Things I Have Been Listening To...

I bought my first new CD of 2011 yesterday. It's the new album from Elbow (who I'll be seeing live in a fortnight). I haven't received it yet.

So... what have I been listening to in the meantime...?



John Grant's Queen Of Denmark album was included in quite a few critics' Best of 2010 lists, and for once the critics are right. The former Czars frontman's debut solo effort is an enticing mix of 70s MOR and witty, personal, caustic lyrics that reminds me of Harry Nilsson at his underrated best. The song above has the best video (featuring the sad life of an unemployed superhero) but I reckon my favourite track on the album is Where Dreams Go To Die which features the following, heartfelt chorus...

Baby, you're where dreams go to die
I regret the day your lovely carcass passed my eye

Lily Rae's debut album Oh No! is only available to buy from the Indelicates' Corporate Records site, but I'm so glad I took a flyer on it. She has a similarly dark and witty lyrical style to Simon & Julia Indelicate, magpieing her influences from Morrissey, Jacques Brel and Victoria Wood, though after a few listens each track becomes uniquely her. There's a wonderful bitterness to songs like Diane, it's pleasing from one so young...

Diane - what do you see in him? The boy's a knob...

Plus, she has a song called Don't Sleep In My Cardi. What else do you want? Blood?



I wasn't as taken with The Libertines as the music press were back in 2002. They had some pretty good songs, but Pete Doherty annoyed me and the idea that they were a 21st Century answer to The Smiths never really took. That said, I always kind of cast Carl Barât in the Johnny Marr role - guitar god, but no frontman. Dirty Pretty Things did little to persuade me otherwise, but his solo album shows real promise. He hasn't quite found his own voice yet, so many of the tracks sound like Bowie, Brel, Bret Anderson or, obviously, The Libertines - but they still sound good. My favourite is Je Regrette Je Regrette, though I'd have liked it more if he'd called it Angry Birds...

I'm a wretch, I'm a wretch
A tosser at a stretch
I got stuff on my chest
This woman sent me west


I didn't pay her taxi now I'm failing to impress
These angry birds
Such angry birds...

I discovered Tom Williams & The Boat via Steve Lamacq. I want to call Tom a teenage troubadour and not just for the obvious alliteration. I'm not sure if he is still a teenager (though looking at his youthful face makes painful tears wet my crow's feet) but he writes well from that perspective, particularly on the song Concentrate...

They don't know my dad
He's this town through and through
Old school, fifty-something, balding, racist
So his mates are too... but me I'm a modern man!

This is available on the See My Evil EP, downloadable from Tom's website. His debut album is also out now, but I haven't got around to that yet.

Finally (for now), an oldie-but-goody from Bradford's finest rock exports (argue that all you like, Smokie and New Model Army fans)...

number9dream

Working my way through David Mitchell's back catalogue I arrive at his second novel, the one that steals its title from Lennon, hence my reluctance to read it earlier.

I'm glad I left number9dream till last as it's my least favourite so far. It starts strong, introducing Eiji, a 19-year old Japanese Billy Liar type who's searching for his unknown father. The story mixes fantasy and reality in entertaining fashion so you're never entirely sure whether what's happening is really happening, or just the product of Eiji's overactive Manga-fuelled imagination.

So far so good, and while many of Mitchell's books alternate between different characters, time streams, realities etc., this one appears to stick firmly with Eiji's story... until about half way through when Mitchell veers off on multiple tangents unrelated to the main plot. That was a little too late for my brain to cope with though, and unlike the intricately woven variations of Ghostwritten or Cloud Atlas, I found the diversions in number9dream to be unnecessary distractions that eventually killed my interest in Eiji's story completely.

Mitchell's writing is as crisp and clever and beautiful as ever, so there's still much to admire here... just nothing to sweep me away in quite the same fashion as his other books. It certainly won't dissuade me from reading his latest, The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet.

Drive Angry 3D

I've been openly mocking Nicolas Cage's new film, Drive Angry 3D, since I saw the first poster.

Especially considering the woeful travesty that was the fat-faced, Elvis-voiced goon's last flick, Season Of The Witch.

Especially considering I hate the current obsession with forcing unnecessary (and really quite shoddy) 3D fx into every single big budget pic Hollywood churns out these days. (I read the other day that Baz Luhrmann's adaptation of The Great Gatsby* is even going to be filmed in 3D... WTF?)

Especially considering it has one of the worst titles of any movie released this century...


So, with all that in mind, why the hell did we go see it?

Because we're fools. Fools, I tell you, crazy fools!

Because I've seen nothing but worthy, intelligent Oscar contenders over the last few weeks and I needed some trash.

And because sometimes, shit films can be fun.


But do you know what? Drive Angry 3D isn't as bad as you think it will be. It's actually a big cheesy helping of B-movie fun. If you enjoyed Tarantino & Rodriguez's Grindhouse double bill, this shares a similar lineage and combines the best elements of both.

The premise is straight out of a 70s shlockbuster. Nicolas Cage has escaped from hell to take revenge on the sneeringly evil cult leader who killed his daughter and stole his only grandchild. (Yes, Cage is now old enough to play a grandpa. Cut him some slack on the fat face.) Along the way he hooks up with sexy, spunky waitress Amber Heard who drives some huge slab of speedy American-made metal and needs help dealing with her abusive redneck boyfriend. Cage also tries his best to steer clear of a demonic accountant played with scenery-chomping glee by William Fichtner (you know, the guy Hollywood always hire when they can't afford Christopher Walken). Much car-chasing, truck-exploding, shotgun-blasting mayhem ensues, all in the worst possible taste, punctuated by crass-but-funny one-liners and heavy rock power chords. It's utter nonsense, but it knows it. And you can't fault it for that.

Only two things disappoint. One is the cameo by NYPD Blue's Charlotte Ross (aka the third Mrs. Sipowicz) as a trashy waitress who gets to have sex with Cage while he kills a gang of attacking meatheads. It's a cute scene and there's nothing wrong with Ross's performance, it's just a shame to see her reduced to this kind of role, botox and all.

And then there's the 3D. Which I still think both gratuitous and distracting. I'd much rather have watched the film without it, though sadly we weren't given that option. And I still resent having to pay an extra £3 to watch a movie in a format that actually makes the visual experience less distinct, harder to follow, and much less enjoyable. But I appear to be in the minority on that one.

Still, against all odds, Drive Angry 3D delivered. I even appreciated the character names - Milton (Cage), Piper (Heard) and Webster (an unexpected cameo from David Morse). More thought went into this picture than you'd ever have expected... but let's face it, you weren't expecting much.



*Sadly, that wasn't a joke.

Friday Flash - Dinner At Eight

I'm taking a break from the #fridayflash stories after this week while I concentrate on a few other projects. I love the discipline of writing these stories to deadline, and have greatly appreciated the feedback from fellow #fridayflashers and regular Slawit readers alike. But I've had to resort to older stories more and more over the last few weeks, and while it's fun to drag them out and dust them down and see if they still stand up, it's also a huge cheat.

So while I recharge my short story batteries, I leave you with this delightful Come Dine With Me menu from back in the good old Elephant Words days.

Dinner At Eight

So we’re having your friends over again, and you’ve told me to prepare something special. Being the dutiful little wife you always expect me to be, I’ve put a great deal of thought into tonight’s menu – and knowing how particular your friends can be, I’ve prepared them each their own individual dish, as follows…

For Martin, whose monobrow is Cro-Magnon, who was born wearing an animal logo over his heart, and whose chins the turkey wants back: T-bone steak, medium rare, served with asparagus tips, a fresh green salad, chopped pistachio nuts, and 8 to 900 milligrams of burnt thallium salts. That should give him three more days to use the word “methinks” wittily in conversation, to slosh and gargle his Merlot because it “releases the flavour”, and to tell everyone he meets how his wife was born under the sign of Dexys, so her parents christened her Eileen. (Even though she was born twenty years before that song was even written!)

For Eileen, who gave us dirty towels when we stayed the weekend, who kisses her miniature poodle with tongues, and who was so horrified by the death of Princess Diana that her hair turned platinum blonde overnight: braised lambs kidneys in garlic butter on a bed of spinach, served with artichoke, purple flowering broccoli and a reduction of calvados, crab apple and antimony. Perhaps this will finally stop her asking, “You’ve been married ten years now – why no kids?” (“Because we discovered something called birth control, my dear. It’s fucking wonderful.”)

For Trevor, who, like a budgie, hasn’t ever seen a mirror he hasn’t wanted to look in, whose silver threads among the gold fall regular victim to the genocide of Grecian 2000, and who is currently dating a girl not born until his seventeenth birthday (if you ask me, ‘cradle-snatcher’ is just a polite way of saying paedophile): pan-fried pheasant breasts in a tangerine and crème fraîche sauce, cavolo nero and new potatoes, garnished with parmesan shavings and mercury chloride. Although initially concerned that he might notice and question the rather distinctive crystals of HgCl2 sprinkled across his platter, I’ve since decided that between his ingénue, my cleavage, and the tantalizing reflection in his silverware, Trevor’s attention will be taken.

For Kelly, who spells her name Cheallaigh, who trained as a synchronised swimmer and hasn’t ever lost the smile, and who last time we got together insisted on showing everyone her bikini line at the table (in the restaurant): Salmon en Croûte (fish is, after all, good for the brain) served with horseradish, beetroot and chopped dill. Rolled into the pastry, its flavour disguised by lemon juice: taxine – taken from the leaves of our very own yew tree. (You are always encouraging me to do more in the garden.) I’ve chosen an especially low calorie recipe for Cheallaigh in response to a conversation we had about dieting at Cliff and Carrie’s New Year’s Eve party. “They say eating less helps you live longer,” she told me over her second slice of Black Forest Gateau, “but it also reduces your sex drive. I think when I’m older, I’d rather be plump and up for it like you than… well, skinny and frigid like poor old Eileen.” My grandmother, god rest her soul, would have said of Cheallaigh: she thinks she’s chocolate, and everyone wants a lick. Not after tonight.

And for you, my dearest Raymond, given that you long since stopped asking what I’d like to do this weekend; that you’ve never learned to cover your mouth when you yawn; and that last month I overheard you telling Trevor that mental arithmetic has never been my strong point… (“I've got a head for figures – the wife's got a figure for head. Ho ho.”) Given also that there are three things we never talk about over dinner in this house: religion, politics, and the female orgasm; and given that at most of these infernal parties you force me to cater for, I feel about as welcome as a zit in a wedding photograph: I’m serving arsenic, straight up. I’ve put it in your scotch, since that’s the easiest way to get you to down it in one. Enjoy your duck…

Top Ten Songs About The 90s

50s...

60s...

70s...

80s...

And finally...

The 90s is just as maligned as the 80s, if not more so. But I'll defend it with equal fervour. Though it was something of a rollercoaster personally, musically it was my time. Britpop gets a lot of negative press, but so many of my favourite bands came from that era that I can forgive it the thuggish excesses of Oasis.

Pulp, Blur, Suede, the Manics, Radiohead, The Verve, the Divine Comedy, Ash, Gene, My Life Story, Catatonia, Supergrass - even Ocean Colour Scene and Shed Seven had their moments. In many ways, these bands represent my teenage revolution - even though I had to wait till I was in my 20s to properly embrace sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll. Well, ill-advised relationships, Jack Daniels and Britpop, anyway.

As with the other lists, this is NOT a Top Ten Songs FROM The 90s... only a Top Ten Songs ABOUT The 90s...

10. Travis - Tied To The 90s

Let's start with the obvious one (though not quite as obvious as the one we'll end with). Travis began life as a cute, knockabout indie band. On their second album, they discovered big ballads. On their third, they discovered pandering to the lowest common denominator and trying to beat the upstarts Coldplay at the game the stole from Travis in the first place. On their fourth album, they lost. What went wrong, eh?

9. Seahorses - 1999

I always thought the Seahorses had more potential than their one album and final unrelated single showed. John Squire got bored too easily and went off to paint pictures of dolphin. He could have been a contender...

16 sweet Chablis sham kisses
17 nothings whispered in her ear
18 attempts on her best pair of knickers
1999 was a hell of a year

8. Moxy Fruvous - Stuck In The 90s

Weird Canadian comedy hipsters from the early 90s who released one classic album (Video Bargainville) and then decided to try and become proper, serious musicians... which was much less entertaining.

7. Eminem - '97 Bonnie & Clyde

In which Em tries to prove himself a suitable father to Hailey by singing Will Smith lullabies and trying to murder her mum. Again.

What can I say? It appeals to my warped sense of humour.

6. Picture Centre - Fireworks October 1990

A band so fey and ephemeral they make Belle & Sebastian sound butch, this is wonderful 3am chill-out stuff. A band so forgotten, they don't even rate a Wikipedia entry. But I remember them.

Just.

5. Blur - End Of A Century

See, I was going to select 1992 , which is all very well, but not really a patch on the song above. So that's what you get.

End of a century?
It's nothing special...

4. Carter USM - The 90s Revival / 1993

Ah, Carter. How I wish I could claim to have been a huge fan of your under-appreciated oeuvre "back in the day". Sadly, it passed me by. Only now, in the 21st Century, am I finally coming to appreciate your greatness. Just in time for your forthcoming reunion tour. That'll be a true 90s revival.

3. Fountains Of Wayne - '92 Subaru

Most car songs celebrate classic '57 Chevvies and their ilk. The FOWs can only afford a late model Subaru, second hand from some old ladies out of state. Ah, but they love it like a Caddy.

2. The Soundtrack Of Our Lives - Instant Repeater '99

Often when you see a year on the end of a song title it's only there to show you when the song was recorded - or, more frequently in the 90s, remixed. Tonight though, Swedish serial guitar abusers TSOOL will actually sing '99 like it's... well, erm, the next record in our countdown. (Even though the song itself was released in '96.)

1. Prince - 1999

Like it was ever going to be anything else. Originally released in 1983, a much bigger hit in 1985, reissued for no reason I can figure in the final year of the millennium (unless you're one of those people who believes the final year of the millennium was 2000)... a song that created its own idiom.

Somebody once told me that come the 21st Century you'd never hear this record again. "Why would anybody play it once it's out of date?" Um... because its sentiment is timeless? There's no reason not to party like it's 1999 even in 2011 if you want to.

As for my own millennium memories... I had the flu so I spent the turn of the century in bed. (It really was 'nothing special'.) Was it as good as everybody thought it would be...?



And so we end our countdown of songs about decades. I won't be compiling a Top Ten Songs About The Noughties because it's all still too close and there aren't yet enough decent ones to go round. Maybe one day...

In the meantime, do you have a favourite song about the 90s? If so, you know what to do with it.

Next week, something completely different...

Rubbish!

Good Morning Nantwich

I never listened to Phil Jupitus's 6 Music breakfast show because up until very recently I didn't have access to a digital radio. It seems not that many other people listened to it either, if we're to believe Jupitus, but then it did run in the early days of digital, and long before the recent 6 Music Renaissance. I was however interested to read his experiences of working in radio, because he's passionate about a wide variety of music styles and outpoken against playlist radio...

"I am stunned that modern radio is still so reliant on computer-selected, pre-programmed playlists. I can understand the appeal of this on a chart-based station, but what was the point of hiring somebody with an extensive knowledge of music as well as a none-too-shabby record and CD collection and then not letting them use either facility?"

Throughout his time at 6, Jupitus continually butted heads with his bosses about the music he was allowed to play on his show. I guess for a station that was allegedly championing new and alternative music, the desire to play Coldplay every hour was still strong...

"I loved the chaotic slalom of John Peel's musical selections... I saw no reason why I shouldn't play 'I Enjoy Being A Girl' (by Peggy Lee) and immediately follow it up with 'Staring At The Rude Boys' (by The Ruts). Surely any half decent radio show should thrive on this kind of wilful eclecticism? Just because you play contrasting musical styles from decades apart is no reason people should tune out, and if they do, then bollocks to them."

Personally, I've always believed there's space on the airwaves for a station as diverse as the one Jupitus dreamed he'd be working at... but it seems the people in charge believe otherwise. Jupitus even begins to doubt the potential of such a business model himself as the book goes on (though he does offer home-produced internet radio up as the medium's one potential saviour).

As well as unimaginative music policies, Jupitus also has much to say about radio presentation styles. The most enjoyable chapter in the book comes when the author forces himself to sit through an entire 4 hour local radio breakfast show... can his sanity survive?

"The shouty breakfast shows all appear to be predicated on deceit... Who decided that people who played records on the radio should evolve such an absurd style of speech? How can the people who do it even begin to think that it is a normal way to behave?"

In the end, the comedian, writer and TV presenter is forced to conclude that radio is not for him. Like many who have worked in the industry, the restrictions on creativity and individuality prove just too much.

"I loved deejaying but hated being a deejay... I took it all too personally and too seriously. I found playlist radio an anathema, and still do to this day."

Back in 1993, I created a comic called The Jock in which a group of rebel DJs fought to stop a faceless corporation called Yourent taking over radio and conquering the world with their bland, mind-controlling muzak. Almost 20 years later, that book now seems archaic. Yourent won. And the Jock wasn't the only loser...

The Devil's Arse

To celebrate our fifth anniversary, I took Louise somewhere really special. Somewhere she's always wanted to go. Somewhere that's the epitome of romance, sophistication and glamour. Forget Paris, Rome or Hawaii...

I took her to The Devil's Arse.



Set in the Peak District town of Castleton, directly below the medieval Peveril Castle, the Devil's Arse boasts the largest natural cave entrance in the UK. The tour guide explained how the cave itself often floods and that in days gone by, the noise of the flood waters draining away was thought to sound like Satan himself... passing wind.



During the 17th Century, the cave was home to an entire settlement of rope-makers who lived there rent free. In a dark, slimy, smoky, dingy hole in the ground, prone to flooding. Kind of like Bradford, without the urban garden.



The tour took us deep into the cave, through a 3 foot high tunnel and into a large chamber with a huge drop known as the Devil's Cellar, from which, legend has it, you could hear the River Styx below. We tried, but all we could hear were the annoying children who'd been dragged along on the tour by their parents and the chuntering of the miserable Man At The Back who didn't like that the tour guide directed most of his explanations at the kids and appeared to be auditioning for a job as a presenter on C-Beebies. (In a rather surreal moment, there was a video playing old Dangermouse episodes for kids to watch while they waited for the tour to start. Something else the parents were far more interested in than their offspring.)



That said, it's a fascinating place to visit, and the idea that the cave itself was created by the limestone remains of millions of tiny sea creatures compressed together millions of years ago - south of the equator - continentally shifted over the centuries to create a huge cavern in northern England... well, when you think about that, it boggles the mind.



Anyway, never let it be said I don't know how to show my lady a good time. Romance is alive and well... and living in The Devil's Arse.