geeettt your kooks out for the laaaaads

Remember February 2005? There were still people who hadn't heard of the Arctic Monkeys, the Myspace Revolution was in full swing, and the excited buzz on the underground revolved around fresh-faced newcomers The Kooks. Barely out of their teens, the Brighton foursome managed to storm into the public eye just in time to be considered beneficial to English rock music, rather than detrimental as so many of their successors were (see Scouting For Girls, One Night Only; who? yep exactly). If anyone was capable of breaking the second album curse that had fallen over music, it was them. BUT! Alas, The Kooks got fame hungry,their rock and roll lifestyle came before their admittedly rather good music; well you can deny it now but ten quid says Inside In/Inside Out spent precious time in yours and many other CD players across the nation that summer. The repeated rehabilitation sessions of bassist Max Rafferty added to high profile press coverage of Luke Pritchard's latest love interests and verbal slanging matches propelled the band into a high profile spotlight that lost them the respect of the ever-important, trend setting scene kids and saw the tone deaf lager louts prick up their ears. Over three years without even a hint of a new tune cemented their fan base securely as one without a taste for musical quality, rather a taste for what's popular.
And so we come to last night.
Working at Brixton Academy on the first of two sold out dates for The Kooks was not a pleasant experience. The most docile audience members were the Topshop-clad children, dropped off by their mothers and frog marched upstairs to the under-14s section away from the braying oafs that made up the rest of the crowd. Purely there for no other reason than to get mullered on Turbo Shandys, (Smirnoff Ice and Carling apparently) the lads up from Croydon and Essex were hardly able to stand by the end of the night, let alone appreciate the music. It wouldn't have mattered if The Kooks were Basshunter or Britney, the gig was a clear indication that once music hits the mainstream it is clearly not appreciated for it's quality any longer, rather it becomes a background noise to suit the hobby of today; getting wankered.

mr writer

Stereophonics, Decade in the Sun, The Best Of Album
The overused concept of a greatest hits album has always been confusing. Just who is it aimed at? One would believe that surely the biggest fans already own all the tracks on the album and then some, so it can’t be for them, and the recent release of the greatest hits of Craig David and Enrique Iglesias has proved that the genre is no longer a celebration of a lifetime achievement in music, so just what is it for? Hmm, quite a perplexing question. Stereophonics perhaps you can help us out?
The convenient Christmas release date of ‘A Decade in the Sun’ safely secured a million stocking fillers for dads around Britain and a nice, fat, end of year bonus for Kelly Jones and co. If there are still people out there without copies of ‘A Thousand Trees’ and ‘The Bartender and the Thief,’ although I really can’t think who, then who are we to judge what was actually a bloody good band for taking advantage and selling out just a little in these dark times of economic hardship?

emo no no

Boys like Girls-Thunder
No, don't do it. Please. Unless of course you are a fourteen year old girl with a penchant for polka dots and a black fringe which renders sight impossible, who just feels like, totally no-one gets you, apart from My Chemical Romance. And you live in Birmingham.

brian wilson would be proud

pacific! A Tree
So you have no job prospects, in all likelihood only got a bunch of IOU’s for Christmas and if you just turn your head towards the City, you’ll see a sky peppered with falling bankers as they plunge to their untimely but self imposed deaths, but hey! Enough of that worrying, pacific! are here! More blissful pop hailing from Scandinavia with enough of a Beach Boys/ Hawaii Five-O vibe to provide the perfect form of escapism. One listen and you’re reclining in a hammock, sipping mojitos whilst an impossibly beautiful island native massages your nether regions. Pure melodic delight.

i think i love her...

Ladyhawke, My Delirium-Remixes
Gee whizz-lucky me, a whole CD of the same song remixed in ten different ways. Not really necessary, but who gives a shit, Ladyhawke rocks, the song’s awesome and anything that can be done to keep her around as long as possible needs to be done, so go, buy, and enjoy, ten times over.

Asted-way Ittle-ay Eejays-day

The View 21st November, Astoria
It's easy to get complacent after a swift rise to fame. In a difficult music industry to crack, Scottish rascals The View, under 1965’s James Endeacott, went from drinking in bus stops to sold-out tours in what seemed like barely a few months. However, the band’s transformation from underground darlings of the fourteen year old Doherty-alike tribe to drug-addled, Radio 1 brown-nosers has given the quartet a frustrating arrogance of the kind that usually precedes a fall.
It is rare to find a crowd as excitable as dedicated fans of The View. The space in front of the stage is packed to the brim with sweaty teenagers, soaked from flying beer cans, (slightly annoying until someone catches a band member square on his head) they are literally dribbling with excitement. And for the first three songs, the band acknowledge this, for a brief moment it is clear why they garnered such a dedicated following. Their relentless energy on two new songs and old favourite ‘Wasted Little DJ’s’ creates a squirming mess of crowd surfing, fights, more airborne beer cans and strewn items of clothing. The band’s thick accents render their banter incomprehensible to the Southern crowd but to no matter; the teenagers have got their heroes back.
After this brief spurt of energy however, the two front men seem to give up. They stop engaging with the crowd, new songs have clearly borrowed chords from old ones, obscenities are shouted to get the rise out of the audience that their music no longer can. The band stumble on with their well known tunes becoming less and less coherent to the disdain of the crowd desperately trying to sing along. Suddenly after barely fifty minutes and an unrecognizable ‘Superstar Tradesman’ they mumble their goodbyes and slope off stage, leaving the crowd chanting for an encore that never comes.
Most exasperating about the experience is that it was clear from their opening that The View could have achieved the gig of their life. Halfway through a near sold out tour, with an audience of die hard fans filling the prestigious London Astoria and they just couldn’t be bothered. Well, unfortunately for The View, they return to a music world with a very different face than the one they left just over a year ago. The fast-paced, internet driven industry has only got worse, and the fickleness of fans, due to a plethora of free music has augmented tenfold. The View were lucky in that they already had a fan base to come back to, but several more gigs like this one and the Dryburgh boys are in for a rude awakening.

just for a tonight from several months ago

One Night Only; Push, Astoria 2
One Night Only, never before has a name encompassed so much interminable irony. Looking uneasy without their safety-net target audience normally composed of fifteen-year-old beauties of indeterminable sex and Hoxton haircuts, the Yorkshire band are out of their depth in this over-18’s nightclub. It is never going to be easy to win over a crowd of inebriated revellers on a Saturday night whose dancing tunes have been extinguished in an attempt to force them to watch you. ONO are painfully aware of this fact and the band’s jazzy attire and freshly buffed winklepickers do little to distract from the looks of panic, (or was that boredom?)on their faces as they take to the stage. Comprised of five spritely teenagers, with the preposterously beautiful lead singer George Craig perhaps providing a clue to the mystery of their 27,000 Myspace friends, the band stumble their way through their short set without an ounce of emotion; even after their first single Just for Tonight rewards them with several twitters of recognition from the dwindling crowd. Onstage there are no smiles, no outlandish stage antics, no light-hearted banter to do the job their music can’t. It’s worth mentioning that in consequence, the audience is possibly the most unresponsive ever recorded in history. There is not so much as a solitary mosh-pit aficionado to be seen, let alone people fighting for the coveted position against the front railings. Ah, so they’re only young, you say. Give them a chance? In today’s fast paced world of music there are not only a million bands that are doing it better, there are a million bands that are doing it better and are even younger. There is no room for error; it is no longer enough to be a sharply dressed, pretty face in the unforgiving milieu of new music. And, if they’ve any sense, the younger crowd’s opinion will soon echo the disdainful judgment of the audience members at Push. One Night Only? Here’s hoping.

control the noise

Noise Control-Steel
Top marks to the record producer who realised that electro was on the verge of taking over identikit indie bands; why not fuse the two together? Well, fuse he has in the shape of Dublin fivesome Noise Control who’s single ‘Steel’ serves to prove the unfortunate issue that the quality of music is no longer as important as the money that follows. The group that has been hailed as the love child of Underworld and The Prodigy is enough to leave music fans in a cold sweat about the future of dance. The harsh and confusing mishmash of ‘Steel’ is an obvious yet ingenious ploy to cover as many genres as possible to reel in the most gullible advocates of all scenes. Is it drum and bass? Is it rock? Who knows, but my god lets take MDMA, live for the weekend, chew through our own lips, and dance whilst looking like utter pricks.

WORSTival...ha...ha...hmm. sorry

Britain, ever the laughing stock of it’s European neighbours, is often mocked for it’s somewhat trying climate. The British have developed such a blasé attitude to their notoriously wet summers that rain is rarely able to spoil any event. Unfortunately for revellers headed southwards to the Isle of Wight’s Bestival, the tempestuous weather so far surpassed any expectations of an English summer that even the most hardened festival goers were tested.
For the past four years, Bestival, a product of DJ Rob Da Bank and his Sunday Best label has gone from strength to strength, earning it’s place among the top festivals in an increasingly full market. Small but significant touches keep the festival’s vibe individual, but even a breast-feeding area named ‘Breastival’ couldn’t cover up the grave oversights made by the organisers. By the time people arrived late on Thursday, hurricane force winds and torrential rain had already churned Robin Hill Park into a quagmire impossible to navigate, made less helpful by the confused stewards, seemingly unable to distinguish the whereabouts of any of the camping grounds, or more worryingly, the medical tent.
Those brave enough to venture out from the safety of their tents to catch the likes of their favourite lesser known or new acts such as Lykke Li or Metronomy on the BBC Introducing Stage were thrilled to find the stage had sunk into a watery grave rendering all acts cancelled until further notice. A similar policy followed on Saturday night when all acts past 7:30 mysteriously failed to materialize.
Disorganization of bands was a running theme throughout the festival. Saturday came with the slow realisation that someone, somewhere, had taken it upon themselves to move all bands on the main stage forward by an hour. Unfortunately for Bestival organisers, their foolproof method for enlightening people to this fact; one drunk pirate stumbling through crowds of thirty thousand with a sign, failed miserably, and resulted in many missing key acts they came especially to see.
Luckily on Friday night the rain held off just long enough for the atmospheric My Bloody Valentine to take the stage. A long summer of festivals had not affected the energy of the newly reformed band in the slightest and their fifteen minute wall of sound managed to excite even the most downhearted of the audience. Over in the Big Top tent the fantastic Ladyhawke and Santogold successfully flew the flag for those few female musicians left without a Brit School diploma and both delivered stunning sets. As evening wore on, the mud continued to rise and the rain again began to fall as the night descended into a filthy mess of fiendish electro courtesy of Erol Alkan and Chromeo.
To those who had survived through to Saturday morning after a night of Mother Nature’s worst it was clear from empty patches of grass around the campsites that Bestival had proved too much for many. However with the report (untrue) that the worst of the weather was over and with Saturday being Bestival’s famous day of fancy dress, things began to look up. The unfortunate irony of the theme, ‘30,000 Freaks under the Sea,’ was lost on no-one.
Saturday saw a big line up for the Main Stage. An erratic and frankly terrifying Gary Numan embodied the plight of an aging one-hit wonder clinging on to his last ounce of glory (with fabulous results) and brought a smile, albeit one of ridicule, to the mud soaked crowd. The mood only continued to lift as ‘Special Guests’ turned out to be The Specials, billed as Terry Hall and Friends in the absence of Jerry Dammers, who bounced their way through old favourites ‘A Message to you Rudy’ and ‘Too Much Too Young.’ Continuing along on the theme of comeback bands, The Human League, a vision of eighties pop in a whirl of pink and sequins, hairspray and inoffensive melodies proved that they still had it. And just in case anyone still cares, yes Amy Winehouse came, yes, she made everyone wait for over an hour, no, she didn’t complete a full set, and yes she snarled profanities at the audience before stumbling offstage, the end.
After an obscure and somewhat disappointing set by Aphex Twin and the chilling realisation that the campsite bore an uncanny resemblance to The Somme with people dropping like flies at every step, it became clear that things had gone too far. The momentary magic brought on by a single sighting of blue sky earlier in the day and an evening of nostalgic music was gone, and things again became unbearably hopeless. There were grim nods and looks of defeat; it was time to go home... And so, Sunday morning, ignoring the promise of Underworld later that evening, many began the long march home, back to a roof over their heads, baths, and warm beds; an untimely end to a potentially marvellous weekend.

united states of whatever

Words escape me

i'm going out for a while (so i can get high with my friends)

I do actually have a rather wonderful job. Minimum wage is more than made up for by the incentive to see bands for free at Brixton Academy. Last night was a transportation back to teenage years, when everybody skateboarded, (heaven is a halfpipe of course) baggy jeans were in and weed was the drug of choice; Feeder played. Don’t get me wrong, Feeder post their drummer’s demise were not what they once were. Their airwave friendly tunes took them out of the realm of Wheatus and Sum 41 and into the category of Athlete and Embrace (remember them?) BUT back in the day drinking cider in the park and hanging around the town centre on weekends was nothing without a soundtrack of ‘Buck Rogers’ and ‘Just a Day’. So despite all the slightly unfortunate people who chose to ignore the unsaid rule not to wear a band’s t-shirt to their gigs, last night was a thoroughly welcome trip down nostalgia lane.

neverEVERland

Nevereverland-Coronet-Nov 15th 2008
If the Fosters barrel runs dry within an hour, you know you have far too many Aussies in one place. Australian festival Nevereverland's night in London boasted a killer line-up plus seven deep bar queues and toilets worse than Glasto. The few brave and courageous Brits who managed to navigate the largest population of inebriated individuals this side of the globe were aptly rewarded with some rather spectaular performances from Ladyhawke, Shy Child and Aussie natives The Presets whose psychadelic techno laughed in the face of Justice and highlighted a conspicuous absence of anything even close in quality hailing from our British isle.

excuses excuses.....

I was entirely suspicious this week when a letter arrived with the official Goldsmith’s stamp emblazoned across the envelope. The only times the university actually manages to be systematic enough to send out official post to you is either when they are requesting money, (such as the seventy pounds mysteriously appealed for last week citing some sort of administration fees) or if you’re in trouble. Luckily for my pitiable student loan, it was the latter. Apparently my attendance had not been up to par and I was one step away from an official warning. I was outraged; the main point to university is to miss one or two lectures here and there. Surely it’s the only time in life when a sick day a week is acceptable? Besides I didn’t think I’d done too badly at the whole demanding deed of dragging myself out of bed three days a week for a challenging two whole hours of classes. Mentally running the past six weeks over in my mind, the culprit slowly became clear, ah yes, the Thursday seminar.
The problem is, in an environment as lethargic as university, it is wholly acceptable to justify any wrongdoings academically with the most pathetic excuse possible, such as, ‘Well I’ve been to that lecture for the last three weeks running, isn’t it perhaps time I deserved a break?’ or ‘I’ve missed everything else this week, surely its’ better just to continue with it and then really knuckle down next week?’ Unfortunately these excuses seem to come without too much thought these days, and funnily enough are readily available at nine o’ clock when your alarm clock cuts through a hangover.
In all fairness it wasn’t actually my fault (excuse alert). Thursday mornings haven’t actually been a good time for me all year. The first Thursday seminar I missed I really did have a very good excuse; I was begging our landlord not to evict us after our neighbours called him complaining about our ‘small gathering’ that may or may not have got slightly out of hand the previous evening, and of course, as I need somewhere to live and I was the only one awake to deal with it, it does make a perfectly logical reason to miss the seminar.
The week after that however I did indeed attend in full spirits, ready to make up what I had missed, with all 196 pages of The Catcher in the Rye stored away in my memory, only to meet a class full of the most sour-faced, miserable wretches I have ever met, headed by this submissive, half-hippie teacher, and not the good hippie kind like my senior school English teacher who read the book like totally stoned and then talks about how it like totally spoke to them, no no, the other kind, the kind who spent a decade stoned and now nothing means anything to them. If that class was a colour it would have been like totally grey man.
Let me explain what a seminar is meant to consist of. It should be the lecturer or teacher prompting a discussion with some insightful question concerning the set reading that provokes a lively and/or intellectual debate amongst the students. I am of the opinion that, if at twenty years old and on an English course at a successful university, you are too shy to spit out a measly line citing some GCSE reference to the form or context of a novel, then you aren’t really going far in life. For an hour, I was the only one who spoke, bar the lecturer, who like totally appreciated my input man. I left wondering why I had disentangled myself from the comfort of my bed. You can see perhaps why I was not motivated to go back.
In my defence, (more excuses ahead) I have actually done all the work, and, believe it or not, background research. I have also attended pretty much all of my other lectures and seminars. The problem is, those ones inspire me, I enjoy them, whereas on the days of a Thursday Grey Day, lets face it, I’d rather stay in bed.

gigapalooza

There are a lot of things I would consider to be worth £179.99. For instance a leather sofa sold to me in monthly instalments by a perma-tanned former member of Spandau Ballet, or a month’s rent on a no-bathroomed bedsit in Kensington. But standing tickets to see MGMT at Shepherds Bush Empire? I don’t think so. In a global recession not really understood by any, save the facts that one can no longer shop at Waitrose and Christmas will be courtesy of Argos, the belt tightening has begun and with the price of gigs skyrocketing the music industry could be in for some major changes.

There are a number of reasons as to why gig tickets are so flipping expensive in today’s world, (ticket prices in the US are rising faster than inflation itself don’t cha know). The first is due to something a Princeton University based Professor Krueger likes to call The Bowie Theory, I know right? How much more attention would you have paid in science if it incorporated names like that? In 2002 David Bowie aptly foreshadowed the current issues facing the music economy stating that ‘music itself is going to become like running water or electricity,’ a nod to the vast quantities of free and easily obtainable music available via the internet. With CD sales falling faster than Labour’s approval ratings the only way left for acts to make money are through live performances, hence the unreasonable hike in ticket prices. £160 plus £13 booking fee for aging leotard-fan Madonna anyone?

The other, more obvious reason behind the increasing prices of tickets is one that every music fan has been a victim of at some point; ticket touts. The invention of Ebay created a million amateur touts who leave gigs sold out in minutes with the tickets then being sold on for over double their face value. Although the creation of sites such as Scarletmist.com and Stoptout.com seek to combat the problem, they provide no guarantee as to the validity of the seller and in the case of Stoptout.com take a ten percent commission charge.

In this state of recession, students, putting aside the zero job prospects and lack of pensions we have to look forward to, have probably got the best deal. Everyone is losing money, but as we had none to begin with, we are hardly any worse off. However, given the society of lemmings that we are, one must follow suit, so cut back we will. And the solution? Scrap the corporate sponsored gigs. Are you really going to get any enjoyment out of watching Goldfrapp semi-pissed on watery beer, dancing next to Ken and Sarah from accounting? A full £28.50’s worth of enjoyment? No, so give up, downscale, move towards smaller venues with lesser known bands, at £5 entrance fees and cheap drinks what does it matter if the band are rubbish? At least you’ll know by the time they come around to play Brixton Academy, saving you a whole bundle of money. And who knows, through the dire sound systems and meagre crowds you might just find something actually worth listening to.

i don't like children

Why do all parents think their children are adorable? They’re not. Sitting on a train whilst two noisy children point out absolutely everything that goes past the window whilst their doe-eyed parents gaze lovingly over their heads at each other, clearly sharing the same whispered, incredulous thought, ‘I can’t believe we created these.’ Well, believe it. And deal with it. No-one else finds your children’s primal antics to be those of an undiscovered genius. To ninety-nine percent of parents: your children are normal, average; they are not going to change the world or become world leaders.

To the few exceptions who do actually possess a child prodigy: apologies.

WIIKapedia

Procrastination. Prroo-crraass-tinn-ation. I have spent the entire afternoon on Wikipedia. Let it be clear, this was not for educational purposes, it was merely preferable to 4000 words concerning Brecht’s ties to Expressionism. I am now, as of this afternoon, an aficionado on Ted Bundy, Zoo Magazine, the Allied Forces of WWI, Hieronymous Bosch, Har Mar Superstar, Hercule Poirot, The Chronicles of Narnia; Prince Caspian, both book and film adaptation, Robert Mugabe, Bedales School, the Order of the Skull and Bones, MTV’s The Real World and Tibet. I have looked up Wikipedia on Wikipedia, I have looked up nothing, that is to say I have found out what happens when you type nothing in and just hit search. I have looked up everything that I possibly could without searching for something I need to know. I am not going to be proud of this when I fail the year.