Freak Scene

On a Friday evening, while London is rife with post-work drinkers and streets full of commuters, Dinosaur Jr. brought all the noise possible to Camden’s Koko. Having only seen glimpses of the band live at festivals, I convinced myself that drenching myself in high-volume guitar noise would wash away the anxieties of floating in the post-university void.

And I may have been right. J Mascis’ guitar (plugged into three Marshall stacks) fires off like a 747 taking off and really, that’s an understatement, as it was more comparable to standing in-between airport runways as planes take off in every direction. Yet oddly for a band with such a mammoth guitar sound, his vocals are completely audible, and the rhythm section is decipherable. This fuzzed-up sound which laid down the groundwork for grunge, is affectionately (and aptly) described by the band as ‘ear-bleeding country’.

Unfortunately, Dinosaur no-longer look the part; Mascis has retained his long hair, now a silver grey, and drummer Murph is bald and be-speckled. A youthful-looking Lou Barlow on the other hand appears to have been frozen in carbonite throughout the nineties.

Effectively playing a greatest hits set while sneaking in some tracks from the recent ‘Farm’, crowd sing-a-longs come and go, and melodic improvised guitar solos frequently rear their head. Though sounding as tight as an oak-aged band should, a trip to the back of the venue reveals that the monitors are blurting out sheets of unintelligible white noise due to the sheer volume of everything.

‘Freak Scene’ and ‘Feel The Pain’ (video below) both turn the otherwise stationary room into a cement mixer, while the country tinged ‘Get Me’ provides a rare soothing few minutes. But it’s not until the encore of ‘Sludgefeast’, a slow hard rock juggernaut that the full extent of the Massachusetts trio’s aural assault can be realised.

While most reformed bands only resurface to make a few sheets from middle-aged fans’ nostalgia, Dinosaur Jr. are still going strong, proving that music need not entirely be about 80s-thieving synth-pop revivalists and dull three-chord guitar bands at the moment. New songs like ‘I Don’t Wanna Go There’ proves that the trio have not yet turned stale. My ears are still ringing.

Hikikomori

I’ll admit, I’ve neglected this blog, I’ve neglected my friends, and most things in general. I’ve turned into a recluse, and while it may have been deemed refreshing at first, it’s become banal to the point where I’d be happy just to hear a whistle, or a cry from a distant mount echoing.

The lack of updates is due to being myself immersed (and somehow still miles behind) with my final MA project. I’ve been meaning to post some of my experiences in Palestine, amongst other things.

Expect some big changes soon.

FIB no. 5

Last week was my fifth year at FIB, and since 2005, it has morphed into something of a Cosa-del-Reading festival.

Though I keep going back, each year the changes seem more pronounced; more British, less Spanish, less exciting line-ups, and the increasing expense of the festival itself. This year however, the festival’s ownership being handed over to the Mean Fiddler group was anything but unnoticeable in every element from the lineup to the prices.

I probably sound like a massive hypocrite, but in my defence, I wouldn’t revisit year-in-year out if I was bitter about everything. The Costa del Azahar is an amazing stretch of coast, Benicassim itself is a small but hip little town, and the festival’s 9 day format is incomparable to muddy weekends in Berkshire.

It’s the three pre-music days of camping which give the festival a unique feel, and this year, one of these happened to be my 22nd birthday; this helped amplify the joyous mood of the week. As for the musc itself, most was enjoyable, though partly dampened by bad weather of all things.

Unashamedly, I enjoyed Oasis, though I’ve seen it all before, they do throw a decent show, and  unlike some bands,  they predictably but comfortably ’play the hits’ . The crowd of thousands of lager drenched, mostly balding and sunburt early-thirtees Brits may have been something of an eye-sore; but it’s always astounding to see so many people brought together by a group who, though admitedly past their sell-by date, are still able to send the masses into a state of natural [possibly beer-aided] euphoria. It seems incredible that 15 year-old chart hits such as ‘Live Forever’ and ‘Cigarettes & Alcohol’ can still light up a crowd despite unfathomable radio play over the past decade.

On the second night, after some pre-festival drinking, myself and my friends, along with thousands of others headed to the arena only to be met with gale force winds which created something of a makeshift-sandstorm in the arena. Saeed gleefully found a Mojito, and we all went home. I was somewhat unflustered at the missed day of music, though conversely many were severely agitated at Kings of Leon cancelling their slot.

By ‘day two proper’ the festival had resumed; Peaches did her, uh, ‘thing’, and 2ManyDJs kept the beat of the weekend going with their granduous bastard-pop mash-up of everything from Justice and Aphex Twin to Michael Jackson and Lips Inc.

Though some unannounced timetable jiggling on the final night meant I missed Calexico and lost my friends, it was  watching TV on the Radio’s part-pseudo-jazz, part-psychedelia thing from the front barrier in a near empty crowd as the sun went down which was pure bliss. Many of their songs’ live re-imaginings rendered them unrecognisable from the album arrangements, particularly with closer ‘Staring at the Sun’ which played out more shoegaze than it’s original  minimalist electronic form. After this dreamscape of a set, I wandered over to the Escenario Verde to sympathetically watch the Psychedelic Furs, who recieved neither applause nor appraisal from onlookers despite being entertaining to watch.

There was of course, still time for the other gargantuan band of the week, The Killers, who drew everyone to the main stage for another predictable but pallatable hits-ahoy slot, but it was not until after France’s Rinôçérôse pumped out their strange but cohesive melding of guitar rock and ‘phat bass’ that it all ended.

In retrospect, 9 days flies by quicker than expected, but it was an eventful week. My feet are only just healing from all of the shape-throwing, and it was, of course refreshing to leave the smog-ridden English capital for a short while. Suffice to say, while I’ve always loved FIB, after five consecutive years, now may be the time to find another festival, which has yet to be pillaged by the British Isles.

A pick and mix of things

Although I am sitting on numerous draft-posts, this is just an amalgam of bitty information.

Pt. 1

I’m at that stage again. It’s June, I’ve not long finished classes, I’ve spent the past two or so weeks bantering over Guinness and wine with people I probably won’t see again. I’ve had pep talks with my tutors about my ‘future’ and one thing has struck me. I have done this all before.

A Masters Degree, particularly throughout the second semester is essentially an abridged BA. All of the pressure and poorly staggered deadlines and gloomy talk of the future compressed into a manner of months rather than years.

Much in the vein of my track record of poor judgment and bad luck, I start to really get involved and form bonds with people just as the year’s over.

What was that?

Pt. 2

Did anyone watch the atrocious Heat-exclusive-pooing Big Brother launch last night? Thought not. And no, I’m not a fan, not even a casual one, but I tuned in to the launch last night to see the rounding up of prime cuts of human excrement enter some house.

I remember not even mid-way through that the show is utterly appalling, and I nip to the kitchen. From the other room, I can hear my brother scream something.

“What’s wrong Alex? Everything ok?”

“SREE! SREE! FUCKING SREE FROM KARAOKE IS ON BIG BROTHER! SREE! SREE!”

The world is a scary scary place. I remember meeting this guy in a rundown Hatfield pub on Monday nights when it was karaoke night. This guy would proceed to get absolutely wasted, shout expletives and general abuse at all of those around him, while his friends would encourage him to sing songs he didn’t even know for the simple purpose of ridicule. Even now I can vividly remember him ’singing’ Missy Elliot’s ‘Work It’, and it sends a horrendously disturbing chill down my spine. Now the man is  running about on prime-time terrestrial television.

Madness.

Pt. 3

Unrelated to demi-nostalgia and karaoke stars on national television, I’m leaving for Tel Aviv in a couple of hourse. I don’t know what to expect, but I’m quite excited about going. At least, now, after days of forgetting that I’m getting on a plane very soon, I have finally packed. I do not like planes very much.

I must overcome my flying phobia.

See you in a week.

Devolution

As I have noted before, I have a problem with stupid people. That’s not to say that I’m the world’s most intelligent person, because I’m far from it, and I know I’m probably wrong half the time.

I was lucky enough to attend Devo’s gig at the Forum tonight; one of the ATP ‘Don’t Look Back’ series of gigs, which saw the American [whatever you want to call them] quintet playing their debut album Q: Are We Not Men? A: We Are Devo! in it’s entirety. It was mind-blowing, and despite the steep £30 ticket cost, it was totally worth it. Amidst a sea of many talentless and overhyped musical acts, it was great to witness this Eno-produced classic rejuvenated with some modern flair.

Being off-kilter as usual, the set was precluded by two music videos, one of them being this freaky gem:

Before playing ‘Jocko Homo’, Gerald Casale asked the crowd if they believed in the devolution theory, some 30 years on from their first album. Most cheered, but anyone who has seen any band live will know that most concert goers will cheer at any words coming from a band. Casale acknowledged those who didn’t give ecstatic responses – ‘there’s a few skeptics in here!’

After the encore of a handful of back-catalogue tracks (none of which were ‘hits’), the lights came up and many a teenage hipster walked out angry. Such reasons cited for being pissed off included disbelief at ‘Whip It’ not making an appearance on the set list. Given the band’s hugely energetic yet sometimes downright bizarre mode of concert performance, I get the feeling a fair few there missed the point.

Excusing Devo’s somewhat satirical exertion of the devolution theory and the theory itself; to some extent London appears to be devolving socially. There’s something humourous about dozens of consumer-eroded sheep-like cool-cats singing along to these songs. One must remember though that this is what Devo have always been aiming for (see also ‘Devo 2.0 – the Disney kids offshoot). In fact it seems Devo’s satirism stretches so far that ridicule is inescapable; Devo are laughing at the world.

This talk of devolution leads me to a discussion I was having the other day. I feel as if my brain is shrinking. In the past, especially as a literature student I was bursting with ideas, keen to converse on intellectual and theoretical subject matter, and had so many ambitions.

Nearly four years later, I’ve given up on many of those things, and can happily spend an evening eating junk food and watching some E4 gobble-dee-gook. This isn’t me at all yet I seem unflustered by this fact. This is the point which is of concern to my peers.

I don’t know about devolution or the decline of intelligence in regards to the human race as a whole, but sometimes it feels in a localised sense that my mind is losing its power.

All of this aside; it was good to see Booji Boy in action again.

I love parties.

First update in a little while. I’ve decided to change the format of my blog. Don’t expect straight news anymore. I say that but I can’t imagine this little page being a ‘news source’.  Since I’m not being assessed on this blog anymore, I have a little more freedom, and I’m writing because I want to write, not because I have to. On with the normal stuff…

I love parties.

Yes. I really do.

It’s great isn’t it? When you’re running around a house in Camberwell with a giant tea cup and people keep pouring booze in it just for the novelty of watching a grown man drink out of what looks like part of a Disneyland ride. Funnily enough I don’t even drink tea.

It was like some sort of dream.

In fact, it really was like a dream, because I don’t remember much. Well, I remember some things, namely dancing to David Bowie on a table, and the aforementioned tea cup shenanigans.

But then I lost the tea cup when someone threw it into a giant fire they had started in the garden.

This is why I love parties, because they’re unpredictable, and usually memorable. Now you’re probably thinking I’m some sort of idiotic hooligan for talking about partying on a blog. Honestly I’m not. I’ll leave the incessant party-blogging to the Skins generation. Nonetheless, it was pretty good to get out of the house.

I’m currently on a placement at the London Paper, and a fair bit of interview transcribing has really got me excited about ‘The Story of Anvil’ coming out. If you haven’t heard about it, it’s about 80’s thrash metal band Anvil and their desire to keep going after 30 years despite being horrendously unsuccessful. It’s not a subject which would normally interest me, but from what I’ve seen and heard, it’s like a real life Spinal Tap.

Out of work.

Okay, so it may not be news to my friends or university colleagues (and somewhat disturbingly, my family) but for the last three months I have been working at a sex shop in Soho.

You read correctly, a sex shop. Soho’s largest in fact.

Unfortunately, due to the severely awful UK economy, everything from Woolworths to small filth mongers have been affected. As a consequence, I have lost my job, much to my dismay.

Working in a sex shop was weird, especially for a guy like me. Yet, at the same time, it was the best job I’ve ever had.

Most of the time, I would be sat behind a till, occasionally stocking up toys not meant for kids, and dirty DVDs and magazines. Despite the general preconceptions of sex shops, and the clientele you’d expect to see entering, it was just like any other normal job. Of course there are screens displaying hardcore pornography almost directly in your line of vision, but it was easy to block out.

It was almost like working in Tesco, except you get paid a fair bit more, people are more talkative, and you sell bunches of dildos instead of bananas…

What hits me is the slightly depressing fact that even if I were to complete my journalistic study and land a dream magazine job; it probably wouldn’t top working in the aforementioned sex shop. It was steady, naturally easy work, though it of course carries a negative stigma with it. Probably one to leave off the CV when applying for that ‘dream job’.

Most striking of my time there was a unique, yet brief chance to observe the sometimes bizarre private interests of regular people.

I’m sure my next mundane job will drive me to suicide…

Another year…ace.

It’s that time of the year again. The start of the year that is, in case you failed to notice.

I spent the last day of the year indoors. Why? It’s been freezing! Yet this won’t stop people from drinking as much as their bodies can (and can’t) take. As we all heard, thousands flocked to the capital to stand in the cold and watch fireworks you could get a better view of on TV.

The once-a-year boozing and desire to get wasted before crawling home in a vomit-floored, sardine-packed night bus still baffles me.

I’m happy with the couch and a bit of Jools’ Hootananny.

Oh, and Happy New Year.

Blur return

So, after years of conflicting comments from various people and rumours occasionally popping up in the music press, its at last a reality. Blur have reformed.

Speaking to NME in a world exclusive joint interview, [Damon] Albarn and [Graham] Coxon explained that they had put their differences behind them and were looking forward to playing live in 2009.

“It just felt it was right again,” declared Albarn of Blur’s return. “It somehow feels like there’s something for us to do again, we’re not completely useless or pointless, we’ve got a reason to exist.”

Probably the most important point of this news to people, is that guitarist Graham Coxon is included. While Blur did continue for a year after his departure, people didn’t exactly rave about their live shows at the time. Unsurpringly, a ‘big’ gig in Hyde Park is planned, and tickets go on sale this Friday.

With Albarn’s operatic/theatrical ventures and Coxon’s successful solo career, a reformation always seemed unlikely. I’m sure this will bring a smile to many faces, after all, of the big Brit pop two, Blur were always more intriguing [and somewhat less arrogant] than Oasis.

There is also talk of other UK dates next year, possibly an appearance at Glastonbury, though this is unconfirmed and might just be the work of the rumour mill. It seems the NME is having a field day, probably because of the prospect of a sequel to the Blur vs. Oasis feud selling a few more rags.

A slightly over the top video of the band speaking about the reunion is featured on the NME website.

I’d think of a headline if there were an appropriate one

Today I attempted to venture to class; that being a journey from Brick Lane to Northwick Park in Harrow. Yet, I could not get to class this afternoon because the Metropolitan line was closed westbound.

My journey is normally long enough, taking around an hour, assuming there aren’t delays (which seem to pop up everyday), but not getting there at all was a bit of a joke. It makes me slightly dislike my reliance upon public transport, and miss my car.

With all of the current upgrades and whatnot on the Underground you’d think the Metropolitan Line, which is the frail, shivering old greyhound of London’s public transport, would receive more attention.

Unfortunately not.

To be fair, I don’t know why it closed, but for a day, it seemed to have keeled over.