Chimpomatic

Somers Town

(dir. Shane Meadows)

Optimum

Young runaway Tomo leaves Nottingham and gets the train to London's King's Cross, before getting mugged and losing all his posessions. He falls in with Polish immigrant Marek, who has moved to England with his father - a builder at the new St. Pancras station who passes the evenings drinking with his mates. The two boys develop a friendship with french waitress Maris - all the time growing closer themselves.

Shane Meadows black and white follow-up to his superb Dead Man's Shoes and This Is England takes a simple premise and fleshes it out with outstanding performances and a lightness of touch. The film realistically portrays the birth of a friendship and the genuines camaradarie between two boys from different circumstances and the pains of growing up - and the acting is superb, particularly from Thomas Turgoose, who displays a baffling assuredness and confidence for a fifteen year-old.

Some controversy surrounds the film's production - as it was revelaed that it was produced by advertising agency Mother, on behalf of it's client, Eurostar. While the sponsors input is not overt in the Casino Royale sense ("Is that a Rolex? No, Omega"), it is present and it's most substantial effect is possibly the restriction of the film entering the kind of difficult territory that Dean Man's Shoes or This is England delved into. Without any real antagonism, the film doesn't move forward very far and settles instead for being a funny and charming portal of a new friendship, rather than explore the notions of immigration, homelssness and exploitation that it merely touches on.

Even though Tomo can't possibly have a passport the boys don't bunk the train, but manage to take a trip to Paris (only two hours away!) in search of their first love. This scene perhaps sums up the film's best aspects, with the earlier black & white photography serving as a counterpoint to this eventual Super 8 nostalgia that looks fondly upon coming of age. At 75 minutes this serves as more of an EP that a full-length, but it provides enough evidence that Meadows has a mature confidence behind the camera that shows yet more promise of great things to come.

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8th Sep 2008 - Add Comment - Tweet

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Radiohead

Victoria Park, London

June 24th, 2008

In our recent interview with Silver Jews front man David Berman, he described festivals as a form of mass date-rape, where you get a load of willing victims into a field and rob them of what they think they hold dear. He also directed a few comments towards Radiohead, so while I stood for hours in a queue for beer in Victoria Park for the first night of the Radiohead extravaganza, my thoughts turned towards Berman's comments and what he might make of this. The band had turned Victoria Park into their own festival and it was huge. Swarms of people queued for food and drink, Berman would have puked. When the band started up, my intentions of getting near to the front were seriously downgraded so I had to settle for 80 meters back catching a fleeting glimpse of the pin prick on the horizon that I presumed was Thom Yorke.

So the venue was way too big, there were way too many dickheads in the crowd who had clearly come to chat to one-another rather than watch the show and I was way too far away for my liking. But, the music was sensational. I realised that night that Radiohead's music needs to be heard under an open sky. In this context it doesn't matter where you are standing as simply turning your gaze skyward releases this music into infinity where it belongs. It was such a still night and the sound drifted across to me perfectly. Set-wise it was a different story to the Hammersmith gig in 2006, with pretty much all of In Rainbows getting a thorough airing along with many choice morsels from Kid Amnesiac. Hail To The Thief was severely neglected with only There There representing and when any of the older songs cropped up they were not your usual choices. But this was the story of the night for me. I've heard Karma Police, Paranoid Android, The Bends and Fake Plastic Trees countless times live, but tonight it was a case of rediscovering under appreciated gems. Jonny Greenwood excelled himself on many occasions but his layered sampling on Climbing Up The Walls was truly stunning and coupled with Yorke's hauntingly lazy vocals this emerged as a surprising high point.

With each Radiohead gig I attend, I crave less and less these old favorites as the new songs - whether released or not - are so fresh and live. In Rainbows doubled in size under this still night sky with songs like Reckoner, Jigsaw and the chilling atmospherics of Videotape beaming up into the air with euphoric majesty. As Yorke retreated to the second drum kit for Bangers & Mash, Jonny Greenwood was left unattended up the front - an opportunity he seized with both hands providing a seriously fucked up, twisted version of this already raw track with avant guard screeches darting from his contorted guitar like a modern-day Coltrane. The whole evening was brought to an all too early close with one of the best moments of the night. The two big screens that flanked the stage displayed some multi angle camera work split into 4 sections, but as the opening chords of You And Who's Army? crept into view the whole screen was filled with a huge Yorke eye as he stretched up to pear into the lens. This minimal song with it's weary vocals accompanied by this all-seeing eye was mesmerising and as it gave way to the frenetic beats of Idioteque the night was complete.

Outdoor gigs always take shape as night falls and never has this been more true than here. As Yorke emerged after the encore and played a stripped down piano version of The Eraser's Cymbal Rush you could have heard a pin drop out there in that park. The shear size of the venue occasionally diluted the experience, as it's hard to feel connected to a band when you're so far away - but for a long term fan like myself to be reintroduced to songs I know so well is a treat and an unexpected delight. This band have all bases covered, from the light show to the live video art that attempts to do way more than simply show the people at the back what's going on. I would have to disagree with Mr. Berman, as on leaving the park I was buoyant with having been in the presence of greatness and though I strained to see anything and queued for an eternity in my own personal headspace I was flying.

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27th Jun 2008 - 1 comments - Add Comment - Tweet

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Tell No One

(dir, Guillaume Canet)

Based on Harlan Coben's novel, Tell No One (or Ne le dis à personne as they say in France) follows the story Alex Beck, whose wife is murdered. Eight years later he finds himself implicated in another murder, when suddenly he receives an email - apparently from his dead wife.

Harlan Coben is is known for his twisting story-lines and surprisingly the novel is seamlessly transposed from the US to Paris - making for a quintessentially French film. The French seem to be hitting all the right notes with this kind of plausible thriller recently - from Caché to 36 Quai des Orfèvres. It's a solid piece of work which is genuinely thrilling and mysterious, while eschewing much of the Hollywood attention-grabbing antics that Brit films go for - focusing instead on a good story, good script and good acting. That's not to say it doesn't have any style, as it's very well directed with a some thoughtful camera work in all the appropriate places, as well as some superbly edited set pieces. Dustin Hoffman-alike François Cluzet is convincing in the thoroughly confused lead role and a nicely worked sub-plot ties some suburban Parisian gang-bangers to great effect.

At the end of the day there's maybe a twist too far, but in an age of unwarranted pyrotechnics and fanfare this is an old-fashioned thriller that comes thoroughly recommended. 

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17th Jun 2008 - Add Comment - Tweet

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Shine A Light

(dir. Martin Scorsese)

If you're into the Stones, Martin Scorsese's new concert film is a treat. Stacks of cameras roam around the small concert hall, getting in so close you can see Mick Jagger's fillings and the deep lines carved on their faces. It's like watching the Mount Rushmore heads rock out.

After the brief intro section that has Scorsese stressing about the setlist, and the Clintons showing up to shake hands backstage and welcome them onto stage, it's pretty much two hours of solid hits from the Bigger Bang tour, spanning their loooooong back catalogue. Start Me Up, Jumping Jack Flash, Satisfaction, Sympathy For The Devil etc are all there, but what's cool is that they also head into some of the slightly more obscure numbers - She Was Hot, Shattered, Faraway Eyes, and a great acoustic version of As Tears Go By.

Jack White sits in on Loving Cup, Christina Aguilera shows up for a little pantomime bump 'n grind with Mick on Live With Me, and Buddy Guy storms through Champagne And Reefer, earning himself a guitar from Keith Richards in the process. These breaks are also complemented by the traditional give-Mick-a-breather bit where Keith and Ronnie Wood take over - and also by some nicely placed retro footage from their whole career, reminding you just how they got here. No real shots of Brian Jones, Bill Wyman or Mick Taylor, which is a little odd maybe, but this is really about the Stones now. Over and over as the decades pass in the interview clips they're asked how long they think they can still keep going. The answer seems to be: as long as they're still here. There's a great shot of Charlie Watts early on, smiling into the camera - exhausted, but loving it. Can't ask for much more.

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12th Apr 2008 - Add Comment - Tweet

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Son Of Rambow

(dir Garth Jennings 2008)

Paramount Vantage

Journey back to the 80s in this good-natured film, a world filled with bleached highlights, dodgy pirate videos and French exchange students with asymmetrical T-shirts.

Sheltered Will (Bill Milner) isn’t allowed to watch TV at school because of his family’s strict religious views. Bad boy Lee Carter (Will Poulter) is constantly being kicked out of class. They meet in the hall outside their classrooms, where Lee bullies Will into helping him make a film to enter in Screentest (an 80s BBC film competition for kids). When it transpires that Will’s TV-less imagination has been on full throttle while he’s supposed to have been studying the bible, Lee knows he’s onto a winner, and their reworking of Rambo, Son Of Rambow, is born. The English countryside is soon filled with pint-sized Nam vets exploding things and generally battling the forces of evil.

There’s lots to enjoy here: the 80s details all feel pretty accurate, it’s affectionate, and does a good job of bringing the two outsiders together. But it never quite kicks into full throttle – there are lots of scenes, like the 6th form common room, or the Adam Buxton cameo (he shot the recent Radiohead online stuff with them, fact fans), which feel like the Hammer & Tongs team  just wanted to include them, without really thinking about their place in the film’s narrative; it’s a lot looser than it might have been.

That said, it’s always good to see a British film that avoids the costume drama/romcom track, and it’s certainly not a waste of time – more that ultimately it doesn't fully deliver on the concept's promise.

Like Be Kind Rewind, this is a film dedicated to the spirit of the VHS age, when you could stick a tape into a giant portable camera and lug it around while you filmed your adventures. But that’s almost the problem – it’s a film that talks about that moment when you first discover the power of cinema, rather than giving a new generation that moment for itself; nostalgia rather than first-hand excitement. Funny it’s coming out just before the new Rambo too.

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5th Feb 2008 - Add Comment - Tweet

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Cloverfield

(dir. Matt Reeves)

Bad Robot

boom... BOOM... BOOM...

MULTIPLE SIGHTINGS OF CASE DESIGNATE "CLOVERFIELD"

CAMERA RETRIEVED AT INCIDENT SITE U.S. 447

AREA FORMERLY KNOWN AS "CENTRAL PARK"

From the moment this film kicks in, with a pounding THX rumble and a Classified Department of Defence logo stamped over a black screen, you know you're in for a ride. It's the 9/11 Godzilla, a Blair Witch Ghidorah, a Handicam Ebirah loaded with post-millenium lo-fi paranoia, confusion and panic, that lives up to all the Slusho/1-18-08 viral hype.

The conceit is that we're watching found footage from the night of a mysterious attack on NYC. We start at a going away party. A bunch of hip New Yorkers are hanging out while one of them is walking around trying to get the others to say nice things for their buddy before he heads off to Japan. It's a nice touch - there's a reason for the camera to be there, it makes total sense that you'd keep filming if something like this really did happen - there's a few scenes with other people simultaneously freaking out and getting their phone-cams out. It also gets us used to the jump-cut edits before everything goes nuts.

And when it does? It's a rush - you're thrown in with the WTF reactions of the partygoers, rushing up the stairs in their heels to the roof to see what's blown the city's power and is making such a noise outside. Instead of the omniscient perspective we're used to in monster movies — skipping around from the military, to the government, to the ordinary guy who knows the secret to defeating the thing if only he could just get to whoever's in charge, and back to the monster — here we're stuck on the ground with the crowds screaming through the streets, rushing into electronic stores and catching snatches of news on TVs before zipping back outside where tanks are suddenly crashing through the traffic and there's the briefest of glimpses of something smashing skyscrapers or chucking the Statue Of Liberty's head around...

It's a great concept, simply realised. The terror's effective, the shooting style produces some brilliantly frustrating moments when the camera's dropped on the ground so you can't really see what's happening - the old less-is-more trick, but thrown into the mix here, one that captures that sense of a bunch of cynical urban citizens who can't quite believe that they're really under siege by some unknown thing.

In a way, that seems to be the point here - it's an obvious allegory for terrorist attack; the sudden unknown presence of "hostile aliens" smashing into the everyday reality of people living their lives without any real grasp of a world outside their own. Smoke billows through the streets, phone signals are lost, no-one knows which way to go until the army show up barking orders through loud-hailers. As a cinematic experience it's pretty visceral - 84 minutes (yes! a short flim at last!) of shakycam is enough to make anyone dizzy - don't sit too near the front for this one.

A creature feature with something to say, Cloverfield delivers on the hype.

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20th Jan 2008 - Add Comment - Tweet

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Be Kind Rewind

Dir Michel Gondry

Partizan

Highly enjoyable homage to the joys of hanging out in a video store from general genius Michel Gondry. Mos Def plays the Be Kind Rewind employee left in charge when store owner Danny Glover heads off on a mission to work out why no-one's coming to their shop anymore (clue: errr, they don't stock DVDs). Jack Black is his goof-off friend working in a junk yard in the neighbourhood and generally causing trouble. Without giving too much away, all the tapes in the shop get wiped, so they start shooting their own versions  of films like Driving Miss Daisy, Ghostbusters and Robocop to rent out to customers like Mia Farrow instead. These "Sweded" re-workings take off and it plays out from there...

It's a great excuse for Gondry to make the most of his imaginative lo-fi powers - the films are pretty sloppy, but totally charming - reminds you of the days when you'd get a video camera and just start shooting any old stuff, in order, without editing. Def and Black make a cool double act, it's fun seeing Mia Farrow in something daft again, and there's even room for a Kid Creole cameo. Once they get going, there's a brilliant montage zipping through their new films in classic Gondry style, flowing from one to the next - would love to know if it was all done in one take or not - kind of think it's the sort of thing he'd at least attempt just to see if it could be done.

Marking this one on a Gondry scale:  The Science Of Sleep was an easy **** and Eternal Sunshine stands up as a full ***** experience.  Be Kind Rewind is a smaller film in some ways, even though it's got a bigger cast. It's still totally enjoyable, but more like one of Graham Green's "entertainments" - a fun work that's still got a lot of heart and is saying something (communities falling apart/ big business taking over everything/ change/ friendship/ how good Robocop is) - but is basically more about the fun of making and watching it. For me, Science and Sunshine packed in a real emotional depth with the inventive camerawork and goofy plots - to say this isn't quite up there isn't to diss it, just to acknowledge how outstanding those two are. Can't wait to see what he comes up with next.

Almost made me miss all the hundreds of VHS tapes I've chucked out freecycled over the years.

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19th Jan 2008 - 1 comments - Add Comment - Tweet

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The Consequences Of Love

(dir. Paolo Sorrentino)

Stylish, witty and engrossing thriller set in a slow-moving Swiss hotel.

Star Toni Servillo is almost a parody of the existential Euro art-house character - all sharp Italian suits, polo necks and chain-smoking, refusing to talk to the staff, barely making conversation to the other guests, just about mustering the energy to solve a daily chess puzzle in the paper. We watch him floating through his slow-motion existence, hovering on the edges of life, observing the people around him with a detatched sneer; taking everything in, letting nothing out.

What makes this film so great is the way that you're drawn into the central question - who is he, and what's he doing? - with a confident, seductive pull. The classy use of camera tricks, flashes of "did I just see that?" moments that'll have you reaching for the rewind and impressive sound design make this a quality outing. As the joy is in the reveal, there's no need to say anything else here...

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11th Sep 2007 - Add Comment - Tweet

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Munich

(dir. Steven Spielberg)

Following the massacre of Israeli athletes at the 1972 Munich Olympics, the Israeli government assemble a covert unit to track down and assassinate those they deem responsible. Totally disconnected from their country and their families the mission leads the group into dark territory, leading many of them to question what they are doing.

The era of the film is superbly recreated, through the photographic style - which is highly reminiscent of genre films like The Conversation or The French Connection. Spielberg uses retro zooms and deftly choreographed cameras and action to set the set the scene, provide tension and re-create the shooting style of the era. When did zooms become a no-no exactly? A hugely detailed scene outside a busy airport is made to seem as though the camera crew just turned up in '71 on a regular day and started rolling. It's subtle and easily overlooked, but superbly done.

Unfortunately the slow-pacing, unclear plot and lack of narrative that was often a hallmark of the 70's has also been lovingly created.  While of course I have no problem with films taking their time, I like to see that time put to good us. While there's nothing that could have obviously been dropped, things seem to happen with little build up and the time between doesn't always fill out the details. Then again, back in the 70's we didn't need any explanation for why the Ruskies were the bad guys - they just were.

Ciaran Hinds, Mathieu Kassovitz, Geoffrey Rush and Daniel Craig all put in solid performances, but it's Eric Bana's film and he convincingly portrays the patriot torn between right and wrong.

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12th Aug 2007 - Add Comment - Tweet

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Latitude Festival

Henham Park, Southwold, Suffolk

I have always been of the opinion that dysentery is a disease best avoided.  After attending the Latitude Festival however, which took place last weekend in Henham Park, Suffolk, I realise that there may be many of you who are not so fastidious.

By all accounts last year’s festival, the first ever Latitude, was a grand affair; 10,000 people, families welcome (encouraged even), beautiful country park and good music.  Seduced by this proposal I followed a group of friends up the A12 and spent four days in an authentic, if slightly more squalid recreation of an earthquake refugee camp.

I have reached a respectable age and had thus far managed to avoid ever attending a music festival.  As someone who is mildly agoraphobic and plagued by an autistic need to bathe myself once a day, it may not have been a good idea to change the habit of a lifetime. 

With a gleeful wringing of hands the organisers announced on the eve of kick-off that all tickets had been sold.  20,000 people this year but apparently no proportionate increase in the facilities or the size of the arenas.  An excrement mountain due to an inadequate number of toilets; a complete collapse of water pressure and thus showers and overcrowding in several venues was the result.  The heavens took pity and, apart from a couple of heavy showers, blessed the reeking campers with sunshine and merry weather.

Day one; It was all about Wilco.  Two Gallants, Midlake, The Fields, began slowly cranking up the afternoon, but I was already worried that the weekend’s line-up which had looked so promising, might have been a bit heavy on whining and men sincerely frowning over their guitars.  Now Wilco are ostensibly a band of men who frown sincerely over their guitars, but they are also schizophrenic and utterly compelling. 

Before they got on stage I was bored; bored by the many children running around, bored by not being able to bring your own booze into the arena, bored by the crowds packed solidly into the comedy arena sheltering from quite a few boring performances.  The Magic Numbers had bounced the audience around a bit, but I just can’t take the whole beard and siblings thing.  It’s all a bit creepy, inspite of the smiley faces.

Then Wilco walked out and with a great white burn of lights, a heave of the crowd and a wall of guitars, they gave a performance to wake everybody up.  I had seen them in May at Shepherd’s Bush Empire and the hour-long set they played at Latitude shared all the highlights from that night but seemed even more determined.  New album ‘Sky Blue Sky’ got a good outing with storming renditions of ‘Walken’ and ‘Shake it off’.  Albums ‘Yankee Hotel Foxtrot’ and ‘A Ghost Is Born’ also got their hits out; teasing the audience with their gentle melodies before snapping into trademark guitar tsunamis and feedback.  Inspired.

Like a musical dose of Valium, Damien Rice must have been back-stage anxiously waiting to numb the crowd from their Wilco-induced high.  His presence in this otherwise exhilarating line-up was inexplicable and who in the world stayed to listen to him I couldn’t stay - but boy, the rapturous noise they made when he’d finished echoed across the campsite. Most disturbing.

Day two;  Bit of a slow builder again.  Herman Dune and Bat for Lashes on the main stage competed for ‘Sound-alike of the day’.  The Cretin who compared the former ‘to the likes of Bob Dylan’ should be strung up with guitar wire; this blatant Jonathan Richman tribute band are within a Nordic-facial-hair’s breadth of copyright infringement.  As for ‘Bat for lashes’, again the literature describes her as having been ‘compared to Bjork, Cat Power and Tori Amos’.  ‘Derivative of’ might be more accurate. 

Prize for most enthusiastic performance of the festival goes to The Hold Steady’.  They run on stage like a bunch of college jocks and front man Craig Finn, announces, ‘We’re the Hold Steady and we’re here to have a good time!’  It’s the last day of their tour and they are clearly over-excited. ‘Stuck between stations’, ‘Massive Night’, ‘Party Pit’ all provoke a lot of finger pointing form the crowd of forty-something-blokes enjoying some healthy man-rock and working themselves up to a belching coronary.  The band strings out every guitar crescendo and look like they never want to leave.  As Craig says, ‘When we started out it was so we could all meet a couple of nights a week and drink some beer.  This is beyond our wildest dreams’.

If Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, who followed, had had a modicum of The Hold Steady’s energy they would have avoided my nomination for Biggest Disappointment of the weekend.  As it was, my own hands were reluctant to celebrate contrived, gurney, vocals and a dull performance.  If they’d played the CD’s of their two albums I’d have had a great time. 

And so it was that CSS brought their balloons onto the stage of the Obelisk arena and revived a sagging day.  The crowd needed relief and their vacuous dance-pop perked it up like effervescent vitamin C.   ‘Let’s make love (and listen to death from above)’ closed the set.  With helium in her lungs Lovefoxxx squealed out her appreciation to the audience after an hour of cat suited carnival.

The Good the Bad and the Queen had to headline I guess, but it was another strange change of tempo when they ambled on. ‘History Song’ and ‘Herculean’ are unexpectedly ballsy, in no small part due to the contributions of Clash Bassist, Paul Simonon.  He takes control of the stage with loping strides and a brooding presence, plucking at his guitar and sending his deep bass across the crowd like a defibrillator.  A Dickensian London backdrop and a top hat for Mr Albarn seem to court great Blakean comparisons; Songs of Innocence and Experience.  And although he’s a very clever boy, Damon’s a right annoying twat with it.  ‘Soldier’s Tale’ comes with a sanctimonious nod to the ‘Soldier I met who was going to Iraq’ and when he brings on MC Eslam Jawaad for the encore I’m squirming at the smug self-consciousness of it all. 

When the band plays ‘80’s life’ I can’t help but think of the last Blur album, and clearly I’m not the only one musing on this.  In the audience there are a lot of girls grinning.  Occasionally I hear one of them shouting, ‘I want to fuck you Damon’… which suggests that something less than raging Anti-war sentiments were rousing the crowd’s passions.

Day three; My limbs are crippled, caked with filth resulting from the lack of shower facilities.  An internal build up of noxious fumes as I attempt to avoid going to the toilet and asphyxiation by medieval stench when I finally do, have all left me in a bad way.  So far this whole Festival bollocks is proving no substitute for a good three-hour gig at the Brixton Academy.

But that’s ok because today’s line up is looking good.  I was annoyed to miss most of the Andrew Bird set after collapsing with exhaustion from my third toilet trip of the day.  All this hovering above the chasm and straining is traumatizing me.  What I eventually do hear sounds bewitching in the summer afternoon.  The drummer, Dosh (accomplished electro-musician himself), gives fine support to Bird who provides vocals, looping violins, guitars, glockenspiel and goddam fine whistling.

Next up The National, whom I’ve been anticipating like a child waits for Christmas.  But Oh No! What’s this?…. there appears to be confusion on stage.  Look, there are Messrs Dessner, Dessner, Devendorf and Devendorf, but what are they doing spending so long tinkering with their instruments and sticking tape onto everything?  It transpires that The National arrived at Henham Park ten minutes ago and came empty handed.  None of their instruments deigned to suffer the stench of Latitude so they’re having to borrow everything off the Cold War Kids and Andrew Bird.

It shows.  The band look ravaged and uneasy with their purloined Orchestra.  There are great songs in there somewhere; ‘Mistaken for Strangers’ (from their latest album ‘Boxer’), ‘Karen’ (off of ‘Songs for Dirty Lovers’) and ‘Mr November’ (from ‘Alligator’) but there is no subtlety to the sound.  Lyrical contributions from keyboards and violins that make the albums so symphonic and full are totally swamped by the guitars.  Lines like ‘I used to be carried in the arms of a cheerleader’ or ‘The English are coming!’ should by rights swell this audience to a festival frenzy and the lead singer is trying hard.  He rasps ‘I won’t fuck us over!’ with a kind of tortured mania that seems ironically relevant to the shitty day they’re having but it feels like a bit of a lost cause.  Two songs from the end of this too-short set they kick into ‘Fake Empire’ and it’s almost like they get their conviction back.  I get goose bumps with the rhythmic build and the crowd responds, maybe they’ve just warmed up?!  Well they have, but now they’ve got to get off; ‘Thank you very much! I’m glad we got here because half an hour ago it looked like we wouldn’t make it’.  I feel cheated.

The Cold War Kids do well next and The Rapture, like CSS last night, provide a poptastic interlude which the crowds devour.  I sense that a lot of people are getting a bit tired of some of the slightly dour singer-song writing going on and want a sugar rush.  ‘Get myself into it’ and ‘Whoo!  Alright-Yeah… Uh’ do the job and you have to hand it to them, Matt Safer and Luke Jenner know how to handle their audience.  They tease us by walking on and off stage, bounce off each other vocally and insist on being resiliently up beat. 

Jarvis Cocker is on stage next as the sun begins to sink and if you haven’t been able to make it to the Comedy tent, Jarvis provides plenty of star cabaret.  Again, however, there is the sense that everyone would probably rather be watching Pulp, just as last night they would have much preferred Blur to the drones of Damon and his crew.  But Jarvis encapsulated his previous band more singularly than Damon ever did, so if you close your eyes you can almost daydream that…

‘I stand astride these two monitors like the Rock Colossus that I am’, claims the lanky one as he bemuses the crowd with surreal commentaries on the weather.  He then gains our instant favour by empathising with the epic efforts required to have got this far into the Festival.  ‘The world is still run by cunts’, brings his set to an end and those of us who weren’t expecting much are impressed by a run of songs which have never been less than engaging.  Just as I finish clapping and start to, mentally prepare myself for the festival finale with the Arcade Fire, Jarvis reappears;

‘We were going to end there but I just want to play you one more song which I promise this band will never play again’. 

‘What?  A golden slice of Pulp!’, the crowd wonders eagerly, ‘Common People’, ‘Disco 2000’?!…

‘It’s called, the Eye of the Tiger’.

‘What?’

And so off they go.  Jarvis and his band play themselves out with a sparkling cover of Eye of the Tiger and the exhausted crowd smile and cheer their appreciation.

If day one had been all about Wilco, then I guess the whole festival was really about the Sunday night headliners.  I’m sure that anyone reading this would probably take the credit for introducing their friends to the Arcade Fire, probably the most exciting band in the world at present.  But to find yourself in a field with 20,000 people equally convinced that the band are their own private discovery, throws you a little.

The scene is set with a great red velvet backdrop, several oversized Victorian camera props onto which are projected surreal faces in black and white and a lot of red neon.  Tantalizingly the stage is covered with all manner or paraphernalia; hurdy-gurdies, cymbals and the pipes of a great organ.  In the hands of an army of musicians each gets its moment in the limelight during a performance which just keeps getting better.

The husband and wife pairing of Win Butler and Regine Chassagne take it in turns to lead the way on a comprehensive journey through their two albums, Neon Bible and Funeral.  From the pounding urgency of ‘No cars go’ to the swelling Mariachi trumpets of ‘Ocean of Noise’ there is no escaping the band’s persistent inventiveness and passion.  Highlights were aplenty but the Bruce Springsteen coloured tracks ‘Antichrist Television Blues’ and ‘Keep the car running’ were blistering.  Projected onto the backdrop was footage taken from a camera apparently embedded in the snare drum.  Watching a giant drummer beating the rhythm out so relentlessly was mesmerising as the music continued to build, crescendoing in the ‘Power out’ and as a finale, ‘Rebellion (Lies)’.  As the performance came to a close fireworks showered over the back of the audience and someone lit a series of paper lanterns that billowed softly up into the night sky.  The band seemed just as entranced by the moment as they looked out over 20,000 arms clapping in time to the music; ‘Every time you close your eyes’ they sang but we didn’t dare.

If I’m honest I’d have to say that Butler’s voice repeatedly got lost in the roar of the music and I found myself anxious that he was straining to meet the range which his songs demanded in a live performance.  Perhaps I was just distracted by the tuneless moron next to me who insisted on droning loudly and inanely along with the music: and there are a lot of opportunities to accompany the songs of the Arcade Fire with a choice bit of off-key humming. 

Latitude 2007 will be the first and last festival I ever attend.  Three days of crowds, camping and mountains of faeces, book ended by two fantastic performances by Wilco and the genius of Arcade Fire.  If anything it has convinced me to spend a lot more time in the Shepherd’s Bush Empire enjoying whole-hearted performances by some of the great bands who were compromised by poor organisation and shorter sets.  To my mind learning that may have made the whole experience worth it.

Overall experience - 2
Music in general - 3.5
Arcade fire and Wilco - 4.

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19th Jul 2007 - 2 comments - Add Comment - Tweet

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Spoon

Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga

Anti

For me, Spoon are one of the great American Indie bands - seemingly always recording, and always on tour. I got into them late, but like all good bands they have a back catalogue that keeps on giving... all the way back to their rough edged debut Telephono.

Telephono led them onto a major label deal with Elektra, who then dropped them after A Series of Sneaks failed to do the required business - a story covered in their Agony of Lafitte EP. Their subsequent records each expanded the success of the last, and 2005's Gimme Fiction seemed like a big hit - with I Turn My Camera On seemingly playing in all the clubs. I guess I was just in the right clubs, as number 44 in the charts doesn't demonstrate sales being where they should for a band this good. Their critical success continues however, and following last year's sidestep into soundtracks (for Will Ferrell's Stranger Than Fiction) Britt Daniel and co are back with another great record.

Don't Make Me A Target heralds the bands return, and quickly seems to address these political times ...or maybe that's just me reading things into it. Either way, politics doesn't get in the way of a thumping good tune, that quickly dispenses with the lyrics for a guitar and piano attack. The Ghost Of You Lingers is on the edge of pretentious, but falls just the right side of brilliant. It's an unconventional song, with effects and layered vocals that seem like they're building up to something which never comes, but where it takes you on it's own terms is more than satisfactory - dark, atmospheric and moody.

Cherry Bomb rolls back the years to the Girls Can Tell era and the kind of high-school story that seems to be the Spoon staple. Touching, moving and sentimental - built around great music with a banging piano trumpet and drums. Don't You Evah is a cover of a song by The Natural History, and there's some classic Spoon in tracks like My Little Japanese Cigarette Case and Don't You Evah.

The album is more of a fall back to the classic Spoon sound, before the mildly misleading diversion of Gimme Fiction. It's the sound of cruising in a 50's hotrod, chasing girls and drinking milkshakes with Richie Cunningham.

The band has moved forward and become more sophisticated, building more complex, layered backgrounds for their deceptively simple songs. There seems to be some influence coming in from the sound track experience and Rhythm and Soul ticks a lot of my favourite boxes to great effect. Great tempo changes. Great keyboards. A touch of Small Stakes Ice Hockey rock. I've narrowed the magic ingredient down to a squeaky little sound or a barking dog - which will make CSF junior chuckle one day. Animal Midnight has it, and so does On Parade.

Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga is short, at 36 minutes / 10 songs ("the perfect number of songs for an album" apparently), but it never seems it. This is a classy and well-produced record, with some great songs, magic touches and restrained, clever song-writing. It's not a massive step forward - which is no complaint from me, as it is the sound of a great band knocking out another great album.

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5th Jul 2007 - Add Comment - Tweet

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Taken by Trees

Open Field

Rough Trade

After serving for 11 years as the voice of Swedish indie popsters The Concretes - as well as contributing unmistakable vocals to last years Young Folks single from Peter, Bjorn & John - Victoria Bergsman decided to leave The Concretes behind to go solo, taking her love of trees to conjure up the name Taken By Trees.

The acoustic guitar and single drum of Tell Me set the pace for the album, which is minimal melodic pop. Like a Scandinavian Camera Obscura, or a regular Stina Nordenstam, the album is built almost entirely around Victoria's attractive voice. There's not much suggestion of depth to the lyrics, just breezy pop that ambles along without causing any offense. Songs are often story-telling tales in the third person, with some minimal instrumental tracks making nice use of pipes and atmospheric effects. Lost And Found sounds like an ideal choice for a single, with the lovesick delivery sounding more than a little like fellow Swedes The Cardigans.

It's all pleasant enough, but lacking the heart or emotion to make it powerful. It ends up as nothing more than pleasant pop that provides nothing new, and you may feel like you have heard it all before.

The back up vocals of Hours Pass Like Centurys beef things up a bit, and the effects and xylophone of Ceder Trees starts to offer something a little different, but it's not really enough and is definitely a case of too little too late. It's all at the same level and is very conventionally structured, with verse / chorus / verse all the way through - but that's pop I guess. It's all pretty much reliant on you falling for her sexy voice and if you just go with the flow that might well be enough.

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24th Jun 2007 - Add Comment - Tweet

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Editors

An End Has A Start

Sony BMG

If my record collection was a sinking ship (which before the days of promo cd's and hooky downloads it was) this new album by Editors would be one of the first to go overboard. That's not to say it's bad, it's just totally unnecessary if you have their excellent debut. Very little progress has been made from their soaring musical arrangements that on The Back Room combined to great effect with Tom Smith's baritone strength as frontman.

It's the same story here but the highs are nowhere near as lofty. It's a shame because in their own right these are really solid songs. The title track is a driving tour de force but if you've got All Sparks you don't need it. Bones is the slow, rumbling track that gently builds to a powerful climax but then so did The Back Room's Fall and Camera.

Smith's voice has a booming depth that commands real power but his band provide a sound that we hear all too much these days. The restraint he showed on The Back Room was the source of the tension that held it all together but it's just a bit tiresome here and I just wish he'd let rip now and again. He comes close on The Racing Rats but still frustratingly manages to keep it together. Songs like this and Escape The Nest make the best bids for the peak but by taking the same rout as their predecessors they will be forever shackled.

I like this band, they swim in the same pool as the other NME-loving new comers but don't subscribe to all the pretension that comes with such company. I like the way they're called Editors and not The Editors, I really liked The Back Room and all the b-sides that came with it and really wanted to like this. I was primed and ready, I was an easy target, but they missed, and I'm sure they couldn't give a monkey's that they missed me but I do and that's all that counts.

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21st Jun 2007 - 5 comments - Add Comment - Tweet

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Joseph K

Entomology

Domino

As a lifelong lover of music, I can trace many of the roots of my musical influences back to the sleeve notes of 1987's Minutemen compilation Ballot Result. The liner notes contained a long list of thank you's to the bands that had inspired D. Boon and Mike Watt, including bands like Wire, Television, Richard ('Dick') Hell, Pop Group and so on - as well as non-punkers like John Fogerty and 'even' Black Sabbath.

If their career hadn't had the aborted start that it received, Joseph K may well have featured on that list and I could well have become a lifelong fan of their work. Formed in Edinburgh in the late 70's, Joseph K started their own imprint label, "Postcard", and set about recording a debut single - released as a double pack with fellow Scots 'Orange Juice'. The band went on to record an album's worth of material (entitled Sorry For Laughing), which was subsequently canned for sounding too polished. An actual album The Only Fun In Town emerged a few months later, at which point the band decided it had peaked and disbanded.

The band can be placed this side of Wire, with the sound evolving to file down the sharp edged punk of and take it off down the gentle slope towards the mid-eighties sound that would become the 'indie' scene - and in fact guitarist Malcolm Ross ended up in fellow scots band Aztec Camera.

Single Radio Drill Time start opens this compilation - which contains a handful of tracks from both albums, plus a few singles and a Peel Session. Radio Drill Time is a taught, dark minimalist punk number, with a thumping bass line that sets the pace. Final Request and Heads Watch have a fast paced edge that shows the bands New York influence of bands like Talking Heads, and tracks like Endless Soul have the distinct political British sound that would be so influential on later punkers like the Minutemen and Dinosaur Jr.

Some of aborted album does sound relatively slick next to the more abrasive later tracks, with synthy pop touches placing the tracks in a more specific time frame - but that's no bad thing. The actual track Sorry For Laughing did make the cut for release as a single and is the highlight of the disc - a perfect slice of pop-punk, reminiscent of some of some of Magazine's best moments.

Tracks from The Only Fun In Town strip the sound back to it's more basic elements, making for a more immediate punch that would send the mosh pit crazy. Fun 'n' Frenzy and Forever Drone are obvious examples - and that strong sound is continued through onto the 1981 Peel Sessions. The only comment would be that the band seem to stay in the same space (high tempo, with crisp guitars) most of the time, but if you're going to pick a spot and stay there it's as good as any.

'Nearly everyone ignored Joseph K, including ultimately themselves' reads the press release. A press release from Domino Records, who have rightly dusted off this mislaid treasure of a band and brought them back into the field of view. Hopefully it will get them some of the credit they deserve.

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15th Nov 2006 - Add Comment - Tweet

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Camera Obscura

The Scala, London

October 18th 2006

Famous mainly for an illegal screening of Clockwork Orange in the 80's, former London cinema the Scala has got to be one of the best places to see a band. Often a last stop for bands heading onto the higher peaks of The Astoria or Brixton Acadamy, many favourites have had great shows here - DJ Shadow, Low, CocoRosie, George Hurley and Mike Watt supporting Shellac...

Scottish indie popsters Camera Obscura's sound is perfect for a venue like this. Enchanting and intimate, Tracyanne Campbell's vocals fall somewhere between the brooding darkness of the Cocteau Twins and the lighter sounds of The Sundays or even The Cardigans.

Mostly playing tracks from their latest album Let's Get Out Of This Country, the bands sound has become focused and upbeat and the band have an accomplished live show, based on 10 years of playing together - as well as numerous sessions with fan John Peel.

Whether it was the sublime Tears For Affairs, or the fluffy ephemeral Lemon Juice and Paper Cuts (a line from Lester Bangs' biography) the band were always in control and always connected to the well behaved audience. Let's just hope they don't get any bigger and leave us behind for more distant peaks.

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19th Oct 2006 - Add Comment - Tweet

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Ocean's 12

(dir. Steven Soderbergh)

After bad guy Andy Garcia tracks down the crew who robbed his casino in Ocean's 11, Danny Ocean (George Clooney) and pals (plus one extra person - get it?) stage a series of robberies to raise the money to pay off Garcia. Problems come in the shape of a French master cat burglar (Vincent Cassell), who revels in beating Clooney's gang to the punch, and an Interpol agent how had a fling with the cheeky Brad Pitt (surprisingly likeable here).

The film is very stylishly done, shrugging off the glossy style that you would expect for so many huge names and instead using a low-key European-looking documentary style (a bit like the excellent Bourne Identity), with editing and simple trickery to keep the pace moving. Straight off the bat however, the script is so engrossed in its own cleverness that it is instantly hard to follow. Little attention is given to setting up the characters - which is fine for Clooney, Brad Pitt, maybe Matt Damon - but the rest of the supporting gang were not that memorable in episode 1 (or 11). A potential clever twist with Bruce Willis where Julia Roberts' character is mistaken for actress Julia Roberts is so smugly done that the actors practically wink at the camera...

It's watchable, but unless you're flying long haul don't bother.

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24th Apr 2006 - Add Comment - Tweet

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Grizzly Man

(dir. Werner Herzog)

Could failing to get the part of Woody on Cheers really drive a man to turn his back on being human? This is one of the more bizarre questions that Werner Herzog's Grizzly Man poses in its troubled margins. The documentary tells the tale of a failed actor, Timothy Treadwell, who spent many summers living among grizzly bears in the Alaskan wilderness. Holed up in a worryingly basic tent, Treadwell filmed many hours of himself in his self-appointed role of guardian of the bears, and Herzog has used that footage as the foundation of his own take on events. To describe Treadwell as the guardian of the bears is, in fact, not strictly accurate, for it soon emerges that he actually saw himself as one of the bears, no longer human. There are, accordingly, some truly astonishing scenes in which he is face to face with the creatures, and some even more bewildering moments at which he even loses his temper with them and tells them to back off, which they do. From a very early point in the film, though, we know that Treadwell eventually dies in his tent, along with his girlfriend, at the hands of a bear. Even though there is an audio recording of the fatal attack (it would appear that Treadwell didn't have time to remove the lens cap), Herzog decides, in a moving scene, not to include it in his film. And this is very much a documentary that is more interested in opening than closing a case. Herzog is absolutely clear in his narration about where he disagrees with Treadwell - he says, for instance, in an unintentionally hilarious moment that, unlike Timothy, he believes that the universe is nothing but chaos and bleakness - and he poses some uncomfortable questions about Treadwell's disavowal of the human and, above all, his staged self-mythologizing. (It would seem, for instance, that some of the footage was shot deliberately to give the impression that Timothy was always alone in the wilderness, even though he was regularly accompanied.) There are also many moments at which the interviews conducted by Herzog feel curiously contrived. The coroner who reports on the aftermath of the attack, for example, delivers a dramatic monologue to camera that feels (but might not be) meticulously scripted and over-rehearsed. That's not a criticism of Herzog's film, though; it's merely one of the elements that gives Grizzly Man its claws.

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28th Feb 2006 - Add Comment - Tweet

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Hidden (Cache)

(dir. Michael Haneke)

We’re all under constant surveillance, so why not add another level to the panopticon by watching Cache/Hidden..? In the grand tradition of Rear Window, The Conversation, Blow-Up, and Lost Highway, Michael Haneke’s latest film gleefully undermines the viewer’s understanding of what s/he is looking at (and why), and its opening shot is even bolder than the slow zoom that starts The Conversation. (I do love a director’s who’s not afraid just to leave the camera running.) About halfway through the film, I was still wondering ‘Where on earth is this going?’, and I’m happy to say that the final reel provides no answers. The glorious opening shot is, moreover, outdone by an even braver closing scene, in which a fleck of sense briefly emerges from meaningless bustle, only to disappear again. Is this a film about celebrity, surveillance, the war on terror, the turmoils of family life, France’s colonial past, memory, generational conflict, guilt, film itself, or all of the above? The answer is hidden.

PS: Don’t see the film at Cardiff’s Chapter Arts Centre, though, or you’ll have to first sit through a four-minute short starring Rhys Ifans and a Mars Bar. (I’ve conveniently repressed the name of the piece, I’m afraid, but it might have been Siocled – Welsh for ‘chocolate’.) The only good thing to come out of this experience was the realization that I can now definitively answer the questions ‘What is the most annoying film ever made?’ and ‘What were the longest four minutes of your life?’

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20th Feb 2006 - 1 comments - Add Comment - Tweet

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