Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Ding-Dong! The Witch Is Dead
Watching the transfer of power, watching history, a song became stuck in my head. Once there, I could not dismiss it. I really think the organisers of the inauguration of Barack Hussein Obama missed a trick. The moment W. had the power stripped from him, they should have played Ding-Dong! The Witch Is Dead.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Bad Vibes
My copy of Bad Vibes, Luke Haines’ autobiography has been read twice. Two readings is actually quite restrained. Given I have wanted to read some form of Haines’ biography for more than a decade, it would be easy to repeatedly gorge on his words.
Bad Vibes is never less than honest, never less than hilarious. The prologue is entitled: Is it ever right to strike a dwarf? From that line on, laughter is often the only response to the ridiculousness and terror Haines saddles to the stuttering trajectory of his career.
As you might expect from someone whose songs have chronicled everything from English cant and Euroterrorism to unsolved child murders, Bad Vibes does not offer cosy reading. Subtitled Britpop and my part in its downfall, it delivers a caustic perspective on the nineties British music scene. It is razorblade writing and few escape getting cut, least of all Haines.
It is devastating survey of the period. Where appropriate there is grudging respect for his contemporaries. Genuine songwriting ability is always acknowledged. Jarvis Cocker and Pulp are relatively free from attack. However, perishing insults abound.
Suede are ‘baked beans and sulphate’. Matt Johnson ‘a dim bully’. The David and Victoria Beckham of Britpop – Damon Albarn and Justine Frischmann – are a 'gruesome couple … greedy hobgoblins’. Best of all, Oasis are accurately labelled ‘derivative northern boors’. Never a truer word said, except when Haines admits that at times he is acting like a ‘fully fledged cunt’.
What Haines provides alongside such insightful wit, is the truth of the time. Truth despite the fact it is at best uncomfortable and unflattering. There is no easy retreat into hindsight. This means he also records himself as capable of brutal stabs of spite and staggering explosions of stupidity.
The voices in his head which help lead him to shatter his legs. The bad acid he takes which convinces him he is Matthew Hopkins, the Witchfinder General, being pursued by a violent peasant mob led by Kula Shaker. Surprisingly insane incidents such as these appear to be the least of Luke Haines problems.
Between 1991-1997, Haines was his own worst enemy. Young, beyond talented and a prize arsehole. His ramshackle approach to drink and drugs regular saw him in casualty or busted by foreign cops. He short circuits chance after chance for careerism and greater success. Despite this, he creates arguably some of the best music of the time.
You could look at the book as a musical horror story. Haines occasionally manages to be the antihero. More often he is the monster at its core. You read page after page worrying for the safety of Alice Readman, his then girlfriend and bassist in his band The Auteurs.
The device of capturing the state of the charts during the period of the chapter is a nice touch. It reminds us whatever insanity Haines inflicts on his life, nothing beats the shameful spectacle of Jimmy Nail being number one in the charts. Nothing is ever quite as awful as Robson and Jerome.
Bad Vibes is a glorious ride. Its only failing are a spluttering out end and the fact it is not labelled Volume One. You read it and quickly divorce any sense of Haines as the grotesque person he once was from the perfection he has achieved in his work. His genius will outlive the stories in this book; his genius will outlive any personal fuckwittery. We can only hope that if any of us wrote an autobiography, we could say the same.
Bad Vibes is never less than honest, never less than hilarious. The prologue is entitled: Is it ever right to strike a dwarf? From that line on, laughter is often the only response to the ridiculousness and terror Haines saddles to the stuttering trajectory of his career.
As you might expect from someone whose songs have chronicled everything from English cant and Euroterrorism to unsolved child murders, Bad Vibes does not offer cosy reading. Subtitled Britpop and my part in its downfall, it delivers a caustic perspective on the nineties British music scene. It is razorblade writing and few escape getting cut, least of all Haines.
It is devastating survey of the period. Where appropriate there is grudging respect for his contemporaries. Genuine songwriting ability is always acknowledged. Jarvis Cocker and Pulp are relatively free from attack. However, perishing insults abound.
Suede are ‘baked beans and sulphate’. Matt Johnson ‘a dim bully’. The David and Victoria Beckham of Britpop – Damon Albarn and Justine Frischmann – are a 'gruesome couple … greedy hobgoblins’. Best of all, Oasis are accurately labelled ‘derivative northern boors’. Never a truer word said, except when Haines admits that at times he is acting like a ‘fully fledged cunt’.
What Haines provides alongside such insightful wit, is the truth of the time. Truth despite the fact it is at best uncomfortable and unflattering. There is no easy retreat into hindsight. This means he also records himself as capable of brutal stabs of spite and staggering explosions of stupidity.
The voices in his head which help lead him to shatter his legs. The bad acid he takes which convinces him he is Matthew Hopkins, the Witchfinder General, being pursued by a violent peasant mob led by Kula Shaker. Surprisingly insane incidents such as these appear to be the least of Luke Haines problems.
Between 1991-1997, Haines was his own worst enemy. Young, beyond talented and a prize arsehole. His ramshackle approach to drink and drugs regular saw him in casualty or busted by foreign cops. He short circuits chance after chance for careerism and greater success. Despite this, he creates arguably some of the best music of the time.
You could look at the book as a musical horror story. Haines occasionally manages to be the antihero. More often he is the monster at its core. You read page after page worrying for the safety of Alice Readman, his then girlfriend and bassist in his band The Auteurs.
The device of capturing the state of the charts during the period of the chapter is a nice touch. It reminds us whatever insanity Haines inflicts on his life, nothing beats the shameful spectacle of Jimmy Nail being number one in the charts. Nothing is ever quite as awful as Robson and Jerome.
Bad Vibes is a glorious ride. Its only failing are a spluttering out end and the fact it is not labelled Volume One. You read it and quickly divorce any sense of Haines as the grotesque person he once was from the perfection he has achieved in his work. His genius will outlive the stories in this book; his genius will outlive any personal fuckwittery. We can only hope that if any of us wrote an autobiography, we could say the same.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Henry Rollins Words of Wisdom
There are only three bits of advice on writing I have ever received that always hold at the coalface. When writing seems impossible, I clutch to the collective insight of Henry Rollins, Dave Sim and Andrew Collins. A more disparate and unlikely bunch to be labelled by the general populace as wise three men would be impossible to find. However, their words have got me through every textual crisis I have faced.
Today I have been musing on Henry Rollins words of wisdom. The world might know him as the most tattooed renaissance man in history, but foremost to me he radiates for having once said: “There’s only one thing that makes you as a writer. You have to write. It’s the only qualification.”
When I heard him say that, it cut through all the crap. Shifted me from angst, navel contemplation and procrastination into the modo fac mindset. If I wanted to be a writer, the first thing I had to do was actually write. Everything else was just a derivative of that essential act.
Several books later and Rollin’s words are still empowering truth. It does not matter how many people read you, it does matter whether or where you are published, all you have to be a writer is write. The principle also holds beyond the boundary of my literary life. Action defines. Modo fac.
Today I have been musing on Henry Rollins words of wisdom. The world might know him as the most tattooed renaissance man in history, but foremost to me he radiates for having once said: “There’s only one thing that makes you as a writer. You have to write. It’s the only qualification.”
When I heard him say that, it cut through all the crap. Shifted me from angst, navel contemplation and procrastination into the modo fac mindset. If I wanted to be a writer, the first thing I had to do was actually write. Everything else was just a derivative of that essential act.
Several books later and Rollin’s words are still empowering truth. It does not matter how many people read you, it does matter whether or where you are published, all you have to be a writer is write. The principle also holds beyond the boundary of my literary life. Action defines. Modo fac.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Lowest of the Lo-tec Boys
Despite the fact that back in the day, dabbling in a bit of phreaking was not unknown to me, I am now the lowest of the lo-tec boys. Between moving from something as physical as the 2600 Hz whistle to engineering the world in ones and zeros, I got hopelessly lost. Now I struggle to even fix the DVD recorder.
Spurred on by both the desire to capture certain events for posterity and make my first spoken word recordings, I have obtained kit. A Sony MZ-RH1 sleeps on my desk. The feeling of inadequacy this black metal box inspires in me is upsetting.
It is few days before I want to make my first sonic sampling. If I do not blog until then, it is probably because I am locked in a deep struggle to tame the MZ-RH1 to the level where I can obtain a passable recording. Despite its theoretical ability to deliver CD-quality sound, all I can manage from the wee beast is a disconcerting hum.
Spurred on by both the desire to capture certain events for posterity and make my first spoken word recordings, I have obtained kit. A Sony MZ-RH1 sleeps on my desk. The feeling of inadequacy this black metal box inspires in me is upsetting.
It is few days before I want to make my first sonic sampling. If I do not blog until then, it is probably because I am locked in a deep struggle to tame the MZ-RH1 to the level where I can obtain a passable recording. Despite its theoretical ability to deliver CD-quality sound, all I can manage from the wee beast is a disconcerting hum.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Matters Hainesian
Advice for readers concerned with matters Hainesian:
It is now beyond pencil. Luke Haines will be at The Roundhouse’s Freedom Studio on Tuesday, January 27th 2009. He will be reading extracts from Bad Vibes, chatting with Andrew Mueller, taking a Q&A and playing a short acoustic set. Lucky old Camden to be so blessed.
I already have tickets and must now make good on my promise to send the Roundhouse box office staff a barrel of biscuits.
It is now beyond pencil. Luke Haines will be at The Roundhouse’s Freedom Studio on Tuesday, January 27th 2009. He will be reading extracts from Bad Vibes, chatting with Andrew Mueller, taking a Q&A and playing a short acoustic set. Lucky old Camden to be so blessed.
I already have tickets and must now make good on my promise to send the Roundhouse box office staff a barrel of biscuits.
Monday, January 05, 2009
‘Zombie Plague Spreads’
I am becoming attached to the tawdry paranoia of the Evening Standard vendor posters. Although the headlines are meant to tease, they cannot seem to help themselves. They scream like a mistrustful tramp high on methylated spirit.
Tonight, the West End Final poster wailed: ‘London Freezes -10 Warning’. It was like the tagline for a low thrill disaster movie. (Readers in certain parts of Northern America can now start laughing at the fact -10°C is considered news). You just know that the headline writers long for the day then can issue a poster proclaiming: ‘Apocalypse’, ‘Civilisation Doomed’ or ‘Zombie Plague Spreads’.
It is possible my fondness for the posters is down to the fact they remind me of their use as exposition devices in classic BBC sci-fi. No Quatermass serial or earthbound Doctor Who of the 1960s would seem complete if it did not feature a newsstand poster proclaiming ‘Skeleton Found in Knightsbridge Pit’ or ‘London Evacuated’. Just before Christmas I liberated a poster that seemed to have fallen through a dimension where alien invasions are ten a penny by shouting: ‘Fears Grow for Doctor Who’. It still has wall space. At the hands of Evening Standard poster writers, scaremongering with due regard for word economy is an art.
Tonight, the West End Final poster wailed: ‘London Freezes -10 Warning’. It was like the tagline for a low thrill disaster movie. (Readers in certain parts of Northern America can now start laughing at the fact -10°C is considered news). You just know that the headline writers long for the day then can issue a poster proclaiming: ‘Apocalypse’, ‘Civilisation Doomed’ or ‘Zombie Plague Spreads’.
It is possible my fondness for the posters is down to the fact they remind me of their use as exposition devices in classic BBC sci-fi. No Quatermass serial or earthbound Doctor Who of the 1960s would seem complete if it did not feature a newsstand poster proclaiming ‘Skeleton Found in Knightsbridge Pit’ or ‘London Evacuated’. Just before Christmas I liberated a poster that seemed to have fallen through a dimension where alien invasions are ten a penny by shouting: ‘Fears Grow for Doctor Who’. It still has wall space. At the hands of Evening Standard poster writers, scaremongering with due regard for word economy is an art.
Sunday, January 04, 2009
The Intrinsic Horror of Shopping at Tesco
There are some things we are forced to do from time to time that debase us as humans. Actions that make us feel unclean. Actions that make us feel as if we are simultaneously conspirators in and victims of an enterprise that adds to global misery. Being forced to use your local Tesco Metro to buy ingredients for dinner classifies as one of those actions.
However, it provides some comfort to know that even being regarded as a celebrity does not shield you from the intrinsic horror of shopping at Tesco. It seems as if my patch’s soul-sucking store can equalise the status of even my most recognisable neighbours. Despite her voiceover work for a rival supermarket, this afternoon I saw Joan Collins shuffling through the bottlenecks of its dirty, cramped aisles. She looked as miserable as I felt about having to pick up my spring onions and lemons from such a hideous corporate entity.
At a Tesco Metro, any fame is meaningless. Within its fluorescent-tinged space, we are all commodified, robbed of intrinsic human value merely by being its customers. Do not worry Joan; we are all in this repulsive business together. If anyone treated you differently while scavenging shelves today, rest easy knowing it is just because the big fur hat and gigantic sunglasses look is always unredeemable in its awfulness.
However, it provides some comfort to know that even being regarded as a celebrity does not shield you from the intrinsic horror of shopping at Tesco. It seems as if my patch’s soul-sucking store can equalise the status of even my most recognisable neighbours. Despite her voiceover work for a rival supermarket, this afternoon I saw Joan Collins shuffling through the bottlenecks of its dirty, cramped aisles. She looked as miserable as I felt about having to pick up my spring onions and lemons from such a hideous corporate entity.
At a Tesco Metro, any fame is meaningless. Within its fluorescent-tinged space, we are all commodified, robbed of intrinsic human value merely by being its customers. Do not worry Joan; we are all in this repulsive business together. If anyone treated you differently while scavenging shelves today, rest easy knowing it is just because the big fur hat and gigantic sunglasses look is always unredeemable in its awfulness.
Thursday, January 01, 2009
Sardinia via Blackheath
London is a hoodoo city. Its everyday trajectories demand syncretism. Friendships flow from the meld that would be hard to start elsewhere. Anyone who fails to respond to the joy of possibility this offers has a hardened, heavy spirit I do not envy carrying.
The gravity of the capital has pulled people into my life from across the globe. Despite this, my friends here are still scattered across its measure. North and south of the river. East and West of the Prime Meridian.
Today we celebrate news and the new in Sardinia via Blackheath. Tiramisu, tea and champagne are consumed. Conversation ranges from modelling the future to working class food culture and the enchantment of In The Night Garden …
We laugh, share and imagine together. Take joy from each other’s reasons for happiness. This is camaraderie; this the splendour of having companions you love like family. It is not the triumphant tiramisu of Mrs. Saba that is the best pull-me-up, it being with such wonderful people.
Time dilates far too easily. Between glances at my watch, afternoon tea becomes eight pm. Amid grandparents and a child that makes me feel clucky, I feel such warmth that leaving to head home is beyond hard.
Our train back pulls towards Charring Cross, spoiling us with the view of Parliament haloed by the lights of the London Eye. The magic of London is manfold. Tonight though, its greatest expression is its ability to distort geography to better bless us with friendship.
The gravity of the capital has pulled people into my life from across the globe. Despite this, my friends here are still scattered across its measure. North and south of the river. East and West of the Prime Meridian.
Today we celebrate news and the new in Sardinia via Blackheath. Tiramisu, tea and champagne are consumed. Conversation ranges from modelling the future to working class food culture and the enchantment of In The Night Garden …
We laugh, share and imagine together. Take joy from each other’s reasons for happiness. This is camaraderie; this the splendour of having companions you love like family. It is not the triumphant tiramisu of Mrs. Saba that is the best pull-me-up, it being with such wonderful people.
Time dilates far too easily. Between glances at my watch, afternoon tea becomes eight pm. Amid grandparents and a child that makes me feel clucky, I feel such warmth that leaving to head home is beyond hard.
Our train back pulls towards Charring Cross, spoiling us with the view of Parliament haloed by the lights of the London Eye. The magic of London is manfold. Tonight though, its greatest expression is its ability to distort geography to better bless us with friendship.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)