So yes, we've had a holiday. A couple of days in the Peak District followed by a couple of days in the Lake District. Gorgeous weather in the former, not so gorgeous in the latter, but stunning views both times. We really are fortunate to live in such a beautiful country.
In the meantime, behaves yourselves... or I'll set the Hell-Sheep on you all.
Thoughtballoons is a new online collaborative comic-writing group that I'm proud to count myself a member of. Inspired by Comictwart, a site in which a group of artists choose a weekly character and offer up their own individual interpretations, head thoughtballooner Ryan K Lindsay came up with the idea of giving budding writers the same chance. Of course, there's a slight difference between asking readers to enjoy a daily visual image and asking them to read an entire comic script... so Ryan made it a little easier by restricting us to one page of script. That page can be a complete story, a powerful opening, a crucial scene, a dramatic climax - whatever we come up with. The aim is for us to have fun playing with a whole bunch of different characters we might otherwise never get the chance at, bringing our own individual writing styles to the heroes and villains we've always wanted to write (and, I'm sure, some we never wanted to write... I'm not really looking forward to Green Lantern!) An opportunity to push ourselves as comic writers and see what we can accomplish.
To start the ball rolling, Ryan chose the armoured Avenger Iron Man as our first project, so over the course of this week you'll be able to enjoy 9 very different 1 page Iron Man scripts. My own was posted earlier today, so if you're interested in such things, please pop over to thoughtballoons and give it a read. While you're there, don't forget to check out some of the other scripts, I'm sure there's a lot of fun to be had. (I haven't read them yet, but I'm looking forward to it.) 
A few weeks back, when the Icelandic volcano Eyjafjallajökull started spewing ash clouds over Europe and disrupting everybody's flights in the process, Reluctant Blogger suggested I put together a Top Ten Volcano songs in tribute. I toyed with the idea, but feared I'd missed the boat. Good old Eyjafjallajökull though, I knew it wouldn't let me down. Topical blogging ahoy! (Well, as topical as Sunset Over Slawit ever gets.)
Apparently there's a Damien Rice song called Volcano, but as I've never heard it and can probably die happy without ever doing so, it doesn't feature in the list below. Just in case you were wondering.
10. Beck - Volcano
And I heard
Of that Japanese girl
Who jumped
Into The Volcano
Was she trying
To make it back
Back into the womb
Of the world?
Volcanologists say
That we're unlike the rest
That we're the best
Fearlessness
Deadliness
Lava Kiss
Togetherness
The shrieking of nothing is killing me.
Just pictures of Jap girls in synthesis
And I ain't got no money and I ain't got no hair
Thursday night, I went to an imaginary gig. Justin Currie is an artist I've been looking forward to seeing live (and solo) for a good few years now. I'd see him with his former band (the criminally underrated) Del Amitri back in the days of wonder, but missed the tour for his first excellent solo album, so was eager to catch him touring its sequel. We got the tickets well in advance and I was all set to go.
But I didn't. I couldn't. Because of my worsening back. I can't stand still for more than a few minutes at a time without absolute agony. I can sit down fine, I can walk about OK... but standing still is impossible. Unfortunately, at venues like Manchester Academy, standing still is your only option. So I had to tell Dave to find someone else to go with him... I just couldn't stand it.
Instead, I went to an imaginary gig. I built a stage in the living room and imagined a misanthropic, curmudgeonly, archly-cynical songwriter was up there singing his bitter heart out (to help me visualise this, I put a mirror at the back of the stage). Then I got Louise to push past me on her way to the toilets or the bar every two minutes, to have loud conversation with her friends just behind the sofa, to film the whole gig on her phone, and to whistle shriekily after every song.
Then I sat back and listened to the new Justin Currie album, The Great War. It was almost like being there. And as close as I'm going to get to gigging until my back is mended...
Never mind, there's always album #3.
From Rags To Rockstars features the continued adventures of roadie Jim Soundman who we first met in the comic Road Crew. But where that book was a series of light-hearted gags and misadventures, this time writer/artist Tommie Kelly is broadening his range, getting personal, going metaphysical, and delivering some damned fine character work - as well as the laughs.
It begins with an opening sequence that recalls Buddy Baker's final showdown with Grant Morrison in Animal Man #26... if Buddy had been a boozed up loser rather than a family man superhero. Then the story starts for real as Jim uncovers some shocking secrets about his parents and has his life turned upside down... for the better, or perhaps not? Considering that intro sequence, we're left wondering just how good things will really get for our hero, even after he's been granted all his wishes. The idea that Kelly has written this book as some kind of magick wish-fulfillment opus (in a similar way to what Morrison tried in Invisibles) makes the whole comic a much more personal endeavour. I'm really looking forward to the next issue. Plus it's filled with sex and drugs and rock 'n' roll... what else do you need?
Buy From Rags To Rockstars and read online extracts here. While you're there, check out Tommie's daily webcomic Something Wonderful... but not if you're easily offended.
Day 06 - A Song That Reminds You Of Somewhere
The first time I flew the nest I was in my early 20s. I'd just come out of an ill-advised and emotionally scarring relationship and I thought what I needed most to sort my life out was a place of my own. Unfortunately, the only place I could afford was a shitty one-down two-up hovel perched precariously over the motorway with pleasant factory views, neighbours who liked to party (and park right outside my front door) and a cold, sterile bathroom. It was the worst six months of my life. While I was there (over Christmas too), my dad was rushed into hospital, my dog died, and a girl I really, really liked made it clear it wasn't ever going to be mutual.
I drank a lot while I was there. I developed a taste for red wine and vodka and cultivated my interest in whiskey and Jack. A trip to the supermarket wasn't complete without spending at least £15 on spirits. I stayed up late watching DVDs on a tiny TV (that I'd forgot to buy a TV license for), drinking till I was sleepy enough to make it through the night. The staircase was really steep; more than once I remember climbing up to the bedroom on my hands a knees.
I'm sure I listened to a lot of music while I lived in that house. I was working in the record library at the time so getting loads of freebie CDs and gig tickets. It was probably around the time Britpop started imploding, so my album of choice was more than likely This Is Hardcore, the perfect soundtrack to my life right at that moment (and, ironically, my favourite record of the 90s).
But it's not Pulp that reminds me of that house, and that dark, dark time. It's not Radiohead either, though they would be similarly appropriate. Actually, it's Sonny & Cher, I Got You Babe. My overriding memory is of watching Groundhog Day on DVD, struggling to laugh, hearing that song come round again and again and again...
A couple of mates rescued me a few months later, offering me a room in a shared house in a much more pleasant area, and happier times (while they lasted). I'll always be grateful to Matt and Greg (and Dave, who was moving out) for getting me out of that pit.
Leanne Shapton's book, the full title of which I've written once and will not do so again, has a wonderful concept. It's a catalogue of lots for an auction held on Saturday the 14th of February, 2009 (there's a clue) at a New York auction house. Each of the items on sale, few of which would have any real value at auction, represents a different stage in the relationship between two people, 26 year-old cookery columnist Lenore Doolan and 39 year-old travelling photographer Harold Morris.
It begins with photographs and a party invitation and ends with collections of dried flowers. Make of that symbolism what you will. In between you'll find everything from mixtapes to diary pages, braziers to pyjamas, china dogs to salt shakers, books, ties, umbrellas, cocktail mixers, cake stands, menus, travel clocks and post-it notes... all meticulously documented with lot numbers, images, dimensions and reserve prices. It's the ephemera on which we build our lives, yet it tells an all too recognisable story of the rise and fall of a love affair, finding heartbreaking detail in the minutiae. There are times when that level of detail bogs us down - maybe not every one of these lots is entirely necessary - but after finishing this book I felt I knew these characters inside and out... though some details of their relationship are left to the reader's imagination / speculation.
Stolen from Samurai Frog as usual...
Pick five of your favourite shows, in no particular order, before you read the questions below, then answer them!
1. Moonlighting
2. NYPD Blue
3. Lost
4. The X-Files
5. The West Wing
(And yes, I chose at least two of these shows just to piss off Kelvin. Well no, I didn't really, but I'm sure it will anyway.)
01. Who's your favorite character in 2?
Andy Sipowicz, obviously.
02. Who's your least favorite character in 1?
Herbert Viola. (Sorry, Dave.)
03. What's your favorite episode of 4?
Tough... the one that sticks in my head is Tooms. It sets the template for the Monster Of The Week episodes. Mythology-wise, I'd probably say Duane Barry.
04. What's your favorite season of 5?
Much as I enjoyed the show post-Sorkin, particularly the battle between Jimmy Smits and Alan Alda, it was never quite the same when the creator left. And considering the almighty 'get out of that!' crescendo of his final season, I'd have to pick that - season four.
05. Who is your favorite ship in 3?
I've had to google this. Apparently, in young person meme speak, ship (or 'ship) is short for relationship.
I'd probably say Sawyer and Hurley, except they don't seem to have had much time together lately. It's all Sawyer and Miles nowadays, isn't it? Sawyer and somebody, though preferably not Kate.
06. Who is your anti-ship in 2?
Anti-ship? Now you're really starting to confuse / bug me with your hep yoof lingo. But I've lucked out here, since just about every relationship Andy has is an anti-ship. Andy & Lt. Fancy would be the obvious choice.
07. How long have you watched 1?
I watched it from the very first episode, right through to the end. And I still miss it, even though the last couple of seasons were well past their best.
08. How did you become interested in 3?
Again, I watched it from the debut, and was hooked from the off.
09. Who's your favorite actor/actress in 4?
Duchovny. With Anderson a close second.
10. Which do you prefer: Show 1, 2 or 5?
If I had to pick, 2.
11. Which show have you seen more episodes of, 1 or 3?
Lost has now had twice as many episodes, so its the winner by default.
12. If you could be anyone from 4, who would you be?
Mulder, naturally. Though I'd more likely be Skinner.
13. How would you kill off your favorite character in 1?
Why would I want to kill off David Addison? He's my hero!
14. Give a random quote from 1.
The bad guy catches David spying on him from a window ledge...
"What the hell are you doing out there?"
"Me? I'm committing suicide."
"From the second floor?"
"I took poison."
Day 05 – A Song That Reminds You Of Someone
Strangers In The Night will always remind me of my dad. He seemed to be forever whistling or humming it while working in his shed when I was a kid. I haven't heard it on his lips in some time, but whenever I hear Frank, it reminds me of Dad.
My mum hates Frank Sinatra though!
Fans of westerns, comics, and western comics will be on cloud nine over Boot Hill at high noon over the release of Andrew Cheverton and Tim Keable's first hardback collection. Bringing together the first five adventures of mysterious cowboy Jerusalem West in an enviable package, this is one further example of small press comics made good.
I could spend hours constructing a critical review of why you should buy this book, or I could just let Chev do the hard work for me...
A name heard in stories, breathed in whispers.
In some tales, he's a lawman who stands for what's right and fair.
In others, he's a killer - bent on revenge.
Yet more tell of a man wronged by evil and denied his true love, or a brave Union soldier and a true friend.
Some say he fought ancient spirits and killed dead men, shot down the righteous and stood alongside the underdog. Some claim to have killed him, or lost loved ones to his gun.
His name, though, all men can agree on. Told around campfires in the cold prairie night, in the candlelit backrooms of low-rent saloons.
His name was Jerusalem West and these are his stories.
My friends didn't really like Four Lions. Well, they can go write why on their own blogs, because I loved it.
I've been a Chris Morris fan since The Day Today and his cry-laughing (often banned) Radio 1 show. I loved Brass Eye too, though after that I found his humour getting a little more esoteric and hard to follow. Jam and Blue Jam contained moments of genius, yet also a fair bit of sneering and navel-gazing. Nathan Barley, the media-savvy sitcom he worked on with Charlie Brooker, proved a little too vicious and 'in'. And when I heard he was making a film about Islamic terrorism, I expected something razor sharp, searingly controversial, and perhaps too clever for its own good. What I didn't expect was Four Lions.
The most surprising thing about this movie is how warm-hearted it is. How completely uncynical. It features the classic British sitcom premise - a group of lovable idiots on a sliding scale of stupidity trapped in impossible situations of their own devising. It's Father Ted, Blackadder, Fawlty Towers, Only Fools And Horses and 'Allo 'Allo... but most of all - as everyone keeps pointing out - it's Dad's Army... with suicide bombers.
Which still makes it sound more controversial than it actually is. Together with co-writers Jesse Armstrong and Sam Bain (from Peep Show), Morris here uses humour as a wonderful levelling device. It's not so much a cry of "terrorists are people too!", more of "terrorists can be bumbling idiots just like us!" And it's not just a film about finding humour in fanaticism and fundamentalism either. It's also about finding humanity there. The Four Lions themselves are more than just cartoon caricatures, they're fully rounded and hugely sympathetic characters. Riz Ahmed in particular gives a star-making performance as their slightly less dim leader Omar, a young family man with a playfully devoted wife and a strict, traditionalist brother. There are some hugely moving scenes here, scattered amongst the slapstick, verbal idiocy ("Fuck Mini Baby-bel!") and explosions. Actually, the explosions were the one thing I felt didn't quite work. Or rather, they worked for me - I took them as the affecting moments of seriousness and shock that Morris I think intended... but much of the audience took them as further fodder for laughter. Morris says he didn't set out to make fun of people dying, but when so much of his film brings the baw-ha-has, I suppose it's easy for your audience to confuse dramatic punctuation with slapstick. Which is perhaps why I'd be more likely to recommend watching this film at home. The crowd I saw it with spoiled Four Lions slightly by laughing too much. Raucous and over-the-top guffawing at every gag - I was starting to wonder if they were pissed. Particularly the girl who had to nudge her mate and repeat every funny line, and after one particular gag was heard to remark, "ohh, I just proper pooed myself now".
Lovely. While Chris Morris is doing his best to use comedy to convince us we're all the same and blowing people up is wrong, I'm imagining lobbing a stick of gelignite into the row behind. "Fuck Mini Babybel!" indeed.
One Day is a truly great novel. It's a high concept pitch - a friendship / potential romance that spans twenty years, with each chapter following the events of one specific day on consecutive years (July 15th; St. Swithins Day) in the life of its two protagonists. It begins in 1988 when Emma and Dexter meet and almost get it together on the night of their graduation. Though romance doesn't immediately follow, they do become friends whose lives are inextricably linked over the course of the next two decades, as Emma pursues a frustrated career as a writer via McJobs and teaching, and Dexter becomes a minor league TV star and falls under the wheels of life in the fastlane. Much of the fun is seeing where they end up as each year goes by, the ups and downs of life we can all appreciate - especially those of us who grew up in the 80s, then had to grow up some more in the 90s, and might still be at it in the new millennium. Only once does writer David Nicholls (Starter For 10, The Understudy) slip up, opening the chapter on the year 2000 with a recap of the previous few months, rather than leaping straight in to the day on question then gradually revealing how we got there. It's easy to forgive him this one tiny indiscretion though, especially when you read what follows...
Which I can't write about. I won't write about. I won't even allude to. Suffice it to say, this novel doesn't always take the path you'd expect. Which is, ultimately, what sets it far apart from your average romcom. It's also what raises it above your average Nick Hornby relationshipper - and there's no higher praise from a Hornby fan as big as I am. Days later, these characters remain alive in my mind, like friends I saw only last week. I wish I could go back and see them again. One Day deserves to be read by everybody.
No, this, she felt, was real life and if she wasn't as curious or passionate as she once had been, that was only to be expected. It would be inappropriate, undignified, at thirty-eight, to conduct friendships or love affairs with the ardour and intensity of a twenty-two-year-old. Falling in love like that? Writing poetry, crying at pop songs? Dragging people into photo booths, taking a whole day to make a compilation tape, asking people if they wanted to share your bed, just for company? If you quoted Bob Dylan or T.S. Eliot or, God forbid, Brecht at someone these days they would smile politely and step backwards, and who would blame them?
So I turn up at the hospital for the MRI scan on my back, and I'm expecting something like this... 
What I actually get looks more like this...
Turns out I was having my scan in a mobile MRI unit. Still, it was a lot nicer on the inside. Nothing else was what I expected either. I'd been led to believe the MRI machine made a deafening BOOM-BOOM-BOOM! noise while you were in there, like the hammer of Thor pounding the Outhere Brothers, John Lee Hooker and Jazzy Jeff & the Fresh Prince into the sand like tent pegs. But it's actually nothing like that - it's more a mix of Space Invaders, the Close Encounters tones (when they go mental and smash all the windows), bad 90s techno, a toy machine gun and a Spectrum 48K loading. In fact, that was my overriding fear while I was in there, that I was going to come out with Jet Set Willy or Daley Thompson's Decathlon imprinted onto my brainstem. (Charlie Brooker famously described the noise of an MRI machine as being like listening to a 20 minute track by the Aphex Twin - thankfully, I've never had the pleasure.)
At least I managed to hold my claustrophobia at bay. I felt a little strange at first, but was determined not to press the panic button, and soon relaxed into it. I was surprised by how quickly it was over - 20 minutes felt more like 10. And I survived without having any unknown bits of metal wrenched out of my body. That was the fear going in, when the nurse rapidly reeled off her questions...
"Do you have a cardiac pacemaker? A replacement heart valve? Cochlea implants? Surgical clips or hydrocephalus shunt in my head? Have you had surgery in the last six weeks? Have you EVER had any metal fragments in my eyes? Have you ever had to see a doctor about kidney-related trouble?"
No, no, no, no, no... hang on, I'm saying no, but am I sure? What if I'd had a really small metal fragment in my eye, so small I didn't even know about it, but it was still there, just waiting to be ripped out like in that nasty scene with Magneto and the prison guards in X-Men 2? What if I've had a hydrocephalus shunt and no one told me? What if they did it while I was asleep or not looking or via alien abduction or...?
The hypochondriac can never be sure. But I survived. Now I just need to wait for the results. If you'll excuse me, I've got to go collect some objects from The Banyan Tree...*
*Gag will only make sense to children of the 80s, specifically those who owned a Spectrum 48K. Apologies to everyone else, you had to be there.
Let's return to the Speed Dating questions I started turning into a meme last week. Nearly done. Where were we...?
26. Have you ever been stung by a bee?
No, but I have been stung by a wasp. I was a child, on holiday, playing in an apple orchard. Picked up an apple that a wasp was living inside. With hilarious consequences.
27. What's the sickest you've ever been?
Considering my infamous hypocondria, this could be a very long answer. Plus, it depends on your definition of sickest I suppose. I remember when I was a kid I drank some water from the cowshed. Was pretty sick then. Apparently once drank some of my dad's aftershave, with obvious results. And I've had proper flu a couple of times (as opposed to Man Flu), once so bad I had to call out the doctor.
28. What's your favorite form of exercise?
Walking.
29. What's your favorite Cyndi Lauper song?
I used to be something of a Cyndi Lauper fan back in my confused childhood, so I could try and dazzle you with some obscurity... or I could just tell you the truth. It suffers from overexposure, but it's still pretty much unbeatable...
30. What did you do for your 13th birthday?
Sat in my bedroom and sulked, probably. Read comics and listened to Huey Lewis and the News. Whatever, it wasn't that memorable.
31. Are you afraid of heights?
I'm afraid of falling from heights and hitting-the-ground-going-splat. I do get vertigo, but it's normally manageable.
32. Have you ever taken dance lessons?
"I'm a lover not a dancer", to quote Jim Steinman again. There's a part of me would love to be able to old-time dance, but not so much I'd want to take lessons.
33. What's your favorite newspaper?
The Guardian. I tried to think up a smart answer, but decided to be honest instead.
34. What's your favorite Broadway / West End musical?
Certainly not Spider-Man: Turn Off The Dark. Who's writing those songs? Ugh.
I'm not a big fan of musicals, though I have a strange soft spot for Murray Head's song One Night In Bankok, which I believe comes from Chess.
35. What's the most memorable class you've ever taken?
I had one English teacher back in High School who not only encouraged me to write but also gave me an inspiring (off-syllabus) reading list. Thank you, Mr. Shaw.
36. What's your favorite knock-knock joke?
I've been looking through a list of them and I didn't find one that even raised a titter.
37. What's your least favorite commercial?
Adverts are evil. I should know. Which is why I changed this question to 'least favourite'. We Buy Any Car Dot Com is my current bête noire. And I hate that pointless animated advert they always run at the cinema which apparently is for some kind of bottled water, yet has absolutely nothing to do with bottled water. And anything (Pepsi) featuring overpaid football players.
38. If you could go to Disney World with any celebrity alive today, who would it be?
What's Kate Winslet doing this weekend?
If she's not free, I'll take Jeff Bridges... as long as he comes as the Dude.
39. Do you prefer baths or showers?
Showers.
40. What's your favourite newspaper comic strip?
Of all time, I'd probably have to say Garfield, though I haven't read that in years. I do like Dilbert too, though sometimes the references pass me by.
I wish I understood Doonesbury.
41. What's your favorite breakfast food?
At the moment, microwave porridge (apple & blueberry flavour) with a sprinkling of dried cranberries.
42. Who's your favarite game show host?
Stephen Fry. Or Jim Bowen.
43. If you could have a super power, what would it be?
Think I've answered this one before, but mutant healing power just about wins out over flight and invisibility.
44. Do you like guacamole?
Not really. Louise loves it though.
45. Have you ever been in a food fight?
Thankfully not.
46. Name five songs to which you know all the lyrics.
There Is A Light That Never Goes Out.
Wichita Lineman.
Born To Run.
Common People.
The 60's Batman Theme by Neil Hefti.
47. What's your favorite infomercial?
48. What's the longest you've ever waited in line?
I don't like queueing. It's supposed to be something we Brits are good at, but I really hate it. Probably the longest I've had to wait in line was my first day at university, when I was too meek to complain.
49. What's on the cover of your address book or day planner?
My address book is online. My day planner...? Ha, the very idea that I plan my days! I do write loads of notes to myself on folded up bits of A4 paper (usually the reverse side of old scripts so I'm recycling).
50. Have you ever taken a picture in one of those little booths?
Is there anyone who hasn't? I have a passport. I have a driver's license. I've had various other bits of photo id over the years. Surely I'd have had to have lived in a cave to not have required some kind of photo booth photo after all these years?
Have I ever done it for fun?
No.
That's your lot. Now it's your turn.
Day 04 – A Song That Makes You Sad
So much for keeping up with this 30 Days of Song meme. To be fair, I had only decided to post one on days when I didn't have anything else to write about... and I've somehow managed a post a day for the last week, with more stacking up.
Anyway, a song that makes me sad?
The obvious answer was The Reservoir by Shirley Lee (listen to it here, track 6 on Shirley's myspace playlist), which always makes me sob. Actual wet tears. It centres on Shirley's relationship with his late father, and features the most heartbreaking use of an ansaphone message I've ever heard in popular music. Or anywhere else for that matter.
However, because it's not on youtube, and because I've talked about it - and its effects - often before... I thought I'd pick something else...
Johnny Cash's final posthumous album, American VI: Ain't No Grave, was released earlier this year. I've been a big fan of the American Recordings series, the albums Cash cut with producer Rick Rubin in the last few years of his life, but this one's almost too painful to listen to. Cash's voice sounds so frail and beaten, in stark contrast to the defiant tone of the lyrics, it's a sad testament to the way old age lays waste to even the strongest and proudest among us.
A little walk from the back of our house there is a lovely secluded valley with a stream in the bottom and steep sides covered in ferns and bilberry bushes. Walking up there the other night, I noticed a strange shape high on the hilltops...
Rearing proud and erect from the horizon, it cast long shadows from the setting sun. I just had to climb up and investigate...
It seems our local cairn-builder has returned, with his biggest project to date. Size isn't everything of course, but this one's still a whopper. The kind of cairn people write spam emails about. Hung like our parliament. I'm thinking of calling it Liam Neeson...
This will be a gig review in two parts.
The first part will be to describe an excellent show by the almighty Flight Of The Conchords, performing the greatest hits from their first two (and sadly, it appears, only two) TV series, along with a couple of new songs, and the kind of humorous, self-aware banter you'd expect from Bret and Jemaine. Opening the show with Too Many Dicks On The Dancefloor, they roared through a varied two hour set including classics like Carol Brown, Hurt Feelings, I'm Not Crying, Mutha'uckas, The Most Beautiful Girl (In The Room) and Bowie, climaxing with a rocking Demon Woman before returning for the inevitable encores of Business Time, Hiphopopotamus vs. Rhymenoceros, We're Both In Love With A Sexy Lady, and the aural eyecandy of Suga-Lumps...
Two hours just isn't enough Conchords though - I was sorry to miss favourites like You Don't Have To Be A Prostitute, Fashion Is Danger, Inner City Pressure and Rambling Through The Avenues Of Time... but you can't have everything. The Conchords certainly found that out in Manchester... they couldn't even have a decent venue or a respectful audience.
Which brings me to the second part of this review. The Manchester Apollo. God, I hate that venue. Hate, hate, hate. I've actually resisted seeing a good number of artists and comedians live, purely because they chose the Apollo. I couldn't let that stop me seeing the Conchords, but once again that awful venue did its best to spoil the show - starting with the obnoxious bouncers who insisted on searching Louise's bag and taking her water bottle away because "you might throw it at the stage" (why don't you just be honest and say - "because we want to make you pay £3.50 at the bar"?), a policy that proved both sexist and inconsistent - they only searched the women's bags for contraband, so didn't even bother to check that I had a bottle in my own jacket pocket. These self-same Security-Nazis proceeded to prowl the aisles during the show, shouting at full voice at anyone who took out their phone to film the gig. "Put that away or I'll take it off you!" Longtime readers will know I have little time for audiences who watch shows through the viewfinder of a cameraphone - but I still don't want to hear burly knuckleheads bellowing like petulant teachers while the act is on stage.
That said, the audience was even worse. No matter the quality of the act, the Apollo is the sort of venue that always seems to draw the dregs of humanity. Pissed up slappers wandering the aisles screeching at each other, again while Bret & Jemaine were speaking. Cretins who shouted out song requests whenever the performers paused for breath. Humourless, inebriated hecklers who thought themselves funnier than the act (and were frequently proved wrong) spoiling the show for everyone else. Afterwards, I wanted to personally apologise to New Zealand's fourth most popular guitar-based digi-bongo acapella-rap-funk-comedy folk duo on behalf of my idiotic countrymen. Hopefully the Conchords won't let this prevent them returning to Manchester, but next time guys - ANYWHERE BUT THE APOLLO!
For those of you who pay special attention to my music posts but skip on to your next blog whenever I start talking about comics, can I just say that this post will feature The Long Blondes, TV On The Radio, CSS, Dexys Midnight Runners, The Pipettes, Blondie, The Smiths and others. It may look like a comics post, but appearances can be deceiving.
The first Phonogram collection was a good read.
The second Phonogram collection is an excellent read. This time round, writer Kieron Gillen and artist Jamie McKelvie have delivered on their promise to meld comics and pop/indie music in a way nobody's ever succeeded before. And I should know, I spent a good few years trying to do just that myself.
One thing I like about comics is that they're often a light, quick read. Fifteen minutes an issue, an hour for a collection. I read enough novels that take a week or more to get through, comics are often a good antidote to that, a hit-and-run fast fiction fix. But not all comics are so easily digested. Certain titles have depth and layers that reward, nay demand, repeated reading. Watchmen is the classic example that everyone always talks about. There's so much going on in every panel of that book, you'll miss half the story if you only read it once. I hesitate to make the comparison, but it's unavoidable really. Phonogram: The Singles Collection could well be the cult music-magic Watchmen. There really is that much going on here.
Originally released as a seven issue limited series, each chapter tells the story of one night in the life of eight different characters (chapter 4 features 2 characters: DJs Seth Bingo and Silent Girl). That night is December 23rd, 2006. All the stories intertwine because all the characters spend much of the evening in the same location - an indie disco playing only records with female singers, where everybody is expected to dance, and no phonomancy (music-inspired magic) is allowed.
These characters are... Penny B, a pretty yet slightly naive young blonde who lives to dance and falls for the wrong boy in the room. All she wants is for the DJs to play Pull Shapes by the Pipettes, but man, Seth Bingo hates that record. The object of Penny's affection is Marc, a pretty boy haunted by the ghost of an otherworldly romance gone bad. Then there's Emily Aster, who along with her phonomancing friend David Kohl, appeared in the previous book. Emily hates indie music, but could that be because it reminds her of a past she's managed to trap and hide, even from herself? The hauntings continue.
Seth and Silent Girl just want everybody to dance. But DJing is a stressful business, especially when nobody will follow the rules. Penny B's best friend is Laura Heaven, an insecure girl obsessed with The Long Blondes (to the point that she models herself entirely on lead singer Kate Jackson) who can't have a conversation without quoting lyrics... what will it take to get her to have an original thought of her own? Then there's Marc's friend Lloyd, whose personal manifesto was written by Kevin Rowland & Dexys, and who's had a really good idea for a band... if only he can get someone to listen to it. Finally there's Kid With Knife, Kohl's apprentice phonomancer who just wants to get off his head on music (like TV On The Radio)... and what's wrong with that?
All these tales tangle together portmanteau style (which is why a second reading is essential), helped along by Gillen's sharp and witty script and McKelvie's cool, clean line visuals (in heavenly colour too, this time... you're spoiling us!) Like Nick Hornby and very few others, these guys have found a way to translate their passion for music into the medium of storytelling, and what I love most about this book is how none of the characters can agree on the music they like. They each share certain touchstones, but there's no universal consensus on anything. Not even The Smiths! And there shouldn't be either. Because music is as individual as we are... so I forgive Gillen when he hates on Suede, and totally resist the urge to shout, "The Pipettes? Get into The Indelicates, man!"*, because this book is all about being an individual. It's about how music takes you out of yourself, without the need for spells or artificial stimulants. As Eddie Argos says on the back cover, this book "feels like a lovingly crafted mixtape from a best friend. What could possibly be better than that?"
Nothing. Not even Dexys.
(*Though I did react in horror in the afterword when Gillen confesses to never having read any Spider-Man comics with Gwen Stacy in. Hey, I can be as tolerant as the next guy, but... really?!)
So it's a hung parliament, which as Christine pointed out in yesterday's comments may be appealing to some women in the audience... but only if you don't look those smugly old mps in the face. Hanged would be far more appealing to most of us. Bad news in my own constituency, which fell to the dark side I'm afraid. Even worse, not only is our new MP a Tory - he's a bloody TV presenter to! Oh, the shame.
What's most shocking - what's always most shocking about elections - is how many people don't even bother to vote. Approximately a third of the country by the estimates I read, though it's equally shocking that many willing voters were actually turned away from their polling stations. But I'm not here to talk politics...
(Though wasn't it lovely to see Nick Griffin get a kicking? Billy Bragg will be pleased about that at least.)
No, what I'm here to talk about today is the potential hostage situation / kidnapping we foiled last night. Or not, as it turned out.
As I'm leaving work, walking up to the car park get fetch my car, I hear this loud banging noise behind me. I don't think much of it, get in my car, and drive out of the car park. As I'm doing that, I glance across the road where something catches my eye in the window of a ground floor flat. It takes a while to register what I've seen, and even then I'm not entirely sure I didn't imagine it (particularly as it's only last weekend I watched The Disappearance Of Alice Creed). But what I think I've seen... what I'm almost certain I've seen... was a young woman banging on the window with her hands bound together and masking tape over her face. Come off it, my common sense says, even if that's what you saw - it's got to be a wind-up. But what if it wasn't? What if my inaction results in something awful? I pull over the car and call my boss. "Just pop up to the car park, see if you see anything strange, will you?"
He does. He sees what I saw. Except it's not a woman, it's a young man. Bound and gagged and banging on the window. Except... it doesn't look right to him either. It looks like a wind-up. Not least because even with his hands tied together, there's nothing to stop him reaching up and removing the tape from his mouth. It all looks a little half-arsed as kidnappings go. But still... what do you do? If it's real and he does nothing...
So boss calls the police. When he sees him doing so, the young man with the gag draws the blinds. But it's too late now. The call is made. The police, even after the boss has explained he thinks it's probably just someone dicking about, have to respond. Three cop cars arrive in minutes, storm the flat and...
Yes, it was all a wind-up. But what sort of person does that for a wind-up - how did they really expect passers-by to respond? Anyone with a conscience would have called the police. Surely? Because there's always the chance it's for real. When I first called the boss, I was worried that I hadn't reacted soon enough myself. Should I have turned around and driven back down there? Should I have tried to break in and rescue the victim? Of course, if I'd done either of those things I'd have just ended up looking a dick myself. (I'm certainly no hero... but I don't want to be an uncaring bystander either.) If this had been a film, the moment I saw the hostage would have been the moment their kidnapper returned to lock them away from prying eyes. I'd have had that split second to react... What would you have done?
A wise man once said, "if you want people to keep reading your blog, never write about religion or politics... or Tom Hanks movies". Yet how do I avoid that, today of all days?
In case you don't know, it's Election Day in the UK. It's potentially the closest election in years, certainly the most bitterly fought, and (depending on your point of view) the most dangerous. Though I rarely talk political allegiances, longtime readers will have a fair idea where I stand on such things, though I'm under no misapprehension that my opinion will sway your vote one way or the other. You'll either agree, or you'll chalk another tick up on your 'this bloke's an idiot' board. What do I care?
What follows then is an... as unbiased as I can make it (i.e. not very)... rundown of my Top Ten Election Day songs.
But before we start, how about a song for each of the three main leaders? (Apologies to my Scottish pals, I couldn't find anything for Alex Salmond.)
For Gordon, Jilted John. (Cruel, maybe, but it was this or the Stranglers pun again.)
For Nick, an ironic slice of festive Beach Boys.
For David, because he's always banging on about what an indie kid he is, how about some Pulp?
Now over to Number Ten for the results...
10. Election Day by Arcadia (aka Nick Rhodes and Simon Le Bonbon from Duran Duran).
Let's get this one out of the way, shall we? The link above is to the full 8 minute version, which I've never had the pleasure of before. It features dry ice, cocktails, bombast, writhing girls in short leather dresses with too much make-up, soulless boardrooms, big hair, shoulder pads, meaningful glances, wine bars, pig-headed shadowplay, Freudian tunnels, trenchcoats, bad dancing... and smug, millionaire Tories.
Truly, it's everything that was wrong with the 80s in one horrendous video.
Although it does contain the lyric...
"Will you embrace
His penis is reckless?"
On the night of the election
Ancient stars will fall into the sea
And the ocean floor sings her sympathy
I will stop, I will stop at nothing.
Say the right things when electioneering
I trust I can rely on your vote.
When I go forwards you go backwards
and somewhere we will meet.
When I go forwards you go backwards
and somewhere we will meet.
Ha ha ha
When one voice rules the nation
Just because they're on top of the pile
Doesn't mean their vision is the clearest
The voices of the people
Are falling on deaf ears
Our politicians all become careerists
They must declare their interests
But not their company cars
Is there more to a seat in parliament
Then sitting on your arse?
And the best of all this bad bunch
Are shouting to be heard
Above the sound of ideologies clashing
Outside the patient millions
Who put them into power
Expect a little more back for their taxes
Like school books, beds in hospitals
And peace in our bloody time
All they get is old men grinding axes
Who've built their private fortunes
On the things they can rely
The courts, the secret handshake
The stock exchange and the old school tie
For god and queen and country
All things they justify
Above the sound of ideologies clashing
God bless the civil service
The nations saving grace
While we expect democracy
They're laughing in our face
And although our cries get louder
Their laughter gets louder still
Above the sound of ideologies clashing
I'm writing a short story about icebreakers and conversation starters (I might post it here when it's done... if you're really unlucky), so I went online looking for one of those "Art Of Conversation" articles for research purposes... and came across this... which seemed ideal meme material. After all, my speed-dating days are long behind me.
I like most of these questions. They're a little more fun (and less generic) than a lot of memes that are doing the rounds...
1. What's your favorite Dr. Seuss book?
The Cat In The Hat. Probably. It's years since I read any Dr. Seuss.
2. If you could live in any home on a television series, what would it be?
I wouldn't mind living in Sawyer's shack on the beach of the Lost island. As long as the smoke monster kept away. Otherwise, I'd settle for Mr. and Mrs. C's place in Happy Days.
3. What's the longest you've gone without sleep?
Probably about 24 hours, which I realise isn't very long, but I don't function well without sleep. I get cranky... er.
4. What's your favorite Barry Manilow song?
Tough one. Mandy, Bermuda Triangle, Can't Smile Without You... you can't beat a bit of Bazza boogie. Probably this one...
5. Who's your favorite Muppet?
I particularly like Beaker, the Swedish Chef, Animal, Sweetums and Statler & Waldorf. But there's something about Gonzo's crushed optimism that makes him my number one.
6. What's the habit you're proudest of breaking?
I'd probably say drinking, but I didn't have a whole lot of choice in that.
Watching Deal Or No Deal. That took real willpower!
7. What's your favorite website?
Probably this one. (Go on, click on it, it's better than porn! Well, it's less shameful than porn.)
8. What's your favorite school supply?
What now? What, you mean like HB pencils and jotters? (Do they even have jotters anymore - or do children nowadays just snort pure liquid internet?)
9. Who's your favorite TV attorney?
I'd have to say Shark, 'cos I love James Woods. If he's not available, I want Victor Sifuentes from LA Law. Screw Perry Mason!
10. What was your most recent trip of more than 50 miles?
Down to Birmingham for the wedding of the year!
11. What's the best bargain you've ever found at a garage sale or junk shop?
Hmm. Not sure. I don't spend a lot of time in junk shops and flea markets anymore. eBay is probably as close as I get. I remember when I was a kid picking up a big chunk of the Claremont/Byrne Dark Phoenix Saga for 10p each at a junk shop in Bridlington. I was so excited I almost killed billions of bug-eyed aliens in the process.
12. Where were you on September 11, 2001?
At work. We watched it live on the TV in the newsroom. That night, having seen enough of it on TV, I had to escape. I went to the local cinema which was showing a reissue of Breakfast At Tiffany's. New York in happier times.
13. What's your favorite tree?
I like big trees, and the biggest ones round our neck of the woods are oak and sycamore. Looking out our front window, we see a wall of trees across the valley. It's wonderful to watch them coming back to life now, all the different colours. Beautiful.
14. What's the most interesting biography you've read?
Morrissey & Marr: The Severed Alliance... or Things The Grandchildren Should Know.
15. What do you order when you eat Chinese food?
I like sweet & sour chicken or chicken with cashew nuts, with soft noodles.
16. What's the best costume you've ever worn?
Easier to answer the worst costume I ever wore, when I decided to go to that Sixth Form disco as The Joker. Wasn't much chance of me getting a snog with white face paint dripping everywhere. (Wasn't much chance of me getting a snog anyway.)
Best costume? Possibly The Grim Reaper.
17. What's your least favorite word?
Bespoke. Synergy. Brand. Etc.
18. If you had to be named after one of the 50 states, which would it be?
Certainly not Oklahoma! Can you imagine how annoying that'd be, everyone singing Howard Keel songs at you as greeting.
I dunno... Arizona? Tennessee? Washington?
Nah, it's got to be Indiana.
19. Who's your favorite bear?
Originally, this question involved the Care Bears, but as I am unfamiliar with their work, I didn't care.
My favourite bear in real life is my old Huggy Bear, my childhood teddy. Still have him on the bookshelf, minus his nose which Nip the dog chewed off years ago.
My favourite fictional bear is probably Paddington. I dig the stare.
20. Describe something that's happened to you for which you have no explanation.
My ghost story.
21. If you could travel anywhere in Africa, where would it be?
Hmm... Casablanca?
22. What did you have for lunch yesterday?
Same as today - ham & cheese sandwich, apple, banana and bio-yoghurt. I did also treat myself to a bag of Marmite-coated cashew nuts yesterday, but I think I overdid it.
23. Where do you go for advice?
On what?
Generally, the internet.
24. Which do you use more often, the dictionary or the thesaurus?
Hmm. This is a trick question, right?
As Roddy Doyle says in his advice for writers...
Do keep a thesaurus, but in the shed at the back of the garden or behind the fridge, somewhere that demands travel or effort. Chances are the words that come into your head will do fine, eg "horse", "ran", "said".
I didn't think much of Gemma Arterton. Call it the curse of the Bond girls. Or the fact that the first time I saw her was in Guy Ritchie's woeful RocknRolla. Or the fact that she's lined up to add glamour to two of this year's least interesting summer blockbusters, Clash Of The Titans and Prince Of Persia. Admittedly, I warmed to her slightly when I saw her on Jonathan Ross, talking about the fact that she was born with six fingers on each hand and six toes on each foot. Then I heard she'd been getting stick in the press for her weight - preposterous, she's just a normal-sized woman... but normal-sized tends to stand out amid Hollywood stick insects (ask Kate Winslet) - anyway, that was another point in her favour.
Still, none of this prepared me The Disappearance Of Alice Creed. It's an excellent performance for a number of reasons. Firstly there's that controversial opening scene. Kidnapped, tied to a bed, stripped naked - it's all very unglamorous, frightening, and not at all played for titillation. (Thankfully there's no sexual motivation behind Alice's abduction, the bad guys are concerned merely with forensics.) It's a world away from the Goldfinger-riffing naked oil death that everyone remembers from Quantum Of Solace. Fair play to all involved in that scene, particularly writer/director J. Blakeston, for making it as disturbing as it needed to be.
Secondly there's the slow burn revelation of Alice Creed's character. If you've read anything about this movie, you'll know a couple of things. 1) It features a cast of three actors, and three actors only. 2) There are twists aplenty. With that in mind, you're expecting some kind of big surprise regarding Alice's predicament from the off. Fortunately, those twists aren't the ones you might guess. Added to that, Arterton plays Alice as neither terrified victim nor helpless innocent. She's cunning. She's smart. She's got a vaguely nasty, almost grubby side to her personality that adds an extra layer to her dilemma - and that of her kidnappers. You do sympathise with her, you do cheer when she gets one over on them (briefly), yet she's not exactly a likable heroine. You get the feeling that if you met her under different circumstances she'd come across as a spoilt brat, a gobby cow, or a heartless wench. Which is refreshing - too often in films, victims are presented as meek and entirely virtuous... dull, in other words. Arterton's Alice Creed is a fully formed, three dimensional creation, and it pegs her as an actress to watch in the future. (I'm particularly excited to see her cast in the forthcoming adaptation of Posy Simmonds' Tamara Drewe.)
That said, I did feel something was missing from this film. I kept comparing it to Danny Boyle's stylish debut, Shallow Grave, which shared its small cast, claustrophobic setting and twisty plot. But The Disappearance Of Alice Creed is much less fun. Played entirely straight, with none of Shallow Grave's gallows humour, at times it's a little too bleak to handle. There are some attempts to inject levity, notably a very Danny Boyle-esque scene involving a toilet bowl that refuses to flush, yet the humour fails to lift us. And while Alice's character benefits from a darker streak, I could have done with a little more empathy for her kidnappers. Meanwhile, all that hype about the cast of three, and three alone, tends to limit our expectations for the film's climax. There are certain things you know won't happen, which leaves the ending, while not entirely predictable, less of a surprise than it might have been.
Still, Gemma Arterton... six fingers good.
Day 03 – A Song That Makes You Happy
I'm almost embarrassed to tell this story, and I'm never embarrassed by anything I write on this blog. (What do you mean I ought to be?)
Back when I was a much younger man, far more naïve in the ways of the world, a lonely romantic with extra helpings of hopeless, I had this crazy scheme for using this song to woo the woman with whom I was smitten on that particular Thursday. Perhaps inspired by the feelgood closing credits of There's Something About Mary, I decided I would film my own video for it, getting all our friends and work colleges to join in, singing and dancing along while I mimed to the lyrics. Of course, it was never going to happen - not least because I didn't even own a video camera. (All right, I suppose I could have rented one... but my romantic dreams seldom extended to spending actual money.) Besides, none of the people we both knew would have been remotely interested in helping me make such an arse of myself. And even if they had - and I had... we wouldn't have been right for each other anyway. I only fancied her because she was just about the only single woman I knew at that time, and I'd foolishly convinced myself she vaguely resembled Kate Winslet. If you squinted. In a really dark room. With masking tape over your eyes.
Anyway, despite all that, I still love this song. And when asked for a song that makes me happy, this was the first to pop into my mind. The embarrassing memories came later...
The penultimate issue of Paul Rainey's There's No Time Like The Present has finally materialized and it's as brain-meltingly wonderful as everything that's gone before, answers a number of long-running questions and time travel conundrums, guest stars a man with an enormous horn on his head, a transvestite cowgirl, and an extremely hairy muppet-man. There's also a final page reveal that leaves longtime readers ambushing the postman while we impatiently await the final extra-sized issue. And Paul draws really cool cows. I'm looking forward to the collection.
Start reading the story online, from the beginning, here. 
The insane genius of Ralph Kidson is back - with four DIY mini-comics that recall the very best of the small press heyday. Ralph is testament to the fact that you don't need flashy production methods to make a great comic - a pen and a photocopier does just fine, as long as you've got good material.
His latest comics include Doctor's Waiting Room (as soul-destroyingly well-observed as it sounds), Dalek Home Guard (crossing Daleks with Dad's Army long before Mark Gatiss did so), Fighting Snail Marines (an old Jack Kirby war comic with added snail action) and - my personal favourite - Animal Job Centre in which a frustrated squirrel seeks employment (preferably 'squirrel-based', as opposed to the vacancies for badgers and dogs). I'd thoroughly recommend them all - at 50p a pop, you can't go wrong. Email Ralph for details... ralphiek at bt internet dot com.
Day 02 – Your Least Favorite song
Which proves much more difficult than picking a favourite. My first thought was to choose some really awful cover - say some grubby travesty Mark Ronson's had his perverted little hands on - but that's hardly the fault of the song, is it?
These days, if I don't like a song, I generally try not to listen to it. Still, if I think back I'm sure I'll remember all kinds of monstrosities I'd gladly never hear again... particularly from the days when I worked downstairs in the record library and there was no escape.
Horrors such as... Michael Bolton, Jive Bunny, Mariah Carey, Vanilla Ice, Milli Vanilli, S-Express, U2, Ace Of Base, Whigfield, Celine Dion, M People, The Vengaboys, Simply Red, Aqua, Steps, Westlife, James Blunt, Crazy Frog and Gina G. Not to mention anything remotely techno or ravey, anything where people say 'one time' for no reason at all, anything Elton John has done since Princess Di died, a huge amount of records that feature the word 'featuring' as part of the artist's name (though not all of them), anything sung by a football team, most things sung by soap or reality TV stars, and anything Oasis or the Stereophonics shat out in the 21st century.
But one song I hate above all others? I'm not sure I can narrow it down.
However, here's one I really used to despise.
I remember getting terribly hot under the collar about this record when I was 17. The charts were in a terrible state as it was, and here was another pair of Stock, Aitken and Waterman-produced goons telling me they'd rather jack than Fleetwood Mac.
Who needs Pink Floyd, Dire Straits?
That's not our music, it's out of date
Demographic stereo
They never play the songs we know
Posts
All Comments
