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Showing posts from March, 2012

You were a silver feather, a surging tiger, a shooting star, a tired cosmonaut.

Two pieces, one rejected, the other printed, about kids telly and music. 
(Rejected piece, 2010) 
Inside the earth you hear music. November is the month of sacrifice. You wait next to your dead lord under the hill. You will accompany him to the afterlife. 

That was the dream I had. The music cut the cobwebs, dispersed the dust, sharp, sunken, scissoring, mandolins. Postgate was the scream I couldn’t emit, the word I woke with hot on my forehead and that’s no accident, the music he used is witchcraft, reanimation, a warning to the curious. Neither simply for kids, or too grown-up for them – the music Postgate used was about neither innocence or intellect but being reconnected with time and the earth, the flow and force of it, the shattering moments where the clock would stop and abscond, where the second-hand hovers in mid-air waiting for the reverberations to stop within you. Nostalgia is too often cheesedip, a party, a thrown arm round the collective shoulders, a safe and essentially w…

"If a thing is worth doing, it is worth forcing someone else to do it."

SIR HENRY AT RAWLINSONS END  Directed by Steve Roberts Starring Trevor Howard, Patrick Magee, Denise Coffey

You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll jab your eyes with fingers still trembling from the trauma of being made a child again. Like the first time you saw Thief Of Baghdad or Wizard Of Oz or Bride Of Frankenstein. You’ll jab your eyes just to check you’ve just seen what you think you’ve seen. You think you’ve seen Sir Henry At Rawlinson End, the movie adaptation of chief Bonzo Dog Viv Stanshall’s masterpiece solo 1978 album about a fading, inebriate English lord, his home, his family and his brother’s ghost. Pretty soon you’ll think about the film and put it in its place. A weird little corner of cross-reference but a place nonetheless. Parts remind you of Ealing. The acid-drop mot justes of dialogue, the sepia tint, the cruelty that makes its landscapes so alive, the olde English rural idylls and bucolic backwaters that seem to fester with ancient restlessness and rancour – pure Kind H…

"It's all about one simple fact: the upper classes will always fuck you over,"

This Gun's For Hire (from Uncut Magazine, 1997)
From right-wing London thug to blood-spattered undercover LA cop, Tim Roth has been there and done that. Here, he talks to Neil Kulkarni about his new film, Liar.
"I really like your magazine." Are you gonna read this piece? "Nahh, I stopped reading things about me a few years ago. Not because people were lying about me, or even because I get particularly precious about revealing too much. It's just that I'm not interested in the slightest. The press, what people I don't know think about my stuff, it's all so very far away from my own relationship with my work and what I do. Oh yeah, and I used to cry at very bad reviews. Plus, I am very boring. You can write what the fuck you like. Seriously, make the whole thing up and you can piss off down the pub as soon as you like. Honest."
Tim Roth is sitting opposite me getting cocaine blown up his ass by a transvestite through a diamante pipe as he fucks a p…

"When did entertainment get so fucking unentertaining?"

[What a total charmer ROB ZOMBIE was. Showed me round some great Hollywood cemetries ('look, here's the grave for Mel Blanc - yeah I know, can't believe it doesn't say 'That's All Folks!'') and had fun with him in full zombie-make-up running around the Sunset Strip wax museum scaring kids until we were ejected by humourless security guards. Hung out with him and Ozzy in Alburquerqee and on to San Antonio later for Metal Hammer but that piece is long-lost.]


"First you gotta realise everything is fucked. Then you start building . . ."
(©1998, I'm guessing roundabout Halloween,  MELODY MAKER) EVIL SUPERSTAR
"'Tis the season for evil and devilment to rear their ugly heads! Yank Metaller ROB ZOMBIE kicks off the horror show ..."

Watch MTV in the US right now and amid the lamentable coveyor belt of mediocre divas, pre-pube ganstas and three trillion rock bands called FLANNEL, there's just about the most damn entertaining three minut…

"Perfect. As only the superficial can be." Screaming Trees & Soundgarden live reviews, 1996.

Two reviews from the grunge years, or as I remember them, the blatherdy-shitfaced years.  I recall arguments with bouncers and many many hotel cocktails before both of these. What a fkn amazing band Screaming Trees were - this post is here cos 'Nearly Lost You' popped up on an old mix CD in the car the other day and blew my day apart.



(From Melody Maker 16th November 1996 - headlined 'Aye There's The Shrub' which is atrocious but kinda likeable)
SCREAMING TREES
Newcastle Riverside (UK)

For a gig you might've expected to be a pissed-up, beery slop, all bum-notes and chaos, it's all in the subtleties of feel. This is the only way you can explain why Screaming Trees will never be a household name writ large across a million T-shirts.

They have made the best rock album of the year - no question - and the confines of this place should be too small for their global anthems-in-waiting. You can see no earthly reason why they aren't the biggest rock band on the p…

PULP "something that can sustain you" LIVE REVIEW

Funny, I went down as a punter with no intention of writing a damn word about it. Old habits n'all that, came home head too full not to, sent it to the nice folk at the Quietus for the hell of it, amazed they ran it, amazed also by the response it got.  For no other reason than I love them, and yet again today they've helped here's  my Pulp live review from the Quietus 2011. 
(shots by nat urazmetova from here)

"The indie-hero leaves the building. Thank God."

Always hated Blur, but remember this gig, and this chap, as a real charmer. This is the closest I was ever allowed to Blur actually, smart editors see. Always had to grab a quote at the end of the gig, always hated doing that but I recall Graham & Dave being sweet. Shame about their jazz-hands mate really. 

GRAHAM COXON 
Sheffield Leadmill 
(11.07.00)
(from Melody Maker, July 19th, 2000) 
Maybe the whys and wherefores don't matter. Maybe it's pointless tryng to figure out the real reasons for people coming here. Nobody could really have been expecting a cheeky Blur cover, or a glimpse of Damon in the wings. Graham Coxon deflates any sense of happening as soon as he walks on -the rest of the night is your choice between enjoying this music in ferocious and meaning-laden context, or just enjoying it like you've stumbled upon it unawares. If Coxon hadn't announced himself with this tour, had anonymously slipped on to a support slot next month, and just let 'The Golden …

"Radiohead were shit tonight. It was a crap gig."

[Belief, shame, rejection. Me and RADIOHEAD thinking recently about how I would preface everything I ever wrote with 'This Is A Work Of Fiction'. Not because that's necessarily true, although sometimes I suspect I AM A WORK OF FICTION but because it'd save me the shame that every pop writer feels about what they were into, what they eulogised, the music they loved they can no longer even stand being near: to whit - Radiohead, a band who always blew me away live, a band who for the duration of 'The Bends' and 'OK Computer' I thought were awesome, a band who ever since have done their damnednest to make me loathe them and everything they stand for. As hinted at in these two pieces, the first a review of their 'Meeting People Is Easy' film from the dying days of the Maker (I had to rewrite this fucker so many times it pissed me off royally, just cos the dumb fucks above me didn't want critique only fkn reportage), the second from Bang Magazine…