Doug Cowie, Owen Noone and the Marauder

 

An amiable book, in many senses.  Tested by water and fire, Owen and his new just out of college friend form a band based on the Lomax songbook, and in a road trip/buddie movie/rock novel, travel coast to coast in Marauder's first-person memoir of a late friendship.

Good on lots of counts; it's understated, and the things it states seem pretty truthful, not least Marauder's difficulty in finding the right things to say or how to feel what he's feeling; it makes you want to see Owen Noone and the Marauder live; and the trajectory of fame, and expected bottom-of-bin status, is nicely done, too.  Great final sentence, something which defeats most novelists, and scoops the award for best use of babushka doll metaphor in literary history.

Museum of Everything, Primrose Hill

This was clearly  mis-selling.  There was at least a kitchen sink missing, but what you do get is a warming, creepy, cluttered, obsessed, and fascinating collection of 'Outside Art', which no doubt has phds about it aplenty.  This show was 'Secret Art'.  All the kind of naive, slightly dowdy stuff that worms its way inside your head; and sadly seems to have informed the Innocent Drinks and all those adverts making use of drawings and doodles at the end of the Great Boom, c. 2007.

Nice offbeat labels, with digs at Hampstead types, neat comments from the bestest still going artist (Ed Ruscha), albeit with wrong apostrophes in decades...  Rambling overwarm building was perfect, and the crowd had hipsters, oldsters, posh toddlers, and artsy girls milling around to add to the effect.  Sadly, the fairground thing wasn't working.  The Revd.' s chapel was perfect, though. And there was even a tea lady and china cups and saucers at the end.  I may be back to have a Rich Tea and some Yorkshire tea at some point.

Ladies and Gentlemen we are floating in Royal Festival Hall

I think Spiritualized must be my third favourite band, but the number one in terms of times seen.  So, what did I take from this, apart from the odd observation about the fans and the current taste for nostalgia?

Well, along with the free jazz, and bombast, was probably the smallness of the sound.  Which was wholly appropriate for one man's attempt to come up with a new language, a thrashing around in the pain of loss, the balm of druggy comfort, and finally the human sound of the choir rescuing, but not bringing much relief at the end of cop shoot cop.  Revelations?  The reversion to the Elvis lyrics for 'Ladies and Gentlemen...', and the heart-ache in Jason Spaceman's voice in Stay With Me.   At the end, he wasn't singing, just crying out.

Kind of as if Berlioz was a punk.

Moon

Moon (2009) reminded me of one of those annuals from the 1970s or earlier, all full of moon buggies, space craft, and great white rings of light as planets crept in front of a sun.  We got a director's Q&A afterwards (Zowie!), which reassured us that this was intentional.  An homage, a faked lost gem even, from the highpoint of series SF: Outlanders, and so on.  All reassuringly refreshing.  But why? Even the future is now the past, it seems...

More tellingly perhaps, even more than the hints at the ethics of cloning, or what is a sentient being with rights, is the loneliness.  Something you don't have to grow up the son of a famous pop star to understand, I suspect.  And I've always wondered what it would be like to throw up in a spaceman's helmet.  It's worse than I thought.   Another great date flick, then.

Breaking Away

Dammit, I’m going to add something to this blog.  This film is a must, if you have ever (a) been 19 (b) grew up in a small town (c) wondered what Indiana was like (d) had a passing interest in bikes (e) wondered what Denis Quaid would be like in a good film (f) puzzled about the father/son relationship.  Even better is if you see this Gregory’s Girl meets Animal House meets the Road to Rouen as part of the Bike Film Festival.  Better still if it’s introduced by Kristian House, who shared the same leg-shaving parental shock moment as the main (or the most prominent of the central quartet).   Bikes do, on this occasion Rock.

Although there is a worrying scene where bar tape is applied from the top of the bars, rather than the bottom.  And Team Cinzano are, as Skoota noted, a bunch of cunts.  I leave you with the final, freeze, frame, ‘Bonjour, Pop!’.

And the Hippos were Boiled in their Tanks

Which has very little directly to do with this hard-boiled memoir-cum-fictionalized account of the early beats hanging around New York, drinking Pernod, eating steak, making out with girls, and trying to ship out to France as the Allies try and break out of Cherbourg, all while their pal (who went on to be a well-liked newsman), breaks the skull and kills his infatuated homosexual non-lover.  There is a lot of shifting around from bar to bar and bedsit to bedsit, Burroughs and Kerouac get to write a chapter each in turn, and there's an afterword by Burroughs' room mate and executer, which has its own interest (plus he edited the thing).  Good bits include the use of 'fink', the quasi-existential, exterior life feel of the prose, and the fact it ain't too long.  It also ends, and maybe even works up to, a not bad joke about politicians.

Mazzy Star

B2009ks is sick. Not very sick. Not sick enough to take a day off work, but sick enough to use up a holiday and spend the day in bed in order to shake off an unwelcome cold and temperature.


Normally the cure would involve black and white films on BBC2, some Agatha Christie or Patricia Highsmith, but most of these resources seem lacking. An attempt to finish And the Hippos were Boiled in their Tanks met with failure at Burroughs and Karouac's two hander. All that my temperature-addled brain could get was a bunch of proto-beats moving around New York a lot, drinking plenty and sometimes injecting morphine. All very tempting, but not really wholesome enough for recuperation.

However, some respite arrived in a Rough Trade evening on BBC4. I should probably just subscribe to their roster, and not bother about buying anything else. During the 'Rough Trade Live on the BBC' segment they not only reminded me how great James were, but how fun the Raincoats can seem; and that I should also get some early Stiff Little Fingers records. Mazzy Star was the other reminder. I had a great tape from 1993,which used to rattle around my cassette player late at night in my frozen room in York as I tried to write essays, or resolutely finished that bottle of Pernod John idiotically brought back from hitching to France. Dreamy guitars and Sandoval's voice...

My Morning Jacket also had a segment during a live bit at St Luke's (oh, that Ryan Adams evening there was great), and reminded me that apart from a great warm up for Spiritualized at the South Bank, MMJ remained largely unknown, except as Neil Youngist, proto-Fleet Foxes. Am currently digging out some old CDs to rectify this, and am greatly amused by this Rolling Stone description of Evil Urges (which reminds me of that double LP of Urge Overkill, which I now have no means of playing):

"Evil urges, baby," squeals Jim James in the title track of his band's fifth studio album. "They be part of the human way!" A slinky funk strut delivered in Prince-like falsetto that blows up into a proggy Southern-rock guitar duel, "Evil Urges" rallies you to "Dedicate your love to any woman or man/No racial boundary lines, no social subdivisions" and notes that "evil" is often in the ear of the beholder.

But coming from a young band whose first three albums earned them a reputation as hairy torchbearers of guitar-driven classic rock, the title is also about messing with expectations. More so than 2005's mildly experimental Z, Evil Urges explodes the band's sound with the same kind of creative leap that Wilco took on Yankee Hotel Foxtrot and Radiohead took on Kid A.

MMJ's reverence for Neil Young and Crazy Horse is well documented; their Prince fetish less so. They've covered "I Could Never Take the Place of Your Man" live, employed Prince-ly nomenclature (see 2005's "It Beats 4 U") and happily mixed drum machines and lengthy guitar jams (see 2002's space-funk-folk-rock epic "Cobra"). But nothing in their discography could anticipate a song like "Highly Suspicious," Evil Urges' biggest WTF moment. Squeaking out rhymes like "Home alone dotting your i's/Peanut-butter-pudding surprise!" in helium falsetto over boogie-rock guitar outbursts, drill-sergeant backing vocals and clipped drum spasms, it's better suited to an I Love the '80s! mix, set between "Little Red Corvette" and Devo's "Whip It," than to a My Morning Jacket album. (And, dude, I don't even want to know what a "peanut-butter-pudding surprise" is.) It's both hilarious and badass.

MMJ also embrace prog rock — a direction that initially seems at odds with their populist jam-band vibe. But James is determined to have it both ways. The elaborate, shimmering vocal overdubs on "Touch Me I'm Going to Scream, Part 1" recall 10cc's prog-pop landmark "I'm Not in Love." And the record's 13-minute tag-team finale, "Smokin From Shootin" and "Touch Me I'm Going to Scream, Part 2," morphs between Radiohead's computer-assisted soul, avant-roots rock and a chugging Pink Floyd space anthem. "Oh! This feeling is wonderful! Don't you ever turn it off!" sings James on the latter song, amid majestic Fender Rhodes chords and Loch Ness monster slide guitar, building to a surprise ending sure to result in thousands of spilled bongs. He could be singing about sex. He could be singing about MDMA. And when he notes how long it's been since he's been challenged to think "about the way things are" and "the way they could be," he could even be singing about a certain presidential candidate. Just as there are innumerable sexual metaphors, James knows sex can be a metaphor for innumerable things.

Yet you sense that for all his freaky ambition, James is still an old-fashioned guy trying to reconcile his love of tradition with the modern world. One of the record's standouts is "Librarian," an acoustic love ballad that's so archaic it's clearly a hallucination: The singer wanders through book stacks ("Since we got the Interweb, these hardly get used") and sees his crush listening to the Carpenters on AM radio. But songs, like books, invent their own reality, and by the time he reaches the hoary nerd-girl come-on, "Take off those glasses and let down your hair for me," it's enough to make you forswear your Amazon account