25/02/09 - Brooke's Fine Art Fundraiser at The Wheatsheaf

Das Pop, playing at the O2 Arena, held no pull for me. A small indie gig at one of my favourite pubs was more my kind of thing. Wired from weed, several cups of coffee and a pre-listen of the band list on myspace, my photographer and I were ready, if a little uncertain what to expect. For the moment, we were ignorant of what was to come. We were out for a good time after all, and to check back into the local scene.

I had been invited by Graeme Murray, the drummer of the brilliant upcoming Oxford band Youthmovies. He was my contact for the evening and my only link to the social mess we unearthed. A small, soft spoken guy, unassuming in appearance, his ability at the drum-kit is undisputed. Two well known bands, Youthmovies and Jonquil, were to join forces as Vertical Montanas and headline the night; they had attracted quite a crowd.

Our curse as outsiders - my photographer and I never really felt welcome. They seemed to us to be a distant group. The new Indie Oxford wave is a different breed altogether. Fortunately, the music made up for the crowd and their perpetual blank, staring eyes. Navel-gazing and pretentious they stood like dead trees swaying to themselves. I attempted to arouse my photographer into a fighting frenzy, set him loose and see what would happen, all for the sake of bringing some excitement to a sedated atmosphere. Where was the beautiful chaos? If a bomb went off on stage, or one of the band members blew their own head off with a shotgun, these people wouldn't even raise an eyebrow. I was itching for a cattle prod.

The biggest, overall disappointment was missing Lee Riley, or better known as Euthedral, a one man electronic army. Shunned to the early evening slot, no doubt the audience wasn't interested. After hearing a couple tracks on his myspace page I was hooked. Sounding like Kevin Sheilds crossed with Nine Inch Nails while drawing from Sunn O))) and Godspeed You! Black Emperor, Euthedral bellows forth heavy static doom-drones in intriguing variation and colour. Occasionally, out of the overbearing darkness, there appear subtle melodies like lights in a fog. Moments cycle between an orchestra breaking the sound barrier and the primal howling of a god-like machine or mythical beast. I could only hope he offended as many indie kids as was humanly possible.

Witnessing it first hand however, it was not to be and we ended up arriving just before the last two bands. I bought a pint and we squeezed to the front. The second-to-last group strolled on. Reminiscent of 65 Days of Static and Minus The Bear, but with half the available instrumentation, they were an impressive trio. Cascading melodies and intricate quick-fire guitar duets, it went down like firey whiskey. Tempo and texture were suficiantly explored but I felt they could have done more with their choppy rhythms - a minor point, it was elegant and promising Smart-Rock.
When they finished, I asked a bystander who the band was. I couldn't recognise them from what I'd heard on myspace. He stumbled over the pronunciation.
"I think they're called he-red-ra? hred-da?"
Ahh Hreda, the name was confusing, common of many new bands. Sure, you can be all flavours of awesome, but creating new words in the English language can be arrogant and alienating to your audience.

My photographer had had his fun with taking pictures and crept to the corner to moan and pout about the clientele. The stage was being reprepared, pedal lights were blinking like a Christmas tree. With two drum kits already set up, this wasn't to be a typical set. By doubling up two bands and the band members, there by making a force of eight, it allowed those performing to relax and concentrate on a minimal, layered approach. Building a slow evolution of sound from one movement to the next, it was easy to loose yourself in the warm-sunlight tone but then be jostled back by jarring cross rhythms. The music took on the feel of a zoetrope, spinning grainy images around and around. They drew attention from Yannis Philippakis, the lead wizard of Foals. He had come possibly for the very same reason we had.
On seeing him, my photographer whispered casually in my ear.
"I want to hurt him" he said and downed the remainder of his drink.

He hates his voice you understand, and my photgrapher is a man who can be driven off the hindge over of the smallest things: boils, dirty socks, the scratching sound of wet sand. It's best to leave him be in these situations, trust me.

Despite the boredom, it was worth attending. For both bands, Vertical Montanas was a side project that displayed their improvisational capabilities as active and prominant musicians. If I had to draw a comparison between each band (difficult due to the overall variation) it would be their similar emotional goal, they were all striving towards the same sense of the 'sublime'. By stretching their materials and avoiding pigeon hole’ing, they are taking ground and putting up a flag for Oxford. My photographer however could not get over the dull, unwelcoming atmosphere. We felt trapped. The chaos we'd longed for earlier on seemed like the last thing we wanted now. Simultaniously, we both made the decision to escape into the medieval ally ways. We ended up talking shit to a chip van man and an attractive social worker girl who seemed far too interested in what we, two drunk and stoned fools, were both up to. Suspicion took hold. Even the usual gauntlet of Big Issue sellers frightened me. "We must get out of town immediately!" I thought, and my photographer and I ran for my house like children avoiding some horned devil.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Let's finally say 'Fuck Off' to self perscribed Retro

Do you ever feel like you're living in reverse, or in a remake of an old film? We live in an age of permanent denial. It's an age of... what? What is it that will define us? Well, I sincerely hope isn't apathy, blissful ignorance and an incredible lust for hyper-reality. It's become increasingly difficult to view music videos or band photos and guess when, in what year or decade, they were produced. I ask you, why listen to a current artist attempting to emulate a specific sound of the past when you can just go and listen to the bands of the past? It's because some poor fools can't let the past be the past. They slouch around wishing it was like it was in the old days, or, if they happen to be younger, feel alienated from the world around them. They see the freedom that once was and seek out music representative of this. The Music Industry is more than happy to respond. Welcome to the world of google-search shopping, databases and advertisements that know you better than your own mother. And if you've got an original idea, there's probably already a niche market and a demographic for it. Enough is enough! I want to feel alive in the unpredictable 'now', in my own god-damn decade and part of my own generation. I refuse to be constantly nostalgic of eras long gone that I didn't grow up in.

In The Guardian today, a live review written by Kitty Empire of a budding pop starlett called La Roux brought all this to my attention. More than often The Guardian is guilty of fanning the flames of hype. Before a music scene has the chance to achieve maturity or greatness the newspaper is all over it like a walrus in a swimming pool. I can't say I've read anything from Ms Empire that exceeds empty drivel. This review, however, topped it. In the opening paragraph she tries to describe the music to the reader but with no success "[La Roux] cites early Eurythmics as guiding lights. She borrows shamelessly from Prince's 'When Doves Cry'". It's boring, and what's worse, completely uninformative. Later on Kitty meanders about appearence, as all morons do, to convay at least something to us. "La Roux's other touchstone is her hair [...] It is a hairdo that speaks a thousand words". So why didn't the hairdo write the article then? At this point, I'd filed La Roux under forget-and-move-on.

In Kitty Empire's own words "the 20-year-old La Roux is perhaps the most obsessed with a decade she is too young to remember". She's not alone in this regard. Like Lily Allen and Adele, these over privilaged, born-into-fame-spawns write music like they live on the moon, looking down on the earth through their hazy telescope. Never thought I'd say it but even Kate Nash is better than this. These icons are given the 'voice of a generation' garland, but they are false prophets.

Instead, give us a new form of Bob Dylan, a down and out, someone who makes mistakes, an everyman with understanding and wisdom. That's the kind of Retro For Recession we need. Not, to quote Kitty, "an Eighties revival so vivid it classes as a re-run". Haven't we already seen plenty of eighties comebacks? If not, someone should tell Sissor Sisters, Interpol or Late of the Pier. I'm sure these artists, and many others, would like to know they'd been screwed. Are we going to be spinning our wheels for eternity? Maybe, because all this has happened before, over and over and over again.

MIA - "Do Something Pretty" Fanzine

The internet has made gigantic nerds of us all. Every single one of us now is plugged in, discussing bandwith, sharing in petty conversation. The stereotype of the computer saddo is gone and has been inverted. Unconnected, you're seen as a fool, backward or a second rate citizen.

A term sounding almost dated today, 'surfing', is in need of a replacement. The word implies purposeless exploration, casually clicking here and there, letting your impulses dictate what you view. These days, we hardly 'surf', no way, we hunt! We stalk the cyber wilderness, red eyed and hungry with intent. We check our bankstatements, we spend hours on wikipedia references, we look intensively on blogs and disographies for unreleased material. It's our livelyhood. We track the rare, unseen beasts and the more we hunt, the better we get and the better we get, the bigger the game we bag. But the cyber forest is also getting older, more dense and perhaps a little darker too. Some creatures go unnoticed and lurk quietly in the shadows. It takes skill or fluke to locate them.

A couple weeks ago I decided to spend a free afternoon racking up as many fanzines and online music magazines as possible. I settled down with a mug of tea, a few vanilla cigarettes and an assorted selection of chocolate bisuits. Simon Reynolds from The Guardian appeared to share in my quest and published an article several days later (Christ! Sometimes these beasts you track are actually tracking you). In it, he discusses the comeback of the traditional, hand made fazine. It was inspiring, but right before I zoomed off to get my crayons and glue stick I discovered something - an example of the fore mentioned fluke. It was an online fanzine called 'Do Something Pretty' that hadn't been updated since the 20th of June 2005. Typical of many fanzines, due to one reason or another, it no longer functions. An internet mystery, now gathering dust in the Lost and Found. I attempted to speak with those involved but it's impossible to contact anyone who ran it due to an unfortunate script error. I can only guess from the live reviews list that the 'zine was centralised around Manchester.

It's a damn shame, but as Echo and the Bunnymen taught us, "Nothing Ever Lasts Forever". Some of the signed and unsigned bands they included are worth listening to. Some of them are still going, some are not. 'Do Something Pretty' claims in its underscore to be "dedicated to all things pretty in alternative, independent music & D.I.Y Culture". According to its own copyright dates, the site was set up in 2001. Therefore, it would have beared witness to a huge evolution in indie culture; the return of everything we loved about music, the movement from our brief flirtation with retro in the early decade to the foundations of our current experimental and arty pop scene. In retrospect, we can also see how the fanzine concluded on what was just starting up at the time: Folktronica. Four Tet's Everything is Elastic was one of the final albums to be reviewed and the other bands featured in 2005 share a similar style. There's a short news alert heralding the Arcade Fire debut Funeral which has become somewhat of a landmark as well as a review of the searing and insane The New Fellas by The Cribs. Even the fanzine title hints towards self impossed naivity and DIY expression, with perhaps with just a pinch of sarcasm. In all this, Beat Happening would be pleased.

'Do Something Prettys' last ever album review is of a band called Super Reverb with the halariously named title 'Avant Garde Is The French Word For Shit'. With swaggering confidence and a highly varied approach, it's quite a find. They balance perfectly between low-fi punk and jingly jangly psychadelia; but this is only the begninning. An extended viewing of the archives brings many other unknown bands into light and a few interviews with The Longcut and The Secret Machines feel very old indeed. There's a pre-mainstream-fame interview with the Kaiser Chiefs sporting a stupidly aimless quote from Ricky Wilson: "...who wants to see a band onstage anymore that think they’re cooler than you?" True words, Ricky. Too bad that attitude didn't stick. Hanging out with Girls Aloud proves they no longer relate to their audience on the level they once did.

Personified, 'Do Something Pretty' is like your best friends little sister, who's a fan of Belle and Sabastian, does arts and crafts and wears colourful querky clothes. Except reading it four years on feels like that little girl has all grown up and moved far away. Left as it is, in silent and untouched charm, it's a small piece of nostalgia.

The 'Floyd-Wizard' Syncronicity Effect

We all are aware of Pink Floyd's ability to weave powerful, forward-thinking rock. We know too well. We hear it over and over again, on every Rockumentary, in every 100 Greatest Albums list. The Dark Side of the Moon continually gets voted as one of the most influential albums ever produced. We know, we all bloody know. But, less discussed, is a sub cultural myth that attaches itself to the album. It sounds, at first, pretty nutty: pause a copy of it at the beginning in a CD player and, playing both at the same time, play Wizard of Oz on mute. Jesus Christ, this is what happens when you leave a group of wired students alone for an evening. Lies and bullshit you might say, but I tried it, and for a good half hour into the film, the syncronisation is astonishingly accurate. If you were ever looking for a modern legend, than this is it. No doubt, wispers floated around by way of the typically convincing see-it-to-believe-ploy and it roped me in. It drew me in as an ice-cream truck draws in sugar-junky children.

Similar is the overzealous interest behind conspiracy theories. I spent an evening watching the JFK assasination over and over on youtube to develop my own opinion (we'll meet Bill Hicks later at the docks). The 9/11 conspiracy documentary Loose Change still sits on my hard drive as well as my mind. The quest for truth can sometimes send you beyond basic logic and reason and the internet is more than happy to oblige, acting like a shitty little sewing circle in its desparate need to tell you what's "really going on".

But back to the case in hand. 2001: A Space Oddessy also presents another significant moment of timing, but of a different nature. Around the time of its release in 1968, reports that at the moment of the famous 'Star Gate' scene, nearing the thought provoking close of the film, an average dose of LSD kicks in at the very same moment when the character Dave begins his enlightening high-speed adventure. The zooming, colourful textures of the ensuing minutes suggests a strong psychadelic influence. It went down pretty well with the counterculture of its time, and I'm guessing it would have sent numurous kids into unavoidable paranoia. But then again, the weird is what you're after when you're tripping.

What both The Dark Side of Oz and The Acid Oddessy share in common is that these syncronisations are accidental, judging at least with what we know of the artists or directors intentions. Both are a part of the same intriguing phenomenon where two seperate artforms, one of sonic and one of film, mysteriosly combine. Is this the only occurance of its kind, or are there other couplings yet to be discovered? Has the Floyd-Wizard effect randomly struck elsewhere? I was itching to know and set out to see what I could find, only to be somewhat disapointed.

This subject initially appeared to me to be virgin material, ripe for the taking and I lept on it with enthusiastic glee. Books were writing themselves in my head, thesis' built on study and experimentation were coagulating together like rain drops on a window pane. But of course, as always, the internet is two steps ahead (there goes my publishing deal, god damn it) and lo' and behold a website called Syncronicity, dedicated to these pockets of discovery, proudly displays them in full geeky glory. Their archive is eccessively focused on the albums of Pink Floyd (they even have 2001: Space Oddessy coupled with Pink Floyd's Echos which someone kindly created on youtube) but there are a few more unique couplings to try out. The joining of Radiohead's Amnesiac with Dark Crystal is tempting. I'll admit, it's a little obessive this fascination with syncronicity and heavily implies the use of narcotics to aid enjoyment. You only have to scroll down to the bottom of the syncronicity webpage to reveal a mini purple mushroom (see picture), what's being hinted at here is evident. It most certainly comes off as an occupation for the dangerously bored or hazily wasted. Perhaps your brain's got to be crawling up the wall and running laps before the music and visuals seem to synchronise, but maybe not. As informative as the website is in its many suggestions, it doesn't beat an accidental discovery, because when you find one for yourself, it becomes your own. I remember watching Charlie Chaplin's Modern Times muted while playing The Flaming Lip's Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots a few years ago. A friend of mine would also mute the train journey scene of Spirited Away and drift off to it while listening to The Velvet Underground's beautifully droning Heroin. The idea is to culminate a mood or meditative experience. Obessive? Maybe, but you won't know until you try it, will you?

The Convincing Power of Words

In 1946 George Orwell wrote and published a small essay giving, what he felt, was inductory help to the process of writing. Entitled Politics and the English Language in it he looks, in depth, at the way certain words and phrases can confuse and blur your understanding of what is being communicated. The essay acts as a warning against language oppression. A few years later he would publish Nineteen Eighty Four, one of the most important works of literature in the last century. In the book a governmentally initiated language called New Speak acts as just another tool in controlling the population. Expression, through a mechanical language, was suppressed. The essay in question, published a few years before this, lays the foundation for this very idea. Orwell promotes writing truthfully and keeping a strong grip on meaning. The voice of the writer must reside in the text instead of being clasped in ego or in the need to convert the reader. To simplify is to bring clarity; less is essentially more (I wonder how well I'm doing keeping out of irony at this point).

The relationship between language and politics is very close. One could argue that it was Noam Chomsky's study of linguistics that lead him into political activism, although he has denied this. In a 1969 interview in The New Left the drive, for him, was "rooted ultimately in some concept of human nature and human needs". Over the many years after the interview, his intuitive knowledge of semantics would have given him a wise outlook on the progression of politics leading up to and into the 21st Century. Remaining steadfast, he opposed the early 90's "War on Drugs" policy claiming the language choice to be misleading and has been highly critical of the position of the American Media.

Frustratingly, these warnings appear ever more relevant in our current political situation. You have only to watch Prime Ministers questions for a few minutes or catch a glimpse of Fox News to see substantial evidence for this. Our parliamentary debate is a veritable shit-slinging of buzz words and hollow sentiment, all supporting partisan interests. The word 'change', used almost to absurdity by many politicians, has mutated from its definition. If Enoch Powell rose from the grave to be seated in Parliament this would count as change. Such is the convincing power of words. When I hear it, I wince and my eye flickers in nervous aversion. As a word, it's political profanity and, used so many times, remains empty and untrustworthy. Even Barack Obama's early speeches rung with an unconvincing air of synthetic 'change'. Ultimately, it was his optimism and honesty that lead this message into belief; but it took some time. Phrases such as "War on Terror", "Coalition of the Willing", "Tough on Crime"; all serve to create a form of brand-name or catch-phrase politics, for a culture fed on TV and advertising. It's getting more and more difficult to speak with conviction or with a unique voice. Just telling someone that you love them for example produces a depressing feeling of cliche, the feeling that it has been said over and over, a billion times before.

Of course, it's not politicians who are to blame for this perversion of language. Our happy acceptance of being lied to is phenomenal. We ignore it, we let it go, and perhaps with reason. We want to believe that our government is acting on this proposed 'change' and if not, we don't want any part of it. It's hard to condemn people who see nothing but smoke and mirrors in politics. Truth is now an desperate animal, lost in a fog, moving in and out of the endless, evolving realities that we find ourselves in. Language can create barriers in society. What unites us is our sense of reality, our collective understanding of our environment and it's hard to see how constant mention of 'change' fits into this, other than to draw us further away from the will to actually achieve it for ourselves.

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.