23 February 2009
white out
Texas natives White Denim are the band that have me head-over-heels in love with new music again. After a sparse patch last year that saw little other than welsh songstresses, X Factor winners and indie landfill, small murmurs citing a band of music masterminds began infiltrating the ears of those in the know. The rumours gathered strength after the general release of White Denim’s debut album Workout Holiday; a refreshing piece of garage-rock-with-a-twist that secured a fast track lane that took the band all the way to November 18th 2008; the night they earned their name in 
Britain. White Denim’s gig at Dingwalls was hailed as the gig of 2008 in most of those yearly review things that take place of precedence in publications throughout December and received countless lashings of five-star reviews all over the media, from newspapers to music magazines, music programmes to the scene kids. Music finally had something to be excited about.
So many times we find ourselves mouthing the words ‘the Next Big Things’ at new acts for reasons that are so wrong. Either we’ve read a biased review somewhere, or we’ve heard good things from our friends in Shoreditch, so rarely these days is the Next Big Thing actually branded this for their music, and inevitably, they don’t last. Until now.
The oddest blend of people aesthetically; the bespectacled Steve Terebecki, dwarfed by his bass guitar, stands at nearly a foot shy of the other two impossibly lanky members. In regards to the music, no two songs sound the same; professional recordings that sound like demos with heavy bass lines and scratchy guitar riffs take the band back to the seventies, then forward in time with vocalist James Petralli’s Hives-like staccato barks. A concoction of cowbells, sand-shakers, cigarettes and tequila, a sprinkling of MC5 and some seriously bluesy undertones come together to make Workout Holiday the best album of 2008, and it was all recorded in a 1940’s Spartan trailer- talk about sticking to your roots eh?
I try not to have regrets in life, but if I could go back in time to the time when my brother said, ‘Hey Jess, wanna go see White Denim at Dingwalls on Tuesday?’ I and said, ‘Sorry buddy, I’m working,’ I would give 2008 me bloody good kicking.
Britain. White Denim’s gig at Dingwalls was hailed as the gig of 2008 in most of those yearly review things that take place of precedence in publications throughout December and received countless lashings of five-star reviews all over the media, from newspapers to music magazines, music programmes to the scene kids. Music finally had something to be excited about. So many times we find ourselves mouthing the words ‘the Next Big Things’ at new acts for reasons that are so wrong. Either we’ve read a biased review somewhere, or we’ve heard good things from our friends in Shoreditch, so rarely these days is the Next Big Thing actually branded this for their music, and inevitably, they don’t last. Until now.
The oddest blend of people aesthetically; the bespectacled Steve Terebecki, dwarfed by his bass guitar, stands at nearly a foot shy of the other two impossibly lanky members. In regards to the music, no two songs sound the same; professional recordings that sound like demos with heavy bass lines and scratchy guitar riffs take the band back to the seventies, then forward in time with vocalist James Petralli’s Hives-like staccato barks. A concoction of cowbells, sand-shakers, cigarettes and tequila, a sprinkling of MC5 and some seriously bluesy undertones come together to make Workout Holiday the best album of 2008, and it was all recorded in a 1940’s Spartan trailer- talk about sticking to your roots eh?
I try not to have regrets in life, but if I could go back in time to the time when my brother said, ‘Hey Jess, wanna go see White Denim at Dingwalls on Tuesday?’ I and said, ‘Sorry buddy, I’m working,’ I would give 2008 me bloody good kicking.
like a virgin?
It’s a disarming thought is'n it? A 43-year-old ex-party girl rolling around on a bed in little more than an oversized t-shirt pretending to be a teenager? Disarming but intriguing, and let me tell you, if I look half as good as Sadie Frost after four kids, I’ll be stripping to my knickers every chance I get.
Touched…For the Very First Time is the new one-woman play that’s brought the multi-faceted Sadie Frost back to acting. It tells the story of a self-confessed ‘modern woman’ navigating her way through the pitfalls of life as she struggles to find herself through following Madonna’s principles. As the queen of pop performs her chameleon routine over time, so does Lesley, resulting in a hilarious caper that sees her switch from socialist’s daughter
to boarding school student, Tory girlfriend to squat dweller, Motown Records extraordinaire to AIDs charity worker without ever being able to seize what truly makes her happy.
For those that are dubious of Frost’s return to the stage must remember that it was acting that first brought her into the public eye. Hailed as the Keira Knightly of her day, Frost had several high profile roles including Francis Ford Coppola’s Dracula before chucking it all in for a life of motherhood and, ahem, partying with Kate Moss. Frost’s acting ability is clearly apparent as she sashays her way around the intimate set, drawing personal connections with individual audience members; constructing a congenial character that the audience visibly warm to, no matter what terrible desicions Lesley makes. Most importantly she manages to forgo her offstage persona in order to assume her onstage being, a problem so many celebrities onstage are unable to do.
The script does read something like a homage to the clichés of the eighties and nineties with a plethora of name checks that nod to everything from the Met Bar to the Hacienda, all drawing knowing chuckles from the audience, whilst a soundtrack of eighties heaven intermits scenes. Although the script is seemingly written for Frost, it is, in reality, semi-autobiographical of the author Zoe Lewis, and unlike other similar self-expressional ventures, the beauty behind this one is that it doesn’t take itself too seriously. The play is there to be enjoyed rather than to generate life-changing revelations, and if some of the unduly harsh critics of the play up until now had dismounted from their high horses and seen the play in this light, then reactions would have been entirely more deserving.
Touched…is quite simply a delight; it’s a mile away from the middle class pretentions that still refuse to drain out of London’s theatre. Rather than being a chore, it feels more like a chat with an old friend; entertaining and long overdue. Frost is a pleasure to watch as she steers you through a flight of nostalgia that you didn’t realise was needed. And let’s face it, in these troubled times, a bit of light relief and a look back to the good old days can do wonders.
Touched…For the Very First Time is the new one-woman play that’s brought the multi-faceted Sadie Frost back to acting. It tells the story of a self-confessed ‘modern woman’ navigating her way through the pitfalls of life as she struggles to find herself through following Madonna’s principles. As the queen of pop performs her chameleon routine over time, so does Lesley, resulting in a hilarious caper that sees her switch from socialist’s daughter
to boarding school student, Tory girlfriend to squat dweller, Motown Records extraordinaire to AIDs charity worker without ever being able to seize what truly makes her happy. For those that are dubious of Frost’s return to the stage must remember that it was acting that first brought her into the public eye. Hailed as the Keira Knightly of her day, Frost had several high profile roles including Francis Ford Coppola’s Dracula before chucking it all in for a life of motherhood and, ahem, partying with Kate Moss. Frost’s acting ability is clearly apparent as she sashays her way around the intimate set, drawing personal connections with individual audience members; constructing a congenial character that the audience visibly warm to, no matter what terrible desicions Lesley makes. Most importantly she manages to forgo her offstage persona in order to assume her onstage being, a problem so many celebrities onstage are unable to do.
The script does read something like a homage to the clichés of the eighties and nineties with a plethora of name checks that nod to everything from the Met Bar to the Hacienda, all drawing knowing chuckles from the audience, whilst a soundtrack of eighties heaven intermits scenes. Although the script is seemingly written for Frost, it is, in reality, semi-autobiographical of the author Zoe Lewis, and unlike other similar self-expressional ventures, the beauty behind this one is that it doesn’t take itself too seriously. The play is there to be enjoyed rather than to generate life-changing revelations, and if some of the unduly harsh critics of the play up until now had dismounted from their high horses and seen the play in this light, then reactions would have been entirely more deserving.
Touched…is quite simply a delight; it’s a mile away from the middle class pretentions that still refuse to drain out of London’s theatre. Rather than being a chore, it feels more like a chat with an old friend; entertaining and long overdue. Frost is a pleasure to watch as she steers you through a flight of nostalgia that you didn’t realise was needed. And let’s face it, in these troubled times, a bit of light relief and a look back to the good old days can do wonders.
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