God Is In The TV Zine

High Plane Drifters, The - Sweet Poppy Jean

Owain Paciuszko — Fri, 03 Jul 2009 22:31:12 +0100

- C.S.I. Miami and Breaking Bad, so clearly this is music for criminal minds.

Sweet Poppy Jean is a fast-paced number with a slight BRMC sound, whilst b-side White Star Lightning sounds a bit more like Ozzy Osbourne covering Jefferson Airplane. It's good quality indie rock played with energy and verve and lead singer Timothy Oxnard has an interesting and adaptable voice, the press release is bold enough to admit 'their music is nothing new', which is true, but it's a good accumulation of influences. It's kind of like a friend who has good taste and you can depend on him to recommend some interesting bands to you, but his own band isn't anything special, though you're always happy to go see them live.

If that makes sense?
]]>

Hot Club De Paris, Johnny Foreigner, Untitled Music Project, Kidnapper BellThe Victoria, Birmingham, 27th Jun 2009

Christopher Upton — Thu, 02 Jul 2009 19:12:04 +0100

- Hot Club De Paris aren't as hot a property as they once were, on the bill tonight we also have a band in the form of Johnny Foreigner who have enough buzz to attract all the city's indie movers and shakers. That term is probably a contradiction in terms though as movement is strictly limited to bar visits, leaning over to talk to friends or clapping at the end of songs. This means it's not the most exciting prospect for some quite energetic bands. But, it's a thrill to have Johnny here ahead of their second album and in their home town.

First support act Kidnapper Bell borrow heavily from The Dismemberment Plan, utilising similar complex guitar work and intricate song breaks. While a talented band they don't quite have the skilled tempo changes honed down, and they often sound misplaced and disjointed. The audience have caught on to the Dismemberment Plan vibe though by doing the standing still, some guy at one point even asks the band to by quiet as he was on the phone.

It isn't easy to ingratiate yourself though, even if you're local. Birmingham's Untitled Musical Project are usually an exciting live prospect. Borne from the ashes of Mclusky they break out the intelligent thrash indie effectively and violently. Unfortunately, tonight they appear to be a band that has given up. As they sing the refrain of Endless Deodorant and Bad Shoes: �all you'll find here is dead rock stars,' it's almost too perfect and when guitarist Keiran's strings broke it was almost inevitable. The band's set is mercifully short and while a few members of the audience attempt to resuscitate them it's clear things are over.

This sets quite a precedent for Johnny Foreigner, charged with the task of bringing an ailing evening back to life. They don't achieve the impossible task of dislodging the static crowd, but they still manage to drench everyone in sweat in what has become a miniature sauna instead of a pub. Ripping through new tracks, from a seemingly bottomless repertoire they add to every time they play, these don't sound out of place next to favourites Salt, Peppa and Spinderella and Yes! You Talk Too Fast. The healthy mix of songs includes a breakneck version of Sofacore from their first E.P. The new songs aren't a massive leap forward for the band, retaining the localised lyrics and punchy guitars, but they're excitingly tight even when thrashed through.

Hot Club De Paris seem like the perfect band to finish off the night. Their poppy melodies and sing-a-long lyrics mean they're easy listening Indie and enjoyable at any time. Except for right now. With a late start to the night, a lot of people appear to have one eye on the clock to avoid being stranded in the city. While tight as ever, the singles are dutifully played to a depleting audience that seem increasingly disinterested. Johnny Foreigner state during their set �we're from here so we can insult the place,' and while there may indeed be things to find fault with, tonight they prove that music in this city isn't one of them.

Hot Club De Paris Myspace

Johnny Foreigner Myspace ]]>

Dub Pistols - Rum and Coke

Miss Fliss — Thu, 02 Jul 2009 19:08:42 +0100

- Dub Pistols were of the Rancid breed of punk/ska, but on this showing either a new musical direction has been levelled, or I was wrong. Because for eighty per cent of this album Dub Pistols have nothing to do with The Clash's school of rock, and there's nary a trace of dub in the reggae sense. Instead, DP pursue a dance/rap direction. Sometimes this gets a bit blokey and gangstery, sometimes it's euphoric summer bliss (as in the promising opening dup of Back to Daylight and ). There is a sultry summery vibe to Rum andCoke, and I can't help but love it even a smidgen for that.

It's only when we're into the last three tracks of the album that the trumpets give that outlandish pure ska blare. I'm not sure about the Kaiser Chiefs-like vocal of Keep the Fire Burning , but musically it's here that the album starts to hit any kind of stride, with Rancid-lite rhythms and Ghost Town keys.

Things reach their embers at the end and I'm left thinking that if this album had more direction and focus, honing in one or two genres, rather than straddling everything from hip-hop to dance to ska and soul balladry, then it would come away with some kind of identity, and thus some resonance of effect. As it is, Rum and Coke doesn't know what it wants to be, could be a compilation by several different artists - especially with the number of guest vocalists - and there it loses me and doesn't have me reaching for the repeat button at any point. There are a couple of enjoyable moments, but overall this is off-putting, bordering on chaos. ]]>

Glastonbury 2009 DiaryBlur, Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds, Jarvis Cocker, Hedluv, Florence and the Machine

Owain Paciuszko — Thu, 02 Jul 2009 10:11:38 +0100

- Square, Green Man and the End of the Road last year I was keen to try some new festival fare in 2009. More specifically, once I found out Blur were playing, Glastonbury.

I remember being a young lad, sat in my Grandma's house, at the dinner table no less, listening to the radio on the walkman whilst everyone else ate, eagerly waiting for the result of the much publicised battle of Oasis's Roll With It and Blur's Country House. I remember shouting "Yes!" when the Gallaghers fell in at number two, leaving Albarn and co to take the crown. Yet despite being a Blur fan at their prime (and beyond) I never got to see them live, being somewhat of a late bloomer in the world of gig going.

Anyway, I received an e-mail in early May from the Glastonbury press office saying that my Press Accredation had been approved. I was very excited and clicked on the e-mail to read the details only to discover that a press ticket came with an invoice for �200! Being a post-graduate with a degree in Creative Writing and barely any paid employment to speak of this was far beyond my means, so I let the e-mail be.

In early June I received a phone call from the Glastonbury press office asking me why I hadn't yet paid the �200 for the press ticket, and I told them that I couldn't afford it and that was that. Then in mid-June I received another phone call from the Glastonbury press office asking me why I still hadn't paid the �200 press for the press ticket, and I reiterated that I coulnd't afford it and that was that.

On Wednesday the 17th of June I was tidying my room. I have a pile of CDs that turns into a stack of A5 envelopes and jiffy bags on my floor, this is my backlog of material to review for this very website and as I shifted this wodge from one patch of floor space to another an envelope escaped the tower and skimmed across the room. I reached for it, to return it to the near bottom of the pile, but as I held it I couldn't help but feel that this envelope didn't contain a CD. I was, to say the least, baffled. Why would an unsigned band send me a demo without a CD? Being curious I opened the letter and contained inside was a Glastonbury press ticket! I couldn't help but laugh maniacally for a few minutes before rushing to Google to check that it was indeed a Glastonbury ticket and not some elaborate hoax, but, to the best of my understanding it was indeed a ticket. I checked the post date on the enevelope and it had been sent out a day after my second phone conversation with the press office. As amazing as all this was it suddenly meant I was plunged into a world of last minute organisation, seeing as Glastonbury was five days away and two of those days were to be spent in Canterbury and one of those days was to spent acting in a short film. By even more good fortune I found a lift with some very generous friends of a friend and on Wednesday morning drove to the South West and pitched my tent.

Thursday 25th June

My Glastonbury started rather bizarrely with a preview of the film Adventureland (reviewed at http://www.battleroyalewithcheese.com), which meant once I returned to the Queen's Head stage I had missed the huge surge of people crammed in to see festival curtain raisers Maximo Park (this didn't really bother me). Instead the first act I saw were competition winners We Have Band who had a charismatic stage presence and a fun, bright, dance-tinged sound.

Things went very folky after that, starting with the rather brilliant Stornoway an Oxford-based band who have written the best song about zorbing ever, obviously this song is called Zorbing and is a smile-inducing slice of pure pop pie. Charlene Soraia was a sweet presence on stage, with gently strummed and beautifully sung little melodies in amongst her telling everyone how difficult her name is to spell (oblivious it was being projected behind her)! Welsh folk troubadour The Gentle Good followed, this is the first time I'd seen Gareth Bonello in his expanded 'With Strings (and a bit of keys)' line-up and the sound was a bit off on this stage, but the strength of songs such as Dawel Disgyn and Let Your Light Be Your Guide still shone through. Liz Green delivered a charmingly wonky set of her curious folk tunes both solo and accompanied by band. Alessi's Ark surprised me by their popularity, their tracks being samey if competent, but pale in comparison to the ammount of imagination and personality that had preceded them.

This brought the folk-pop segment to the end and Golden Silvers took to the stage delivering a toe-tapping set of Cockney-Disco, somewhere between The Jam and Hot Chip. Unfortunately Ebony Bones were on next and I found their music to be embarassing in a fashion similar to such school disco 'favourites' as Superman or the work of Black Lace except with a drum-n-bass/electro influence, the crowd seemed to like them, I went for a wander. Which was foolish because I became distracted and missed the rest of the evening's music, including Metronomy who I really like. Curses!

Friday 26th June

Whilst wandering back to my tent in the small hours I began to hear the words Michael Jackson a lot, and had to text a friend in 'the real world' to confirm if the rumours were true. I was then wondering how long it would be before the 'Jackson jokes' started on stage and the compere, Jim Fox, at the John Peel Stage answered my question when introducing the first band at 11am.

General Fiasco are an Irish three piece who have a catchy indie-pop sound and a vocalist who sounds a bit like Brian Molko (though I have a notorious habit of starting to think everyone sounds like Brian Molko), they were a pleasingly bright, fun open to the day, heralding the bright, blistering sunshine that had replaced Thursday night's thunder and lightning.

After another between band Jackson gag out came Dan Black and band, moving the music into another direction as he danced around the stage in restrained parachute pants to his brand of electro-pop. Black is an artist who has clearly had a Jackson influence and made a point of properly acknowledging the King of Pop's contribution to music, but still accepting the fact that he did go a bit, ahem, off the wall.

The Rumble Strips are a name I knew but a music I didn't, they surprised me by being from London, sounding a bit more, um, Northern with their big, sing-a-long choruses and occasionally The Coral-like sound.

The John Peel Stage was full and spilling out all over the place for the arrival of the next act, there was a definite buzz of anarchy and mayhem in the air and it was a roadie challenging performance delivered by Fucked Up that followed. Correctly announcing that they were the 'heaviest' band to play this year's festival behind Spinal Tap and Status Quo, there was a great deal of energy and lunacy on display from both the energetic and rowdy audience and notorious front-man Pink Eyes. Nothing ground-breaking happened and while I enjoyed the set from an 'audience interaction' point of view the music of Fucked Up seems like a distant afterthought when performed live, fortunately standing up on record.

Not really sure what to watch I headed for the Queen's Head again and caught Hope & Social, dressed in green private school blazers and played exuberant pop tunes akin to Ben Folds Five covering Muse they easily grabbed my attention. Team Waterpolo afterwards were a bit so-so in comparison, but still a fine indie act with a sound like a slightly anxious Bloc Party karaoke cover.

Rhode Island's The Low Anthem were a nice low key alternative with a mellow country sound like Bowerbirds and Bon Iver, all quietly cooed backing vocals, warm strings and sleepily played guitar. This was a nice counterpoint to Dan Le Sac vs. Scroobius Pip, who I had seen before at an in-store at Spiller's in Cardiff, but given full rein and a boomier sound system they kept the crowd leaping around enthusiastically or singing along to such tunes as Look for the Woman and Thou Shalt Always Kill, though the new songs they unveiled seemed to favour beats instead of Pip's thought-provoking and wryly humourous lyrics.

I was having a big debate in my mind at this point over whether I should see Neil Young or Ray Davies and decided to relax near the Acoustic Stage whilst I made up my mind. I basked in the sunshine whilst people danced and sang along to Jason Mraz, who I wasn't familiar with but knew - in the back of my bonce - was going to be cut from the same cloth of Jack Johnson, it fit the weather but it didn't really leave any lasting impression. I continued to loung on the grass whilst Fairport Convention played and enjoyed their nostalgic set of 'folk-rock', laced with a lot of between song story-telling and a fitting tribute to Sandy Denny in the form of classic tune Who Knows Where the Time Goes?.

By this point I had decided that I'd grown up with the music of The Kinks and I should definitely see Ray Davies whilst I had the chance, and I was not dissapointed. Managing to get near the front I could clearly see how affected Davies was by the reaction of the crowd to his brilliantly performed set of classic Kinks tracks and a smattering of his solo work, reminding everyone - if they needed reminding - of what a brilliant and influential song-writing talent the man is, and also proving that he is still a charismatic, funny and talented perfomer. Getting to hear Sunny Afternoon, Dedicated Follower of Fashion, Apeman, Waterloo Sunset, Dead End Street, Autumn Almanac, All Day and All of the Night with members of Fairport Convention rocking out and a huge, extended sing-a-long of Lola (that continued well after Davies had finished) was a huge festival highlight.

Afterwards I ducked into the Cabaret tent to watch Full Mooners a combination of comedy, break-dancing and song hosted by comedian Andrew Maxwell. A funny and suitably offbeat end to a jam-packed and varied day.

Saturday 27th June

I decided to give the Pyramid Stage an early look in and saw V.V. Brown, an artist billed as being the next Aretha Franklin, though she does have a good voice it wasn't given enough flight in the awkward, popcentric arrangments of her songs and her set as a whole fell very flat.

Tinariwen on the other hand were absolutely brilliant, hailing from Tuareg and consisting of people who had been conscripted into Muammar al-Gaddafi's army, they sing in French and Tamashek and their songs - even without understanding - are hopeful, liberating and beautiful.

I expected that the name was a slight misnomer and was right when Eagles of Death Metal followed with a fun, if repetitive, strain of rock that - for me - acted as a not unpleasant way to pass the time before the next band took the stage.

This Is Spinal Tap is one of the greatest comedies ever made and I was curious to see how this would translate to a genuine band performance, it was great fun to hear and punch the air to Tap classics such as Hell Hole, Big Bottom and Tonight I'm Gonna Rock You, songs from the film that cleverly manage to straddle the line of being great parodies of a rock attitude and actually being good rock songs! There was a treat - from a Tap fan's point of view - in their performance of Saucy Jack (watch the film) and the much anticipated Stonehenge that featured a half-inflated replica of the monument and the obligatory - but still hilarious - dancing 'little people'. There were a couple of guests when Jamie Cullum took to the keyboards for one track and Jarvis Cocker picked up the guitar for another.

Wandering back across the site I managed to see - an allegedly out of it - Pete(r?) Doherty performing my favourite song of his For Lovers - which became the first of a very poignant collection of tunes I got to hear over the weekend. After that I gave Hockey another chance after walking out on them at Brighton's The Great Escape, but still found them to be rather vanilla. The Gaslight Anthem were equally okay, however they managed to stuff the John Peel Stage to bursting when Bruce Springsteen made a surprise appearance for one track - taking guitar and backing vocals - his presence sent one guy standing next to me into a state of giddy shock.

I dashed across to the Avalon Stage afterwards to see Badly Drawn Boy, having heard that his live performances can either be witty and wonderful or grumpy and dull, I was curious as to what I would receive. He, aka Damon Gough, has a strange stage presence but he filled his set with familiar and popular tunes and a lot of self-deprecating humour. Particular highlights included his cheeky intermingling of the distinctive melodies of The Shining and Once Around the Block, a b-side that he claimed was 'shit' that I can't remember the name of but absolutely adored and some full band renditions including that 'song from a Hugh Grant movie' Something to Talk About. It was a heart-warming, extended and lovely set from this curious and consistent musician.

I then tried to find space back at the John Peel Stage to watch Florence and the Machine perform a highly theatrical and very impressive set, where Florence Welch blew minds with her incredible vocals and her humble, giddy reaction to the audience's hugely enthusiastic reception. Her set would've been marked by a number of encores if it wasn't for the fact that she - as she remarked - only had one album's worth of material to draw from!

I endured White Lies afterwards, not knowing what they really sounded like and feeling very foolish stuffed in amongst the screaming hordes around me. As the crane mounted camera swept over the audience I hoped I was out of shot, not wanting to be that 'bored looking idiot' on the Beeb's Glastonbury Highlights. I did try to enjoy their 80s synth rock and thought they managed an okay cover of Portishead's The Rip but I just couldn't muster up any enthusiasm for them.

Jarvis Cocker headlined and proved what a commanding and odd stage presence he is, illiciting huge howls of applause for is eccentric pseudo-dance moves. He drew entirely from his two solo albums and unfortunately didn't play Running the World but tracks such as Fat Children, Homewrecker and the wonderful Don't Let Him Waste Your Time. Ending with the surreal cousin of This Is Hardcore called You're In My Eyes (Discosong), bringing Florence and the Machine's harp player Tom Monger to accompany, was a strange finale and the lack of an encore seemed even more frustrating with Bruce Springsteen still going on in the background for another half an hour afterwards! But still Cocker is a brilliant singer-songwriter and a very unique performer.

Sunday 28th June

Once again my day opened with a film preview, this time it was of the new Disney Pixar movie Up (review coming soon to http://www.battleroyalewithcheese.com) and was swiftly followed by a race over to the Other Stage to watch Art Brut. I can't remember what song they were already in the midst of, and as my phone died early Saturday I had no idea how long they'd been on, but I caught most of their set including such great tracks as Good Weekend, DC Comics & Chocolate Milk, Modern Art with a brilliant and extended additional verse about Eddie Argos's recent visit to the Van Gogh museum in Amsterdam that played out like a Stewart Lee stand-up routine and was absolutely hilarious, and then there was further musical poignancy with Emily Kane, including a prologue about how the real Emily Kane had since contacted him as a result of the song.

I headed back to the Cabaret tent eager to see Casio-rap act from my hometown of Redruth in Cornwall Hedluv & Passman, but before that saw the end of junk band Big Beat and superb tap dancer/juggler Stewart Pemberton. With all the ramshackle, awkward, clumsiness that one would expect of a slightly tongue-in-cheek rap duo from Cornwall Hedluv & Passman seemed to win over as many as they weirded out, performing many of the best songs from recent album Cosmic Sounds such as P.E. Report (literally lines transplanted from a rather poor report card over a nice beat), and non-album tracks like the very funny, self-effacing The Penguin Rhyming Dictionary. It was a bit of a mess as far as sets go, but hopefully it'll cause the more curious to seek out his charming debut record.

Back at the Other Stage I then saw Brand New perform some very powerful, emotive tracks, especially his final acoustic number, resonating over the area which - surprisingly for Glastonbury - did actually seem to go quiet and pay attention! This was followed by boisterous pop-rap-metal-something act Enter Shikari who brought out a brass and additional percussion section for a few songs in the middle of their set, and could occasionally craft a carnival-esque beat, but generally I thought they were a bit rubbish.

Yeah Yeah Yeahs were next, with Karen Oh dressed in paint-splashed Native American attire, a giant inflatable eyeball staring out over (and later bouncing across) the crowd. They started with some slow numbers before throwing out recent electro-tinged, indie-stomps such as Dull Life and Zero along with older tracks such as Gold Lion, the mosh-pit inducing Date with the Night, quirky number Art Star that seemed to have Oh giggling during the sillier sing-a-longs and (poignant track alert) romantic anthem Maps that resonated with its refrain of 'Wait, they don't love you like I love you.'

With Blur looming large in the schedule I decided to make my presence at the Pyramid Stage and see if I could gradually eek my way to the front. Madness took to the stage as I arrived and played an entertaining set filled with 'all the hits' and a few new tracks that were fun, they also had the most efficient encore. Lacking the time to go off stage and come back on they just turned around and then turned back, they also had some lovely Peter Pan theatricals when their saxophonist was hoisted up on wires and flew round the stage during a solo.

Fortunately their was a huge fanbased change over and I got a few rows away for the phenomenal Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, opening with Tupelo and also performing such fantastic tracks as Red Right Hand, Deanna, The Mercy Seat, The Weeping Song, recent hit Dig, Lazarus, Dig!!!, an absolutely ear-shredding and vitriolic rendition of Stagger Lee and (poignant song alert) a beautiful, spine-tingling version of ode to creativity and muses There She Goes My Beautiful World. Nick Cave is a huge presence on stage with an incredible voice and an array of different sounding epic and awesome songs, and this was a superb prelude to the final act of the festival.

Attired, with a knowing wink, in wardrobes similar to their Brit-Pop heyday Blur took the stage and ticked all the 'Greatest Hits' boxes, which - stuck in the midst of sweat, shouts and moshing that was the front and centre - was a perfect end to this sun-drenched festival. Tracks such as She's So High, Coffee & TV and Beetlebum are varied indications of the lasting impact of Blur's gifts as musicians and song-writers. It was great to hear more off-centre songs such as a deliciously scuzzy version of Trimm Trabb and it was interesting having Coxon contributing to the previously Coxon-less Out Of Time. I, having been a Blur fan for a very long time kind of feel like I've developed my musical tastes in accordance with (but not dictated by) how the band developed - and beyond - and thusly seem to prefer each new record, their last two albums 13 and Think Tank being my favourites. But there's still that warm, caramel centre of nostalgia for the old favourites and it was truly wonderful to have Phil Daniels turn up to play his part in the anthemic Parklife, it was excellent to hear everyone singing along to End of a Century. There was a lengthy pause before the first encore, a manic double-bill of Popscene and Song 2 that involved everyone down the front becoming one huge leaping, buffeting mass and the set closed with a second encore and The Universal. Though the crowd was still singing Tender for about an hour after the band had left the stage.

I was surprised by how much I enjoyed Glastonbury to be honest, I'd never been before and the festivals I have attended have been smaller, folkier affairs, but this was an absolutely perfect weekend, marked by a glorious storm, baking sunshine, a few perfectly timed sprays f rain here and there and then a cleansing, rain shower at about 4am on Monday morning all preceded by a huge stroke of strange fortune that - if it wasn't for that envelope falling out of that pile five days before the festival - I wouldn't have known about until a couple of weeks after Glastonbury had gone by. So if there's anything to be learnt here it's to always open your mail when you receive it. ]]>

Killers, The, Echo and The Bunnymen, Howling Bells, Kooks, The, MetricHyde Park, 26th Jun 2009

Miss Fliss — Wed, 01 Jul 2009 18:30:08 +0100

- Echo and the Bunnymen announced on the bill for The Killers' Hard Rock Calling festival gig. They covered up the racket of The Kooks on the main stage in blissful style. There's an elegance and a sadness to the Bunnymen's music that I think was lost on the audeince that seemed largely alien to the classic 80s band. The gig had sold out with only The Killers' name branded on the event too, so all other bands were mere sidetracks for the sole attraction. But I for one (and I did feel fairly alone) cherished Echo and the Bunnymen's set.

I must say, it felt pretty holy when the band walked on stage. Church organ music swirled to the heavens, and then four dark stark figures appeared in the fashion of disciples. They appeared from the wings all at once, rather than stepping out one by one as bands tend to do. It took three songs (Rescue, Villiers Terrace, and Seven Seas AKA the Cod Liver Oil Song) before things started driving with force.

Nothing Lasts For ever twinkled and made me ache as it ever did. The way it segued seamlessly into an acoustic cover of Lou Reed's Walk on the Wild Side was a thing of much joy.

The crowd was sparse, failed to fill the indoor festival tent, and from middle to back people were stationary and disinterested, and lots of people wandered in and out within a couple of minutes, which all made me sad. The band themselves can't have felt too hot, considering they are the longer lived band and more prolific with it, it was all abit second fiddle. Perhaps this all contributed to Ian McCulloch's foul mood (oh, hang on, he's famed for that) but it was not long before he tore into the sound guy for apparently mucking up Killing Moon. He hissed and muttered before ordering the man to "sod off". Had to chuckle at that. But then I was aghast as he cut the song 30 seconds in and angrily announced that they'd play The Cutter instead. Even the way Ian sang the word cutter was fierce - with emphasis on the er sound becoming 'Spare us the CuttAAARRR!'.

After this strange interval, Ian was prepared to play Killing Moon, doing the poetic verse beautiful justice. I wished we were outside and able to espy a sky all hung with jewels. I briefly remembered beign 14 and stealing the particularly gothic lyrics for an Edgar Allan Poe pastiche (oh dear).

There was a muttered tribute to Michael Jackson which got some jibe or other from the audience, to which McCulloch tore into the audience member and told them emphatically that Jackson might have been a "tit head" but that he was "a great" and that they'd never understand or deserve such genius. No Jacko cover - that could have been interesting. I'd love to see McCulloch moonwalk too, haha!

Lips Like Sugar closed the concise set. If only they'd played on into the night, it could have been magical, purple lights and sparkling majestic songs. I enjoyed them as if they were headlining rather than The Killers. I can now apprciate how The Killers' have borrowed inspiration from them too.

'The festival Gods are smiling down upon us,' Brandon Flowers said, announcing The Killers' arrival and making allusion to the hold of dry warm weather. The early afternoon had been a chaos of thunder and tropical rain and I'd had my fears about leaving my front door, let alone attending an all day festival. The electro pop luxury of Human was delivered right off to immense reaction, proving that here is a band whose newest material stands proudly on par with the early hits that propelled their fame.

It was clear that everyone was here for The Killers and the day had been leading up to this: the errupting of impassioned sing alongs, sozzled swaying, ferocious dancing, all of us in the knowledge that few bands can make music that rings with such melody and resonates so much as to cause an absolute fever of celebration. The emotion it was electric and the stars they all align, as Brandon failed to sing tonight.

A hit single set list, not a complaint could be made from the masses congregated on Hyde Park today. My only gripe would be the sheer oddness of a band so obviously affected by the 80s could make not a single mention of the day's Michael Jackson news. I was fully expecting a synth-brilliant cover version. I would also have liked to have heard a lot more songs from Day and Age. But A Dustland Fairytale was as big as the sky. Ah, the sky. Being in the wide open of a London field with pink and purple fluffy clouds floating across the setting sun was a very special experience. And as the sky got as deep purple as the parade of strobing stage lights and as celebratory as the glittering explosions on stage, the music only sounded more magic. From Mr Brightside to All These Things that I've Done you couldn't stop my heels leaping for the sky. Heady on free wine samples (thank you Black Tower!), it was time to dance like my life depended on it.

When You Were Young was an explosive closer. There was a little kid of about 8 years throwing his small frame into all sorts of crazy shapes, smiling and giggling himself silly; very obviously ridiculously thrilled to be alive and in this experience, and he summed the mood up to cute perfection. And The Killers are a very important band indeed. ]]>

Edinburgh Film Fest Report 1Lars Von Trier, Sam Mendes, Dave Eggers, Zack Clark, Lynn Shelton's Humpaday

Martin Goodhead — Wed, 01 Jul 2009 17:27:06 +0100

-
The early critics had an opening 24 hours most notable for the Danes gave us that traditional quadraphonic festival moral cinema of concern and bizarre herring-bitter humour �Fear Me Not� and �Little Soldier�. �Little Soldier�, amongst its singular traits, was a rare foray into that subgenre of 'allegorical reflection's on Denmark's role inAfghanistan', �Fear Me Not� a domestic tragicomedy on middle-aged angst spliced with genetically modified drug testing and tragi-comic psychosis in a curate's egg of deadly whimsy akin to Von Trier's typical work. There was an (only slightly) untypical Von Trier film later, and it caused a fever-heat amongst the critical mob. But that's a story for next time.

FMN was most notable for its convention teasings; at one point its unsettling normalcy of flat surfaces and incidentality--- mixed in with the phantom verline glow of lakeside pans which fragment the inexorable progress of domestic dramas-- threatened to become the sort of off-kilter treatment of the monstrous transformation movie equivalent to last year's EIFF smash 'Let the Right One In', with that films reinvention of vampire movie's tropes. Two scenes-- involving a frentic night-time driving scene in the woods devolving into a potentially deadly frat-boy dare, and a horrifying discovery and garage confrontation by the protagonist's daughter just as his penitence has seemingly restored an uneasy harmony to proceedings--- redolent of the same psychosis to be found in classic horror-film meltdowns aka The Shining. And then it goes grey and gently inscrutable like some left-over Bergman parlour-theatre.

AWAY WE GO (2008) US.

It was with the Red Carpet European premiere of Sam Mendes's Away We Go, a dramedy excursion into alt-powerhouse territory ala Little Miss Sunshine/Juno, starring US Office's John Krasinki, that Edinburgh scored its opening coup- by standards of visibilityat least. For causal viewers, AWG was and is perhaps the most appealing option of the following bunch- a light excursion into, then quick skim across, the peccadilloes of indie cinema's sight and sound . Written by Dave Eggers of �A Staggering Work of Genius's renown, along with pretty sharp observational short story writer with fellow novelist wife Vendela Libre, Away We Go has Krasinski and SNL mainstay Maya Rudolph as Burt Farlander and long-term gf Verona de Tessant; a young-ish couple of liberal, beaten-down Volvo driving nature-inclined (as evidenced first by Krasinski's heavy beard) and very vaguely bohemian tendencies who suddenly have the prospect of a baby sprung upon them�in an opening scene which mixes Away We Go's default comedy of minutiae with a broad-sexually frank-style more akin to an Apatow movie.

Thankfully, it's not so much the scary prospect of kids which motivates the film's subsequent psychic journeys�a theme played out to diminishing effects�but where and how to raise. This knotty quandary inspires them to journey around their acquaintances, a mixture of ex-work colleagues, childhood friends and family scattered across North America in an attempt to find their perfect living space, and in the process explore the topography of landscape and these varied attachments which represent in different ways America's perception of itself and the idiolectic bonds which even this middle-class sticks-dwelling couple have rambled into and acquired like sticky branches. Away We Go is 60-40 comedy to pathos but it's first hour inclines towards the ratter-patter of satire from Peter's boomer parents to Maggie Gyllenhall's extended cameo as childhood companion turned trustafrian- professor-earthmom �LN'. The young couple get assailed by the older Farlander' s abrupt self-discovery retirement to �Belgium' in a scene which sets the dead-plan absurdism tone with riffs on seahorse fetishism and how black Jewish/ Afro American de Tessant's baby will be. Already long-beard Burt, who works as a sort of meta-insurance salesman has an imaginary fifty year old phone personae, whilst artist Verona all too enthusiastically sketches anatomy drawings for a living.

But that almost-kookiness' is nothing compared to the pure �id' that is Lily- De Tessant's former colleague/boss in Tuscon�a blowsy red-head lush of an anti-mother who mocks her children's ears and imagined sexual preferences, loudly riffs on the amorphic decline of her �tit's after pregnancy in crowded restaurants and gives Burt an impromptu car-park tonsil-lashing. Or her paranoid husband, who sees insurance as the cause and effect of America's corroding spirit, and spits apocalyptic visions about �fountains, mammals, lizards�and people' shrivelling in the Arizona sun. AWG's rife with quirks which may --will-- lead to accusations of preciousness, but it's self-reflexive enough to set up a character embodying most of the worst hippie/hipster attributes; Gyllenhall's show-stealing LN, introduced in the middle of a faculty office with a suspiciously over-grown child swinging from her teat to piped Rasha Shaker. A sacred monster hippie-mom cum-woman's studies lecturer, she's so gloriously excessive- breast-feeding other people's children and filled with a cultic right-on orthodoxy which causes diva-like spasms at the very sight of pushchair/strollers-- that �Elle' could almost be satire on conservative depictions of 'liberal' teaching staff. But the film's sardonic enough to give her, complete with pony-tailed goateed �guru/healer type cougar-bait, quite enough celluloid to garrotte themselves-- with their sprawling Indian-style �family' bed, promotion of late term pregnancy mantra-sex and attempts to de-Freud their kids with semi-public shagging�as the kind of narcissistic chancers representing the �enlightened' in too many free-spirit pseudo- movies. After child-birth she �deeply understands War when I see it on CNN'. Over dinner Burt and Verona get �forgiven' for their unenlightened attitudes to child=-rearing, which all stems from the apparent existential disadvantage of having to earn a living--in an weird echo of Victorian aesthetes who saw working classes as congenitally unfit to contemplate higher-pleasure ideas.

Episodic and seemingly meandering, AWG moves deceptively quickly over pen-portraits of near-psychotics into an increasing emotional complexity--like the next stage in this Dantean oscillation between the planes of purgatory; from Madison, where De Tessant' beautiful-and subtly discontented sister first really draws Verona's attention to how fortunate her circumstances are, to of Montreal. By contrast to these earth spirit communers and dipso's �Two and 1/2 Men'/Heavenly Creatures's Melanie Lysarsky shows she can deliver shadow as mutual ex-college friend Munch Garnett. In a seemingly ideal marriage, with a slew of adopted children who manage to do close-harmony Von Trapp sound of music numbers without making you call the filmic Nazi's on them, she still has thin shade-rings around her cheeks. In two scenes- we move from the charged=-whimsy of as maple syrup pancake coffee house analogy for love to a fully-clothed strip-club scene where to the sound of the Velvet Underground the lurking subtexts of the couple's mass adoption, comments about creating lover from �the best you have' exist in a sad secret which ultimately shifts the balance of AWG's last act.

One in which- like the ghost of an alternative future- Paul Schneider as Burt's Miami based brother copes with his wife's late abrupt abandonment, and single parenthood. One where Vee and Bee finally confront each of the niggling anxieties which have spilled out-still leavened with a smart alecy humour which now seems more intimate than ever�deprecations in the dark, skits about pregnancy sex's merits and Verona's future breasts-- creating their own impromptu common-law ceremony of eternal fidelities.

Mendes has again altered his panoramic inclinations (American Beauty to Jarhead to Road to Perdition showed a chameleonic craftsmanship), this time to meet the rhythms of quality pop cinema hybrids, with their mix of bright hues and ed, quotation mark lo-fi tones ala Garden State. Although broad, it also has those small details--passing college dorm rooms like �the CIA trained Bin Laden', and then the slightly off-kilter-read tasteless-arrangement of neo-hippie artifacts in LN's trust-funded mini mansion; Arizona upper-white trash dog-track circuits and gaudy national anthem ceremonies; Miami's neon-inflected seafront. Sometimes, with those visual tics of the archetypal indie inc aesthetic, like the pretty but cribbed �aeroplane mapped across blue sky-scraper windows flowing like fish in an aquarium' shot, and the lingering cactus's it seems at best circularly arch, and at worst like an advertisement for anti-depressants. Indeed the film's haunted by the refrain �are we f*ck ups�- trailer living, low-income job slaving; conversely theirs is still the kind of relationship where they have to fabricate arguments to seem less �lovely' ; their love is �so unique' how can it fit into any of these paradigms of America, of comedy or dramatic tropes- how can it find a story correlative, a symbiotic landscape to express its specialness.

Of course it helps that in the background lies Verona's former family-home, ready to renovate, with waterfront at the back and rambling grounds at its side, once she completes her allegorical journey. There's the danger this puts the film's positioning of them in contrast to �Ellen's' slummy posturing, within a slightly egregious light. But then pastiche
details-like the Juno/Donnie Darko trampoline or the fake-fruit tree, become re-loaded with a necessarily familiar significance analogous to the familiar, the cleverly comforting ; like De Tessant-coming to terms with the memory of its predecessors. Away We Go, then, isn't startling, but in a more modest sense, acute, affecting and truthful to its subject matter ; framed in the kind of alternative -cinema pictorialism vocabulary of shots and
montages that-contrived though it sounds- is audience bait. And I guess that makes it sort of special, unnervingly.

MODERN LOVE IS AUTOMATIC (2009) US.

Somewhat by contrast, one of EIIF's delicious highlights from next-to- nowhere, has been the more intimidating prospect Modern Love is Automatic, a decidedly contrary piece of ennui and pvc about life, apathy, "cult film, punk rock, �80s nostalgia" and trying to discover yourself through becoming a dominatrix. Zack Clark's movie's definitely allied with the wild-side, but isn't anything so marginal--and borderline terrifying to anyone with a passing interest in independent cinema as its murky premise might suggest.

Right from its poster- a pastel-co-ordinated girl in lizard yachting-club sixties shades... and a whip-- MLIA is deliciously, drolly perverse�so overtly distant and strange it tastes of real-living's set of endless guises and hidden cravings. Like that poster girls pursed-affectless mouth and mannequin gesture, beneath the subversion, beneath mix and match stylistic co-ordination is a central character looking for a meaning in the modern when all the signs are that it's a post-modern world of sick-jokes and contextless ironies. It's bizarrely poignant.

Nurse Lorraine Schultz is a cipher. Dungeon-locked in stultifying chain malls and dim-designed apartments, surrounded by her colleague's vapid chirpings -her natural disposition is to embrace the binds, barely move her eyelashes, smooth down the creases in her bed, shirk from kisses and wear crisp Bettie Page pastel co-ordinated sky-blue outfits like a John Waters kitsch pastiche. Director/writer Clark has her daily absurdity endured and serenaded by an internal monologue of Napalm-Death sounding metal furnacery like Bosch -or Borshc drills-over a Hockney surface. Intrigued by a bondage magazine abandoned on the bus to work, decides to add some anti-colour into her life by moonlighting as a dom. She's as archly-framed- as stiflingly vulnerably stylish dead-eyed as a air-hostess in a promo, with her coquette soda-pop straw sucking like a commercial for 'the blank generation'. Through an interstial series of photo montages- dog-chains and feathered-whips we learn the niceties of a world where, as Lorraine testifies, she`ll do 'anything. No preferences'. Punctuated by crackling video confessional's like from Andy Warhol's Factory MLIA alternates between the tannoy diegetic sounds of showrooms and shopping centres, and the incessant death metal curdles punctuating moments of super-alienation. Lorraine's speech is pared down to drawling-dislocated 'Ok's', like she's wired up to another plane of existence; a cipherous ice queen or crushingly hungover. A faded Polaroid of nurse uniform iconography, or a rip-take.

Levering up and down on the electronic surgery table like a car-room advertisement she hides in bug-eyed glasses and a jet-black�with exceptions for certain themed 'jobs'- wig, behind which lie blank oval-eyes blinkering against the raze of other people's 'questions, questions'. Advertising for a room-mate in one of the full-screen framed classifieds which chapterise the film, Lorraine ends up with ebullient Adrian, resembling in fact a skinnier Talia Shire-- in some oblique absurdist joke on that movie's 'triumph over adversity' theme-- who declares that they're ''going to be the best roomies in the world', cue Lorraine's utter anhedonia .

Her room-mate's very bony awkward-cheeked need to please defines her career; self-proclaimed graduate of modelling academy 'right behind the shopping centre' with a catalogue-volumed portfolio of photo's and living poses which she foists upon bemused department store managers and ultra-low scale agencies which end up being fronts for sex film production, Ade ends up selling mattresses for a low-rent sleazoid coke-fiend strip-mall manager. A position which largely involves cavorting and making-come hithers to sexually-frustrated townsmen, competing amongst hard-bitten, sultrier co-workers. Her haunted rat of a boyfriend pursues Lorraine with flowers, blackmail- gear-stealing and eventual near-kidnap; even in the latter discomforting scene L is all still-painting eyes.

Which will not last in even the weirdest fairytale. But rather than an artificially imposed copy-cut ending, Lorraine finds 'a song to sing', a beautiful black dress-, an understated date which shades her blankness, and a mumbling, sweetly awkward New Wave rendition rather than the dungeon metal which has stalked her throughout the movie. Off-hand, she finds a new pitch of acting like new-York Steve Reich minimalism expressionism. Characters live quirkily, not as symbols for a generation, but because their high-strung emotional pitches produce dissonant notes like a 1982 Sonic Youth/Teeenage J's performance. The Slacker boyfriend, with his pork-mutton-chop ala Dave Grohl meets Dave Gorman is a concoction of bad boho-stylings, Adrian a nervous factory reject with the energy, neurosis and paint-splodged two-tone dress of a pill-popper-- the Melrose-daytime soap Doctor's surgery primped blondes with their Sirk-ean meets Waters technicolour kitsch joys and melodrama's. That poster seems a pastel coloured Lynchean take on the golden-era dolly, drawing the connections between the studied wholesome surface and a polymorphous perversity of chains. But, like Lynch's surrealism, MLIA is beyond repression theory; just as its heroine plays the part of a dom. not to cause pain, not to be a therapist, but to explore the idea of feeling for herself, or perhaps to do something contrary to indicate that, by contrast, exists. Something- loose, ghostly and chameleonic as her shrugs and near kisses.

HUMPADAY (2008) US.

Another distinct voice from the indie's; Lynn Shelton's Humpaday won the panel prize for best-foreign feature this year, yet comes armed with a plot which in clumsier hands could veer into-at best- a Judd Apatow comedy production mid-way through menaced by its nightmare repressed, gone horribly askew. It shares with �I Love You Man' �and Mendes's flick, a chief protagonist at once educated and slightly klutzy about the feminine, and with the former the revival of instincts buried deep inside self and history through a freer-spirit counter-male eventually not so different from themselves. In the course of which suburbanite existence trembles rather than shatters at its foundations. Whilst in �I Love You Man', the literal danger to heterosexuality from and proud was little more than the clammy-glad-handing of beery-squeezes on couches over the game or the hugs over the mystic conduit of a rush solo- the poladi lingo of wig-out tech-rock myths and neutral I love you man's defused by play-names, �Humpaday's closer to knuckle and more-squirmingly- quite literally-embarrassing in premise and treatment. It's also a dissection of boho plenteousness laced with deep sympathy for the dreams of counter-culture, all from a voice that knows its milieu.

It's also a jaw-struck �o'- embarrassment- riched comedy-like a Racine delicate satire collided with the post-frat boy humour of the detached classes with their basket-ball gooped breeding which then turns the loop on its sack-and Indian-silk quilted circus-crowd Dionysian intruders. Ben still sports a buggle-eyede cloying uncertainty as his shaggy-haired masquerade wilts in hotel lights like a cruel bedroom joke, like the multiplex film's most primal source of fear. It's a film about emasculation that's as oily-slippery as the frightful orgies which fail to materialise in the �unfinished artists' life, whilst his friend shares a straight-faced confession any of its �illustrious;' counterparst would rather substitute with donkey-sex or coprophilia than allow. Those first shots are reminiscent of Paul Maqzurksy or any of those Altman style seventies scenes from a marriage- as deadpan, real and border-line hysterical as-more famously- the Graduate. This is American Indie cinema of social-laughter with wincing, almost bloodily acute-tears�the minutiae of small revolutions shot at an angle mined from its salad days.

Centred around the disparity between the thirty-something upholstered proto-family home world town and an �art porn' festival populated by post-college types still ossified in a �world-trip' sensibility, the movie ends up blurring identity boundaries with serious intent whilst latching onto the cosmic comedy of the body and the small-ridiculousness of sexual protocols, conservative and liberated alike.

From the shrivelling of a knowing smile into shifty confused school-boy eyes like any mod-com anti-hero in the presence of the mysterious liberated feminine (�and their jollyful priapics), to the quibbling over undressal speed, caught half-mast in an unlustrious hotel-room before a cheap digital camera with your best friend, who suddenly looks less art's pioneer-provocateur , and more a misshapen folly of doughy creation in farce, unable to restrain a sheepish, terrified giggling like bat shrieks�its escalating pitched like Stravinski until you can barely bear the baring.

Still, though they may be embodiments of the �real' as some specific aesthetic replete with all their carefully honed complications, but the main characters�the wife or the long-lost buddy-- aren't about to exceed themselves into some plastic-sick version of self disgust just for the outrageousness of a plot riff; if for activists on either side Humpaday's ending could seem like a miasmic cop-out. If for both parties it ends in a Socratic wise-confusion about themselves, we can at least be sure that art comes with an emotional price---like your fianc�e sulking at sax-sex inter-genitalia based performance pieces, not matter how much wine you feed her, and that anal-sex talk over croissants is only for the intrepid, and too that �revolution' isn't some platonic higher-state but comes from sweaty and wracked sublimations and gut instincts turned pretty-ugly as much as any Bertollucini Paris analogy or Scandinavian dissection. But with much better comic timing. Sheldon, previously known in the community for her lo-fi feminist orientated films shows here�and in her engagingly wry EIFF Q and A performances-- the makings of a small directorial stardom, a potential Jarmuch or Hal Hartley style mark in her own off-beat witty field.

EASIER WITH PRACTICE (2009) US.

But for sheer wrenching psycho-discomfortitude, nothing outside the �Horror' category the rather more disembodied connections of �Easier with Practice', the independent spirit Jury Prize Winner at Edinburgh, and soon to play your nearest Filmhouse/Phoenix style alt-cinema. Like �Away We Go', concerning symbolic road journeys, and like the rest of the �indie's a re-writing of American myths of liberation through pastiche upon pastiche, its glacial and indulgent respectively compared to its sucessors, until it turns on a cold cork-screw daggered into the amorous nethers of its desperate protagonist, and re-casts the whole previous history in a detective-estory style loaded network of entendre's and soggy ironies. Based on a true story-Easier with Practice is on one level about the ephemeralness of dreams-on another a sympathetic critique of a certain down-trodden c-grade writer myth writ as metaphor. Director Kyle Patrick Alvarez sugars the pain of its indulgences with a soundtrack of curio for alt-America music obsessive� chief protagonist part-time �writer' Davey Mitchell's college demographic-- with the likes of Emily Easterly, Source Victoria, Deer Tick and Grizzly Bear, and those drifting sounds and acute party observations betwenbe the winces and aches of Davey's stuttering p/s improvisations and inarticularly, might be all that sustains any viewing from above the carpet's edge

The film has its basis in a GQ article on a peculiar modern-romance/tragcomedy and that-near telegraphed- sting at its heart leads into the most authentic five minutes of its run, a climatic down-beat redemption diner scene. It's unfortunate then that the set up over its preceding 85 has forced us to endure-like some conceptual exercise- frankly some of the worst (hopefully) ironic excesses of writing, from and for its author protagonist, available. It's chief character's main foible-he's a (self-publishing) novelist with crippling social aphasia-who can barely even live up to his laconic persona(akin to Ryan Gosling's manchild role from (last years Lars and the real girl) � is painful as abrupt public meltdowns, a tendency and pain only exacerbated by surrounding strained patient smiles. Very little gets �easier with practice' for him-Superficially the kind of Ethan Hawke-blonded-identikit familiar to the mid 90's indie movie- a disassociated writer of stripped down 'democratic' prose about 'things people do to each other'- Davey endures a tour of dust-towns in New Mexico to the thin-ring of a polite applause until predilection for flat black-lace style trash fiction means another sort of ring, a random phone-love encounter fires him into dreams of hook-ups and textsex happy endings like such logic-elastic fantasy novels. 'Nicole's' voice on the end of his hotel phone from nowhere leads Mitchell into a one-way extended dream-land but before long can't help but instinctively kick against the constraints of that disembodied dulcet dulcinea tone, even choked by his inexperience. And then the first of EWP's trap-door segue secrets comes to light�

No easy resolutions, no easing of his fantasies to steady that addiction before the volte-face�a pointedly tantalising red-herring involving peanut butter sandwiches, martini, and sultry brunette Susan seem to offer his a chance to connect, before the movie curb-tails off into it's own logic. Alvarez undoubtedly has an eye for all those old tropes-almost too old-of South-West US landscapes; static-frame fire-fly motel-glows and college bars amongst prairies; shots of the framing phone sequences which-as opposed to exterior deep-pan focus-maintain an almost stifling intimacy�lenses crammed against Mitchell's pleasant face suddenly wrought by frown-lines and twitches of tremulous nervous excitement juicing and throbbing through his cortexes- the kind of star-profile juxtaposed with the low-down surrounding, the faltering seduction talk and the pulp scanty-clad red-lipped dream-visions of Nicole which-to a mixture of mutual horror and narrative relief like a religious awakening transmogrifying that teeth-crunching aimlessness, finally collapse black/white man/woman real/dream. Or perhaps it's a shallow trick striving for deep flats in the rubble of Palahniuk-robbed mid-state US neurosis left in Tusca and prairie college-villes after old battles for the �alternative'. The risk is ours.

RULE NUMBER ONE (2008) H.K.

A notable addiction to the start of EIFF, aimed precariously, with its kaleidoscopic genre-splicing kineticism, towards the edges of future wide release, was Hong Kong cop-romance-revenge-thriller-ghost-story-tango Rule Number 1. A rule cutting balletic juxtaposition of disparate generic elements, a la the free-associating dance-quoting camera-tricksy kinetic film's of John Woo and the Pang brothers. This movie, set amongst a discernible parallel HK, also combines high whimsy with J-league horror and --in the tradition of the first day's Scandinavian dominated catalogue-- a truly mordant ending; beautifully calculated and symmetrical but the crowbar in the clockwork of what 2/3's through built up to killer franchise possibilities and a beat-skipping heart-wave underneath. A flashback throws us straight into a kinetic chase-scene through the snaking side streets whilst on a nearby bus-a burgeoning tender scene created out of glances and the retrieval of lipstick like a rose shot like a courtesan love story suddenly ripples with blood. The lesson being-as chronology skews back and forth initially, that things are never what they seem-- shortly after, a nervous motorist, confronted by overzealous traffic-cop Lee Kweon for minor infringements, and the transcorporeal contents of his trunk sets into motion a vengeance story which leaves the cop filled with bullets by the first five minutes and rips open the metaphysical assurances of the phenomenal world. Reassigned for 'dubious' reports to the �Department of Miscellaneous Affairs'- encountering a jenga castle laying wheelchair--riding youth in an office brown as opium-fug in Siam slums or nicotine-stained walls in Philip Marlowe's office, Lee meets the woozy romantic Inspector Wong-- a cynic concealing secrets of tango waltzes with former-loves and toy bicycle riding takeaway girls, and his mission to maintain rule number one 'there are no ghosts'. Initially fooling the apprentice with spindles of lost-hair in pipes and remote signals to 'haunted' tv's�soon, with the past conspiring against both of them, Wong must enlist his partner in unravelling a series of bizarre play-suicides enacted by an ephobiliac ghost with the ability to possess and a taste for macabre theatrics.

All amongst them lie ex-wives and moon-eyed school-teacher girlfriends and noodle-deliverers, a series of scrawled numbers and alogorhythmic coincidences. The tone is as playful and brutally juxtaposed as the ghost's own methods-- waltzes with blow-up dinosaurs ; the world-weary cop wearing his cliches like St Christopher medals three-steps ahead of his 'successful' colleagues with black-humour and then missing the cruellest joke; a dive-flying troop of pig-tail tied school-girls hurtling from a skyscraper; the chamber-comedy of perennially cheeriness in May, Lee's live-in girlfriend, and a bitter-sweet false ending with its nervous laughter in the dark and frenzied dancesteps. When Lee starts stopping out all night--days bleeding into one, and when Wong re-acquires an idea and a shapely face worth living for�the intrusion of the ghost starts becoming a violation- we'd rather see those night escapes from work into fading romantic dreams soaking those dim-lit bars flush with runny colours like leaves and reminiscent of �In the Mood for Love'. When the movie starts revivifying even the most over-done character types, sets up this network of relationships within the flashes and grand guignol and then pulls it from under you
like a malevolent conjuring trick-it's effective but you hope somehow shards could be glued together with the piece-tech employed to suture the rest of this cavalde together. To create a 'nothing is what it seems' self-contained irony RN:1 puts all the characters on the phyrre-leaves you drained as the victims of those ghost which take them from inside and abandon them. Still- for seventy minutes, it's a chilling-sharp ride-like a showpiece reel of directing various moods-keeping various dynamics in a queasy but thrilling show of sympathetic magic. And with so many Kansas-city Chinese box shuffles and unreliable narrators hanging, even the spate of deaths and cons might not be enough to ward away that looming avenger of a sequel spectre.

Don't miss the second report, where I'll be looking at three of the festival's horror standouts (including Von Trier's already infamous anti Christ, and Vinyan) along with the new Shane Meadows music-themed comedy Le Donc, �Son of Bowie' Duncan Jones's Moon, a Near East stand-off and a quick preview of the All Tomorrow's Parties movie(released in September).

]]>

We Were Promised Jetpacks - These Four Walls

James McDonald — Wed, 01 Jul 2009 14:47:54 +0100

- Dananananaykroyd, Errors and Copy Haho amongst others. Although rarely venturing from their homeland, with a run across the UK alongside Frightened Rabbit being their only notable outing, the four-tet now aim to further stretch boarders with the release of their debut long player, 'These Four Walls'.

The early signs are good. Opener 'It's Thunder And It's Lightening' is a broody storm as its name would suggest, which, after a scornful 'drop D' riff, hits hard much like Mumm-ra's 'Now Or Never' did back in 2007. Tremolo guitars and bulky toms are an apt introduction to this band, no more so than to vocalist Adam Thompson warm dialect, akin to a young Roddy Woomble back when his band were breaking windows. It is this tone which, in all honesty, is WWPJ's unique selling point. Couple this with the barrage of enthusiastic ditties that comprise the first three tracks, and a quarter of the way through one would be forgiven for thinking that their initial promise had been comfortably delivered. Down beat offerings such as 'Conductor' and 'This Is My House...' offer suitable respite from the bursts of energy which are prominent throughout the album and the collective as a whole. Similarly, the acoustic sombreness of 'An Almighty Thud' would be just in gracing mix tapes across the country.

However, having spent some time absorbing this record, I can't help but felling somewhat short-changed. As a band, Jetpack's song-writing abilities are without question; structures, although tepidly tame, are for the most well mapped and executed, whilst the production of the release offers for some lovely soundscapes, 'A Half Built House' being the notable example here. However they simultaneously demonstrate tyronic tendencies - a middle eight break in 'Quiet Little Voices' which seems no more than an afterthought, and a general tenacity for a four chord comfort zone. The most disappointing portrayal of my reservations can be found with 'Moving Clocks Run Slow', beginning cautiously with an intriguing riff conjuring imagery of the Pixies at their prime, before disintegrating into the bastard child of Bloc Party, with Kookish wooping adding a final nail. Similarly, 'Keeping Warm' is for the most one long build up which never really goes anywhere at all - most frustrating indeed. Any beauty is lost by the tedious bass line, and again you find yourself screaming out for just that extra bit of invention that would make this band whole. I don't wish for this to come across as harsh pompousness, but realistically there's nothing on this album that hasn't been done before. Yes it's unique, in both tone and delivery, with Thompson's voice being one which boarders on the iconic. However ultimately there is no irony in how apt their band name is.

The folly of youth perhaps? Well maybe, but I try not to remain too disheartened. There is an awful lot of promise on this album which, in its entity, is a catalogue of examples as to the potential WWPJ's posses. At such a young age, this was never going to be a career affirming concept piece, but its a credible account for a band who we've seen little of to date, and it'll be enough to give them a share of the limelight for some months to come. For the meantime, I'll store this band under the heading 'Likely to benefit from drug-binges and hotel hookers', along with You Me At Six and Operator Please. ]]>

Win Itunes festival tickets!Graham Coxon, Esser

Bill Cummings — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 16:43:24 +0100

-
Lest we forget Blur guitarist Graham Coxon is still a well loved solo performer, he will be taking a break from his recent activity with Blur(intimate railway gig, Glasto headline performance, Hyde park shows ect) to perform songs from his warmly received recent Transgressive debut album "The Spinning Top" playing the Itunes Festival on 23rd July at the Roundhouse.

The critically acclaimed record will be performed by the same band that took these folk epics across a sold out UK Tour earlier this year; hinting at how they will progress into more orchestral pieces in the near future, and providing a wider audience with their last opportunity to see them in this fashion.

He will be supported by Esser resh from making inroads in the USA with his debut album "Brave Face". Having just collaborated with the Beastie Boys and Prince Paul, and setting alight clubs up and down the country with Headlock, he's in prime position to entrance with his exuberant live set.. Both will be recorded for exclusive Itunes live EPs.

To celebrate we've got a pair of tickets to give away to see messers Coxon and Esser at the Itunes festival on the 23rd at Camden's Roundhouse. To be in with a chance, simply send your full name and email addresses to bill@godisinthetvzine.co.uk by the 15th of July, when the lucky winners will be informed.To enter you do need to be over 14, and to show up on the day with your ID! Good luck!!

]]>

Voluntary Butler Scheme, The - Tabasco Sole

Darren Walker — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 16:29:14 +0100

- The Boy Least Likely To, Beck and The Jackson Five. Humour, innocence, effortless cool and impossible to dislike melodies are all present and wait; are your ears deceiving you? Is that Damon Gough?

This is EXACTLY what Tabasco Sole, the latest single by one-man-band Rob Jones aka The Voluntary Butler Scheme sounds like. The infectious guitar line, lovingly borrowed (see: stolen) almost directly from the quintet's 'I Want You Back,' it has been lodged in my brain for the last hour and every time I think of the line 'If you ever start to feel square / wear a De La Soul tshirt once in a while to make you feel more hip hop than you are' I give in to 'one more cookie syndrome', press play and enjoy those delectable three minutes once more.

Release date: 06/07/2009

]]>

AC/DC, The Subways, The AnswerWembley Arena, 26th Jun 2009

Michael James Hall — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 16:57:50 +0100

- AC/DC take some beating � legendary for their one-dimensional anthems to sex and rock n' roll as much as their notoriously loud live show and dedication to old-school blues-driven rock, their reputation as the beloved grandparents of modern rock is unquestionable. Recent years have seen a multi-platinum selling new album (Black Ice � which this tour is ostensibly here to promote) along with a strange sort of rehabilitation among young hipster types who may not own an album but certainly own the iconic Back In Black logo t-shirt. There's little in the way of Shoreditch tomfoolery here tonight though as a crowd packed to the rafters with die-hards ranging in age from about ten to seventy (no joke!) pay tribute to the Aussie overlords of lascivious metal.

The evening opens with Belfast's The Answer. Unreconstructed �70s rock with nice big hooks and a singer seemingly dressed as David Coverdale circa the Deep Purple years, they are a decent enough bar band done a disservice by wavering sound levels and a relatively apathetic crowd. One would think they'd be a more entertaining prospect late on at a club, but seem out of their depth here.

The Subways are a last minute substitute for the re-formed Thin Lizzy and receive a proportionate response. Their Nirvana influenced power pop is not only weak and ineffectual but also almost laughably unsuitable for the occasion. Their vocalist insists on garnering cheap pops from the crowd throughout by saying the headline band's name, as if by implying some kinship the gathered masses may not despise them quite so much. It's embarrassing and it doesn't work.

So, to the main event.

A huge on-stage screen shows a manga-style animation of a Rock n' Roll Train (their most recent single). It's a train inhabited by avatars of band members Brian Johnson and the eternal devilish schoolboy Angus Young getting into various overtly sexual escapades with large-breasted, violent rock chicks. It's awesome. Then an enormous metal train crashes through the screen. On fire. With devil horns. It's more awesome.

AC/DC chug through tracks from their most recent release to a warm response but it's the unleashing of Back In Black early on in the set that sets the place afire. Deafeningly loud, perfectly nonsensical and with a riff straight from the Gods of Rock, it's still a vital, exhilarating proposition. As the seemingly ageless Johnson and Young take turns running the ramp that extends to the centre circle of Wembley they treat the masses to vicious, pounding takes on classics like TNT, Hell Ain't A Bad Place To Be and an extended take on The Jack that involves much breast-showing on the big screens from various shoulder-riding females and a climactic strip from Angus. All ridiculous, all extremely politically incorrect and all the better for it. The dynamite driving power of Thunderstruck is an early highlight along with the triumphal Hell's Bells (of course accompanied by an enormous on-stage AC/DC branded bell) and Shot Down In Flames � pure rock n roll songs with huge chant along choruses driven by Young's unbelievably nimble fretwork and Johnson's almost comically gravely growl. A vast inflatable Rosie straddling the smoking train accompanies a rousing Whole Lotta Rosie and the biggest cheers of the night come with the unleashing of You Shook Me All Night Long. These songs are guaranteed to bring a smile to the sourest of faces and for the 80,000 screaming along mindlessly to them it's clearly a wildly liberating experience.

The main body of the set climaxes with a jammed out version of Let There Be Rock that leads into Angus' extended solo (again no joke � we're talking twenty minutes!) that sees the night's most memorable and iconic �stadium rock' moment. Young winds up elevated on a platform above the sound desk in the centre of the arena, soloing madly and passionately, duck walking and head banging with as much frenetic dedication as he did twenty years ago. With a solitary spotlight centred on his thrashing form and the whole crowd turned in to the spectacle he drops to the floor releasing hundreds of thousands of pieces of glinting silver tickertape. The lights go up and the stadium has become a giant snow globe. It's almost magical.

Now that's a show.

Encoring with Highway to Hell and closing up with For Those About to Rock � accompanied by the obligatory cannon fire � AC/DC have delivered a stunning musical and visual experience that may well be tacky, lacking in credibility and perhaps even just plain dumb, but it's an experience that reminds us of the pure power of rock music � it's sense of community, it's sense of awe and wonder, it's ability to purely entertain. AC/DC triumph tonight not because they are critically acclaimed, not because they are cool and definitely not because they are pushing any musical boundaries � they win because they're simply fucking brilliant.

Long may they rock. ]]>