The beer and the damage done…

There comes a time in adult life when certain incidents cannot fail but reduce you to your 13-year-old self. There’s usually alcohol involved. In my case, it was alcohol and a backstage pass. And the 13-year-old in question was the kind of kid who couldn’t manage to leaf a couple of gummy bears out of her local newsagent without getting caught.

I’d honestly thought I’d progressed past this 13-year-old geek. Clearly it’s an affliction that never leaves (not unlike my love for En Vogue).

It’s a tragic testiment to my own rock ‘n’ roll failings that brought back flashbacks of that DIY AC/DC vest I so lovingly attempted to make for myself back at college. (The orange material and black felt - hand-hacked - lettering seemed like a feat of visionary dressmaking at the time…)

The world is clearly divided between two types of people: those who can pull off everyday item theft, and those who can’t. I’ve always fallen into the latter (much to my own lament.) So, it was clearly a rooky mistake of mine to use a support band’s backstage pass at the Shepherds Bush Empire the other night and sneak into an (Equestrian-theme named) US band’s dressing room and attempt to nick a few drinks cause I’d run out of money. 

Yes, that’s right. It’s a sorry state of affairs when you get in trouble with a rock band for “borrowing” a couple of pitiful bottles of light ale, but what can I say? The times are-a-changing…

The mortification I’ve experienced by this singular event is two-fold:

1. I was literally caught with a bottle opener in one hand and a bottle in the other by the tour manager (who incidentally had the most awesome red beard I have ever seen and am ever likely to see.)

2. When asked “what are you doing?” by said awesomely red-bearded tour manager (a reasonable question to raise), I actually used the phrase “I’m with the band.”

This is clearly the behaviour of someone who has watched Almost Famous one too many times and thinks she is Kate Hudson. In my defence - it wasn’t my idea. I told Craig I’d get caught. And that’s the other mortifying thing - it wasn’t even my idea. Who caves into peer pressure past the age of 16?

Maybe it was the dazzling sight of the red beard, but I honestly believed this tour manager would see the funny side. He didn’t. Needless to say the beers in question were confiscated.

With time to think about the ethical ramifications of my thoughtless actions, I have to say I am disappointed with Mr Red Beard. Firstly, the band were drinking whiskey. Secondly, I drank the beers anyway when I gatecrashed the aftershow. And thirdly, I was wearing a mini-dress. Do I not get points for that?

Clearly not.

The beer bottles and the damage done, eh?

What A Waster…

Trouble in Albion?

You’ve gotta love the audacity of Pete Doherty’s latest “cash flow crisis.” According to a report from Companies House, French Dog Blues (the company owned by Pete Doherty), the indie geisha has only managed to make £3,500 in the last year.

Added to this, Babyshambles Ltd also managed to lose £8,000, while Pete himself reportedly owes his driver £4,000.

And we should be surprised by this? Here’s a thought Pete: try turning up to more shows on time - or better still actually  turn up to play - and you may find your current financial woes are reversed.

Perhaps if Pete hadn’t cancelled his recent Werchter festival appearance in Belgium (meaning the band lost out on a £60k fee), the piggy bank might have been a bit fuller.

The reason for the cancellation? One of Doherty’s cats went into labour…

He’s got 99 problems, but Jay-Z ain’t one…

Well blow me down, if Noel Gallagher hasn’t struck (yet another) own-goal. 

As someone who has always championed his wit and acerbic charm, I have to say his latest bouts of commentary have struck as the kind of shallow, backward analysis that swaggers 1994 - festering in a Brit Pop broom cupboard alongside Chris Evans, a crate of Hooch and a DD Wonderbra.

Which is a real surprise, because I totally agreed with his previous comments on the aggressive, negative and disgustingly misogynistic elements that so often overshadow rap and hip-hop. I totally agreed with his opinions on 50 Cent when he brilliantly pointed out the blazingly obvious: “I just don’t like the dragging women around on dog leads and all that stuff.”

But who could’ve predicted that when Jay-Z was announced as this year’s Glastonbury headliner, the UK would’ve indulged itself in such a blatant racist backlash that defied any proper sense or reasoning. Hoards of white middle class indie scenesters heckling out against the rapper as if Take That had been confirmed as Saturday night’s entertainment on the Pyramid Stage.

Black hip-hop at Glastonbury? Send out the troops! Lest we forget that Glastonbury is all about defying categorisation and stereotype - unfortunately it seemed like the festival’s fans had become the stereotype, wrapped up in a indie bubble, refusing to look past the ends of their own converse.

At the forefront of the battalion was Noel Gallagher himself - master and commander. Talk about a let-down, hearing him clumsily airing his views, ruffling his plumage amidst a chorus of “no chance.” Not least because I’ve always deemed Noel as the anecdotal godfather of the music world: Always sharp, devastatingly witty, acerbically dynamite and usually spot on. (A particular Gallagher gem for me is his quote about Beach Boys only selling records cause they’re next door to Beatles in HMV? Genius.)

Then Jay-Z mock-swaggered on stage strumming away to Wonderwall. Game over.

So, it is with great amusement that I read Noel’s latest comments - backtracking spectacularly to the beat of Jay-Z’s drum.

“For the record, I Iike Jay-Z,” he said. “That’s my opinion. If it offends people, don’t ask me any more questions. I should do these things and answer like every two-bit pop star.”

A case of eating a slither of humble pie, Noel?

Which brings me onto my real intentions for writing this blog. My top five classic Noel quotes (I still love him really):

1. “[I doubt] one of these guys from the G8 is on a quick 15-minute break at Gleneagles and sees Annie Lennox singing ‘Sweet Dreams’ and thinks … ‘She might have a point there, you know?’ ”

2. “I’m not like John Lennon, who thought he was the great Almighty. I just think I’m John Lennon.”

3. ”Sure I love Liam, but not as much as I love Pot Noodles.”

4. ”Next year I hope to get a stalker or two because I don’t belive you’ve arrived until you get a stalker.”

5. Forte Crest Hotel. Glasgow. April 17, 1994. ALL OF IT.

He’s an artist, he don’t look back…

It begins with a statement of intent:

“It seemed I’d always been chasing after something…Anything that might lead out into some more lit place, some unknown land downriver…”

The lit place is at Halcyon Gallery. The unknown land is brought to us by none other than Bob Dylan.

Lets cut to the chase: so many musicians have tried their hand at a spot of canvas work and failed miserably (not naming names, Ronnie Wood). It’s certainly a brave attempt by any person renowned for doing something completely different, to whack on the Picasso overalls and try something else. And do it well.

It’s even braver to (after many years) agree to showcase these extremely personal paintings to the public, especially bearing in mind the manner in which Dylan has curtained off his private life to roving eyes. Even XM Radio in the US (who host the troubadour’s Theme Time Radio Hour) have no idea where he broadcasts his shows from. Yet here we see Dylan unveil one of the most private aspects of his personal and artistic worlds: his paintings. And each tells a completely different story…

Sure, Dylan has displayed his love of painting to us on record sleeves such as his 1970 (critically ripped apart, yet I cherish as one of my personal favourites) release ‘Self Portrait’. But I’ve never had the opportunity to gain access to three floors worth of his material.

Waltzing into the first floor display room and the eye meets a series of paintings entitled ‘Train Tracks.’ For many fans, these paintings sum up Dylan’s philosophy: a man hell bent on walkin’ down that line, always keeping going, ever the shape-shifting artist, never looking back. What strikes immediately is the way he repeats a number of identical paintings, using different colours for each. Turquoise switches to white, switches to orange, swathes to blue. It is a theme that continues throughout his work and is something that struck me as indicative of Bob Dylan’s life and work - just as he changes the colour, thus changing the mood, appealing for different reactions; so the same applies to his music. This is a vibrant reminder of why Bob Dylan can never be categorised: each colour change on canvas symbolises his entire musical career and displays just how he approaches performing his songs - constantly changing, ever evolving, never conforming to expectation and always pissing off those traditionalists who yell at the back “get out an acoustic guitar and sing it like on Freewheelin’!”

Whether it’s a single draped violet curtain, an azure blue horizon, or a random pedestrian man swathed in green on a bridge: colour is what moves Dylan. You can soak in the David Hockney rainbow-palate and drink up the Picasso brush-strokes. 

New Orleans walkways give way to Chicago back alleys, into walled in introspection of Dallas hotel rooms, lakeside cabins and New York apartment blocks. This is Dylan’s world: a life on the road. Each shows a different side to the rolling stone who has made his life his own self-made train tracks.

I found it particularly interesting that the one canvas that most summed up Bob Dylan was the one that has sold the least. Was it the prettiest? No. The most vibrant? No. Most accomplished? Of course not. To me, this was the one that summed up the spirit of the story-teller, but most importantly of the acerbic social-commentator. ‘Statue Of Liberty’ would probably be the painting that most would walk by on the way to ‘Train Tracks’. But it drew me in like star dust. An imposing outline of the Statue of Liberty is cast aside by a jump-suited passer by, with ‘Cowboys’ blazened on his back. Across the bottom states the words: “RAPE IS NOT SEX”. Four words that say all you really need to know. It’s a punch in the guts. And isn’t it as relevant today as it was in the late 80s? I mean, all we’ve really achieved is to swap one Bush for another.

The Drawn Blank Series by Bob Dylan is on show at Halcyon Gallery in London until July 13. Link below:

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Napoleon (not quite so) Dynamite

No, no, no! Not that Napoleon…This Napoleon:

index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendID=79563198

Introducing Nordic’s finest. With a side ordering of: Can I have subtitles with that?

There are some days when (as a working freelance journalist), the sight of a Press Release really does take your breath away. Imagine my ecstasy when Napoleon landed in my in-box. All TEN members of them, no less…God bless Swedish hippy communes…

With member nicknames like “Baghdad”, “Bronco” and “T-Glow”, it’s hard to know whether they were inspired by the current US military strategy in Iraq or a particular episode of M*A*S*H.

Their inspiration? Why, Napoleon Bonaparte himself, of course. The band were apparantly inspired after watching a documentary about the naval midget. (Who incidentally, had a secret penchant for indie-rock bands…)

Pardon the piss-take here, but I can’t help put quote the insanely genius press release right now. And I quote:

“…a pertinent reminder that hooks are not just for fisherman…”

With press quotes like that, who needs a killer hook?

The lyrics for current big-hitter ‘Send Me A Woman’ don’t fail to disappoint either. What with their portrayal of whores, Ukraines and…Meryl Streep…Don’t believe me? Have a gander at this lot:

Napoleon - Send Me A Woman

All the pretty ladies have gone home,
down Mirror Street, with all the ugly boys.
I will stick with gypsies, whores and Ukrainians.
True love rules when decent people sleep.
Mary I’m a sinner and a liar,
but I swear I walk on water sometimes.
There is a constant heartache in my mind.
There is a constant heartache for my kind.

I’m not too young to be in love,
but I’m too young to be together.
I’ve got your thoughts on my mind,
but my thoughts on my time;
I don’t want to wait forever.
I’ve seen upper-class girls become proletarians,
but then change their minds
and become upper class again.

Send me a woman.

Ten minutes later down on Mirror Street,
I saw a picture of Meryl Streep.
It made me think of you somehow.
I was too drunk to see nobody dancing,

Secretly you all hate me ’cause
I claim I’m misunderstood, by the rest,
but compare how much I brag,
with how much I have to give
and you truly must say I’m modest.
On the dance floor Ninna made everybody choke,
but I have noticed that she laughs when there is no joke.

Send me a woman.

I want her to be my lover and I want her to be my mother.

As I went from the rehearsal to the disco with a laughably serious face,
Romeo went from Jersey to Frisco, just so he could be a home-comer one day.
I know that you know that I know that type.
All my lower upper middle class dates went to London and the States,
 just so they could become home-comers one day.

Send me a woman

Hold me, thrill me, kiss me, KILL me…

What am I on about? PDA. Or Public Display of Affection as it’s most commonly known.

There was a time when the most we had to contend with was two smug members of the opposite sex on an underground escalator, swapping saliva as they cruise down to the central line and (most probably) skipping further towards a smug future of blissful smug happiness.

I’m using the descriptive ’smug’ a lot. Am I trying to be symbolist? No. It’s just that, to me, PDA smacks of smug couples hell-bent on rubbing busy commuters up the wrong way at rush hour. Cause, is it me or do they only seem to lick each other’s faces at rush hour? When we’re all trying to get somewhere? And they’re in the f*cking WAY! Not that I’m suggesting this is a couples conspiracy or anything. Sod it, maybe I am.

And always with that smug self-satisfied smile on their faces - the one that exhales “sigh…we’re the first couple to ever feel this way. We’ve found true love! We’re no longer SINGLE and therefore we can’t possibly keep our hands to ourselves and must stroke each other continually!” It’s not the public display itself (well not just that) but the idea that these people honestly act like they’re the only ones who have ever been a couple. Which (yes, you’ve got the idea), makes them a smug couple.

Okay, so what’s my point here? Smug kissing couples at gigs. That’s my problem. Isn’t it enough that I have to fight my way through them like an army assault course on the journey to the gig? Oh no! Now I have to endure them for the duration of my night out. Crack open the sambucca.

I honestly wasn’t expecting to have to deal with PDA the other week at a Cat Power gig at the Hammersmith Apollo, but lo and behold, there they were. In full public display mode. And what’s more, they were…dammit…Smug.

As my friend Cila grabbed my arm as we sat down, rolled her eyes and pointed aggressively towards these reptile tongue-offenders, the following thought process flashed before my inner-consciousness (and in this precise order):

1. This is a sit down gig. I can’t move. I am forced to sit here and watch these two morons sucking their faces off for over an hour, whilst trying to block it out and focus on the stage.

2. It’s really f*cking hard to focus on the stage when the couple in question keep sucking each others necks in such a blatant fashion.

3. Keep focusing on the stage, Kat. 

4. Shit, is that my ex-boyfriend a few rows across?

5. Ooh, I really like this song…

6. Hold the phones…who sucks each others necks like this over the age of 16?!

7. Oh, they look so smug.

8. Oh, they’re bad kissers.

9. Shit, when did Cat Power leave the stage?

Yes, you’ve guessed it. Cat Power didn’t stand a chance.

Which only goes to show that this kind of PDA at gigs should be stopped immediately. I suggest we start up a campaign. Lets put an end to this blatant gig offence! Mutiny on the gig bounty. All smug kissing couples OVERBOARD!

Who’s with me?!

Whatever happened to my Rock ‘n’ Roll?

It’s 9PM on a Thursday night. Location: Proud. 

Danana-anananana-ananana-(why oh why oh why?)-kroyd are on stage introducing their “positivity” word of the day. I’m sitting on a Libertines deck chair (feeling slightly tainted/a little hypocritical/extremely contrived) and wondering what the f*ck happened to the contents of my £3.50 bottle of Peroni (and I guess, to the remnants of my rock ‘n’ roll…)

The ethos of Proud has always grated with me on quite a few levels - the idea that music serves to appeal to an elitist hierarchy who fuel a culture myth by assimilating bog-standard indie gigs in what always feels like a clinically disinfected “art” gallery, with white-washed walls and empty souls.

The straw that broke the camel’s back for me, came when I found myself trapped at a Johnny Borrell gig at the old Proud Gallery only a few doors down from the “new and improved” model last year. Out of the hoards of real fans who had patiently queued up all day for (in my opinion, the punishment, but in theirs “treat”) of checking out the Razorlight frontman in his natural habitat: a wanky middle-classed establishment, none managed to see the gig, but instead got battery-rammed into the bar whilst a handful of industry-suits had the wristband pleasure of experiencing an entire set penned into a postage-stamp space.

Music for the people? Hardly.

The new Proud only plays up to the stereotype: To see and to be seen.

As I strolled down the stables run-way, passing Pixie Geldof on my way, I immediately felt annoyed at myself for even succumbing to the curiosity that got me there in the first place. It’s like the latest Indiana Jones film: I knew it was going to be shit, but a part of me couldn’t help but turn up and check it out for myself. Then bitch about it as soon as I was there.

Part of my annoyance is with the set-up itself - cordoned off ‘drinking spaces’ which scream “I’m on the guest list.” Each walled-in seating area perpetuating the new reality - contrived segregation that aims to make people feel VIP in a town where you can check out a gig around every other corner. Very Important People…or just Very Irrelevant?

Isn’t the whole point of going out to a gig partly to do with the social atmosphere once you’re there? Cause I honestly think I’ve missed something along the way here…

Could the new layout be any more symbolic of just how boxed in we’ve all become?

 

Shlomizzle

What an incredible night we had down at Royal Festival Hall last night - Martha Wainwright and various friends (including the likes of Ed Harcourt, Beth Orton and Romeo from Magic Numbers) put on an incredible show.

Some people have labelled Martha’s new record ‘I Know You’re Married But I’ve Got Feelings Too’ as too-poppy by halves. I disagree. Last night’s performance only went further to demonstrate how wonderfully unique she is. Few artists sing from the very pits of their being, but she does so with raw guts. The juxtaposition between sexual aggression and vulnerability within her is truly stunning.

For any in doubt, listen to ‘I Wish I Were’ on the new record.

But that’s not really the subject of this latest blog…The subject is actually a guest she brought on last night - Shlomo.

For any of you who are not already aware (I definitely wasn’t), he is the new artist in residence at the Southbank centre and at the tender age of just 23, has already recorded with Bjork as well as collaborating with Martha.

We’ve probably all groaned at the idea of beat boxing at some point (I distinctly remember foraging to perforate my own ear drums at an anti-slavery gig by the revolting beat boxing attempts of Daniel Beddingfield a few years back), lord knows it’s a genre that brings out the very-worst examples.

Whilst many imitators take a clumsy stab at an art form which rarely makes you gasp out loud, Shlomo is literally breathtaking.

It’s rare that a collaborating artist captivates a bulging Royal Festival Hall in such a blatant fashion (a Royal Festival Hall brought together in celebration of an artist essentially classed as pop/folk), but captivate them he did, arriving on stage looking endearingly sheepish only to display the kind of vocal skills that defies limitations.

I’m going to link his MySpace here, but I seriously urge you to check this guy out live. You won’t be disappointed. Honestly. Trust me. Do it!

shlomizzle

Insubstantial Rant…

Don’t have long.

Just seen a picture of Pete Doherty strolling through a forest of bluebells with a guitar on his back attempting to look sober and wistful.

Apparantly he doesn’t feel like scoring anymore, he feels like walking. Through bluebells.

Idiot.

 

The Hippie Hippie Shake

 A few years late on the uptake, but what do you expect? It’s 738 pages for christ sakes…

Hands down, the definitive rock biography - a few darker shades of disturbing, but always with that trademark Neil Young humour threading through…I found parts of it devastating to read, but I guess that’s the whole deal. This isn’t some Waltons re-hash of the bygone era. It’s a book that defines the death of the existential hero who was celebrated on the pages of Albert Camus’ ‘The Outsider’.

You’re not supposed to amiably agree with what it has to say. It’s supposed to wind you up in places…and it succeeds:

You cringe at Stephen Stills’ over-bloated insecurities masquerading as rock ‘n’ roll arrogance as you watch the Woodstock dream metamorphose into the drugs-fuelled nightmare it was inevitably going to become. The binges, the murders, the violence…all simmering under the pretence of “peace and love”. Whatever those words meant…’Shakey’ is really about delusion. It’s a tale of ego and excess. The only truth is the truth you find in the music. And even then, it sometimes eludes even that…

You laugh at the insane anecdotes that are offered up along the way: choice passages being Neil Young’s farewell telegram to Stephen Stills before he legged it off tour: ‘Dear Stephen, funny how some things that start spontaneously end that way. Eat a peach, Neil’; in addition there’s a genius account of a noise being heard in the back of Neil Young’s hearse, quickly revealed to be an unravelling Bob Dylan in his ‘turban phase.’

Which brings me onto comment that perhaps at the centre of all of this (forgive me if I’m wrong in stating this but what the hell) are Neil Young and Bob Dylan. Cruising down Route 66 in that hearse. Evaders of truth? Yes…but ultimately torch-bearers for their generation. 

What struck me more than anything was the scene’s blatant testosterone-fuelled tunnel vision - a generation of Southern-Bible-Belted rockers wanking themselves off (and often wanking each other off) in the name of guitar rock. The whole book revolves around their hanging “attributes”…the women in their lives are always the silhouettes. Ever present, (say, with the over-domineering presence of Neil Young’s own mother) ever haunting, but ultimately shadows that fall behind in the proverbial lay-by of their own story.

As Neil Young once told his son Zeke when he started yelling “no no no” on his tour bus: “Look - we’re men. It’s okay for men to tell women no - that’s cool. But look around, Zeke - there’s no women on this bus. You don’t say no to a man.”

Or if we really want to highlight the offensive, in the words of Crazy Horse guitarist Frank “Poncho” Sampedro: “Rock and roll - I thought that meant Loot the Village and Rape the Women.”

Also surprising is Young’s ever-shape shifting political and social views: a singer that protest sings against the recent war in Iraq also is a staunch believer in the death penalty and infamously supported Reagan under the banner of “pro American patriotism.”

As the book goes onto highlight, Neil is none of things. What he is, is an isolationist. Perhaps the last of Camus’ outsiders. In the words of Elliot Roberts: “You never know which Neil Young you’re dealing with.”

In the immortal words of Shakey himself: innaresting…

 

Lets hear it for Duffy

I rarely like to shout out about the features I have written, but I have to say that I was incredibly proud to write Clash Magazine’s first female artist cover feature introducing new pop sensation Duffy.

If you haven’t already, please pick up a copy and support the cause!

And whilst you’re at it, why not click onto Clash Magazine’s website and have a listen to my podcast with the Welsh songstress?

Follow the link below!

clash-podcast

 

Eurotrash and ELECTROHUNKS

Picture the scene: It’s mid-morning on a rain-drizzled Sunday and I’m indulging in my age-old (predictable) practice of settling down to my Sunday Times supplement-a-thon.

Flicking through the opening pages of the Style Magazine this morning (I sometimes make a ‘worthy’ attempt at tackling the actual broadsheet paper itself but in all honesty the lure of reading all about a pint-sized diamond-encrusted Eurotrash munchkin billionheir by the name of Prince Azim of Brunei, steers me away from the current crisis involving Gordon Brown’s terror-detention u-turn. I only tend to read that shit when I think people are actually watching me.)

Settling into my Style bible (bacon sarnie in tow) and imagine my horror at reading the following under the ‘Going Up’ header. And i quote:

‘ELECTROHUNKS: Sebastien Tellier is France’s Eurovision entry. And we thought Gaspard Auge was hot! Oh, la la.’

Yes, you did just read that correctly. In a bizarre twist to the predictable Eurovision Song Contest gender-bending insanity (well, lets face it, transexual Israelis are a hard act to follow), Parisian boheme’s finest is bringing classy electro-pop to the stone-washed jeaned masses.

Bizarre doesn’t quite cut it. I go to bed last night safe in the knowledge of Sebastien Tellier’s underground electro-art status and wake up this morning to the news that he has been transformed into …an ‘ELECTROHUNK’ (note the immediacy of the capitals. You can’t argue with capitals. They might as well have just put ‘FACT’ on the next line.)

I have to admit - a part of my soul sank when I saw this euphoric electro-prince being ’styled’ as an upper in a fashion supplement. For me, this guy defies fashion. I remember first falling in love with Sebastien when he release his shimmering summer-stringed epic “La Ritournelle’ a few years ago. I fell quite spectacularly. This is a guy who never fails to keep you on your toes - a bearded, dark-haired Latin Quarter magician. The first time I went to see him play at Bush Hall, I fluttered as he stomped all over the outer casing of his piano, and all over the outer casing of my throbbing heart as he smoked a cigar through his nostrils and generally f*cked up the distinction between stable reality and unsettling abstraction.

For those of you who are unaware of Tellier’s iconic musical and cinematic career to date : Sebastien Tellier is to Eurovision what French Connection is to Primark. It’s the difference between cashmere and polyester. Surely Tellier’s participation in the contest is kinda like slathering a load of caviar over your cheese on toast…Or is it?

It’s kind of like my thoughts on Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie’s biological offspring: the sheer magnetic thrust of combining both of their flawlessly beautiful genes into one singular Hollywood zygote is either going to create the most incredibly stunning child the world has ever seen, or (controversially on the flip-side) the most god-awfully freaky looking troll the world has ever seen. 

The same could be said for Tellier: this could possibly be the most amazing thing Eurovision has ever witnessed. Or alternatively it could be the most traumatic car-crash you’ve ever driven past.

Tellier himself has outlined his reasons for representing France with his song ‘Divine’ as such: ”I want to bring a touch of class, sometimes Eurovision can be so vulgar that it’s sad.”

I for one embrace the vulgarity. Isn’t that what it’s all about? Having said that, I honestly believe that everything Tellier touches turns to gold…in this case, it may be the kind of tacky gold that leaves that spectacular moss-green stain on your ring-finger, but isn’t that what ghetto-bling is all about?

The latest twist in this mythical tale is the barage of abuse he is receiving over his decision to sing the majority of the track in English and…(shock stroke horror) not in French, with those French-loving (English spitting) trade unionists lambasting him a ’sell-out’.

I doubt they’ll ever forgive us for that Second Hundred Years’ War, eh? Or eating tomato sauce with our steak…

Perhaps some die-hards will deem his move into the spandex pits of the Eurovision world as a ’sell-out’. I for one consider it a glorious celebration of Tellier’s adamant refusal to subscribe to any degree of social or artistic norm.

Bring on the electro-fuelled debauchery. I don’t know about you, but I am gathering my feather bowers as I type, applying my lip-liner and squeezing into my glitter cat-suit. 

But before I depart, let me leave you with a sparkling sun-soaked track that never fails to make my heart soar:

PS: Wondering what Spain has concocted for this year’s contest? I couldn’t help but squeeze this link in…now this is the stuff that Eurovision dreams are made of:

 

 

Girls Like Us

“This is a man’s world”.

James Brown sung it. Music breathes it. Have I got the masses groaning yet?

I’d be lying if I said it hasn’t been an ongoing aspiration of mine to write a non-fiction book on the status of women in the music industry.

How revealing then, that whenever I’ve expressed this particular interest to colleagues and friends, the statement has been ritually met with a raised eyebrow or a knowing smirk.

“Are you a feminist?” is the usual response. It’s even more revealing that this response is not just concentrated to a strictly male camp. Whisper the word “feminism” and the term evokes a shudder from most people. My relayed response used to be this: “I’m not a feminist, I’m all for equal rights”. But was this just a defensive reaction to divert people away from picturing me as some kind of greasy-haired lesbian in DM boots and dungarees, burning my bra against a chorus of “votes for women!”?

Does championing against the blatant sexism in the music industry (of which I have personally experienced at first hand) make me a feminist? More importantly: should feminism really be something to shy away from?

When did “feminism” become a dirty word?

Getting back on track with my interest in writing this book: Sure, I’ve dabbled around the outskirts of the subject on a few occasions, writing two features on my frustrations at the portrayal and treatment of women within the industry. With both features I always had the sneaking suspicion that my editors were “indulging” me in a flight of fancy, un-convinced at my belief that women are still denied equal footing. They’re entitled to their opinion - but lets face it. Most rock the Y chromosome themselves. Is it any wonder?

Let me back this rant up with a small anecdote: having decided that this was something I wished to write more about, I set about sending out proposals and synopsis to various book publishers. A few got back to me: a polite “thanks but no thanks” was all that was required.

But wait…One well known publishing house surprisingly got back to me with a shocking “maybe”. My ears pricked up as I read through his email. And then my heart sank at his investigative questions in response:

“We already have two female writers on our books already. Both of whom have written musical biogs. My question to you is: what makes you so different to the women we already represent?”

Now, for many of you, this may seem a fairly inoffensive question to ask. For me, it highlighted the obvious:

“The fact that you are even asking me what makes me different from the minimal two female writers you already represent exactly proves why I want to write this book in the first place” I bluntly responded back.

“If you can honestly tell me that you would ask a male writer what made him different from the twenty male writers you already have on your burgeoning books, then I’ll happily explain to you why I should be considered as an individual journalist as opposed to a gender that needs to be minimised.”

Of course I never heard from that particular editor ever again. I’m sure he blamed it on my hormones.

So it is with great interest that I have been reading various reviews for Sheila Weller’s latest non-fiction book ‘Girls Like Us’ (a book which aims to dissect and compare the musical careers of Joni Mitchell, Carole King and Carly Simon).

My first grievance is as follows…Actually, it’s concentrated in the one word: Girls. This book title sounds like the kind of Mills & Boon romance trash you find free with your August edition of Glamour. These artists weren’t girls, they were women. And should be celebrated as such. Is the term “girls” supposed to make them non-offensive acoustic guitar-strumming hippies? Would you ever call a novel comparing the careers of Neil Young, Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen “Boys Like Us”?

The next grievance is not so much with the book itself (I’m yet to pick up a copy in Waterstones - I’m sure there will be more de-constructions to follow…I’m polishing my Doc Martins as I write) but with the reviews that have commented on it. I find it incredibly telling that each review centres around the men they shagged as opposed to the songs they wrote. 

And I quote: “…how the bedsit singer/songwriter princesses of the early 1970s became rock royalty and feminist role models, a leap that saw everyone from James Taylor and Mick Jagger to Warren Beatty and Jack Nicholson leaping between their songsheets. Although not, sadly at the same time.”

That’s Metro Lite. The reviewer in question is, of course, a man (by the name of Keith Watson).

Keith, Keith, Keith. Where do I start? For one thing, did you seriously just use the phrase “between their songsheets”? Secondly, did you really just identify them as feminist role models in the same sentence that you role-called their various sexual conquests? Is this your clumsy and simpleton view of feminist role models? Do the men that they slept with personally validate the music that they made in your professional opinion?

It may seem like I’m ganging up on poor Keith. But actually, he only represents the majority of reviews which have stereotyped the book in the same way. Maybe the book is a stereotype itself, who knows. What I do know is that I’m sick and tired of reading some mis-guided feature on the nature of female musicianship by ageing male journalists who haven’t the foggiest idea on what it’s about and how it should be explored.

Having “personally” experienced an editor’s hand up my skirt as he suggested I might sleep with him in return for him “perusing” my written portfolio, forgive me if I’m a little prickly about this subject…

Surely this is a side to the music industry that truly needs to be exposed: a side that still continues to un-repently indulge in its own dated brand of over-bloated and blatant sexism?

 

 

My Big Fat Cop-Out Wedding

On a totally non-musical rant, I settled down to My Big Fat Greek Wedding last night (for like, the third time) and something really bugged me.

The whole crux of the film is that the 30 year-old woman in question is fed up with her life and doesn’t just want to marry and have kids and lead a suburban life…right?

So why does she end up marrying, having kids and living a suburban life right next door to her parents then?

The film bugs me in the same way that Jane Austen does. (Perhaps I should mention at this point that I suffer from an all-consuming loathing of Jane Austen and everything her novels represent.) I mean - are women today supposed to still find her books insightful or empowering? Surely, if you’ve read one, you’ve read them all. They’re all the same: a bunch of anally-retentive women sitting around held captive in their sitting room, crocheting cushion covers whilst they wait for prince charming to drop by (at his leisure) and whisk them away on horseback to a life of cake-baking mediocrity. Even the spirited characters (take Marianne in Sense & Sensibility for instance) manages to have it quashed by marriage at the end. 

I digress…what was my original rant about? Ah right, My Big-Fat Cop-Out Wedding…getting back on track:

It’s just so disappointing. The film opens up with the thrilling premise that this woman yearns for meaning in her life and then she goes and subscribes to the general consensus that so riled her at the beginning. What is the film trying to say? That women only seek to better themselves as independents for the promise of a husband? 

And another thing…Why do films always make women look geeky and miserable by sticking a pair of glasses on them? That’s just lazy costume-design. 

Black Kids, non capisco

(Before I have watchdog on my back. I’m not being racist. I mean the band. Okay?)

I just don’t get it. Correction: I don’t want to get it. Correction: I don’t think there’s much to get.

Seriously, it’s like watching a bunch of special needs kids regurgitating on stage. You don’t know whether to throw something at them or commend the Brit School for letting them out on a day-trip.

Also, what’s with this indie obsession of repeating the same word over and over again? Having a bunch of Camden rejects hollar “Dance! Dance! Dance!” at me (funnily enough) doesn’t really instil me with the desire to break out into some kind of converse-shaking euphoria and dance. In fact, those exclamation marks are just simply offensive and should be removed immediately. I lump people who put exclamation marks at the end of every sentence in the same category as people who dot their i’s with hearts. It’s not funny. It’s certainly not clever. It’s just plain wrong.

Black Kids? Non capisco! (Btw, that exclamation mark is being wielded for the purposes of sarcasm…)

They can’t sing. They can’t dance. And they’re not My Bloody Valentine.

Get over it.

Baby, he was born to run

God bless debates on underground escalators - where would be without them? I’ve had friends reveal the most tantalising secrets as we make our way down to the northern line.

For instance, without the humble escalator, I wouldn’t have been subjected to the shocking revelation by my best mate last night that Bruce Springsteen is (and I quote) her “guilty” ipod pleasure. Apparantly training for a marathon each morning to his big-hitter ‘Born To Run’ really makes her feel like she was born to run. 

I just don’t think I can accept Bruce Springsteen as a “guilty pleasure”. Aren’t there rules against such outlandish statements? I mean, if you’re talking about serious guilty pleasures, shouldn’t we be cross-referencing the (undeniable) siren call of Girls Aloud being dragged by their hair-extentions backwards, or the generic puppet-stringed beat-boxing of N-Sync at this point? Bruce Springsteen? Is she taking the piss?

Obviously I could role-call the predictable classics…what the hell, why don’t I do that anyway (’Dancing In The Dark’ and ‘Born In The USA’…I mean, they’re a given), but can I just point out the sheer genius of his (blink and you’ll miss it in HMV) 1973 record ‘Greetings From Asbury Park’. And what about 1982’s ‘Nebraska’ people?! I have them both on vinyl. I’m not ashamed.

What’s more, I’m not ashamed to reveal to you that I am frothing at the mouth at the prospect of finally checking out The Boss live. In his natural environment: a big fuck-off stadium. That’s right: Come July I’m heading out to Barcelona to fry in the blazing Spanish sun (and also to catch Mr E Street himself crank out ‘Born To Run’ with his original E Street Band. Note the italics. Jesus, I’m quivering already.) And I don’t even run. (No, seriously. I can’t. Even the thought of physical exercise brings me out in a sweat.)

So, what is my ipod guilty pleasure?

Click onto the myspace link below and see for yourself.

How can you fail to deny the miraculous pairing of two of the most awe-inspiring groups of all time? Genesis AND Earth Wind & Fire?! 

I can’t express the genius of this video either. For starters, there’s a helicopter. I mean, that’s the stuff that pop dreams are made of. I think a helicopter in a music video provides all the ammo you need.

God bless the 80s. It makes me want to break out into the running man just watching it. You don’t get suits like that anymore - not since they shut down C & A. Check out the Michael Jackson inspired leather jacket. And I dunno about you, but I’ve got my eye on both of their sweaters. (With the sleeves rolled up. Duran Duran style, innit.)

Which all goes to show: they don’t make ‘em like they used to.

 

The Lost Dylan

There’s something quite comforting in the fact that, no matter how many albums you buy, tunes you download or music videos you watch, there will always be an artist left to discover, a song waiting to be uncovered.  

You know that feeling (albeit a rare feeling) when you meet someone for the first time and you think to yourself: “Fuck! We’ve shuffled alongside each other on this mortal coil for decades without knowing each other even existed, but now I’ve met them I can’t imagine my life without them.”

The moment the stranger becomes a friend. 

I had that feeling the other day. I got that feeling from Karen Dalton. And just like that, a moody, broody Cherokee singer suddenly jumped out at me from behind her banjo and screamed “Kat, you fool! I’ve been here for DECADES! How did you not notice me before?!”

Hands up. I am a fool. All the signs were there: she played with Bob Dylan, seeped in the Greenwich Village folk scene in the 60s. When she opens her mouth she sounds like a world weary Billie Holiday with swan songs of heartbreak to impart. And I’ve only just found her…

I’ve seriously worn her 1971 record ‘In My Own Time’ out at the seams: a collection of covers and traditional folk aires like ‘Katie Cruel’ which take your breath away. Opening track ‘Something On Your Mind’ washes over you like a vinyl-etched old friend, lost along the way, yet finally making their way back to you.

It’s only a shame that this soulful creature lost her battle with AIDS before any of us had the chance to truly pay homage to her incredible talent and spirit.

If you were in any doubt:

Nick Cave: “She understood the blues better than the folk singing milieu she was hanging out with. Absolutely. She’s a blues singer to me. It’s full of idiosyncrasies that you can’t repeat - it’s in her voice and it’s just extraordinary.”

Bob Dylan: “My favourite singer in the place was Karen Dalton. She was was a tall white blues singer and guitar player, funky, lanky and sultry. Karen had a voice like Billie Holiday’s and played the guitar like Jimmy Reed and went all the way with it.”

Devendra Banhart: “I just wish I knew more about her, you know? Karen Dalton looks like an agel, alchemist, witch! There’s a real magic. A look that’s piercing, deep, dark, mysterious, angelic, but strong as hell!”

Need more proof? Hit her MySpace and click on to ‘Katie Cruel’ and ‘Something On Your Mind’ for yourselves. Here’s to Katie Cruel:

karendaltoninmyowntime

Doherty’s finally been locked up?

HIP HIP HOORAY!

THREE CHEERS FOR THE CRIMINAL JUSTICE SYSTEM!

Quite frankly, he should’ve been jailed for crimes against song writing years ago.

Now all we need to do is get Borrell incarcerated…aren’t there laws against snotty nosed public-school posers nasally regurgitating boring melodies in skinny white jeans? 

Get off the stage. You’re not Iggy Pop.

Going to Graceland

The Mississippi delta was shining like a national guitar…

Enter Vampire Weekend and The Wave Pictures…

Is it just me, or are bands at the mo obsessed with Paul Simon and Graceland.

What’s that all about? (Seriously, I’d really like to know.)

Is African pop the new nu-rave?

(God, I hope so.)

‘Losing love is like a window in your heart’. GENIUS.

CSNY til I die

CSNY. Wembley Stadium. 1974. What can I say? 

Having managed to track down a double-dvd bootleg of the gig in question, I am still in awe. Four hours of unbridled rock ‘n’ roll joy. Someone should be appointed to sit down each and every band gigging in 2008, make them sit their skinny-arsed jeans down and force them to watch this gem. A lesson in how it should be done and (dare I say) quite a depressing reflection on the live scene at the moment. Some people have called me a glass half-empty kinda gal, but I beg to differ.

Watching Stills (clad in a police shirt that oozes sexual arrogance) morph himself into a white Hendrix as he literally transubstantiates himself into his guitar only made me more sure of my stance on things. Imagine my sheer orgasmic delight when he told the thousands of long-haired Wembley-ites that he’d “just met someone a few days ago who I’ve been wanting to meet for years” before diving straight into ‘Blackbird’ with (could this get any better?) Joni Mitchell on backing vocals (yes, it can.) Kat’s cuppeth runneth over. Added to this, watching Neil Young in his aviator shades rocking out the old keyboards only pushed me slightly more over the precipice.

What’s my point? This band wasn’t just an unquestionable live force to be reckoned with. They weren’t just a rock ‘n’ roll band bashing out clumsy tunes about sex, drugs and…(fuck it, you know the rest.) This was a band with something to say - and whilst bands right now might consider it corny to “pontificate” about soldiers cutting them down, I consider it a cop-out that bands no longer have any desire to express themselves about anything that may demonstrate they have any degree of social/political/EMOTIONAL awareness, cowering under a math-rock misapprehension that actually celebrates wielding calculators and compasses instead of hearts and soul (Not naming any names. FOALS)

CSNY had Vietnam. We have Tibet. Have things changed that much? If anything, the time is even riper. So why is it being left to sixty year old rockers like Neil Young to keep on churning out the anti-war sentiment on records like ‘Living With War’? When did it become too corny to care?

(Can I just add at this point that I hysterically jump around the kitchen to AC/DC like everyone else, I’m not being a snob here. I’d just like to see a bit of variation. Back in Black forever. IDET.)

And If you haven’t had a listen to Neil Young’s last record ‘Living With War’, please click onto his anti-war video to ‘The Restless Consumer’. Don’t need no Madison Avenue War. Don’t need no more lies.