Sunset Over... Meltham?

And so I bid you all a fond farewell from SOS Towers, as I post my final Sunset before moving house. There was some suggestion (mainly from Dan) that as I'm leaving the Colne Valley and sliding over the hill into the Holme Valley, technically I should change the name of this blog. But Sunset Over Meltham just doesn't have the same ring to it, and at heart I'll always be a Slawiter. Besides, were I to stand on the roof of the new house and look due west, I'd still be able to see the Sunset Over Slawit... I just wouldn't actually be able to see Slawit itself. Then again, I couldn't actually see Slawit from the old house either, so really nothing's changed.

I'll be back next week with tales of painting and moving furniture in a heatwave, and hopefully news of PJANG #3. As a teaser for that, here's the full colour back cover by Dangerous Davey Metcalfe...

Wish me well.

A Scaremongers Saturday

Saturday night, in a small, hot, cramped, hot, overcrowded, stuffy, hot upstairs room of a crummy dive stylish entertainment venue in Hebden Bridge, on the hottest night of the year (did I mention the heat already?), the Scaremongers rocked the house.

I've written about shouldbe Poet Laureate Simon Armitage's locally based band before, but I've missed their hometown gigs, so a trip to the hippy-cultural-arty-Fair-Trade capital of Yorkshire was a necessity. I'll save my moans about the idiots in the audience for another post... though I'm not blaming the locals since I know for a fact that the biggest of the idiots - the one who stood on my feet, so desperate was he to be exactly where I was, and then proceeded to invite his entire family / old school posse to come stand with him (one on each of my toes) - was an out-of-towner due to the fact that he was taking the piss out of the Bridge for being "full of wankers". Takes one to know one etc. etc. Oh, sorry, I said I'd save the moans, didn't I? On with the gig...

Seven men and one woman strong, the Scaremongers have an impressive and tight live sound, but it's Simon Armitage's witty northen poet lyrics that make the songs so appealing.

(Boy)
You took me in -
with pillow talk and Bombay gin.

(Girl)
You walked me home -
I woke up naked and alone.

(Boy)
I plucked a rose -
and strew the petals on your clothes.

(Girl)
That rose was dead -
It passed away behind the shed.

(Boy)
But like Humberside is Yorkshire still
and Lancashire is over the hill
and loneliness is Gaping Ghyll,
we never fought and we never will…

(Both)
‘Cos you can do nothing wrong in my eyes.
You can do nothing wrong in my eyes.
(Boy)
Some go looking for tabs and wraps,
(Girl)
and some go loafing with lesser lads,
(Both)
but you can do nothing wrong in my eyes

At one point, after introducing the full line-up, from co-songwriter Craig Smith through to co-vocalist Sue Roberts, Armitage prepared to launch into the next song as some comedian in the audience shouted "and who are you?" He replied, with tongue firmly in cheek, "I'm Carol Anne Spall", prompting cries of "get over it!" and "you wouldn't let it lie" from his fellow 'mongers. "I'm not bitter," he smiled. Frankly, Simon, that post seems like a whole load of unnecessary hassle - you're better off without it... especially if it gives you more time to write songs like Cardigan Girl and Less Is More.

With one album and a couple of singles to their name, the set featured the band's complete recorded output. They seemed surprised by how well it all went, and the calls for an encore, ending up playing two tracks over again - Derailleur and Tea Leaves, which Armitage announced would be featured on next month's cover-mounted CD from The Word magazine, "a small thing - but it means the world to us". They finally left the stage at 11.20, and I dashed out into the night for my first gasps of oxygen in over two hours. Nevertheless, a gig well worth the asphyxiation.

Born In A Barn, the Scaremongers debut record is now available on both iTunes (boo!) and emusic (yay!)... just in case you want to hear more.

Superfolks

An aging, flabby, power-fading super-hero is forced out of retirement by a government conspiracy and deadly threats from his past, only to discover that the world is a much darker, more cynical and dangerous place that the one he remembers from his heyday. Lashings of sex, violence and cod-psychological drama... any comic fans who grew up in the late 80s and 90s will now be crying "been there, done that, bought the T-shirt".

But wait - Robert Mayer's novel (minus the graphic) was originally published in 1977, back when dark, gritty, adult superhero comics looked like this...



Long before the Dark Knight, Miracleman, Watchmen, or even Frank Miller's arrival on Daredevil, Robert Mayer broke serious ground in the world of adult superheroes with his debut novel Superfolks. It's hard to believe that a novel from outside the comic book field had such an uncredited influence on some of the biggest comics of the following decade, yet reading it now there's no doubting that Alan Moore, Frank Miller, Grant Morrison and co. were well aware of it. If Morrison's foreword to this, the 2005 edition weren't admission enough, I'd direct you to Indigo's final showdown with Mr. Mxyzptlk-alike arch foe Pxyzsyzygy in which the impish elfish dissolves away into an all-too familiar yellow smiley face button.

It feel strange, reading this novel for the first time in 2009. So many of its ideas, plotlines, characters and jokes seem over familiar, trite and hackneyed... until you remind yourself that it was written long before the cliches you recognise became commonplace. But it's not just a satire on superhero comics, it takes serious swipes at 70s era politics and social attitudes too. Some of these now seem quite old-fashioned as well, particularly some of the sexual references, but Mayer seems ahead of his time in recognising and lampooning the behaviour and prejudices that his contemporaries probably took for granted. The majority of his comic book references are a little too DC-centric for my own liking (lots of direct mentions of Superman, Batman, and Wonder Woman - plus major characters based on the Marvel Family and others), but the fact that Stan Lee gives this novel the thumbs up is no surprise. Mayer just took what Stan had been doing for 15+ years by this point and turned it up to 10, adding an X-rating for fun.

Frankly, I'm just amazed it took me so long to discover this book...

Woo-hoo!

If you're planning your weekend around Glastonbury on the telly, I recommend you check out Sunday* night's headliners - the reformed, back to full strength and lovin' it Blur.

I was lucky enough to be in the audience for their pre-Glasto warm-up gig last night at the Manchester Arena and my ears are still ringing. Whatever you may think of Damon Albarn or Alex James or the drummer**, the return of wayward son Graham Coxon has confirmed Blur's position as one of our greatest living pop bands. (Is there some irony to the fact that the Blur member least likely to get called 'a bit of a cock' is the one called Coxon?) Last night proved they're enjoying the hell out of being back together, and unlike a lot of artists with 20 years under their belts, they're shamelessly embracing every part of their back catalogue.

Starting the gig with debut single She's So High, the revitalised foursome tore through one of those amazing greatest hits packages that has you constantly thinking, "Wow, I forgot they had so many fantastic songs". Highlights included a makes-you-feel-twelve-years-younger Girls & Boys; a neverending choir & brass section boosted Tender; yer actual, genuine Phil Daniels guest appearance for Parklife; the classic Madchester-influenced There's No Other Way*** (complete with Damon's surprising confession that when the band were starting out, "Manchester was the only place on the planet" as far as they were concerned); and a closing hat trick of three of my favourites: End Of A Century, the heartbreaking To The End, and a surprising - but hugely welcome - This Is A Low.

But obviously they weren't done yet. Two encores followed, first the thrill-filled trio of Popscene, Advert, and the inevitable, show-stopping, bring-the-house-down-as-the-crowd-goes-mental Song 2.

Yeah, they saved their best two songs till last. Because once the crowd had finally calmed down from getting their heads checked by a jumbo jet, Blur returned with choir, brass and kitchen sink for their most uplifting anthem, The Universal. Yes, it really, really, really could 'appen...

Last night, it did.




*Obviously I'd also recommend you check out tonight's headliner too, if I thought I could persuade anybody who wasn't already a Bruce fan to give him a shot.

**Yes, I know the drummer's name, but he's the drummer. Apologies to any drummers out there, but noteworthy personality isn't often a strong point in that profession.

***If you only watch one video on this page, you have to check out Damon's haircut in this one.

Scrap Metal

Surely there comes a point in an actor's career where you've got to wonder, "what the hell am I doing this for?"

There certainly comes a point as a filmgoer when I ask that question, and half an hour into Transformers: Revenge Of The Fallen is that point.

I didn't mind the first Transformers film. Yes, it was stupid. Utterly, utterly stupid... but it was also fun. I was never a Transformers fan, and the best bits of that flick were the bits where the robots were off-screen, but it made you believe a giant robot could turn into a truck and back again, and that's all it ever claimed to do.

Sadly, most of the things that worked in #1 have been marginalised in the sequel - while everything else has been turned up to eleven. Two and a half hours of scrap metal porn, only brightened by fifteen minutes of prime ham from John Turturro who's mugging for all its worth. He doesn't save the film, but he kept me from walking out. I hope he was well paid. I hate to think what was going through his mind while he made this.

Chloe Flies Conchord

The new series of Flight Of The Conchords has been just as enjoyable as the first, with one exception. The songs. I'm not sure there's been anything yet that stands up to repeat listenings quite as much as Business Time, The Most Beautiful Girl (In The Room) or Hiphopopotamus Versus Rhymenocerous from Season 1. I guess the Conchords are suffering from classic Second Album Syndrome - a whole lifetime to write the first bunch of songs, six months to write the second. I'll be interested to see how well songs like Sugalumps (which I could swear features a cameo from the wonderful Denis Franz in the video), Carol Brown, and Too Many Dicks On The Dancefloor work on record, and whether they'll stay on my music player as long as tracks from the first record did.

All that said, the episode we got this week was a classic. Two of my favourite TV actors together in the same show - Jermaine... and the excellent Mary Lynn Rajskub (aka Jack Bauer's deliciously obnoxious, socially maladroit sidekick Chloe from 24). Perfectly cast as Jermaine's psychotic, Art Garfunkel-obsessed girlfriend. No wonder she inspired Jermaine to go all Cliff Richard on her...

Packing Up

If you're wondering why I'm not writing more about the fact that in seven days time I will, for the first time in my life, be a homeowner / mortgage slave / responsible grown-up... well, it's not through want of trying.

This is a very exciting time. It's also quite scary. And I think I'm just a little too close to all the emotions I'm experiencing right now to properly put them into words. I have great respect for those bloggers who can write personally, intimately about the big events in their life as they happen, but I don't think I'm one of them. I need a little distance, a little perspective. So I'll write more about the move once we're settled. In the meantime, it's business as usual. (Until I disappear for a week to pack boxes, paint ceilings, and move furniture. That'll be happening very shortly, so don't worry if I'm not around for a while. I will be back.)

In the meantime though, it's almost as though our current homes know we're about to leave them for another, and they're throwing a strop in revenge. Louise's toilet packed up the other day, and this morning I was awoken at 5am by my freezer. We've never been on the best of terms, my freezer and I, but lately it's been getting worse. One of the drawer doors broke off and since then it's been icing up more than it should - I've literally had to snap away icicles to get at my petit pois. Today I awoke to a loud beeping noise telling me the ice-levels have got too much - it's like a Wampa's cave in there, and I've no choice now but to switch the damn thing off and defrost it.

It couldn't just have lasted one more week, could it?

And I fully expect the house tantrums to continue. I'll probably come home tonight to find that my wardrobe has taken a pair of scissors to my favourite work shirts or something.

In other news, I have a Twitter account. No, I don't know why either, as I object to the very concept of Twitter on a fundamental level (word count?!?). However, it's there, it's free, and I'm scared of missing out on something. (Even though I've only ever written 4 actual tweets, and most of them were about how rubbish Twitter is.) I do find myself in a bit of a dilemma though as a result of my ridiculous 13 superstition. You see, I now have exactly 13 Twitter followers. (Why do I want to call them Twats? That's just awful. No disrespect to any of them, they're a fine bunch. Even Chev.) And this is making me very edgy. So please, if you have a Stupid Twitter account yourself, do me a favour and follow me will you? I promise not to clutter up your inbox with unnecessary tweets - or any tweets at all. I just can't cope with 13s. I promise to return the favour, for whatever that's worth.

Bad Vibes

Luke Haines's Britpop memoir Bad Vibes wasn't exactly what I expected. That's not to say I didn't enjoy it; Haines is a witty, intelligent storyteller with a stubbornly individual streak, and he well deserves his Grumpy Old Man of Britpop crown, even though I never actually considered the Auteurs a Britpop band myself... then again, neither did they.

Britpop became the albatross around Luke Haines's neck. The Auteurs released their first album in 1993, in time for the music press to cheerfully lump them in with Suede and Pulp as the next big thing that was going to pop over the Atlantic and kick the arse of grunge. This was long before Oasis, way before Blur decided to drop the trippy shoegazing of their debut album and go all chirpy cockernee guvnor, years before Menswear and Echobelly and Marion and Cast.



The problem was, Luke Haines didn't want to be part of a scene, especially not one as contrived as this. He didn't want to write sunny, singalong indie anthems. He wanted to record songs about Unsolved Child Murders, Chinese Bakeries and Light Aircraft On Fire. He wanted to record a concept album about the Baader Meinhof terrorist group. He wanted to piss off his record company, fire his US management, and tell obnoxious DJ / TV personality Chris Evans to go fuck himself.

He did all of these things.

On the other hand, he didn't want to play third on the bill after The The and a rubbish Fast Show comedian. He didn't want to break both his ankles jumping out of a European hotel room window. He didn't want to land a cherished support slot with Nirvana only days before Kurt Cobain's final bow. And he certainly didn't want to make "friends" with Noel Gallagher.

And yet, he did all these things also. (Sort of.)

One of the big themes of Luke Haines's more recent songwriting is celebrating and decrying Britishness. Although he hates the term Britpop, and wants nothing to do with the scene, he's actually become one of our most British artists, with songs like Bugnor Bognor, Leeds United, and England Made Me. There's a certain irony to that, and the fact that back in the height of the 90s he was more interested in writing tracks called American Guitars, New French Girlfriend and Mogadishu. But while Morrissey jetted off to LA and Jarvis decamped to Paris, Luke Haines holed up on the south coast and continued releasing songs like All The English Devils and Here's To Old England, a tongue-in-cheek savaging of his homeland that only Haines could have written...

God bless football hooligans and 1966
The three-day week and half-day Wednesdays
The spirit of the Blitz
Well kept lawns and little gnomes
Dressing up in women's clothes
Two world wars and pubs that always close

Raise your glass to the Great Train Robbers
(Even though they lost the lot)
Stick it to the bloody Bosch
And stick it to the Frogs
Irish accents = terrorist bombs
Queer villains who love their mums
Look out kids, it's another summer of love

Here's to old England
Currant buns, the bulldog breed
God bless Enoch Powell
Rickets and TB
Here's to old England
Morris dancing knobbly knees
I promise to do my bit
And cheer the home team on to victory

But all this is what you'd expect from Luke Haines - so what surprised me about Bad Vibes? If anything, it was how likable and easygoing the author appeared. How at ease. How lacking in venom. I'd truly expected his peers in the music industry to come in for a savaging, yet for the most part Haines has only good things to say about Suede, Pulp, Blur and many of his contemporaries. OK, he's more eager to stick the knife into Oasis (deservedly so), but even then he can't bring himself to twist said knife and pour salt into the wound. Which is what I expected. He's funny, sarcastic, at times cutting - but also not afraid to praise his fellow artists when he feels they deserve it. For all the essential pop star ego, he never comes across as arrogant. He's the first to stick a pin in his own pomposity and laugh at how it all turned out.

I liked a lot of Britpop. Even though I was in my 20s when it hit, in many ways it was the music of my youth. Curiously, I didn't get into the Auteurs - or Haines - until Britpop was over. It was Black Box Recorder that turned me on to his work, and I worked my way back from there. With that in mind, the only part of Bad Vibes I didn't like was the conclusion. Haines ends his story with the death of Diana (in many ways the deathknell of Britpop), just as the first Black Box Recorder album is released, with no mention of the fourth and final Auteurs record (my favourite) or any of his solo material. I can only hope he's already working on a sequel (along with the rumoured BBR revival and more) because British pop - and Britpop - needs Luke Haines now more than ever.

Telstar

There were seven of us in the cinema on a Saturday afternoon, which is perhaps not the best of omens for Telstar's chances at the box office. Normally I love it when the cinema's so quiet, it usually means everybody's there to see the film. Not so the couple on the back row who remained silent throughout the adverts and trailers, then began a loud conversation as soon as the film began. This went on for about ten minutes, but just as my patience was reaching an end, they shut up.

Midway through the film, they started up again. Only this time it appeared they weren't just talking, they were having a row. Then the woman started crying. For god's sake, if you're going to dump your girlfriend, don't do it in the bloody cinema! Finally, they got up and stormed out, just as - up on the screen - Joe Meek's life began to spiral out of control.

The ironic thing is, if any of their friends had asked them afterwards what they thought of the film (and I doubt that would be top of the discussion list), they'd probably have said it was a chirpy Brit-com, evocative of the 60s in a way that The Boat That Rocked only dreamed about. Telstar is very much a film of two halves, the first light and breezy (with only brief moments of foreshadowing) - the second increasingly dark, paranoid and bleak. The uneven tone is a difficult balancing act that - for the most part - writer / director Nick Moran pulls off well. There are unfortunate occasions when he shows his Lock, Stock roots with an over reliance on sweary lad comedy or unnecessarily flashy Guy Ritchie-influenced visuals, but for the most part he's smart enough to keep the film anchored to the central performance by Con O'Neill.

As "the British Phil Spector", maverick record producer Joe Meek, O'Neill is magnificent: all flashing temper, preening ego, predatory leer and obsessive genius. He's not a likeable character, but he certainly is admirable. O'Neill's performance, and the fascinating 'couldn't make it up' story of Meek himself make Telstar a success, despite Moran's best efforts to lad it up. For all his arrogance, anger, and ill-considered business decisions (that shot of a Beatles demo in Meek's bin isn't exactly subtle, but it does the job), we can't help but care about what happens to Joe Meek, and want him to succeed. Who knows where his career would have taken him if he'd just stuck around a few more years... you can pretty much guarantee that bands in the 70s and 80s would have been queueing up to work with him, and if he'd lasted till Britpop, they'd have been knocking down his door.

With some reservations then, I enjoyed Telstar. But I couldn't help wonder what the biggest Joe Meek fan I know would think of it... over to you, Matthew.

A Good Mix

I don't often talk about the playlists on my music player (can we just drop the mp3 - as mine doesn't actually play mp3s?) but the current one caused me to think, while I was driving home last night (I bought my current car specifically because it has a socket to plug said device into), "y'know, this is a really good mix".

Generally, I have a playlist which I listen to in the car of about 100 songs. That's usually made up of my current favourite albums, a few choice oldies, and odd tracks I've picked up elsewhere that I'm roadtesting to see if I need to investigate those artists further. Sometimes the mix becomes a bit samey, or I get bored of certain parts of it and want to freshen it up... but every now and then, I'll hit on the perfect mix. Ideally that'll be a varied selection of stuff that - if the player is shuffling correctly (rather than clumping together 4 or 5 songs from the same record as it sometimes does) - makes for an exciting, unpredictable, singalong and learn-a-song half hour / fifty minutes. It's times like that when music does all the hard work for you, and the commute becomes a joy... or as close to a joy as any rush hour journey could ever be.

Here's a selection from my current playlist, with notes...

Jarvis Cocker - I Never Said I Was Deep

The reviews for Jarvis's new record have been mixed. One of the biggest complaints from the haters is that he's back to singing about sex again, but at his age it just comes across as a creepy old man leering at young girls. Which is funny, because I swear those self-same critics were falling over themselves to praise Nick Cave's Grinderman album, which was even more pervy than this. But while the Grinderman LP had a couple of excellent songs holding up a load of not-so-good filler, Jarv's new record is uniformly good, without any real stand outs. Unlike on the last album, where Running The World overshadowed everything else to the extent that he had to hide it away as a hidden track. Further Complications is a grower, though I would agree that some of the rockier tracks come across a little stodgy on record, which is odd for two reasons. Firstly, that certainly wasn't the case live. And secondly, they're produced by Steve Albini, the thinking rock star's Jeff Lynne. Who should know better.

Still, the important stuff is still present and correct, and that's the irrepressible Cocker wit. Who else could sing, "I've heard it said that you're hung like a white man" (on Caucasian Blues)? There's only one Jarvis.

Manic Street Preachers - Jackie Collins Existential Question Time

Speaking of Steve Albini, here he is again, with the new Manics album. I go against the Manics-fan grain somewhat in that The Holy Bible is my least favourite of their albums, so I wasn't looking forward to Journal For Plague Lovers with its promise of exhumed Richie lyrics (especially considering how much I enjoyed their last record, Send Away The Tigers). Musically, the record's turned out fine - the Manics are still on fine form after ...Tigers, and doing their best here to pop up what they know is difficult material. Lyrically though, you can tell these are scribbles from the notebooks of a disturbed mind, and at times they come across as so much Sixth Form poetry. Even James and Nicky have admitted to not knowing what these songs are about, so they're open to as much interpretation as you want to give them. Still, I like the questions asked by this first single, particularly...

Oh mummy, what's a Sex Pistol?

Dolly Parton & Kenny Rogers - Islands In The Stream

Saw Rob Brydon's live stage show recently. He's a very funny bloke with a dark, cynical eye and a cheeky little boy's wit. Apparently he recorded a version of this song with Ruth Jones for charidee, so he finished the show with it (accompanied by a surprise guest appearance from Peter Kay). It reminded me of the original, and of what a great songwriter Dolly Parton was in her prime. Really. No, get a way from me with your country-phobic ignorance, you're wrong.

Luxembourg - Single

Sometimes you just don't discover a band till it's too late. I owe this one to Anglopunk Larissa over at Condemned To Rock n Roll who introduced me to the track Single in one of her recent Everyday Is Like Sunday... mixes. It's a classic widescreen woe-is-me, thwarted ambition whingeathon that a few years back I'd have embraced as a theme tune...

You can shove your degree from the University of Life
You can stick your BSc from the hallowed hallways of the College of Firth & Fife
But i can’t spend another summer burning copies of my debut single in my bedroom
I can’t spend another Sunday on the sofa crying as another opportunity passes me by

I wouldn’t wish my life upon anyone
So let’s abstain
I couldn’t share this life of grime
This doing time
So let’s refrain

My twenty-fifth birthday was melancholy but i wasn’t surprised because
My seventeenth birthday was melancholy but i wasn’t surprised because
My fifth birthday was… sad and lonely
Oh, well don’t they start so early these days?
Yes, they do!

I wouldn’t wish my life upon anyone
So let’s refrain
I couldn’t share this pantomime
This doing time
So let’s refrain

Now my friends are starting families
I’ve barely started on mine

Having fallen in love with this track, I went out and hunted down a copy of Luxembourg's album Front, which is full of similarly Morrissey-esque moans and the kind of epic indie you thought they'd stopped making years ago... only to discover that the band split up last year. That's the bad news.

The good news is that they've made their entire back catalogue available to download free on their lastfm page. Meanwhile, the individual Luxembourgians have started up new projects such as The Melting Ice Caps, The Soft Close-Ups and Jonny Cola & The A-Grades, and more free songs are available if you click on the appropriate links. It's worth the effort.

Pink - So What

I know, I know, I really shouldn't like Pink. I mean - it's Pink, for fuck's sake! And yet, of all the contemporary pop divas (Britney, Christina, Beyonce et al.), Pink's the only one I find remotely interesting. I like her spunk. She reminds me of early Madonna crossed with Cyndi Lauper crossed with... dare I say Wendy James? And yes, I know it's often big budget Linda Perry-written bollocks, but I can't help but fall for her hits. I first heard this one - which I still think should be called Rock Star, and balls to Nickleback - at a recent Royal Exchange production of Macbeth, and just like Trouble, Don't Let Me Get Me, and Just Like A Pill, it lodged in my brain like a bolt from a crossbow. I'm not ashamed. This is the best use of Na Na Nas since King's 80s cheese slicer Alone Without You. I know, my cred is officially dead. Who cares?

The Handsome Family - My Friend



I've written many times about my love of the dark gothic country of the Handsome Family, and my deep admiration for lyricist Rennie Sparks. Her new album (with hubby Brett on vocals, as always) is a slow burner, but one that I've been listening to for weeks now and shows no sign of tiring. Unlike previous records where the songs have featured short stories and vignettes set to music, this one is much more about place than people. It's an album filled with haunting, evocative description - I want to say pastoral, but I don't think that's exactly the right word. There are stories here, but their settings are as important as the vague characters who wander through them.

My heart is a beating compass pointing to the pole
The great expanse of stillness, the true magnetic north
I know the sky blue longing of a cloud of spiraling birds
All turning in an instant, a perfect spinning whirl

I feel the loneliness of magnets and the tides across the sea
I am the dark valley calling to the trembling mountain peak

Just beautiful songwriting. It's as simple as that. Which is my cheeky DJ link way of moving on to...

Huey Lewis & The News - I Want A New Drug

I've said more than enough about my recent Huey Renaissance, so I'll keep this short. This is from Sports, the album that preceded the multi-million selling Fore! (I'm working my way backwards), and it's the song that "inspired" Ray Parker Jr. to write Ghostbusters. Recognise that bassline? Huey sued, Huey won. I wanted to link to the classic Bad Is Bad, but sadly I couldn't find it on youtube.

The Scaremongers - From The Shorelines Of Venus

Still loving Simon Armitage and Craig Smith's debut. This is the epic closing track (apart from the short coda Porch), and it features a fine Armitage megaphone rant towards the end that reminds me of Tim Booth. Could this be my album of the year? Too early to call.

Lucky Soul - Whoa Billy!

"Dark times ahead," sings Ali Howard on the debut single from the band's forthcoming second album, though you wouldn't know it from listening to this the exuberant blast of 60s/Motown style pop.

Thea Gilmore - It Takes More...

A Miss Dynamite cover (yes, really) given heartbreaking acoustic treatment by the UK's greatest contemporary female singer songwriter. Given away to fans on her website a few months back, I can't find it anywhere online to link to. But believe me when I say it's a belter.

Todd Snider - Is This Thing Working?

It struck me today that Todd Snider is as close as the US gets to its own Billy Bragg. A ranting, witty, politically-charged have-guitar-will-kill-fascists songwriter. This is from last year's Peace Queer mini-album (a new one will be along shortly), the tale of a school bully who gets more than he bargains for when a worm turns. Check out the lyrics - another born storyteller.

Anybody still reading? I doubt it. Still, at least I got all that off my chest.

This Book Will Save Your Life

A few months back I reviewed The Book With No Name, a novel that promised "anyone who reads The Book With No Name ends up dead".

Well, I survived, but being the superstitious type I am, when I saw A.M. Homes's This Book Will Save Your Life sitting on the shelf in the bookshop, I didn't think it'd hurt to pick it up. Just in case.

As it turned out, TBWSYL is about as far away from TBWNN as you could possibly imagine. Whereas the latter was a page-turning pot-boiler with OTT stock characters and its tongue firmly in cheek, the former is one of those seemingly plotless meanderings that's held together by the strength of its characters and a light, quirky sense of humour. It's still immensely readable, and by far the better book, though there are times it strays a little too close to kookyville.

Richard Novak is a modern day everyman...

...claims the dust jacket, and straight away I'd have to disagree. Actually, what makes Novak's character so interesting, and his adventures so compulsive is that he's anything but an everyman. For a start, he's independently wealthy and doesn't have to work (apart from occasionally dealing stocks and shares to top up his fortune - Homes obviously wrote this before the financial crash), all of which gives him plenty of time to rescue horses from sinkholes, save lonely housewives from their uncaring families, and thwart psychotic kidnappers. Hmm, all that makes it sound like an action-packed romp, doesn't it? Well, I suppose it is, in a way, and it isn't.

This Book Will Save Your Life beautifully capture the strangeness of life through its depiction of the weirdness and physical instability of LA, a surreal city of earthquakes, wildfires, mudslides, feral chihuahuas and donut sellers with big dreams...

...continues the dust jacket, rather overdoing the strangeness / weirdness synonyms...

And it reveals what can happen if you are willing to open up to the world around you...

...which is the key to Homes's plot, and Novak's journey from housebound loner to heroic philanthropist. It's an old-fashioned feelgood story, but never sentimental, full of likeable characters and amusingly realistic dialogue. It might not save your life, but it certainly won't harm it.

Come Home

Apologies if I neglect my blogging duty over the next couple of weeks, or if I'm not by to visit your own blogs as often as I normally would. We're moving house in just over two weeks now and my head is all wrapped up in that. There's so much to think about. (And to be honest, Louise is doing most of it, so imagine what I'd be like if I had to be an adult and take responsibility for something myself!) It'll be great when we're in.

More Comics Songs

Having recently completed mammoth posts on both DC Comics Songs and Marvel Comics Songs, you might have hoped I'd be done with that subject for a while.

Well, I was... until I discovered an old playlist I'd compiled years ago containing a few more interesting examples that have since slipped my mind. So here, for your listening pleasure, are a few superhero leftovers...

Let's start with a couple of Superman references, from Bruce Springsteen ("You were born with the power of a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound"; For You) and Billy Idol. Personally, I think Superman would be waaay more interesting if he actually was Billy Idol.



Still at DC, the Monkees find themselves struggling to get a message through to Donna Troy, Wonder Woman's niece / cousin / clone / whatever DC has decided she is this week...

The being known as Wonder Girl is speaking I believe. It's not easy tryin' to tell her that I shortly have to leave.

No wonder they gave that song an Alternate Title. (It was called Randy Scouse Git everywhere but in the UK, where libidinous Liverpudlians presumably protested.)

Moving over to Marvel, I can't believe I forgot David Bowie's anthem to the X-Men, Oh! You Pretty Things. "Gotta make way for the homo-superior!"



Speaking of the X-Men, I finally found you a Wolverine song. Well, sort of. From Pavement guy Stephen Malkmus's excellent debut solo LP, we have the track Vague Space. "Permission granted for the Wolverine States", Steve sings. That must be a state where nail clippers are outlawed and sideburns run riot.

Considering what a comic book fan Eminem is (he apparently went back to Jonathan Ross's house after a recent interview and walked off with a rare old Spidey comic), I'm surprised more of his songs don't reference the four-colour world. “Clothes rip like the incredible Hulk, I spit when I talk…” comes from My Name Is.

Which brings us back to Spidey, and to Luke Haines, who may well be a comic fan himself. He's already dropped mentions to Ditko's two greatest creations...

Billy was a Spider-man… threw himself beneath a train.

...in Johnny & The Hurricanes by The Auteurs; and...

You can call me Doctor Strange…

...in his solo track Spook Manifesto, from The Oliver Twist Manifesto CD.



And let's not forget that Haines also made a guest appearance in a comic himself and wrote the intro to its trade paperback collection.



Going back to Spidey, one of my favourite villains is old fishbowl head, Steve Ditko's greatest visual creation, Mysterio. Perhaps Paddy McAloon was a Quentin Beck fan too. Electrics Guitars would certainly suggest so, with its joyful refrain of "Mysterio-a-go-go!"



Finally, here's a superhero lyric I only just discovered - from the new Pet Shop Boys album Yes. Only former Marvel UK employee Neil Tennant could write a song (Building A Wall) that namechecks Britain's greatest hero.

Sand in the sandwiches, wasps in the tea, it was a free country...

...mumbles Neil, in a typically Coward-esque moment, prompting someone else (Chris?) to ask...

Who do you think you are, Captain Britain?

Yeah - forget Brian Braddock - get Neil Tennant in the union jack underwear and you're on to a winner, Marvel!

Medals

I came across the above First World War medals while having a clean out in preparation for moving house. Unfortunately, my camera isn't very good at close-up pics (even when you switch it to close up mode), so the above image is rather blurry.

The medals belonged to my grandfather, Edwyn Hoyle; and great uncle, George Hoyle. Each is engraved around the edge with their name, rank and serial number. Great uncle George was 7-4428 PTE G.E. Hoyle DURH.L.T (a private in the Durham Light Infantry), while my grandfather was 98000 PTE E. Hoyle M.G.O. (machine gun officer).

I never knew either man, both died before I was born. My dad tells me that his father-in-law was a quiet, peaceful man - a joker who wouldn't hurt a fly. And they put him in charge of a machine gun. Mum tells how he never talked about his experiences in the war, although they obviously affected him greatly. He suffered breathing problems for the rest of his life as the result of a mustard gas attack.

The top two medals both feature George V on one side and a soldier on horseback on the other. They are inscribed Georgius V BRITT OMN REX ET IND IMP (George V, omnipotent King of Great Britain and Emperor of India).

The bottom medal is the Inter-Allied Victory Medal (awarded to great uncle George). It features "the winged figure of Victory with her left arm extended while her right held a palm branch" on one side and the inscription "The Great War For Civilization 1914 - 1919" on the other. Though WWI is famously referred to as the Great War of 1914 - 1918, I'm presuming many soldiers served well into 1919, at least until the Treaty of Versailles was signed in June 1919.

I haven't looked at these medals in years, and I know I didn't truly appreciate their significance when my mum gave them to me as a child. But seeing them again now, I realised how they could well be my most precious possessions. Not in terms of monetary value (I have no idea whether there's a collector's market, but assume these particular medals are quite common), but in terms of what my grandfather and his brother went through to be awarded them. To survive that (and if they hadn't survived it, I doubt I'd even be here) two ordinary blokes from Slawit, who were by no means career soldiers, experienced things I couldn't ever imagine.

These medals leave me humbled, but extremely proud of the men who owned them before me.

Terminator: I'll Be Cack

A lot of people slagged off Terminator 3 as inconsequential action fluff. Those same people now seem to be championing the McG directed Terminator: Salvation as the saviour of the franchise. I know which film I'd rather watch again, and it wouldn't be the McG-minator.

First off, Christian Bale. So good as Batman; watchable in almost everything else he shows up for; here, he doesn't so much phone in his performance as get someone else to phone it in for him. It doesn't help that after the opening set piece, Bale's John Connor is off-screen for most of the next hour while Mr. Chekov (playing a young Kyle Reese) and the Cyborginator take up the slack. Well, it doesn't help Bale - we, the viewer actually benefit from his absence as both Anton Yelchin and Sam Worthington make far more interesting, sympathetic characters than Bale's one note JC. I never thought I'd find myself writing this, but what this film really needs is an Arnie (not just a CGI cameo), and Christian Bale (incredibly) just ain't no substitute. Say what you like about the Austrian Oak, but he brought a tongue-in-cheek humour (sometimes unintentionally) to the previous films that's sorely missing from this arid explosion-fest.

The action sequences are occasionally thrilling, though nothing to match either T2 or T3, but it soon becomes painfully clear that T4 is suffering from the same 12A safeness that hampered the last Die Hard flick and Wolverine. These movies just shouldn't be aimed at 12 year-olds (and under); the need to chase the almighty box office dollar puts a muzzle on the Terminator in the same way it sheathed Logan's claws and cleaned up John McClane's potty mouth. If all our blockbusters are now being firmly pitched at children, what's left for us adults to enjoy?

Where's Summer B?

Following yesterday's post, here are some summery pics taken a little closer to home; a walk we did last weekend from Lumb Hole Falls down through Hardcastle Cragg into Hebden Bridge. Unfortunately, the falls themselves weren't as picturesque as the last time we visited due to a pissed up sunbathing camper marring the scenery slightly, but the rest of the walk was glorious...

Where's Summer A?

So, following two unseasonably glorious weekends, the true British summer has arrived. Never mind, if you're stuck inside because it's too wet to play out today, here's the first of two batches of photos I took when the weather was brighter. You might also appreciate these if you're in a part of the world where it's currently midwinter. If you're basking in a heatwave in your particular locale... sod ya. ;-)

To start, here's some pics I took two weekends ago, during our trip to the north of the Lake District... including some particularly friend deer...

Drag Me To Hell

Sam Raimi believes horror films should make you jump, squirm, scream, and most of all, laugh.

He wants to shiver your spine, pound your heart, and gross out your imagination... but he doesn't want to disturb you (like recent psychological / social commentary flicks such as The Strangers) or sicken you (like the torture-porn of Saw or Hostel).

Most of all, he believes horror films should be fun - like a ride on the ghost train, which is exactly how he described his OTT return to the genre, Drag Me To Hell.

It seems impossible to review Drag Me To Hell without first mentioning the Evil Dead films that made Raimi famous for his mix of whirling camera work, imaginative action, flying eyeballs, and electrify-your-seat moments, and his latest effort is the closest he's come to making the new Evil Dead film fans have been clamouring for since 1992. (Rumour has it there's another ED remake on the horizon - further rumour has it that it'll be without either Raimi's direction or Bruce Campbell's acting... which seems quite the most horrific prospect ever.) Indeed, what lifts DMTH beyond its shlocky B-movie roots - in much the same way Campbell made the ED more than just a cartoon - is the performances, particularly Alison Lohman, who quickly makes the audience care for her character in a way we never care in most contemporary slashers.

As a bank clerk who gets cursed by turning an old gypsy down for a mortgage extension, Lohman is perfect. (Is Raimi taking a timely swing at our beloved financial institutions? No!) She has just the right mix of trembling lip vulnerability and spunky, gut-your-kitty and punch-your-granny gusto that a multi-faceted horror heroine needs (and that they so rarely have since Jamie Lee Curtis hung up her Scream Queen Crown). Add in a fully rounded supporting cast (David Paymer is excellent as always) and the kind of utter nonsense backstory that made Evil Dead so endearing (Nige tells me it's supposedly set in the same universe) and you've got exactly what Raimi promised - a ghost train ride that'll have you laughing as much as jumping, but won't ever really scare you. Unless you're a wuss or something.

A whole Raimi review without once mentioning Spider-Man? I must be slipping.

Odd Hours

I didn't rate Dean Koontz's last novel at all. Fortunately, I've been reading him long enough now to not let that stop that buying his latest, particularly as its the fourth in the continuing Odd Thomas series, Odd Hours.

(A little background for those of you - probably all of you - unfamiliar with Odd Thomas. He sees dead people. He has visions of terrible disasters and will go to any length, in a John McClane stylee, to prevent them happening. Despite all this, he remains obstinately chipper and at times frustratingly optimistic, possibly because he's a young man who's already lost everything he ever wanted, and can't ever get it back.)

Let me get this straight from the start: Odd Hours is not a great book. It's not even a great Dean Koontz book (for that, try Strangers, Lightning, Velocity, or The Good Guy). It's formulaic, cosy, and at times - partly through Koontz's attempts to lighten the thriller elements with Odd's quirky outlook and an increasingly hippyish supporting cast - somewhat annoying. And yet, like all Koontz novels (even the aforementioned stinker), it's a supreme page-turner with likable heroes, dastardly villains (terrorists plotting to smuggle nuclear weapons into the US via a small seaside port), and some imaginative set pieces (the highlight this time being a poltergeist Frank Sinatra kicking up a tantrum to save Odd from a psychotic police chief).

Odd Hours also continues to develop the central character in unexpected ways. A lot of serial novels tend to leave their heroes in exactly the same place they started, but Koontz seems insistent on driving Odd Thomas to darker areas every time he writes him... and considering the shocking conclusion to the opening novel, one wonders just how much darker things can get before Odd goes off the rails completely. Maybe next time, we'll get a full-on batshit Odd. That'd be cool.

Late Great Albums Of 2008 (2) - The '59 Sound

The second of my albums that I didn't get around to listening to last year comes from The Gaslight Anthem. It won't be to everyone's taste (what is?) and I almost hesitate at using the adjective 'great' to describe it... but... it is the perfect music for the UK's recent mini-heatwave, recalling the long lost summers of my youth, back when I was born down in a dead man's town...



Yeah, The Gaslight Anthem wear their influence on their sleeves. It's a scuffed up sleeve from a red chequered work shirt, worn over frayed blue jeans, with a sweatband in its hair. I've fallen for artists flavoured by 80s era Springsteen before (Jim Steinman, The Ataris, The Hold Steady, The Killers - on their second album at least), but none have been as brazen as this lot. There are times listening to The '59 Sound that you might almost be listening to an E Street tribute band, albeit one playing original songs. Well, I say 'original'...

See I've been here for 28 years.
Pounding sweat beneath these wheels.
We tattooed lines beneath our skin.
No surrender, my Bobby Jean.

That's the opening verse to Meet Me By The River's Edge, the most unashamed homage on the album. The Patient Ferris Wheel, meanwhile, talks of "standing in the Jersey rain" amid the "carnival lights" on the "4th of July". And while the chorus to Even Cowgirls Get The Blues proclaims, "I still love Tom Petty songs
and driving old men crazy", that very same track begins by naming the ghosts of "Sandy and Johnny, (and) Mary", with whom all true Springsteen fans will have long been on first name terms.

There are times when The Gaslight Anthem slip dangerously close to parody, most notably on The Back Seat...

In the backseats of burned out cars.
In the disenchantment lane.
The ideal angels twist and turn, ask forgiveness for future mistakes.
But you and I we've been through this.
Maybe 100 times before.
Always hitching rides with strangers.
Papa warned us about before

But you know the summer always brought it.
That wild and reckless breeze.
And in the backseat, we're just trying to find some room for our knees.
And in the backseat, we're just trying to find some room to breathe.

...and here's where they stumble. In trying so hard to sound like their boss, they lose authenticity. The band need to develop a voice of their own, otherwise they're just coasting on someone else's words, turning the unique idiom of Bruce into so much bedraggled cliche.

Still, The Gaslight Anthem certainly have the sound down. It's refreshing to hear a slightly more edgy, contemporary take on the classic E Street noise, and the tunes are as pop as anything on Born In The USA. Musically, there's nothing better right now for winding down the windows and blasting down the highway... if only their lyrics were a little less ersatz and a little more them, this band would be unstoppable.

And Maria came from Nashville with a suitcase in her hand
I always kinda sorta wished I looked like Elvis

...reveals lead singer Brian Fallon on The High Lonesome, before confessing like a less cynical Paddy McAloon...

And in my head there's all these classic cars
And outlaw cowboy bands
I always kinda sorta wish I'm someone else

Fair enough, Brian... but how about next time you try a little harder to just be yourself, and see where that takes you?



Late Great Albums Of 2008 (1)

Conversations With M (5)

It's been a while since we had M in the office. I've missed having conversations like this...


M: P wants to know if you're still looking for a new TV. If so, he's going to send you some suggestions. Personally, I suggest you get a Mouse TV, a little box with mice in it, and you dress them up to recreate the scenarios of certain films and TV shows. So you'd get a little bandanna and put it on one of the mice for Rambo, or you'd give one of them a beard for Brian Blessed, or you'd build like a little church set with pews for Songs Of Praise... that'd be much cheaper than buying a real TV.

R: I'm not sure about that. Fully-trained mouse thespians? Sounds like they'd be pretty expensive to me.

M: What? No, I'm not talking about actual acting mice - that'd be RIDICULOUS! Absurd! You just dress them up and let them run around and use your imagination to recreate the plots of various films and that. They're not actually acting. That'd be STUPID.




Previous Conversations With M...

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Conversations With(out) M