George the iconoclast

Good Night and Good Luck- Barbican Cinema, 24/02/06

The wonderful world of George Clooney; how great must that be? You know in the world generally there are injustices, then inconveniences, and then there are the abominations of inequality that are typified by the gorgeousness of people such as George. Why should some men or women have so much in terms of looks and attractiveness? I know I’m delving into the muddy politics of feminism and 20th century commercialism (of course good looking people are touched up by the glossies etc), but really, it’s just not fair when they not only monopolise the world of physical beauty but start to traverse the divide between the geek and the supermodel, churning out really great movies such as this.

With Good Night and Good Luck George Clooney proves that he is someone to be listened to and whose opinion should rightly be sought on weighty political matters such the invading of foreign realms and the defence of civil liberties. Clooney’s father was a newsroom hound during the fifties and this has obviously inspired him to do just homage to the era. The claustrophobic atmosphere of the newsroom itself, not only but including the prolific smoking of cigarettes before, during and after each broadcast, is meticulously recreated, and I felt afterwards that I had lived and breathed the fifties for those 2 hours.

That McCarthyism was not a good thing, was not a startlingly new discovery for me but some of the subtleties and nuances of the period; the extent to which individuals had to keep secret facts about their life that we would consider totally irrelevant (such as having once had an ex girlfriend who was involved with someone who had once been a member of the communist party), because this could mean the end of their career, were a revelation for me. The film isn’t as profound as it might think it is, or aspire to be, but it is a well acted period piece that breathes authenticity and has more than a little relevance today. Oh and its good to see Robert Downey Junior paired up with Patricia Clarkson as a married couple; it’s a pairing of equals rather than the media moguls wet dream that we usually get (older distinguished man, young girly girl).

George Clooney, like Johnny (the cheekbones) Depp, makes movies that tantalise and enchant the cerebral senses as well as the corporeal. What are mere mortals meant to make of this? I guess we should be jealous but it’s made incredibly difficult by the charisma and intelligence of both men. How dare they be both clever and beautiful? There should be a law against it.

Standing in the moshpit, unafraid and undeterred

The Strokes at the Hammersmith Apollo, 18th February 2006

So after a difficult couple of months battling against the distemper of winter and trying to regain my lost mojo in gig-going terms, I finally broke through the awful lassitude and enjoyed a rampaging evening of rock-god proportions in the uber-cool person of the fabulous Strokes of New York and universal indie fame.

In the past my devotion to the band has been rather uneven, with a certain wariness of what they do and did stand for musically. What were they about I wondered, and 'what are they FOR' my purist housemate asked. Well, they're about making uncool over thirty miscreants like myself twist and shout with old fashioned innocent glee. Oh yes.

The band were on great form and it was a sublime night from start to finish; with all my mates there (vodkasluts, Bulmersbabes and whiskeydivas, one and all) and my gin-drinking and gig-going mojo returned in glorious unison. Hallelujah.

Oh and Julian Casablancas has been totally reborn to me with his really rather attractive sultry masculine presence. His voice is deep and powerful and slightly, ahem, overwhelming. Well worth the hype. GSG.

Valentine's Day allergy

Does anybody really like Valentine's Day? Really, it's just too omnipresent- post offices, coffee shops, supermarkets; it's everywhere. Infectious and invasive. You just can't get away from it. Teddy bears, heart-shaped chocolates, pink fluffy nonsense all over the place. It's like an annual outbreak of a particularly virulant and unpleasant disease.

Anyway, I've been thinking on it lots and trying to analyse why it annoys me so very muchly and came to the conclusion that, well, basically, it's pants. It's the lovey-dovey, sacharine, Radio 1/tellytubby version of human relationships, and it just doesn't relate to anything that has ever taken place in my life, at any time, whatsoever. Maybe this just reflects how sad and lonesome I am, or maybe I just have really good taste, who knows. I just hate the whole business.

On the other hand, I don't object to songs, movies and other stuff about love in all its colourful and varied manifestations. In fact I quite like a bit of a lovesong sometimes, but it has to be realistic, or funny, or quirky; something you havn't heard a million times before.

So here it is, my anti-Valentine's Day playlist, with new and old favourites. I hope you like it:

Belle and Sebastian – Funny Little Frog- gets an honourable mention if only because of its rhyming of the words poet and thro- at. It’s sweet and charming and articulate without making you want to puke.

The Smiths- Girlfriend in a Coma- What can you say; classic. ‘I know I know- it’s really serious’. Yes indeed. Bitterness and strife.

Art Brut- Rusted Guns of Milan- a blokey point of view but funny and honest and entertaining.

Super Furry Animals- Fire in my Heart- not particularly original lyrics but sung with absolute passion and conviction (but not overblown in an eighties power-balladish way)

The Cure- Love Cats, or Friday I’m in love- jocular and upbeat, classic Cure (before Robert Smith stopped making fashion choices and became his own parody).

Primal Scream- (I'm Gonna) Cry Myself Blind- 'Have you ever had a broken heart? Have you ever lost your mind?' The answer's yes to both these questions.

*This list is neither exhaustive nor authoritative in any way what so ever. Please feel free to suggest alternatives.

Second-hand rose

The Rakes, supported by The On/Offs/Duels/White Rose Movement at the Astoria, 2nd February 2006

I’m not very good at saying bad things about bands and I don’t really want to say anything bad about this evening, but to be honest, it just wasn’t my sort of thing. I’ve thought about it and thought about it and it’s the only conclusion I can reach. I just couldn’t whip up fervour or swim contentedly in the ebb and flow of the crowd for love or money. The Rakes were great, it’s true, they’re a fab band with genuine, albeit minimalistic, charisma (Alan Donohoe must surely be Jarvis Cocker’s slightly less socially-awkward bastard brother?), but they’ll never be one of my faves for all the arm waving and rabble rousing in existence (although I do think the vid for ‘All too human' is very heart-warming).

The other bands on the bill were equally not my scene I’m afraid- especially the slightly politically dodgy armband-wearing Nordic blondes which are the WRM. I just can’t cope with that kinda imagery no matter what the context- I just automatically think of really bad things.

From the well meaning blokiness of the Rakes to the pink-shirted Liam Gallagher podman who fronts first support The On/Offs, it just wasn’t the night for me. Which was a shame because I really wanted to enjoy myself.

Or maybe I was just pissed because after my friend vodkaslut drew me forward so that I could see the stage when the Rakes came on, I was immediately thrown back again and rammed up against a parka wearing blokey type who was jumping up and down manically. Eventually me and my gin just has to withdraw back behind the giant grill that the proprietors of the Astoria have installed behind the sound desk (why oh why?)

Oh well, you can’t win them all.