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.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Bone Thugs 'N' Harmony
Sam Allardyce might have been expelled from St James' Park, but all of his bad signings remain. Most notably, the ones with dodgy disciplinary records. I'm talking Joey Barton and Alan Smith, mainly.
By all accounts Alan Smith is a gentleman of the highest degree off the pitch, but on the pitch, he's an animal. Joey Barton is a tough guy, with no fear of getting aggressive in any given situation.
So who do the board bring in? Without even consulting Kevin Keegan? To oversee transfers, youth development and scouting? Of course! The man that once attacked a taxi driver with a brick and was no angel when in his football kit - Dennis Wise.
Now don't get me wrong, I quite like Dennis Wise, and his managerial record with Millwall and Leeds is decent. But he is a bit of thug. He's not delicate. And it sems that bringing him in will just be fighting fire with fire, no?
Wise, apparently, will have no involvement in the first team, that will be left to Keegan. And he is in fact what used to be known as a 'general manager'. And I think it would be genuinely farcical to suggest he will be to Keegan what Avram Grant was to Jose Mourinho, but on a few levels, the appointment seems bizarre.
Then again, I'd expect nothing less from the ever entertaining Toon army.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Comedy: Demetri Martin
This article originally appeared on the Such Small Portions website, here.
Demetri Martin - These Are Jokes (Comedy Central Records)
Demetri Martin is a very natural comedian. He looks and sounds very honest, in his simple clothes, a self-confessed “gay Beatles” haircut and a youth defying his thirty-five years.
He’s a Greek lad raised in New Jersey, and he’s really smart. He’s won awards and contributes for The Daily Show. His stand-up consists largely of deadpan one-liner, but his real talent lies in the different ways he brings them all to life.
Admirably on These Are Jokes, there’s a CD and a DVD, containing mostly different materials. The DVD is taken from a 2004 Comedy Central special where he uses David Shrigley like animations and a deliberately amateurish stage show including his Mum and Grandma to give his jokes new life. It works impressively.
On the CD, recorded in Chicago, he uses guests – Leo Allen and Will Forte – and song. Best of all is Sames And Opposites, sung in a moody Leonard Cohen style, including being impressively lyrical. “Earrings are the same as sneezes, two is okay, but ten is annoying”; “A squirrel is the same as a can, when there’s a bb gun in my hand”; Saying ‘sorry’ and ‘I apologise’ is the same, except when you’re at a funeral.”
The world he creates is admirable. He’s not particularly political of philosophical, or even deep. This is almost certainly deliberate. He strips things down his observations to well thought out surrealism: “I bet drowning is a really horrible experience, unless right before that you’re really thirsty. That’s why when I go out on the water I take a life jacket and a bag of potato chips. I wanna go out quenched.”
On the DVD there are clips of early gigs. One where he has a beard, plays a yo-yo and rides a unicycle, the other where he’s short haired, awkward and in a plain, grey sweatshirt. They just go to show how far he’s come. He is slick and masterful in his audience control. He is quiet and unenergetic enough to demand close attention to his words, meaning the smallest look, frown or smile is funny.
He slips easily from the banal: “If I have the choice between and escalator and an elevator, I always take the elevator. I tripped on an escalator once and fell down the stairs for an hour and a half”; to sociology: “Camouflage clothing is great when you’re in the woods and you want to blend in; when you’re in the city, it’s like: there’s an asshole”; to death: “Batteries are the most dramatic of objects. Everything else breaks or stops working. Batteries die.”
In short, the man’s impressive. Ambidextrous in the extreme, he uses his skills well, Bill Bailey like musicianship combining with his Woody Allen like observations. He’s also incredibly funny. “I think they named oranges before they named carrots,” being
Demetri Martin - These Are Jokes (Comedy Central Records)
Demetri Martin is a very natural comedian. He looks and sounds very honest, in his simple clothes, a self-confessed “gay Beatles” haircut and a youth defying his thirty-five years.
He’s a Greek lad raised in New Jersey, and he’s really smart. He’s won awards and contributes for The Daily Show. His stand-up consists largely of deadpan one-liner, but his real talent lies in the different ways he brings them all to life.
Admirably on These Are Jokes, there’s a CD and a DVD, containing mostly different materials. The DVD is taken from a 2004 Comedy Central special where he uses David Shrigley like animations and a deliberately amateurish stage show including his Mum and Grandma to give his jokes new life. It works impressively.
On the CD, recorded in Chicago, he uses guests – Leo Allen and Will Forte – and song. Best of all is Sames And Opposites, sung in a moody Leonard Cohen style, including being impressively lyrical. “Earrings are the same as sneezes, two is okay, but ten is annoying”; “A squirrel is the same as a can, when there’s a bb gun in my hand”; Saying ‘sorry’ and ‘I apologise’ is the same, except when you’re at a funeral.”
The world he creates is admirable. He’s not particularly political of philosophical, or even deep. This is almost certainly deliberate. He strips things down his observations to well thought out surrealism: “I bet drowning is a really horrible experience, unless right before that you’re really thirsty. That’s why when I go out on the water I take a life jacket and a bag of potato chips. I wanna go out quenched.”
On the DVD there are clips of early gigs. One where he has a beard, plays a yo-yo and rides a unicycle, the other where he’s short haired, awkward and in a plain, grey sweatshirt. They just go to show how far he’s come. He is slick and masterful in his audience control. He is quiet and unenergetic enough to demand close attention to his words, meaning the smallest look, frown or smile is funny.
He slips easily from the banal: “If I have the choice between and escalator and an elevator, I always take the elevator. I tripped on an escalator once and fell down the stairs for an hour and a half”; to sociology: “Camouflage clothing is great when you’re in the woods and you want to blend in; when you’re in the city, it’s like: there’s an asshole”; to death: “Batteries are the most dramatic of objects. Everything else breaks or stops working. Batteries die.”
In short, the man’s impressive. Ambidextrous in the extreme, he uses his skills well, Bill Bailey like musicianship combining with his Woody Allen like observations. He’s also incredibly funny. “I think they named oranges before they named carrots,” being
Friday, January 11, 2008
Top 6 Burning Effigies
I compiled this list for the February issue of All Out Cricket magazine, it;s relatively amusing...
1 - Darrell Hair Vs Pakistan - Lahore, Pakistan 2006
Being called a cheat isn’t cool. But on day four at The Oval of Test four in a five Test series against England, that’s exactly what happened to Pakistan in an incident dubbed by Imran Khan as “the biggest crisis in Test cricket history”.
Australian umpire Darrell ‘controversy’ Hair and fellow man-in-the-middle, West Indian Billy Doctrove, decided the match ball had been tampered with and blamed the bowling side, Pakistan.
England were given 5 runs and a replacement ball. Play continued until tea, after which a defiant Inzamam-Al-Huq refused to bring his side back out.
Too much time went past, the umpires awarded the match to England and chaos ensued. Amidst accusations of racism levelled at Hair and allegations of bad sportsmanship directed at the Pakistani’s, everyone got involved.
Michael Atherton criticised Hair, Nasser Hussain sided with Inzy, and Steve Waugh supported the umpires.
Needless to say, Hair not Doctrove was the umpire that made the decision that day and effigies of him as the Michelin man wearing a sun hat were burned on the streets of Lahore. More inventive than most, it must be said.
The ICC banned Hair from umpiring international matches and the Pakistani side were cleared of cheating, but Inzy was charged with bringing the game into disrepute and banned for four ODI’s.
Simply put it was a mess, a farce and a debacle that could have been avoided.
2 - Greg Chappell Vs Sourav Ganguly - Kolkata, India, 2005/6
Cricket players in India are national heroes. Mess with them and you mess with the whole country. Greg Chappell found this out the hard way.
Appointed coach of the Indian side in 2005, Chappell went about business with an out-with-the-old, in-with-the-new attitude. VVS Laxman was dropped and Suresh Raina and Venugopal Rao were brought in. At this point Sourav Ganguly was serving a 4-match ban and unavailable for selection.
On his return, he was reinstated for a tour of Zimbabwe. But poor form, inter-team tensions and a leaked email from Chappell saying Ganguly was unfit to lead the team set the ball rolling.
Harbajan Singh’s subsequent public criticism of Chappell resulted in a gagging order for the whole team. Then the whites really hit the fan.
In late 2005 Chappell removed Ganguly as captain, replaced him with Rahul Dravid and dropped him from the ODI team. In early 2006 he was dropped from the Test team too.
India went mental. Effigies of Chappell were burned in Ganguly’s hometown of Kolkata and the issue made it into Parliament.
Ganguly was recalled later that year because of injuries, but dropped again. There was more fire and protests in Calcutta, including a blockading of rail transport in Bengal.
Chappell left his position in April 2007, and Anil Kumble is the current Test captain.
3 - Dhoni, Dravid, Sehwag Vs India - India, 2007
Cricket is just a game right? Right. Some things are more important than cricket right? Right. Not if you’re Indian. Cricket is everything. Life, death and gambling. Everything.
So you can imagine the pressure on the players when a World Cup happens. And you can imagine the kind of reaction you get if you don’t do quite live up to expectations.
Actually, you probably can’t. After a poor display by India in the 2007 World Cup including a five-wicket mauling by Bangladesh, no one and nowhere was safe. Effigies of Rahul Dravid, Virender Sehwag, Harbajan Singh and the previously sacred Sachin Tendulkar were all set alight.
But Mahendra Dhoni, out for a duck against Bangladesh, got it worst. Effigies, obviously, were torched. Plus his new house being built in Ranchi, East India was attacked by Jharkhad Mukti Morcha activists.
The boundary wall was destroyed, mock funerals for the players were held and the activists demanded that the house, a gift from the government, was given back. It wasn’t.
The other players had government troops protecting their homes to prevent similar ordeals. And you thought you were passionate.
Most disturbing were angry fans chanting: “Dhoni die, die”, and complaints from the lion-haired wicketkeeper-batsman’s distraught mother who told journalists: “People do not have sportsman’s spirit.” Indeed.
4 - Habibul Bashar Vs Bangladesh - Bangladesh, 2007
In the effigy burning world, news takes on a whole different complexion. And you may have noticed a recurrent them in our list: they are all in India and Pakistan.
So you can imagine the kafuffle when in April this year the Bangladeshi’s got in on the act. Fire spreads.
Even after beating India in the 2007 World Cup group stages, consecutive defeats to Australia (acceptable, surely) and New Zealand, ensured that captain Habibul Bashar got the petrol doused street protest treatment.
But wait. It wasn’t uncontrollable, cricket mad rabbles or desperate gamblers doing the idol burning, no. It was students at Dhaka University. Not your average protest, to be sure.
But the setting alight of the most successful captain in Bangladeshi cricket’s history sent out one very clear message: no one is safe. On the other hand it was a sign that Bashar had hit the big time, so pro’s and cons.
5 - Chris Broad Vs Sourav Ganguly - Kolkata, India 2006
The controversial umpire and father of Stuart had a trail of destruction leading up to the one that got him a spot on our list.
Having reported Muttiah Murilitharan once and Harbajan Singh twice for chucking their ‘doosras’, he also got cross with Shoaib Akhtar and Inzamam-Al-Huq, on separate occasions, for excessive appealing.
But it was his six-match banning of Sourav Ganguly for his Indian sides slow over rate that really made him some enemies. And he got the full works in Kolkata where a full size model of Broad was ignited.
Justified or not, it didn’t make him a popular man in India. Indeed, Sambit Bal, editor in chief of Wisden Asia said: “Broad has come to be hated in India, where people think of him as an officious, meddling sort of chap.” Blimey.
6 - Mike Denness Vs India - Port Elizabeth, 2001
There is a school of thought that says if you’re going to upset the Indian cricket team, and their fans, you may as well do it properly. English umpire Mike Denness is the headmaster of this school.
In a Test match between India and South Africa in November 2001 in Port Elizabeth in South Africa, he imposed punishment on no less than six Indian players. Yes, six.
Harbajhan Singh, Shiv Sundar Das, Deep Dasgupta and Virender Sehwag were all given a one-match ban for excessive appealing. Sourav Ganguly was banned for a match for failing to control his players’ behaviour, whilst Sachin Tendulkar was banned for one game for ball tampering, or “acting on the ball”.
Obviously, mayhem followed. Denness was branded ‘Denness the Menace’ by the Indian media, and a straw effigy of him astride a mule was paraded along the streets of India, receiving the inevitable flaming shortly afterwards.
Amidst accusations of racism it was demanded by both the Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI) and the South African cricket board that Denness not be allowed to referee the following two Tests. Their wish was granted.
The Test he had umpired was reduced to a “friendly five day match” and the series limited to the two remaining tests, which Dennes wasn’t even allowed into the venues for and South Africa won 1-0.
Denness was remarkably philosophical about the events: “If Tony Blair and George Bush have had effigies burned then I’m in good company.” Turning a negative, into a positive; very Eastern, ironically.
1 - Darrell Hair Vs Pakistan - Lahore, Pakistan 2006
Being called a cheat isn’t cool. But on day four at The Oval of Test four in a five Test series against England, that’s exactly what happened to Pakistan in an incident dubbed by Imran Khan as “the biggest crisis in Test cricket history”.
Australian umpire Darrell ‘controversy’ Hair and fellow man-in-the-middle, West Indian Billy Doctrove, decided the match ball had been tampered with and blamed the bowling side, Pakistan.
England were given 5 runs and a replacement ball. Play continued until tea, after which a defiant Inzamam-Al-Huq refused to bring his side back out.
Too much time went past, the umpires awarded the match to England and chaos ensued. Amidst accusations of racism levelled at Hair and allegations of bad sportsmanship directed at the Pakistani’s, everyone got involved.
Michael Atherton criticised Hair, Nasser Hussain sided with Inzy, and Steve Waugh supported the umpires.
Needless to say, Hair not Doctrove was the umpire that made the decision that day and effigies of him as the Michelin man wearing a sun hat were burned on the streets of Lahore. More inventive than most, it must be said.
The ICC banned Hair from umpiring international matches and the Pakistani side were cleared of cheating, but Inzy was charged with bringing the game into disrepute and banned for four ODI’s.
Simply put it was a mess, a farce and a debacle that could have been avoided.
2 - Greg Chappell Vs Sourav Ganguly - Kolkata, India, 2005/6
Cricket players in India are national heroes. Mess with them and you mess with the whole country. Greg Chappell found this out the hard way.
Appointed coach of the Indian side in 2005, Chappell went about business with an out-with-the-old, in-with-the-new attitude. VVS Laxman was dropped and Suresh Raina and Venugopal Rao were brought in. At this point Sourav Ganguly was serving a 4-match ban and unavailable for selection.
On his return, he was reinstated for a tour of Zimbabwe. But poor form, inter-team tensions and a leaked email from Chappell saying Ganguly was unfit to lead the team set the ball rolling.
Harbajan Singh’s subsequent public criticism of Chappell resulted in a gagging order for the whole team. Then the whites really hit the fan.
In late 2005 Chappell removed Ganguly as captain, replaced him with Rahul Dravid and dropped him from the ODI team. In early 2006 he was dropped from the Test team too.
India went mental. Effigies of Chappell were burned in Ganguly’s hometown of Kolkata and the issue made it into Parliament.
Ganguly was recalled later that year because of injuries, but dropped again. There was more fire and protests in Calcutta, including a blockading of rail transport in Bengal.
Chappell left his position in April 2007, and Anil Kumble is the current Test captain.
3 - Dhoni, Dravid, Sehwag Vs India - India, 2007
Cricket is just a game right? Right. Some things are more important than cricket right? Right. Not if you’re Indian. Cricket is everything. Life, death and gambling. Everything.
So you can imagine the pressure on the players when a World Cup happens. And you can imagine the kind of reaction you get if you don’t do quite live up to expectations.
Actually, you probably can’t. After a poor display by India in the 2007 World Cup including a five-wicket mauling by Bangladesh, no one and nowhere was safe. Effigies of Rahul Dravid, Virender Sehwag, Harbajan Singh and the previously sacred Sachin Tendulkar were all set alight.
But Mahendra Dhoni, out for a duck against Bangladesh, got it worst. Effigies, obviously, were torched. Plus his new house being built in Ranchi, East India was attacked by Jharkhad Mukti Morcha activists.
The boundary wall was destroyed, mock funerals for the players were held and the activists demanded that the house, a gift from the government, was given back. It wasn’t.
The other players had government troops protecting their homes to prevent similar ordeals. And you thought you were passionate.
Most disturbing were angry fans chanting: “Dhoni die, die”, and complaints from the lion-haired wicketkeeper-batsman’s distraught mother who told journalists: “People do not have sportsman’s spirit.” Indeed.
4 - Habibul Bashar Vs Bangladesh - Bangladesh, 2007
In the effigy burning world, news takes on a whole different complexion. And you may have noticed a recurrent them in our list: they are all in India and Pakistan.
So you can imagine the kafuffle when in April this year the Bangladeshi’s got in on the act. Fire spreads.
Even after beating India in the 2007 World Cup group stages, consecutive defeats to Australia (acceptable, surely) and New Zealand, ensured that captain Habibul Bashar got the petrol doused street protest treatment.
But wait. It wasn’t uncontrollable, cricket mad rabbles or desperate gamblers doing the idol burning, no. It was students at Dhaka University. Not your average protest, to be sure.
But the setting alight of the most successful captain in Bangladeshi cricket’s history sent out one very clear message: no one is safe. On the other hand it was a sign that Bashar had hit the big time, so pro’s and cons.
5 - Chris Broad Vs Sourav Ganguly - Kolkata, India 2006
The controversial umpire and father of Stuart had a trail of destruction leading up to the one that got him a spot on our list.
Having reported Muttiah Murilitharan once and Harbajan Singh twice for chucking their ‘doosras’, he also got cross with Shoaib Akhtar and Inzamam-Al-Huq, on separate occasions, for excessive appealing.
But it was his six-match banning of Sourav Ganguly for his Indian sides slow over rate that really made him some enemies. And he got the full works in Kolkata where a full size model of Broad was ignited.
Justified or not, it didn’t make him a popular man in India. Indeed, Sambit Bal, editor in chief of Wisden Asia said: “Broad has come to be hated in India, where people think of him as an officious, meddling sort of chap.” Blimey.
6 - Mike Denness Vs India - Port Elizabeth, 2001
There is a school of thought that says if you’re going to upset the Indian cricket team, and their fans, you may as well do it properly. English umpire Mike Denness is the headmaster of this school.
In a Test match between India and South Africa in November 2001 in Port Elizabeth in South Africa, he imposed punishment on no less than six Indian players. Yes, six.
Harbajhan Singh, Shiv Sundar Das, Deep Dasgupta and Virender Sehwag were all given a one-match ban for excessive appealing. Sourav Ganguly was banned for a match for failing to control his players’ behaviour, whilst Sachin Tendulkar was banned for one game for ball tampering, or “acting on the ball”.
Obviously, mayhem followed. Denness was branded ‘Denness the Menace’ by the Indian media, and a straw effigy of him astride a mule was paraded along the streets of India, receiving the inevitable flaming shortly afterwards.
Amidst accusations of racism it was demanded by both the Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI) and the South African cricket board that Denness not be allowed to referee the following two Tests. Their wish was granted.
The Test he had umpired was reduced to a “friendly five day match” and the series limited to the two remaining tests, which Dennes wasn’t even allowed into the venues for and South Africa won 1-0.
Denness was remarkably philosophical about the events: “If Tony Blair and George Bush have had effigies burned then I’m in good company.” Turning a negative, into a positive; very Eastern, ironically.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
SPORT
Sometimes (often) I write about sport for www.4sportsake.com. It's a funky little blog with a mixture of professional and non-professional journalists giving their opinions on some very interesting matters in the world of sport.
Click here and you'll see what i've written. It features such highlights as fetishising Ronnie O'Sullivan, damning Liverpool and Rafa Benitez, and predicting the crumbling of Phil 'the power' Taylor's domination of darts.
As if that wasn't enough, you'll also get comments on cricket and the sports personality of the year.
You lucky people.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Alela Diane - The Purcell Rooms 11/10/07
To read the published review, click here.
Alela Daine occupies a place in folk music entirely of her own. She’s alone on stage at The Purcell Rooms to scratch out her personable view of the world at large. She seems fresh from the dusty, arid plains of America and sings like not a drop of coarse liquor has tainted her vocal chords. And she stands so still.
Her guitar work is almost patronisingly simple, but her grace and charm sparkle above and beyond it. She taught herself, we think. On a rickety old chair on the front porch of the rural set wooden house her Granddad lives in, we think. We imagine her laughing on a hand built swing and eating home made pecan pie before nervously and self consciously practising her lines.
She’s ever so slightly hunched tonight, with skin like milk. Her hair is tied to one side and she’s wearing a skirt, a waistcoat with nothing underneath and yellow cowboy boots too big for her. We can imagine her playing with horses and cows with her older brothers on her father’s ranch, we think.
And then she sings with a voice so warm and shrill it melts the stuffy properness of the all-seated venue in the Southbank Centre. She plucks new song My Brambles before gliding her way through much of her only record, The Pirate’s Gospel.
Her style remains the same throughout: fragile, unshakeable, and poignant. But her subject matters are diverse, with only pirates and Jesus bestowed with repeat mentions. That makes sense, given the album title. She covers button collections, motherhood and new shoes.
She’s inspired by a plastic bag found in a dead ladies house with the label ‘pieces of string too short to use’ on it. “It’s funny how people only remember the weird stuff when you die,” she says.
She sings of fear and regret on album highlight The Rifle: “Papa get the rifle from its place above the French doors/They’re coming from the woods, they’re coming from the woods/Brother I’m so sorry you watched the paintings burn.”
She plucks and cheers along with imaginary shipmates on the albums self-titled morale booster. “While some folks row way up to heaven/I’m gonna sing the pirates gospel/I’m gonna sow these feet for dancing/I’m gonna keep my eyes wide open/Yo ho yo ho yo ho ho/We’re gonna sing the pirate’s gospel/We’re gonna chant the pirate’s gospel.”
And so it rolls on. Her apparent purity and authenticity is quite something. You don’t doubt her roots, you just hope she doesn’t fall in with the wrong crowd. Sure she might be pretending, but everyone pretends, and it’s the one’s we believe that are special. And fucking hell do we believe.
Alela Diane is the best thing to happen to female folk music in a long time. This is what it would’ve been like seeing Joni Mitchell, Joan Baez et al back in the sixties when folk still mattered to people. Only better.
Sunday, December 02, 2007
Beirut - The Flying Cup Club (4AD)
Check out the published version here, on the Gigwise website.Zach Condon is, already, a musical colossus. At 21, he’s surely the youngest man ever to completely dominate a genre. He owns Balkan pop. He arguably invented it, but he’s certainly the leader. You’ve got A Hawk And A Hacksaw, Gogol Bordello and Devotchka among others, but none have managed to capture the world’s imagination like Condon.
The Flying Cup Club, like The Gulag Orkestar before it, is a culturally significant romp through grief, goulash and gaiety. It’s fantastic, unstoppable and impossible not to be consumed whole. And it’s more of the same, to an extent. It’s stripped back a tad, but when you’ve power over spellbinding mirage of ideas and accordions, only a fool would change their direction.
Advancements from record number one include: more strings, piano and religious imagery, wiser lyrics, and a distinct nod to French-ness. (Many of the song titles are French – ‘Nantes’, ‘Un Dernier Verre (Pour La Route)’, ‘La Banlieue’).
‘Cliquot’, for example, asks of St Peter: “What melody will lead my lover from his bed/What melody will see him in my arms again?” It’s suggestive, for sure, and the co-vocals between Condon and Final Fantasy’s Owen Pallett are delectable. They sound like orphaned angels.
The plucked strings on ‘Forks And Knives (La Fete)’, meanwhile, sound understandably like that of Pallett, who’s an ever present on the record. The crispness of ‘Guyamas Sonora’ is potentially of his making, too. On this basis alone, he’s a valuable addition.
Despite clear differences, all of the eeriness and world-weariness of Orkestar remain. The projected misery is what gives Condon’s work its tint of fascination. It’s so aesthetically pleasing, orchestral and beautiful that his melancholy must almost be pleasant. Then again, he’s a maestro at expressing himself. And it’s perfectly reasonable to be aware of misery without being miserable yourself.
The last minute of In ‘The Mausoluem’ is perhaps the record’s most perfect moment. The strings ache with energetic, agitated solemnity. The backing (what sounds like) organ and basic drumming are so expressive that Condon doesn’t need too sing. It’s a powerful example of a more stripped down band. There’s less theatre and it prospers because of it. ‘Cherbourg’ boasts a simple accordion riff, a tentative three-drum rhythm and Condon’s directness: “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you smile.”
Beirut as a group manage to capture everything that Michael Palin hasn’t in his most recent beige-trousered Eastern European adventure. That might be unfair to Condon’s new found French influences – allegedly: Francois Hardy, Charles Aznavour, Jacques Brel and the country itself – but there’s a definite lineage from his journey from Orkestar to where we are now.
Maybe it’s just the smells, feelings, anxiety, excitement, joy and wonder that go hand in hand with sucking up the life of new places and people. Condon is this decades ramblin’ man. Totally apolitical and utterly in tune with the highs and lows of the human spirit, The Flying Cup Club is a terrifyingly good example of modern song-writing.
Blitzen Trapper - Koko, London - 12/11/07
Read the real version by clicking here, Kruger Magazine's website. If you like.
There’s always a band that people talk about and all your cool friends know about but you’ve still never heard of. Isn’t there? Yes there is. Blitzen Trapper are mine. Supporters of Two Gallants this time round, I’d never heard them. But three albums in – two self-released, one on Sub Pop – and some proper credibility have got them pockets of mockery that ‘cult’ bands seem to demand in a you-only-like-them-because-no-ones-ever-heard-of-them kind of way. They’ve also a devoted following.
This is fair. On occasion, they rock. On other occasions, they roll. Sometimes they drum out medium pace Americana, or just play some folk tunes. They are a living, breathing example of what happens when you’ve no-one piling pressure on your flow and tightening up your stuff. Their consistency is non-existent except in everything they do being ‘good’; and they are all the better for it.
It’s refreshing indeed to see them doing their thing. Having listened extensively to new record ‘Wild Mountain Nation’, you’d struggle to pin them down. They’ve got riffs, like Nirvana; quirky country numbers, like the softer White Stripes moments; and songs like ‘Devils A-Go-Go’, that are so funked up and rocked out in mangled time signatures that the Arctic Monkeys wouldn’t even understand.
More importantly tonight, they’re like a whirlwind in a desert, clearing the mess for Two Gallants, who became the calm after the storm. And Two Gallants rocked, so that tells its own story.
There’s always a band that people talk about and all your cool friends know about but you’ve still never heard of. Isn’t there? Yes there is. Blitzen Trapper are mine. Supporters of Two Gallants this time round, I’d never heard them. But three albums in – two self-released, one on Sub Pop – and some proper credibility have got them pockets of mockery that ‘cult’ bands seem to demand in a you-only-like-them-because-no-ones-ever-heard-of-them kind of way. They’ve also a devoted following.
This is fair. On occasion, they rock. On other occasions, they roll. Sometimes they drum out medium pace Americana, or just play some folk tunes. They are a living, breathing example of what happens when you’ve no-one piling pressure on your flow and tightening up your stuff. Their consistency is non-existent except in everything they do being ‘good’; and they are all the better for it.
It’s refreshing indeed to see them doing their thing. Having listened extensively to new record ‘Wild Mountain Nation’, you’d struggle to pin them down. They’ve got riffs, like Nirvana; quirky country numbers, like the softer White Stripes moments; and songs like ‘Devils A-Go-Go’, that are so funked up and rocked out in mangled time signatures that the Arctic Monkeys wouldn’t even understand.
More importantly tonight, they’re like a whirlwind in a desert, clearing the mess for Two Gallants, who became the calm after the storm. And Two Gallants rocked, so that tells its own story.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Album Review. Fire Engines - Hungry Beat (Acute Records)
Yeah, so i've decided to be a bit more interactive with my blog, chat to my fans and all that (ha!), so this, as form of an introduction, is a review I just did for Amelias Magazine - www.ameliasmagazine.com/amelias_blog - check it.
Seems to me that back in the 80’s there were a whole load of post-punk, art-punk outfits dotted around the country, most of whom are largely forgotten. A prominent concentration of these was centred in Scotland. Somehow though, overshadowed by the continuing success of the very English The Fall and Gang Of Four, bands like Josef K and Orange Juice (both fellow Scots) seem to have fallen by the wayside. More forgotten than all of these, p’raps due to a mere eighteen-month existence, are Edinburgh’s Fire Engines.
They boast all the necessary attributes that’s seen a host of mainstream hugging bands ranging from mediocre to less so – Franz Ferdinand, Bloc Party and The Futureheads – adopt their angular, feisty, wired, anti-melody. But they sound like anything but the sheeny reinterpretation that’s been jumped upon and made enormous.
Yeah, so I’m on a bit of a downer at those three; and, I’ll admit, four years ago I was kind of digging Franz et al, but the more I’ve investigated their lineage, the more I resent the way it’s been adapted to something lightweight. Take Candyskin with it’s vivid sexual imagery, razor sharp jangle, David Henderson’s vocal squeaks and distortions; or Get Up And Use Me with a cowbell intro, Television lick, pop bass, spazzy screams and repetition; it all sounds so goddamn urgent. Re-adapted for the radio friendly modern age, there’s no bite.
Then there’s the double, Velvet Underground-meets-twisted-guitar-solo instrumental freak outs of Lubricate Your Living Room Parts 1 & 2 which rock and roll like two distorted beasts on the end of the gritty, barely sung, absurdly spiky Murray Slade led title-track.
Make no mistake, this is pop music; sure the lyrics are ambiguous and the mood’s aggressive, but the songs are tight, short and witty. Highly influential too, judging by Bobby Gillespie’s claim that neither The Jesus And Mary Chain nor Primal Scream would’ve existed without them. They don’t make ‘em like they used to.
Seems to me that back in the 80’s there were a whole load of post-punk, art-punk outfits dotted around the country, most of whom are largely forgotten. A prominent concentration of these was centred in Scotland. Somehow though, overshadowed by the continuing success of the very English The Fall and Gang Of Four, bands like Josef K and Orange Juice (both fellow Scots) seem to have fallen by the wayside. More forgotten than all of these, p’raps due to a mere eighteen-month existence, are Edinburgh’s Fire Engines.
They boast all the necessary attributes that’s seen a host of mainstream hugging bands ranging from mediocre to less so – Franz Ferdinand, Bloc Party and The Futureheads – adopt their angular, feisty, wired, anti-melody. But they sound like anything but the sheeny reinterpretation that’s been jumped upon and made enormous.
Yeah, so I’m on a bit of a downer at those three; and, I’ll admit, four years ago I was kind of digging Franz et al, but the more I’ve investigated their lineage, the more I resent the way it’s been adapted to something lightweight. Take Candyskin with it’s vivid sexual imagery, razor sharp jangle, David Henderson’s vocal squeaks and distortions; or Get Up And Use Me with a cowbell intro, Television lick, pop bass, spazzy screams and repetition; it all sounds so goddamn urgent. Re-adapted for the radio friendly modern age, there’s no bite.
Then there’s the double, Velvet Underground-meets-twisted-guitar-solo instrumental freak outs of Lubricate Your Living Room Parts 1 & 2 which rock and roll like two distorted beasts on the end of the gritty, barely sung, absurdly spiky Murray Slade led title-track.
Make no mistake, this is pop music; sure the lyrics are ambiguous and the mood’s aggressive, but the songs are tight, short and witty. Highly influential too, judging by Bobby Gillespie’s claim that neither The Jesus And Mary Chain nor Primal Scream would’ve existed without them. They don’t make ‘em like they used to.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Interview. Herman Dune.
It’s weird meeting people you’re already familiar with. Occupational hazard, of course, but it’s the whole ‘meeting your idols’ thing. Don’t do it, and all that. Herman Dune aren’t my idols, but I like them, a lot, and have done for a while – so I’m a little nervous at the prospect.
We meet at the Liverpool Street Travelodge. David Herman Dune and Neman Herman Dune are relaxed, relaxing people, both with excellent facial hair. David is chief song-writer, singer and guitar player. He is tall and wearing a locket around his neck. “It has a picture of my girlfriend in one half, and a picture of a teddy bear in the other,” he reveals. As will become increasingly apparent, he is a sweet, gentle man.
They have been regulars to London over the years, primarily because their highly personable version of folk music was a favourite of John Peel. They’ve never been to the east end though. “I hadn’t realised they have bagels here, have you seen that shop (on Brick Lane) where they have an ‘ei’ instead of an ‘a’ in the word Bagel?” David asked.
I tell him yes. His love of words and word play shines. His music imitates his personality – exciting, excitable, fresh and inquisitive. He continues: “Have you seen that other shop (on Cheshire Street) that sells shoes, like Keds, for five pounds? Where the guy is rude and just hands them over in a bag?” I tell him yes. His enthusiasm makes me happy. His personality sparkles. He’s a thoughtful conversationalist.
He even had nice things to say about their modest accommodation: “whenever Bob Dylan goes on tour, he stays in Travelodges. So before, I had to stay in them, financially; and now I just have too.”
He’s more forthcoming than Neman – their percussionist - a slightly shyer, handsome counterpart who bides his time. They are very much a duo having known each other for the best part of fifteen years, and they have the same adopted surname. “We weren’t born ‘Herman Dune’, but I’d say it’s our surname because we chose it a long time ago,” explains David, slightly mysteriously.
The bands nationality is, apparently, a matter of confusion. Their Wikipedia entry states that ‘the band is often mistaken for being Swedish.’ This is weird. Here are the facts: David is Swedish and Neman is French. So they’re not just Swedish, but French too. See? Neman: “we play around with the nationality thing a bit, we don’t really see it as important.” Point taken - so remember that, and shut up about it…
Herman Dune’s core membership has recently been reduced to two, since Andre, David’s (blood) brother, departed. David gave an abrupt explanation: “He’s gone solo. He won’t be on the next record, he’s gone for another project.”
Thankfully their desire to remain touring, recording musicians is unharmed by the member revolution. This time round, they’re over here for a bit of press and to record a session for Rob Da Bank’s Radio 1 show. We go to a café, have a coffee, and wait for a taxi to take us to Maida Vale studios.
En route we pick up The Wave Pictures - two dudes, Dave Tattersall (guitar) and Franic Rozycki (bass). In the Taxi we talked about Herman Dune’s new single, ‘I Wish That I Could See You Soon’ getting played by Jonathan Ross on Radio 2 – a somewhat remarkable feat for a band so firmly routed in the ‘underground’ sector of musical fandom. Dave Wave Picture explained who Ross was, describing him as “having a lisp.”
David thought about this for a second before surmising, “cool, like Tom Waits.” We explained that he was really rather different to Waits, but some influences were emerging. Waits/Dylan – romantic, chameleon-like, travelling craftsmen. What fine company to occupy your mind with.
They talk Regina Spektor too. They know her boyfriend, but Nemen didn’t know they’d hooked up: “no way!” he exclaimed, before sitting back thoughtfully in his chair. He is the reflective contradiction to David’s open amiability. I like him a lot.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Maida Vale is a strange maze of studio’s and corridors. It’s bizarrely quiet considering everyone there is making music. It has an aura of greatness. Nemen ushered me over to look at a full orchestra playing in a studio so big you could fit a ferry in. Massive it was.
I asked him if he’d like to play with an orchestra. “Yeh, but I wouldn’t know how. I really love Joanna Newsom’s new record with the orchestra, but we’d have to get an arranger in.” Herman Dune with an orchestra, mental.
Their session, I’m told, is quick compared to other bands. Three new songs and a Bob Dylan cover. As a band they create a sort of other-worldly brand of folk. The simplicity, honesty and beauty of he whole thing is humbling. During the Peel years they obviously mastered their art.
The four of them play like hard-touring veterans rather than two separate groups that come together occasionally. Neman is hilariously energetic – always keen to increase the percussive input, whether with maracas, bongos, or a frog with a serrated back to run a wooden baton along.
Whilst listening to a run-through of a song David asked me how I was feeling. I assured him I was fine and returned the question. He looked me in the eye and smiled: “I love recording here”.
Maida Vale sessions have been important for them – they’re a more accomplished outfit because of them. According to Nemen “they taught us how to record. It used to be stressful, but now we’re good”. David: “we’re much happier in the studio now, we have more fun”.
Maybe that’s why the new record, Giant, sounds chirpier than older stuff then. It’s not because you found love? David: “I don’t think so. No. I just uh…” He trailed off. Love and spoken word often don’t work so well together. “We’re just more relaxed.”
Have the Peel tributes contributed to their seemingly rising star? Or maybe their major label deal has helped? David pleads ignorance: “I don’t know what it is. I don’t think (Peel) has much to do with it. I’m pleased that more people are hearing us though. I like my songs, I want as many people to hear them as possible.”
Their tour with the Kooks probably helped too. David reveals that they were told the crowd wouldn’t like them, “but they were great.” I suggest that the Kooks perhaps have a slightly shallow, ‘less-than-cool’ reputation over here and that your average Herman Dune fan probably ain’t your average Kooks fan. Nemen: “they’re really good musicians, and nice guys.” David: “they didn’t get drunk every night or anything, they watched us play. I like them, they have good songs.”
Un-corrupted by ideals of ‘cool’, they smartly and casually do their own thing without getting bogged down in music industry bullshit. They can appreciate anyone trying to make it with song. They are decent, unblemished people, immune to the poison of the snide press, there aren’t too many others like that out there - and I respect them utterly.
We meet at the Liverpool Street Travelodge. David Herman Dune and Neman Herman Dune are relaxed, relaxing people, both with excellent facial hair. David is chief song-writer, singer and guitar player. He is tall and wearing a locket around his neck. “It has a picture of my girlfriend in one half, and a picture of a teddy bear in the other,” he reveals. As will become increasingly apparent, he is a sweet, gentle man.
They have been regulars to London over the years, primarily because their highly personable version of folk music was a favourite of John Peel. They’ve never been to the east end though. “I hadn’t realised they have bagels here, have you seen that shop (on Brick Lane) where they have an ‘ei’ instead of an ‘a’ in the word Bagel?” David asked.
I tell him yes. His love of words and word play shines. His music imitates his personality – exciting, excitable, fresh and inquisitive. He continues: “Have you seen that other shop (on Cheshire Street) that sells shoes, like Keds, for five pounds? Where the guy is rude and just hands them over in a bag?” I tell him yes. His enthusiasm makes me happy. His personality sparkles. He’s a thoughtful conversationalist.
He even had nice things to say about their modest accommodation: “whenever Bob Dylan goes on tour, he stays in Travelodges. So before, I had to stay in them, financially; and now I just have too.”
He’s more forthcoming than Neman – their percussionist - a slightly shyer, handsome counterpart who bides his time. They are very much a duo having known each other for the best part of fifteen years, and they have the same adopted surname. “We weren’t born ‘Herman Dune’, but I’d say it’s our surname because we chose it a long time ago,” explains David, slightly mysteriously.
The bands nationality is, apparently, a matter of confusion. Their Wikipedia entry states that ‘the band is often mistaken for being Swedish.’ This is weird. Here are the facts: David is Swedish and Neman is French. So they’re not just Swedish, but French too. See? Neman: “we play around with the nationality thing a bit, we don’t really see it as important.” Point taken - so remember that, and shut up about it…
Herman Dune’s core membership has recently been reduced to two, since Andre, David’s (blood) brother, departed. David gave an abrupt explanation: “He’s gone solo. He won’t be on the next record, he’s gone for another project.”
Thankfully their desire to remain touring, recording musicians is unharmed by the member revolution. This time round, they’re over here for a bit of press and to record a session for Rob Da Bank’s Radio 1 show. We go to a café, have a coffee, and wait for a taxi to take us to Maida Vale studios.
En route we pick up The Wave Pictures - two dudes, Dave Tattersall (guitar) and Franic Rozycki (bass). In the Taxi we talked about Herman Dune’s new single, ‘I Wish That I Could See You Soon’ getting played by Jonathan Ross on Radio 2 – a somewhat remarkable feat for a band so firmly routed in the ‘underground’ sector of musical fandom. Dave Wave Picture explained who Ross was, describing him as “having a lisp.”
David thought about this for a second before surmising, “cool, like Tom Waits.” We explained that he was really rather different to Waits, but some influences were emerging. Waits/Dylan – romantic, chameleon-like, travelling craftsmen. What fine company to occupy your mind with.
They talk Regina Spektor too. They know her boyfriend, but Nemen didn’t know they’d hooked up: “no way!” he exclaimed, before sitting back thoughtfully in his chair. He is the reflective contradiction to David’s open amiability. I like him a lot.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Maida Vale is a strange maze of studio’s and corridors. It’s bizarrely quiet considering everyone there is making music. It has an aura of greatness. Nemen ushered me over to look at a full orchestra playing in a studio so big you could fit a ferry in. Massive it was.
I asked him if he’d like to play with an orchestra. “Yeh, but I wouldn’t know how. I really love Joanna Newsom’s new record with the orchestra, but we’d have to get an arranger in.” Herman Dune with an orchestra, mental.
Their session, I’m told, is quick compared to other bands. Three new songs and a Bob Dylan cover. As a band they create a sort of other-worldly brand of folk. The simplicity, honesty and beauty of he whole thing is humbling. During the Peel years they obviously mastered their art.
The four of them play like hard-touring veterans rather than two separate groups that come together occasionally. Neman is hilariously energetic – always keen to increase the percussive input, whether with maracas, bongos, or a frog with a serrated back to run a wooden baton along.
Whilst listening to a run-through of a song David asked me how I was feeling. I assured him I was fine and returned the question. He looked me in the eye and smiled: “I love recording here”.
Maida Vale sessions have been important for them – they’re a more accomplished outfit because of them. According to Nemen “they taught us how to record. It used to be stressful, but now we’re good”. David: “we’re much happier in the studio now, we have more fun”.
Maybe that’s why the new record, Giant, sounds chirpier than older stuff then. It’s not because you found love? David: “I don’t think so. No. I just uh…” He trailed off. Love and spoken word often don’t work so well together. “We’re just more relaxed.”
Have the Peel tributes contributed to their seemingly rising star? Or maybe their major label deal has helped? David pleads ignorance: “I don’t know what it is. I don’t think (Peel) has much to do with it. I’m pleased that more people are hearing us though. I like my songs, I want as many people to hear them as possible.”
Their tour with the Kooks probably helped too. David reveals that they were told the crowd wouldn’t like them, “but they were great.” I suggest that the Kooks perhaps have a slightly shallow, ‘less-than-cool’ reputation over here and that your average Herman Dune fan probably ain’t your average Kooks fan. Nemen: “they’re really good musicians, and nice guys.” David: “they didn’t get drunk every night or anything, they watched us play. I like them, they have good songs.”
Un-corrupted by ideals of ‘cool’, they smartly and casually do their own thing without getting bogged down in music industry bullshit. They can appreciate anyone trying to make it with song. They are decent, unblemished people, immune to the poison of the snide press, there aren’t too many others like that out there - and I respect them utterly.
Live Review. Murder By Death - Bush Hall - 11/4/07
Murder By Death hail from Bloomington, Indiana, United States; and they look amazing. Frontman Adam Turla is sporting the best sideburns in rock whilst wearing a jacketless, pin-striped three-piece suit. Cool as fuck. Drummer, Dagan Thogerson, looks like Steveo from Jackass in a flat hat, and bassist Matt Armstrong is wearing black, and chain smoking, in a strictly non-smoking venue. Awesome. There’s also a funky female on cello – more about her later.
Sound-wise, they’ve two things that set them apart from others of their ilk: said cello, and Turla’s doom riddled and heart wrenching story-telling – vaguely reminiscent of Waits and Dylan at their image invoking best thy are. This being so, you’d think they’d make an effort to highlight them both. You’d think.
No problems with the cello, played like a weapon by Sarah Balliet, the dainty counterpart to the three burly dudes aside her. The vocals though, jeez. Tonight, it’s as if any old clumsy wordsmith is up there, not the imaginative, world-weary, whiskey soaked troubadour/rocker that Turla normally is.
They’re solid without the lyrics for sure, and their more chorus-laden rocky numbers, ‘Boy Decide’ par example, kick ass. But solidity is bullshit, anyone can do solid and these hard drinkin’, tough talkin’ scrappers know it. It’s left to the one-man-and-his-guitar showstopper ‘Shiola’ to do the man justice: “She sleeps in comfort in my arms/she is plain but she is mine… Is it wrong to love a family of ghosts?” he croons in the best Johnny Cash impression that exists right now.
Album highlights ‘Brother’ and ‘Sometimes The Line Walks You’ (more Cash homage) are cascading, rollicking, demonised rock ‘n’ roll tunes played right, but you need the words to fully engage.
Thank God for Balliet then, yielding her cello as if she means to do harm. So jagged are her movements that she appears like a puppet on a string, a mechanised doll or a dark angel. She’s a beautiful torturess playing with your heart strings whilst the rest of the band beats the living shit out of you and spits Budweiser in your face. She’s so damn entrancing that you don’t even realise your own misfortune until your bleeding and stinking of piss; and even then, you just don’t care. You just feel kinda warm and stupid.
Murder By Death, when (not if) they get the sound right, will soon be ripping up a saloon near you… I suggest you get involved.
Sound-wise, they’ve two things that set them apart from others of their ilk: said cello, and Turla’s doom riddled and heart wrenching story-telling – vaguely reminiscent of Waits and Dylan at their image invoking best thy are. This being so, you’d think they’d make an effort to highlight them both. You’d think.
No problems with the cello, played like a weapon by Sarah Balliet, the dainty counterpart to the three burly dudes aside her. The vocals though, jeez. Tonight, it’s as if any old clumsy wordsmith is up there, not the imaginative, world-weary, whiskey soaked troubadour/rocker that Turla normally is.
They’re solid without the lyrics for sure, and their more chorus-laden rocky numbers, ‘Boy Decide’ par example, kick ass. But solidity is bullshit, anyone can do solid and these hard drinkin’, tough talkin’ scrappers know it. It’s left to the one-man-and-his-guitar showstopper ‘Shiola’ to do the man justice: “She sleeps in comfort in my arms/she is plain but she is mine… Is it wrong to love a family of ghosts?” he croons in the best Johnny Cash impression that exists right now.
Album highlights ‘Brother’ and ‘Sometimes The Line Walks You’ (more Cash homage) are cascading, rollicking, demonised rock ‘n’ roll tunes played right, but you need the words to fully engage.
Thank God for Balliet then, yielding her cello as if she means to do harm. So jagged are her movements that she appears like a puppet on a string, a mechanised doll or a dark angel. She’s a beautiful torturess playing with your heart strings whilst the rest of the band beats the living shit out of you and spits Budweiser in your face. She’s so damn entrancing that you don’t even realise your own misfortune until your bleeding and stinking of piss; and even then, you just don’t care. You just feel kinda warm and stupid.
Murder By Death, when (not if) they get the sound right, will soon be ripping up a saloon near you… I suggest you get involved.
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