I've been fascinated by my appearance for a long time.
I was a vain teenager, for sure. I used to gel my hair, meticulously position my spikey quiff, agonise over my trainers, pray to God for some facial hair, spend absurd periods of time adjusting the 'hang' of my jeans and only wear jackets I could imagine Liam Gallagher in.
I'm sure you were the same.
But shortly after turning 18, a disastrous thing happened. I began to lose my hair. And when you're not unattractive but not the most attractive kid in school and fairly self-obsessed, this is literally the worst thing in the world.
I would hate to estimate the time I spent during my college and university years attempting to cover a receding hair line and a bald spot. I hated it, I had less hair than my dad, and I desperately wanted to hide it.
My first tactic was to grow an afro, which was pretty successful for a while. People that aren't balding are surprisingly ignorant to the key signs of hair loss, so no one seemed to notice. Or they didn't tell me. But long hair hides all, as myself and Andre Agassi proved.
But it only worked for so long, it became lank, and there were obvious gaps. And as is the way with premature balding, to stop myself looking like a middle aged man the hair got shorter and shorter.
Until, five years after the worst thing that ever happened to me happened to me, I starting sporting a skinhead. It was without doubt the most liberating day of my life.
I was no longer hiding anything. Gone was the fear of everybody uncovering my secret: I was laying myself bare. And because I'm still only a bit bald, not totally bald, loads of people think it's a lifestyle choice. And I love it.
But the strangest thing to happen when you get a skinhead, is people treat you differently. Such is the powerful symbolism of people with skinheads that the general public seem scared of you. The stereotype is alive and well. And I like that too.
People don't cross the road to avoid me or anything, but I definitely get less jip. My brother thinks I'm Mike Skinner, or Zane Lowe, or a tough guy. My gran thinks I'm a psychopath. Normal people just think I'm tough.
Sometimes I sport a beard, longer than my hair, and then I get even less jip. But the real influence of my appearance became prevalent in a swimming pool changing room yesterday. I was at my local, getting into my clothes, on my own, in the small room kept seperate from the main room. It's more pleasant.
In came a kid, of around ten, who took one look at me and walked out. He scampered up to his dad, and I heard him say: "I don't want to change in there daddy, there's a man with a skinhead."
Awesome.
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Sunday, July 06, 2008
Those pre-match Wimbledon interviews
This article originally appeared here.
You know what I'm talking about.
That bit just before the players walk out on court where Gary Richardson sticks a microphone into a players face and asks them inane questions when the last thing in the world that the player wants to be faced with is inane questions.
It's dementing.
Firstly because the players won't talk. Why would they? Gearing up for the most important game in your entire career and you're asked how you're feeling. Er, DUH. Nervous, et cetera. Now I'm all up for real journalism and stuff, and getting in there when other people can't. But blood and stones spring to kind.
Secondly those interviews feel wrong. I don't want the BBC to be doing that for me. I want those players left the hell alone. They're too intrusive. No one is ever going to enlighten the viewer about how a professional tennis player actually feels before they walk out onto centre court because they're too worried about getting annihilated by Roger Federer, Rafael Nadal or a Williams sister. Ask any of those four and they won't talk because they're too worried about being annihilated by each other.
Thirdly, because of the above two reasons, they are universally rubbish. Answers like "I'll try my best" and "I'm pretty nervous" or "it's going to be tough" or "yes of course I'm looking forward to getting to the final" and "no, I actually don't think I have any chance of winning" and "yes, I really do think I can win Wimbledon one day" poor out of the poor athletes mouths as they fulfil a contractual obligation that ain't good for no one.
Still, the tournament as a whole was great and the final was phenomenal and it was fantastic to see Rafa Nadal win. Not only for the joy on the monster's face but it's good for the game isn't it? Yes it is. Unlike pre-match interviews.
You know what I'm talking about.
That bit just before the players walk out on court where Gary Richardson sticks a microphone into a players face and asks them inane questions when the last thing in the world that the player wants to be faced with is inane questions.
It's dementing.
Firstly because the players won't talk. Why would they? Gearing up for the most important game in your entire career and you're asked how you're feeling. Er, DUH. Nervous, et cetera. Now I'm all up for real journalism and stuff, and getting in there when other people can't. But blood and stones spring to kind.
Secondly those interviews feel wrong. I don't want the BBC to be doing that for me. I want those players left the hell alone. They're too intrusive. No one is ever going to enlighten the viewer about how a professional tennis player actually feels before they walk out onto centre court because they're too worried about getting annihilated by Roger Federer, Rafael Nadal or a Williams sister. Ask any of those four and they won't talk because they're too worried about being annihilated by each other.
Thirdly, because of the above two reasons, they are universally rubbish. Answers like "I'll try my best" and "I'm pretty nervous" or "it's going to be tough" or "yes of course I'm looking forward to getting to the final" and "no, I actually don't think I have any chance of winning" and "yes, I really do think I can win Wimbledon one day" poor out of the poor athletes mouths as they fulfil a contractual obligation that ain't good for no one.
Still, the tournament as a whole was great and the final was phenomenal and it was fantastic to see Rafa Nadal win. Not only for the joy on the monster's face but it's good for the game isn't it? Yes it is. Unlike pre-match interviews.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Tom's magic bag
A strange thing keeps happening.
I've got an Adidas rucksack. It's unremarkable: blue and white, rucksack shaped, holds things while I walk. Except what it also does when I walk, is open all by itself.
I've tried a number of things to prevent, and the one which proved most succesful was zipping the zip in such a way that both parts of the two-part zipper were tuked away at one end of the zip. And it worked, for ages. But then today, with a bag overladen more than usual, the rucksack came undone, twice in one twenty minute journey.
But the two strangest things about this debacle, is that in a period of around a year that it's been happening, not one thing has fallen out of it, and not one person has alerted me too it.
You'd think (wouldn't you?) that someone, somewhere in London, would tap me on the shoulder and warn me that all the belongings I am currently carrying are in danger of being scattered across the pavement and road never to be seen again. Or maybe I'm being naive and people are waiting behind me for stuff to fall out so they can pick it up and pocket it.
But I'm beginning to think the bag might be magic. Even when on my bike nothing has ever, ever, (it must have happened over ten times), ever fallen out, even with it wide open. I'm not sure which I find more disconcerting though, that people look at my precarious position and feel no need to act. Or that on my back I carry a magic holdall.
Something, someday, has to give.
I've got an Adidas rucksack. It's unremarkable: blue and white, rucksack shaped, holds things while I walk. Except what it also does when I walk, is open all by itself.
I've tried a number of things to prevent, and the one which proved most succesful was zipping the zip in such a way that both parts of the two-part zipper were tuked away at one end of the zip. And it worked, for ages. But then today, with a bag overladen more than usual, the rucksack came undone, twice in one twenty minute journey.
But the two strangest things about this debacle, is that in a period of around a year that it's been happening, not one thing has fallen out of it, and not one person has alerted me too it.
You'd think (wouldn't you?) that someone, somewhere in London, would tap me on the shoulder and warn me that all the belongings I am currently carrying are in danger of being scattered across the pavement and road never to be seen again. Or maybe I'm being naive and people are waiting behind me for stuff to fall out so they can pick it up and pocket it.
But I'm beginning to think the bag might be magic. Even when on my bike nothing has ever, ever, (it must have happened over ten times), ever fallen out, even with it wide open. I'm not sure which I find more disconcerting though, that people look at my precarious position and feel no need to act. Or that on my back I carry a magic holdall.
Something, someday, has to give.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Wimbledon: No Murray for me
This article was originally published on www.4sportsake.com, to see: click.
I don't care that he's British, I don't care that he's our great white hope, I don't care that he's the most likely member of the home countries to be the first player to win Wimbledon for hundreds of years, or whatever. I don't like Andy Murray.
He seems a snarling, scruffy, ungrateful grump of man. Personality wise, he is to Tim Henman what Gordon Brown is too Tony Blair. And I had no particular affiliation to Tim 'Robinsons adverts' Henman either.
But why? I'm not a particularly avid patriot, but in almost all other sports I can get behind a Brit somewhere along the line. I think in individual sports, nationality matters less. Where they come from is irrelevant and it's personality more than anything that shines through.
Would you want to spend time with Murray or Henman? Probably not. With John McEnroe or Boris Becker? Probably. I could be completely wrong of course. Andy Murray might be the Stephen Fry of the tennis world and constantly regale me of stories from 'the tour'.
For now though, it will be the charmingly unpredictable giant Marat Safin and the rugged street fighting of Rafael Nadal that I'll be sporting, whilst hoping that one day British tennis gets a decent player with a big enough personality to go with their skills.
I don't care that he's British, I don't care that he's our great white hope, I don't care that he's the most likely member of the home countries to be the first player to win Wimbledon for hundreds of years, or whatever. I don't like Andy Murray.
He seems a snarling, scruffy, ungrateful grump of man. Personality wise, he is to Tim Henman what Gordon Brown is too Tony Blair. And I had no particular affiliation to Tim 'Robinsons adverts' Henman either.
But why? I'm not a particularly avid patriot, but in almost all other sports I can get behind a Brit somewhere along the line. I think in individual sports, nationality matters less. Where they come from is irrelevant and it's personality more than anything that shines through.
Would you want to spend time with Murray or Henman? Probably not. With John McEnroe or Boris Becker? Probably. I could be completely wrong of course. Andy Murray might be the Stephen Fry of the tennis world and constantly regale me of stories from 'the tour'.
For now though, it will be the charmingly unpredictable giant Marat Safin and the rugged street fighting of Rafael Nadal that I'll be sporting, whilst hoping that one day British tennis gets a decent player with a big enough personality to go with their skills.
Cinematic knowledge: Fargo
So I've seen the Big Lebowski and No Country For Old Men, which were the entirity of Joel and Ethan Coen knowledge.
In many ways titans of American film, 1996's Fargo is a two Oscar winning, multi Oscar nominated feature length depiction of the phrase 'desperate times call for desperate measures'.
William H Macy is Jerry Lundegaard, a nervous and insecure car salesman in lots of debt. He needs money, fast. So he hires two hitmen (Steve Buscemi and Peter Stormare)to pretend to kidnap his wife. They are to demand a ransom, which Lundegaards' wife's rich Dad is to cough up for, and Lundegaard is to pocket the remaining money, once the hitman have been paid off.
It goes wrong, of course. And people die, of course. Bu it's a curling, twisting and comic in a way that only watching a man lose first his dignity, and then everything else important to him in life can be.
The Coen's are so classy, though. And they make a hero of the small-town heavily pregnant policewoman Marge Gunderson (Frances McDormand) into a hero. But more poignantly, her simple approach to life, her persistent rather than killer questions, her love of roadside diners and all you can eat buffets and ending up the victor in the film, are an ode to good, honest living.
The script mocks hillbilly pronunciation and attitudes, but ultimately there seems to be a degree of respect paid to the virtues of living an honest life, without deception or deceit.
In many ways titans of American film, 1996's Fargo is a two Oscar winning, multi Oscar nominated feature length depiction of the phrase 'desperate times call for desperate measures'.
William H Macy is Jerry Lundegaard, a nervous and insecure car salesman in lots of debt. He needs money, fast. So he hires two hitmen (Steve Buscemi and Peter Stormare)to pretend to kidnap his wife. They are to demand a ransom, which Lundegaards' wife's rich Dad is to cough up for, and Lundegaard is to pocket the remaining money, once the hitman have been paid off.
It goes wrong, of course. And people die, of course. Bu it's a curling, twisting and comic in a way that only watching a man lose first his dignity, and then everything else important to him in life can be.
The Coen's are so classy, though. And they make a hero of the small-town heavily pregnant policewoman Marge Gunderson (Frances McDormand) into a hero. But more poignantly, her simple approach to life, her persistent rather than killer questions, her love of roadside diners and all you can eat buffets and ending up the victor in the film, are an ode to good, honest living.
The script mocks hillbilly pronunciation and attitudes, but ultimately there seems to be a degree of respect paid to the virtues of living an honest life, without deception or deceit.
Working on a Saturday
Working on a Saturday has its perks.
Or one, at least: the journey to work. Never are the roads quieter, the queues for ticket machines shorter, the trains more sparse, dustbin men more noticeable or the people stranger.
Because people really are strange. Usually walking down Pentonville Road involves flurries of people dodging, resisting full english breakfasts for under a fiver, but today I got to see a small, bald Asian man wearing Adidas tracksuit bottoms and a black cagoule kiss is hand, reach down and touch the pavement, draw and imaginary cross on his chest with his fingers and hop on the number 73.
Superstition, I don't know. But I stopped thinking about when a taster sized pot of Eton Mess - a mixture of fresh fruit, whipped cream and meringue - was put in my hand. It was good, and needed, and took the edge of the 0805 to Bedford, a train that always leaves five minutes earlier than advertised.
A point which the two all-in-black and dosing drunkards would've been entirely unaware. Monday to Friday the seats are home to free newspapers and overweight briefcase carriers. Once more, I was cheered by reprobates.
And they were friendly two, in their own way. "Where's this train going?", drunk man A demanded. "Bedford," the man opposite said. "Does it go to St Albans?", drunk man A persevered. "Yes," the man opposite said. "Have we missed it?", drunk man A wondered. "No," the man opposite said.
And with that, he got up, went to the toilet, and I didn't see him again for the rest of the journey. Leaving drunk man B to sit up, swap seats, locate his shoes and apologise.
Or one, at least: the journey to work. Never are the roads quieter, the queues for ticket machines shorter, the trains more sparse, dustbin men more noticeable or the people stranger.
Because people really are strange. Usually walking down Pentonville Road involves flurries of people dodging, resisting full english breakfasts for under a fiver, but today I got to see a small, bald Asian man wearing Adidas tracksuit bottoms and a black cagoule kiss is hand, reach down and touch the pavement, draw and imaginary cross on his chest with his fingers and hop on the number 73.
Superstition, I don't know. But I stopped thinking about when a taster sized pot of Eton Mess - a mixture of fresh fruit, whipped cream and meringue - was put in my hand. It was good, and needed, and took the edge of the 0805 to Bedford, a train that always leaves five minutes earlier than advertised.
A point which the two all-in-black and dosing drunkards would've been entirely unaware. Monday to Friday the seats are home to free newspapers and overweight briefcase carriers. Once more, I was cheered by reprobates.
And they were friendly two, in their own way. "Where's this train going?", drunk man A demanded. "Bedford," the man opposite said. "Does it go to St Albans?", drunk man A persevered. "Yes," the man opposite said. "Have we missed it?", drunk man A wondered. "No," the man opposite said.
And with that, he got up, went to the toilet, and I didn't see him again for the rest of the journey. Leaving drunk man B to sit up, swap seats, locate his shoes and apologise.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Like learning to ride a bike
This article was originally published on www.london-ers.com, to read it, click here.
London in the sun is parks, pools, cafes and fun. But rather than laze about and spend money on sun-cream and barbecues, Tom Howard and Morag Lyall took it upon themselves to get Morag on her bike and riding. Here's what happened on her first foray into two wheels, pedals and saddles...
There comes a time in every man’s life to impart wisdom. Even the most dim-witted of males have bits of knowledge to share to brothers, sisters, lovers or most commonly and certainly most dangerously, children.
Measuring wisdom is hard, but I would say I have moderate amounts. Measuring children is easier, and I have none. So the person responsible for soaking up my information, was my pal Morag Lyall.
Morag can’t ride a bike. And before we met on drizzly-cum-sunny afternoon in Victoria Park with my bicycle (Joseph), a swampy hillock, a hungry squirrel and some internet notes, she didn’t even know how to stay on one.
Teaching someone to ride needn’t be difficult, and there's an abundance of guidelines on the internet. After some browsing, I went for www.ibike.org for the approval of users and the simplicity of the approach. It's as step-by-step a process as following a recipe or putting together a flat packed wardrobe.
Most advice you’ll find is directed at adult teaching child. Morag is 24, and bigger than a child. People always say you learn things faster when you’re young, but I’ve long held the view that children are, largely, idiots. Morag proved me right.
Stage one: the bike
The bike the learner sits on should have a low saddle, enabling him or her to have their feet flat on ground when sat on the saddle. This offers them greater control when they are moving, and means they can put their feet down when scared.
Unfortunately for Morag, she was on Joseph. And with me being 6 foot tall and her considerably less, we had to construct a saddle on the metal, purple frame out of a wrapped up cardigan. Helmet on, shoelaces, jumpers and trouser tucked in, on we went…
Stage two: balance
Next, face the learner down a gentle hill of about 20 feet that flattens out or goes uphill slightly at the end. Get them to coast down it, in a straight line, with their feet an inch above the grass.
Balance is key on a bike. Stay on the thing, and you’ve half the battle won. “I used to be a ballerina,” Morag said. And within half an hour she was rolling without a wobble. “Weeeee!” she would yell while careering out of my view, but she seemed confident.
So we climbed the hill, and she coped with that too. So we went to a bigger hill. And this time, after coasting down the hill she would find the peddles.
Stage three: peddling
At first, the learner only needs to find the peddles, and rest their feet. As they feel more confident, you can encourage them to pedal. Morag was so good, that three goes in she was off. And we repeated the process until she was confident.
Stage four: add turning and braking
And Morag was so confident she started turning left and right independently. She would brake, hop off Joseph at the first uphill climb, grin and say: “This is so much fun.” I couldn’t help but agree.
Stage five: standing start
This time, hold the learners bike, place the peddle under their strongest leg, give them a push start and tell them to peddle.
This is where teaching people how to ride isn’t like you remember, or how it looks on the tele. My instructions told me very firmly to not, under any circumstances, do the running alongside shouting: “Daddy’s got you! Don’t worry, Daddy won’t let you fall!” It’s not constructive, it’s distracting, and in mine and Morag’s case, it would be weird.
But she got it, predictably quickly. We did it again to check it wasn’t a fluke. I assured her she’d done it all by herself (she really had), we high-fived and sent her darting over Victoria Park’s most challenging terrain: concrete paths, puddles and tramps.
Not on the road though: according to www.ibike.org, new cyclists can sometimes take two years to be ready for the road. But those instructions were for children. And as we’ve established, children are idiots.
Info:
Where to learn:
Contact the British Cycling Association on 0161 274 2000, and they can tell you about initiatives in your area, teaching kids and adults to ride bikes. It is often free, but sometimes a small fee is involved.
What you need:
A bike and a helmet: any local bike shop: £100 - £500 for the bike; £20 - £100 for the helmet. A large grassy area: free
Instructions/Contact:
www.ibike.org: for instructions on how to teach people to ride.
www.britishcycling.org.uk: for information on cycling in Britain.
London in the sun is parks, pools, cafes and fun. But rather than laze about and spend money on sun-cream and barbecues, Tom Howard and Morag Lyall took it upon themselves to get Morag on her bike and riding. Here's what happened on her first foray into two wheels, pedals and saddles...
There comes a time in every man’s life to impart wisdom. Even the most dim-witted of males have bits of knowledge to share to brothers, sisters, lovers or most commonly and certainly most dangerously, children.
Measuring wisdom is hard, but I would say I have moderate amounts. Measuring children is easier, and I have none. So the person responsible for soaking up my information, was my pal Morag Lyall.
Morag can’t ride a bike. And before we met on drizzly-cum-sunny afternoon in Victoria Park with my bicycle (Joseph), a swampy hillock, a hungry squirrel and some internet notes, she didn’t even know how to stay on one.
Teaching someone to ride needn’t be difficult, and there's an abundance of guidelines on the internet. After some browsing, I went for www.ibike.org for the approval of users and the simplicity of the approach. It's as step-by-step a process as following a recipe or putting together a flat packed wardrobe.
Most advice you’ll find is directed at adult teaching child. Morag is 24, and bigger than a child. People always say you learn things faster when you’re young, but I’ve long held the view that children are, largely, idiots. Morag proved me right.
Stage one: the bike
The bike the learner sits on should have a low saddle, enabling him or her to have their feet flat on ground when sat on the saddle. This offers them greater control when they are moving, and means they can put their feet down when scared.
Unfortunately for Morag, she was on Joseph. And with me being 6 foot tall and her considerably less, we had to construct a saddle on the metal, purple frame out of a wrapped up cardigan. Helmet on, shoelaces, jumpers and trouser tucked in, on we went…
Stage two: balance
Next, face the learner down a gentle hill of about 20 feet that flattens out or goes uphill slightly at the end. Get them to coast down it, in a straight line, with their feet an inch above the grass.
Balance is key on a bike. Stay on the thing, and you’ve half the battle won. “I used to be a ballerina,” Morag said. And within half an hour she was rolling without a wobble. “Weeeee!” she would yell while careering out of my view, but she seemed confident.
So we climbed the hill, and she coped with that too. So we went to a bigger hill. And this time, after coasting down the hill she would find the peddles.
Stage three: peddling
At first, the learner only needs to find the peddles, and rest their feet. As they feel more confident, you can encourage them to pedal. Morag was so good, that three goes in she was off. And we repeated the process until she was confident.
Stage four: add turning and braking
And Morag was so confident she started turning left and right independently. She would brake, hop off Joseph at the first uphill climb, grin and say: “This is so much fun.” I couldn’t help but agree.
Stage five: standing start
This time, hold the learners bike, place the peddle under their strongest leg, give them a push start and tell them to peddle.
This is where teaching people how to ride isn’t like you remember, or how it looks on the tele. My instructions told me very firmly to not, under any circumstances, do the running alongside shouting: “Daddy’s got you! Don’t worry, Daddy won’t let you fall!” It’s not constructive, it’s distracting, and in mine and Morag’s case, it would be weird.
But she got it, predictably quickly. We did it again to check it wasn’t a fluke. I assured her she’d done it all by herself (she really had), we high-fived and sent her darting over Victoria Park’s most challenging terrain: concrete paths, puddles and tramps.
Not on the road though: according to www.ibike.org, new cyclists can sometimes take two years to be ready for the road. But those instructions were for children. And as we’ve established, children are idiots.
Info:
Where to learn:
Contact the British Cycling Association on 0161 274 2000, and they can tell you about initiatives in your area, teaching kids and adults to ride bikes. It is often free, but sometimes a small fee is involved.
What you need:
A bike and a helmet: any local bike shop: £100 - £500 for the bike; £20 - £100 for the helmet. A large grassy area: free
Instructions/Contact:
www.ibike.org: for instructions on how to teach people to ride.
www.britishcycling.org.uk: for information on cycling in Britain.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Interview: Hercules and Love Affair
Originally published for Gigwise, here.
There’s something different about Hercules and Love Affair. Take a look around and you’ll see that dance music has become pretty macho of late. Whatever sub-genre you take – indie crossover, dubstep, electronica, nu-rave, whatever – it’s all dominated my men.
Not only that, but it’s kind of lost it’s fun and it’s soul. You get fucked and you listen and you dance. It’s become mechanical and you can’t connect. Not like when Massive Attack’s ‘Unfinished Sympathy’ was about and you could feel it on your skin. That was seventeen years ago.
And no one’s really noticed. I sure has hell hadn’t. But Andrew Butler, head honcho of disco revivalists Hercules and Love Affair certainly had: “Dance music has become very impersonal. I’m fond of music that exists beyond serving the purposes of being the soundtrack for a car commercial. I’m interested in emotional music and I’m interested in people. I’d rather hear about a person than a computer.”
And an increase in women appearing on or cranking out the music could help serve that purpose. “Dance music totally needs more women in it. If it did I think it would be more emotive. It would resonate more with people, beyond lyrics and vocals. But even there, it would be wonderful if there were a whole new crop of female dance diva singers.
“There’s a machismo to DJ culture and dance music. It’s sort of aggressive. It’s less about emotional expression and more about sexiness and getting wasted and partying. It’s kind of such a bore.”
Hercules &Love Affair’s eponymous debut album was out last Monday (10 March) and is a cool ride through fresh versions of an underused dance genre – disco. But it’s unfair to pigeonhole them to disco. Some of the record is exceedingly camp (‘Hercules Theme’). But it flits from down-tempo old-school house music (‘Iris’), intricately experimental smoothness (‘Free Will’), to enormous, floor filling, emotive anthems (‘Blind’) and beyond.
‘Blind’ is the record’s lead single and features Antony Hegarty of Antony and the Johnsons fame. But it’s far from a cheap bringing in of a name vocalist to boost awareness. The track was recorded four years ago and it’s Hegarty’s best vocal performance. He sounds free, released from the heavy chains of his cripplingly introspective Johnsons.
But Hegarty is just one of Butler’s collaborator’s. The little known singer Nomi (male), and the acid-house DJ and singer Kim Ann (female) contribute heavily. And everyone involved in the album – including the producer, DFA’s Tim Goldsworthy – are pals. Butler: “It’s a collective endeavour to make fun dance music. When I first started writing I would write tracks and we would push one or other of our friends up against the microphone and we would get them to sing poems on the spot. That was maybe the prototype for what exists now.
“I became friends with Anthony maybe seven or eight years ago. He was all: ‘I’m a singer’, really casually. And I heard his album and was like” ‘Oh right, he’s just a singer’. He was so humbly conveying what his passion was, and we just bonded over shared musical interests
“He was there at the inception of H&LA. And it’s beautiful for me to realise my songs with the assistance of my friends.”
Butler thinks the four of them do a pretty good job of bridging the gap between dance music as fun but sounding like a computer. And dance music with an emotive and personal touch, preferably from a female – or at least female-like – source.
“I’m happy with the feminine voice that exists on my record. I’m proud of it, and I really sought that out on the record, I wanted people to feel that dance music could be really listenable and you could put it on and enjoy and you didn’t need to be a high on drugs or be in a proper nightclub to be moved by it or get it.
“It’s an extra level, it’s a very personal component to my album and a real emotional record.”
The soul on the record has a lot to do with where he’s coming from musically. The likes of Arthur Russell, Frankie Knuckles, Todd Terry: people able to inject high levels of personable verve into their music.
But the delicate touch and soft edge of the music comes from somewhere else. The band name is a reference to a Greek myth where the strongest man on earth – Hercules – loses his beloved. Butler is interested “in the idea of the strongest man being at his most vulnerable and the contradiction in that and the beauty in that.”
But his interest in Greek mythology stemmed from an obsession with his “patron godess” Athena. “As a kid I was a big mummy’s boy and I sort of likened her to my mother because she was a strong woman, a goddess of justice and war. But a just war, not just chaotic war: a woman of strategic war. The lyrics [in the song ‘Athena’] are about giving us a reason to fight for. It’s a feminist song. It’s basically a song about my mum.”
But I don’t want to leave you thinking that Butler and Hercules and Love Affair are some kind of girl power band. They are not, at all. And his appreciation of luscious sounds, beat build-up-drop-downs, synths, classic hooks, moments of self-control and originality are expert. Though it his appreciation of what a feminine voice brings to the record that is key to its success.
There’s sensitivity in his work that I hadn’t even noticed was missing in other dance music. But now I do, and it hurts.
There’s something different about Hercules and Love Affair. Take a look around and you’ll see that dance music has become pretty macho of late. Whatever sub-genre you take – indie crossover, dubstep, electronica, nu-rave, whatever – it’s all dominated my men.
Not only that, but it’s kind of lost it’s fun and it’s soul. You get fucked and you listen and you dance. It’s become mechanical and you can’t connect. Not like when Massive Attack’s ‘Unfinished Sympathy’ was about and you could feel it on your skin. That was seventeen years ago.
And no one’s really noticed. I sure has hell hadn’t. But Andrew Butler, head honcho of disco revivalists Hercules and Love Affair certainly had: “Dance music has become very impersonal. I’m fond of music that exists beyond serving the purposes of being the soundtrack for a car commercial. I’m interested in emotional music and I’m interested in people. I’d rather hear about a person than a computer.”
And an increase in women appearing on or cranking out the music could help serve that purpose. “Dance music totally needs more women in it. If it did I think it would be more emotive. It would resonate more with people, beyond lyrics and vocals. But even there, it would be wonderful if there were a whole new crop of female dance diva singers.
“There’s a machismo to DJ culture and dance music. It’s sort of aggressive. It’s less about emotional expression and more about sexiness and getting wasted and partying. It’s kind of such a bore.”
Hercules &Love Affair’s eponymous debut album was out last Monday (10 March) and is a cool ride through fresh versions of an underused dance genre – disco. But it’s unfair to pigeonhole them to disco. Some of the record is exceedingly camp (‘Hercules Theme’). But it flits from down-tempo old-school house music (‘Iris’), intricately experimental smoothness (‘Free Will’), to enormous, floor filling, emotive anthems (‘Blind’) and beyond.
‘Blind’ is the record’s lead single and features Antony Hegarty of Antony and the Johnsons fame. But it’s far from a cheap bringing in of a name vocalist to boost awareness. The track was recorded four years ago and it’s Hegarty’s best vocal performance. He sounds free, released from the heavy chains of his cripplingly introspective Johnsons.
But Hegarty is just one of Butler’s collaborator’s. The little known singer Nomi (male), and the acid-house DJ and singer Kim Ann (female) contribute heavily. And everyone involved in the album – including the producer, DFA’s Tim Goldsworthy – are pals. Butler: “It’s a collective endeavour to make fun dance music. When I first started writing I would write tracks and we would push one or other of our friends up against the microphone and we would get them to sing poems on the spot. That was maybe the prototype for what exists now.
“I became friends with Anthony maybe seven or eight years ago. He was all: ‘I’m a singer’, really casually. And I heard his album and was like” ‘Oh right, he’s just a singer’. He was so humbly conveying what his passion was, and we just bonded over shared musical interests
“He was there at the inception of H&LA. And it’s beautiful for me to realise my songs with the assistance of my friends.”
Butler thinks the four of them do a pretty good job of bridging the gap between dance music as fun but sounding like a computer. And dance music with an emotive and personal touch, preferably from a female – or at least female-like – source.
“I’m happy with the feminine voice that exists on my record. I’m proud of it, and I really sought that out on the record, I wanted people to feel that dance music could be really listenable and you could put it on and enjoy and you didn’t need to be a high on drugs or be in a proper nightclub to be moved by it or get it.
“It’s an extra level, it’s a very personal component to my album and a real emotional record.”
The soul on the record has a lot to do with where he’s coming from musically. The likes of Arthur Russell, Frankie Knuckles, Todd Terry: people able to inject high levels of personable verve into their music.
But the delicate touch and soft edge of the music comes from somewhere else. The band name is a reference to a Greek myth where the strongest man on earth – Hercules – loses his beloved. Butler is interested “in the idea of the strongest man being at his most vulnerable and the contradiction in that and the beauty in that.”
But his interest in Greek mythology stemmed from an obsession with his “patron godess” Athena. “As a kid I was a big mummy’s boy and I sort of likened her to my mother because she was a strong woman, a goddess of justice and war. But a just war, not just chaotic war: a woman of strategic war. The lyrics [in the song ‘Athena’] are about giving us a reason to fight for. It’s a feminist song. It’s basically a song about my mum.”
But I don’t want to leave you thinking that Butler and Hercules and Love Affair are some kind of girl power band. They are not, at all. And his appreciation of luscious sounds, beat build-up-drop-downs, synths, classic hooks, moments of self-control and originality are expert. Though it his appreciation of what a feminine voice brings to the record that is key to its success.
There’s sensitivity in his work that I hadn’t even noticed was missing in other dance music. But now I do, and it hurts.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Experience: Impaling one's ankle
The most pain I have ever experienced was self-inflicted. It was the end of my degree and I was celebrating. We had gone out late and pubs were closed. I had been developing Irritable Bowel Syndrome throughout that year, and a rumble inside me warranted a desperate rush around town.
I had to find a hiding place. Behind a bin? Too obvious, too well lit. In Burger King? Closed. Under the shopping centre stairs? I have pride. Then I saw the fence, with the shaded solitude of grass behind it. I ran. The fence was five-foot high, but I was feeling cocky. I thought I could take it, and I wanted to be discreet.
I had cowboy boots on that evening. They were brown, pointed and fashionable in a Russell Brand, Pete Doherty way. I was going through a phase, you know. Anyhow, they had heels. They weren’t the kind of shoes you climb fences in. I did it anyway.
I pulled myself on top. I’ve been back since to see the beast that defeated me, and getting on it was achievement enough. The spikes pointing from it were long, sharp and black. They were so obviously there to prevent people from jumping over. I had my feet either side of one, with two other spikes either side of each foot.
I didn’t bother steadying myself - I was in a hurry. I jumped on and off without stopping in between. My right foot got stuck and I tripped. I fell headfirst and heard a crack as my right ankle took the impact of my body as it failed to reach the floor. I was hanging off the fence, held on by a spike that had impaled my ankle.
And I was soiled. It was hot, and sat in the seat of my pants. But by then, that was a side issue. I grabbed the fence and hooked my ankle off the spike in one of those moments where you acquire strength beyond your ability. I dropped to the floor and lay there. It was cold and hard, not grassy.
I was lying on a grave and I was in a graveyard. I wished I had just gone in the street. Sod public humiliation, it must be better than this. I crawled to the centre, out of public view. I stripped and cleaned myself, ignoring my ankle that was as limp as dead prey. I threw undergarments away, pulled my jeans back on and looked at my ankle.
I tried pulling my boot off, but there was no friction. When I forced my hand down the back and levered it, my ankle just gave way. I used both hands. One to keep my ankle steady, one to ease the boot off. It was like skinning a dead rabbit.
I took off my sock and saw the gash. My ankle was ruined. I attempted to stand but the pain made my eyes water. I was sure it was broken. I crawled back to the fence and lay on my back. I still have the boots. The upper of the right one was punctured and the leather inside is stained with blood.
I was cold and scared. Not wearing a coat was a poor decision. People walked past the graveyard and I lay there quietly, hidden by darkness and embarrassed. I didn’t cry, but I was shaking with shock. I had my hands over my face, while I breathed deeply and worked out what to do. There was no way to get out. I was trapped. And I couldn’t stop being annoyed that I wasn’t going to be able to go on holiday.
I called 999 and chose ambulance. I explained myself and waited. First to arrive were two police officers – one male, one female - shining a torch in my face. They were checking I was for real, that I wasn’t just some junky. I told them the story, including the root of my shame. The policeman, initially sympathetic, looked at me and said: “This gets better and better.” They gave me a blanket and I was grateful.
Next to arrive was the fire brigade. They were wearing all the gear: hats, coats and boots. The graveyard, next to a church, gets bolted at night. So they had to cut me out. They kept saying: “You’ll have to pay for that bolt,” and asked my address. I gave it.
Then the ambulance came with a stretcher. The relief I felt turned sour when they stopped at the edge of the graveyard. They didn’t want to step on the graves. I crawled, carrying a cowboy boot, to the stretcher. They helped me on, I told them what happened and they were sympathetic.
In hospital I was put in a wheelchair in the waiting room. I was sat in my own shit, so I didn’t smell great. And I sat there, in my chair, bleeding onto the floor. I was given a painkiller but I kept groaning with pain and biting my tongue as a distraction.
I was x-rayed, stitched up and sent away in a taxi. I had to pay. I got home and had a bath. My ankle wasn’t broken, but I severely ruptured my ligaments. I was on crutches for a month and used a walking stick for another. I haven’t climbed a fence since. I tried, once, and got nervous and almost fell off.
At my graduation I had to hobble across stage – wearing the cowboy boots - in front of my year to collect my scroll and shake Neil Kinnock’s hand. For a couple of months I was isolated, holed up like a cripple. I have never felt more empathy than I did that summer for those unable to walk.
I had to find a hiding place. Behind a bin? Too obvious, too well lit. In Burger King? Closed. Under the shopping centre stairs? I have pride. Then I saw the fence, with the shaded solitude of grass behind it. I ran. The fence was five-foot high, but I was feeling cocky. I thought I could take it, and I wanted to be discreet.
I had cowboy boots on that evening. They were brown, pointed and fashionable in a Russell Brand, Pete Doherty way. I was going through a phase, you know. Anyhow, they had heels. They weren’t the kind of shoes you climb fences in. I did it anyway.
I pulled myself on top. I’ve been back since to see the beast that defeated me, and getting on it was achievement enough. The spikes pointing from it were long, sharp and black. They were so obviously there to prevent people from jumping over. I had my feet either side of one, with two other spikes either side of each foot.
I didn’t bother steadying myself - I was in a hurry. I jumped on and off without stopping in between. My right foot got stuck and I tripped. I fell headfirst and heard a crack as my right ankle took the impact of my body as it failed to reach the floor. I was hanging off the fence, held on by a spike that had impaled my ankle.
And I was soiled. It was hot, and sat in the seat of my pants. But by then, that was a side issue. I grabbed the fence and hooked my ankle off the spike in one of those moments where you acquire strength beyond your ability. I dropped to the floor and lay there. It was cold and hard, not grassy.
I was lying on a grave and I was in a graveyard. I wished I had just gone in the street. Sod public humiliation, it must be better than this. I crawled to the centre, out of public view. I stripped and cleaned myself, ignoring my ankle that was as limp as dead prey. I threw undergarments away, pulled my jeans back on and looked at my ankle.
I tried pulling my boot off, but there was no friction. When I forced my hand down the back and levered it, my ankle just gave way. I used both hands. One to keep my ankle steady, one to ease the boot off. It was like skinning a dead rabbit.
I took off my sock and saw the gash. My ankle was ruined. I attempted to stand but the pain made my eyes water. I was sure it was broken. I crawled back to the fence and lay on my back. I still have the boots. The upper of the right one was punctured and the leather inside is stained with blood.
I was cold and scared. Not wearing a coat was a poor decision. People walked past the graveyard and I lay there quietly, hidden by darkness and embarrassed. I didn’t cry, but I was shaking with shock. I had my hands over my face, while I breathed deeply and worked out what to do. There was no way to get out. I was trapped. And I couldn’t stop being annoyed that I wasn’t going to be able to go on holiday.
I called 999 and chose ambulance. I explained myself and waited. First to arrive were two police officers – one male, one female - shining a torch in my face. They were checking I was for real, that I wasn’t just some junky. I told them the story, including the root of my shame. The policeman, initially sympathetic, looked at me and said: “This gets better and better.” They gave me a blanket and I was grateful.
Next to arrive was the fire brigade. They were wearing all the gear: hats, coats and boots. The graveyard, next to a church, gets bolted at night. So they had to cut me out. They kept saying: “You’ll have to pay for that bolt,” and asked my address. I gave it.
Then the ambulance came with a stretcher. The relief I felt turned sour when they stopped at the edge of the graveyard. They didn’t want to step on the graves. I crawled, carrying a cowboy boot, to the stretcher. They helped me on, I told them what happened and they were sympathetic.
In hospital I was put in a wheelchair in the waiting room. I was sat in my own shit, so I didn’t smell great. And I sat there, in my chair, bleeding onto the floor. I was given a painkiller but I kept groaning with pain and biting my tongue as a distraction.
I was x-rayed, stitched up and sent away in a taxi. I had to pay. I got home and had a bath. My ankle wasn’t broken, but I severely ruptured my ligaments. I was on crutches for a month and used a walking stick for another. I haven’t climbed a fence since. I tried, once, and got nervous and almost fell off.
At my graduation I had to hobble across stage – wearing the cowboy boots - in front of my year to collect my scroll and shake Neil Kinnock’s hand. For a couple of months I was isolated, holed up like a cripple. I have never felt more empathy than I did that summer for those unable to walk.
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