Counting Crows - Saturday Nights & Sunday Mornings
Ever since I first heard Mr Jones, the debut single from Counting Crows way back in 1985 I've been a huge fan of the band. There's something about singer and main songwriter Adam Duritz's impassioned and tortured lyrics that, in common with Trent Reznor, really seem to speak to me and understand what goes on in this head and heart of mine.
It seems like an eternity since the Crows last album, Hard Candy, hit the shelves some six years ago, but with their new offering, Saturday Nights & Sunday Mornings, the wait has most definitely been worth it.
Flying in the face of their record company's wishes, Duritz stuck to his vision of a record that is for all intents and purposes actually two short albums that perfectly complement each other.
The first six tracks, the Saturday Night of the equation are up tempo rock songs, packing more emotion and musical hooks into thirty minutes than some bands manage in their entire careers. Opener 1492 powers along like a freight train, and has a rough around the edges feel that I've witnessed live with the band on occasion, but which has never been captured successfully on record until now.
The following five tracks are simultaneously fresh slices of Counting Crows' trademark sound while also managing to sound as though each of them are refugees from their various previous records, particularly Hanging Tree which could have sat very easily among the songs on This Desert Life, and contains one of Duritz's finest examples of the raw emotion he infuses his lyrics as he sings "You open windows, And you wait for someone warm to come inside, And then you freeze to death alone."
As Saturday Night's closing tune Cowboys comes to an abrupt end, the more sublime Sunday Mornings side of the album gently arrives in the form of Washington Square, a sparse but devastatingly lonely song that will stop hearts in the live arena.
Having stated in an interview that he approached the writing of this record as if it were to be the band's swansong (though he stresses this isn't the case), Duritz clverly recycles moments from their debut album August And Everything After with the line "I dream of Michelangelo when I'm lying in my bed" in the short but poignant When I Dream Of Michelangelo, reprising the line from the first album's Mr Jones.
Having confessed that he's spent the last few years falling apart, Duritz is at his most beautifully vulnerable in songs like Anyone But You and You Can't Count On Me (which the record company lobbied unsuccessfully to change to the more positive You CAN Count On Me), and even ends his liner notes with another reprise, this time from Recovering The Satellites' haunting A Long December by musing that "maybe this year WILL be better than the last."
There are very few singer/songwriters who wear their emotions so nakedly on their sleeves as Duritz does, but in doing so once more he has created an album that any Counting Crows fan will instantly take to their heart, and which will remain relevant and engaging for years to come.
A literal record of two halves, and one that this murder of Crows can be extremely proud of.
Monday 31 March 2008
Thursday 27 March 2008
The Guns In Brixton
Velvet Revolver - Brixton Academy, London - 25th March 2008
It's a remarkably mild night in Brixton as we meet in The Beehive and sink a quick beer before heading off to the Carling Academy to see one of rock's current crop of killer live acts, Velvet Revolver.
We're on comp tickets tonight which saves us both the best part of a ton and more importantly to my skewed way of thinking, the need to do my usual time in the queue that snakes down the side of the venue.
We catch the last few songs of the support act, Pearl, during which time I remark several times that their rhythm guitarist looks like the bastard child of Anthrax's Scott Ian. The band itself are pretty good, ending their set with the best version of Nutbush City Limits that I've ever heard before heading off to the merch stand to sign autographs and chat to the fans.
This is a particularly endearing gesture to the fans in these days of high security, not to mention a lucrative one for the band who no doubt sell more than a few t-shirts and EPs on the strength of their pretty blonde singer's promise of kisses for all who come and say hello.
After observing the meet and greet for a few minutes, mainly to catch a closer look at the cute female bassist, not something you see every day,we head back in to the main hall to await the main event.
The lights dim and the band hit the stage with Let It Roll, the opening cut off their second and latest album Libertad, which having only picked up recently I'm still very enamoured with. It's a slice of honest, good old fashioned rock and roll, and translates perfectly to the live arena.
More authentically Guns'n'Roses than Axl Rose's current tribute band, Velvet Revolver bassist Duff McKagen looks lean and mean, his blonde main outshone only by his smile as he locks in with Use You Illusion era Guns drummer Matt Sorum. Slash, looking impossibly cool in shades and his trademark top hat cuts an impressive and distinctive silhouette and he stands in that pose playing his guitar like his life depended on it.
Dave Kushner, the only member of the band not to have previously been in multi-platinum acts, holds his own with Slash with no problems, running around the stage in his lumberjack shirt and baseball cap, looking uncannily like Tom Morello's slighty crazier twin.
It's ex-Stone Temple Pilots man Scott Weiland that really blows me away tonight, though. Not having paid much attention to STP I was aware of Plush and Sour Girl, but apart from that only his reputation as an unpredictable habitual junkie has preceeded him in my book.
Beginning the gig in a heavy duffel coat, he gradully disrobes throughout the show until he is wearing only a ridiculously tight pair of hipsters that threaten to reveal more than he intended at any moment, and a sheen of sweat.
He prowls the stage like a rabid wolverine, looking occasionally like a posessed GI Joe figure, as his voice soars through the thick wall of rock and roll noise that his band mates produce, letting the pace drop only twice during the show, once for the Guns classic patience, giving Duff and Slash the opportunity to take front stage, the latter with a Page-esque double necked guitar, and for their best know track Fall To Pieces.
To my surprise and delight we get another couple of Guns tracks, It's So Easy and Mr Brownstone, both of which sound even more vital tonight than when I'd previously seen them performed live twenty years ago. Judging by the 'STP' chanting crowd's reaction, and the fact that Sex Type Thing aside I didn't recognise them as VR songs, they play a similar number of Stone Temple Pilots songs.
I can never understand why so often artists are unwilling to acknowledge their pasts, so this well deserved showcase of former songwriting glories by both of VR's feeder bands is very welcome and takes the gig from being merely great to being absolutely fantastic.
Rumours have abounded this past week that Weiland is on the verge of quitting the band, fuelled by his very public spat with drummer Sorum on his blog and the recently announced reformation of Stone Temple Pilots, but I for one hope that this isn't the last VR tour, as Weiland had announced from the stage a few nights earlier - a claim refuted the following day by Slash, as the world needs bands like Velvet Revolver to show the young bucks just how it should be done.
(footnote - browsing the web a couple of days after the gig, it turns out that it was Scott Ian on stage with Pearl, looking every bit as young and vital as the last time I saw him in Anthrax nearly two decades ago.)
It's a remarkably mild night in Brixton as we meet in The Beehive and sink a quick beer before heading off to the Carling Academy to see one of rock's current crop of killer live acts, Velvet Revolver.
We're on comp tickets tonight which saves us both the best part of a ton and more importantly to my skewed way of thinking, the need to do my usual time in the queue that snakes down the side of the venue.
We catch the last few songs of the support act, Pearl, during which time I remark several times that their rhythm guitarist looks like the bastard child of Anthrax's Scott Ian. The band itself are pretty good, ending their set with the best version of Nutbush City Limits that I've ever heard before heading off to the merch stand to sign autographs and chat to the fans.
This is a particularly endearing gesture to the fans in these days of high security, not to mention a lucrative one for the band who no doubt sell more than a few t-shirts and EPs on the strength of their pretty blonde singer's promise of kisses for all who come and say hello.
After observing the meet and greet for a few minutes, mainly to catch a closer look at the cute female bassist, not something you see every day,we head back in to the main hall to await the main event.
The lights dim and the band hit the stage with Let It Roll, the opening cut off their second and latest album Libertad, which having only picked up recently I'm still very enamoured with. It's a slice of honest, good old fashioned rock and roll, and translates perfectly to the live arena.
More authentically Guns'n'Roses than Axl Rose's current tribute band, Velvet Revolver bassist Duff McKagen looks lean and mean, his blonde main outshone only by his smile as he locks in with Use You Illusion era Guns drummer Matt Sorum. Slash, looking impossibly cool in shades and his trademark top hat cuts an impressive and distinctive silhouette and he stands in that pose playing his guitar like his life depended on it.
Dave Kushner, the only member of the band not to have previously been in multi-platinum acts, holds his own with Slash with no problems, running around the stage in his lumberjack shirt and baseball cap, looking uncannily like Tom Morello's slighty crazier twin.
It's ex-Stone Temple Pilots man Scott Weiland that really blows me away tonight, though. Not having paid much attention to STP I was aware of Plush and Sour Girl, but apart from that only his reputation as an unpredictable habitual junkie has preceeded him in my book.
Beginning the gig in a heavy duffel coat, he gradully disrobes throughout the show until he is wearing only a ridiculously tight pair of hipsters that threaten to reveal more than he intended at any moment, and a sheen of sweat.
He prowls the stage like a rabid wolverine, looking occasionally like a posessed GI Joe figure, as his voice soars through the thick wall of rock and roll noise that his band mates produce, letting the pace drop only twice during the show, once for the Guns classic patience, giving Duff and Slash the opportunity to take front stage, the latter with a Page-esque double necked guitar, and for their best know track Fall To Pieces.
To my surprise and delight we get another couple of Guns tracks, It's So Easy and Mr Brownstone, both of which sound even more vital tonight than when I'd previously seen them performed live twenty years ago. Judging by the 'STP' chanting crowd's reaction, and the fact that Sex Type Thing aside I didn't recognise them as VR songs, they play a similar number of Stone Temple Pilots songs.
I can never understand why so often artists are unwilling to acknowledge their pasts, so this well deserved showcase of former songwriting glories by both of VR's feeder bands is very welcome and takes the gig from being merely great to being absolutely fantastic.
Rumours have abounded this past week that Weiland is on the verge of quitting the band, fuelled by his very public spat with drummer Sorum on his blog and the recently announced reformation of Stone Temple Pilots, but I for one hope that this isn't the last VR tour, as Weiland had announced from the stage a few nights earlier - a claim refuted the following day by Slash, as the world needs bands like Velvet Revolver to show the young bucks just how it should be done.
(footnote - browsing the web a couple of days after the gig, it turns out that it was Scott Ian on stage with Pearl, looking every bit as young and vital as the last time I saw him in Anthrax nearly two decades ago.)
Wednesday 26 March 2008
Things
There are places that mean things to us, but which of themselves are not necessarily meaningful.
Journeying home through subterranean London last night the tube train pulled into London Bridge station and I realised that this place, as ugly and nondescript as is may appear to the naked eye, is in a funny kind of way ours.
This was our access point to that first time, where we emerged, blinking into the sunlight in all manner of ways, and from where we embarked on our maiden voyage of discovery.
We spent a lot of time underground, whether in the cavernous spaces of seOne with the other freaks and fantastic people, wandering the darkened arenas while all around us pain and pleasure were meted out, or in the more cosy confines of a basement Italian restaurant.
This all got me thinking that we have much that is ours, that is untainted by previous histories or preconceptions.
We have the Giraffe, home of the best burgers in London. We have CC&K, which offers an uncommon welcome and serves the finest coffee this side of Twin Peaks. We have the Pheasant Lodge, which served the most wonderful smoked salmon and scrambled eggs for breakfast, and we have the wonderful hotel where we spent my birthday last year, with its amazing lighting, delightful sunken bath and gorgeous four poster bed.
These things are ours, from the ugly concrete of London Bridge tube station to the splendour of our seaside hotel retreat.
These things are us.
Journeying home through subterranean London last night the tube train pulled into London Bridge station and I realised that this place, as ugly and nondescript as is may appear to the naked eye, is in a funny kind of way ours.
This was our access point to that first time, where we emerged, blinking into the sunlight in all manner of ways, and from where we embarked on our maiden voyage of discovery.
We spent a lot of time underground, whether in the cavernous spaces of seOne with the other freaks and fantastic people, wandering the darkened arenas while all around us pain and pleasure were meted out, or in the more cosy confines of a basement Italian restaurant.
This all got me thinking that we have much that is ours, that is untainted by previous histories or preconceptions.
We have the Giraffe, home of the best burgers in London. We have CC&K, which offers an uncommon welcome and serves the finest coffee this side of Twin Peaks. We have the Pheasant Lodge, which served the most wonderful smoked salmon and scrambled eggs for breakfast, and we have the wonderful hotel where we spent my birthday last year, with its amazing lighting, delightful sunken bath and gorgeous four poster bed.
These things are ours, from the ugly concrete of London Bridge tube station to the splendour of our seaside hotel retreat.
These things are us.
Saturday 22 March 2008
The Disappeared
It was like driving through an old movie of my life, but one where if you looked hard enough you could see the ghosts.
I passed places where I'd lived, and wondered if the people who had shared my life at those times were still there, or if not, where they might be.
I saw places that triggered long dormant memories, mostly good but a few that I'd rather had remained forgotten.
I wondered if those who had disappeared from my life were doing OK. Whether they ever thought of me as I was now thinking of them.
It's funny how people just disappear from your life. It's not always intentional, but we move, we change numbers, addresses, lose details and then without even realising it we're lost.
There's a part of me, my saviour complex as Deborah calls it, that wants them all to be doing well, to be happy, to have rich, fulfilled lives, but there's also a part of me that knows that won't have happened for all of them.
Some of them I know are no longer even alive, but the rest I hope are at the very least surviving and happy in their lives.
I have a tendency to try and save everybody - everybody except myself, that is, but I'm learning that life doesn't work that way.
We can't save everyone. At best we can only hope that they're doing OK.
I passed places where I'd lived, and wondered if the people who had shared my life at those times were still there, or if not, where they might be.
I saw places that triggered long dormant memories, mostly good but a few that I'd rather had remained forgotten.
I wondered if those who had disappeared from my life were doing OK. Whether they ever thought of me as I was now thinking of them.
It's funny how people just disappear from your life. It's not always intentional, but we move, we change numbers, addresses, lose details and then without even realising it we're lost.
There's a part of me, my saviour complex as Deborah calls it, that wants them all to be doing well, to be happy, to have rich, fulfilled lives, but there's also a part of me that knows that won't have happened for all of them.
Some of them I know are no longer even alive, but the rest I hope are at the very least surviving and happy in their lives.
I have a tendency to try and save everybody - everybody except myself, that is, but I'm learning that life doesn't work that way.
We can't save everyone. At best we can only hope that they're doing OK.
Wednesday 19 March 2008
I Remember That! (Or Do I?)
It's funny how your memory can play sneaky little tricks on you. Things you thought you'd remembered perfectly - dates, times, places - suddenly turn out to be incorrect.
This happened to me last night while I was writing a chapter for my latest book, the semi-autobiographical 80s rock one.
In January of 1989 I went for an audition with a band called Whip Me Harvey who were a popular local rock band whose bassist, a guy called Tom who was also a friend of mine, had just walked out on them.
Prior to reaching this point in my tale, I had already written about the genesis of the band I formed that I first played live with in September 1989, but which had actually formed before Christmas in 1988. Or so I have believed for a good few years.
You see, the day of the Whip Me Harvey audition coincided with an event that I vividly remember and which was widely reported in the media. On Sunday 8th January 1989, a Boeing 737 crashed onto the M1 motorway, a few yards short of the actual runway, killing 47 people.
Clearly, this is the sort of event you remember, and so by extension I remembered the exact date of the Whip Me Harvey audition. The problem was that I didn't put together the other band until after I had auditioned for Whip Me Harvey. Therefore I couldn't have put it together before Christmas 1988, and so I had to go back through several chapters and rewrite history to more accurately reflect what actually happened.
Though it was a pain in the backside, and the chronology matters to nobody except me, I gladly put myself through the pain because I wanted it to be as truthful as I could possibly make it. Sure, nobody would ever have known, or cared for that matter, if I auditioned for Whip Me Harvey before I put Alter Ego, my other band, together.
Nobody, that is, except me. As a result of my rewriting, I can sleep soundly knowing that I have effectively rediscovered some of the truth of my life that I had forgotten, despite having been there at the time.
In truth, that's partly why I'm writing this book - for me - so that when I'm old, senile and feeble I can relive my youth through the power of my own words. If anyone else is entertained by my tale, then that's all icing on the cake.
This happened to me last night while I was writing a chapter for my latest book, the semi-autobiographical 80s rock one.
In January of 1989 I went for an audition with a band called Whip Me Harvey who were a popular local rock band whose bassist, a guy called Tom who was also a friend of mine, had just walked out on them.
Prior to reaching this point in my tale, I had already written about the genesis of the band I formed that I first played live with in September 1989, but which had actually formed before Christmas in 1988. Or so I have believed for a good few years.
You see, the day of the Whip Me Harvey audition coincided with an event that I vividly remember and which was widely reported in the media. On Sunday 8th January 1989, a Boeing 737 crashed onto the M1 motorway, a few yards short of the actual runway, killing 47 people.
Clearly, this is the sort of event you remember, and so by extension I remembered the exact date of the Whip Me Harvey audition. The problem was that I didn't put together the other band until after I had auditioned for Whip Me Harvey. Therefore I couldn't have put it together before Christmas 1988, and so I had to go back through several chapters and rewrite history to more accurately reflect what actually happened.
Though it was a pain in the backside, and the chronology matters to nobody except me, I gladly put myself through the pain because I wanted it to be as truthful as I could possibly make it. Sure, nobody would ever have known, or cared for that matter, if I auditioned for Whip Me Harvey before I put Alter Ego, my other band, together.
Nobody, that is, except me. As a result of my rewriting, I can sleep soundly knowing that I have effectively rediscovered some of the truth of my life that I had forgotten, despite having been there at the time.
In truth, that's partly why I'm writing this book - for me - so that when I'm old, senile and feeble I can relive my youth through the power of my own words. If anyone else is entertained by my tale, then that's all icing on the cake.
Sunday 16 March 2008
The Past Is Not A Dirty Word
Mention the word nostalgia to certain artists and you'll be greeted with a retort full of hostility, as they insist that the past is the past, and that they're all about the here and now.
One such artist is Gary Numan, who for years has treated his early catalogue with at best indifference and more usually disdain, but who in the last couple of years has finally made a concession to his loyal fan base, of which I've been a part for almost thirty years, and toured two of his best loved early albums.
In the dying weeks of 2006 I saw him perform the whole of 1980's Telekon, complete with all of the b-sides, and with a recreation of the classic light show. Needless to say it went down superbly with long term fans, and so last night we found ourselves at the Indigo at the O2 arena to see him perform a similar show with 1979's Replicas album.
One of the main critiscisms levelled at nostalgia is that for anyone who openly admits a fondness for it, as I do, is accused of living in the past and not wanting to acknwoledge the present, and the future.
I have to disagree vociferously with this senitment, however, as for me the opportunity to both celebrate the music that I loved during my formative years, and still do, and to see many of the songs that I grew up with played live, some of them for the first time, is nothing short of fantastic.
As I stood in the crowd last night singing myself hoarse to the songs whose lyrics I know as well as I do my own name, I felt well and truly among friends (electric and otherwise), and for ninety minutes I was nine years old again, and recalling the feeling of discovering Replicas for the first time.
It's unlikely that Numan will play the vast majority of these songs ever again, which is a shame for many reasons, not least because most of them are genuinely excellent songs, but despite his admission that he has, after all, enjoyed revisiting past glories, he now wants to move firmly forward and effectively erase all but the last few years from his live repertoire.
The sad thing is that Numan, and he's by no means alone in this way of thinking - for years Paul Weller refused to play any Jam songs live, for example, and Morrissey for many years barely even acknowledged that he was ever in The Smiths - by making this decision is forgetting that although those of us who are long standing fans continue to embrace and more importantly buy his curreny output, it is because of these earlier songs that we are doing this in the first place.
The whole nostalgia thing is very much in vogue at the moment, with many bands touring complete old albums in an attempt to recapture the old fans who have since drifted away, and I count myself blessed that Numan has done the Telekon and Replicas tours, but it's a mistake to now refuse to play any of the old songs that made whichever band you care to name famous in the first place.
With music sales on the decline, the main revenue stream for any artist in years to come will be live shows, and so in my humble opinion this should be reflected in a balanced set that draws on all eras of the artist's career.
I'll happily continue to support my favourite bands' new material, but all I ask in return is that they don't forget their past. It is, after all, and as I've said before, where I come from - where we all come from - and has made me in to the person, and the fan, that I am today.
One such artist is Gary Numan, who for years has treated his early catalogue with at best indifference and more usually disdain, but who in the last couple of years has finally made a concession to his loyal fan base, of which I've been a part for almost thirty years, and toured two of his best loved early albums.
In the dying weeks of 2006 I saw him perform the whole of 1980's Telekon, complete with all of the b-sides, and with a recreation of the classic light show. Needless to say it went down superbly with long term fans, and so last night we found ourselves at the Indigo at the O2 arena to see him perform a similar show with 1979's Replicas album.
One of the main critiscisms levelled at nostalgia is that for anyone who openly admits a fondness for it, as I do, is accused of living in the past and not wanting to acknwoledge the present, and the future.
I have to disagree vociferously with this senitment, however, as for me the opportunity to both celebrate the music that I loved during my formative years, and still do, and to see many of the songs that I grew up with played live, some of them for the first time, is nothing short of fantastic.
As I stood in the crowd last night singing myself hoarse to the songs whose lyrics I know as well as I do my own name, I felt well and truly among friends (electric and otherwise), and for ninety minutes I was nine years old again, and recalling the feeling of discovering Replicas for the first time.
It's unlikely that Numan will play the vast majority of these songs ever again, which is a shame for many reasons, not least because most of them are genuinely excellent songs, but despite his admission that he has, after all, enjoyed revisiting past glories, he now wants to move firmly forward and effectively erase all but the last few years from his live repertoire.
The sad thing is that Numan, and he's by no means alone in this way of thinking - for years Paul Weller refused to play any Jam songs live, for example, and Morrissey for many years barely even acknowledged that he was ever in The Smiths - by making this decision is forgetting that although those of us who are long standing fans continue to embrace and more importantly buy his curreny output, it is because of these earlier songs that we are doing this in the first place.
The whole nostalgia thing is very much in vogue at the moment, with many bands touring complete old albums in an attempt to recapture the old fans who have since drifted away, and I count myself blessed that Numan has done the Telekon and Replicas tours, but it's a mistake to now refuse to play any of the old songs that made whichever band you care to name famous in the first place.
With music sales on the decline, the main revenue stream for any artist in years to come will be live shows, and so in my humble opinion this should be reflected in a balanced set that draws on all eras of the artist's career.
I'll happily continue to support my favourite bands' new material, but all I ask in return is that they don't forget their past. It is, after all, and as I've said before, where I come from - where we all come from - and has made me in to the person, and the fan, that I am today.
Friday 14 March 2008
Mass Hysteria, YouTube Style
I saw George A Romero's latest movie, Diary Of The Dead, the other night, and there was a line of dialogue in it that got me really thinking.
The movie, for those unaware of Mr Romero's work, is his fifth 'Dead' film, and rather than carry on his decade spanning social commentary that began with 1968's groundbreaking Night Of The Living dead and culminated in 2005's Land Of The Dead, Romero has reinvented the zombie outbreak that he pioneered 40 years ago and has slapped ground zero, as it were, right in the middle of the YouTube generation.
In the movie, the main character is filming the emerging catastrophy as it happens, believing it to be important to capture the truth of what is happening and uploading it the the internet for the world to see, rather than the reimagined news media versions of events.
At one point when a character questions that what is happening is actually real, someone mentions that they remember the old Orson Welles War Of The Worlds radio broadcast from 1938 which caused thousands of listeners, who had either missed the disclaimer at the start and end of the broadcast that it was a work of fiction or become so wrapped up in the drama that they fell prey to what was effectively a form of mass hysteria, to take to the streets, believing that there really was an alien invasion in progress.
Back then, of course, radio was the only real means of mass communication, and so having nothing to back up, or denounce, the events that the radio seemed to be reporting, the public had two options - believe it, as many did which lead to panic, or disbelieve it, accepting it for the fictional drama that it was.
The reference got me thinking, though - would it be possible to perpetrate such a hoax these days, with the myriad of media sources, both official and unofficial, available to cross-reference the events that would be apparently unfolding?
With sufficient people involved, and enough money and resources, I think it could be pulled off
With prerecorded clips ready to go, these could be uploaded at regularly intervals from various locations around the globe as if they were happening in the present, and the news media could be bombarded with accounts from everyday people who were being caught up in the event.
Of course, this couldn't go on for long, as the fabrication would soon be discovered and debunked all over the world, but just for half an hour or so, wouldn't it be fun to fuck with minds of the planet.....?
The movie, for those unaware of Mr Romero's work, is his fifth 'Dead' film, and rather than carry on his decade spanning social commentary that began with 1968's groundbreaking Night Of The Living dead and culminated in 2005's Land Of The Dead, Romero has reinvented the zombie outbreak that he pioneered 40 years ago and has slapped ground zero, as it were, right in the middle of the YouTube generation.
In the movie, the main character is filming the emerging catastrophy as it happens, believing it to be important to capture the truth of what is happening and uploading it the the internet for the world to see, rather than the reimagined news media versions of events.
At one point when a character questions that what is happening is actually real, someone mentions that they remember the old Orson Welles War Of The Worlds radio broadcast from 1938 which caused thousands of listeners, who had either missed the disclaimer at the start and end of the broadcast that it was a work of fiction or become so wrapped up in the drama that they fell prey to what was effectively a form of mass hysteria, to take to the streets, believing that there really was an alien invasion in progress.
Back then, of course, radio was the only real means of mass communication, and so having nothing to back up, or denounce, the events that the radio seemed to be reporting, the public had two options - believe it, as many did which lead to panic, or disbelieve it, accepting it for the fictional drama that it was.
The reference got me thinking, though - would it be possible to perpetrate such a hoax these days, with the myriad of media sources, both official and unofficial, available to cross-reference the events that would be apparently unfolding?
With sufficient people involved, and enough money and resources, I think it could be pulled off
With prerecorded clips ready to go, these could be uploaded at regularly intervals from various locations around the globe as if they were happening in the present, and the news media could be bombarded with accounts from everyday people who were being caught up in the event.
Of course, this couldn't go on for long, as the fabrication would soon be discovered and debunked all over the world, but just for half an hour or so, wouldn't it be fun to fuck with minds of the planet.....?
Tuesday 11 March 2008
I'll Sleep When I'm Dead
As Steve Miller once said in his classic Fly Like An Eagle song, time keeps on ticking, ticking, ticking into the future. And he's right.
Sometimes it ticks too damn fast, though, for my liking anyway. When I started this blog I set myself the goal of writing something at least once every two days, and I've almost achieved that on average, but again I find three days have elapsed between entries and it makes me think how briefly we're here.
There are so many things I want to do in my life, but even if I had all the money in the world, and therefore the maximum possible time available, not having to hold down a job just to keep a roof over my head and food in my belly, I still couldn't do it all.
I'm almost finished the first draft of my third book, and while I may write another thirty before I die, I still won't have said everything I want to say, or explored all the creative outlets available just through the medium of words.
On top of that, I love to read, and have a pile of books sitting here that I have yet to read, but really want to (and will), but to devote time to reading is to neglect my writing. Don't even get me started on the number of movies and albums that I want to watch or listen to!
However, I'm not complaining. My philosophy is that despite the fact that I'll never do everything I want to do, I'll make the most of and enjoy to the max those things that I am able to achieve.
It does annoy me, though, when I watch something like the House Of Wax remake as I did the other night. I knew going into it that it was going to be a classic two-beer, leave your brain at the door type movie, but what really pissed me off was it had flashes of inspiration and brilliance, but was exceuted all wrong. I know I could have done better with the script, and the casting - Paris Hilton couldn't act her way out of a paper bag if her life depended on it - and so I'm fired up to write my own horror movie, but the question is when? When?
Ah, well. Maybe one day. In the meantime it's back to the book as I'm closing in on my target of 100,000 words, and look set to go over that by a good margin the way I'm going.
The moral of all this? By all means be ambitious, shoot for the moon, and maybe you'll even get there, but always, always, take pleasure in the small achievements and the little victories.
Hey, maybe I should write a motivational book........ ;-)
Sometimes it ticks too damn fast, though, for my liking anyway. When I started this blog I set myself the goal of writing something at least once every two days, and I've almost achieved that on average, but again I find three days have elapsed between entries and it makes me think how briefly we're here.
There are so many things I want to do in my life, but even if I had all the money in the world, and therefore the maximum possible time available, not having to hold down a job just to keep a roof over my head and food in my belly, I still couldn't do it all.
I'm almost finished the first draft of my third book, and while I may write another thirty before I die, I still won't have said everything I want to say, or explored all the creative outlets available just through the medium of words.
On top of that, I love to read, and have a pile of books sitting here that I have yet to read, but really want to (and will), but to devote time to reading is to neglect my writing. Don't even get me started on the number of movies and albums that I want to watch or listen to!
However, I'm not complaining. My philosophy is that despite the fact that I'll never do everything I want to do, I'll make the most of and enjoy to the max those things that I am able to achieve.
It does annoy me, though, when I watch something like the House Of Wax remake as I did the other night. I knew going into it that it was going to be a classic two-beer, leave your brain at the door type movie, but what really pissed me off was it had flashes of inspiration and brilliance, but was exceuted all wrong. I know I could have done better with the script, and the casting - Paris Hilton couldn't act her way out of a paper bag if her life depended on it - and so I'm fired up to write my own horror movie, but the question is when? When?
Ah, well. Maybe one day. In the meantime it's back to the book as I'm closing in on my target of 100,000 words, and look set to go over that by a good margin the way I'm going.
The moral of all this? By all means be ambitious, shoot for the moon, and maybe you'll even get there, but always, always, take pleasure in the small achievements and the little victories.
Hey, maybe I should write a motivational book........ ;-)
Saturday 8 March 2008
People *do* Smile More...
Thursday night found us at the beatiful Roundhouse venue in London's Camden Town to spend a couple of hours in the company of Newton Faulkner.
Looking like a refugee from The Levellers with his waist length dreadlocks and goatee beard, Faulkner is one of the latest crop of singer-songwriters, but what sets him aside from the Jack Johnsons of this world, who I also like very much, is the way that he plays his acoustic guitar.
Not only does he play it the conventional way with a mastery that suggests he's been playing guitars for as long as he could hold them, but he also uses the fingers and palm of his right hand to beat out a rhythm to accompany himself.
This technique is best illustrated on his inspired covered of Massive Attack's Teardrop, which despite the original being such an iconic song, Faulkner has made his own in much the same way that Johnny Cash made Nine Inch Nails' Hurt his own, even prompting an impressed Trent Reznor to declare "It's not my song any more."
Faulkner's album Hand Built By Robots is packed to the gills with catchy pop songs (though whether he'd agree with the 'pop' label is another matter) and so I was looking forward to being entertained for an hour and a half purely on the strength of the material.
However, Faulkner's trump card is his stage presence and, more importantly, his humour. I can't remember the last time I've laughed so much at a gig, for the right reasons, anyway. Cracking jokes at his own expense and coming out with one liners that some professional comedians would kill for, he had the audience eating out of his hand mere moments after taking the stage.
He dropped Teardrop into the set about two-thirds of the way through, and for me I thought that would be the highlight of the set, but his master stroke came with his final song, another cover, that as a veteran gig goer of some twenty-odd years had me as impressed as I ever remember being.
Telling us that he had been tinkering with another cover, he launched into a version of Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody using just his voice and his unique guitar playing style. The audience went into rapture, singing along while simultaneously looking on wide-eyed as he again made the song his own, and ending the gig on the highest note that I've ever know a show to conclude on.
We laughed, we sang, and we witnessed the culmination of the first year of what I'm convinced will be a long and successful career.
Teardrop aside, one of Faulkner's best known songs is called People Should Smile More, and for the ninety minutes he was on stage we did. A lot more.
Looking like a refugee from The Levellers with his waist length dreadlocks and goatee beard, Faulkner is one of the latest crop of singer-songwriters, but what sets him aside from the Jack Johnsons of this world, who I also like very much, is the way that he plays his acoustic guitar.
Not only does he play it the conventional way with a mastery that suggests he's been playing guitars for as long as he could hold them, but he also uses the fingers and palm of his right hand to beat out a rhythm to accompany himself.
This technique is best illustrated on his inspired covered of Massive Attack's Teardrop, which despite the original being such an iconic song, Faulkner has made his own in much the same way that Johnny Cash made Nine Inch Nails' Hurt his own, even prompting an impressed Trent Reznor to declare "It's not my song any more."
Faulkner's album Hand Built By Robots is packed to the gills with catchy pop songs (though whether he'd agree with the 'pop' label is another matter) and so I was looking forward to being entertained for an hour and a half purely on the strength of the material.
However, Faulkner's trump card is his stage presence and, more importantly, his humour. I can't remember the last time I've laughed so much at a gig, for the right reasons, anyway. Cracking jokes at his own expense and coming out with one liners that some professional comedians would kill for, he had the audience eating out of his hand mere moments after taking the stage.
He dropped Teardrop into the set about two-thirds of the way through, and for me I thought that would be the highlight of the set, but his master stroke came with his final song, another cover, that as a veteran gig goer of some twenty-odd years had me as impressed as I ever remember being.
Telling us that he had been tinkering with another cover, he launched into a version of Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody using just his voice and his unique guitar playing style. The audience went into rapture, singing along while simultaneously looking on wide-eyed as he again made the song his own, and ending the gig on the highest note that I've ever know a show to conclude on.
We laughed, we sang, and we witnessed the culmination of the first year of what I'm convinced will be a long and successful career.
Teardrop aside, one of Faulkner's best known songs is called People Should Smile More, and for the ninety minutes he was on stage we did. A lot more.
Tuesday 4 March 2008
Skip To The Beat
I experienced two things of note today, one that's a reassuingly regular occurance, the other that I haven't experienced in a long, long time.
The first was the deep seated sense of satisfaction that washes over me when I rediscover a song that I haven't heard for an age, but which turns out to be every bit as good as I remember it.
The song in question today was by a rock band from nearly two decades ago called Company Of Wolves. This was a band that I discovered through the guitarist in the band I was in at the time, a decent chap called Sean Homer who I often think about despite having lost touch some ten years ago. Last I knew he was the manager at the Times Square branch of Virgin Records in New York, but when I first met him we were both working at WH Smiths on Wheelergate in Nottingham.
Sean was the guitarist in my first proper rock band, and was one of a couple of people I knew that were at one point closer to me than my own family. We never fell out, or argued about anything, which makes the fact, in retrospect, that we lost touch all the more sad.
Really good friends in this life are hard to come by, and to let them slip through your fingers, as I have done more than once, is stupid. I'm lucky in that I still have some friends from my youth, who have been there through thick and thin. Over the years we;ve reassured each other, supported each other, lied for each other and been there for each other, and I won't let those who I still know slip away, and I know they feel the same.
Now where was I? Oh yes, the song. The song is called Sacrifice Me, and it's a beautiful track played on a couple of steel guitars and with a delightfully raspy vocal. What really works, though, are the words.
It's one of those songs to be played in the dark, with a glass of red wine and a smoke. A song that is equal parts hope and despair. Equal parts elation and sorrow.
Which brings me to the second experience, that of the skipping of a needle on vinyl.
I haven't had a record player for years, and I actually downloaded the Company Of Wolves album because after searching high and low for years I'm convinced it doesn't exist on CD (and if it does, and you know where I can get it, please do let me know!).
While playing this song, though, which was clearly recorded digitally from vinyl, it skipped. Several times actually. While it's annoying in one way, it also kind of adds to the atmosphere and the memories that the song wells up in me.
So, a bittersweet discovery, perfect but flawed, much like me.
"Search for yourself, 'cause you're the hardest thing you're ever going to find."
Sacrifice Me, by Company Of Wolves
The first was the deep seated sense of satisfaction that washes over me when I rediscover a song that I haven't heard for an age, but which turns out to be every bit as good as I remember it.
The song in question today was by a rock band from nearly two decades ago called Company Of Wolves. This was a band that I discovered through the guitarist in the band I was in at the time, a decent chap called Sean Homer who I often think about despite having lost touch some ten years ago. Last I knew he was the manager at the Times Square branch of Virgin Records in New York, but when I first met him we were both working at WH Smiths on Wheelergate in Nottingham.
Sean was the guitarist in my first proper rock band, and was one of a couple of people I knew that were at one point closer to me than my own family. We never fell out, or argued about anything, which makes the fact, in retrospect, that we lost touch all the more sad.
Really good friends in this life are hard to come by, and to let them slip through your fingers, as I have done more than once, is stupid. I'm lucky in that I still have some friends from my youth, who have been there through thick and thin. Over the years we;ve reassured each other, supported each other, lied for each other and been there for each other, and I won't let those who I still know slip away, and I know they feel the same.
Now where was I? Oh yes, the song. The song is called Sacrifice Me, and it's a beautiful track played on a couple of steel guitars and with a delightfully raspy vocal. What really works, though, are the words.
It's one of those songs to be played in the dark, with a glass of red wine and a smoke. A song that is equal parts hope and despair. Equal parts elation and sorrow.
Which brings me to the second experience, that of the skipping of a needle on vinyl.
I haven't had a record player for years, and I actually downloaded the Company Of Wolves album because after searching high and low for years I'm convinced it doesn't exist on CD (and if it does, and you know where I can get it, please do let me know!).
While playing this song, though, which was clearly recorded digitally from vinyl, it skipped. Several times actually. While it's annoying in one way, it also kind of adds to the atmosphere and the memories that the song wells up in me.
So, a bittersweet discovery, perfect but flawed, much like me.
"Search for yourself, 'cause you're the hardest thing you're ever going to find."
Sacrifice Me, by Company Of Wolves
Sunday 2 March 2008
The Sleeping Beast
Eight hours ago I was walking the streets of Amsterdam, just me and my camera, and once again enjoying that wonderful feeling of tiptoeing around a sleeping beast.
Twelve hours previous to that I was walking those same streets and the beast was awake and alert, but still unaware of my presence.
As I walked the brightly lit streets under the pitch black sky I observed as groups of young men from all over Europe, and beyond, travelled in packs from bar to coffee shop to prostitute, and back again, watching their behaviour as they succumbed to their drugs of choice, be they alcohol, weed or women.
For despite their language and culture, they all behave the same in Amsterdam. The pack mentality is a strong one, but among the groups there is always, by necessity, the runt of the pack. The one who is the last of the followers, the last in line, and the most easily led.
As I walked the streets and canals, the cold night air desperately trying to work its way through the layers of clothing that I wore, I drank in the atmosphere, for it is itoxicating, but as with my previous visits, which are an extension of work commitments, I always find myself there alone, and so can indulge the writer and photographer in myself and just watch.
I have no need of the drugs or the sex - the former I have no desire for with the exception of alcohol and nicotene, the latter I have no need of thanks to my current relationship being so very fulfilling - and so I am there for the spirit of the place, for the atmosphere.
Last night I stood on a canal bridge, feeling the wind try to blow through me, smoking a fine cigar, and watching as a group of young men stood at the open door of a prosititute in the red light district, clearly trying to persuade one of their number, no doubt the aforementioned runt, to indulge himself.
I smiled as they ultimately walked away and the girl, dressed in a dazzling white bra and knickers combination, went back to flicking through her magazine, waiting for the next potential customer to come along.
The city was truly alive, and by experiencing the one side of it, it always makes my early morning strolls through cities all the more satisfying, as I savour the contrast.
It was already light by the time I hit the pavements, but whereas last night had been acompanied by a constant low humming of conversation and laughter, this morning was as quiet as the grave.
As I walked along the same canals I could actually hear the beating of the seagulls wings as they flew over me, scanning the ground for the remnants of last night's fast food on the ground.
For ninety minutes I walked, and in that time I saw barely a hundred people, which sounds a lot but is nothing for a city of the size of Amsterdam.
The shops, bars and red light windows were all quiet and empty, and if I paused long enough I could almost hear the city breathe as it slumbered. As I walked I felt, as I always do on my early morning city excursions, a feeling of peace and tranquility, something I've felt walking the streets of London, Paris and Nottingham many times.
If you've never done this, then do try it. Take a trip into the heart of your own home town or city as the sun comes up and just walk. You'll be amazed. I always am.
Twelve hours previous to that I was walking those same streets and the beast was awake and alert, but still unaware of my presence.
As I walked the brightly lit streets under the pitch black sky I observed as groups of young men from all over Europe, and beyond, travelled in packs from bar to coffee shop to prostitute, and back again, watching their behaviour as they succumbed to their drugs of choice, be they alcohol, weed or women.
For despite their language and culture, they all behave the same in Amsterdam. The pack mentality is a strong one, but among the groups there is always, by necessity, the runt of the pack. The one who is the last of the followers, the last in line, and the most easily led.
As I walked the streets and canals, the cold night air desperately trying to work its way through the layers of clothing that I wore, I drank in the atmosphere, for it is itoxicating, but as with my previous visits, which are an extension of work commitments, I always find myself there alone, and so can indulge the writer and photographer in myself and just watch.
I have no need of the drugs or the sex - the former I have no desire for with the exception of alcohol and nicotene, the latter I have no need of thanks to my current relationship being so very fulfilling - and so I am there for the spirit of the place, for the atmosphere.
Last night I stood on a canal bridge, feeling the wind try to blow through me, smoking a fine cigar, and watching as a group of young men stood at the open door of a prosititute in the red light district, clearly trying to persuade one of their number, no doubt the aforementioned runt, to indulge himself.
I smiled as they ultimately walked away and the girl, dressed in a dazzling white bra and knickers combination, went back to flicking through her magazine, waiting for the next potential customer to come along.
The city was truly alive, and by experiencing the one side of it, it always makes my early morning strolls through cities all the more satisfying, as I savour the contrast.
It was already light by the time I hit the pavements, but whereas last night had been acompanied by a constant low humming of conversation and laughter, this morning was as quiet as the grave.
As I walked along the same canals I could actually hear the beating of the seagulls wings as they flew over me, scanning the ground for the remnants of last night's fast food on the ground.
For ninety minutes I walked, and in that time I saw barely a hundred people, which sounds a lot but is nothing for a city of the size of Amsterdam.
The shops, bars and red light windows were all quiet and empty, and if I paused long enough I could almost hear the city breathe as it slumbered. As I walked I felt, as I always do on my early morning city excursions, a feeling of peace and tranquility, something I've felt walking the streets of London, Paris and Nottingham many times.
If you've never done this, then do try it. Take a trip into the heart of your own home town or city as the sun comes up and just walk. You'll be amazed. I always am.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)