The Beatification of Algernon De Beajolais

Algernon De Beajolais raised a gnarled, tobacco-stained finger and stroked the chin of his particularly handsome face. How, in the name of Aphrodite’s Anus, had it come to this? These were reduced circumstances, even for him.
He was sixty-five years old and the product of a marriage between two of England’s most prestigious families. He was schooled, and routinely buggered, at Eton. He’d had an extraordinary life as England’s most intrepid explorer and had discovered the one-eared floppy-fringed vampire flea of San Diego-Suarez Madagascar. He had taken tea, biscuits and heroin with four American presidents, two kings, numerous heads of state, and an old hunch back with a scalded left testicle who swore blind he was His Holiness The 14^th Dali Lama.
He’d deflowered more virgins than one could shake a stick at, but a love of strong liquor and powerful opiates had instigated his decline many decades ago. Indeed, he had to sell most of his internal offal including a lung, a kidney and one of his two hearts, to assuage the violent anger of Columbia’s most feared narcotics trafficker, Juan Cornetto, following a bungled career as a drug mule.
He had endured four failed marriages, including an ill-fated liaison with a marmoset monkey who cheated on him with the RT Hon Tarquin Cattle-Prod (MP). He was friendless, destitute, and years of high-living had left him with the cognitive skills of a pox-riddled chinchilla.
And so, Algernon De Beajolais had reached his nadir. The 25^th floor of a tower block in Mile End, London E3. In the capital’s most cosmopolitan borough he now resided, in the fabulously inappropriately named Ku Klux Klan House.
Number 520 was indeed bleak, like the black hole of Calcutta - only in Newham. Two rooms, mould everywhere, and the unmistakable smell of unicorn faeces hung in the fetid air.
As the days and weeks passed, Algernon De Beajolais began to settle into his new life of soul-destroying mediocrity. He spent his time listening to owl pornography on the wireless and tending to his only pet, Bob Marley’s grass snake, Trevor. He began to get to know his neighbours. They saw an old white man dressed in Harris Tweed and built-up shoes, and he saw a motley collection of feral, but oddly likeable teenagers. He was fascinated by their names - Ashkay, Manshukh, Delbert, Kwame, Kojo, Ladyblossom, Jillisha and Marlene. He was enthralled by their love of music - Dancehall, Grime, Trip-Hop, Ragga-Jungle-Hip-House, Hard House and House Clearance. He played them his ’78 record collection including Victor Sylvestor and Joe Loss, but Ladyblossom threatened to cut his head off if he did that again. He taught the loveable scamps the dances of his youth - the Charleston, the Jitterbug, and the timeless Let's String The Black Fella Up, I’m Sure He’s Guilty Although There’s No Evidence.
The teenagers language intrigued him, bereft as it was of adverbs, prepositions and pronouns. It took him an eternity to work out that “Cah man dem West rip bare shit” loosely translates to “Come chaps, let us scurry to the West End where we shall remove merchandise from up-market stores without money exchanging hands.”
The weeks rolled into months and Algernon De Beajolais found that he was actually enjoying life in Ku Klux Klan House. Most evenings, the teenagers and their parents would gather at flat 520 where he would enthral them with his tales of daring do, like the time he circumnavigated the globe on a seahorse. He had stopped drinking, although he did like to mainline Bovril occasionally. He persuaded the teenagers to return to their studies and they all attended evening classes together. He became quite the expert on Malcolm X and Timmy Y. Everyone liked him, they didn’t judge him, and cared not that he was penniless.
In the summer of 2010, Kwame became ill after being bitten by the local newsagent. The only thing that could save his life was a kidney transplant, and bizarrely enough, Algernon De Beajolais was the perfect match. He agreed to help without hesitation, knowing that the operation would kill him. At the Royal London Hospital the night before the transplant, Kwame’s mother hugged Algernon De Beajolais to her ample bosom and cried, “Lord! Look aftah your son Mistra De Beajolais, cah him really is a saint!”
Algernon De Beajolais would have cried, if he didn’t posses two glass eyes.

Jazz Is Like The Kind Of Man You Wouldn't Want Your Daughter To Associate With

I slip the disc from its decaying cardboard sleeve and take a moment to fill my lungs with the musty scent of time. I can still detect hints of my father's cigarette smoke, exhaled by his eighteen-year-old self in an unkempt council flat as frantic blue-note rhythms dart against the plasterboard. 

The hue of exhaled nicotine and spilt beer are married to the fibers of the vinyl, and I feel as though I have been granted access to the air of 1977.  Drinking in the aroma of the record, I find myself sitting aside him in one of the ramshackle armchairs immortalised in polaroids, our heads nodding in unison as Coltrane showers us in melodic liquor. The frenzied saxophone notes become almost as intoxicating as the cans of Red Stripe cooling our palms, and through the thick of melody I cast an appreciative nod in my father's direction. "One day this record will be all yours, kid." My fingers itched with anticipation.

Old Friends

We were positioned exactly as we usually are on a suburban Friday evening. I was perched atop the bath ledge, my feet crossed beneath me and my hand subconsciously offering a joint to my lips. I sucked hard as though I were a foal at the breast of its mother, each sharp inhalation of smoke more sustaining than any maternal offering. She was also engaged in a comforting act, draped as she normally was over the porcelain toilet with her long limbs strewn about her. Her skin was pale to the point of concern, and for a moment she was lost to the white of the toilet bowl. It was only after she roused to take another sniff that I was able to differentiate between the two. Raising an unsteady hand to her nose, she breathed in sharply and ignited a shudder in her spine which shook her fragile foundations. Through the fog of smoke her wild roaming eyes met with my own, and wiping a string of coke-flecked fluid from her nose she looked at me and smiled with blissful vacancy. “What a fine night it is to be young, thin and drug-fucked”, she slurred, as if one could ask for nothing more.

Marina Abramovic: The Saviour of Insanity

To most, Marina Abramovic is the bearer of two conflicting titles. In the eyes of modern art aficionados and Clement Greenburg-style analysts, she is single-handedly fanning the flames of a dwindling and often ridiculed movement. To others, she is simply one more by-product of the modern art machine, spat out from its churning elements to join the existing ranks of formaldehyde showmen and bodily fluid enthusiasts.
And as if the dubious credibility of ‘Modern Artist’ wasn’t enough to contend with, Abramovic moves within the most revered and questioned branch of modernism - performance art. The very utterance of this term is enough to provoke proverbial eye rolling and communal titters. And speak those two words in any location but the trendier parts of London or New York, you will probably find yourself being dragged from the premises on the grounds of sheer pomposity.
But for me, Abramovic stands aside from other performance artists (or as they are more commonly referred to, ‘bullshit mongers’) because for some obscure and incomprehensible reason, I like her. Of course, it goes without saying that her creations are totally void of artistic skill and completely lacking in competent execution, but there is something about her unbridled and seemingly genuine insanity which endears me so.
Perhaps I am simply pining for a modern day solution to Frieda Kahlo, but I crave nothing more than a contemporary female whose projections of mania I can believe. Much like my Mexican messiah, reoccurring themes of inner torment can be seen consistently throughout her performance pieces. What the stillborn child is to Kahlo, the communist star is to Abramovic, and rather than elegantly painting her anguish onto canvas she prefers to cut these symbols of pain and oppression into her pale Serbian flesh.
Born in former Yugoslavia in the late 1940’s, Abramovic is the child of two individuals who successfully fought for the communist partisans during World War II. "We were Red bourgeoisie," she once told an interviewer. Bourgeoisie perhaps, but the grey war-torn landscape visible from the windows of the family home certainly had a profound effect on the young artist, which would later manifest itself as public displays of brutality.
Justifying her performances as "testing the limits of myself in order to transform myself", Abramovic has graced the sparse rooms of art galleries all over the world with such pieces as Rhythm 0, which saw her lying prone on a table for six hours surrounded by an array of carefully selected instruments, including matches, lipstick, saws, nails and perhaps most disconcerting of all, a loaded gun. Visitors were invited to do as they desired with her body.
Another piece entitled Lips Of Thomas, which took place in the Innsbruck Krinzinger Gallery, allowed visitors to observe the artist eating one kilo of honey, violently whipping herself until she no longer felt pain, and lying naked on a crucifix made of ice for thirty minutes.
And so it is because of acts of insanity such as these that performance artists should be hailed. Not of course, as significant contributors to art, but as a cathartic process of observing an individual with more loose screws than yourself. Perhaps if Abramovic and her fellow performance art gun-slingers repackaged themselves as performance therapists, their decidedly shaky reputations would glean sturdier foundations. They can't paint for shit and their attempts at sculpture would probably resemble the efforts of a limbless Chernobyl victim - but put me in a room with a woman who flagellates herself for kicks and I will leave a little less concerned about the voices in my own head.

Musing In The East End: Bangladesh and Bhangra...

The lengths of my stride shorten as I approach the sound of furiously pulsating hand drums. Such scenes of bedraggled street performers are ever-familiar in London town, but here in Brick Lane the hastily duck-taped instruments and calloused weather-worn hands belong to a slightly more exotic contingent. There are to be no wailing Oasis covers on this East End corner today. No pale sinewy limbs strumming guitars and pleading with Lady Fame to return for them. Instead, four sets of mahogany eyes stare intensely at the tautened skins of the drums beneath them, their vivid adornments flailing with every deliberate strike. Bhangra, in its purest form, beaten out in perfect unison by the hands of eastern strangers and rising up into the atmosphere to dwell amongst the hookah vapours and foreign chatter. These throbbing rhythms allow me to transcend the restraints of geography, and for a brief moment I leave the ashen East End pavements behind. Instead, for one fragile second in time, I find myself enveloped by the whooshing of Shari’s and the sweet scent of fruits carried aloft on ebony scalps.

Never Mind Love - Inaccuracy Kills

Fastidious Viewing: Alex Cox's Sid and Nancy
On the 2nd of February 1979, Sid Vicious died alone in a damp New York bedroom, his pulse halted by a lethal dose of heroin injected into his twenty-one-year-old veins. Less than seven years later, a film chronicling the hazy highs and crushing lows of his fleeting existence was released to a global slack-jawed audience - the darkness and despair of his final years played out against the insolent crunch of popcorn.
The film, simply entitled Sid and Nancy, was almost the scripted equivalent of Sid’s own controversial nature, and caused as much of a media frenzy and communal uproar from those who knew him personally and admired him passionately as, say, his violently haemorrhaging chest.
And just as Sid left a deliberate wake of anarchy in his trail during his short and raven-haired years, the 1986 Technicolor descent into oblivion came under fire for being distastefully premature, riddled with rock and roll clichés, and perhaps most uncomfortably of all, glamorising the desperate world of heroin addiction. A chorus of disapproval rang out from friends, family and ex-bandmates upon the film’s release, raining down on its factual and artistic credibility with as much the same vigour as the wall of spit one might have been confronted with at an early Pistols gig.
Written and directed by Alex Cox, a middle-class Oxbridge graduate who by all available accounts (including his own) was certainly never a fixture of the late 70’s punk rock scene and was never personally associated with Sid, Nancy or indeed any of the metal-studded Pistols entourage. Of course, that notion need not be an obstacle in the face of creating an accurate and sensitive biographical work - I don’t for a minute believe that Richard Attenborough drew on first-hand accounts when creating his widely acclaimed Gandhi biopic. But surely the key to avoiding any sense of exploitation when reenacting the life and times of someone who has already lived that life is to, quite simply, know your shit?
John Lydon, Sid’s former bandmate and partner in anti-everything philosophies, has long been shouting (or sneering, as he is better acquainted) from the rooftops about the film’s shortcomings. Lydon maintains that he was not consulted in any way during the writing or production of the film, and that instead of obtaining his notes from the people that knew Sid personally, Alex Cox “drew his points of reference - of all the people on this earth - from Joe Strummer!” Rotten continues in his autobiography No Irish No Blacks No Dogs, “What the fuck did Strummer know about Sid and Nancy? That was probably all [Cox] could find, which was really scraping the bottom of the barrel.”
Lydon has also been one of the biggest advocates in damning the film’s glorification of drug addiction, a notion that Alex Cox strongly denies. Lydon insists that to him, Sid and Nancy is “the lowest form of life”, and goes on to stress the following: “I honestly believe that it celebrates heroin addiction. It definitely glorifies it in the end when that stupid taxi drives off into the sky.”
That stupid taxi driving off into the sky which Lydon holds with such contempt is just one of the many points in the film where fantasy has forced itself in place of reality, resulting in the sense that we are viewing a canvas painted by Cox’s own imaginings.
“It was all someone else’s fucking fantasy”, Lydon reiterates. “Some Oxford graduate who missed the punk era. Bastard.”
However, anyone who is by any degree acquainted with the sinister relationship of Sid and Nancy will be well aware of the mystery surrounding their final days. The true nature of their dying moments and the events that preceded them are lost to the shady recesses of rock and roll history, and only the walls of their squalid New York hotel room can really know the truth. The issue at hand does not lye with the not knowing, but with the superior perception that one can rewrite the pages of another person’s life in order to suit the condensed flow of a 90-minute screenplay.
However, the fantastical and romanticised ending of Sid and Nancy is by no means the only instance of reworking - or indeed outright untruth. The film is smattered with skewed takes on reality and misplaced information, the most glaring of which shall be exposed thusly:
Although Sid and Nancy was hailed by critics for the painfully accurate casting of the two main protagonists (“I saw that film the other day and at times I actually forgot that I was watching a movie. It’s so fucking spot on it’s unreal. And Oldman, man, he has got Sid down.” says original Sex Pistols disciple, Don Letts), some of the other characters prove far less persuasive.
During one of the opening scenes, Nancy enters a seedy East End venue to witness the Pistols perform live for the first time in her hedonistic little life. Before they take to the stage, however, and with our attentions fixed firmly on Sid and Nancy’s burgeoning love affair, we are presented momentarily by the presence and melodies of another band. In the background plays Alex Cox’s interpretation of The X-Ray Spex - a wildly important outfit in the punk rock scene. But instead of casting a mixed race, slightly overweight and orthodontically-challenged actress to step into the neon shoes of frontwoman Poly Syrene, a skinny white woman somehow clinched the role. Although this may seem like a slight overlooking on the part of the director, Alex Cox received harsh criticism for deliberately altering the very characteristics that made Poly Styrene stand alone from just about every other female contemporary of her era. Cox also appeared to cast a Jack Osbourne doppelganger in a ginger wig for the part of Pistols drummer Paul Cook, but there aren’t really any feminist undertones involved there. It was just ridiculous.
Another instance of the truth becoming skewed within the questionable script of Sid and Nancy is the inclusion of Wally Nightingale, who played guitar for a very early incarnation of the Sex Pistols. Not only is Wally portrayed as a spiky-haired punk rocker (the real Wally was actually more partial to tweed slacks and moth-eaten jumpers), but he is also depicted as a close friend of Sid’s. In fact, the fictional Sid and Nancy spend their first night of drug-fucked passion in Wally’s north London flat while he shreds an electric guitar in the background.
The reality of the situation, however, is that Wally was ejected from the inner clique that surrounded The Pistols as soon as Malcolm McLaren had deemed him “too nice” to become a permanent fixture. Because of the manner in which Wally was brushed under the proverbial carpet, he and Sid certainly never formed a blossoming friendship, and most accounts point to the possibility of their paths never having crossed. “After I left in ‘76, before the Pistols became the Pistols as everyone knows them, Steve [Jones] and the others slagged me off in the music press really badly. I never really knew why; I never did them any harm”, bleated the real Wally Nightingale.
And this is but one instance of many in which snippets of historical certainty have been borrowed and misplaced. Other uneasy examples of fact placement can be found with the Pistol's final gig scene, in which the character of Johnny Rotten utters the infamous, “Ever get the feeling you’ve been cheated?” line in a completely different context to how it was originally delivered. Another superimposed detail lies with the fight which takes place in the same scene. It was really brick-shithouse built guitarist Steve Jones that swung his fists into the crowd of hecklers, not a crazed and perhaps vilified Sid Vicious, as the film suggests.
While most of these points may seem somewhat trivial on the surface, one must not forget that any decisions to alter an established chain of events can and will be deemed as manipulative. This is precisely why so many individuals have pointed the finger of blame at Cox for using drugs and violence to perpetuate the common misconceptions of what was, in the opinions of those who knew him best, 'a very sweet boy'.
And as for one of the final and most unsettling scenes of the film, in which Sid drives a hunting knife into the pasty abdomen of his beloved, the action can only ever be the director’s own imaginings because the desperate duo were the only souls present at the time of her murder. And because the film was orchestrated so soon after the actual event, Cox did not allow himself the luxury of considering the many other possibilities for Nancy’s demise – many of which were offered up by the people who were closest to the pair during their final days. Sid’s companions have branded him “too nice” and “too in love” to so much as playfully slap the back of her hand, and various New York hangers-on have nominated the couple’s drug dealer as the true killer.
But the infamous ‘taxi in the sky’ ending is perhaps the most wistful of all Cox’s imaginings – not least for its suggestion that drug addiction and murder will win you an automatic place in the heavens. Most glaringly of all it overlooks the fact that the real Sid Vicious got himself a brand new whiney American girlfriend, all before Nancy’s body had grown cold on the mortuary slab.
And so, whilst Cox may have wanted to create a punk rock Romeo and Juliet – two souls bound together in life and in drug-induced death – is there really any need for such a bleak legacy to be embellished upon and romanticised to suit the misty-eyed needs of one director? Sure, Sid and Nancy and its blinding glow of cool may have shone less lucidly had Alex Cox not flinched from certain aspects of truth, but even in pursuit of conveying the perfect punk rock love affair, accuracy should not be an afterthought.

In Anticipation Of The Number Three

Drip follows drop / in the tin bus stop / as emphysemic lungs / spew out thick fast coughs / Phlem coats blood / with a slimy kind of thud / hitting wrinkled hands / from pre-cancerous buds / Screams from prams / like a slaughtered infant lamb / ring out through the shelter / until the single mum's hand slams / Men in crombie coats / with whisky flasks to tote / breathing rancid breath / and dousing passers-by in smoke / Lidl bags spill / when the workers start to drill / releasing cut-price products / to make your healthy insides ill / Street sweepers sweep / as they shuffle on their feet / tidying dried up vomit / making concrete wastelands neat / Try as I might / to get my lighter to ignite / I can not escape the rain / inside this corrugated site.

Single Review: Foals 'Blue Blood'

Have you ever pretended for even the briefest of moments that your life were an extract of a film? Have you ever pressed your headphones hard into your ears, willing the music to baptize your soul, and pulling your hood to blinker your vision have you walked against the wind whilst staring into the many eyes of an imagined audience? 

For those who perpetually struggle to keep their realities and their fantasies divided, Blue Blood from the forthcoming album Total Life Forever, acts as the ideal soundtrack to slip away to the most commonly visited scenarios inside your head.
With a fractured but reflective opening of elegant notes and nostalgic lyricism, one could be forgiven for picturing themselves framed by black and white as the almost tearful melodies wash over. This ethereal opening, intensified by frontman Yannis Philippakis’s mahogany-rich voice, could perhaps accompany the part of the film where you’re standing alone and completely still. As droplets of rain fall from your nose, you notice they land in perfect unison with the sparse but delicate piano notes.
But with a sudden change of heart, the haunting melody makes way for skippy chords and a bass line which no foot could resist tapping to.
Perhaps this melodic display of optimism should accompany the part of the film where you turn on your heels, and run from the grey into the buttery light of the sun.

21st Century Porn: The Absence of Sexual Elegance

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And The Beat Goes On...

It is always a comforting notion when bands of royal status favour intimate and atmospheric venues in place of Wembley-esque amphitheatres. Remaining true to their late 70’s/early 80’s ethos of making music accessible to everyone and exclusive to no one, The Beat delighted Aldershot locals with a performance small in scale - but titanic in energy.
Friday night’s Palace performance was certainly not the bands first dalliance with the local scene. Having caught the infamous Beat at cosy Tilford-based festival Weyfest last summer, I was not only delighted to see them back in the local vicinity - but also overjoyed at the prospect of not having to battle my way through a throng of bodies in order to catch a glimpse of everyone’s favourite Rudeboy’s. It is not commonplace to enjoy the luxury of a prolific and influential band at such close proximity, without having to shield your temples from an onslaught of elbows or jump onto the shoulders of the token ‘huge guy’ who is inevitably standing directly in your line of vision. The Beat, however, have executed a clutter-free and intimate performance for Surrey locals on two glorious occasions, and all within the space of a single year.
Dressed in his trademark boiler suit and black Dr Martins, front man Rankin Roger led his band of social challengers onto the Palace stage where they were met by the delighted cries of Ska and 2-Tone fanatics - of both old and newskool generations. It seems as though The Beat possess the effortless ability to transcend the expanse of time, appealing to those who were present in the Rudeboy’s heyday, whilst also rocking the eternal rhythms of those who wish they were. Mere pre-teens skanked relentlessly alongside hardened Ska heads, and let out a united howl of appreciation when a cover of ‘Rock The Kasbah’ was dedicated to the late, great Joe Strummer.
The audience were brought even closer together, both in proximity and in spirit, with each Beat classic that ensued. With such an expansive body of material it was a miracle in itself that the band were able to restrict themselves to an hour long set. But as they unleashed such gems as ‘Best Friend’, ‘Tears Of A Clown’ and the deliriously energetic ‘Hands Off, She’s Mine’ I imagined that not one soul would be leaving the venue in mourning at the prospect of the absence of their favourite Beat tune.
I also imagined that for most of the individuals present in the audience, ‘Mirror In The Bathroom’ was the track which held the most trembling anticipation. With a bass line that almost soothes your soul as it reverberates around your chest, and a timelessly cool combination of saxophone and skippy Ska beats, it really is one of those songs that if you haven’t heard it, you haven’t really lived. (Cliché that may sound, but if you’re unfortunate enough to have come this far in your existence without hearing it - go and educate yourself on the track, and then tell me your life isn’t better for it…)
Whilst the current Beat line up does indeed rival their 80’s counterparts in both energy and passion, they may have to attribute a large percentage of this notion to their newly appointed secret weapon - Murphy ‘Rankin Jr’. The son of front man Rankin Roger, Murphy has breathed new life into the bands sound by combining youthful stage presence with raw and seamless MC abilities. At points, complimenting his fathers soulful Jamaican drawl perfectly, and at others injecting some serious grime into the overall sound, Rankin Jr was more than capable of leading the way when the time came for a raucous encore - peppered with yet more Beat staples including ‘Sooner Or Later’ and ‘Jackpot’. And all, may I add, whilst standing firmly aside from his fathers shadow. Well, they don’t call him The Prodigal Son for no reason.

The Rise and Rise of The Fall...

I could quite comfortably sum up this particular gig in one word simple yet all encompassing word - mesmerising.
However, for the sake of those unfortunate enough to have missed Mark E. Smith and co’s display of assault-by-volume, I will further elaborate on the shape of the evening…
In this instance, the word mesmerising is intended to convey that aggressive and shambolic DIY style so prevalent in the punk and new-wave movement. Anarchic riffs clashed with slurring vocals, and unrelenting drum beats battled against disobedient reverb. In layman’s terms, the performance was a mess. But, as any punk rock aficionado will tell you, that is entirely the point.
If I had been presented with a sober and polite Mr. Smith, I would have been sorely disappointed. If the music of The Fall had suddenly taken on a crystal clear and over-produced sound, I would have turned on my heels and left. And so, as a direct result of this delightfully chaotic performance, I did not once catch myself thinking “They’ve lost it.” Not least as everything fell apart at the seams.
Since emerging from the backstreets of Greater Manchester in 1976, the band has experienced an almost bewildering number of line-up changes. However, The Palace performance cemented the notion that neither frontman Mark E. Smith nor the distinctive ‘Fall Sound’ have strayed too far from what was once championed by the unquestionable tastes of John Peel. The recent inclusion of Elena Poulou on keyboards (who is also married to frontman Mark, and is indeed not the first of his spouses to join the band) makes for some extremely hedonistic boy/girl vocals between husband and wife. Her deliberately aloof presence perfectly compliments the repetitive, abrasive style in which she plays - almost taunting the crowd with every aggressive jab of the keys, and every sarcastic roll of her eyes.
Presiding over these mocking electric notes were dark and brooding guitar riffs, punctuated with Kubrick-style abstractions. This willingness to experiment with creative distortion gives The Fall a somewhat psychedelic edge when compared to the typical punk rock outfit, and although this may be a paradox in itself it only serves to add continuity to an already paradoxical band. What indeed is a singer if he does not actually sing? The answer is Mark E. Smith.
Smith, who that evening appeared to be channelling the vocal style of Iggy Pop and the unsteady swagger of Shane McGowan after fifteen ebony Guinness’s, seemed to play the parts of both martyr and puppeteer in equal measures. Taking it upon himself to manipulate the volume of the guitars from deafeningly loud to eerily silent whenever he saw fit, Smith compensated for his lack of poise by commandeering the roles of his fellow bandmates. It would also seem that a wedding ring did not immune Elena from being ousted from her station, as Smith showed no hesitation in pushing her aside in order to pound on the keys himself.
Darting about the stage like a frenzied pinball, Mark single-handedly left the area in an avalanche of sound equipment, stepping carelessly in amongst the wreckage whilst delivering such sardonic lines as “I think it’s over now. I think it’s done.”
The work of The Fall, however, is certainly not ‘done’. For a band that have been leaving a wake of anarchy in their trails for over thirty years, Friday night’s performance certainly did not show any signs of a collective slowing down. As acerbic and raw as they were in the late 70’s, Mark E. Smith and company proved that they are as relevant now as they ever were, and with a current social and economic climate in Britain that mirrors their own heyday, perhaps even more so…

The Young Knives, And An Ever-So-Surprising Support Act…

What is it about the Principality that spawns such frankly odd bands? Adding to the eclectic list of Super Furry Animals and Gorky's Zygotic Mynci, Aberystwyth’s finest are more than deserving of a name check when considering the most fantastical of Welsh exports.
As they apologetically ambled on stage, lead singer Meilyr Jones appeared to make dressing down an art form. In fact, the first suggestions of retro were noticed upon the bands aesthetic style, and did indeed continue with the opening twang of guitar strings. However, Race Horses seem to possess a quality that many contemporary bands are missing - the ability to take hints from the past, whilst also maintaining a totally fresh and innovative sound. An astonishing hybrid of The La’s, Frank Zappa and The Sparks, Race Horses are able to lull you in with precious ohh and ahh harmonies, and then proceed to rip your face off with blistering and anthemic chords. A fortress of electric organs and impossibly antique synthesisers helped to further their antiquated sound by punctuating the set with Doors-style quivering keys.
After a ferociously energetic set (one song in particular, Scooter, mimicked the same sense of mayhem as the early Libertines sound), the audience were left in a whirl of ear-piercing feedback.
Although Race Horses may be one of the only hard-to-follow support bands currently on the scene, The Young Knives match was not quite met. Shuffling out in immaculately tailored suits and blasting the ever-recognisable bass intro to She’s Attracted To, it soon became clear that although the Knives have been absent from the live scene of late, they certainly haven’t forgotten how to please a crowd.
With more first album gold (including Loughborough Suicide, The Decision and the soaked in nostalgia Weekends And Bleak Days) came witty observations and self-directed insults. Pausing in-between songs to deliver hilarious reactions to friendly heckling (Audience Member: “Where have you been for the last year?!” House Of Lords: “Oh you know, just putting some shelves up”) it was obvious that the besuited three needed no time to readjust to live performance.
The set also provided an opportunity to showcase material from the much-anticipated third album, and luckily for us the Ashby de la Zouch natives have not ventured too far from the punchy, bass-driven style we have come to love. Rich in stinging chords and a conversational approach to vocal delivery, the newest offerings remain true to the traditional ’Knives style, whilst also displaying an obvious experimentation of tempo and harmonisation. More sensitive their new sound may be, but rest assured your hairstyle will not remain intact by the time the chorus comes around.
A more ideal finale could not have been conceived when the mighty Terra Firma saturated the atmosphere of the venue it all it’s stompy, chant-along glory. This icing on the cake (the cake being a comeback of gargantuan proportions) showed that when it comes to rattling the bones of everyone present whilst clad in Harris Tweed, The Young Knives have very much ‘still got it’. And in fact, despite a year-long absence from live performance, I don’t believe ‘it’ ever left them.

Claire Barrett: A Thoroughly Modern Antidote To Modern Art

It would appear that an artist's bedroom is much the same as an artist's mind - fascinatingly bizarre, yet almost impossible to analyse.
Somewhere in suburbia sits an awkwardly ageing bungalow, slightly unsure of itself as it displays the smatterings of personality its neighbouring structures are missing. A procession of tea lights and paper lanterns guides me down a dangerously dilapidated path, and leaves me standing at the front door of one of Britain’s most promising (and enigmatic) young artists.
Heavily peeling wallpaper, taxidermy butterflies, human skulls and unfeasibly abstract Polaroids pepper the room in which Claire Barrett lays her head and creates her self-proclaimed ‘apocalyptic artwork.’ The bedroom is not a million miles away from what I had envisioned (dark artwork and dead things are not exactly an unthinkable pairing), but the Wonder Cabinet-esqué room still manages to evoke the same feelings of discomfort as one would experience in an abandoned house. There is a sense of condemned vacancy, yet traces of personality still very much remain.
Barrett, a twenty-three-year-old contemporary artist from the South of England, sips blood-red Cabernet Sauvignon (which is slightly disconcerting when coupled with the omniscient stare of the eye-less skull), and talks softly but self-assuredly about her love affair with design. “I always loved drawing, and as a child I was very competitive about my art” she states with poise, as if there could be no possible alternative. “The first time I properly knew I wanted to make art was in Year Six in primary school. We had to draw something from our home, and I used to have this little cactus with googly eyes on it. It was on the first page of my sketchbook, and it was amazing. And that was it! I wanted to be an artist.”
Strange then, that the eventuality of Barrett’s artwork would jolt from jovial charactures of cacti, to impossibly dark renditions of an ink-based Armageddon. Although much of her work appears heavily abstract upon first inspection, Claire insists that her canvases denounce the effects of human influence on the natural landscape. In doing so, her art immediately stands alone from the subversive offerings of the brutally confrontational modern art movement.
“I don’t really think my work fits in at the moment, because it’s quite nostalgic in a way”, she informs, clearly relished by the prospect of her own uniqueness. “I’m dealing with traditional ideas of landscape, whereas I think more recent things tend to be quite ballsy and in your face…I like something a bit more subtle.”
The concept of Barrett’s work is indeed subtle. The final aesthetic of the art, however, delivers the same sinister and uncomfortable impact as a Freudian nightmare. Comprised mainly of black ink or graphite and almost overbearing in size, the pieces seem to engulf the viewer in the artist's message of ‘This Is What You’ve Done’, whilst maintaining enough visual grace to successfully avoid the garish presentation so prevalent in contemporary art.
This is clearly the result of Barrett’s disinterest in using shock as a device to make the audience take notice, an admirable quality in an age of menstrual blood enthusiasts like Tracy Emin, and formaldehyde aficionados such as Damien Hurst. Adamant that her main source of inspiration is derived from the landscape itself, Barrett is able to create fiercely individual work whilst conveying an almost classical appreciation for beauty and competence.
Secondary to her ecological muse comes the inspiration taken from other established artists, all of which make perfect sense when considering the evolution of her own particular style and approach. When asked which artists have impacted the outcome of her own work, Barrett immediately replies, “Hundreds.” When pressed to whittle this expansive answer down to two or three individuals, she effortlessly delivers the names Mark Rothko, Richard Serra and Rachel Whiteread, with the kind of rehearsed quality one only achieves after years of admiration.
Despite Claire’s cultivation of a perfectly unique style, she battles internally with the notion of borrowing too many points of inspiration from her beloved peers. I ask if the work of the afore-mentioned artists is in any extent reflected in her own creations, to which she sombrely replies, “Almost a little bit too much sometimes. I have to keep check on it.”
Perhaps my untrained eye is ill-equipped to pass such judgement, but I personally feel that there is little aesthetic likeness between the sculptural and sparse work of Rothko, Serra and Whiteread, and Barrett’s darkly passionate portrayals of an abstract Judgement Day. Although there may exist obvious conceptual parallels between the work Barrett produces, and the work she admires (all make attempts to change the way in which we think about the space around us), her innovative style should instil a sense of unbreakable self-belief, rather than provoking any questioning of originality.
Barrett also cites architecture as a significant point of inspiration, and somewhat unsurprisingly she champions the designers who work with a clear sense of ecological awareness. “I’m really into modernist architecture”, she tells me, with a contemplative gaze. “Really blocky, striking stuff like Frank Lloyd Wright, who tried to make buildings that worked in harmony with the landscape.”
Although Claire is quick to allude to the artistic movements she so admires, I am interested to learn if she harbours any distain for certain stylistic approaches.
With an obvious disinterest for confrontational artwork, I wonder if, in the opinion of this still-emerging artist, there are any individuals who do not deserve the acclaim they have achieved? “Well there’s not really a particular artist that I don’t like”, she hesitantly informs, with the kind of sensitive reserve most commonly found in individuals who have not yet been hardened by the industry. “If I find a movement that I really don’t like, it is because I don’t understand it. Most of the movements that I now completely adore, I used to hate. Before I started University I hated landscape, and I hated minimalism because I thought it was completely pointless. But now I work in landscape and I did my dissertation on minimalism, so it’s completely backwards.”
As someone who has witnessed the failings of art school education on a first-hand basis, I am immediately pricked by the word ‘University’, and feel compelled to question my subject about her own experience. Barrett however, who studied Fine Art at Farnham’s University for the Creative Arts and graduated in 2009 with a thoroughly respectable 2:1, seems positively perplexed when I tell her of my own dissatisfaction for British art institutions. “I had a great time at University” she informs, somewhat mystified. An expression which almost suggests mistrust spreads across her face as she contemplates the possibility of not enjoying the study of art. “I think as long as you go out there and demand the attention of the tutors and show them that you’re focused and willing to plough on through, then they will give you all of the attention that you need.”
I wasn’t entirely convinced, but I suppose this clash of opinions only serves to emphasise Barrett’s magnified appreciation for her craft in comparison with my own. As I cast my glance around her bedroom for a second time, my eye slowing over the piles of canvases, stacks of sketchbooks and reams of ink-blackened paper, I realise that Barrett possesses a trait that I am missing - the ability to fully immerse herself in art.
The presence of such items displays the ongoing manner in which Barrett coexists with her work, on both a literal and metaphorical level. A cliché it may be, but to be present in this artists personal space and to witness the close proximity in which she lives amongst her materials is to realise that this individual truly is at one with her work.
But how, I wonder, are such large-scale pieces created in this inspirational yet highly restricted space? “Most of the work I was making at University was created in a drawing studio, which was just enormous. It was the size of three houses, I had the whole space to myself and I could spread out”, she reminisces. As her eyes trail across her now confined-in-comparison bedroom, I notice a pining expression cast itself across her pale face, not entirely dissimilar to that of a caged animal looking out at the free world.
An interesting spectacle to observe she may be, but deep down I know it is wrong to keep such an obvious free spirit under the confines of four suffocating walls.
Whilst I am occupied with this thought, Barrett extends her reach to a bedside table and offers me a pocket-sized sketchbook to study. The book contains her most recent compositions, and before I even begin to flick through the pallid pages I am struck by the impossibly small dimensions of the book in comparison to vast canvases she is now synonymous with.
Surely a character with such hunger for literal freedom cannot be confined to A5?
“Because I’m now restricted to this tiny room, my work has got so much smaller. It’s all too confined. And I haven’t been making as much.” The sense of regret and disappointment seems to seep from every pore as she divulges this information to me. I really do feel as though I am in the company of a bird who’s wings have been clipped - and just as a bird needs freedom to project beautiful song, Claire Barrett needs freedom to create beautiful and true to self art.
Thumbing carefully through the pages of this newly cultivated sketchbook, I am presented with the repetition of collaged postcards - all of which seem to depict some form of sprawling landscape. Baron desserts have been pasted onto virtuous mountains, and cascading waterfalls have been paired with mighty forests. I suddenly feel as though the book I am holding is not so much a place for artistic musings, but a definite and insatiable cry for help.
Momentarily avoiding my carefully planned notes and acting on instinct alone, I ask Claire where she would like to be. Do these scenes of infinity hint towards a specific location, or are they simply evocative of ‘anywhere but here’?
“I would really like to go and make work in America. Just make work as I walk around. That’s something I’d really like to do.”
I should have known that a country in which England can fit itself nearly forty times would be the ideal location for a wandering soul. Interrupting my thought with a now animated tone and brightened eyes, Barrett escapes off into an obviously lucid daydream. “Half of the landscapes I am obsessed with are there. The vast deserts, the mountains…just the vastness of the place. You can walk from one side to the other and see so many different things on the way. Whereas England…Well, its all very English.”
Totally immersed in thought, I believe her to have forgotten my presence. But rather than feeling insulted and ignored in favour of wistful thinking, I am as content in my psyche as she. For Barrett to achieve some form of solace from the confines of suburbia - even if it is only in her mind - is a feat tinged with great joy, and wrenching sorrow. I am pleased to witness her mood lift at the prospect of never-ending space, but I dread the moment in which her mind snaps back to reality, and cruelly snatches her away from her sprawling oasis.

From The Jam: A Smash Of Glass And The Rumble Of Boots...

The 30th of April 2010 marked a monumental and much awaited change for the face of live music in Hampshire. At precisely 7.30pm on a balmy Friday evening, The Palace opened its doors for the first time to a diverse and animated crowd of revellers - many of whom were veteran Jam fans and attended specifically to witness the powerhouse-of-bass that is Bruce Foxton. Other individuals however, were simply in pursuit of a fulfilling live music experience, and somewhere unique in which to enjoy it.
Neither parties were disappointed upon entering the newly remodelled Palace. Exclamations of excitement and a chorus of Oh My God's could not be masked as the crowd slowly filtered in to the main stage area, almost needing a moment of stillness to adjust to the palatial sight that greeted them. With a design lay-out to rival the likes of Hammersmith Apoll and a sound system to rival a wall of Marshall amps cranked up to eleven, The Palace has on first impressions alone anointed itself as the location for live music in the local vicinity, and beyond.
The tone of the evening was effortlessly set with the jaunty acoustics of Kim Slade, who’s tales of dejected youth provoked a striking sense of familiarity in almost everyone present. Taking to the velvet-draped stage with only a guitar and a distinctive voice, Slade immersed the audience in skippy upbeat chords whilst regaling in the mundane experience of growing up a British kid. At times tinged with hints of Oasis, at others with an obvious influence of Ska, Slade’s melodic offerings were akin to hitchhiking across the most influential genres in music, all within the space of a twenty minute set. One particular highlight of the performance was the deliciously naughty track Cartwheels, which provoked a rhythmic flurry of stomping and clapping as Slade delivered such lyrical sentiments as “At the end of her bed was where I took off her little red dress”.
With the stage now suitably christened for the presence of an epic Mod revival, Bruce Foxton, Rick Buckler and Russell Hastings stepped out in perfectly polished Creepers to an overwhelming offering of ovation. Any concerns regarding the absence of Paul Weller were quickly diminished as the first blistering chords of Down In The Tube Station At Midnight rang out over The Palace, swiftly followed by Hastings’ pitch-perfect (and delightfully acerbic) vocal display. It was almost as if each line was being uttered by Weller himself, and the delight of the crowd manifested itself as unbridled, pogo-ing mania.
The wrenchingly nostalgic Jam anthems kept on coming - each one performed with more energy and passion than the last. In The City, Start! and a particularly beautiful rendition of That’s Entertainment were dispensed with total disregard of age, especially in the case of Foxton who leapt across the stage with such height that his eighteen year old self would probably have turned green with envy. A version of The Eton Rifles (ironically dedicated to David Cameron) was played with such enthusiasm that the bass could be felt reverberating around the centre of the chest, altering the rhythm of the heart beat through sheer volume and velocity.
The audience were indulged further still when the performance was concluded with a favourites-laden encore, including Beat Surrender and A Town Called Malice. As the infamous target logo presided over the stage, not a single soul in the venue remained still: a true testament to the impeccable musicianship and raucous energy produced by From The Jam that evening.
Now that’s entertainment.

Our Lost Infantry: Modern Day Melodrama, With Muscle…

There is certainly no shortage of contemporary British bands who are striving to establish melodramatic-rock as the next big thing. The wonderfully-wistful offerings of acts such as Chapel Club, Wild Beasts and The Big Pink all contribute greatly in placing darkness and distain back on the metaphorical map, whilst maintaining a sense of beautifully frank poeticism.
It is therefore not the most impossible of tasks to understand why the masses are eagerly anticipating a Smiths-esque revival. With the current social and economic climate in Britain it was almost inevitable that our musical exports would soon take on the same shade of grey as the view from our bedroom windows. And with so many bands lining up to steal the crown of ‘most tortured soul’ from Morrissey’s head, it is hard to know just where to begin when sifting through the offerings of the melodramatic rock revolution.
Allow me then to make a suggestion. Our Lost Infantry, a pensive four-piece straight from the rolling hills of Surrey, are a band who’s ironic displeasure is expressed effortlessly by jilted observations, and melodies which see-saw from playful to foreboding.
If Our Lost Infantry’s aim is to instil a sense of painful familiarity in their listening audiences, then they have more than achieved this with the exploitation of first-hand experiences such as, ‘he fell in love once, wont make that mistake again’. Such achingly familiar material allows Our Lost Infantry to pull on the heartstrings of dejected souls everywhere, and while adopting the same lyrical approach as Morrissey, they have successfully avoided becoming Smiths doppelgangers by cultivating their own refreshingly unique and powerful sound (taking notes, Chapel Club?).
Our Lost Infantry began life as a folk-driven sextet, complete with flawless and evocative violin melodies that would make even Fanfarlo swell with jealously. However, the ejection of two original members (including said violinist) brought about the wholly organic transition into the emotionally profound powerhouse we hear today. Drummer Michael Parkin speaks of the new line up with obvious contentment: “I think we are exactly where we want to be with our line-up now. It was tough to get to where we are, but I know that every one of us gets along really well, and most importantly the music sounds how we want it to.”
A vital factor in contributing to the bands unique sound lies within the tremendously broad spectrum of influences brought to the table by each member. Sigur Rós, Blink 182, King Crimson, At The Drive-In and Radiohead are all name-checked as collective favourites, and offer such diverse inspiration that the end product could not fail to stir interest. However, keyboard player Matt Phelps likes to make it extremely clear that creating an audible sound from such conflicting influences is by no means an easy feat. “Take that influences list and try to imagine them actually playing together, in many sections, and in multiple time signatures.”
That is, indeed, Our Lost Infantry. “We write simple songs about complex ideas”, explains frontman Thom Ashworth. “There’s a thread linking all of our lyrics which is concerned with growing up, learning things the hard way, and waking up in your mid-20s to realise that you can’t stand where you are and what you’ve become…”
I would imagine that a recent singing to WET Records and regular exposure on Radio One will stave off any feelings of personal dissatisfaction for the O.L.I members. Alternatively, they may be able to seek some form of solace from their impressive repertoire of gig collaborations, which includes paradoxically big-yet-still-underground names like Johnny Foreigner, Frightened Rabbit and Grammatics.
The main priority, however, remains the same. Our Lost Infantry simply wish make gloriously melancholy music in an environment free from all exterior distractions. As Thom so dreamily explains: “I want to be able to afford to do nothing else. Oh, and play SXSW next year. And Glastonbury. And crowd surf. And… well, you get the picture…”