tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62304870748948398032024-02-19T01:29:58.204+00:00The Future Is ByzantineVarious permutations and ruminations on the things which for me constitute fun.Alex Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17772621140229400365noreply@blogger.comBlogger9125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6230487074894839803.post-45227406277510431572011-12-21T21:17:00.000+00:002011-12-21T21:17:41.376+00:00Christmas from the perspective of a 20 something douchebag like myself<br />
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When it comes to christmas, i am neither scrooge or santa. I must confess to a little scepticism about the whole gig - where the food is as ersatz and sugary as the sentiment. However, there's no denying christmas is a useful social convention - an encouragement of jollity in the depth of coldest winter, albeit somewhat tainted by the capital-friendly clamour for present-giving oneupmanship on the one hand, and the intellectual retardation of the story of christ on the other; ultimately, the reality of xmas is most affirmed by the strained poignancy of childhood memories and hand-me down atavism as represented by christmas, 'winterval', saturnalia, or what ever the jesus you want to call it. </div>
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For a unmarried, twenty-something 'professional' (i.e. i have a job that pays my rent), christmas is now an interregnum between childhood and potential childbearing: christmas ultimately only matters if you are a kid, or you have kids. The excitement that a child feels at the approach of christmas day is only replicable in a adulthood by the use of cocaine, blackjack and hookers. As a parent, there is the vicarious joy and pride in seeing your children rip the wrapper off the little novelties under the tree that could only be equalled by witnessing them giving a wedgie to the local school bully. </div>
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But nevertheless, for the floundering single twenty-something, christmas represents a nice retreat from social and professional woes and worries. A time with family, away from the neuroses and constant self-examination that comes from always comparing your lot with that of your peers. With your family, it's rare that anyone's problems match; therefore, one can offer sympathy, without the burden of full-blown empathy. The problems of my 90 year old grandmother are unlikely to tally with mine; I can reflect on her problems, without forever referencing my own experiences, which is what i'm reduced to when friends come to me with problems (they call such advice 'the benefit of experience', but that is a misnomer in my case; i should know, I have to live with them). And, perhaps, most selfishly and pertinently, I'll never worry that her worries are more glamorous and interesting than mine. </div>
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Christmas is a time of excess for many; drink, eat and be merry, for tomorrow we die, as the old saying goes (or at least it did, until the early onset of diabetes and heart problems.) People say they do this, because christmas is the only time of the year they hang with family and friends; christ, who do you hang around with the rest of the year? Embittered traffic wardens? </div>
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Christmas is the one time of the year I don't view through the bottom of a bottle. You may be my friend, and you might like to drink, that can wait till I'm back in the new year. I will be in the abstemious womb-like atmosphere of the remaining stump of my family. Christmas, for me, is not the time of year for excess; the rest of the calendar is. </div>
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peace on earth, and a half of mild, please santa. </div>
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merry fucken xmas. x</div>Alex Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17772621140229400365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6230487074894839803.post-19612914198954711422011-10-04T19:58:00.003+01:002011-10-04T21:16:55.525+01:00Drumro[ll] 1st Birthday with Sandwell District, The Black Dog, George Fitzgerald & Richard H Kirk at Park HillEmerging from Sheffield train station, Park Hill, an old sink estate currently undergoing redevelopment, looms over the city skyline like Dracula's castle, as if remodelled by Le Corbusier. From the middle of a concrete fortress, the nights kicks off at unnaturally early 8pm (licensing issues having now required a 2am curfew). Darkness has not long settled in over the city, and Park Hill now assumes its unlikely status as the place to be. An old brutalist monument to post-war social democratic optimism and the subsequent political, social and architectural decay? Not a popular choice, but that'll do me for a night out of dark electronic music. Steely music for the steel city, dark music for a dark space. <br />
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All 3 acts (George Fitzgerald, only dj'ed at a subsequent afterparty) formed a logical programme, ensuring a continuity of dark, brooding electronic music, with differences enough apparent to keep things interesting. Richard H Kirk, who as part of Cabaret Voltaire, was making strange noises before most contemporary producers were even sperm, had an early start, and set about establishing the industrial theme of the evening from the off, chafing as this initially was. This was no warm-up. Straight on to local gods, The Black Dog. No nice groovy tech-house interludes, it was on to Techno with a capital T. It was heavy, dark and rolling, as one would expect, but they were not to bludgeon the audience into submission. That role was to be assumed, as expertly as could be expected, by Sandwell District, whose two members have as much techno experience between them as your average Detroit phonebook. </div>
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On record, Sandwell District manage to introduce a little warmth into one of the most hair-shirted and ascetic strains of dance music (or any music), through the use of icy synth lines and ethereal washes of sound, forging a continuity between their post-punk and techno/IDM influences. Live, underneath the raw concrete of Park Hill, atmospherics and abstraction is substituted for brittle, body-bashing blasts of percussion. It could be said that it is all just merely very functional, but in the world of techno, 'mere' functionalism is nothing to be scared of. Where the function is to create a dark spasm of euphoria on crowded dancefloors, forms follow function, and ends justify means. </div>
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In a mix of their own tracks ('Immolare'), SD affiliated offshoots (Regis' 'Blood Witness' being a sheer glory of a cacophony) and various referents too numerous to name and number, SD prove in a two-hour sprint that while techno may be mocked by many for its apparent dryness and emotional frigidity (as noted in Simon Reynold's excellent <i>Energy Flash</i>), it can, at the right place, the right time, inspire sweaty, mindless (as in un self-conscious) possession as any other music you could care to compartmentalise. </div>
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The remarkable congruity of the programming, the venue and the novelty of the occasion was an affirmation that dark, sometimes difficult electronic music, is to be enjoyed, and is not the arch soundtrack to pseudo-nihilistic grandstanding it can sometimes appear to be. </div>
Alex Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17772621140229400365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6230487074894839803.post-3741540068821784762011-10-04T17:35:00.002+01:002011-10-04T17:40:25.157+01:006am On A Normal Saturday Night at Fabric, London<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC6QSgfivymQ_yV7oWulwibLMpJxxjnikS70OJBP06Zg31z0uaypLJjgFCKlqGUDzVuJPNrbyoCO4FurV-yHtfT08Q6Dx0w0EuKUyPU-nhXi9gN_U8Mpn0XoLz8wTQNh6C8LcBDtSQOVT0/s1600/fabricpic.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 205px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC6QSgfivymQ_yV7oWulwibLMpJxxjnikS70OJBP06Zg31z0uaypLJjgFCKlqGUDzVuJPNrbyoCO4FurV-yHtfT08Q6Dx0w0EuKUyPU-nhXi9gN_U8Mpn0XoLz8wTQNh6C8LcBDtSQOVT0/s320/fabricpic.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5659677565233915026" /></a><br /><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Room 1: <i>Boom tish.</i></div><div><span style="font-style:italic;"></span><div>Room 2: <i>Bum Tisch.</i></div><div>Room 3: Closed.</div></div>Alex Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17772621140229400365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6230487074894839803.post-69187598163476291252011-09-26T21:05:00.012+01:002011-09-26T22:21:21.800+01:00Berlin - A Reprise<i>The following is a selection of notes I wrote when visiting Berlin for the second time in 2011. These were mainly written in a myriad of local bars, and hence the views expressed in this piece are not necessarily those of a sober and collected Alex J Caldwell.</i><div><i><br /></i></div><div>I have been attempting to transcend the iniquities and anodyne tyranny of 21st century capitalism by not permitting myself to cross the area formerly established by the Berlin wall. This is rendered somewhat difficult by the fact that the wall snaked through, rather than neatly declinated the east and west of the city.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeTKkMMlYAzE49PHjHyIbcoQWUw8Vug49KHnd8rz5jF0lVS01QUNehHOb2uV7fW0SVMxQUSZ_B5LuiPouphhvikmUB8_FldxCz2XNWch79_0SZZo2cWJTPy2NAaI9jbosGqvWyfk_P93bf/s1600/berlinost.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 311px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeTKkMMlYAzE49PHjHyIbcoQWUw8Vug49KHnd8rz5jF0lVS01QUNehHOb2uV7fW0SVMxQUSZ_B5LuiPouphhvikmUB8_FldxCz2XNWch79_0SZZo2cWJTPy2NAaI9jbosGqvWyfk_P93bf/s320/berlinost.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5656779286153844114" /></a><br /><br /><br />I gingerly stall, for example, the area around Freiderichstrasse (the former U-Bahn stop on the border), knowing that one false step will take me into the bourgeois liberty and its accompanying tat of the west. I walk, not so much on eggshells, but on little pyschogeographic landmines and booby traps. The watchtowers may be down, the riles lowered and impotent, and only caution, a detailed map, and a careful reading of Marxism-Leninism will see me safe.</div><div><br />Luckily for me, in the east, the beer is cheaper, the air is smokier, and the clubs (legendary techno temples Berghain and Tresor) are better. And, despite the absence of the wall, there are always indications that you are indeed in the east. If it's dirty, if rubble litters dead chocked lawns and rotted industry, you, mein freunde, are in ostberlin.<br /><br />The reunification of Berlin has, rather paradoxically, rendered the whole of the city socialist, east and west, in a way that was not true at the time of division. Electorally, Berlin is the exclusive territory of the social-democratic SPD, the Greens, and <i>Die Linke, </i>a left-wing ragbag of ostdeutsche communists, socialist radicals, anarchists and other malcontents. The Christian Democrats bear out not the slightest contour in the local political topography. There is next to no chance of a right-wing suburbanite acceding to the mayoralship of the capital, unlike London, presided over by the sometimes amusing, but generally rather vexing semi-rule of Boris Johnson.<br /><br />Despite the marginal hegemony of the SPD in Berlin, little of the regulatory nannying associated with New 'Labour' and the European centre-'left' prevails. Smoking is so prevelant that the city has been twinned with Ashtray, Marlboro Country. OK, Berlin maybe an ashtray of a city, but at least it's not so emasculated, that it drinks red bull for some pep, and would rather you went on the border to have a cigarette.<br /><br />Berlin is not health-conscious, but instead realises that even 99.9% of people who don't smoke, don't drink, and do yoga and eat tofu to the point that their colon is sponsored by Linda McCartney, will in time die, a fate so depressing that the only effective recourse is to pour y'rself a beer, light up a fag and wait for this mortal coil to become unsprung, and hopefully have some belly laughs and occassional epiphanies along the way.<br /><br />The result of all this fine living and disregard for health-related prissiness, is that Berlin sucks at sport. As at the time of writing, it's hopeless football team Hertha Berlin lingers in the second tier of the Bundesliga. The level of football in Berlin is approximate to that of Scottish football outside the confines of Celtic and Rangers. Hertha Berlin plays in the er, olympian munificence of the Olympiastadion, the equivalent of Leyton Orient being rehoused at the new Stratford Olympic stadium. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpshgZTf9s2BPwZ8_ajCJecw_M-kPErgz28jF2NTn-T8jGX3cdjFORLINmxuvcHlcpFbODuLdD0W4QQumO3QoNFM0X6kCkfsP5lPorif10quiipWtWcVnnWck_jorq_FuTZCbjEhP3e0NY/s1600/leytonorient.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 234px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpshgZTf9s2BPwZ8_ajCJecw_M-kPErgz28jF2NTn-T8jGX3cdjFORLINmxuvcHlcpFbODuLdD0W4QQumO3QoNFM0X6kCkfsP5lPorif10quiipWtWcVnnWck_jorq_FuTZCbjEhP3e0NY/s320/leytonorient.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5656779541491311186" /></a><br /><div><i><br /></i></div><div style="font-style: italic; "><i></i></div><div style="font-style: italic; "><i><br /></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Still, anyway, there's not much time for sport in Berlin. In any case, is not exercise just that thing that uncultured people do in lieu of artistic creation, an asexual, hair-shirted sublimation of the overriding, ultimate drive to snag one's genitals on the orifice of another?<br /><br />Instead, Berlin's sport is creation, including that of it's own environment. Having rubble and delapidation - you have to paint that shit well for it to look good, or get the contractors in. And Berliners have opted, being poor, for the first option, but how they put their back into it. Graffiti is done with brains, thought and passion, as well as with a spraycan, instead of a little piss-artist tagging every bus shelter, as is the case in London. The city is dotted with playgrounds for children, most of which would violate any number of health and safety regulations. A splinter and a skinned knee is nothing to be scared of. Berlin is a hard city, for hard men, spirited women and robust children.<br /><br />Berlin is a city that has had enough of rules, its current intemperance possibly rooted in previous decades of war, and authoritarianism (for more on this spurious theory, scroll down and see my previous article on Berlin). It's made uo for having so little fun in previous decades, but probably outdoing any other European city in the safely unregulated exericse of hedonism and artistic creativity.<br /><br />I'm a fair few beers in by now. I'm nearly the sole remaining customer in a bar at 2 am. Where's Edward Hopper when you need him, mixing paints and setting up an easel?</div><div style="font-style: italic; "><i><br /></i></div><div style="font-style: italic; "><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg11iPUmuTbxXe23UfLfCoFuAoLce2WHCzqUD2GeWD_yfCj_OBcGNtb-q4GHFY7LglSe7fRAq9eOklVjNviQqmDoG1X4XFlraLYAcwlAMYl9P_Rrf9wgblsWGkwVeOuvKM_mwxUjYYbShmZ/s1600/edwardhopper.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 177px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg11iPUmuTbxXe23UfLfCoFuAoLce2WHCzqUD2GeWD_yfCj_OBcGNtb-q4GHFY7LglSe7fRAq9eOklVjNviQqmDoG1X4XFlraLYAcwlAMYl9P_Rrf9wgblsWGkwVeOuvKM_mwxUjYYbShmZ/s320/edwardhopper.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5656778576932407186" /></a><br /></i></div><div style="font-style: italic; "><i><br /></i></div><div style="font-style: italic; "><i><br /></i></div><div style="font-style: italic; "><i><br /></i></div></div>Alex Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17772621140229400365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6230487074894839803.post-45346755923975354632010-07-17T10:25:00.006+01:002010-07-17T11:26:32.109+01:00Amoriste - Under the Hours of the Satellite Towers EP<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCoIiVGSdw6M4zsbsCmRWScI8cziu6xqj-ElVu0LTF5xTj0EexbeWvOYNgFoZz7EOGowo3fGoUddbcQPOuJsKJab6KQ0IHkYiADcUPdrcmlRmx4DLC4zxgXMJ4k3b72xh8sHQQAu0zvrZ0/s1600/amoriste.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 290px; height: 272px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCoIiVGSdw6M4zsbsCmRWScI8cziu6xqj-ElVu0LTF5xTj0EexbeWvOYNgFoZz7EOGowo3fGoUddbcQPOuJsKJab6KQ0IHkYiADcUPdrcmlRmx4DLC4zxgXMJ4k3b72xh8sHQQAu0zvrZ0/s320/amoriste.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494818458732151010" border="0" /></a><br />At sixth form college, I had a rather quirky friend who said that his favourite band of all time was Supergrass. <span style="font-style: italic;">Supergrass? </span>I mean, come on. Nobody hates Supergrass (it would be a very misanthropic soul that would) but, out of all the bands in the world, the best that ever emerged through the flow and jetsam of rock history... <span style="font-style: italic;">Supergrass</span>? Are you sure?<br /><br />Amoriste are hard to hate, and I wouldn't even try. But it is unlikely that they will ever be your favourite band. This is not an judgement of their ability as musicians, as a band or as people. It is simply to say that Amoriste are not looking to lead a vainglorious, all-conquering rawk n rowl enterprise. Amoriste are down-to-earth songwriters, not letting delusions of grandeur muddle their inherent gift and feel for melody.<br /><br /><br />The overall feel of the songs is one of sunshine -dappled lightness and brevity. 'Saturday am' celebrates notes not the rampant exaltation of saturday night, but instead the gentle promise of a saturday morning, with the prospect of sneaky half-pints, the mowing of grass and 'suburban pride for all to see.' The song sets a tone for the whole EP, cheerful, rooted in suburbia. Most bands refer to East London, Soho, Williamsburg, New York etc in their songs, often with an accompanying air of glamorous, cosmopolitan <span style="font-style: italic;">ennui</span>. In 'City Lights', Tolan suggests to his beloved that they sail down to that fulcrum of nightlife, glamour and debauchary... <span style="font-style: italic;">Wivenhoe? </span>(For those not in Essex, Wivenhoe is known locally as being a cross between Paris and Rio de Janiero, on account of its broad boulevards and pulsating nightlife. Yes. No. I'm lying.)<br /><br />The feel pervades the album. Amoriste's clear choruses and gently celebratory melodies work to manage a marriage between the anthemic and the intimate. While Amoriste clearly aim to write memorable, sing-along choruses (and sometimes unequivocally succeed), an air of intimacy prevails. While much of rock and indie music is good at describing much of the more big emotions in life, such as love, hate, rage (and it's more bookish brother, angst), lust, despair etc, it often fails in articulating simple pleasures, like the cup of tea on a rainy day, or the first holding of hands. Amoriste attempt to plug this gap, with the occasional caustic tone ('the curtain comes down on the day/white collar criminals come out to play') never really affecting the pervasive relaxed, sensitive optimism of the songs.<br /><br />The music <span style="font-style: italic;">itself </span>(yes, I suppose I had to come to round to it eventually) is rooted in the slightly tweedy indie-rock of Athlete, Belle and Sebestian, and other such assorted cardigan-wearers. The music is clear, uncluttered, simple exercises in the verse/chorus/middle eight structure. Though the smart money will be on those songs with the easiest of choruses ('Saturday AM', 'City Lights'), 'Vagablondes' relies on some really interesting instrumentation, the guitar at the start strangely reminiscent of Peter Buck's jangle on REM albums circa <span style="font-style: italic;">Murmur </span>or <span style="font-style: italic;">Reckoning</span>, and a glacial, post-punk middle section. The chimes at the start are even rather Brian Eno-like. This is not to say that this represents some Ornette Coleman citing experimentation, but it makes it stand apart from the other songs on the album, and could possibly point to future developments in the band's music in the future.<br /><br />Refreshingly unpretentious, easy going, its intimate aura covering up its lack of ambition, <span style="font-style: italic;">Under the Hours of Satellite Towers </span>is pleasant company. Not exactly songs that will save your life, but at at least as good as a really good cup of tea or a sneaky half.<br /><br />Amoriste - <span style="font-style: italic;">Under the Hours of Satellite Towers </span>is out 15th July on itunes.<br />http://www.myspace.com/amoristeAlex Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17772621140229400365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6230487074894839803.post-30575957037505181432010-01-10T12:15:00.013+00:002010-01-10T14:47:03.397+00:00Dirty Money: What would happen to our currency if the UK abolished the monarchy?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjSfKzmVyDSAj5so4pwZkQCatJTHOeyTs5PjFW3TT1hDQL2JvpGcJOWFci2sjjGIMtJhlwu43wp7j8qoK2eI8KDu4M9G47VUpG3iec-MCA7s5-grRnN0UTCtqlJDhjvnoFm2kdMa7OwznH/s1600-h/ten_pound_note_small.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 162px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjSfKzmVyDSAj5so4pwZkQCatJTHOeyTs5PjFW3TT1hDQL2JvpGcJOWFci2sjjGIMtJhlwu43wp7j8qoK2eI8KDu4M9G47VUpG3iec-MCA7s5-grRnN0UTCtqlJDhjvnoFm2kdMa7OwznH/s320/ten_pound_note_small.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425093446523847490" border="0" /></a><br />What would happen to our currency if the UK abolished the monarchy?<br /><br />Let's not splinter our rectums by sitting on the fence; I am against the existence of the monarchy. I find the arguments employed in justifying the monarchy are just that- arguments. And I don't want to argue (You do? - <span style="font-style: italic;">shit</span>). Well, I just don't want to be ruled by a family so inbred that their family tree resembles a stump.<br />The monarchy, apparently, is a valuable tourist attraction: a fulcrum for those Europeans, Japanese and Americans who are so starved of tacky chintz in their native modernist environments, bereft of the comfort of the gaudy. Paris attracts tourists in the millions, and no history lesson I'm sure is needed to outline that the monarchical history of France has ceased to be a going concern for a fair while now. The tourist revenue generating monarchy arguments hold no water. As if Arthur and Martha in Iowa are saying, "Gee, ah don't wanna holidaay in a country that don't have no constitutional moanarchy, ah mit git them AIDS disease."<br /><br />The problems of abolishing the monarchy are not those of tradition, history, inbred atavism, or a resulting thinning of sunday supplements. Instead, they are macroscopically logistic - what will happen to our stamps and our banknotes? Hell, stamp collectors would be in business- the price would triple overnight (<span style="font-style: italic;">I've got a 2009 second class stamp - its got the queen on!- </span>hear the future cry of of lamborgihni-owning philatelists).<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5PbbptzVV6elNSrGlN9N7S4OHqsfcJFLXjknc8SxytLpznei1kW44W5f3HoCpKcnmnEEFUMQqTRnSF3iiQVcmRVXkp6BOWW39T9HVqQc_lFM0Tf7y7eMYuXvKigKLNtbvgpSoBReQWbsv/s1600-h/039stamp_468x541.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 231px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5PbbptzVV6elNSrGlN9N7S4OHqsfcJFLXjknc8SxytLpznei1kW44W5f3HoCpKcnmnEEFUMQqTRnSF3iiQVcmRVXkp6BOWW39T9HVqQc_lFM0Tf7y7eMYuXvKigKLNtbvgpSoBReQWbsv/s320/039stamp_468x541.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425089827080120914" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />I've never been one for stamp collecting myself, but neither would I hold that all stamp collectors are forty year old single men whose most exciting sexual experience was wanking into their elder sister's tights. However, most of us like to accumulate huge WADS of banknotes. Personally, though, I'm a little bored of having the prim, then virginal queen staring benignly back at me (though these days, I'm always reminded of the scene in Peep Show where Jeremy, on a visit to a sperm bank, has to expend one over the queen, in lieu of actual porn). But take out your wallet, go be rolling out that foldin' money. They all have the queen on! <span style="font-style: italic;">It's booorrriiinnggg. </span>Males of an age before the internet may be reminded of collecting Panini (before it became a heated sandwich for tossers) football stickers. Completism was the name of the game. You had to last the full ninety minutes. But in every single pack, there was always one sticker that was Les Ferdinand, or some hack midfielder for Sheffield Wednesday whose name escapes memory, and probably history, too.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDc5q507cVYqGbGWivnziw5MwH4jT64Ei92jLaDY4khIEPlanaojZUn9n3Q9KRqTvGZEuVVSu6XsVrN0tpY0Gq6ArvnhTQ7Wi0yYtyvOyWnriiO0z-kXw46h-xaqWXGz_iBKJZDYmZi_Cr/s1600-h/gary-megson-panini.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 181px; height: 195px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDc5q507cVYqGbGWivnziw5MwH4jT64Ei92jLaDY4khIEPlanaojZUn9n3Q9KRqTvGZEuVVSu6XsVrN0tpY0Gq6ArvnhTQ7Wi0yYtyvOyWnriiO0z-kXw46h-xaqWXGz_iBKJZDYmZi_Cr/s320/gary-megson-panini.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425092545601761314" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><div style="text-align: left;">So, in our little hypothetical utopia, where the only issue of concern is what to print on our banknotes, how should the wise and well-endowed children of the revolution resolve this nagging issue? How do we go from this -<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjSfKzmVyDSAj5so4pwZkQCatJTHOeyTs5PjFW3TT1hDQL2JvpGcJOWFci2sjjGIMtJhlwu43wp7j8qoK2eI8KDu4M9G47VUpG3iec-MCA7s5-grRnN0UTCtqlJDhjvnoFm2kdMa7OwznH/s1600-h/ten_pound_note_small.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 504px; height: 156px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjSfKzmVyDSAj5so4pwZkQCatJTHOeyTs5PjFW3TT1hDQL2JvpGcJOWFci2sjjGIMtJhlwu43wp7j8qoK2eI8KDu4M9G47VUpG3iec-MCA7s5-grRnN0UTCtqlJDhjvnoFm2kdMa7OwznH/s320/ten_pound_note_small.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425093446523847490" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I turn for inspiration, like most rationally-minded people in times of great and trying practical difficulty, to the zany world of cultish Brit sitcoms, in this instance, the great, the wonderful.... <span style="font-style: italic;">Bottom.</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Iz_TEhqQ7fWhyKgmJ9N0o9CmP6yTjoSMgl0sJQ0bpq2Lx14U60HpzHQztzCJjWqX7Igsg9k0BP7WxmHJy3s0RChBHEUJgTxSx43G2WXUq0O93v3gXh5UtJzGpypNX00gA84GMpp1EwYu/s1600-h/bottom_1_396x222.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 179px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Iz_TEhqQ7fWhyKgmJ9N0o9CmP6yTjoSMgl0sJQ0bpq2Lx14U60HpzHQztzCJjWqX7Igsg9k0BP7WxmHJy3s0RChBHEUJgTxSx43G2WXUq0O93v3gXh5UtJzGpypNX00gA84GMpp1EwYu/s320/bottom_1_396x222.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425094661322827522" border="0" /></a>For the criminally uninitiated, Bottom was a mildly successful British sitcom concerning the desperate attempts of two Hammersmith-dwelling saddos called Richard Richard and Eddie Hitler to get laid, and, in essence, not to be, two Hammersmith-dwelling saddos called Richard Richard and Eddie Hitler. In one episode, Eddie Hitler attempts to ameliorate their flyover-poverty by forging money. Competency and sobriety not being part of Eddie's armoury, he cleverly circumvents this by printing obscene banknotes (one such tableau depicting Sylvester Stallone fisting Mr McInnery from the Magic Roundabout), in an attempt to dazzle barmen and shop assistants in the locale in the hope that 'they don't recognise how crap the squiggly lines are'. <span style="font-style: italic;">What a brilliant idea...<br /><br /></span><span>Forgive the soiling of my impeccable, republican left-leaning credentials, but I believe that male boggle-eyed lechery will continue into any future socialist utopia. And to assuage the depraved urges of the filthy (yet noble) proles, I would venture for Miss UK to be the face (and rather more besides) of our currency. Yes, have Miss UK, on our banknotes, in incrementally advancing states of undress according to the appreciating value of the banknote. On the fiver, she wears a nice dress, maybe a little taut around the hips and cleavage. Onto the tenner, she's clad in a bikini; on the twenty, she's naked, except for the sucking on a lollipop and a strategically placed copy of the <span style="font-style: italic;">Racing Post</span>. And, boy, if you get a fifty, you're not even going to be wanting to spend that. Brothers, sisters, lets get rid of the monarchy, so we can have revolutionary pornographic banknotes. Let's give filthy lucre a truer and better name.<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span>Alex Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17772621140229400365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6230487074894839803.post-25136095767481860942009-12-27T09:36:00.017+00:002009-12-27T16:40:51.334+00:00The Aesthetics of Totalitarianism<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW_gv1bNlyK2GTqA5MOdch5iKvBw020VaWu_qwiKTxJoxUwu2q-cF3ifKyPihaAiVn1-PUjAjynL5Y_S5DEWYD0dD7fjM2aOJM4YINnYb0dQ6-4FWmkEGMAhgrJj-2cS2NYGL1e78QWSI9/s1600-h/nuremberg_party_rallies_gallery_10.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 252px; height: 199px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW_gv1bNlyK2GTqA5MOdch5iKvBw020VaWu_qwiKTxJoxUwu2q-cF3ifKyPihaAiVn1-PUjAjynL5Y_S5DEWYD0dD7fjM2aOJM4YINnYb0dQ6-4FWmkEGMAhgrJj-2cS2NYGL1e78QWSI9/s320/nuremberg_party_rallies_gallery_10.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419924860354511666" border="0" /></a>George Orwell said, "If you want a picture of the future<em></em>, imagine a boot stomping on a human face - forever."<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Hey, nice shoes...<br /><br /></span><span>It is an indubitable law of the universe, it seems, that the bad guys have the best shit. Just compare the Nuremberg rally to the changing of the guards at Buckingham Palace. Or the May Day military parade in Soviet Moscow's Red Squa</span><span>re to the comparable modesty of a US military procession. Totalitarianism is better than democracy, if only in terms of iconography. </span><span>N</span><span>atty facial hair optional, natch (aside from Mussolini, of course, but he's very much second division totalitarianism).</span><br /><span><br />No lunchtime sociologist is required for the formulation of this premise. Anyone who has some snifter of a trend in popular culture snag on their synapses can agree with this. The amount of documentaries on channel 4 (or channel fuhrer) on the Nazis is roughly equatable with those on subjects based on unfortunate medical aliments. Prince Harry once famously wore a Swastika armband to one of those hideous little fancy dress parties where the rich and the dumb come one.<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJJIW63f8BJmjN0kTqEW5_kp_AeNEorqKuKXhQN6sH9XzIf6woHtQrFZlOgVqAgeCusqFAD0_WBU6vWjpJobtXJS8YXLZo-9jlmIaCj82f7TV9s9kuLz8expp5dozejXsVCb0JfrnHSuzi/s1600-h/harry_nazi.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 302px; height: 179px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJJIW63f8BJmjN0kTqEW5_kp_AeNEorqKuKXhQN6sH9XzIf6woHtQrFZlOgVqAgeCusqFAD0_WBU6vWjpJobtXJS8YXLZo-9jlmIaCj82f7TV9s9kuLz8expp5dozejXsVCb0JfrnHSuzi/s320/harry_nazi.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419925951647999538" border="0" /></a><br /><span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />And where the whiplash insignia of the Nazis was favoured among rock groups from Motorhead, the early Siouxsie and the Banshees, to Joy Division, and lately forming a string to the soiled Stradivarius of Marilyn Manson, the hammer b'twixt sickle is now a t-shirt cliche.<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaOp8RFtUsiagJAKfjf0b7XKRvOgCToFtGg_QT7jFowJJZkRxU9eb7Mse811v0g7T2wrfXoluK5F0-CBWYq_hqWlBNveIkbRiXIcgsysu6qk4TjCn-Hja6l6tuQtOBJthetxbkmv84aIVo/s1600-h/jd_ideal4living.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 167px; height: 167px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaOp8RFtUsiagJAKfjf0b7XKRvOgCToFtGg_QT7jFowJJZkRxU9eb7Mse811v0g7T2wrfXoluK5F0-CBWYq_hqWlBNveIkbRiXIcgsysu6qk4TjCn-Hja6l6tuQtOBJthetxbkmv84aIVo/s320/jd_ideal4living.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419947812344273122" border="0" /></a><br /><span>Last time I saw X Factor (the big 'X' being the swastika of lite entertainment) Cheryl Cole wore a Soviet Army Cap.</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><span>Professional bohemian Pete Doherty also seems to wear one whenever his trilby has to go to cleaners for its monthly scrape.</span><img src="file:///C:/Users/alex/Pictures/Album%20artwork/pd.jpg" alt="" /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTcAZg-J3xus-QR-2zMAGK6EYHRyXg7JTxR5zZGOzTkfgB8vzHp4SUwC0m9Q062ENiC2AD-LcwHz3EwpXEx1yOtovnp5Gwx_1QnPoxXeLuK5aIClQ8EXTqxFyAOK-ddUyIAwNETrRthbAR/s1600-h/pd.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 136px; height: 167px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTcAZg-J3xus-QR-2zMAGK6EYHRyXg7JTxR5zZGOzTkfgB8vzHp4SUwC0m9Q062ENiC2AD-LcwHz3EwpXEx1yOtovnp5Gwx_1QnPoxXeLuK5aIClQ8EXTqxFyAOK-ddUyIAwNETrRthbAR/s320/pd.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419932178112748210" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><span>And Che Guevara, alive in image (even if the ideas have not proved <span style="font-style: italic;">quite</span> so febrile), is now not a fashion icon based on the encapsulation of a worthy political idea, but an abstract motif, a heady bush of facial hair with not even the wisp of an ideological taint to mar its hirsutal halo. </span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span><span>But there is a disparity of response: the use of communist iconography does not attract the controversy that the use of fascist imagery would court. This being despite the fact that communism lasted far longer, and to far more recently in history, than the full malevolent blossoming of fascism was ever fact. </span><span>I am not intending to get on the moral treadmill of ranking communism and fascism in terms of evil; I am not A J P Taylor, nor was meant to be.</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><span>But Soviet kitsch took a place of comfort in popular culture in less than ten years after the wall's fall, while fascist kitsch would still be too awkward a subject for the sunday supplements - maybe because of all the jews in the media - </span><span>(JOKE)</span><span>. Kitsch, if I could venture my defintion, is characterised by the presenting of something which is obviously trying to be beautiful, or powerful, and the obviousness of the approach, and the ultimate failure in its execution, renders it somewhat laughable. This mocking reaction is what we now call 'kitsch'. In political terms, using the iconography of an ideology that is no longer a threat, for artistic purposes, would be kitsch. Communism, no longer a threat, is now ripe for the plundering by politically non-committal aesthetic types.<br /><br />But soviet kitsch seems to be rather more acceptable than any nazi equivalent. Why? My theory is that there lies a natural human sympathy for the ideas of communism. The USSR failed, and acted out an uncolletable score of human atrocity, but not because of the ideology itself. It set out to create a utopia, and ended up with a stodigly bureaucratic hell. The Nazis started off with, "Let's kill the jews." And they did. Their ideology come to near fruition. Communism never came to fruition in the soviet bloc.</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><span>In addition, communism decayed. Nazism exploded. Communism became almost normal<span style="font-style: italic;">, </span><span>and seemed to be drained of much of its former zealotry under the sclerotic, rather bumblingly semi-evil tenure of Leonid Brezhnev. Communism does not carry the same visceral association with genocide, torture and murder as 'Nazism' does, despite the Math of the body count.</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsxwifyUKmshKZMsJUoU9CTR_A1d5STsHAFTdEtmhD5nY4CdMD4C0krIgBIWymDeNVub_UddsdHMO3aqvpIb4M8GHS7rqavTEHF6bIAHoksx-m5k5d0ZXYON_4JaVQBjL8fsDcOMKE7xyr/s1600-h/brezhnev.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 278px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsxwifyUKmshKZMsJUoU9CTR_A1d5STsHAFTdEtmhD5nY4CdMD4C0krIgBIWymDeNVub_UddsdHMO3aqvpIb4M8GHS7rqavTEHF6bIAHoksx-m5k5d0ZXYON_4JaVQBjL8fsDcOMKE7xyr/s320/brezhnev.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419936034868076306" border="0" /></a><br /><span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><span><br />Despite this drain of ideological zeal, the Soviets never lost their 'feel' (if that is not too subjectively bourgeois word- forgive me, comrade) for the well-drilled presentation, the tautly organised spectacle? Who needs pop music when you have nuclear missiles passing through the square?</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJpyF7vfkHKv2mHxf4gVK4rJ_VA_vaPGiox4nv4IU0zPCc9rpbSQ68crnPHcxs8-DbfvVmhaPZGlGQS6_6PwnenAOwwXYf_UaeZWovOhjG3her89MPnfEO9KdY5LffzHpuT2-IEvFPYZVG/s1600-h/PM_soviet_wideweb__470x279,0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 190px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJpyF7vfkHKv2mHxf4gVK4rJ_VA_vaPGiox4nv4IU0zPCc9rpbSQ68crnPHcxs8-DbfvVmhaPZGlGQS6_6PwnenAOwwXYf_UaeZWovOhjG3her89MPnfEO9KdY5LffzHpuT2-IEvFPYZVG/s320/PM_soviet_wideweb__470x279,0.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419929659986595858" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><span><span>Maybe its nostalagia, also. Not a wish to return to the old days, but to a time when politics was less complicated; a straight forward dialectic of communism/capitalism, left/right. Now, for the majority of people, its so hard to tell where one stands, that one does not know which way is up, which way is down, or where the bathroom is. This translates into the aesthetic; how come was it that extremists of both left and right were able to conjure such simple, yet mnemoic ideas with just swathes of red, and tangles of lines? All they had to go on was an idea and a stencil, and all the focus groups in all the world could not come up with the design genius of the swastika or the hammer and sickle.</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj2LZQux5Ugr7Av3ZplhgMZF0TomyJlRxBIs5sk7ul4pV8-Qa9tUKmlzSdLHqB4XBxbcJYoFFpntVdzvakKuI3Hnrcx86Pqg69F_uCOKO2-StCanJF0FlHXFXhUDB0Vys3BffDYZpJraxP/s1600-h/hammernsickle.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 120px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj2LZQux5Ugr7Av3ZplhgMZF0TomyJlRxBIs5sk7ul4pV8-Qa9tUKmlzSdLHqB4XBxbcJYoFFpntVdzvakKuI3Hnrcx86Pqg69F_uCOKO2-StCanJF0FlHXFXhUDB0Vys3BffDYZpJraxP/s320/hammernsickle.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419944969445022674" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span><span><span>One gets the impression they were drawn up on a beermat at a secret meeting in a room above a scurrilous little bar, not chintzly added to and evolved by tradition, and asphyxiated continuity, like monarchical parades.<br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioFDrJHXc1ANbi1HB4ehRbKdU7pce9BPFaXjYUgAA96I-eB9pl66mKerne-ksid0ZtmGwZHkXqQ96P5At6t1o_8yeOIPZ6hANz0KgCS5irjoH14jeXXFVC05uP1NWZEJCsrBlKGO5VxDnG/s1600-h/Nazi+Swastika.gif"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 128px; height: 85px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioFDrJHXc1ANbi1HB4ehRbKdU7pce9BPFaXjYUgAA96I-eB9pl66mKerne-ksid0ZtmGwZHkXqQ96P5At6t1o_8yeOIPZ6hANz0KgCS5irjoH14jeXXFVC05uP1NWZEJCsrBlKGO5VxDnG/s320/Nazi+Swastika.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419945128640760850" border="0" /></a><span><span>Totalitarianism strives for uniformity in society, in the way that minimalists do for art. Uniformity is a form of minimalism. And totalitarianism is an attempt to impose this minimalism on society <span style="font-style: italic;">in toto</span>. In totalitarism, all art is political. And as society is to be simple, demarcated and uniform then so too must art. This is not to suggest that minimalism is in some way fascistic. Deciding how to present your product, your album cover or fashion show or whatever, is an individual thing, and not a manifesto. </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><span>But no band or designer would ever court the iconography of democracy and epitomise cool. Having a picture of Nelson Mandela on your album cover would not exactly appear edgy, would it? Instead, people would just think, 'oh its another fucking U2 album.' Even if one was politically inclined to consider the White House to be the citadel of global oppression, it doesn't carry the same aesthetic kick of communist or nazi symbology. If, as George Orwell said,</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><span>a totalitarian future would be</span> a boot stomping on a human face - forever,. However, at least with the Nazis, they'd be wearing cool shoes all the while.Alex Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17772621140229400365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6230487074894839803.post-64446696424409651942009-12-20T11:05:00.014+00:002009-12-20T13:13:02.522+00:00Consolidation and Consumption: 2000-2010 in MusicFrom the fag-end to the filter: the 20th century sputters into the 21st century. Musically, the first decade of the the third millenium has been one of consolidation and consumption; more discourse and journalistic ink has been spilt on the how music has been consumed (mp3s, Radiohead's digital honesty box) and the revival and honing of the modernism of previous decades (the reprisal of post-punk and 80's synth-pop) than what has actually occured which bore the shimmering glint of the new. Great music has been around, if one just had merely paid attention; but this decade has been bereft of any generational epiphany; if the 70's had punk, the 80's acid house, and the 90's britpop and dance music, then what of the 00's? Everyone is cloistered around the solitude of the ipod; each personal taste segregated into a selection of agreeable reference points, and our own little obscurities. Here, and let it be known, be my such selections. Sorry to get all Q magazine on your arse, but here are my albums of this hesistant decade, in no particular order, or number.<br /><br />Burial - <span style="font-style: italic;">Burial<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY107l4gKIXerWNuexpW7WTDcraaOdeSJayy24eBurPvVaMWqXsrOE-9VI7tzIY1INrto-Cm-CRNDEM4KVvWu1-si7UZ3nYxSgyvE3vakJJgxYLrdZ886bxG_u-71iCWYBwGSkpGaBb18v/s1600-h/burial.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 130px; height: 128px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY107l4gKIXerWNuexpW7WTDcraaOdeSJayy24eBurPvVaMWqXsrOE-9VI7tzIY1INrto-Cm-CRNDEM4KVvWu1-si7UZ3nYxSgyvE3vakJJgxYLrdZ886bxG_u-71iCWYBwGSkpGaBb18v/s320/burial.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417276947997524194" border="0" /></a>Anonymous producer from South London took the tiring "my bassbin/penis is bigger than your bassbin/penis" machoism of dubstep and created a record which swathes the grimy, viscous bass of dubstep with smudged-tear reverb and delay and inadvertently created an album a million times more contemporary than any guitar band and more convincingly elegiac than Sigur Ros soundtracking a funeral in the snow. The best album ever for wandering home with an encroaching hangover at 4am in the morning.<br /><br /><br />Morrissey - You Are The Quarry<br />Not a great album by any means; when Morrissey reemerged after seven year's rather untypical hiatus in of all places, LA, he still was the same as ever, right down to his rather pedastrian backing band. But it was an event. I remember me and a Moz-loving friend of mine actually making a day of the release, and getting hammered as a celebration (I also smacked myself up to eyeballs the day Take That reformed, but that was more consolatory than celebratory).<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqOAW9EfcRakQtILV3icHKpUjNp9Xv7CqTV_QMDsumRFzDgUdudvxF2ZwFSqJPllJaWRVQVoI6ICO5-w5MiTtoFGUozPmw8jHEnymrLFyiXoKMWKG4GEJ71laliaYbGpyIorgzaB9Ro6EL/s1600-h/yatq.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 129px; height: 128px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqOAW9EfcRakQtILV3icHKpUjNp9Xv7CqTV_QMDsumRFzDgUdudvxF2ZwFSqJPllJaWRVQVoI6ICO5-w5MiTtoFGUozPmw8jHEnymrLFyiXoKMWKG4GEJ71laliaYbGpyIorgzaB9Ro6EL/s320/yatq.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417280984646356786" border="0" /></a> The songs were very good, and Morrissey, though his music has generally got worse than 'Vauxhall and I' has actually got better at singing; the tremolous treble of the smiths days has matured finely into sonorous song. Fuck, anyone who sing the word 'hamburger' (on 'America is Not the World') on a song and is not Thom Yorke, and make it sound brilliant, has fuel still on the fire.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Interpol - <span style="font-style: italic;">Turn On The Bright Lights</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCOAKsG2ed_1rrLdzbHJ3231r3NduYzXrT-fFUVh9MNzNtPUknNjWgwqhzG5sJpf0kxCCeMiL4H8dy-0tdQQqrbmOKfZmv5MZ1HSWibnj7mtK5LISiTM-xZtJkaKiL7m4xpnpaiusQxx9w/s1600-h/interpol1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCOAKsG2ed_1rrLdzbHJ3231r3NduYzXrT-fFUVh9MNzNtPUknNjWgwqhzG5sJpf0kxCCeMiL4H8dy-0tdQQqrbmOKfZmv5MZ1HSWibnj7mtK5LISiTM-xZtJkaKiL7m4xpnpaiusQxx9w/s320/interpol1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417281499622624962" border="0" /></a><br />I cannot detect a single element in Interpol's music that is actually borrowed from Joy Division. Carlos Dengler was as subsonically low on the bass as Peter Hook was high on the fretboard. The drumming of Sam Fogarino is more brutal than the clipped effervesence of Stephen Morris. The singer has a deep voice, and so is apparently Ian Curtis. The music is dark, atmospheric and redolent of the city of night. Yes, chances are if you like Joy Division, you'll like Interpol. But the parallels are in only in the mood; not in the playing. 'NYC' is a huge, moving ballad, recalling the individual in those rare moments actually realising and feeling the city around them. "Stella is a Diver and She Was Always Down" may on first listen, be about suicide; probably more likely its about blowjobs. Interpol's darkness was always more romantic and sexual than Joy Division's, and why not? Love, while not tearing us apart, has a darkness about its romanticism; this is what Interpol captures.<br /><br />Girls Aloud - <span style="font-style: italic;">Tangled Up</span><br />Girls Aloud- the thinking man's Franz Ferdinand. More innovation, both musically (the album takes in waltzes, drum n bass, Pet Shop Boys) and lyrically (is it me, or does every Franz Ferdinand song feature the words 'girl', 'cigarette' and maybe 'blazer'?) than Franz, this album is not merely 'respectable pop', its also fucking brilliant, better than Blondie or whatever lazy comparison a hungover journalist can construct. The triumph of Girls Aloud is triumph of music over presentation. Strange though it is to have been proved by a group born in reality tv land, and not by a bunch of war-scarred orphans being the next Public Enemy, Girls Aloud success is built on music that kept them in the picture long after other tv show winners wound up entertaining diners at a dismal hotel in Guilford.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbd6Yc2KjCCXmonPFYdealxi_Y1k4ExKtq6uxRl6GVN7QV6S9eDyga-srtoW8guq8-JUrZKmjWe3rwtSFzsDTrG1ZSQJwqlmyqAYMwssgq-Ae0J7XhYNVfZDB-wIwFzGkMLRfOjd71lGrz/s1600-h/tangled+up.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 124px; height: 124px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbd6Yc2KjCCXmonPFYdealxi_Y1k4ExKtq6uxRl6GVN7QV6S9eDyga-srtoW8guq8-JUrZKmjWe3rwtSFzsDTrG1ZSQJwqlmyqAYMwssgq-Ae0J7XhYNVfZDB-wIwFzGkMLRfOjd71lGrz/s320/tangled+up.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417286117747621650" border="0" /></a>This is mostly down to the producers of course, but at least the girls have not until recently, pushed their personalities through the music; its all rather characterless, fluent and efficient, the five plastic dolls of tv land are the new Kraftwerkian robots of Dusseldorf.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Battles - <span style="font-style: italic;">Mirrored</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcEG9jwzGZz1MS3Z2u4Z7RT_6BA_VHPAo78UCQkF-tmVo6I881RWCdFXoRyNTJu0h_YkxWQYYMXtNJwB7MfW2rPxEzUAs8oDwMz-YhrdDgrAuUdhINTQZv68z7LtzGQQfUdFBgMZDY0Ka3/s1600-h/battles.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 128px; height: 128px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcEG9jwzGZz1MS3Z2u4Z7RT_6BA_VHPAo78UCQkF-tmVo6I881RWCdFXoRyNTJu0h_YkxWQYYMXtNJwB7MfW2rPxEzUAs8oDwMz-YhrdDgrAuUdhINTQZv68z7LtzGQQfUdFBgMZDY0Ka3/s320/battles.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417289520501591538" border="0" /></a><br /><img src="file:///C:/Users/alex/Pictures/Album%20artwork/interpol1.jpg" alt="" />Warp records leapt from their spiky safety ground of avant-electronica to sign their first guitar band. Unfortunately, it was Maximo Park. Second time, however, was more succesful, this bunch of New Yorkers constructing an album as clever and exotic as the singer's name, Tyondai. The album has a unique jagged fluency, and is more angular than a convention of protractor manufacturers, and lead most critics to prepostorous genre hyphenations in order to summise its powerful quirkiness. It is pretty much the electronica version of Miles Davis' 'Bitches Brew' with a fuck-off single in the form of 'Atlas', a singalong that it is my hope that the human larynx will one day evolve to accomadate.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Editors - In This Light and On This Evening<br /></span>Interpol and Editors on the same list? A bit of a Joy Division fan, then?<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>Yes. I did stress that this list was entirely subjective and is subject to decisions and revisions, which the length of an LP in forty minutes can reverse.<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></span>After a dull second album, all Coldplay-like from The Ladybird Book of Piano Chords, came this zeitgesity electronic-led album in 2009.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD4curryfZFE0o2FOubTIBytdY8m-eEqDp3KwE2YyJbD-pO63cc_7UaeVKTYtN4wLCdcYLjRjjRurSZMDe-GDUEv9CsQDB81amCwFTXLLcggl6vPI0uGsHgKk89ONSNTX2DcxwzITK4iQj/s1600-h/editorsITLAOTE.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 128px; height: 128px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD4curryfZFE0o2FOubTIBytdY8m-eEqDp3KwE2YyJbD-pO63cc_7UaeVKTYtN4wLCdcYLjRjjRurSZMDe-GDUEv9CsQDB81amCwFTXLLcggl6vPI0uGsHgKk89ONSNTX2DcxwzITK4iQj/s320/editorsITLAOTE.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417295786595800850" border="0" /></a>The last year has seen a slew of bands taking stock after poor second albums (Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs, for example) and coming back enervated by electronics.<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></span>This is the pick of them, strong, heavy, dark, accessible yet intense. Tom Smith has a baritone like a Panzer tank, save for him finding a falsetto on 'The Big Exit<span style="font-style: italic;">'.</span> 'Eat Raw Meat = Blood Drool' transcends the Radiohead-aping diction of the title to present a pungent groove approximate to Depeche Mode's 'Barrel of a Gun.'<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>Only nine songs<span style="font-style: italic;">, </span>but all keepers.<br /><br /><br />Kryptic Minds & Leon Switch - <span style="font-style: italic;">Lost All Faith<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDPuUTgg3iOQXBHjI_QjKEW989AuR8TfdEZ9ITXhX6Jc9udHtTN8Ah7xJhXuyX59YYBc7L3WibLqBDkhGi-itdhdJu-oOtHJMoPh-f5udbT4xsdwefvtlSPQAd7hYPATQD5behPSSLMjEF/s1600-h/kryptic.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 128px; height: 130px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDPuUTgg3iOQXBHjI_QjKEW989AuR8TfdEZ9ITXhX6Jc9udHtTN8Ah7xJhXuyX59YYBc7L3WibLqBDkhGi-itdhdJu-oOtHJMoPh-f5udbT4xsdwefvtlSPQAd7hYPATQD5behPSSLMjEF/s320/kryptic.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417296988298831554" border="0" /></a>There was a period from around 1994-1998 where drum and bass accelerated exponentially, laying assaults on more genres, moods and timbres of music than had ever happened in fifteen years of house and techno. Rob Playford of the Moving Shadow label said at this time 'DNB is the new progressive rock.' Soon afterwards, DNB's very own Emeron, Lake & Palmer, Goldie, released 'Saturns Return' and DNB after that went down like a fart in a phonebox. Since then, we have had the sonic atrocities of Pendulum and ever diminishing returns from the greats of yesteryear (the awful 00's output of the formerly brilliant Photek and Dillinja). This album redresses the balance. Taking root from the late 90's titanium-heavy darkness of No-U-Turn and Peshay's 'Predator', and mixing in with almost Muse-like bursts of classical bombast, 'Lost All Faith' is a little apocalypse, with bass that defies belief, science and God. And, in, 'Dark Flower Remedy', spawned probably the best DNB vocal track since Breakbeat Era's 'Bullitproof.'<br /><br />Radiohead - Kid A<br />OK Computer is great. Unfortunately, it contains 'Karma Police' a horrible little (though warped) premonition of the piano-prodding plodathons to come in future years from Coldplay and Snow Patrol. Kid A is not wildly experimental; it still contains Radiohead's leftfield cogency of song, structure, and sound. Most of the people who disliked this album said it was because there's no guitars on it. Such people also tend to admire the work of Eric Clapton. Such people also tend to lurk outside school playgrounds with naked photographs of little boys. Still, no accounting for taste, eh?<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIBFAUHvZ2wPeO-cfrYw7xyb1qzWUiPufbtwb6mXgoFMPF9UHHBa_O3pAKLYsMyN5VwFuShOEwFTX6GoJ2_bse9zA8n4jZeJlS585FXe9J4sRPTMYQPDrkBB-Q2WYzGNcpenzNE11JqS8O/s1600-h/kida.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 116px; height: 116px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIBFAUHvZ2wPeO-cfrYw7xyb1qzWUiPufbtwb6mXgoFMPF9UHHBa_O3pAKLYsMyN5VwFuShOEwFTX6GoJ2_bse9zA8n4jZeJlS585FXe9J4sRPTMYQPDrkBB-Q2WYzGNcpenzNE11JqS8O/s320/kida.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417302395113633954" border="0" /></a>Hell, I even love 'Treefingers' a few minutes of featureless ambience. It's a great party tune, given some mouldering hallucinogenics. Why don't you join me in a sing-along? Heres to the tens.<br /><br />Alex.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span>Alex Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17772621140229400365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6230487074894839803.post-78560252979639563572009-11-28T18:01:00.005+00:002009-11-28T18:55:41.038+00:00BerlinUpon returning from holidaying from Berlin in the middle of October, and letting the last of the stygian rumbles of my sausage clotted colon roll away, I discovered that several friends were also to journey to Berlin. These were people who tended to be culturally orientated, or at least owned guitars. There must be something in the air of Berlin aside from the dust of rubble and history that had attracted them so.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqrEVSY7XSrnfe0olqb717qgt3jY_eiTzO6_C2N3GJJvmaoudcd1rnNuxF-mQyFqCF6H6NLvQDWEtiNRMgRjNT33uXfYPWUudw2sp0a3iX9WZxc4gHTbTAoJ73Bl7T-SBYqq6xmWRagskT/s1600/P8300072.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqrEVSY7XSrnfe0olqb717qgt3jY_eiTzO6_C2N3GJJvmaoudcd1rnNuxF-mQyFqCF6H6NLvQDWEtiNRMgRjNT33uXfYPWUudw2sp0a3iX9WZxc4gHTbTAoJ73Bl7T-SBYqq6xmWRagskT/s320/P8300072.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5409220654975861074" border="0" /></a>It can't be cobbled prettiness or leafy romanticism. Not even Eva Braun would have honeymooned in Berlin. If Paris could be personified by an arch young man in love with an older woman, than Berlin would surely find the form of a leather-jacketed, robustly alcoholic artist. Berliners take life seriously, as serious as has history has treated the city. Berlin fulfills the desire for the 'edgy' so beloved of the young and cultured middle class. This edginess pervades past, present and probably the future. Edginess bleeds from one epoch to the next and transmogrifies. A city which has never faced the trama of being bombed has less chance of a renowned nightlife blossoming. To party hard, one has to take life seriously, and, in such terms, Berlin is the A JP Taylor of partying. Dancing in clubs there has an almost Calvinist compulsion, and is unrestrained by the prophalyxis of irony and fun. You don't have nights out- you raid stetches of free time. Average nights out in Berlin tend to last as long as a Wagnerian Ring Cycle.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr327V7xpGBOg3CeYNJRbQbyPlb1BE1o6sRdmoSVn9mWfpFU6b8VSjcxTjZxj735ytTaScsWL36GpUcnTpBD9XRjekNI7mWfS2i9Pjf6ge49D7oLqeGvbPqER5ooGXmJdCO6gFN2l0FS80/s1600/P8280013.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr327V7xpGBOg3CeYNJRbQbyPlb1BE1o6sRdmoSVn9mWfpFU6b8VSjcxTjZxj735ytTaScsWL36GpUcnTpBD9XRjekNI7mWfS2i9Pjf6ge49D7oLqeGvbPqER5ooGXmJdCO6gFN2l0FS80/s320/P8280013.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5409225188970774818" border="0" /></a>The history of Europe plays out like chess. The history of America plays out like poker (whereas the UK plays out like Ludo.) And Berlin is the centre of the Board. He who controls Berlin controls the Europe, as someone said. Well, not anymore. Not that Berlin is much danger of becoming normal. It's dwindling edginess is enervated by its culture and nightlife that attracts the hip, the knowing, (and sometimes, the caring) from London, Tokyo, Buenos Aires et cetera. The tourists and the expats are on the whole indistinguishable from the natives. Berlin seems to be off the fat-assed radar of fucking fanny-pack wearing US tourists.<br /><br />So, tick off the tourbook sights, the Brandenberg gate <span style="font-style: italic;">und alle</span>. But then drop the taxis, and the tours taken at the tip of a hoisted umberella, and pretend you're a local. One of the great things about travelling is that even everyday prosaic things, buying train tickes, going to the supermarket take on the sllight thrill of novelty. Find a bar that makes time stand still, and then makes you fall flat. Try to get your prissy little English tongue round the word monuments of the German languge (try this for cranium-freezing size - <span style="font-style: italic;">Vergangenheitsbewaltitgung</span> (meaning 'conquering the past'). Describe Berlin in three words? Not a chance (though with German, one compound word might just about do it.)Alex Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17772621140229400365noreply@blogger.com0