The Defenestration of St Martin

First off, apologies - I haven't blogged much lately. Or, in fact, done anything much online, anywhere. What can I say, it's been a busy month. A busy month in which I've often not had ready access to that there Internet. But, like Arnie (and this is just about the only way in which I could ever say that) I'm back. Luckily with something very important to write about too.

Regular readers of this blog will know of my love for Nineties indie band Gene. Indeed, such is my love for them that if you gave me a choice between Gene and The Smiths for a reunion gig (Gene called time in 2004) I would have a properly hard time choosing. Partly that's because Gene are one of those few bands who, musically, never put a foot wrong. There is something good about every note of their recorded output. And that in turn is, in a very large part, down to vocalist, lyricist and songwriter Martin Rossiter.

Following the demise of Gene, Martin kept himself to himself by and large. Yes, he sang a bit with a few bands, but there was no solo album. He didn't do a Morrissey, which might have come as a shock to many, given how often Rozza was compared to Mozza (I have even read somewhere this "proof" that Gene were never more than Smiths copyists: the B-side of This Charming Man was a track called Jeane. I know - QED, right?). But last year Martin returned to the stage - also like Arnie, he was back.

Showcasing piano-led material akin to the more introspective end of the Gene spectrum, Martin played a number of very well received gigs during 2011 and early 2012. I was lucky enough to see two of these, and was immediately struck by the emotional power of his new songs. And whilst I could listen to these songs courtesy of poorly-recorded audience videos on YouTube, what I really wanted was a new album. Luckily, I was far from alone.

I say luckily because Martin is without a record deal in the conventional sense, But, thanks to PledgeMusic, he's been able to fund his album by getting people like me to effectively pay in advance. I, and lots of others, jumped at the chance and Martin found himself in the wonderful position of raising all the money he needed for the album to go ahead in just 24 hours. Yes, that's how many Gene fans there still are out there. As a result, The Defenstration of St Martin will be released on the 26th of November.

How to end this post then? Well, of course I'm going to end with a YouTube embed of a new song from Martin. But first I must point you at Martin's PledgeMusic project because of course you can (and should) still pledge to buy the album. You can also pledge for all manner of other goodies too (live EP downloads, t-shirts, that kind of thing), plus you get access to exclusive content. If you ever had any interest in Gene at all, it's worth it. Also worth it is following Martin on Twitter. He gets particularly (and entertainingly) squirly during Question Time. Now, enough from me, here's the aforementioned YouTube embed: Martin rehearsing I Want To Choose When I Sleep Alone.

And as a bonus, another preview from the forthcoming album: No One Left To Blame. Now go and pledge!

'Tis the season... the footy season... again

The new Premier League season has just started, so if you haven't already you'd better be quick and sign up to play the free, official Premier League fantasy football game for 2012/13? To enter, simply register for free here. Et voila!

Here's my team, Jack Of Ball Trades, as it was for the start of the season... crap, isn't it? Aguero's already done his knee, so I'm going to have to transfer him before the weekend. And look, I started Ba on the bench (foolish). Oh, and Silva missed a penalty. What do I know about football?

Clandestine Classic XXVIII - Harold The Barrel

The twenty-eighth post in an occasional series that is intended to highlight songs that you might not have heard that I think are excellent - clandestine classics, if you will. Maybe they'll be by bands you've never heard of. Maybe they'll be by more familiar artists, but tracks that were squirelled away on b-sides, unpopular albums, radio sessions or music magazine cover-mounted CDs. Time will, undoubtedly, tell.

It's time for a confession. Regular readers will know of my predilection for The Smiths, The Wedding Present, Gene, The Jam, Radiohead... you probably figure that I have a thing for The Who, Kinks and Small Faces as well. Those of you who've explored the menu bar at the top of this page will probably realise I'm interested in bands like The Blue Aeroplanes too. But the confession... the embarrassing moment of musical truth... I own a lot of Genesis CDs too.

Whoa, whoa, whoa, come back! It's alright, I promise. I'm not talking about the Collins-vocalled commercial highpoint of the Eighties or, worse still, the post-Collins era. What interests me, and has done since my late teens (sadly that's quite a long time now) is the Gabriel-fronted Genesis of the early Seventies. In particular, I love the album Nursery Cryme, from which today's clandestine classic is drawn. I love it (particularly the digitally remastered, pin-sharp release) not only for the earnest and technically gifted playing that Messrs Hackett, Rutherford, Banks and Collins bring to proceedings but also for the detailed, lyrically complex stories the songs tell.

For this reason, I so nearly chose The Musical Box for today's classic. The lyrics are based on a fairy story written by Peter Gabriel, about two Victorian children in a country house. The girl, Cynthia, kills the boy, Henry, by removing his head with a croquet mallet (very Shining-esque - the book, not the film). She later discovers Henry's musical box. When she opens it, Henry returns as a spirit, and starts ageing very quickly. This causes him to experience a lifetime's sexual desires in a few moments, and he tries to persuade Cynthia to, well, you know... However, his nurse arrives and throws the musical box at him, destroying them both. This song is the inspiration for the album's excellent cover art, which shows Cynthia holding a croquet mallet, with a few heads lying on the ground.

But The Musical Box is over ten minutes long. It's challenging and rewarding to listen to but, for the non-fan or newcomer, it's mostly challenging. Not ideal material for a clandestine classic then, and not likely to win many converts to the early-Genesis cause...

So instead I chose Harold The Barrel, a jaunty three minute tale of a Bognor restaurant owner who kills himself by jumping from a high window ledge. I know - upbeat! But even at barely three minutes long, and with a bleak subject, Gabriel's lyrics are intricate, detailed, wordy. In short, they tell a full, rich story... that just happens to be set to music. I particularly like the line "last seen in a mouse-brown overcoat" - what a great description, and typical of the wordsmithery at play through the song. Musically, the band's technical proficiency is evident if understated (particularly in the first half of the track, which fairly rattles along). Half-way through, the whole song takes a ninety-degree turn into a pastoral melody for Harold's introspection... before barrelling (sorry, I couldn't resist) along some more.

You can find today's classic on the aforementioned, remastered Nursery Cryme. On the off-chance that you might just want to give today's offering a listen, of course there's YouTube. Enjoy. Then go and buy the album.

Separated at birth IV - Team GB and the New Avengers

Am I the only one not wondering where the designers got their inspiration for the Team GB Olympic team logo? Right down to the sticky-outy tongue...? I am? Oh. Alright then...

For completists: Separated at birth I, II and III.

Wow. Really glad I didn't waste my 300th post on something fatuous. And since I have probably just used the Olympic rings there without permission, my 301st post will probably be from the Tower... it's been nice knowing you, and all that.

Latitude - all things to all people

I've missed going to Latitude for the last couple of years. I went in 2008 and 2009, and found it to be the best of festivals, but life changes mean I haven't been able to make it more recently. Even this year I couldn't get to the whole thing, but I did manage a day ticket for Sunday. In the best tradition of my old festival diaries, here's what I saw.

Sunday:

• Marcus Brigstocke presents The Early Edition : Comedy Arena. A gentle, satirical, panel-based pulling apart of the day's papers. Robin Ince was especially good.
• Lang Lang : The Waterfront Stage. The classical pianist should have been on a bigger stage, such was the size of the crowd for this. Lang Lang's technical proficiency and dazzling skills were mind-boggling. His ivory-tinkling also drifted over to the burger stall where I later had an early lunch... which was nice.
• Rufus Wainwright : Obelisk Arena. I'm not overly familiar with his body of work, but I thought he might be worth seeing and I was right. What a voice! He started a capella, singing that the churches had run out of candles, and got more dramatic from there. Better than expected, unlike...
• Reginald D. Hunter : Comedy Arena. I'm quite a fan of Reg's HIGNFY appearances but this was a bit disappointing, if I'm honest. He didn't really have a set and admitted as much, saying this was just a case of getting into the groove before Edinburgh. Plus he started ten minutes late and finished five minutes early. Still, his riff on idolising Margaret Thatcher was quite funny, and led nicely into...
• John Pilger : Literary Arena. John strode on stage looking like a statesmanlike version of Paul Hogan, and described the era of Thatcher and Reagan as "the age of regression". He was also illuminating on his early journalistic career, when "tabloid" wasn't a pejorative term, and (predictably) scathing about the terrible impact Murdochs have had on British media.
• Thomas Dolby : The Word Arena. After a protracted tea-break in the Greenpeace tent (top festival tip: charity tents sell cheaper tea than commercial food concessions), I only just made it to the Word Arena in time to catch the tail-end of Thomas. That tail-end was fine. I'm sure the rest of his set was too.
• Latitude Contemporary Art : The Iris Gallery. A woodland setting for a variety of artworks, some of which worked better than others. The inflatable lighthouse left me cold (and, if I'm honest, quietly shaking my head). By contrast, Threefold Law by Andy Harper had me reaching for my camera. Each to their own, I guess.
• Simple Minds : Obelisk Arena. Jim Kerr must get pissed off sometimes - Simple Minds could have been U2. But they're not, and their set on Sunday illustrated why. Yes, there were some hits: Waterfront, Don't You Forget About Me and Alive And Kicking, but other than that? A bit boring. A bit pedestrian. Whisper it quietly but even a bit repetitive. Repetitive. Yes, repetitive. And I'm not just talking about Waterfront's bassline. Plus Jim looked like a Vauxhall salesman about to try selling you an Astra. Having said all, I later got talking to some bloke in the Hurly Burly café who thought that Simple Minds had been brilliant. So, each to their own again then.
• Bat For Lashes : Obelisk Arena. The day's revelation. I came into this not really knowing anything about Bat For Lashes, or any of their (her) material, but I left as a convert to the cause and with a bit of a new brunette indie-chick crush on Natasha Khan. How to describe her? A bit Florence-esque but better, more attractive and without the minor annoyances.
• Jack Dee : Comedy Arena. Eventually I dragged myself away from Natasha in time to catch the second half of Jack's set. Some of his material (how kids change when they hit their teens, for example) felt like an oft-ploughed furrow, and a bit predictable. However, he got away with this by being bloody funny. And, being last on in the Comedy tent, he was able to do an encore - a musical number with an eight-stringed uke, which was much funnier than it had any right to be. Plus he over-ran considerably (please take note, Mr Hunter).
• David Bainbridge : Literary Arena. Because I got to the Literary tent early to ensure a good spot for the next reading, I accidentally caught a fair bit of popular science writer David Bainbridge talking about getting old. I am getting old too, of course, so this struck a chord. He was occasionally quite funny too, so served as a good warm-up for the next act.
• Dave Gorman : Literary Arena. Dave read, engagingly and funnily enough to warrant a spot in the Comedy tent, from his latest book, DG vs The Rest Of The World. He took a detailed Q&A afterwards, the nature of the questions seeming to suggest that a lot of the crowd were real fans. I bought said book afterwards, then queued to meet my comedy hero and get it signed. It sounds feebly fan-boyish to say that shaking Dave's hand, and telling him I admired his well-reasoned and very public support of the campaign for libel reform, was a real highpoint of the day for me.
• Paul Weller : Obelisk Arena. Thanks to Dave, I missed the first ten minutes of the Modfather's set (I'll let you off, Dave). And what a set. Maybe it was being limited to 90 minutes, I don't know, but Mr Weller felt like he was straining at the leash to fit as much in as possible. Also, and this is purely supposition on my part, I wonder if Paul's much-reported giving-up of the old demon drink has been good for his vocal cords? I think it might well have been - he was certainly in fine voice, as good as I've heard him. And for all the old mods there (some of whom had set up camp near the stage before noon), there was plenty of Jam material - Start, Art School, In The City, Town Called Malice and, for an incendiary sing-along encore, Eton Rifles. Bloody hell though, Art School? Singing along to that separated the men from the boys. Oh, and unless it was in the first ten minutes, there was nothing from the Style Council era - shame. All in all though, this was right up there among the best Weller performances I've seen, only really dampened by a new habit of playing guitar whilst sat behind his keyboard (we can't see you then Paul) and letting Steve Craddock over-indulge his inner fret-onanist during Foot Of The Mountain. But, you know, generally brilliant!
• Simon Day : Literary Arena. As a coda to the day, I dropped in on Fast Show alumnus Simon's reading from his, at times painfully honest, autobiography. I'll be honest too, I was tired and feeling a bit leggy, so nearly gave this a miss, but I thought (correctly) that it would give the other day ticketers time to clear the car park after Weller. I'm glad I stayed. In addition to searing honesty, Simon was very funny, with a caustic wit and deadpan delivery. I hope he would find it complimentary if I described him as the anti-McIntyre.

So there we are. A packed festival programme, in a day. Anyone jealous? Things I would have liked to have seen, with more time and fewer timetable clashes, included Slow Club, the Levellers' acoustic set, Mark Thomas's latest offering and the series of short films from record label 4AD. But there's always another year. I hope...

Clandestine Classic XXVII - Hey Dude

The 27th post in an occasional series that is intended to highlight songs that you might not have heard that I think are excellent - clandestine classics, if you will. Maybe they'll be by bands you've never heard of. Maybe they'll be by more familiar artists, but tracks that were squirelled away on b-sides, unpopular albums, radio sessions or music magazine cover-mounted CDs. Time will, undoubtedly, tell.

I'm in two minds what to say about today's featured act, Kula Shaker. It would be easy to dismiss them as ridiculous indie fluff, slipstreaming in the wake of the Britpop behemoth. Even back then (then being 1996), I was a bit cynical. The whole "we're so into Indian mysticism we've got songs called Tattva and Govinda" seemed a bit contrived to me, a bit deliberate. Maybe unfairly, I thought this was little more than a ruse, an attempt to have a USP that would get them in the NME. And as if that wasn't enough, much was made of lead singer's Crispian Mill's showbusiness lineage - son of Hayley, grandson of Sir John - as if that in itself was enough to warrant press coverage and record sales. I scoffed. I tutted. I probably rolled my eyes. And then I heard today's Clandestine Classic and went out and bought the album.

And it - K, from 1996 - is not bad. Not bad at all. Yes, there's plenty of that "we're so into India" stuff that felt contrived but, for the most part, the sitar, tabla, tamboura and the rest all work. Today's classic doesn't feature any of them though. I guess you'd say Hey Dude plays it straight, relying on phasing and guitar effects to achieve some moderate psychedelia. And the punters loved it, with Hey Dude soaring to number 2 in the UK singles chart (some might say that's too successful to be clandestine, but I make the rules). I loved it too, and here's why.

Those first twenty seconds, the intro - it really rolls! There's an excellent, driving bassline which suddenly breaks off leaving a tingling guitar which you just know means something percussive is headed our way. And then bang, that something arrives and it's a fast, pedal-to-the-metal rock and roll riff with slightly trippy lyrics and a singalong chorus. It belts along, this song, and more than most post-Britpop indie of that period, it's a song that yearns to be cranked up loud in the car (provided your ICE can handle plenty of bass). It will make you drive faster, this song.

At about 2 minutes 45 there's a proper guitar break too, about as close to rocking out as jangly Britpop could get. And then the ending, in which rather than just stopping of fading out, the whole song is allowed to change down through the gears, get it's breath back, and roll to a dignified stop.

I can forgive a lot for this song. I can certainly forgive any mystic pretensions. It gets trotted out occasionally at my local 90s indie club night (Britpoppin', that's called, accurately if somewhat unimaginatively) and it still sounds bloody great through big, bassy club speakers. But you don't have to drag yourself clubbing to hear it - you can pick up the album here, or maybe download something of interest here. And then there's always YouTube. The video has worn alright too, don't you think?

Radiohead's artist-in-residence

Stanley Donwood, Radiohead's artist-in-residence, has a lovely new book out featuring some of his incredible line art. There are two launches, one of which is next week, in Norwich at the inestimable and irretrievably cool Bicycle Shop (not an actual bicycle shop). Stanley discusses the book in some detail on his website. Anyway here, as I believe the kids say, is the skinny:

Three

I feel hollow, I feel weak...

Not Film 2012 but a film review anyway: Prometheus

According to Greek myth, Prometheus was the Titan who stole fire from Olympus and gave it to mankind; Zeus punished him by chaining him to a rock where an eagle gnawed at his liver until he was rescued by Hercules. Hmm. A fitting title then, for a film which suggests that human life on Earth was "seeded" by a race of engineers from a distant planet. That might be a spoiler (sorry) but I doubt it, such is the volume of hype that has surrounded this film. Understandably so, of course - after all, this is Sir Ridley Scott's return to the genre he redefined with Alien (regular readers will know I love that film). A return, no less, to the world of Alien itself... Exciting stuff. But is the film any good?

In short, yes. But is it great, like Alien? No, not really, and that's a shame because it could have been - a lot of key ingredients are there: the idea that humans were "engineered", whilst not new, has plenty of scope; the cast is excellent; Scott directs and produces; cinematography is sweeping and impressive (especially in the opening sequence); CGI is rendered flawlessly yet with uncommon subtlely; and the 3D I chose to view the film in (after considerable debate) was the best I've seen, giving real perspective without, ironically, being too in-your-face. Oh, and I loved (what I perceived to be) the parallels with 2001 - archaeological evidence found suggesting a interplanetary creator, a ship being dispatched to find that creator with the crew (oblivious to the mission) in suspended animation, a murderous or at least deranged machine. Even the widescreen vistas of the opening sequence. Oh, and the ship's computer uttering the line "Good morning David." A little less formal and you'd have a perfect match. But I digress. The film has plenty going for it, yet somehow still manages to miss the target I had build up for it in my fanboy mind.

So what went wrong?

Well, there are plenty of issues, so to distract from the fact that I'm about to be a bit negative about a film I still liked, it's time to include a gratuitous shot of the lovely Charlize Theron... Now, back to those issues. Sorry, but I feel bulletpoints coming on.

• There's a lot of excessive and blatant signposting early on. As in, "Oh, you just happen to have this machine that can do any kind of surgery, and oh, you just happen to have your own quarters which can detach as a standalone craft… I wonder if either of those will be needed later?" That kind of thing. I know such technicalities can be hard to "show, not tell" but it feels like they hardly even tried.
• There are a few expository plot leaps of faith too, notably when the captain (Idris Elba) of Prometheus plucks the realisation that the planet was the engineer’s weapons base seemingly from the air. A friend of mine calls this the Resolution Of Everything, and makes the excellent point that this doesn't work because the captain's character hasn't been developed enough for us to trust such innate insight.
• Why does David, the android played by Michael Fassbender, deliberately infect Holloway (Logan Marshall-Green)? This is never really explained, at least not to my satisfaction.
• Why can't Fifield (Sean Harris) and Milburn (Rafe Spall) find their way out of the engineer's base when their colleagues do so easily, and quickly?
• Why is old man Weyland, who is clearly meant to be a centegenarian, played by Guy Pearce (currently 44)? Make-up is great but Weyland still looked like a young guy wearing a lot of greasepaint. Are there no screen-friendly old actors any more?
• Where does Meredith Vickers (Theron) disappear to for the middle third of the film?
• Where were the original shock moments? The oral impregnation from Alien is repeated, the emergence from stomach is repeated (albeit with a twist). But where's something new?

Don't get me wrong, as I've already said there's lots to enjoy in Prometheus. I enjoyed Prometheus, very much. Michael Fassbender, excellent as android David, steals the acting plaudits. Noomi Rapace and Charlize Theron, between them, provide the "strong woman" characteristics that the long shadow of Ripley demands. But the whole thing just feels like it's been tinkered with, re-edited and cut about, with a touch more of this and a dash less of that - in short, that it's been hacked about in response to feedback from preliminary test screenings and consumer surveys. On the plus side, this gives hope that in years to come there'll be a Prometheus Director's Cut - Scott has plenty of previous convictions for that, after all. And it's a film crying out for a sequel - there are too many unanswered questions in this one. Another mate of mine reckons Dr Shaw will turn out to be Ripley's mother, by the way, and wouldn't that be a neat twist?

So in conclusion it's good - I'd still recommend you go and see it - but not great. And whilst I enjoyed it, I can't see myself watching it in full every single time it's shown on television in years to come, something I still do with Alien, 33 years after its release. And that probably tells you all you need to know.

Prometheus is currently on general release, and will be available to buy soon enough.