adds little. There are far better tracks of this ilk. Late 80s ambient house has left its mark. It's an early morning, tired legs can't stop dancing, don’t really care, just need a beat, little number. It’s not offensive. Thumbs Up (3/5)
GM: Reminded me somehow of Amongst the Pigeons but without any imagination or bravery. (2/5)
EF: This Replacements cover is rather tasty. The lyrics are brilliant, which Kindness can take no credit for, but there is directness and a sadness to the delivery that makes it quite entrancing and oddly uplifting. "Bring your own lampshade, somewhere there’s a party, Here it’s never endin’, can’t remember when it started ...If bein’ afraid is a crime, we hang side by side" Fucking Awesome (5/5)
GM: Relaxed disco. Not really my cup-o-tea but not bad. (3/5)
EF: This little hip-hop number is laidback in style, but talks hard. The many expressive sounds that interlace it make it a bit special. This track covers the lot, clothing, drugs, pimps, weapons and murder. It could do without the 'portion of chips' lyric. Ear Candy (4/5)
GM: Really not my thing. Is this grime? Seems a very boring style of rapping. (2/5)
EF: Hurts sound like they are trying to convince themselves it's a wonderful life, rather than believing in it. It just doesn't sound sincere. I had to stop this track early, it so annoyed me. Hideously Awful (1/5)
GM: Is this the new x-factor single? No not good enough for that. (1/5)
EF: I think a lot of people will love this track, and I can hear its merits. It has that female warble thing going on, not a lot, but it meets and greets. I love the pace and spike. I may be able to forgive the warble. Ear Candy (4/5)
GM: I think too many others do this better. Nice when the beat kicks in though. (3/5)
EF: At nearly seven minutes, this track takes you on an epic journey. Unfortunately, as the glorious melodic disco drama unfolds - I see windswept hair - the vocals strain with 'hear me, I am so fucking earnest' power pop. Drop the vocals and I might like it. It seems that this is an improvement on the original, embrace the 80s number, where the vocals are continuous. Not for Me Thanks (2/5)
GM: I can't believe it’s not...Daft Punk. Nice enough but nothing special (might be a dodgy remix). (3/5)
EF: It's all about the atmosphere, creating a feeling, closing your eyes and drifting with the music. The song nearly achieves what it aims for, but could learn something from Giggs and Joy Orbison about digression and a dash of colour. It's a wee bit bland. Not for Me Thanks (2/5)
GM: It’s not bad music just not for me. Lose the drum machine and get some Grandaddy guitars. (2/5)
EF: Flirting with 'It's the Final Countdown', 'Afropop' and a wall of fuzz, this track scares me. The Afropop interlude is rather nice, but completely out of place in an example of masturbatory rock. Not for Me Thanks (2/5)
GM: Europe? Bon Jovi? I'm sure that this will fill a gap in many teenage boys’ lives. They get 2 points for the Babyshambles riff in the middle. (2/5)
EF: I love the giggling count down, 1,2, snigger, 4. This track is a little bit skiffle, a little bit 50s Rock n Roll, but not as good as I imagine this combination could be. It's a little contrived and lacking in sparkle. Not for Me Thanks (2/5)
GM: I'm a sucker for lo-fi and they have potential, but not with this track. (3/5)
MP3: Magnetic Man - The Cyberman (This version is not available to stream. Download the NME Mixtape before it expires.)
EF: This track could have been made at any time in the last 20 years, and adds nothing. Doing robotic movements to it and pretending to be a Cyberman made it quite entertaining. I'm not sure how many people will think to do that. That might just be me. Thumbs Up (3/5)
GM: Sounds nice at first but gets boring very quickly. (2/5)
MP3:Sharks - Brassneck (This version is not available to stream. Download the NME Mixtape before it expires.)
EF: I have already started writing a blog which refers to The Wedding Present, and this is a The Wedding Present cover. Brassneck is not a bad tune, but it marks the period when David Gedge's song writing became more populist and less to my taste. He'd pull it back many years later with Cinerama. 10/10 for covering The Wedding Present, but, well, it's just a cover, delivered with less gravitas that the original. Not for Me Thanks (2/5)
GM: It's nice to see the Wedding Present still making music. I like it. (4/5) (EF: GM did well to recognise The Wedding Present jangle and to reference them as a joke. I think he had no idea it was a cover.)
EF: It's a bit pop, it's a bit soul and it's a bit r&b. Unfortunately, this is an almost certain combination for instant disqualification. It's just not my taste. Not for Me Thanks (2/5)
GM: I'm really surprised that I like this. I certainly has something though. (4/5)
MP3:Chapel Club - All the Eastern Girls (This version is not available to stream. Download the NME Mixtape before it expires.)
EF: Late 80s indie by numbers. Why don't the jangle guitars build into something far better? This is a track that falls into one of my favoured genres, but that doesn't mean it's good. Wipe the tape and start over. Not for Me Thanks (2/5)
GM: I like his voice. Would like to hear some more to decide. (3/5)
EF: There are better Delphic tunes on their MySpace and I will have a butchers at the album. I have a ticket to see Delphic on 19th January, which I’m sure will be lively, if nothing else. This track and others leave me with reservations, but I do have a ticket. What can I say? This track is bouncing, but it lacks that certain bite. It has enough intensity to make me fling my arms about (it don’t take much), so get down to Audio to see me in action. Thumbs Up (3/5) (late edition: I have listened to the album three times and I would give my ticket away in an instance)
GM: Inoffensive electro-pop sounds a bit bland to me. (3/5)
Fabpants Recommends:
Investigating any of the bands that gained 4/5 or 5/5 and - of course - the rest. You can’t judge a band by one track alone, and you can’t trust anyone but yourself to decide on what music is right for you. Don’t believe the hype.
I've come to a conclusion. These things take time. Propagation began in 1994, as a knee slammed into my face. My only ever nose bleed followed. It was Brixton Academy. I hate that venue.
Overweight thirty somethings are dangerous to mosh with.
If you've never been in a mosh pit, it's impossible to imagine the camaraderie that can come from bouncing against your fellow human, being propped up - as your feet lose their sense of purpose - and swiftly up righted - before injury - when you hit the floor. It can leave you grinning from ear to ear.
Some mosh pits are not like this. They contain drunken, older people who are overconfident and overweight. When the plump and slightly bald fight for lost youth and freedom, a featherweight like me doesn't stand a chance. It's everyone for themselves. Gone is the solidarity that makes the young indie mosh pit so charming.
In 1994, as I cautiously bounced at the edge of an unruly, somewhat scary crowd, a thirty something heavyweight charged through the standing, not bouncing throng, to find me. From behind, he knocked me to the ground, then kneed me in the face. Hard. Bam. No sorry. No outreached arm. I attempted to get up. He kicked me back down again. Deliberately. His body stayed put. His legs and arms thumped in a furious stamping march. Giant legs and giant knees. He's probably dead now.
Me and my bloody face escaped. I timed the rise, to avoid a knee, fearing a hat trick, but knowing it was better to get out than stay. I passed 100 people or more. Not one person said 'You okay?' Not even the man who slept in the room next to me, my friend. I walked straight past him. He just looked at the blood. My hand went up to my nose. A toilet would tell me 'broken' / 'not broken'.
Toilet. Just blood and pain. Relief. Not broken. A couple of girls, bored by the band and hiding, fed me weak lager, amused by my 'What the fuck. Yes, I think I will knock back your pint, attitude'. I don't get nose bleeds. The audacity of it. The girls were in a band called Lush. They were lovely. The act that night was called Sugar. I never liked them, and never listened to them again. They were far from sweet.
Bob Mould is playing Brighton this December. He was in Hüsker Dü too. Unfortunately, his fan base and he are attached in my mind.
It took me a couple of years to go back into a mosh pit of any kind. Don't worry, Half Man Half Biscuit won me back. They are my mosh pit saviours. I bounce, with protective arms, at their altar.
This was a gig review from this year wasn't it? Brakes. OKAY!
The first time I saw Brakes was at Truck Festival in 2006. They were absolutely magnificent. They stole the Main Stage. I'd like to think they took it home. The album forecast was wrong and, appropriately, I was wowed. The crowd got up. The crowd jumped and flailed. Faces filled with delight. Later, the merch stand swam in teenage converts. Like a Mrs Robinson-esque paedophile, I stayed - momentarily - then doggy paddled away. I'm no Mrs Robinson.
If you don't know it, Brakes are a Brighton super group, comprised of members of British Sea Power, Tenderfoot and Electric Soft Parade. Brakes have a unique sound that's all their own. New album 'Touchdown' gets the thumbs up from me. It slips into ballsy rock from time to time, but it's certainly their best yet. Brakes have found melody and their oddly anarchic indie pop is all the better for it. Why Tell the Truth (When it's Easier to Lie) is a treat and a half.
The Komedia set, last week, took us on a stomping journey. It featured achingly delicate interludes and boasted a country-dance tune to boot. Tom's imitation of Eddie Argos with 'Take it away Art Brut' was an apt and charming touch. A nod to a band, that also shines brighter on stage.
The mosh pit was encouraged. Unfortunately, near me, it was the ageing heavy weight kind. I found myself slammed into a low standing monitor, despite trying to stay clear of the bulky bouncing mass. I need to get fat. It helps with the argy bargy.
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.]
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.
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.
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.
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'.
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!
I've seen hundreds of bands in tiny venues. Some go on to headline festivals. A greater number never find their way out of the fleapits. Many are bloody brilliant. I love going to gigs. When I get it together, I sometimes rave about good gigs here.
This is the stuff and nonsense of my life. You are welcome to visit as little or often as you like. I have no RSS or site feed, so read my words here or read another's elsewhere. Live a good life. This is just a blog.
On emilyfabpants.blogspot.com you will find links that lead to MP3 audio files. These files are stored somewhere else on the Internet and are not part of this website. Emily Fabpants does not carry any responsibility for them. Emily Fabpants does not store or make available for download any audio and/or video files herself. Please buy the music if you like it or pay to see the artist at a live show. Most of all, enjoy.
