So I got round to writing my 1000-odd word eulogy to John Peel. I won’t post it here cos I’d imagine most of you have probably read/heard quite enough mourning and memories by now, and what with being such a down to earth and humble chap I’m sure Peel would have found himself a bit embarrassed by all the (entirely justified!) wailing and gnashing of teeth his passing has provoked throughout the nation.

So if you want to read my lamentations, get in touch and I’ll email them to you or possibly put them up on my Yahoo webspace, but on this here weblog I think the best thing I can do is to try to put this week’s sad events (well, one event I suppose) behind me and get back to the business of talking about cool stuff and so on..

(I got through most of yesterday without being too gloomy, but given the extent to which Peel has contributed to my cultural life in recent years I know that there are going to be moments every single day that are going to go like; “yeah, Lift to Experience were fantastic! I remember the first time I saw them at the International Arts Centre, it was a mindblowing show! I only went along cos I’d heard them in session the previous evening on.. oh, fuck.. Peel. :( )


Right then, here are a few write-ups on stuff;

The Earlies (Leicester Charlotte, 28/10/04)

Didn’t know anything about this group prior to the show, but some friends were going so I thought I’d go along. It was quite busy… so who are these Earlies characters? Are they famous or something? There’s certainly a lot of them – eleven people on stage, no less than six of them standing behind keyboards, and the Charlotte soundman must be doing his nut trying to get all their moogs, cellos, trombones, sequencers, flutes and bongos working through the venue’s hideous gutterpunk sound setup. Obviously the final soundmix leaves something to be desired, with things that I can imagine being soaring, multi-layered arrangements on record reduced to a muffled wall of indefinable sound.

The Earlies are jolly nice and somewhat beguiling as far as they go, their songs straining but never faltering beneath a weight of melodies, harmonies and innumerable strange and inventive sounds, all orchestrated beautifully. They’re also clearly the kind of nice folk - good of heart and humour, well-practiced but still slightly ramshackle - that instantly win an indie-kid audience’s heart.

Less fortunately, their music is also groaning under the additional weight of some huge, unavoidable influences – Brian Wilson, early-‘70s Pink Floyd, maybe even a touch of ELO, and above all... the Flaming Lips. Nothing wrong with sounding like the ‘Lips of course – it’s pretty much inevitable when yr. dealing with this kind of spacey, widescreen, optimistic type pop – but when songs like ‘One of Us is Dead’ sound so much like a lost Wayne Coyne composition it’s ridiculous, I’m afraid I can’t shake the impression that the Earlies’ debt to the ‘Lips goes somewhat beyond a mere aesthetic similarity.

Again, no particular problem with that, were it not for the fact that The Earlies have a bad case of what you might call Beta Band syndrome. In the few moments when they really hit their stride, especially on current single.. (um.. I’ve forgotten what it’s called, but I’m sure you can find out..), they’re pretty stunning – the disparate sounds coalescing into a wave of emotive power. But these moments are few and far between. Through most of their set time the band meander good-naturedly through largely forgettable songs, failing to capitalise on the shining rock-out moments where it all gels. And you can chuck in as many nice-sounding instruments as you can think of, but to fully succeed in this kind of music what you really need is simple, beautiful songs, the kind of songs that batter the listener over the head with their cosmic grandeur and heartfelt profundity. That’s the element that the Flaming Lips (not to mention spiritual godfathers Brain Wilson and Neil Young) have mastered, but that the Earlies are rather tragically lacking.


Lair of the Minotaur – Carnage (Southern Lord records)

Oh man, this is superb!! It’s a promo CD I clocked in a second hand rack for £5, and the name and the fact that it’s on the ever brilliant Southern Lord label persuaded me to take a chance. And I’m glad I did, cos this is, like, THE MOST PERFECT HEAVY METAL EVER! Like Mastodon, these guys sidestep metal’s tediously formulaic present state and strip things right back to all the essentials that make it brilliant – massive fucking elephant crushing downtuned riffs, mental drum punishment, lung-puking vocals delivered by a dude who sounds like he actually IS a minotaur and lyrics dealing exclusively with the more bloodthirsty aspects of Greek mythology. They manage to rip out all the best bits from metal’s various sub-genres, with the pace veering indiscriminately from doom sludge brownout to screeching Slayer speed-pummelling via a filthy death metal groove, all mixed with a hilariously gleeful theatricality worthy of Venom. The energy is unrelenting, the riffage is razor-sharp, hitting all the rock pleasure centres in finest Sabbath tradition, and the volume level is fucking MASSIVE. To put it plainly, this is pure fucking monster greatness, and hearing Lair of the Minotaur blast through bloodcurdling tunes like ‘The Wolf’, ‘Caravan of Blood Soaked Kentauroi’, ‘Demon Serpent’ and.. well I’m sure you get the idea, is enough to remind even the most jaded avant-garde noiseboy that Heavy Metal Is The Law.

I’m sure Peel would have loved it… * sniff *..

Second tragic obituary on this blog in a month I'm afraid..

I'm so shocked & upset I can't really think of anything to say right now to be honest, and I'm sure all the websites and news people will beat me to the heartfelt testimonials anyway, but..



RIP.

In every sense of the word that matters to me, I think he was a hero.

Finally!!

Dr. Hunter S. Thompson's thoughts on the US election.

I was going to quote you some selected extracts, but fuck it, I wouldn't be able to stop myself from quoting the whole thing.

God bless the good doctor for existing, and god bless him for still chucking straight talkin' clusterbombs like that into the face of US media monotony.

I hope with all my being that he's called it right this time.. his analysis of Bush's forthcoming loserdom is totally sweet, and his 'good horse sense' has proved fairly reliable in the past. Let's all hope and pray (to our own twisted primal heathen gods obviously, not Bush's fucking mad stupid bloody cartoon daddy god).

One quote? Oh all right, one quote;

Richard Nixon looks like a flaming liberal today, compared to a golem like George Bush. Indeed. Where is Richard Nixon now that we finally need him?

If Nixon were running for president today, he would be seen as a "liberal" candidate, and he would probably win. He was a crook and a bungler, but what the hell? Nixon was a barrel of laughs compared to this gang of thugs from the Halliburton petroleum organization who are running the White House today -- and who will be running it this time next year, if we (the once-proud, once-loved and widely respected "American people") don't rise up like wounded warriors and whack those lying petroleum pimps out of the White House on November 2nd.

Nixon hated running for president during football season, but he did it anyway. Nixon was a professional politician, and I despised everything he stood for -- but if he were running for president this year against the evil Bush-Cheney gang, I would happily vote for him.

You bet. Richard Nixon would be my Man. He was a crook and a creep and a gin-sot, but on some nights, when he would get hammered and wander around in the streets, he was fun to hang out with. He would wear a silk sweat suit and pull a stocking down over his face so nobody could recognize him. Then we would get in a cab and cruise down to the Watergate Hotel, just for laughs.

And remember, remind your friends, paste it on billboards, yell it in the streets, make sure everybody knows that, regardless of politics;

Bush is a natural-born loser with a filthy-rich daddy who pimped his son out to rich oil-mongers. He hates music, football and sex, in no particular order, and he is no fun at all.

FILM WATCHING JOURNAL;

I’m really jealous of those guys like Kim Newman who seem to have made a prosperous career out of watching a load of strange films and telling people about them. I mean, look at the guy, he’s amazing! He gets to spend his whole life cultivating magnificent facial hair and waxing lyrical about the influence of ‘30s Tarzan features on the development of Italian cannibal films, whilst occasionally being filmed for a spurious Channel 5 documentary (with his absurdly well-stocked book/video shelves as a backdrop) or knocking out a quick round-up of the latest Hong Kong revenge thrillers for a glossy film magazine. That’s the life for me.

And I watch loads of strange films! (Not half as many admittedly, but I’m working on it.) I could do it! If I work hard enough, maybe one day I too could be living in Kim Newman’s Life of Riley! I shall tell people about the films I’ve watched in a witty and forthright manner and hope they enjoy it! Here goes…

15/10/04

Bukowski: Born Into This (John Dullaghan, US, 2004)

A massively entertaining film biography of the great Charles Bukowski. A total hagiography in fact, with the subject’s sprawling genius and heroic demeanour remaining unquestioned throughout. But then where’s a poor documentary maker supposed to go for balance with a guy who made his lechery, alcoholism and penchant for violence into his greatest assets? But anyway, this film is built largely on first hand footage of Bukowski talking about stuff and wondering around, from various eras and levels of drunkenness, with a few mercifully incisive talking head interviewees thrown in. Hank comes across as a thoroughly charismatic and dignified dude throughout, with only occasional lapses into slurred incoherence, and should you need further convincing that he’s more than just a wasted oaf with a typewriter, the readings of his truly extraordinary poetry will evaporate the air in your lungs and turn your veins to tears. (On the downside, Bono somehow manages to get his fucking oar in, giving his big spiel about how he’s ‘always been a huge fan’ like the self-righteous git he is, lowering the tone of the whole thing.)

16/10/04

The Legend of Hell House (John Hough, US/UK,1973)

The ever-reliable late night BBC 1 horror movie slot comes up with the goods once again. This is basically a reworking of The Haunting (Robert Wise, 1963), and whilst it lacks that film’s remarkable subtlety and cinematic flair, it still provides surprisingly decent haunted house / psychic phenomena fare. The hard-nosed sceptic doctor scowls at everyone and builds a big machine to try and ‘capture’ the house’s evil energy fields whilst his wife sleepwalks around being hypnotised into lustful impulses. The mentally damaged sole-survivor-of-previous-haunted-house-experiment does a marvellously creepy “you’re all going to die!” turn, and the pretty young psychic tries to solve the mysteries and make contact with the spirits in the house, before realising that they’re a bit, well, malevolent. And she’s really put through the mill bless her, with most of the best scenes involving her being terrorised in one way of another by crazy new invisible evils. Pretty well filmed, ok script, surprisingly good acting, cool ectoplasm effects, a mental rabid cat attack and – good lord! – sex with a poltergeist. Not bad.

17/10/04

Woman of the Dunes (Hiroshi Teshigahara, Japan, 1964)

I could kiss the proprietors of my local arts cinema for screening stuff like this on a Sunday afternoon within easy walking distance of my house. One of those films it’s impossible to do justice to with words, ‘unique’ isn’t really strong enough to describe the extraordinary qualities of this legendary film. Although it’s undoubtedly quite strange, I think it’s safe to say that Teshigahara’s existentialist masterwork manages to transcend cult status altogether, and I’d contest that it deserves to be seen alongside the canonical classics of new wave / art cinema – Bunuel, Godard and Cocteau all spring to mind as apt comparisons.
So what’s it about then? Well it’s about this man who’s wandering in the desert collecting insects (does Japan really have any deserts that size? Does it matter?), and he gets tricked into spending the night in the house of a woman who lives alone in a deep gorge between sand dunes. But in the morning the local villagers take away the rope ladder and tell him that he has to spend the rest of his life with this woman, shovelling sand all day in the hot sun for some rather ill-defined reason. And, er, that’s about it really.

No, no, I mean what’s it ABOUT? Oh, I see, well it’s about the confinement of the material world, gnostic frustration and the tyranny of the flesh. It’s about isolation and the stifling and ultimately pointless nature of human relationships, it’s about man’s subservience to nature, the mysterious roots of the sexual urge, geography and loss of identity. It’s about lively Godard-esque stylised naturalism, staggeringly beautiful nature footage, the abstractions of extreme close-up, montage and the power of pure cinema. Fuck it, let’s face it, it’s about EVERYTHING. It’s breathtaking. Most of all though, it’s about sand. Lots and lots and lots of sand. In terms of sheer amount of sand on screen, I think Lawrence of Arabia is the only possible contender.

19/10/04

Festival Express (Bob Smeaton, US, 1970/2004)

Another great documentary, this one’s about a load of mighty and unshaven bands - the Grateful Dead, the Band, Janis Joplin, Buddy Guy, the Flying Burrito Brothers - travelling around Canada on a big train, putting on a full scale festival at each stop, back in 1970. And it's the absolute bestest! Train cars full of wasted rock dudes playing humongous country/blues-rock jams as vast panoramas of Canadian countryside trundle by.. WOW! Take this musical era’s overwhelming concentration on roots ruralism and ragged grandeur, add BIG TRAINS and CANADA – it’s hard to imagine how the surrounding could have been more attuned to the music.

And obviously it has brilliantly filmed concert footage of all the groups involved, notable for the way in which they all Totally Rock in Your Face, somewhat undermining the common belief that early 70s festival rock was quite dull. Plus you've also got a great verite record of the ugly fallout of post-hippy youth culture, with armies of disenfranchised flower children hassling the pigs outside the stadium gates, demanding free entry and picking fights, almost resulting in Atlamont-style chaos before a makeshift free festival is arranged in a Toronto park ("all we need is two flatbed trucks..") and the day is saved.
Also present are some of the greatest beards ever captured on film, a lot of thunderous guitar mangling, good natured substance abuse and strange dope-stifled political discourse.

The footage is amazing throughout – clearly someone had put a lot of time and effort into documenting all this stuff on film – and if you’re remotely interested in this kind of scene, then for gods sake get out and see it. Should make for classic late night post-spliff viewing for a certain kind of individual when (if?) it gets a DVD release.