Electronica and the Destruction of Image

The sound of the future has been with us for longer than you might realise. Since the experimentalism of German Engineers, such as Stockhausen of the 1950's, and the French composers around the same era recording surrounding everyday sounds, electronic artists have been posing new frontiers and seemingly endless possibilities for us. Earlier still, at the end of the 19th century, Eric Satie wrote a series of background pieces called furniture music designed to let the listener fall into mood and sink into the subconscious. Although Satie never got to use the incoming advancements of music technology, it changed the way music would be used and considered over the next century. Our relationship with the computer has grown since then. It's a frightening prospect for many people. Some listeners find it tough to enjoy. The harsh and manufactured sounds can leave them feeling cold and empty, as though no human empathy exists at all in the music. Another conflict for them is absence of the human voice. It might appear to them, particularly from such alien sounds as Autechre or the hypnotic ambiance of Brian Eno, that technology dominates. I often imagine a distant future where machines, so intelligent in design and thought, compose their own unique music in their logical and inhuman view of the world. In fact, it's quite possible the computer is the instrument of our age. Where once the guitar provided an individual, everyman approach, the computer currently supplies an upgraded version of exactly this. Inspired by the mathematical cut n' paste style electronics pose, some go so far as to turn it on its head, to use the guitar as you would a generated synth. Math Rock is a direct descendant of this and the eltro/rock group Battles employ the technique brilliantly. The classic riff that was so key to traditional Rock is broken down and particalised. They sound, at least to my ears, like the army marches of a billion extra-terrestrials. The computer gives artists of broad calibers a lot of freedom. Its variety and customisation pinpoint a voice for many artists who yearn to express the so-far-unexpressed and, like the guitar, it is also universally easy to pick up and make your own.

But what I really want to look at is the way that electronic music throws out image as part of its whole presentation. Modern Indie, as one example, relies heavily on it's visual appeal: The Band Picture, The Supporting Fashion Scene and NME coverage, The Guitar Solo. Indie's not the worst offender in this department. A lot of Hip Hop would be pretty bland without it's larger-than-life look. Electronic music, on the other hand, is faceless. Any sympathy or preconceived opinion is gathered through the music, and the music alone. It must be the only genre that lets the music speak for itself in uncorrupted tone. The genre has a dedicated following but this lack of visual reference is a tricky element for the average listener to comprehend. Perhaps it's a subconscious human need to see what you hear, to be able to make eye contact or to be able to try and understand the personality behind the communication. The power of impression, of suggestion and of social politics is difficult to break away from.

Aphex Twin, originating from Cornwall, is an acid crazed sonic genius (if I can call Richard E. James that) and one of the titans of the Warp Records Label based in London. He has been responsible for creating some of the most twisted and unnerving electronic music of the last decade or so. Stacks of artists spanning many different genres of music cite him as an influence. His music is almost indescribable and is offset by strange videos and dark sights. The recognisable Aphex Twin symbol that accompanies his releases (see above picture) is a singular but ambiguous metaphor. His insane, demented smile that reoccurs over and over, on his album covers and music videos throws off the audience and mocks and destroys any accessible visual attachment or understanding. We can know nothing about him from these images. It serves only to displace himself from his music and subvert our love of images, the resulting obsession of MTV culture.

Many other Electronic artists also hide behind their work, either by choice or because they are by nature reclusive people. This separation of image from sound and severing of visual restriction forces us to focus in on their music, perhaps the only thing that matters. We are entreated to give up caring about the source and the intentions of the creator. This is their gift to us. We, the audience, are free to explore our own psyche, attach our own memories, to let flow the beautiful landscapes of our mind while listening to their music as a soundtrack. The images are of our own conjuring. It lays out a blank canvas inviting us to think for ourselves, to make the music our own.

USA Election 2008 - My pointless coverage

It's been a hell of ride. Many months of mud slinging, smearing and general ridiculousness. But now the wild campaign torpedo is primed to hit and America's future will be decided. I say America's future, perhaps I mean the whole of western civilisation's. Much hangs in the balance. Their national integrity is lost and America's reputation as a standing symbol for freedom, liberty and sanity is tarnished. The economic disaster of the last few months acted as Bush's final finger in our face. His swan song was a tuneless one. But now, they have the chance to put it all behind them.
It is with great anxiety that I settle down to track the final minutes. To me the choice is obvious. McCain never bothered me as much as my adversaries. That was until he played the Palin card. That sealed it. But to our friends across the Atlantic, who have surprised us before, it is apparently not so case closed. Other 'extremely important things' play in how they choose a candidate. Yes, 'extremely important things' such as Christian morals, elitism, was he a druggie, how nice his tie is, does his name rhyme with Osama? IMPORTANT THINGS! It's tricky.
Oh Jesus, this is going to be a nervous night. The BBC can never be trusted, as well you know. I can already feel my lungs heavy from increased smoking. My right leg will be dancing the Charleston after all the coffee I'm going to drink. But it must go on. My faith in America and its place on the list of countries-I'd-like-to-go-back-to might be lost forever. Let's get this over with.

11:40pm - It begins, and already in true BBC 24 fashion, there is a lot of faff. Because the camera never rests, relentlessly projecting images in the hope of up-to-date news, the broadcasters jump through hoops to try and keep the viewer occupied. It would seem the actual event isn't interesting enough for us. Flashing maps and CG effects seem to do the trick, or so they think. It's actually an arsenal on the senses and an exhausting one at that.
"I'm going to have to stop you there! We have John Simpson Live in Chicago!"
Holy shit!
"There's a real sense of excitement here!" he says, in an exited way of course. He should know I guess, he's covered stacks of American elections before.
"What do you think?"
"What do you think senator?"
"What do you think?"
Get on with it damn it!

11:48pm - Some intriguing poll results scrolling here and there. 61% don't think McCain will lower taxes. Distrust this late in the game (and yes, it is a game) is not good.
What the fuck? "Obamachinno"?!? Sigh. Only in America.
Now we get to see a few republican's trying to keep cool and remain calm. Trying to do both at the same time is difficult. "He's got experience" they say of McCain. "I think he'll win" says another. All this is said with fixed smiles. Remember, you're on TV and, as such, you can be easily stereotyped. But these hard core supporters don’t look, visually at least, like the square headed Reagan lovers of old.
Back to the big map of colour! This all must be a massive undertaking for the country. Each state is equal to the size of England, comparatively. No wonder the political mood is so erratically insane in America.

12:00am - "And so here we have the first state call" David Dimbleby seems hopelessly bored by all this. Perhaps he’s been at the gin already and is trying to forget that closing hours have just gone.
Kentucky goes to McCain. Vermont goes for Obama. McCain's on 8 points, Obama's on 3, 270 points to win, it's like a video game! Thinking that way it feels odd to call it 'winning'. Is the white house a bonus level I wonder?
Plenty of wank about race issues again, allowing the Beeb to fill time. Blah Blah…
Wow, minorities form 41% of the population of America. I think the phrase "All American" doesn't apply anymore, thank God. Frankly, it never did. The country was built by others.
The Republican representatives in the studio respond to the current results: "We're winning, we're winning... giggle giggle!" The tone is half assed.
"The economy is the number one issue". This aspect could make or break Obama. Will his policies stand up and will it secure a victory?
Random Question: What happens to the Patriot Act after all this?

12:16am - A brief word with Ricky Gervais. He relates his initial apathy for the race that turned into an addictive quality, but then has to answer an unfortunate question about who Brent would vote for. Scowls and cut away...
Here come the hoards over the hill to witness the upcoming elected's speech. One or two look like they're really struggling to make it to the barrier. It's almost biblical.
Praise for Obama beating Hilary "in a fair fight". Hilary’s back on the cocaine this evening.

12:30am - "What do you read into that?" says David. What do you read into what? It’s hard to answer when you have a huge delay in the result. Consistently live TV produces many mistakes, and with a terrible earnesty in trying to get information it often trips over itself.

12:37am - Still no results. Cue horrendous stalling and blibber bladdar. Speculations are flying all over the place like popcorn that defies the laws of time.
We get a pre-emptive interview with McCain on his campaign plane. His wife smiles fakely while he looks either tired as hell or visibly spooked. The guy looks troubled.
Some poor reporter attempts to talk over a band spilling out the Beatles at one of the main Republican conventions. Maybe she's put off by how bad their cover of "Eight Days of Week" is. History has shown that Republicans don’t choose their music too well.

12:49am - Helpful anti-commie sentiment. "Castro wants Obama to win." Cigars all round if he does however.

12:52am - McCain holds South Carolina the devious fuck. At least he's against torture, something that America has evilly resurrected over recent years. So, it’s 16 to 3 and I get a sudden headache. If McCain wins I’m definitely not going to work tomorrow. I’ll hide in my room for several days, under the blankets.
Conrad, a fellow tenant in my house, makes a good point: The rich states, such as Maine, have all voted democrat. McCain’s outreach to the poor obviously hit home.

1:00am - Pennsylvania goes blue followed by New Hampshire and the BBC play a cheer from the crowd, and bam! Illinois and District of Columbia joins in. Democrats are bouncing on their beds. There are monosyllabic noises of pleasure. New Jersey becomes gives in to the peer pressure and gives Obama an extra 15 points. On 103 to Obama and 34 to McCain I can safely call it a night, only to wake up later and check the final result.

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

4:03am - Such dedication. I awake to an intense and still uncertain atmosphere. Fearing the worse I clamber down the stairs to witness the Obamanian hoards screeching in ecstasy, waving flags like a religious mist has descended. Jesus, grown men are crying. “It's over!” I hear Conrad shout. And indeed it is. At this point, Obama has exceeded the 270 mark leaving McCain in the dust. His figures continue to count up. Florida and California was the key here, there’s no doubt about it.

4:09am - A gracious and respectable speech by McCain. His thoughts about the Republicans being dealt a heavy blow from the beginning of the race appear quite accurate. The liberal media lapped all the liquid Obama up. The hype was infectious and was always something that I tried to take with a general sense of objectiveness. Personally, McCain never really had very much control on his campaign. Some of his supporters were off the wall with their accusations of terrorism and supposed ethnicity. His original positive message was eventually clouded at the end by cheap and desperate slander. Obama’s campaign was like a gentle but relentless spinning wheel, with only minor bumps in its way he remained positive and focused. Now, in retrospect, it was like a work of art.

4:30am - Obama’s final speech is pretty self explanatory and I’m sure you’d already have seen it by the time I post this, so I won’t bore you like the BBC would. At present, the atmosphere is one of happy mania. Obama’s message is clear and impassioned but the bullet-proof glass that surrounds his stage acts as almost an omen. “It’s your victory!” he says. Even if you argue that his message of change and hope is contrived, you have to admit that America needs it. It’s time to get back to greatness, and not the kind of greatness in wealth and power, but great in mind and soul. Freedom is no longer a brand name. Greed and corruption evaporate. The era of the Bush is over.

I breath a deep sigh of relief. For now it seems things could get better. But time will tell. Obama has an incredibly taxing few months ahead. His movements will be monitored closely. He must, MUST, fulfil his promises or disaster will ensue. We could see the dawning of a beautiful and exciting new age for America, or we could we witnessing the first steps to chaos and possible collapse. As long as the positive, foundational ethic refuses to fade, I’m confident of the former.

Some campaign soundtrack moments that stood out for me during the night:
“We won’t get fooled again” – The Who
“Changes” – David Bowie
“Ceremony” – Joy Division

"It's like Halloween all year round" - Club Intrusion at the Cellar 10/06/08

Remember that story a month ago in the news? 'Ignorant, chav sons-of-bitches beat to death Goth Girlfriend' - just when you thought Britain was becoming reasonably civilised, white trainers kick your hopes firmly into the cold ground. Then, as if to make a side, the Daily Mail produces an article about Emo culture and its apparent push of suicide and dark arts. It all particularly depressed me, how was this kind of close-minded thing still occurring? Britain is jammed with so many different types of people with so many pockets of culture dotted around. "Dare to be different"; evidently the word 'dare' is now underlined. In any sense, why Goths and Emos specifically? I myself have been guilty of similar dislike of the culture in the past. They always seemed to me as immature, self absorbed over-romantics with whiny poetry. Interesting how much appearance dictates our views of people. I have my own experiences in this. Why, a few nights ago I managed to piss off numerous morons in a Reading drum and bass night, simply by looking like some geeky hippy. The time had come to transverse the Goth culture, move among them. Observe and see how the culture opporates(in it's long and continuing run of 25 years). I enlisted the aid of an associate for the evening; we'll call him Robby, after Robert Smith. Shit! Robby's brought out the eyeliner. Still unpredictable after all these years...

'Going Goth' - The Undercover Plan:
Pull every item of black clothing out of the wardrobe... put on "Cheer up Emo Kid" T-shirt, baggy black trousers and remove all beads and brightly coloured accessories... better leave on the studded wristband. Concert Tails? No no no, something less dramatic... eyeliner, of course... ill like a heroin addict or struggling theatre performer. Smeer wax into the hair... always put in much more than is necessary... spike it tall... now you're set! Looking... good? Maybe that's not the idea? Like punk, dress to offend... or at least dress to weird-out... the general public... they make sure they get a good look at you. You become "that kind of person"... a freak, a weirdo, a fuck-up... everyone is behind their social wall of normality... they fear what they do not understand.

And so off we went. Two sunken eyed night dwellers on the 'dignified' Oxford town. We stopped at the park for a pre-drink spliff to find a snobby, collar and tie, raaahhh party situated by the river bank. They'd gone through the trouble of erecting a tea-and-cakes tent and placing burning torches around it, virgins will be sacrificed. Some terrible glances in our direction, just ignore them and keep writing. "So this is what they spend their money on" I mention to Robby getting even more scrutinising looks - stub out that spliff I think, we're on the streets now. After gurgling down pints of cider at The White Horse, a tiny pub opposite the Sheldonian Theatre, we made our way to the Cellar for a smoke outside and to observe the various characters entering. Ahh, there's Edward Sissorhands, Tim Burton would be pleased. A green faced girl wearing a bed sheet and a lengthy jet-black wig approaches us. "I assume you're supposed to be the ghostly, lady person from 'Jane Eyre' by Charlotte Bronte?" I ask her.
"Who?" she replies, and pushes her long wig over her face immediately making her character known to us.
"The girl from the Ring!" she shouts. "Who needs books when you come out of a TV!" Quite literally, yes.
Edgar Allen Poe gets a brief mention from a sickly looking Coleridge Taylor called Andy, a guy Robby works with. Another well built, bearded gentlemen with a red devil face strolls past, he is to be confronted by a drunken Robby later in the evening - "You're spiderman! You're spiderman!" to which the bearded one replies: "No! I'm Not! I'm not Spiderman!" No alternate was given to us however. It's true Robby, Spiderman did go a bit "Emo" in the last film.
There is the traditional selection of Goth individuals with monstrously huge black boots, white painted faces and dominatrix, sadomasochistic leather... but also some interesting Venetian masks, 18th Century Romatic Literature attire. Of course, this is Oxford. No prizes for originality. Things are beginning to cook up now, the crowd we hoped for is steadily growing. We chuck our rollies against the wall and descend into the dungeon.
One girl with a blonde crew-cut (whome I later find out models in an online Goth/Cyber clothing range promotion) is finding it difficult to navigate down the steep steps into the club.
"It's hard to make it down in these boots" she laughs, unintentionally giving her own excessive attire a put-down. I give her a hand.
"Trust in the Converse" I say wiggling my right purple shoe and receiving a shush from Robby... we can't give away our cover you see.
Marylyn Manson pounds over the sound waves, some lumbering Lurch-sized dude in a riding coat is swinging alone on the stage. I've not yet seen Charles Manson. There's enough black to make a funeral director weep joyfully, or enough to make the void of space jealous. It turns out that it's the 7th Anniversary of Club Intrusion, hence the crowd, so a raffle is planned. It also later turns out that I win a bottle of wine and upon discovering this I approach the DJ box to collect it, grinning like the hidden hippy I am. I put the bottle aside foolishly thinking that, being a Goth Night, it would remain untouched. The bottle is eventually smashed and my sunglasses stolen - it's a typical club evening after all. Aha! There's Charles Manson, and his friend, Brian Molko from Placebo. A couple with bondage gear are tugging at each other playfully. And over there, jesus! Isn't that the crooning jazz singer from Twin Peaks?

We find ourselves on the edge of a group of dancing shadows after drinking and then smoking, drinking and then smoking. "Let's get right into it!" I yell to Robby. "Right into the nucleus of the thing!" Why not, imbibe the atmosphere and let ourselves be taken into it. We make our way into the centre past a girl wearing a fucked-up Alice-skirt throwing shapes with neon multi-coloured glow sticks - the light fantastic. The music took a bad direction on a change of DJ's, only pop and tacky electronica, and The Cure and Placebo from this point on. Finding unknown gothic music was too much to hope for at this stage.
As I start to feel the dirty electronic groove of Rob Zombie, I accidentally career into a wedding dress manga-angel, but she apologises herself - her wings flutter. "Crazy" I think, but I must stop smiling, I'm a goth, I'm a goth. But then I look about me and there are smiles everywhere. It's not an average club night after all. In fact, it's better, with a more enthusiastic, friendly atmosphere. I've never been to a club that had so many people approach me, just to chat and giggle and I've never been served chocolate cream cake with a drink at any bar before. What is the consciousness behind Goth? Perhaps a chance to access and grapple with the darker half of the human condition. Perhaps to play around with unsettling appearance and test the personal waters. It's like all culture really, a plateau of expression and creativity; or, like what Spiderman Goth said earlier, it's "like Halloween all year round!" It seems as if the general attitude is to bring everyone closer: "See, I'm a freak, I'm a looser like you. We all share the same suppressed emotions and problems. We can express ourselves together, write poetry, music and art. Celebrate being alive." What, to quote the Daily Mail, is so "evil cult" about that?

Viva la album; or how I stopped worrying and learned to love the electric generation

About four years ago I felt as though the popular album was under threat. With the rise of itunes and the ever greater use of torrent sites or downloads by the public it seemed that more ephesis was being placed on the individial track rather than the album as a whole. The structure of the album, a musical form that survived for so long appeared to be loosing its grip, and its respect along with it. For a while, this really bothered me. I noticed that people were ignoring entire albums in their addictive search for maybe some gooey ballad they heard on the O.C. I even feared that it would affect my own views of the classic flow. Thankfully, this was not to be the case. In fact, the internet would give birth too many things that carried it on, simultaniously allowing the form to evolve in provoking ways.

You cannot understand my joy when itunes introduced a zero second track change in an update. No one wants an irritating gap inbetween tracks on The Darkside of the Moon or Another Green World or Francis the Mute or F# A# Infinity or any other god damn album for that matter. Freedom has a strange affect on music, but always a good one. Communication and expression should always be free, as long as we hope to all be human. We all grew up having the album forced on us by medium and the internet had always promoted a sort of communist attitude; power to the people and all that. Over the last few years we could collecively say "fuck off" to the oppressive nature of record companies and embrace the loving lips of free music. Smooooch, free music, a concept that every ethical artist stands by. I don't need to tell you that everything has become much more expensive (maybe someone could tell Brown for me). Well, the internet single handedly saved our ability to keep collecting music of any variety despite our class or income level. And the album kept up. If you got ahold of a single track, whether it be by legal/illegal downloads, from a friends hard-drive or some pirate website, you might have been tempted to locate where the track came from. Perhaps occationally buying an actual CD from an actual shop if you loved it enough, although that was generally a last choice. Musicians, bands and web creators heard your cry and responded with some excellent answers. Last.fm is an enormously populated music website allowing the member to see graphically what music he or she had been listening to. You can go to bands profiles and view their releases, see which album people prefer. The cover art of each is accessable and the download-able programme that burrows itself into your toolbar gives you information about where the track you are enjoying originates from. Sweet Jesus! Look to the right of my blog, THERE'S MUSIC EVERYWHERE!!! Honestly, its adictive.

Radiohead have been called musical innovators for some time and, with the release of In Rainbows, were crowned internet lords over its early and complete release on the internet. Although they were certainly in the position to do so, they made it also possible to get it all for free, if that's what you thought it was worth (there-by posing a difficult question of morals). It's a shorter total time than many other albums, perhaps to make it easier to download, but the structure is still alive and pulsing. Each track compliments each other and the after-taste sticks around. Bands are still using the album structure; maybe more than ever as the apparent ease is making the expression from the music and artwork more instant and genuine. The only problem is keeping up with it all, and that is much more of a worry. No no no, I just need to chill the fuck out. Besides, music now seems to find you before you can find it.

Lesser Panda, Num8er N1ne, Achiteq at The Confused Disco - 03/05/08

Only good things can come of combining charity and music and the Confused Disco at the Cellar was certainly one of these good things. The idea is cunningly simple: convince innovative and upcoming electronic artists to perform in one of Oxford's best underground clubs and watch the surrounding sub-culture stream in, followed closely by their pocket cash. The event proves that charity gigs can join thought provoking music with the feel-good feel of giving money to an ethical cause. It was an evening where the audience didn't have to feel guilty about getting drunk or worry about where their money is going and it also proves that the music selection doesn't have to suck up to the "popular" scene in a lame bid to be hip or cool. No, in fact the night's resulting electronic journey was catering for the more intelligent gig goer; and we got what we wanted: a beat ceremony of sonic experimentation.

Every group made their individual mark but it was Architeq that stood out for me, and almost no one paid any attention to them. They were the true promoters of the event's name, so strange and so brilliant that perhaps people were confused as to how to dance to it. But there was something for the indie fanatic also. Lesserpanda finished the live set by mixing electronic 8-bit gaming reference with rough edged guitar and, at the same time, showing remarkable variation of mood. Also notable was the first group a brother/sister duo called num8er n1ne with their erratic electro beats and rhythmic noise.

Finally, a local event for the both the musically discerning and ethical sub-culturalist. My hope is that we'll see more of the same from Oxjam in the future. And if this happens, you'd better make sure you don't miss it.

30/03/08 - The Purple Turtle; Duotone and The Cooling Pearls

The decision to attend the evening was unplanned. We had situated ourselves quite comfortably into a slow-grooved, crooning Jazz set at the Cape of Good Hope on, what we thought, was another mundane Sunday evening at Eight O’clock. I was joined by two close adversaries, both I know far too well: The first, a fellow music junkie and writer visiting Oxford on "business". The other my brother and possibly future lawyer considering my recent brush with hardnosed legal bullshit. We were catching up and continuing the usual philosophical discussions. China and Tibet was also given a mention but the international matter lulled us all into a reflective mood. Suddenly, after short phone call, a suggestion by our oxford visitor to move on to the Purple Turtle came up. These things happen when friends of freinds are involved. "Sweet Jesus," I thought "this man is more of an addict than I am!" It made perfect sense at the time of course. Blow even more money I don't have in town with the chance of finding more hidden music. Besides, the mood at The Cape was becoming a little too David Lynch.
The back stage at the Turtle was decorated with all kinds of candles, spinning lights, printed posters. There was enough visual delight to attract a large crowd of eeed-up students. Sadly, this didn't happen; it was too much to hope for. At some point in the following minutes a terrible thought struck me. I had become the person I described in my previous article; drunk and in need of some chaotically nasty or morbid entertainment. I was even on the same side of the room as he was that very night! Fuck... a moment of weirdness followed, it took me a good few minutes before I noticed a cello on the stage.
Before long, two guys walked on making up Duotone: lead by a cellist Barney Morse-Brown and complimented by a muted trumpeter. I managed to find out from Barney afterwards that he received classical training from Cardiff. His ability was incredible and his CV broad. Immediately, the soft, melodic wash drew everyone in the room in. Each track was built on layers of parts contributed by a sampler machine. It wasn't the first time I'd seen this, another artist I’d seen a while back called Celloman (of all things) also implements the use of live sampled cello. Duotone's approach was very different. It was much more subtle, very inventive and, as a plus point, Barney is a much more likeable person. Throughout each track he would swap between his guitar and cello to build homophonic effect. However well you use a sampler, it always sounds too organised and repetitive. "It's too perfect" was my brother’s initial response and I found myself waiting for some dark, searing moment that never came. I was able to grab a listen on his myspace page and was relieved to hear a more strong and substantial sound than the live sampler would allow him. Duotone is wonderfully appealing and gentle music; both provocative and innovative. I still couldn't help feeling that I'd one day find it lurking on an acoustic chill compilation somewhere. Fuck that. All power to him, Duotone is one of those artistic projects that truly deserve universal success. Oxford should be proud to have him around. Aaron Copeland and Phillip Glass would be.
The next group was something of a more acquired taste. Imagine if Joy Division or even The Fall originated from Exeter instead of Manchester, (and I don’t mean fucking Muse) this is a close step in understanding The Cooling Pearls. Comparatively, it holds broader, folkier instrumentation with quirkier lyrics. At the same time they carry on the ranting of Mark E Smith and the mourning spirit of Post Punk. A certain pastoral feel also emanates from the reverb'ed violin drawing colours and space over the top. I love a bit of makeshift folk/indie that's unashamed of error and low-fy quality. Fans of Arcade Fire and Broken Social Scene take note. Sadly, the mix on myspace is a little irritating in its extreme changes in dynamics. It also scared the shit out of me at one point, maybe that's exactly what they were going for. Due to their eccentric performance, I wouldn't be surprised. But I'll be fair; scaring the listener isn't the top of The Cooling Pearls menu. With track titles such as "Hot Lovin' in a Western World" I feel like I'm missing out on some private in-joke. The lyric "I fell asleep next to my girl", as bad it sounds, is perhaps an example of some ironic humour.
There are a few scattered cringe-worthy moments ("The Stars they Shield" halts in the middle for a drawn out nasally monologue) but at the same time, some truly stunning ones. One track ends with a saddening chant "the future is beautiful" capturing a glare of haunting foreboding fear. This I believe is the resonating theme of the Cooling Pearls: to all the lightheaded nonsense a darker edge laid bellow. And when the lead singer gave a peace sign at the end of the set was it somewhat ironic? Maybe that's me being ridiculous, if not pretentious. No, it was safe to say that things we're a little unclear at this point and preparations were put in place for departure. My two advisors and I made our way home, avoiding anymore discussion about that business in Tibet.

12/03/08 - "I want Acoustic, I must be getting on" - Dan Sandman at the The Purple Turtle

There's a mixed blessing that follows a DIY attitude to music. In one sense it's empowering to the individual allowing them to open up in their music and express the present; without the oppression technical brilliance promotes, without fear of judgement and in sweet, sweet freedom. Unfortunately, when everyone realises that they too can pick up a guitar and whine some pseudo-emotional confession over the top, a critic's job becomes even more difficult. We have to become more discernable and sometimes crueller to artists. As much as you'd like to, you just can't finish every review with the words "at least they tried". Modern music journalism rests entirely on the opinion now, no longer focused on what is right or wrong. This is essentially a problem with the internet in fact, with blogs in particular. How can you pay equal or deserved attention to the mass of information we have to cope with? Affectively, I'm communicating to myself typing this, pathetically hoping someone gives a shit. I can shout anything if I wanted, SWEATY BALLS!
See, no one heard. So now I continue to write for myself.

The Purple Turtle in Oxford tries its best to support the local music scene. A variety of evenings are on selection, from pig-fuck punk to singer-songwriter cascades. Wednesday evenings tend to be the acoustic or minimal stage (called 3 Spirit) giving the artists a chance to breath in an intimate atmosphere. What I expected was a gaggle of 'douchebags with guitars' trying to outdo each other with the exact same drivel. Fortunetly, this turned out to be very wrong. When my 'associate' and I arrived at the venue we were welcomed by the sound of a folk duo of classic nature and, oddly enough, contrasting appearance. The guitarist, a grubby truckdriver perched on stool couldn't be any more different, visually at least, than the singer, a long blonde with a breathy voice. Their set was a little too cute and cuddly at times but none-the-less relaxed and enjoyably traditional - a good tone to open on. The small cave in the back of the Purple Turtle, the candles and small crowd all lent toward an enjoyable hazy vibe.
The real plug of the evening was what came afterwards: Chris Monger, a local indie music producer/performer and Dan Sandman, a beat/king-bum poet and guitar player from Camden; dropping his usual electronic sound for the evening and for a small minimal selection of instruments including a tiny Rhodes keyboard. Incidentally, Monger is responsible for producing Sandman's debut record In Technicolour released, as I gathered, quite recently. I could have sworn I heard his name somewhere before, perhaps in a London music paper - perhaps he came to Oxford a while back and I subconsciously stored his name in some derelict part of my brain. In any case and thinking back about it now, his set was surprisingly engaging. It wasn't pretentious or preachy, no no. His music found the very thing that modern folk has forgotten: how to not take itself so fucking seriously. Each song had this ability to drift in and out of various shades and colours, a possible theme to his music given the record title. Despite some predictable endings and occasional sickly-sweet melodies the songs were laden with chirpy, sympathy poetry overseen by an earnest approach and experimental guitar work. It was well crafted and unique. One Oxford high collar in the croud was making a brash scene and generally whooping the place up as best he could. Understandably, drunks have little patience for quiet, reflective music and he was beginning to try his luck.
"We should have an orgy!" he bellowed, getting half assed laughs from the surrounding audience then pointing directly to me "...he can join us!".
"But we have no otter's nipples" my 'associate' quickly responded. This reference to Ancient Roman sex parties confused him effectively and he tried his best to regain his former repose, but to no avail. His larger soaked head betrayed him.
"We should all come next week in togas" I added, silencing the poor, smarky fool enough to allow the evening to continue on in a reasonable condition.
No doubt, Sandman has delt with worse. His light-hearted attitude and sarcastic humour stems from events such as these. Anyone who deals with hecklers gets my approval. Monger, although blatently a nice guy, came across as some bar-chord bashing, emo Bob Dylan complete with harmonica. Well, at least he tried.
...Shit.

Cog Wheel Dogs and Elapse O at the Port Mahon 10/02/08

Another trip to the Port is another musical discovery and another notable mark of the Oxford music scene. I evidently don't get out much. I also tend to be very late for things and didn't make too much of an exception for the evening. After missing the first two or three bands I arrived just in time to watch the last two, and thank christ I made it.

It's becoming harder and harder to get a feel for exactly what the "Oxford sound" consists of. A city with such variation in people will expectantly result in wide variation of style. All the tastes, interests and influences mix together like some crazy cocktail, spiked with drugs of course. Maybe that's just me. Generally, due to the amount of academia as well as the large quantity of students, theres no shortage of intellectual or provocative music. The power of choice, such a modern illusion...
In this sense, both bands were incredibly different. It was melody against texture, mood against mood and yet, somehow, they complimented each other. Cogwheel Dogs, an acoustic duo with a rough edge were first on the little paper list that hung in the doorway. Their songs, a combination of mornful blues and grunge was offset by the expressive cello unafraid of screaming and fucking with the tension. His experimentation of the instrument was refreshing when you think of how groups like Kings of Convenience use it. To them, it adds only accompaniment, a typical "hint of string". To CWD, it's a prominant voice, even competing with the heartbreaking plead of the singer. There is almost narrative or journey to the songs, like two characters telling a story. Throughout their set you could cut the audience atmosphere with a chainsaw. You could also cut the audience with that same chainsaw but that's just sick, amusingly off topic however. All eyes and ears were fixated on the delicate, soulful sound. I felt wounded somehow.

As if that wasn't enough, as if being cut open didn't affect me at all, on stroll Elapse O to initiate a final, noisier beating. Searing and intense, it was an overpowering set spaced out by the click of the pedal at the end of each track. Silence becomes haunting when they stop. My sympathies for the bass, it was dragged to it's absolute limits. A drone of pusling pro-tooled drums underneath, apocalyptic shouting over the top, all create a scraping mesh of texture leaving you feeling abused and completely stunned. Like any good gig, you feel you've been through something.
An awesome night and my critical side feels almost guilty admiting it. At the moment at least, the Port Mahon can do no wrong.

17th of January 2008- The fight turns personal in the American Election

The one policy that each candidate stands for, the one policy for me that currently presides over the rest, is foreign affairs. And it seemes at first, certainly during few months before Michigan, the only candidate out of this crazy, over-stimulated, drugged up rat race is Obama. Rare, in most politicians, is his ability to put forward this issue in near honesty and with planned efficiency. The time has come for America to reconcider their role in the world arena, Iraq being one on a very long list included. Pakistan and Kenya to name a few others. How long can the civilised world hold the torch of democracy?
What I lean on now is which candidate had the best selection of music soundtracking their happy-clappy rallys (no pink prizes for Hilary here, it was office staff party music and god awful). This will seem intelligent enough when I remind you that the US is a country that houses citizens who choose their next president, the chump who sits on the most powerful country in the world, by the style of their tie. What's unbelievably worse is watching the American media (CNN in particular) question the public, during the lulls in between poll counting, about who they concider the most "attractive" candidate. These morons they bother to interview are exactly the kind of idiotic attention seekers of whose opinion we clearly don't give a shit about. Surely I'm not the only one who thinks the US presidential election should be focused on politics dealing over the delicate future of our world, not entertainment? You think? It's like the chapter from Johnathan Swift's "Gullivers Travels" where the next King of Laputa the floating island, jumps a fucking stick. Jesus Christ, it's so close, it's creepy. Speaking of creepy, lets have a moment of silence for John Edwards...
that's enough...
What I'm looking forward to see alot more of is continued debate between the candidates (sure, as if it's presently not enough) Both Hilary and Huckabee have been putting some, lets face it, amusing punches. This campain is personal this time round, politicans perform so much better under pressure.

-More on the US Campain Trail to come-

A New, Buding Universe of Control

It is with great geeky pride that I immediately pronounce to being a gamer. Video games are something that I’ve grown up with, something that’s very much apart of me and apparently to many other people as well. The names Luigi and Mario will be printed in my memory till the day I die. I’ll never be able to forget the happy music of Zelda or the experience of playing Shadows of the Colossus for 48 hours straight without sleeping. Some of these games are so brilliant they are without a doubt a new form of art. Aesthetic and engaging, challenging and thought provoking. Perhaps, exactly what some art tries to achieve. Why, in fuck’s name, is the modern medium still undervalued and sneered upon? To some, gaming culture is almost something they refuse to talk about or accept into culture. It has always been forced into the underground. The “elite” wouldn’t be too pleased to know that, whether they like it or not, video games are finally getting some sadly overdue acknowledgement.
Anyway, on without warning to World of Warcraft, Blizzard’s online “game sensation” that’s been going for a few years now. Simply printing the title sends every mind racing. Normally the category is split two ways: those who think the game is possibly the most well designed, enjoyable, sociable games ever created and those who think it’s mindless, dangerously addictive and a waste of precious time better spent outdoors looking at the orb in the sky which you used to understand as “The Sun”. After playing the game for over a year now, getting a Tauren Druid up to level 62, a Bloodelf mage up to 31 on a friends account, my ultimate opinion is still very much undecided. This is partly due to the games ever changing nature. WOW’s alternate reality supporting its own economy, society, language and slang (lol, ffs etc) will forever fascinate me. Unfortunately, the more I progress in the game the more unsatisfied with it I become. Weird, due to the obsessive steps Blizzard has made to make damn sure this doesn’t happen to everyone. Their financial future clings on to this. It seemed that the further I dived into it the less free it all felt. As I imbibed the social aspect and learned the fine art of choosing talent points and specific gear, I was in fact loosing my own personal nature to the game and becoming an unquestioning civilian. I fucking hate rules, especially in a video game that you have to pay a considerable amount for. For me video games allow me to escape the real world for a few moments, to let my imagination wander around lawless plains miles away from money and government, social conduct and common prejudice. It was as though my initial route into the game and the customisation available had all been in vain. It began to feel like I was loosing my gamer/explorer identity behind a wall of player courtesy and set paths that my character had to take. Once society is introduced to a game, where many people are playing together and at once, laws and control must be obtained to prevent chaos and anarchy. Scarily, this is not at all dissimilar to how western civilisation is structured. The solitude element is gone, destroyed underfoot by a million other players and their politics. WOW yearns for a misanthrope or a revolutionary. For the shear hell of it, I plan to create a new character completely bent on screwing over the game step by step. Stretch limits and test the waters. I will loot chests when I fucking want to, lie about where I actually come from, fish on a sunset lit dock while my guild is off raiding. Push it all as far as it will go. And why? Because none of it, despite what it feels, is real... yet.